The Carnival comes once a year. It’s a mystery, she thinks, how the artists manage to set their tents so quickly without anyone noticing, but when the fated day comes, they are already set, lights hanging and flags waving. Parents all over town look weary of the Carnival; strangers are not to be trusted, after all. Strangers will doom us all, say the Elders. Her parents think so too. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival. This year, she is finally old enough to go on her own to the Carnival, as anyone under the age of sixteen is banned from the show. Her parents do not want her to go, but everybody knows that whoever wishes to enter the Carnival will find their way inside. That’s just how things are. The Carnival is so big that it looks absurd. The stands go as far as her eyes can see, stretching and stretching. Her feet do not hesitate and carry her to the first one, then another, and another. There are fantastic little trinkets and treasures everywhere: she finds a clock that sounds like a human heart, a ring that is warm to the touch after spinning it three times, and a string that can only be cut with nasty words. Her pockets empty rather quickly. Having realized that, she cannot bear to look at the seller anymore. -What’s the matter little bird? -the old woman stares her up and down as she snatches a rainbow-tinted shell that tells secrets from her hands. -Out of money already? She nods, ashamed. -That seems to be the case, yes. The old woman smiles, -But that is hardly a problem, is it? There are many things you possess that are more valuable than money. Here at the Carnival, we trade everything. It’s truly a marvelous place. -She smiles again with perfectly straight, white teeth. Even at her age, she’s still remarkably beautiful -Tell you what, I’ll give you this shell if you give me three locks of your hair. -Of my hair? -Her hand reaches unconsciously to her head - I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve always been told that my hair is very pretty, but I don’t believe it is as valuable as this shell. -It is very pretty indeed. I wish I had luscious hair like yours. Three locks of it seem like a fair price. -Well, if you are so sure then so be it.- They shake hands, and, swiftly as a spring breeze, the old woman cuts three locks of her hair. The shell is now in her hands. -Pleasure doing business with you, little bird. -She smiles again, widely, wildly. -It is indeed a very good deal. She doesn’t know how to answer, so she curtsies and goes to another stand. And, oh, the old woman was so right: the Carnival is truly a marvelous place. Money is not needed to get what she wants. The sellers ask for so little and give her so much! Three secrets for a bottle that contains all of the salt of an ancient sea, a kiss for a key that opens all doors that cannot be opened, her freckles for a necklace that makes the bearer feel the embrace of a mother. This is the land of marvels and wonders! Everywhere she goes there’s a new treasure to acquire. Off with her ability to cry, more of a nuisance than a blessing, goodbye to all the memories of her first five years of life -she doesn’t remember that much anyways- it’s even easier to part with her middle name, which she despises anyways. Who cares about all the fights she’s ever had or all the wrinkles she’ll ever get? She trades, and trades and trades. Eventually, she has to stop at a near stand as she feels as if she could fall any time. The girl inside manages to catch her before she tumbles to the ground. Moving with just a leg is harder than it seems. -Parece que alguien ha perdido el rumbo -the girl is so pretty and smells like tangerines -siéntate un ratito a mi vera, ¿quieres? Nothing that comes from the girl’s mouth makes any sense. She can’t remember if she has traded her ability to understand languages. She tries to speak, but her mouth feels weirdly hollow. The girl pulls some cards from a wooden box and shuffles them without looking. -Tres cartas: una para el pasado, otra para el presente y otra para el futuro. Es la manera tradicional de hacerlo, ¿sabes? No bueno, supongo que no. -She pulls three cards from the deck. It is a very peculiar one, she must say. Instead of clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds, it has coins, garrottes, swords and goblets. -Tienes unos ojos azules muy bonitos. Por el color de tus ojos, te leeré tu primera carta. No es un mal trato, ¿verdad? She nods, not quite getting what she’s saying, but eager to see what she intends to do. The girl puts down a card and flips it, showing the picture of a funny man holding a goblet. She says something more and pulls another card. This time, the picture represents three coins forming a triangle. The girl smiles at her: all-white sharp teeth and she blinks in surprise. That’s the last thing she sees. -Supongo que no tiene mucho sentido que la saque ahora, pero bueno, un trato es un trato. -The girl makes shuffling noises and then lets a soft “Oh”. -Qué curioso. Está vacía. -she sights, and now that she can’t see, the girl’s voice sounds tired and older. - Mala suerte. The noises stop after a while, and she guesses that the girl must have left, so she tries to stand up. Standing over one leg, she approaches the closest noise. She wonders what could they possibly be saying. Her focus on the foreign voices is so intense that she barely notices falling to the ground. Someone helps her stand up and then she cannot feel her fingers anymore. More people crush into her. With every touch, she feels something slipping away: an ear, her lungs, her heart, her thoughts. A touch to many and she forgets her brother, her parents, herself. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival.


Hello. This tale starts at the end of the “dark” period of my youth. My name isn’t important, but for the purpose of narrative, you can call me T. I grew up in an area that was known by the local population as a barrio. For the uninitiated, it could also be called the ghetto. In a lot of ways, I can say that I had it better than a lot of other people. Prior to the dark period, I had a fairly normal childhood. A mom, a dad, 2.5 kids, rusted chain link fence. But, when my mom died, it set off a series of events that lead to the dissolving of my family circle, and wound up with me living more and more with friends on the streets. Anywhere was preferable to being at home for any length. The end of the dark period signaled the dawn of the sunny time which involved the many animated, insane, and at times, frightening people that made up the tapestry of my teenage year friends. The dynamic of the realities of daily life shaped a great deal of things that most other people took for granted during that time frame. No one in my circle of friends relied on parents for anything more than a bed and an occasional meal. Often times, even that was in question. Police were more widely feared than the gangs that squabbled over the various streets and blocks of the city. Murder, violence, teen pregnancy were all the norm. It may sound trite, but the old gangsta rap songs proclaiming how hard it was to “get up out da ghetto” were not just a piece of creative writing. It began in the fall of my 7th grade year of school. I was still trying to rebuild after the world had crashed down around me. I had begun a new year of school, in a brand new school, with a brand new group of people who hated me just for being me. You see, in an area which had a majority population which were mexican or latin american, I was the token minority: white. The reverse racism of my youth, in hindsight, helped to build me into a much stronger person as an adult. It built character, if you will. But at the time, getting thrown into trash cans, dunked into toilets, and the occasional jumping left me feeling like no amount of character was worth this bullshit. The house next door to me had been occupied by 4 families in the span of my childhood. First was a blue collar gentleman and his family who moved out when the gangs moved in. I was 3 or 4 at that time. Next was a group of guys who I realized when I was older were in fact drug pushers. They didn’t last long, although I don’t actually recall when they left. The third was a family which came with three kids. They wound up being close friends of mine throughout much of my youth, but left at the time the dark period began. The parents wound up divorcing. I never figured out the exact circumstances behind what happened next, but my previous friends Uncle wound up buying the home next. He came with 4 children. Rigo was the oldest of the group. We were in the same grade, and due to a lot of similar interests, he and I became like brothers. He was only half related to the other 3 siblings, being the bastard son of his father. He was a wirey fellow, but extremely athletic. His dad and uncle both played AAA ball, and he always felt like he had huge shoes to fill due to those expectations. But, being a bastard, his step mom treated him disdain and hatred, and as a result, so did his dad. Chunky was the second oldest, and at the time, the only girl of the bunch. As her name implies, she was....rotund. She was a sweet girl for the most part, and more often than not could be find working with her mom in the kitchen or cleaning house. She was slow, however. She had some facial features of someone who suffers from down syndrome, but never took special education classes. In fact, she was a straight A student though most of school. Her grades did not mask the fact that she had the social skills of a stump however. They also did not mask the fact that she had absolutely no street savvy, and often lacked common sense. As a bonus, she also had a near constant odor of cheese. Conejo was the third oldest. For those who don’t speak spanish, his nick name translates to rabbit. As this name implies, he shared a lot of features with said lagomorph. He had pronounced buck teeth, large black eyes, and ears that were two sizes too large for his head. But he was smart. Not just in school, but also on the streets. For the purpose of these tales, I will use the name Rabbit for him. Last in the train was Daniel. Dumb Daniel. Oh....Dumb Daniel. He was a year younger than Rabbit, and shared some similarities in appearance. But where Rabbit had a good head on his shoulders, Daniel was sporting a brain that was sort of rotten and insane. Like his sister, he never was in any special education classes, but unlike her, he was not academically inclined. More than a few times growing up, I wondered how natural selection had not picked his weak antelope off yet. These misfits were the saviors who arrived just in time to prevent me from killing myself. They were my friends. They were my family. They were the hood rats that, prior, I never knew I needed.


"Nice tits!" Carlos had been pedaling hard, his legs moving in circles, his ass and hamstrings burning, when he passed the woman. A hiker with stick and backpack, deeply tanned and wrinkled, with thin, kinky shoulder length brown hair, the hiker was about fifty years old. And she'd just insulted him. _Nice tits!_ Nice TITS? Was she saying he _had_ tits, or that she _liked_ his tits? It must be the former, he decided. She was simply mistaken, that's all. He chuckled, slowing to an easy pace. Tits! Some people on the trail, especially far out in the boonies where he sometimes rode his bicycle, were just crazy. Raving and mad from the heat. Tits! He slowed again as he approached the trailhead and the lot where his truck was parked. Next to it was a small modern building with water fountains and benches, so he took the path leading to the water fountains. As he approached, he noticed his reflection in the building's smoked glass windows, and let out a small sound. His cycling jersey was very tight, and small breasts were visible, casting little triangular shadows on his thick torso (thicker than he remembered) in the midday light. _Nice tits!_ His body, the way it looked wrapped in Lycra, was not suitable for public display. Carlos felt a lump form in his throat as he noticed again how prominent, how _proud,_ his tits and their pointy nipples were through the thin fabric of his cycling jersey. How had this gone unnoticed? He turned around quickly on the path and rode back in the direction he'd come, but not before he got a second look at his reflection. His helmet, cheap and full of dents, looked too large on his head. His mirrored glasses looked out of place on his face, slightly crooked, with lenses too large. He slowed and looked at some of the other cyclists. Most were very lean and muscled, with fancy equipment and expensive clothing. He looked again at his reflection. _Nice tits!_ ** Carlos had finished email for the day and was getting ready to hit the Indian buffet when Jaleel, his assistant, appeared with a small package. "Ah, I know what that is!" He plucked it out of Jaleel's massive hand and removed its brown paper wrapper. They both stood admiring the coffee mug. "A classy little number," Jaleel said. "There's a story to it." Jaleel shook his head and went for the door. Carlos paused, staring. He wasn't sure why he'd paid for this mug. Maybe it was funny. Maybe he hated himself. NICE TITS, it said.


Taiga circles the room slowly, lighting candles with a single touch. “I told you your friends wouldn’t come back for you.” “They will.” A fire blazes behind the hero’s eyes. Taiga chuckles, “It’s been four days.” He smiles, “Then we'd better quit wasting time.” He reaches for her hand and pulls her down on top of him. “Fintan,” she giggles, landing against his bare chest. “Let me go. Fin!” Her protests are silenced by his lips on hers. He cups her face, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. A shiver runs through her as the heat of her body meets the ice in his veins. She slides to the side and settles next to him on the couch. She snatches the remote from his hand. “I won this time. My pick.” He groans, dropping his head back, “You’ve picked every night.” “It’s not my fault you pulled your punches.” She winks at him and turns on a hospital drama. “When you win, you pick.” “When I win, you go to jail.” Fin wraps his arm around Taiga and pulls her against his chest. “I get out,” she smirks. “With some help from a mysterious partner.” He snorts. “Yeah. Mysterious.” “The public would lose it if anyone ever found out about this.” She motions between the two of them. “You’re not as bad as everyone thinks.” He rolls his eyes. She narrows her eyes. “I kidnapped a senator's daughter.” He shrugs and takes a drink of beer. “That guy was an abusive scumbag.” “Still, there are systems in place for those kinds of things.” Taiga leans forward to pick her glass of wine up from the coffee table. “The system isn’t always effective.” He grins. She moves to the other end of the couch, crossing her arms. “I am not a hero. Just drop it.” “No, you’re definitely not,” he scoffs. “But you could be." "You could be a villain." "Nah, I don't have the traumatic childhood." He slides across the couch and snakes an arm around her shoulder. She immediately relaxes into him. “I’ve killed people.” “I wouldn’t call them good people," He chuckles. "And don't think I can't tell it bothers you." "It doesn't." Her voice is cold, but just an octave too high. "You've always gotten the job done." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "You may fool the rest of the world, but I can tell it gets to you." “What do I have to do to be a villain to you?” she cries. “Listen, Ty, you’re just not a bad guy.” He kisses the top of her head. Her hand trails down his chest. “But I can be a bad girl.” “You are so gorgeous,” he pants, pressing his lips against hers. His breath blows frost across her skin, though it melts instantly. He combs his fingers through her hair leaving small crystals of ice in their wake. *** Fin wakes to a muffled beeping. He rubs a hand down his face and trudges down the hall. He opens a door, and the beeping cuts through the house. He scans the monitors and shakes his head. He rubs his eyes and takes a step closer to the monitors. Making his way back down the hallway, he leans over the bed and kisses Taiga's cheek. “Hey, baby.” Fin brushes the hair from Taiga’s face. “I think your security system’s broken.” “What?” She squints her eyes open. “What do you mean?” “The motion sensor was triggered, but there’s nothing on the cameras.” “It was probably just a rabbit or something. Lay back down.” She tugs at his wrist. He takes a deep breath, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m going to go check.” “No,” she whines, tightening her grip, “my bed is too warm.” He laughs and climbs into the bed, wrapping his arms around her. Leaning over, he kisses behind her ear and down her neck. The light in the hall turns off, leaving them in pitch darkness. Fin springs to his feet. “Believe me now?” Taiga sits up carefully, and a faint glow radiates from the flame in her hand. Concern covers her face as she steps out of bed, lighting a fire in her other palm. She moves down the hall slowly, Fin on her heels. Every footfall is calculated and sure. She will not be caught off guard in her own home. “Ty, what-” She silences him with a glare over her shoulder. When they make it to the living room, she begins lighting candles around the room while Fin flips every light switch he can find. The sparse light from the handful of candles is hardly enough to fill the room. Fin and Taiga stand back to back in the center of the rug, scanning the edges of the room for movement. The furniture is the only thing visible in the amber light. Taiga lets flames flick up her forearms, scrutinizing every inch of the walls in front of her. Fin wiggles his fingers, letting flurries of snow weave between them. The shadows dancing around the room only add to the tension in their muscles. “What happened?” Fin glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” Taiga bites. Lights flash and alarms blare in the hall. Talk stalks quietly toward the sound, ignoring Fin's protest. When she enters the doorway, the alarms go silent, but the monitors continue to illuminate the room. Taiga studies each monitor and sees nothing out of the ordinary. She turns to leave and stops in her tracks. “Fin!” She takes a step back when she hears Fin approaching. “What’s wr-" He slides through the doorway and his eyes go wide. The word “TRAITOR" stands two feet tall, carved into the wall. “Taiga,” Fin whispers, breathless, “who...” “I have more than a few enemies.” She shakes her head. “Why do you think I live alone in the woods?” The monitors go black, throwing them back into darkness. Taiga grabs Fin’s hand and ignites a small flame in her other palm. She leads him back to the living room by the glow from her skin. She stops at the end of the hall, pressing her back to the wall. The candles have been extinguished. Fin pulls on her arm, tucking her behind him, before taking another step forward. She grabs his elbow, whispering, “Fin, you can’t see.” “Let’s hope they can’t either.” He kisses her hand and dashes into the living room. After a long, silent minute, he calls back, “Baby, I think it’s safe.” Taiga steps out of the hallway and lets a faint glow spread over her body. She begins relighting the candles with a sigh of relief. “Whoever it was, they must be gone now.” Fin tries lamp again, huffing when it doesn’t work. She turns around the room, inspecting every corner. “I don’t know.” “Come on, it was just some prank.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Now, turn that off so I can cuddle with you.” She lets the embers on her skin fizzle out and drops on the couch next to him. “I don’t like it.” “It’s fine.” He chuckles wrapping an arm around her. She shakes her head, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “That’s easy for you to say. Hero. ” He gives her shoulder a light squeeze. “It’s fine.” The TV in Taiga’s bedroom flashes to life, sending light and sound streaming out the door. Taiga sits up and swats Fin’s chest, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ He eases to his feet and stalks to the bedroom. As he makes his way to the TV, it flashes off. He hears skittering behind him and turns to see the light from Taiga’s body drifting through the doorway. He could swear he saw a shadow run through. He feels his way back across the room. “Fin?” Taiga gasps from the living room. Her light blacks out. Fin sprints through the door, stumbling over shoes on the floor. “Taiga!” He breaks into the living room and drops to the ground. The light in the kitchen flickers and the microwave turns on. He gropes along the floor, whispering for Taiga. His fingertips skim across her hot skin, and the kitchen goes dark. “Ty?” He wraps his hand around her ankle. “Get up. We have to go.” Fin crouches on his toes, and a hand on his shoulder drags him back. He lashes out at the attacker and finds no one. A foot in his chest knocks him into the wall. He unleashes a hailstorm from his fist, blasting back anything in its path. He crawls back to Taiga, barely touching her toes before he hears rustling on the rug in front of him. A heavy object crashes against his skull, toppling him to the side. He reaches a shaky hand out, resting it on her thigh, and sends a frost up her leg. “Baby, please wake up.” “Don’t. Touch. Her.” A hand crushes Fin’s wrist, pinning his hand to the carpet. He recognizes the woman’s voice, but his head is spinning too fast to place it. A knee smashes into his nose before small hands drag him to his feet. He stumbles back, cradling his nose. The blood warms his chilled skin at falls down his face. “Who are you?” he asks, scanning for movement. He backs himself against the wall and mumbles, “Where are you?” A cackle comes from the corner as the lights in the hall flash. “ You should know, Fin.” “I-” He rubs the back of his head, still pinching his nose. “I don’t.” A faint glow emanates from Taiga’s hands. “Why are you here?” The mystery voice nags at the back of Fin’s mind. He shakes his head. “What? Why do you care?” “Her?” The hall goes dark, and the TV in the bedroom comes to life. “I mean, real-” Taiga rolls onto her side and her hand toward the voice. A wall of flames erupts in front of her. “Get out of my house.” She wipes blood from her brow. She staggers to Fin’s side. Holding a flame up in one hand, she examines Fin’s face. “Oh, babe.” She runs her fingers along his jaw. A knife thuds into the wall by Fin’s head. Taiga throws her arm out behind her and the fire disappears. The room falls back into shadow. The glow slowly spreads up Taiga’s arm, spreading light out from the couple. “Let’s see who you are.” Taiga turns toward the intruder. Every light in the room flashes on, lamps included. The sudden change blinds Taiga and Fin, forcing them to snap their eyes shut. Glass sprays around the room as light bulbs shatter. Fin pulls Taiga against his chest and buries her face in his shoulder. The room falls back into pitch black. Fin’s hand remains tangled in Taiga’s hair while they catch their breath. She loosens her arms around Fin’s waist and slowly opens her eyes. The alarms in the control room blare, and Taiga breaks away. “Ty!” “How could you pick her, Fin?” the voice teases from across the room. Her body glows red, as runs across the living room and turns toward the hall. A clatter in the kitchen draws her attention, and she turns on her heel, lunging into the kitchen. Fin picks his way through the living room to the rhythm of their punches. Taiga’s fireballs light up the room as she launches them erratically, unable to locate the attacker. “I said,” she stalks past the sink, “get out.” She emerges on the other side of the island and screams. She drops to the ground and her light flickers out. “Taiga!” Fin races into the kitchen, building a hailstorm in front of him. He sneaks through the kitchen on hands and knees until he finds Taiga’s trembling form. He runs his hand up her hip and across her stomach, following the damp trail of what must be blood. When he finds the source, he presses both hands against her torso. “Do not leave me again.” She whimpers an agreement and nods, knowing he can’t see her. She eases herself into a seated position next to Fin and leans into his shoulder. The house breaks into chaos. Every working light flashes like a nightclub. The kitchen appliances buzz to life. The radio on the mantle blasts music through the house. The ceiling fan turns on full speed. “Fin, I don’t want to burn you.” She pushes away gently and stands on shaky legs. Her flames only add to the pandemonium. The heat sears Fin’s skin and scorches the ceiling. The strobing lights make it impossible to focus on anything. With every slip into darkness, the intruder’s silhouette seems to teleport across the living room. Taiga throws balls of fire at each appearance, missing by seconds. Fin pulls her back to the floor, his skin sizzling when he makes contact with her. “Ty, shut it down. It’s not doing any good,” he has to roar over the madness. As the flame fades, Taiga’s skin cools dramatically. Fin wraps an arm around her and raises the other arm chest level. A blizzard explodes around them. He presses a kiss to her temple and returns pressure to her abdomen. Her breath steams over his neck, short and ragged. “Fin,” she coughs. “Hush, baby.” He combs through her hair. “I can hold her off.” Her body heat fades too quickly. She shivers and coughs again. Her breathing slows and goes cool. Her hand falls limp onto Fin’s lap, and she lets out a quiet whine. “Taiga?” he whispers into her ear. “Hm?” Her head rolls to the side. “I’ll fix you up, baby.” She smiles up at him. “I love you.” “I love you,” he chuckles. “Give me just a minute.” He clenches his fists and sets his jaw. The storm intensifies until it’s impossible to see to the other side. Fin stands, glancing down at Taiga. The storm doesn’t touch her. Her hair doesn’t even flip from the wind. He takes a deep breath and throws his hands up. Icicles shoot up from the ground in every direction. The storm falls still, leaving puddles on the floor. The TV cuts off. The radio goes silent. The hum of appliances dies out, and the lights slowly flicker back to normal. Fin turns around slowly, surveying the house. When he sees the assailant impaled by ice, he nearly collapses under the realization. “Tora,” he gasps, swaying as he makes his way to her. Without Fin’s control, the ice melts away, and Tora drops to her knees. She clutches her stomach where the blood warms her frozen wound. “Tora,” he crouches beside her, gently lifting her chin to look in her eyes, “I don’t understand.” “I came back.” Her voice is fragile. “I saw everything, Fin. Why her?” “You don’t-” He squeezes his eyes shut, still reeling. “You don’t know her.” "She does whatever she wants, no matter who it hurts," she pleads. "She does whatever it takes, no matter what it costs her." Fin corrects, voice hinting at envy. “She’s our enemy.” Tora coughs. “A villain.” He shakes his head. “She’s not, though.” “But Fin,” her cough spatters blood across the tile, “the hero always falls for the sidekick.” *** The muted sound of conversation slowly morphs into a hospital drama, Taiga’s favorite. She reaches slowly to her side, scratching at the bandage wrapped around her stomach. Her face twitches as she tries to make her eyes open. “Fin?” Her throat is raw, and her voice comes out rough and scratchy. She feels weight on the bed and pressure on her thigh in seconds. “Hey, baby.” Finally, her eyes flutter open. Her bedroom comes into view, the lamp on her nightstand the only source of light. She raises a hand slowly and rubs her head. “Fin,” she repeats, “what happened?” He studies her face with eyes full of concern. “You’ve been out for a few days.” She nods, as if that explains everything. Truthfully, it’s not entirely uncommon for one of them to wake up bruised and bandaged in the other’s bed. It’s less common to wake up with amnesia in their own room. He strokes her gently and brushes the back of his hand down her face. “I think we’re on the same team now.”


Where I Come From By Anabel Fielding Where do I come from? I come from a big city in California. To be specific, San Francisco. I come from a city where some people are very kind to you and others are very rude to you. I come from, San Francisco. I come from a city that is always under a big chunk of gray fog or a stormy raincloud. I come from a city where the people I have met are hopeless romantics, and successful leaders, and they are trying to provide a life filled with opportunities for themselves. I come from a city filled with happy middle-class working men and women with their children going to public school. I come from a city of pain and sadness because there is an ongoing homelessness crisis downtown. I come from the beautiful, mysterious, and wonderful city of San Francisco. I was born and raised in a mixed family. My mom is a Latina woman from Honduras. My dad is American and also he is a San Francisco native. I come from a family that has been supportive, loving, and kind towards me and my older brother. I have dealt with bullying throughout my middle school and high school years. I come from traveling on a long road of depression and anxiety before I found happiness in my life. I come from a long terrible path of being rejected, ostracized, and framed by my first crush, whom I fell in deep love with. I have come from a hurricane storm of heartbreaking, traumatic memories from my childhood that I experienced. The boy that I fell in love with destroyed my heart. He broke me into a million scattered pieces on the floor. He was full of hate, arrogance, and pride. He was not very kind. I finally have moved on from him, this year. This year, I will be a more beautiful, strong, and even more intelligent woman than ever before. I come from a family of Swedish, German, and English blood. I come from the Fielding family. I come from a bloodline that is continuing in a southern state, Georgia. I come from a bloodline that continues in Tallahassee, Florida. My cousins, aunts, and uncles are in those southern states and they were veterans of the USA. My uncle played American Football and he is in the hall of fame. My loved ones whom I have lost, their names are remembered. Their legacies continue through me. I am the great-granddaughter of Ethel Cyr, I am her greatest joy. She is remembered and she rests in heaven, peacefully. I come from her blood. I am named after my great-great-grandmother Anna Belle Clark and she is remembered, too. I come from her blood and I come from many generations back and back of the Fielding family. I come from the Earth. I am a daughter of Eve, who was the first woman before me. I am a human being. I come from heaven because I was chosen in this life to exist. I come from heaven because I was born a blessing, under a double rainbow, a Diamond in my mother's eye. I am Anabel Fielding and I will survive this beautiful, dark, scary, happy, and fantastic world we all live in together. You, readers, and I will survive. Where I come from, you and I, we will be revived in pureness and strife. We will be just, fine. I come from a family full of struggles and successes. I come from a mother who is a very wonderful nurse. She helps those who are sick and in need. She provides money for the homeless people that she sees. She is a god-loving woman and she is an amazing wife to her husband. She is my mom and she is my best friend. I come from her blood, I came from her womb. I am a god-fearing, beautiful, and truly insightful woman. I am her daughter. I came from my hero, my mom. I came from my father, the one who plays the piano. The one who taught me how to read, write, and do mathematics... one of the most difficult subjects to learn, mathematics. Oh, how I yearn to answer the question. Where do I come from? I come from a childhood well spent with my happy, loving older brother. I come from a brother who is my blood and whom I adore. I know he sometimes thinks of me as a bore. But he will always love me and he always does. I come from an actor, my brother, I come from the most successful talent in the family. I come from a family full of love, pain, and happiness that we all endure together. I come from a tornado of loneliness and sadness. I come from heartbreak and anger. I think that all of the human emotions are where I started and it is where I will end. I am so repetitive in this writing. I am so alone in this life. I am truly a sight to behold. I am a writer and a good one at that. Sometimes, I feel so sad and very vulnerable. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep because I lost all of my friends and my first crush. Sometimes I wish I could be with the one I truly love, my crush. I wish I could turn back the time sometimes. But I know that turning back the time is not possible, never is, I suppose. I feel so good telling you about where I come from. I come from a soul that was destined to become fully, inevitably human. I have no tail, no wings, and I have no extra stomach. What am I? I am a human. I am smaller than a plane and a bus combined. I am so small compared to the universe, the stars, and the heavens above. I come from God. I come from my father who art in heaven. I come from purity, and innocence, and I come from being a child to growing into a fully grown adult. I come from another dimension into this one. I come from the planet, Earth, and then some. I come from a distant land or a foreign tongue. I come from Honduras, America, I come from only God knows, I come from the heavens above. Blessed, happy, and full of life. I come from my mother, father, and my brother. I'm in love.


The curtains stubbornly refused to hang straight. For the thousandth time I moved the stool over to adjust the screw at the other end of the curtain rod. Taking a step back I could see that my work had borne no fruit. The lines formed by the edge of the curtain and the window frame where infuriatingly still not parallel. It hurt, deep inside me, as if someone had stuck a knife in me and slowly twisted it around " at an uneven pace. Maybe the window was askew, or maybe, the universe had just decided to create a small pocket of concentrated gravity, making the curtains fall in different directions. I was abruptly interrupted by the candle on the kitchen table as it suddenly lit itself. Work. I strolled over to one of the chairs at the table and sat down. A woman stood in front of me with the customary confused look on her face. “You have just passed on from the world of the living. My name is Mort and I will help you to go through some paperwork” I recited. “I’m, dead?” she asked, twitching her hand. “Yes. Would you be so kind as to read this” I responded, handing her a yellowing scroll. It was completely unnecessary to use those frail old parchment scrolls. I had tried to advocate for some nice paper or even electronic tablets but the boss had said it wasn’t ‘stylish’ enough. I glared over at the curtains as I waited for her to finish reading. “What are you looking at?” she asked, trying to follow my gaze. Of course she could not see the curtains, lucky her, so I just replied that it was nothing. “What will happen now” she asked, fixing her gaze on me. “What do you think will happen?” I replied, in my customer-friendly voice. She hesitated before answering. “I was raised catholic, so I kind of expected to go to heaven.” She sounded nervous, I didn’t blame her. “That is exactly where you’re going. If you would just be so kind as to sign here I will send you on your way.” It was a lie. Theoretically, it could be true, but I doubt it. In my early days I had always tried to explain to my clients that I had no idea what would happen to them or where they were going, but over the years I have come to realize that it is easier just to let them believe what they believe. Happy clients are cooperative clients. She reached over, accepted the quill I held forth and scribbled something at the bottom of the scroll. ‘Terrible handwriting’ I silently judged her. I gently blew on the candle flame which turned blue for effect before going out. The woman disappeared and I turned back to my curtains. I was in the midst of debating with myself whether I should call a carpenter to straighten the window when the doorbell rang. It was a pleasant sound, perfectly tuned. When I swung the door open it revealed a small man wearing a big smile. He looked rather alive " a non-client. “Can I help you?” I asked, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. “Hi, I’m Bob. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Bob, a palindrome, with a nice round ‘o’ in the middle. Too bad it is asymmetrical spelled out. Why do people insist on capitalizing the first letter in a name anyway? Can’t they at least capitalize the last letter too? ‘BoB’, definitely better, still not perfect. How about ‘bod’ or maybe ‘dob’. I forced myself to break my train of thought in order to comply with the expected social order. “Hi Bob, I’m Mort.” “I brought some cookies” he said in response, still smiling. I looked at the tray in his hands and sighed mentally. “Would you like to come in?” I asked and did my best to make my faked smile look genuine. I stepped aside from the doorway and Bob entered. He reached down, undid his shoelaces and took his shoes off. Thank God for that. Even better, he put them neatly side by side on the shoe rack. We went into the kitchen and Bob placed the tray with cookies on the kitchen table. “So, what do you work with?” Bob asked. “Human resources” I replied. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, maybe a slight alteration of the truth but I found it justifiable. People generally don’t respond very well when you tell them you do administrative work for Death himself. Bob walked over to the curtains and reached out a hand. Before I could stop him he had grabbed the curtain rod and tilted it slightly. I froze, crushed by the atrocity. I stared at the curtains and to my surprise they were hanging perfectly straight. The parallel lines made a warmth emerge inside me. What a blessing from the skies. Maybe he was an angel? On that note, I had met an angel once, or at least she had been dressed as one, but now that I come to think about it, it had been around the time of Halloween. “Sorry” Bob said. “They were a bit askew.” “Yes they were” I responded. My fake smile had transformed into a genuine one. I offered him to sit and went to get a nice bottle of wine. We sat at the kitchen table chatting for a while. Bob was a humble guy with a colossal -but reasonable- love for felines. He was happily telling a story about one of his many cats when suddenly he went quiet. His pupils dilated and he had a surprised look on his face. He fell forward hitting his head on the table. “Heart attack” I murmured to no one in particular. I knew I couldn’t do anything to help - company policy. Inconveniently the candle lit itself once more. It took me a moment to realize why Bob was still sitting there. A few seconds later Bob sat up straight, his gaze flickering around. He had the customary confused expression on his face. “It’s awfully dark here, isn’t it?” he said, looking at me for confirmation. “Yes, clients tend to tell me that” I responded. Just like so many times before I wondered what it was like to sit on the other side of the table. I knew they couldn’t see the mortal world, with the exception of me and what I handed them of course. “What happened” Bob asked. “You died. Heart attack I believe.” “Really?” he said. He gave the impression of being more confused than scared. “I work for Death. My job is to guide you through the paperwork.” I said, trying to read his face as I spoke. “You work for him? One would kind of expect that he would do it himself, him being Death and all.” “There is no way he would be able keep up by himself, people die all the time.” I usually don’t talk about the organization with clients but I liked Bob, he was worth an exception. “So what do Death do then?” I found it fascinating how he was able to concentrate on such questions considering his situation. I respected his lack of egocentrism. “Mostly he manages things on a higher level, management and all that.” I answered. It was an exceptionally good question though. What did he do? Sure, he showed up sometimes when a celebrity died. Honestly, he could be a bit of a fangirl at times. Sure, a very bony fangirl with a laugh that reminded you of coffin lids, but a fangirl nonetheless. Other than that you rarely see much of him except when he has some new stupid idea about talking skulls or decorative scythes. “I never really thought of the logistics before. What happens during wars, plagues and such? Must be pretty chaotic.” “You should see the ant department” I replied. Just thinking of their backlog made a shiver go down my spine. “Would you please read this document and sign at the bottom” I continued, handing him a scroll. When he was done reading he put an elegant signature at the bottom and handed the scroll back to me. “So what will happen now?” he asked. “I haven’t got the faintest.” I said, smiling. “Will you take care of my cats for me?” He asked, worry in his eyes. “I’d love to.” It wasn’t a lie. Cats are very calm, and let’s not forget clean, creatures. Also, they behave very nicely around the boss, not like dogs who always start to jump and bark around him, sometimes even trying to get a piece of his arm or leg. “I guess I should be going then.” Bob said. His smile where happy and sad at the same time. “Cookie?” I offered him the tray. He reached out a hand, grabbed one and took a bite. He smiled at me as I blew out the candle. Bob disappeared, leaving only a crumb behind him. This is one of the first short stories I’ve ever written outside of school. Feedback and criticism are welcome. English is not my first language so I would be extra grateful for feedback on grammar and language. Also, I'm not very happy with the title so suggestions are welcome.


I don’t own a cat. Can you call a cat a thing? You own a pet. Doesn’t this put them in the same category as your hat or scarf? You own scarves. I own quite a few myself, a whole collection of scarves, in fact. I suppose I don’t love them the way I love a pet. I had pet rats. They live only a few of years, about as long as a well-worn scarf. Rats are simple too. You keep them in a cage. You clean the cage. You own the rat. You own the cage. You what I don’t own? A cat. No one here knows who owns the cat. You would assume: doesn’t that mean it’s a stray? No, this is a well-fed cat. He just got a shiny new collar. I don’t know how anyone gets a cat to wear a collar. We’ve always had indoor/outdoor cats, and every collar we tried putting on them disappeared at some point. Maybe we didn’t get pretty enough collars. One of our cats went through more collars than the rest by far. She was more like a wolf than a cat sometimes, howling at the moon, much like this cat, which I do not own, is howling at my door. It’s funny how when a cat is yours, it’s family, but when it belongs to someone else, they own a cat. Everyone pets the mystery cat on the sidewalk, and so did I, until he followed me inside one day. I didn’t realize how horribly allergic I was to cats until I moved out of my mother’s house for college. Being able to breath was amazing. A new experience. It seemed as though I could keep breathing forever without-- How is this cat still yowling? It needs to stop for oxygen right? My cat’s voice went from a mew to a yowl as she aged. You would think there would be less breath with age, but I guess cats are different. Maybe they breath a bit easier the older they get. It occurs to me that she may have just been going deaf, which I suppose isn’t uncommon. I wonder if this cat, which I do not own, thinks I’m a poor deaf human, who will definitely open up the door. If. He. Just. Yells. Loud. Enough. I know he’s neither old nor going deaf. The first by sight. The second by the fact that every time I attempt to type, the yowling begins once again. I began typing this on my laptop, but it’s too close to the door, and not portable. So, now, I am on my phone, with its silent touchscreen keyboard, typing this on Google Docs. And yet, still, the cat howls to be granted entry. Why? I checked. My apartment’s baseboard heater, circa 1973, has come out of its less than seventy-degree-Fahrenheit slumber in the way that someone with sleep apnea is awoken at 3 a.m. which, as chance would have it, is also the time right now. I’ve turned off all the lights in the apartment, the heater crackles concerningly, and here I am, typing an essay on my phone. Perhaps, finally, the cat is gone. During the day, I like him well enough. I let him in to nap in my apartment. I leave out a bowl of water. I also get cold easily, which means it’s always warm here. I understand, I offer a very enticing place to sleep in any hour of the day or night. Cats don’t care for business hours, but I do. I thought about getting a cat, this past year. But, having had cats in the past, I know that caring for a cat is an investment. When I moved into an apartment alone, especially, I thought perhaps now was time for a cat. Thankfully, this apartment came with a cat I can own vicariously through my mystery neighbor. I just need to make sure to impress upon the cat, that I do not own a cat. I think I will try to do that tomorrow, when I let him in for a nap.


One morning, there was once an old man who woke up in a daze on a snowy winter morning. He stumbled towards the window and exhaled as to remove the frost. As he peered out of the window, expecting to see the neighbors' houses and cars that were always slightly better than what he had. Prior memories made him bitter and made him hope to take their belongings away. As he peered out and saw not the same miserable life that consumed him, he saw snow. Snow and more snow, as far as the eye could see. Bone shattering winds scattered from east to west, removing the possibility of any thought that life was out there. As the old man smiled in glee that he was finally alone and what he had was the best that there could be as far as the eye could see, he felt a sharp frost over his entire body. His muscles tightened and his movement slowed to a crawl. He then forced his way to his bed, where he grabbed his blanket and wrapped it tight around his body. Still shivering, he inched closer and closer to the shower. A turn of the knob and nothing came out. He stared up at the shower head and as he did, an eerie creaking pinged throughout the house. Mere seconds went by and then pipe after pipe started bursting at every weak point. The old man who was still bewildered by what was going on, still with his head below the shower head, looked up at the shower head just as the shower head came flying towards his face. Blood rushing from his nose and freezing water soaking him and the blanket sent his body into shock. What seemed cold before was now 10 fold. He began crawling down the stairs and towards the phone. Barely able to grab the phone, he began to shakily press each number in extraordinary pain, as if his fingers would break right off. He waited for a dial tone, but nothing happened, no noise, nothing. As a last ditch effort, the old man, barely able to move, inched his way to the front door, in hopes of calling out to anyone that could help. His hand reached up to the frozen door knob and twisted it open with all his might. As the door slammed open, the wind burned his face in frost. As much as it hurt, he screamed out for help, but no one was there. After his voice went horse and the cold became unbearable, he closed his eyes as a single tear drop froze under his eye. Then, all of a sudden, he woke up in his bed, with the sun shining on his face. He ran to his window and smiled maniacally at the neighborhoods that he once despised. He jumped for joy, ran to the shower and turn on the hot water. As the water rained down on his face, his worries washed away and all that was left was his grin of appreciation and relief.


Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” Josh turned to see a stubby little man smiling at him. “Aren’t you the guy from that movie?” There are few things more tiresome than standing in line for coffee but signing napkins for ‘fans’ who don’t even know his name is definitely one of them. The line moved forward several inches as one more person succeeded in placing their order.  “Excuse me?” *God dammit.* Josh prepared to put a smile on before turning again. “Is that your car?” He spun and looked out at the carpark. “Does it normally smoke like that? I wouldn’t know,” The little man shrugged. “I’ve never owned a Tesla.” Abandoning his place in the line (but to the joy of those queuing behind him), Josh ran outside. “Oh god!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened?” Thick black smoke was rising from under the bonnet and curling up into the sky. Even stood a few feet in front of it, he could feel the heat on his face. Josh whipped out his phone and began to dial 911. But just two digits in, the phone began vibrating in his hand. He answered. “Hello?” “Josh - it’s Mallory the production assistant. Make-up just called. You haven’t arrived yet. Where are you?” *Shit.* He’d been out last night and woke up late. “I’m on my way. I promise.” He began. “Just car trouble.” The production assistant sighed. “You’re due on set in half an hour. Hurry up.” She hung up.  The door to the store banged open as the stubby man barrelled out. “The manager’s called the fire service. They’ll be here soon.” Josh pocketed his phone and stared in disbelief as the first visible flames licked the windscreen - the paint had begun to peel. “What a mess,” the man began, “Looks new too!” “One week...” Josh mourned: he was rich, but not new-car-every-week rich. “Isn’t there some way we can put it out?” he wondered aloud. The man beside him raised his arm, leaned back, then emphatically tossed his coffee onto the bonnet of the burning vehicle.  Josh’s pocket began vibrating again: he answered. It was George, the director, and he was *not* happy. “When I agreed to cast you in this film,” he lectured, “there was an understanding that you would put the part-boy lifestyle on hold. People are depending on you. We cannot have any more delays to the shooting schedule. Please tell me you’re in make-up now?” “No, I’m not in make-up,” Josh put his head in his free hand. “I stopped for coffee and now my car is on fire.” There was a brief pause. “What?” the director replied. “My car. It’s on fire. I can’t get to set yet - but I’ll be there soon - I promise!” George scoffed. “Yeah, right. I guess that video of you doing shots with Taylor Swift at ONE O’CLOCK THIS MORNING has nothing to do with it? Get to set now you lazy fuckin’ asshole. In fifteen minutes, we shoot.” He hung up.  Josh paced the sidewalk then glanced up at the inferno in front of him. “Come here,” he told the stubby man, who quickly sidled over. “I need a photo.” He held his phone out. “With me?” the man grinned incredulously. “No.” Josh resisted the urged to push the man backward into the flames. “Of me - with the car.” The little man held the camera up while Josh positioned himself in front of the burning wreckage. His nostrils filled with the scent of pumpkin-spice and burnt rubber. *This will make that stuck-up moron eat his words.*  His agent was calling. Was this necessary? He was only a little late now! Christ. Josh answered the call. “I’m coming! But my car’s on fire, or didn’t you see?” he started. “Oh, I saw!” His agent’s clearly-exasperated voice retorted. “And so did the marketing team at Tesla. They’ve pulled your endorsements and you’re being photoshopped out of the ads you just shot.” “But!” Josh tried to interrupt. “Expect a deformation lawsuit in the next 48 hours. Ang good luck finding a new agent. I can’t do this again.” She hung up. “Ahh!” Josh yelled into the sky. “Has everybody lost their minds?!” As if in answer, his phone rang again.  *Probably trying to get his butler to come pick him up* the stubby man thought as he lamented the futile loss of his latte. Josh put the phone down and crumpled down onto the pavement; his sweaty, shiny face lit by the flames. Tears appeared up in his eyes. The stubby man wandered over.  “I’ve been fired.” Josh sighed. “Ha!” The stubby man giggled as he raised his finger and pointed at the burning wreckage.


Once I wake up I take a look at my phone, it’s February 12, 2019 and the time is 6:58AM. On this day, I call my work and tell them I’m too sick to come in. Now that I have that out of the way, I begin my day like any other. First, I make my bed, and as I do so I spend a little extra time making sure the covers and sheets are at an even length on both sides of the bed. Next, I enter my bathroom and proceed to brush my teeth; I make sure each row receives an equal amount of brush strokes. After that I wash my face with a soothing facial cleanser and once I’m dried off I add a very effective moisturizer. I then head into the kitchen and get out two non-stick pans, in one I add two strips of bacon and in the other I add one egg which I plan on making over hard. Once I am finished with breakfast I change into a white dress shirt, which I wear with the top button undone, and a pair of slim dress pants, both ironed the night before. Just as I get ready to head out the door I put on a brand new pair of loafers and an old, but still nice, slim fit car coat, since it’s a bit chilly this time of year. I head over to a nearby public trail and proceed down the path. As I go down the path I keep my head down and watch for cracks in the sidewalk, being sure to avoid them. Eventually, however, I look up towards the sound of footsteps and notice a young, beautiful woman with sandy-blonde hair and dark green eyes wearing a pair of sneakers, jeans, and a bright windbreaker. I send her a kind smile and she does the same, it seems genuine. Once I pass her I stop and spin around on my heels.  I pull a handkerchief out of my coat pocket and use it to clean the blood off of my knife. The knife I carry has a small, thin, fixed blade with a neat set of serrations; I’m always sure to keep the blade sharp, it has helped me for years. I look down at the fear-filled, glazed over eyes before me, those beautiful, beautiful eyes. The bright coat, now dark, blends in with the dirt in the ditch and as I notice this detail I begin to think about how this corpse was once a living, breathing organism that moved around this world, it had friends and family, a history, and now I have reduced it to nothing more than a headline to be strung across the six o’clock news. I take a step back in order to avoid the blood enclosing upon my feet. As I look back at the body I notice its new orifices, from which the blood is leaking, much slower now, are beginning to release more than just blood. I turn around and head home.  Now at home, I place a frozen meal, pasta, in the microwave for dinner. Once I am finished with dinner, I head out to the balcony and proceed to smoke a JM’s Dominican Toro Cigar from the pack my brother gifted me for my birthday; I don’t care for the man, but he has good taste. After I finish I head to the bathroom and once again brush my teeth and wash my face. Finally, I climb into bed, but not before changing into an old pair of athletic shorts and nothing else. As I stare up at the dark ceiling I think about when the body will be found and if the amount of stab wounds released will be accurate, they weren’t last time, not at first. I can’t wait for next year.  **Note from the author: Hi everyone! This is my first post on this subreddit and I hope just one of many more to come! Please tell me what you liked and/or disliked about it, I welcome all constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!**  **Edit: Fixed spelling error and added paragraphs.


Whispers in the Fogs Whitechapel, London, 1889. The city’s up-and-coming electrical lights have been a guiding hand for many people living in the capital of the Victorian Era. But where there shines a light, darkness is being cast not far. This is a grim tale of a man’s journey through the less favorable streets of London. A tale spun by fate. A tale that went unnoticed in history, for it shed light on a person so obscure to our daily lives, that most see the name and think of nothing more than the poor souls that were lost in the Autumn of Terror 1888. This is the story of Detective Clearburough and his ongoing investigation of Jack the Ripper. London was still in trance and fear of the previous year’s murders. Scotland Yard and its members are still amidst finding the culprit of the killing of five poor souls... Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. It was not an uncommon thing to hear of beatings over a prostitute, hell some went so far as to murder, but these? Something so obvious as to say they were murdered merely for being of the wrong profession did not sit correctly with the Detective. Since the death of Miss Chapman way back on the 31st of August 1888 was he on the case alongside many other prominent figures of London’s crime-solving team. And yet? No traces of anything. Sure they were suspecting a few people, but without proof, how would one feel satisfied to have found the actual killer amongst the populous? “Dearest, are you thinking of that case again?” The voice was as sweet as sugar, yet felt so fragile and tender. The Detective shook off his thoughts and looked to his side. Arm in arm, in his safety she was. His darling wife Anne-Liz. He took off his hat and started scratching on his mustache. When it came to looks, both looked as dapper as high royalty, despite their impoverished life. “Ah, you must forgive me, dearest. Here we are going on a stroll to see the new city lights being activated, and all I can muster to think of, is that devil..” Her soft finger quickly placed itself onto his lips and she started giggling. “I’d rather want you to not think of it at least while you are taking the day off from work. I am surprised you even let me go out still, dearest.” The Detective quickly took her finger and placed it on a blue spot next to his nose. “If you are hitting as hard awake as you do in slumber, I reckon not even the devil himself could make you flinch away from a fight.” Both continued their conversation. Of their life, God, and practically anything they could think of. And yet? The Ripper never truly left Clearburough’s mind that night. It was as if he jumped from nightly streets to worried minds. Today was to be a special day. London always marked itself as one of the most advanced cities in the entire world. The epitome of modern. That night, February 2nd of 1889, a new step into the future was made. Whitechapel was to get electric lights! It was decided upon after an inventor noted, that it could bring light to the hearts of those in fear. Granted, East End London was the most impoverished part of London, but if beggars were to have light at night, so the inventor thought, rich people might want to invest in more beautiful craftsmanship. Give them electrified Art. Aberdeen O’Malick was an Irishman living in Whitechapel himself. The man, alongside a few interested fellows and with the help of London’s Administration of Development, already have contributed to a more shining future for the denizens of the city, starting with the installation of arc lamps by the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment in 1878. Mr. and Mrs. Clearburough’s goal was to attend that very same initiation of new lights for Whitechapel by Mr. O’Malick. Accordingly so, many of the streets in Whitechapel did not even possess any means of illumination. Seeing all these new pillars with a lamp attached looked out of place. As if the poor banded together and stole them from where they once stood. Truly, to see the district become brighter at night gave the Detective a worry less in the world. And even so, it felt as if the Ripper mocked him still. From afar with a wide grin exceeding any person’s normal smile. “You ought to become even more beautiful, shining so brightly by yourself in all this darkened street is already illuminating my worried heart, Darling,” Mr. Clearburough suddenly spoke up and give his wife a kiss. “These lights couldn’t come at a better time, I agree, you old charmer~.” The lady caressed his cheeks as both stopped in front of a large crowd. It felt like half of London has ushered into this smaller street. All Ages and wealth were there and amidst them stood a lanky fellow with a large mutton chop beard and safety goggles. “Ladies and Gentlemen! People of London, I welcome you all to our newest endeavor for the city as a whole! Before you; I stand with the power to give light to those who have been praying for it! Would t not have been without the help of Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, as well as the kind folk from the Whitechapel Board of Works, we’d still have a darkened night ahead of us!” The crowd started cheering. At least the majority of streets were to be put under guiding lights. “As a representative of London’s Administration of Development, as well as the O’Malick Electric Company, I welcome you all to a new age of light in Whitechapel!” The man in his leathery apron turned around and pulled a lever hoisted high up on a building with the help of a string. To the astonishment of all, each lamp, one after another, started to light up. At first, there was flickering at best, then a beam of light as if the sun itself had come forth, then back to a more acceptable level of brightness. “It’s as though I can now see every last snowflake in that pile of snow over there,” one old denizen shouted out. “My God, I feel like we have turned night into day,” screamed a woman further back. Cheering and clapping filled the air with sounds that haven’t been heard much of in this usually gloomy world. Children hopped around and began throwing snowballs now that they could see better. Others started outright dancing with their Missus to celebrate the occasion. Commissioner Warren made his way to Mr. Clearburough, followed closely by Mr. O’Malick as he still wanted to ask him something. “Charles! I never thought you had your hands in this!” Both men greeted each other with a handshake, followed soon by a tender bow by Mrs. Clearburough. “You and I both been dreading over this case for a good few months now, Seamus. To see so many people be less inflicted with fear is at least a small token of gratefulness in all that has happened lately.” Finally, Mr. O’Malick caught up with Commissioner Warren and shook his hand as well. The young and ecstatic man could barely hold his eagerness in. So much so, that he could not even talk cohesively. “Ah, m-my apologies for coming so suddenly, but I just had to give you my thanks for setting everything in motion alongside the police force!” It’s then, that the inventor noticed Mr. Clearburough and immediately shook his hand with the same tenacious eagerness just as that of Commissioner Warren. “You are doing a remarkable step towards London’s safety, Mr...O’Malick, was it?” not even a second later, a little piece of paper is pressed into the man’s hand. “Quite so, good sir! The poster I have hung up around the city sadly forgot to check for spelling, but overall I am happy that my home is getting the illumination it so desperately needed!” Alas, the joy, as quickly as it had come with the light, vanished once more as a woman started screaming. “THE RIPPER! T-Th...HE!...” Dyed in blood, the lady fell onto the ground, bleeding away her innards as her stomach revealed a nasty, open cut to her womb. The light began flickering and their protective illumination blew away like a candle’s light in the wind. Mr. Clearburough, Commissioner Warren, and a few Police Officers present at the event quickly drew their weapons. Not a single sign of panic had come out of anyone’s mouth yet. Heavy breathing...a flock of people cowered together like sheep in a thunderstorm. The ever-so-intrusive fog of London hushed out of the varying streets nearby. “Stay...close to me...very close...Anne...” Detective Clearburough wrapped his left hand tightly around his dearest, pulling her closer to his back and keeping his hand firmly placed at her back. Still no sign of panic or screaming. Silence and quiet dread overcame the once illustrious singing and dancing. Atop a building, the very same hosting the lever for Whitechapel’s lights, a silhouette began to form amidst the thickening fog. The first lamp that had just illuminated everything around it sprung to life once again, only to break violently right after. Sparks flew away from the lever, causing the thick to partially reveal the silhouette once again. A hat...a coat...a cane and a smile going beyond a normal one. It’s as if Clearburough saw the very thought he been having for the last few months. It was him. The Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron...Jack the Ripper The very sight of his shadow alone made people feel dread and fear deep in their hearts. It could not have been a mere coincidence, that the lights had started to fail when he showed up. What was even more unusual, was the sudden appearance in front of so many people. One could argue, he is still anonymous, but why risk that, especially with the police and a member of Scotland Yard present? Truly, the conundrum only spun deeper into the web of mystery. “YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE, GET HIM!” The doors of the building were run over by the officers. Commissioner Warren and Detective Clearburough rushed after him, keeping Mrs. Clearburough in the safety of Mr. O’Malick. Upon reaching the roof, the silhouette still stood there. One officer ignited his lantern and swung it forth, but was met with a terrible view. Instead of the Ripper, they found the corpse of a once beautiful woman. Slaughtered like an Animal, dressed in an expensive suit, and most gut-wrenching of all, cut at an aorta as she was leaning against a pike with a hook holding her up like a dried trout over a fire. Detective Clearburough and Commissioner Warren enter the scene not so long after and are taken aback by the unfolding view before them. “Oh dear God...that Woman...she is...” Mr. Clearburough looked at Mr. Warren with a confused mind. “You know this woman?! Who is she?” The entire police force around him became silent. The Commissioner took off his hat and placed it upon his heart. “Molly O’Malick...sister to our handshaking enthusiast. What a terrible fate...Get her down from there and put her into some loins!” The lights sprung back to life once again as the corpses were both being put into cloth to transfer them to Scotland Yard alongside Mr. Clearburough. Nobody felt like celebrating anymore, especially not Mr. O’Malick, who broke down in tears as he saw the hand of his sister peek out of the cloth. Only she had a ring with the initials of her name engraved on it. Even though he did not show it, Detective Clearburough felt an immense dread lurking behind his back. Jack had returned. Not only had he prevented good publicity over the new lights, but they were also shut off again by the O’Malick Electric Company just a day after for ‘maintenance’. London’s people were still in danger. It was time to finally put a stop to this maniac and his killing spree. Whitechapel has been in nigh complete darkness for too long. And despite this setback and blackout. Neither Technology nor the will to catch evil had been stopped. If anything, it only engulfed Mr. Clearburough in even more thoughts on how to catch him...and perhaps...solving the city’s lack of light in Whitechapel and Spitalfields might be a good start on solving Jack’s nightly terror. What will follow, is a cat-and-mouse game between the murderer and police, as if it wasn’t already. And to you, my good sirs and madams reading this...I welcome you to sit down and watch closely, as one of history’s most notorious killers returns. The Blackout brought forth...Whispering in The Fogs


to the small, velvet box; hesitating before passing it over. "You won't drop it?" he asks. "Look, just because I showed up late-" "-for my wedding-" "-for your wedding-" "-and you're my best man-" "-Gah! Such pressure!" I fumble with the cummerbund, turning it until it was centered over my belly. Or at least close enough. "It wasn't my fault. My mom hasn't set the clocks forward for daylight savings time yet-" "-which should have been done weeks ago-" Marco tugs my cummerbund to it's *just right* position. "-yeah, you know how she is. Anyway, I'm here now." I hold out my hand, palm down. "Look. Steady as a rock." Marco moves to give me the ring. I make the hand shake wildly. "Oops," I fling it behind my back. "Try this one," I offer my other hand, palm up. Marco sighs. He places the box in my hand. "Let's go." \*\*\* **Luckily, we make** it to the church in time and I am able to stand next to my best friend as he marries his High School sweetheart. No, really, she is still in High School. Seventeen years old. Marco, the man himself, only nineteen. *Too young,* some would say. Most would say. But they don't know Marco like I do. The earth will turn, the sun will rise, God will rule in heaven, and Marco will be married to this one woman - girl, now, but woman soon enough - for the rest of their long, fruitful lives. *Such certainty.* It is more than I deserve, being counted among those to witness the event. And I surely don't deserve the honor of standing at the groom's right hand, holding the ring. Well, I suppose that's another advantage of having grown up in a small Kansas town. No competition. I didn't have to be that good to be a best man. \*\*\* **After the ceremony**, chaos. Pictures are wanted, names are shouted out; flashbulbs and laughter, hugs and handshakes. During a lull, I'm called to the parking-lot for a consultation. "What do you think?" Don asks. He and a crew of helpers stand next to the honeymoon car - a workhorse wood-paneled station wagon; 'Just Married' soaped on the rear window and a dozen empty soda cans tied to the bumper. "Great," I say. "Fine." Then, as I get closer and look in the window, I see a scattering of popcorn over the front seat. "What's that?" "That's a prank. You know, fill the car up with popcorn so...." "Funny," I agree, "But don't you think there should be more? That's, like, not a lot of popcorn." In truth, the front seat doesn't look any worse than having taken a sharp turn with a bag of old movie theater 'corn riding shotgun. Don shrugs. I get money from my wallet and tell him, "Go to Wal-Mart. They sell those big bags of the stuff for cheap. You know what I'm talking about? Looks like garbage bags? Sometimes cheesy flavored; or caramel? Get as many as you can." Don grabs some friends and they hurry away. Robert, one of Marco's younger brothers, stands by my side. "That's going to be messy," he says. I laugh. "Yeah." "Shouldn't you stop that sort of thing?" "What?" "You're the best man. Shouldn't you stop them from doing that?" I look at Robert for a moment. "I don't know," is my honest answer. \*\*\* **The reception. I'm** introduced to one of the bridesmaids - a pretty redhead named Anne, and we dance. We dance goofy in a group. We dance slow together. We talk about the bride and groom. We talk about ourselves. She's studying management at K-State. I've moved south, to attend the University of Houston where the temperature is more apropos for a young man ready to set the world on fire. During a break, I leave her with friends to fetch refreshments. Since everybody in the wedding party is underage, drink choices are Sprite and Coke. Sprite or Coke.... While making the decision, I hear a voice behind me say, "Decline and fall." I turn. Christine Kohler stands there, dressed to the nines, smile beaming, blonde hair done fancy in a way I'd never seen on her before. "Fall down baby!" I say, finishing the lyrics of a song that had somehow become our special salutation. I grab her in a hug. We laugh. We hold each other at arm's length. "Look at you," I say. Chrisy Kohler, my High School running buddy, almost unrecognizable now with that blown-out hair and wearing an honest-to-goodness dress. Never a petite girl, the freshman fifteen strains the silky yellow fabric in nice places, as well as around her middle. The dress' neck line is much, much lower than her usual wardrobe of sweatshirts and Ts. "A lot more of me, right?" "Fornicate that. You look great." "You clean up pretty good yourself." "Where have you been? I didn't see you during the ceremony, or the dance." "No surprise. You looked like you were going to pass out from the pressure of having to stand still for an hour. Anyway, I was in the back, with the cool kids." I lean in. She smells of cigarettes. Chrisy smirks. "And we cool kids tend to hang out in the parking-lot during these John Barleycorn Must Die Baptists shin-digs. You know how it is." "Yeah, I know how it is." "Besides." Chrisy hip-checks me hard enough that I have to steady myself against the drink table. "You're doing alright without me." She motions across the room towards Anne who is huddled with a group of girls, all of them eyeballing me while smiling and giggling into their hands. "Can you pop the collar of a tuxedo?" I ask, giving it a try. "I feel as if I should pop my collar." Chirsy makes the judgment call. "Perfect! Looks absolutely stupid." I become Elvis. "Uh hunka hunka," I mumble, pelvis suddenly on a swivel, index fingers pointing nowhere in particular. Chrisy goes upside my head. "Fool." Then, with her hand still on my back, she moves in front of me; face to face. Close. Intimate. I'm tall; we're almost eye-to-eye. A big girl. She places her other hand behind my neck and, with a caress, fixes the collar. "You haven't changed," she says. Her pretty face, inches from mine, tilts slightly. "And in a way that's very sad." She smiles ruefully. "Now." She steps back and slaps my tux into shape. "Get over there before Red realizes what a big mistake she's making." I make a derisive noise. "She can wait. I'm not done talking with you." "Yes you are." Chrisy grabs a two liter bottle from the table. "Besides, I'm due back at the parking-lot. There's some very important rum waiting for coke.... Er. I mean, there's some very important people waiting for me." She backs away, doing the Queen of England hand-wave. "Hey," I call out. "Don't leave without saying goodbye." Then she's gone. \*\*\* **The popcorn thing** is a disaster. Never quick to anger, Marco has always been more of the slow-burn type, so I can see his temperature rise by degrees as he circles the station wagon. Through the car's windows, nothing but popcorn. Crammed to the roof. Marco opens the passenger's side causing an avalanche of the greasy stuff. Gloria, his young bride, moves to avoid having it cover her shoes. Water fills her eyes, threatening to spill over. The gathered crowd laughs and hoots, maybe a little nervous because just popcorn might have been a good gag; but this greasy, buttery Wal-Mart gunk is well over the line. Nevertheless, we can't let the night end on a bad note so we move into action. Girls swarm Gloria, cooing comfort, while us boys start shoveling. We get enough of it off the seats, but the residue is something else entirely. Marco's worried about his rented tuxedo and Gloria's dress. I rather suspect you could toast a marshmallow over his head by now. There are blankets in the trunk of my car. We use them to cover the seats. Marco's grumbling about irreparable damage, but it’s been a long day. Time to go. We have a moment alone, away from the crowd. I congratulate him. Shake his hand. This is my best friend. We've gone to school together for twelve years. Since kindergarten, actually. I can't remember a time when we didn't know and like each other. Soccer leagues, camping; building things, tearing things down. Bad movies and video games. Cars and girls. Between Marco and I, all the mysteries of the universe have been discussed and settled. And we aren't even twenty years old. I let go his hand. I'll never be part of another friendship like this one. We make no plans. He's off to start a life. I'm gone to Texas. We'll see each other again, maybe. I say goodbye to the best part of my childhood one more time. Maybe the last time. And he's a little pissed. And I'm more than a little guilty. \*\*\* **I still have** a few days before leaving town, so I get redhead Anne's number and we make a date for tomorrow night. She gives me a quick hug then rushes away to catch up with friends. Heh. Pop that collar, son. Brooms and trash cans are found. I help clean the offensive popcorn off the ground. Some night birds squawk, but we're doing them a favor. Eating that stuff will kill you! The party has ended. The reception hall is closing. I'm jawing with stragglers in the lobby, all of us unwilling to call it quits. Management has to chase us out. Magical nights like this don't happen often, so it feels odd just leaving when it's over. But a surprise waits for me in the parking-lot. Chrisy has parked her El Camino next to my K-Car and is sitting on the lowered gate, smoking a cigarette with a plastic cup in hand, a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders against the chill. I laugh at the sight. She motions for me to sit next to her. "What?" she asks. "You look so dangerous. Like the women momma warned me about." I perch myself on the gate, bumping her butt with mine as I settle. "Watch it." She holds her cup high to prevent it from spilling. There are a number of brown grocery bags behind us. I rummage through them and grab the first bottle I find. Triple Sec. Disgusting. Almost undrinkable unless mixed with something. Almost. "Do you mind?" I take a cup and prepare to pour. Chrisy arches an eyebrow. She blows smoke out the corner of her mouth. I freeze. Waiting for approval. "Well?" "You don't drink," she says. "Lies!" I roar. "Slander and lies!" She shrugs. I pour. I offer my cup for a toast. Slowly, reluctantly, she taps it with her own. "To Marco and Gloria," I say. Then gulp huge. Chrisy sips. When my breath returns, I ask, "What's the matter?" After a moment, she repeats, "You don't drink, Virgil. I've never seen you drink." "To be fair, Chrisy, there are many things you've never seen me do." "Yeah. Thank God for that. But Virgil? You don't drink." True to a point. I didn't drink in High School. And, because Chrisy knows me so well, she knows why. I come from a long line of alcoholics. Functional, but drunks nonetheless. Indeed, alcoholism broke up my family's home. I'm sure at some point in our long and cherished friendship I had told Chrisy that I would never drink because I didn't want to wind up like that. Broken. However, moving away to college taught me a lot of new and interesting things about being broken. I had assumed booze was a wrecking ball, but it's not. It's a needle. And if used properly it can stitch you back together. Or close enough. "Skip it," I say. "Talk to me. Hey, you still see Jeff? What's going on with him?" "No." Chrisy shakes her head. "Nope. You talk to me. What happened? You used to be so.... Jesus Christ about drinking." "Actually, Jesus drank like a fish-" "-Virgil-" "-Wine, but you had to back then. Water was full of dinosaur piss-" "-I'm serious, Virg. What happened?" I look away. Then I laugh. "What the hell, Chrisy? Who are you...? I mean, you're not exactly the temperance union sitting there." "Here," she hands me her cup. "Drink." "What?" She glares. I obey. It's coke. Just coke. "So?" I ask. "You're slowing down. That's just smart drinking, taking a break every once and awhile." "No, Virgil, it's been coke all night. I stopped drinking years ago. I just pretend because.... Because I want to fit in. That never bothered you, though. You always stood your ground. I remember how they used to pressure you then make fun of you at parties when you wouldn't drink. How you always turned it around, made them look stupid. I admired you for that." "Chrisy...," "Now look at you. Straight Triple Sec? Oh, Virgil. What the hell happened?" **\*\*\*** ***What happened? I*** *met a girl. She broke my heart. Now I drink. You want it expanded? Her name was Shubra, born in Indian, and about the most exotic, beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And before you say it, yes, I guess I did have to go to a foreign country to get laid.* *Okay. I'm going to stop doing that. Joking, always joking. Neither of us deserve it.* *It wasn't just looks, she had an enormous personality. She was fearless. And smart. Effortlessly smart. She aced every class without ever cracking a book.* *But she was damaged. Abused. She could be reckless, borderline suicidal.* *I thought I could save her. With love.* *Oh, right. I said I would stop joking. Mea culpa.* *She was my first, and I, hers. Later I would have good reason to examine everything she said for a lie, but not that. Never that. It was obvious.* *I asked her to married me. She smiled for an answer.* *Once, before I left campus to spend a holiday with my brother in Louisiana, she told me she was pregnant. Again, I proposed marriage. I didn't even get a smile that time.* *When I returned, she claimed to have had an abortion. I asked no details, none were forthcoming.* *Things got worse between us, then better, then worse; and so forth.* *During one of the bad times, she came to my room. She stripped without saying a word. She started in on me and I reciprocated. I could tell it was wrong, her head was wrong. She was angry, cold, insistent. She was so wrong, but still I tried to make it right. God help me, I tried harder to make it right at that moment than I've ever tried to do anything else in my life. More, I know, than I ever will.* *When it was over, she quit the bed and dressed with her back towards me. She might have left as she entered - smoldering and silent. But she didn't. She turned said something she shouldn't have.* *I flew at her. I grabbed her. I pinned her to the bed. Ridiculous in my nakedness, I straddled her and forced her down with hands full of murder.* *And the look on her face.... The scornful, dead-eyed look on her face....* *It's a picture you can't forget. The best you can do is to keep washing it with alcohol until it fades.* \*\*\* **"I grew up,"** I answer Chrisy, reaching for a refill. She waits until I've poured and drank then says, "That's it?" We lock eyes. "Pretty much." Time passes. I look away first. "I guess you have changed," Chrisy says, pushing herself off the gate. "And it is sad." "Where are you going?" "Home. It's late." "That's it?" "Pretty much." "Chrisy, come on. This?" I upturn my cup, splattering booze all over the pavement. "It's no big deal." "I know. I'm just tired. Can you please get off so I can close the gate? I oblige, closing it for her. "Well, I'm still in town a few days. Did you want...?" "No. I can't. I'm leaving tomorrow." She checks her watch. "Today." "Okay." I step aside so she can get in the driver's seat. Before she closes the door, I say, "So... Bye?" "Yeah. Bye." The door shuts. The ignition fires. She hooks an elbow over the seat to reverse out of the parking spot. Once the grill is pointed towards home, she gives me one last look. "Hey!" I say, loud enough to be heard over the engine and through the closed window. "Decline and fall!" She drives away, shaking her head. End *Blame this on anonymity, plausible deniability, and the void that degrades quality. Which is a shame because* The Rainmakers *deserve better. Well. It had to be done. No other band comes close to having the same impact or being as important to me as* The Rainmakers*. They were the soundtrack to the best years of my life. So many memories associated with their songs.... Tch. My drama teacher told me she'd 'hung out with' (implication: dated) one of the band members at KU. "The drummer," she'd said, "Pat, I think." and I couldn't keep my puppy eyes off her after that. Picture me laying on my belly on the school's stage, ankles crossed, chin resting in entwined fingers; "Tell me more about him, Ms. Scovill. He smelled nice, right?" And if Rich Ruth ever sees me coming, he'd better turn the other way because I played bass guitar in a college band and I'll become* Annie Wilkes *on him so fast. There's no telling what I'd sledgehammer just to get him reminiscing about* *. (I thought a Rich Ruth solo album might be a good idea, then I heard* Dogleg *off* Monster Movie *and I now know it to be a necessity).* *Anyway. They deserve better than this pitiful little story, but I had to get it out there and it's the best I can do. The remaining* Gone Songs *won't be so contemplative.


WC: 524 Rain pattered the window of the diner hard, as I sipped my coffee. Though sometimes I wonder why I drink it all. So much regular drinking of the bitter beverage made me nearly unaffected by it. I still don’t enjoy the unpleasant taste, I more tolerate it for the high I supposedly get. So, I drink more and more cups of the black drink until I feel energized, or can bear it no longer. But why do I subject myself to such a thing? People add things to their drink, make it taste better, have less of an edge on their tongue, help them pretend they really love it a little bit more, a reason to drink it. But that’s not *true* coffee, is it? Those are things that help you ignore how acrid it really is. I take a sip, and it scorches my tongue. Why not, then, just accept that it doesn’t really matter how I take my coffee. Add as much milk or sugar as my heart desires. Hell, add sprinkles and caramel, and whipped cream on top. Who cares? It’s my coffee after all. I smack my lips, I imagine my tongue is stained brown by now. Either way, whatever it’s advertised to do is not happening to me, that’s for sure. I feel as tired as ever. But, for some reason, I find myself continuously hoping that my black coffee, uncontaminated by the ideas and flavors of anything else, will give me the true effect. A fuller experience, an experience that the first men who ever drank coffee felt. It feels noble, to bear the brunt of the terrible flavor for the reward of breathing life into my mornings. I take a larger gulp, now that it's nearly room temperature. This is the taste my forefathers settled with, the boost of energy they so loved and desired. But this coffee, goddamnit, tastes horrible. I’m sick of drinking it every morning before taking on my other obligations for the day. The taste lingers on my tongue indefinitely. Why not just never drink it again. Smash my mug on the floor, tell the waitress to go fuck herself, and never look back... That’s irrational. That’s not fair to her, or the people who will have to clean my mess out of the carpet. I slowly swallowed more. Maybe if I simply went to another diner. Fancier diner. Higher quality java. Buy my own espresso machine, do it my own way, self-determination. But coffee is coffee anywhere and coffee is coffee made in any way. Is everyone in the world just pretending to like coffee? What did my “forefathers” love so much about this? Was life really that bad that this was the highlight of their day? Built coffee houses to enshrine how much they loved the damn bean? I might as well just- I went for another drink but felt nothing but air on my lips. “Another cup, honey?” My hands slowly lowered the mug onto the table. I gazed at the waitress blankly. Her head gently gestured to the coffee pot in her right hand. “Yes. Yes, I’ll have another cup.


####Any feedback would be welcome. I'm trying to be less batshit insane in my writings.#### - Ard was told by Lord he could taste all that's of the land, with one exception. He must never, ever, eat the fruit of the great Xan Tree. Ard wandered the land, obeying Lord, sampling all it had to offer: Psychedelic mushrooms, stimulating leaves, appetite increasing herbs, pain killing poppies, fermented fruit, and much more. The natural world was at his disposal! He never considered the Xan Tree. However, one day, he found himself a bad bitch. Or a bad dick. He wasn't sure. They were in love and he didn't care if his partner was a bitchdick. Or a dickbitch. Unfortunately, it ended up being a bad bad. One day, his non-binary cohabitation partner came home with some xan fruit in hand. Xhe told Ard that a man, a cool man, convinced Zanzarella but a tiny pluck of the Xan Tree. Now, Zanantonio had handfuls of the things. Ard was bewildered. "What was that dude's name? How cool?" "Snake Serpent." "Dammit Zaneida! You know it's forbidden!" "Snake had a cool leather jacket." "Oh," replied Ard. Pop! And just like that Ard became Barrd. Ard soon saw shame in his clothes. He stripped, prancing nude about Eden, stealing as he saw fit. Chad Lord, appropriately named head of the homeless shelter, was enraged. Ard and his beloved Zanetioni.. <*Aw shit, who are we kidding? Ard never remembered her name. It's Zanny now, deal with it.*> Well, they were kicked the fuck out of Eden. "Who names a shitty homeless shelter 'Eden' anyway?" asked Zannie. There was a brief pause. "I mean, who names a shitty homeless shelter 'Eden' anyway?" asked Zannie, completely forgetting she had already asked that rhetorical question. Such is the way of alprazolam. "Who names -" Ard cut her off, likely the wheels spinning so slowly he was finally getting around to answering the first time the question was asked. "A Chad...A devious Chad. The Beta and the Zeta, a pussy. One who seflishly planted his xan shrub in the middle of his fortress paradise, all for himself!" Ard's mumble was barely audible. However, the way he clenched his fist, slowly swaying side to side, it showed shit was getting serious. With eyes half closed, he studied Eden. It wasn't good enough. He couldn't make out the proper reconnaissance details. In a gradual flash, his eye lids slowly widened at the speed of dumb. Zoom. Enhance. Zoom - no wait. Stop! He observed an imposing ring camera, some shoddy wifi, broken CCTV, and a daunting cast iron fence. Thin rods with tiny points at approximately chest height surrounded the perimeter. "Impenetrariation is impassible." Ard gasped. "You mean impossible?" asked Zannie. "No. Impassable. Like the speed of light. It's impassable to go faster than light, you'd always come in 2nd, never passing. Impassable." Zannie was glad to have such a smart BAE. What now? Ard had to science the shit out of it. Pencils? Check. Paper? Check. Calculator? Ard held up his fingers. Check. Most importantly, spectacles? A broken pair with no frames. *Bet these have transition lens, badass.* Ard thought. Check. Now he was ready. He needed Plan B, kids are a scourge of the earth. No wait. He needed his Plan A. A plan to defy the Chad Lord. He would break into the Shelter of Eden and steal the mighty Tree of Idiocy. *It's most displeasing to inform you that details concerning the grand adventure that followed is lost mostly to time. The participants in what was described as* ###"...The greatest heist of all time, with elements that made men ponder the true meaning of their existence...gave us the answers to life through vague platitudes...[love] solves all problems, including scarcity, world hunger, and rapidly decreasing biodiversity in the ecosystems."### *All involved are either dead or were too barred to bear the burden of remembering that fateful time. No insight could be extracted as to what happened.* What we do know is as follows. *Twist You Missed:* Eden is a shitty homeless shelter. It's not, in fact, the biblical paradise known as the Garden of Eden. (I know. Mind BLOWN). *Plot Twist:* The Tree of Idiocy ends up being a pill bottle, one with an everlasting script, a paradise of endless refills. *All is lost twist:* Masculine Chad Lord ends up not having a gender, enticing gender fluid Zannie, who leaves Ard. *Final Happy Ending Twist:* Luckily, Zannie and Chad suffer a poorly timed simultaneous seizure from xanax withdrawals that saves the day (How it saved the day is anybody's guess). Ard escaped with the bottle, avoiding indictments on a myriad of charges. Charges including breaking and entering, trespassing, attempted murder, first degree murder, desecration of a corpse, obstruction of justice, witness intimidation, destruction of evidence, and perhaps most baffling, conspiracy to over throw the United States. Officials refuse to comment on any of these related charges or why a grand jury dropped them. A spokesperson, notably swaying at the podium, stated, "Too be honest, we can't really remember." Ard, a free man, lives the rest of his days barred out and happily ever after.