They called him John, because he didn’t have a name. He’d been pulled from the Dusek estate during the raid, where he’d almost been shot because he refused to identify himself. Only later did they find out it was because he didn’t speak. Still, Ana finds there are plenty of other ways to learn about John and his past. On the drive to the ward, Ana sneaks several glances at him in the rearview, watching as he stares out the windows, wide-eyed, like he’s never seen the city before. When they arrive, he’s shaking so badly that Ana has to call for help getting him out of the car. It’s then that she learns John reacts poorly to being touched, no matter how many times the attendant explains in a soft voice what she’s going to do and that it won’t hurt. He shuts down completely, eyes unblinking as he gazes out at nothing. Somehow, Ana finds that more unsettling than the shaking. That night, Ana goes over his medical records again, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands to ward off the chill from what she finds. The hospital had declared him a non-threat, submitting meekly to even the most invasive of procedures. That, combined with confessions from members of the Dusek family, had ensured his freedom...such as it was. Ana thinks of the tired lines that formed around John’s eyes as she brought him to his room at the ward. She swallows down another gulp of hot chocolate. When she gets to the section describing the injuries he’d presented with upon admittance, her hands become unsteady and she’s forced to set aside her mug. After seven years of working at the ward, she’s not squeamish. But the implications still make her shiver. The last part she reads before falling into a troubled sleep suggests that John’s vocal chords, tongue, and Broca's area in the brain are all undamaged. The next day, Ana asks John if he has ever spoken aloud or learned sign language. His face twists, equal parts annoyed and ashamed. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Can you write?” she asks softly. He gives his head a minute shake, the clearest response she’s ever seen from him. “Can you read?” Another shake. Ana pauses, considering. “Would you like to learn?” John’s gaze flicks up to hers, briefly, grey eyes wide. When he looks away again, he’s slightly flushed, as though he’s done something he’s not supposed to. “Give me a day to gather some materials, and I’ll start teaching you,” Ana says with a smile. John doesn’t smile back, but his confused expression is better than what he’s worn previously. Ana hopes it’s an indicator of progress. She comes back the next day with paper, pens, and a workbook. She sits with John and goes over the sound of each letter. He never repeats after her, but she catches him silently mouthing along. He doesn’t let her guide his hand while attempting to draw each character, but he does trace over the letters she writes with careful, almost reverent lines. Ana only wishes he was making such progress in other areas. It takes a week before he’ll eat around other people. The one time the staff brought him to the dining room, he almost hurt himself in his scramble to flee from the small group of people around the table - no more than nine, but clearly too many for John. It takes an hour and a half for Ana to calm him. In addition to being skittish of crowds, John doesn’t seem too sure about going outside, either. Ana can’t help but think of his behavior as catlike in the way he lingers on the threshold of the door to the garden, clearly entranced but unwilling to take the last step out from under the ceiling. So she waits with the door held open, letting him watch the fountain and flowers and insects and trees from the safety of the ward’s shadows. Three weeks after John’s arrival at the ward, Ana nearly jumps in surprise when she pushes the door to the garden open and John walks out after her. He stands for a moment in a patch of sunlight, face tilted up at the sky. Then he gives her a questioning look that Ana has come to understand means, “What now?” “Let’s take a little walk,” she says. “Do you want me to tell you about some of the flowers?” John nods, as he usually does when Ana offers to teach him something. So she guides him through the garden, pointing out her favorites and telling him what they mean in the language of flowers. When they come to a stand of milkweed, Ana spots a chewed-on leaf and beckons John closer. “That’s a monarch caterpillar,” she says, indicating the tiny green-and-black worm as it nibbles on the edge of its leaf. “When it’s ready, it’ll form a chrysalis and turn into a monarch butterfly.” John looks delighted at the notion. His eyebrows come up as if saying, “Go on.” “Then the butterfly breaks free of the chrysalis and lets its wings fill out in the sun,” Ana says. “Once it’s strong enough, it’ll fly away. I think monarchs have quite a long migration before coming home and laying new eggs.” John nods once. He looks back at the caterpillar, thoughtful. “We could make a little enclosure and bring him inside,” Ana suggests. “He’d be safer with - “ She doesn’t finish the sentence, because John’s face moves from calm to panicked to angry within a breath. He glares at Ana, hands fisted and trembling. “We’d release him once he emerged from the chrysalis,” she hurries to add. John makes a short, slashing gesture. Ana blinks. She’s never seen him so adamant about anything. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll leave him be.” John nods again, this time firm, as if saying, “Good.” Ana tells the other staff to avoid disturbing the caterpillar. After his first excursion outside, John can’t seem to get enough of the garden. He returns every day to check on the caterpillar, but spends most of his time walking or sitting to watch the fountain. Ana holds their lessons outside when the weather is nice. John is a quick study, and soon he’s passing Ana notes with simple phrases. The first one he gives her just says thank you. The next one, a few days later, says water paint. After a quick round of 20 Questions, Ana figures out what he means. She brings him a set of watercolors and other supplies, and then sits back and watches as John experiments. His motions, while hesitant at first, are purposeful, like a musician tuning their instrument. Watching him work, Ana is struck with the thought that either John has done this before, or he’s a very, very fast learner. The first thing he paints once he seems sure of himself is the caterpillar on its leaf. Ana smiles at the illustration as it dries, and catches John smiling, too. Painting becomes part of the routine. At first, John paints the things around him. His room. The dining hall. And many, many pictures of the garden. Ana brings him sticky tack so he can hang them on his walls. Then, one day Ana finds him with his head in his hands, a page of darkness on the desk in front of him. He ignores her questions about it. And as the days go by, Ana sees more paintings like it. Dark things, done in greys and blacks. A figure curled up in an empty room. The shadow of a fist against the wall. Sometimes red creeps into the monochrome pictures. John doesn’t hang these next to the others, but nor does he destroy or discard them. He lets them dry, then shuts them carefully away in the desk. When asked, he writes out, I know where they are now. Ana doesn’t understand, not fully, but it seems like a healthy coping mechanism. Some days, he’ll take out the stack of paintings from the desk and flip through them, one by one, as if reading a solemn story. This is usually followed by a trip to the garden to see how the caterpillar is doing. It’s growing fast, and there eventually comes a day when John tugs excitedly at Ana’s sleeve and shows her the chrysalis hanging from the leaf. It’s light green with a golden seam near the top. It’s all John paints for two days. They’re walking in the garden a week later when Ana sees John go tense next to her. She follows his gaze to the stand of milkweed, where another resident is crouched down. When the man straightens, he’s holding something up to inspect it. Ana realizes a split second after John does, and she’s too slow to stop him when he lunges forward. His face is set in a silent snarl as he grabs the other resident’s wrist. Ana has never seen such harsh, rigid lines in his posture. “John!” she cries, suddenly frightened of what he might do. When he glances back at her, the other resident jerks free with a curse. He shoves John away and retreats inside, leaving a handful of bitter words in his wake. John ignores the comments, already crouched down to recover the dropped chrysalis. He lifts it gently, so gently, all anger gone. His eyes come up to meet Ana’s, pleading. “Bring it inside,” she says. “We’ll see what we can do.” Ana keeps an eye on him as they return to the ward. His movements are slow and slight, his feet barely lifting from the ground as he walks. At first she thinks he’s just trying to protect the chrysalis, but then she catches a glimpse of his face. It’s blank. Completely empty as he shuffles down the hall, shoulders hunched. “Are you somewhere else right now?” Ana asks him gently. John doesn’t seem to hear at first, but then he starts slightly, as though surprised she’s talking to him. He shakes his head vehemently. They take the chrysalis to the crafts room, where Ana helps John apply a tiny dab of glue and attach a string to the little black stem of the chrysalis. Then, they bring it back outside where John ties it securely to a low-hanging branch of juniper and Ana affixes a tiny sign reading DON’T TOUCH. “There,” she says as she straightens. “It’ll be safer now.” John nods, but his expression is distant again. His eyes are glazed and absent. It takes Ana another two hours to get him to look her in the eyes, at which point she sees those tiny, tired lines again. The next day, John spends hours working on a new painting. He locks it in the desk drawer almost before it’s finished drying, but Ana still has plenty of time to stare at what he’s created. On the paper, an indistinct figure hides their face with hands and arms mottled with bruises. Around one wrist is a paper bracelet like the ones the residents wear, but this one simply reads DON’T TOUCH. The paintings over the following days grow darker. Sometimes they are stained with tear-splashes. Sometimes John doesn’t finish them, instead viciously brushing a dark wash over the whole thing. Sometimes he takes out all of the paintings in the desk drawer and sifts through them, expression unreadable. Ana becomes unsure if the paintings are still helping John or if they’re perpetuating a cycle of rumination. John shrugs off her questions. A week passes. The chrysalis outside shows no sign of change, while by Ana’s count, it should have darkened by now. She elects not to tell John. And then one day, she walks in to find John painting a monarch butterfly that sheds light on its dark surroundings. “What brought this on?” she asks, pleasantly surprised. John looks up, eyes dancing. “ Dream, ” he finger-spells. “ Garden now? ” When Ana brings him outside, he makes a beeline for the hanging chrysalis. Ana’s mouth drops open when she sees the darkened exterior and the faint impression of a monarch’s wings within. “How?” she asks John. “How did you know?” “ Dream, ” he spells again with a shrug. Ana decides not to question it. On the day the butterfly emerges, she and John spend most of their time in the garden. John frets a bit - about the weather, Ana thinks - but the overcast sky clears up nicely for the big event. They watch in breathless anticipation as the butterfly wriggles free and begins to sun itself, fanning crumpled wings. Slowly, they begin to fill out, and the butterfly starts wandering from the chrysalis to the juniper branch. “Would you like to hold it?” Ana asks John. He tears his awed eyes from the butterfly long enough to spell out, “ Safe? ” “As long as you don’t touch the wings,” Ana assures him. Cautiously, John places a finger in the butterfly’s path. It readily climbs aboard and flicks its proboscis against his skin. Ana watches the astounded grin come over John’s face with an ache in her heart. The butterfly twitches its wings. In a flutter of motion, it makes the short leap from John’s hand to his nose. His head jerks back in surprise, but he seems to recover quickly. And then he starts to laugh. Softly. Carefully. In bits and pieces, as though he’s afraid of startling his passenger. Ana covers her mouth as she stares in delight. It’s the first voiced sound she’s heard from him. The butterfly jumps again, drifting down to the path. It spends a few seconds fanning its wings, then flutters over to a cluster of red flowers for a long drink. From there, it darts up, hovers for a moment, then flits away up and out of the garden. John watches it go, and while Ana expects to see some sadness in his expression, there’s nothing but joy and a fierce, desperate pride. Ana lets the moment linger, her heart full of light at the scene. At last, she lets out a breath. “Wasn’t that something?” John doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on where the butterfly disappeared. His expression is softer now, pensive. Ana worries he might be headed back into his head. She gently prompts him. “John?” And he says, “Call me Ciel.”


Logline: A man, feeling guilty about a crime he's just committed, goes to see his therapist to confess, will it help, or will he just make it worse? \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The receptionist called Stan Foster into his appointment with his therapist; he's more nervous than he usually is. He sits directly across from his therapist, Doctor Ciara Ortega. They're sitting in silence for a minute, "All I say in this session is protected by patient-doctor confidentiality, right?" Stan asks. "Sure, everything you say in these sessions just remains with us," says Dr. Ortega. "Even if it's illegal?" Stan says. "Yes, even if it's illegal. Why don't you start by telling me what happened," Dr. Ortega says. "As you know, I work for Freeman Brothers Movers, so essentially, when we get a new job, I go in, and they give me the new assignment, I have no choice about who I work with, they just place us as we come in," Stan says. "I'm with you," Dr. Ortega says. "So, on a job last week, I'm put with two guys, Adam and Freddy. I've worked with Freddy before but never Adam. We head out to the location, and it's this huge mansion, some old rich lady is moving to a smaller town-house, she's downsizing, I guess, the closet in her bedroom is bigger than my whole apartment. So, we start to move her things; there are antiques, big bureaus, and all sorts of other heavy junk. We get to this back room that has about 80 boxes in it. Now, these boxes are sealed up pretty tight, triple taped with duck tape. They're heavy, each one is a dense package, but we start to load them up and bring them out to the truck. We're about halfway through when Freddy and I accidentally dropped one, and it tears open a bit. We see inside, and the box is jam-packed with stacks of cash, mixed denomination. Adam comes out to join us, and he figures there are about 100 million dollars in all these boxes," Stan says. "Just so I'm following along, you're moving a whole bunch of boxes, like 80 of them, and about halfway through you find out that the boxes are jam-packed with millions of dollars?" Dr. Ortega says. "That's right, well, anyway, as I was saying, Adam has this idea; he doesn't believe anyone knows that the money is here except the three of us and the old lady. There's no manifest for this move; she just put the money in a box and taped it. Adam makes a suggestion, what if we were to steal the money, make the old lady have an accident, and then split the cash," Adam says. "How did that make you feel?" Dr. Ortega asks. "At first, Freddy and I were skeptical of the idea; we're going to kill some old lady and steal her cash? It didn't feel right. However, as we're getting close to the end of the job, the old lady shows up and starts yelling at us for taking too long. She leaned into us; she said if we didn't speed it up, she was going to report us to our boss, gave us a whole bunch of guff. We were angry; it was at that point that Freddy and I got on board with Adam's plan. So we told the old lady that we would be there, with her stuff, later that night once we had packed everything up," Stan says. "How were you going to kill the old lady?" Dr. Ortega asks. "It was Adam's idea; he had an answer for everything. So we do finish packing the truck, but we put the boxes with the money in first so that they're at the back. The three of us drive to the new house, unload the front of the truck, so the old lady isn't suspicious. It was at that point, Adam took over, he was like a crazed maniac. He forced the old lady into her bedroom and smothered her with a pillow. I couldn't even watch; he was deranged," Stan says. "Oh my goodness, and what did you do from there?" Dr. Ortega asks. "We cleaned up, making sure not to leave any fingerprints, DNA where it shouldn't be, finish the job exactly how the old lady wanted. Then we drove the cash out to a storage facility. Adam had the whole thing worked out, his cousin owns the storage facility, he gave us a good deal on a unit and put it in some generic name. We spent the rest of the night loading those heavy boxes into the storage unit, locked it up, and went back," Stan says. "Okay, walk me through the next day," Dr. Ortega requests. "Freddy and I were starting to feel a little guilty on the drive back to the moving company, but we were in it now. It took about two days for someone to discover the body, but when I say this lady was old, it surprised no one that she passed away in her sleep. Adam told us that we had to wait to spend the money, any unusual spending would send up some red flags. We were paying close attention to the coverage of the woman's death, there was nothing suspicious reported, no mention of the money, and her family thought the stress of the move had killed her. We thought we were free and clear until the police called all three of us in for some questioning," Stan says. "The police, so they did suspect foul play?" Dr. Ortega asks. "They made our meetings at the police station, an hour apart from one another, I don't know whether that was to get us to turn on each other, but it kind of worked. Freddy was a wreck; he had the first meeting. We had our story straight, but we were worried Freddy was going to crack. We met for breakfast before the police questioning, Freddy could hardly keep it together, he couldn't remember basic facts from the story, Adam and I were concerned that we had liability on our hands. Adam walked Freddy back to his car, wished him good luck at the police interview, and then stabbed him in the abdomen. Adam killed Freddy, and that made me nervous," Stan says. "So, Freddy didn't show up to his police interview?" Dr. Ortega asks. "No, he didn't, Adam had set his car on fire out in the woods, slamming into a tree first, making it seem like an accident. As I said, Adam is a messed up guy. We still went through with the police interviews; I thought the questions were kind of easy; I didn't think the police suspected foul play. But, something had Adam spooked after the police interview," Stan says. "What do you mean, Adam was spooked?" Dr. Ortega asked. "He was acting weird; in fact, he wants to meet in the middle of an abandoned construction site, tonight. I'm a little nervous; I'm worried that he thinks I'm a liability and that he's going to kill me. I don't know what to do. If I don't show up, he's going to think I turned on him and he's going to come after me. If I show up, maybe he was going to kill me anyway," Stan says. "What's the name of the construction site?" Dr. Ortega asked. "It's the one down by Philomena Boulevard; the one shut down like three months ago," Stan says. "That's very secluded, not a good sign. Do you have some protection for yourself?" Dr. Ortega asks. "A gun? No, I don't have anything like that," Stan says. "Here's what you can do, when you get to the construction site tonight, tell Adam that you've told me about this meeting. That if you were to disappear for whatever reason, you instructed me to go to the police. That way, the two of you can have a conversation about what to do next," Dr. Ortega says. "Okay, I guess that makes sense, thanks, doc," Stan says. "Be careful, Stan, and don't forget to make an appointment with Roberta on your way out," Dr. Ortega says. It's a pitch-black, moonless night, Stan arrives at the construction site a little early, parks in the middle of the lot and waits for Adam. He comes and pulls up beside Stan and gets out of the car. "I think the police are onto us, something about the way they were asking their questions this morning," Adam says. Just as Adam finished the sentence, a gunshot rings out from across the lot, hitting Adam directly in the head. Out of the darkness comes Dr. Ortega. She holds the gun firmly on Stan. "I'm sorry Stan, but Adam was right, the police are totally on to you, you know they can tell when a pillow smothering is used in a murder, right?" Dr. Ortega asks. "How could you, what are you going to shoot me?" Stan asks. "Not quite yet, I need one little bit of information first, where's the storage facility?" Dr. Ortega asks. "I'm not going to tell you, you're going to have to shoot me," Stan says. "Wrong answer, Stan," Dr. Ortega says as she shoots Stan in the leg. "Alright, the money's at the storage facility on Grayson Avenue, the one with the inflatable security guard standing in the window," Stan says. "Unit number?" Dr. Ortega demands. Stan is in pain and holding his leg, Dr. Ortega fires a shot into the ground near his other leg, "unit number, Stan?" "35, the money is in storage container 35," Stan says. Dr. Ortega starts walking away from the construction site, turns around and shoots Stan in the head. Dr. Ortega went down to the storage facility, picked the lock on unit 35, and put the boxes into her truck. Dr. Ortega did not factor in that Adam had decided to work with the police, that he was wearing a wire to incriminate Stan at their meeting, that he captured the whole conversation and the murder at the construction site. A few days later, the police promptly arrested Dr. Ortega, attempting to get to Mexico.


I was lying in bed, just spinning through social media to pass the time before my eyes got heavy, when she popped up on my feed as someone 'suggested for me'. My stomach dropped and a frog jumped into my throat. I sat up and clicked on the image of her smiling holding a handsome little boy. She was even more stunning than before. I scrolled through her page, recognizing friends and family members who I had met when we dated back in high school. Her dark brown hair still spiraled down her back. She traded in her jerseys and air forces for blouses and heels Her adorable smile still accented by the ever so slight chip in her front tooth that she sustained as a child when her younger sister hit her in the face while she was drinking from a Coke bottle. She was still petite with a slight figure. The only real differences was she was more mature and she had a son. I scrolled through her timeline and her photos. A few scattered images of a man were peppered in her albums, but for the most part it was just her, her son and her family. With each picture, my heart slammed against my chest, faster and faster. I hovered over the “add” button, contemplating the results. Would she remember me? Was she married? Was she happy in her relationship? Would my friend request upend both of our lives? I hesitated for a few minutes still scrolling her page before I pressed it. I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep as I remembered my time with her. I met her in the mall cafeteria our senior year. She walked past me wearing khaki colored Glo jeans. I nearly broke my neck watching her walk from the lunch line to a table in the back. We made brief eye contact and she shied away bashfully but not before letting our gaze hang in the air. I turned to my friend and said, “That’s my future wife.” He laughed and dared me to go speak to her. I was scared but he refused to let me remain a coward. He popped out of his seat and ran towards her. I gave chase to encourage him to return to our seats so that I could daydream about her from a safe distance. He wasn’t having that, and reached her table before I could say anything. I arrived seconds later but the conversation was already in full swing. “Yeah, this is my boy, Tito. Hes’ new.” He said as I nervously approached. I gave an awkward smile and a lame wave. The girls giggled at the table. She looked down and her friend spoke. “This is Missy.” Her wave was as lame as mine. My friend hit me on the arm, encouraging me to speak up. I mustered up the courage and said in a breathy voice, “Hey, how are you.” “Good”, She replied simply. Her friends giggled again. My friend rolled his eyes at my shyness. He prodded me. “You want to get coffee sometime?” I blurted out, not even a coffee fan at the time. “Sure.” We exchanged numbers and my friend and I walked away. He was laughing so hard he stumbled as we made our way around the tables to exit the cafeteria. I, on the other hand, was floating. Our courtship didn’t last long but for those few months, I felt fireworks like never before, or after for that matter. Countless nights in that short period were spent awake for the entire night talking on the phone about our wild families, our goals for the future and how happy we were. After a few weeks, being able to find some alone time we made love. Maybe I was a bit overzealous because immediately following, as I held her in my arms I said, “I am going to marry you.” Her face dropped, but she politely smiled and playfully asked me to stop. At the time I thought it was because she was embarrassed. We were young and inexperienced in love but I knew what I knew. I have always believed that through transparency, relationships are built the strongest, despite what some may think. However, I didn’t realize that sometimes, people use words to manipulate and to take advantage. I thought my truth would make her happy, knowing that I loved her so much. I assumed that spilling my heart out, would encourage her to share hers. After that night, she started to ignore my texts. My calls would go to voicemail and she avoided me. It wasn’t until months later, I heard she received some well meaning advice from her friends. They told her that I couldn’t possibly know that kind of love and that my intentions must be to manipulate her. I scared her away. We didn’t speak or see each other for almost ten years after. She moved away, attending a private University, receiving her Masters degree in accounting and currently working at a small but prestigious firm. She had a young son but she appeared to be doing really well for herself. I, on the other hand, got caught up in a different world. One of music, gangs, drugs and women. The clean cut young man she had spent some of her early days with, was now a tattooed artist with two children and a lifestyle like a rap video. Yet ,to my surprise, a few days later, I woke up and I had a new Facebook friend. I smiled with delight as I opened up the messenger app. I contemplated sending her a message. Before I could lose the nerve, I started typing and deleting on my keyboard, ultimately landing on something that played out as awkwardly as our first interaction: Hey! How are you? Hope all is well. So good to see you. I let it marinade in the box before I sent it hoping it would somehow getting better during the delay. Then I hit send. Within seconds a bubble appeared with the waiting ellipses. My palms moistened, my throat tightened and my heartbeat nearly doubled. Hey! I’m good. It’s so good to hear from you. I hope you’re good! The conversation continued for the next few days as she filled me in on all of the details in between the information I had already gathered. She was engaged to her son's father but their relationship had been flat for years. They spent no time together and had been engaged for two years with no date in sight. She had been with him since we separated. I told her about my life. How my best friend was murdered and how it had impacted my life and direction for a long time. I told her about my children and where I was with things. We reminisced about how different we were but how much we still carried remnants of the teenagers we were from so long ago. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to invite her out for a coffee, which she gladly accepted. There were two hours between us so we chose a day when her work brought her onto my side of Boston. We picked a small coffee shop within walking distance of her job. I arrived 20 minutes early, with shot nerves, sweaty armpits and chain smoking. I stayed in my car puffing away, looking in every direction waiting for her to arrive. A beautiful Hispanic woman started walking toward the little shop with only two outdoor settings. She wore a black pencil skirt and a white, black top and red heels which I later realized was her favorite color combination. Her dark hair was pulled up with one spiral strand hanging delicately on the right side. She walked confidently in my direction, but she hadn’t seen me yet. When she was close enough, I stood up and out of the car. A cigarette dangling coolly from my lips as I locked the door. My pants hung low like my chain. My hair was expertly cut, which I made sure was fresh that morning. “Hey.” I said, trying to be cool. My shirt sleeves rolled up so she could see me tattoo sleeves. I hoped the bad boy image would help me win her over. I wasn’t confident my game or station in life would work so I needed to pull out all the stops. She smiled, pulling the rogue strand behind her ear, her cheeks taking on a pink undertone. “Hey, Tito.” “Let’s grab a seat,” I said, directing her to one of the outside chairs. “How you like our coffee?” I asked, still trying to sound cool. “Ice coffee, extra extra please.” She reached for her purse. I shook my head, “I got this.” pulling out a wad of cash, again hoping it was impressing her. I knew on paper she was way out of my league but I thought that if I could stay in my league, maybe I could get her to like me again. She smiled, looking at me and not once at the thick wad of nearly a thousand dollars in my hand. I made my way into the minuscule shop and emerged minutes later with two ice coffees. I placed hers in front of her with a straw. I smiled as I took my seat, careful to make sure my back was to the wall, one of my personal quirks. She sat playing with her lone strand, smiling at me, blushing like we were teenagers again. “You look just as beautiful as you have always looked.” I managed to say. “Thank you,” she said, “You look great, too.” I think I blushed, knowing I looked different from my younger years. A beard, tattoos and muscle growth meant I was barely recognizable. I was scared her taste wasn't me, but she was giving me the impression that I was wrong. We talked for over an hour. Eventually, it was time for her to return to work. I stood up first with a smile plastered to my face. It waned a bit as I realized our small fairy tale was ending. She lived far away from me and these rendezvous would be nearly impossible with any regularity. Still I had to ask. “Can we do this again, soon?” “Yeah, I’d like that. I have a client in Brockton for a few days next week. I’m actually staying local because it’s a big job. Maybe we can grab lunch?” “Dinner?” Again, I had to ask. The butterflies in my stomach had not flapped with such ferocity since the first time I saw her. She paused, looked at me and nodded, “Dinner works.” I walked her back to her office. We said goodbye with a hug and I kissed her on the cheek, making sure to linger just a second too long, hopefully letting her know how I felt. She hugged me back, squeezing tight, her fingers pressing firmly against my back muscles. “Thank you. It was great to see you.” She said, moving the relentless strand of hair from the side of her face, placing it back over her ear. “It was my pleasure.” I responded as I opened the door for her to walk through. I watched her walk into the office. I turned around and for the first time in ten years I was floating again.


I stepped into the freezing cold. I loved the feeling of fresh snow falling from the sky, turning your cheeks and nose red as you strained to look past the bushels of snow swirling and falling from the sky. I was so happy. Everything always seemed to go my way. “Daydreaming again Kara?” My friend Remi grinned. “One day, you’ll get your head stuck in the clouds. Or the dome, I guess.” Remi agreed with me on everything. We’ve been best friends since I fell off the swings in first grade, when the Earth fell and everyone had to move to this base on the moon. I don't really remember my time on Earth, but from what I heard it had been dying for a long time and then it just...became uninhabitable. “Just thinking.” I reply. “Let’s get to school before class starts.” We race to the school, the wind whipping our hair. We stop at the courtyard, out of breath and tired, but with grins on our pink cheeks. “I won.” I say, gasping for air. “No way.” Remi pants. “Yes, way. Come on let’s go inside.” When we get to our seats, no one is there yet. I take out my book and read for a few quiet minutes before a stampede of other students crash through the door, catching up on all the things their friends missed over the weekend. I roll my eyes and catch Remi doing the same next to me. We burst into laughter. “Ok, Ok, quiet down class. Let’s get started.” Mr. Bun walked into the classroom, wearing something different than he usually does. Most days, he just has a boring dark suit and tie, but today he wore armor, complete with a helmet and sword. Remi and I almost burst into another round of laughter. “Today we will be learning about battles and how they were....” Mr. Bun’s voice drowned out as a flood of random things rampaged through my head and a massive headache was brought on. I braced myself as one main memory stood out. A man in a breastplate and helmet, soldiers standing alongside him, shouting commands and shooting targets. Sweat dripped down my 5 year old face in the blistering heat and a small dog stood at attention by my side as the man in armor shouted something unintelligible. I snapped out of my weird hallucination. This was the 5th time this had happened this week. It felt like I was seeing memories of myself. Except... I had never done any of those things before. “Everything ok, Ms. Starlin?” Mr. Bun asked. I looked up. Great. Now everyone in the class was staring at me. “Ummmm, yeah.” I replied, my face burning with embarrassment. “I hoped you’d like this fun day I have planned. It seems more your style.” “Umm, yeah, it seems fun.” I glanced around me and everyone was smiling at me, like they were...happy for me. That was weird. Or was it? Did that usually happen? I frowned. Everything always seems to go my way.... Suddenly, everything blurred together and blurs I fall to the ground and clutch my head as a barrage of memories, but not memories keeps flooding through my head, though all of them slip through my mind like silk, none of them staying in my mind. Then I slipped into the inky darkness of sleep. I woke up with Remi standing above me with my parents. All three of them smiled with relief as they saw my eyes open and my parents wrapped their arms around me. “What happened?” I ask, my throat dry and raspy. “You passed out in school.”My mom says. “We took you to the hospital a few days ago, but eventually they let us take you back home so you could be more comfortable.” “A few days!” I shout, surprised by how much I slept. “Yeah. But now we can go out and play, since you are better now.” Remi says, a grin appearing on her face. “But wait? Shouldn’t I rest first?” “Unless you want to.” Remi replies. A frown appearing on her face “I mean, I don’t want to, but shouldn’t I?” I say. “Why would you need to? You can do whatever you want.” Remi says. As I thought back on it, I could always do what I wanted. Was that wrong? It was. But why? My head rebelled in pain again as different things pushed against each other, like my brain was going to war with itself. I got up, no one helping me. I didn’t want help, but shouldn't they have tried anyway? Or should they? It felt as though 2 realities were coming together in my mind, 2 realities that were totally different, but also the same. I stumbled across the living room, gathering my bearings. I glanced at the living room table, doing a double take as it seemed to blink in and out of existence. Then more memories came coming back to me as I started to piece things together. When the Earth collapsed, nobody went to the moon, we were in a... I couldn't latch on to that piece of information, but now I guessed I was in a VR world. Then, a new memory surfaced from the depths of my mind. A way out. The world around me started to crumble around me, glitching in and out as I regained more and more of my memories. There was a code word to get out, what was it? I ran as I thought, ignoring Remi's calls for me that kept getting cut short because she kept blinking in and out of existence. I stopped at the park, searching my memory for the word but It was like trying to find a needle in a pile of other identical needles. There were too many memories. This was too crazy. I glanced at my favorite tree. Something was engraved in it. I traced my fingers over the words and remembered why my instincts told me to go here. I softly whispered, "Remi." I woke up again in a room awash with blue light. A woman stood in front of me, frowning slightly as my eyes fluttered open. “This was not supposed to happen.” She said, turning around, probably to document something. “I know.” I said. “You said I wouldn’t wake up. That I would be happy all the time in there.” “I know what I said.” The lady sniped back. “But you did something we did not expect.” I frowned. “What?” She turned back towards me. “You remembered.”


I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob--the warm, living doorknob!--for it didn't just look like a human hand; it *was* a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is--" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several *pieces* of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female *coffee table*, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in-- "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let *them* hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even *your* natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" *Silence.* I shut off the water faucet, turned-- And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they *work* for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them--but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of-- It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there-- The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. *I knew there was someone in there.* "I can't d--" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a *person*," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." *Her.* "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be--for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me *please*," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it *please*," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled--once, twice--loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, *because I was sure I'd felt bone*, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank... you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again *please*." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed--until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, *a woman*, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now... Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"--he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, *No, it couldn't be*, but it was: *she* was--"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with *someone like you*?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something *true* that made me lunge for him--for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back--yet the only thing which followed were his words, *I am the way the world is*, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. *I am the way the world is.* He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly--the evil--and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app-- That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. *Miles was right*, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.


<<Violet>> The trees reached toward the sky as if praying for a way out of the forest. I run up one of them with sturdy branches while the wolves whimper at the bottom, I see their eyes and I hope soon that this chase would end. I miss my home and most of all I miss luke who convinced me to go with my dad to witch mountain because he would be in Florida this week and he didn't want me to be lonely. The wolves finally whimper and scurry away and I finally can lay back on the tree and figure out what I will do, AHHH! I hear as I wake up with a jolt and the dream, the scream was what woke me up. It was the scream of my father in his tent two nights ago when the wolves attacked, He was sleeping and I heard a howl and went to look just in time to see a teenage boy jump into a waterfall as the wolves tried to bite him and when they realized they lost their prey they went into my dads' tent where the scream was all I heard and I was gone. I climb down from the tree as tears stream down my face and I decide to go hike down to the bottom of the waterfall so I can drink some water with the straw that purifies water, I was smart enough to grab the survival kit before I ran but a coward for leaving my father to die. My phone died even though I had it on the portable charger, I can still see Luke's message saying "I miss you already violet." I can also picture him lying on the beach, without me, Creaaakk! I whip around and see the teenager who is probably 2 years older than me staring back at me with pale skin and red eyes. Vampire, I only ever read about them in books of witch mountain but they were only folk tales to scare kids, No this is real. I don't have time to think before I feel dizzy and then I hear a beep, My phone has charged! I run again so I can run up another tree to call for help. He doesn't do anything but stare as his pale face darkens as the night grows on. I rip out my phone but no reception the only thing I can get is luke's social media page since he has it on private and doesn't require internet, I scroll down and see pictures of him and me, I scroll down more and then I stop dead in my tracks as I see him on the beach kissing a girl. I let out a shocked gasp as I scroll down more and more. He only wanted me to go on the trip so he could cheat on me and since I would be gone a month then he thought that I didn't have his personal social media site. I curl into a ball and cry, I hear a thump as I look up and see an Outline of the vampire next to me, I jump and have to catch myself before I fall off the branch. I say in a shaky voice "what do you want with me?". He doesn't say anything but stares at me, now I am freaking out until his soft voice says "I saw you running from the werewolves so I followed you and I didn't mean to make you cry I just was wondering what you were doing on vampire territory." I glare and this time more confidently say "I saw you at the waterfall before you jumped, and what is Vampire territory?" he chuckles softly and says "yes this is where the northern vampire tribe lives up on those houses on the hills. I was hunting when the wolves were surrounding me and I smelt your blood so I had to leap into the water to control myself". I nod and he says almost immediately after His sentence ended " we are millions of miles away from civilization and vampires can run the distance and not die we would get figured out quickly, anyway I can take you to my family and they could help get you food." British accent, oof I think I am in a coma, "that sounds wonderful, thank you". He Grabs me and put me on his back and He is running and jumping through the trees in a second and then before I have time to blink we're at a hidden house filled with windows all around. Two men come out and ask the boy what happened and then he took me in and brought me to a room with a bed that looked like it has never been slept on and books everywhere. The boy says "This is my room, I am jake by the way" I gawk at him "what?" he asks. "The bed is untouched and it is huge!" he chuckles as a girl who looks about 5, so 11 years younger than me and jake looks either 20-18. She gives me a tray of food I thank her as she leaves and I eat, more like gorge myself with the food since I didn't eat dinner and the events of today have been unbearable and painful. I yawn and he asks me "what's your name?" "My name is violet", I take out my camo back with all of the survival gear I need and I look for my phone then I realize it's not there so I look in my front pocket and see the crushed up remains. Jake follows my gaze and see's the crushed-up remains and says "I'm surprised you're still together even though I tried to go gentle. I go over to the shelf and see a player for a disc and hit play, It plays piano songs which makes sense why there is a piano downstairs. It plays classical in a beautiful melody as I close my eyes. It reminds me of twilight and the way Edward looked at Bella kind of like jake looked at me. This feels like the story but if only life was like that, you give your heart to a boy and pledge your love as he goes to Florida to cheats on me! I don't realize the coldness of Jake's body an inch from mine as he wipes my tears and turns off the radio. "are you ok", I look up and he is hovering above me. I nod and say "it's just been a stressful few hours. Why are you controlled now but not earlier jake?" I eagerly changed the subject and he replies " you weren't bleeding earlier" as he gently but quickly grabs my wrist where I got scraped only hours before by a rock when my dad and I were fishing. Yawn and he leads me to the untouched bed and as I crawl under the covers he turns to leave and I blurt out "won't you stay with me? I need to know more about you like your age" I can tell he smiles as he turns around and answers "I'm 17 and I'm guessing your 16, yes I will stay though I do prefer, not to be too close because my skin is made of ice and though my desire for blood is overwhelming so is being close to you". I nod but don't give up "why is being close to you overwhelming" this time he closes his mouth and doesn't answer just sits on the bed by my feet and watches me. <<Jake>> I see her stomach rise and fall and see her moving soon after and then she is shaking and I touch her shoulder to wake her from the dreaded nightmare as she jolts awake from my cold touch her body is soaked with sweat and she starts crying. I can't do anything but watch because I'm afraid that if I touch her sweat-soaked arm I will get the smell of her blood and I have been a vampire for 8 years and I still find it hard to be around anyone but she is different I crave her blood but also something else that is stronger, I crave her...Lips, her body, I crave her. She finally after 3 minutes she looks around and wipes her eyes as she moves towards me and I ask "what is wrong ?" She silently says "my dad got attacked by the wolves that you were being chased by and when they realized that they didn't get you they turned toward my dad's tent and.." I slowly look down and apologize but she stops me with another weep and then as soon as she looks at me she asks "why are your eyes red? Don't they change like in the books?" I laugh but it's bitter and low "no, they don't change but everything else is true, have you ever read twilight? My sister has and everything in there is true but the eye color and the superpowers, we are all the same but some are stronger or faster than others." she stares at me and says "yes I have read twilight, what time is it?" I get up and run downstairs to my adopted parents and look at the stove as it reads:3:00, I run back upstairs and tell her the time and I sit at the end of the bed and she kicks the blanket off and asks curiously "is it true your skin is as cold as ice?" I nod and she crawls over to me and lays on top of me and says "uhhh! I was dying in those blankets" the only thing that is not covered by her warm body is my head and as soon as she lays on me I'm shocked and as soon as she lets out the cry of relief I put my head on hers and she is instantly back to sleep. Through the night she is soundless and without nightmares but she does have a shiver so I put the blanket that has now fallen off the bed slowly so I don't wake her and rest the blanket on her fragile body, as soon as I do I hear tiny footsteps as Lilly my adopted sister comes in and looks at me and smiles kindly. She does have a basket and sets it down softly and says "I'm guessing she's sleeping but when she wakes up Eli asked me to ask you if you want to come with us to hunt? My 5-year-old vampire body can only take so much". I roll my eyes as she uses her age all the time and a little annoyed say" no, Eli will take you and close the door, I want her to rest Lilly" she giggles and says "we both know you want more than that" I shoot her a glance and with that she's gone, not even an hour later the sun peaks up and sensing the light violet awakes and at first she doesn't do anything but lay there and I wrap my arms around her and then she speaks in a sleepy voice "good morning, thank you for letting me sleep here for the night I better get home". I hide my sadness because I don't know how to tell her that which mountain can only be flown in and there is no society but my family here and the next plane doesn't arrive in 4 months and I don't want her to get up out of my grasp if anything I want to bring my lips down to hers and kiss her and hold her forever right here in my arms. "What's wrong?" I tell her what I was thinking except the part where I don't want her to get out of my arms and how I want to kiss her. She nods and I can see the pain in her face but then as soon as it came it vanished and she gets up and stretches and the way the sun bounces off of her tan skin and the way her brown eyes look at me in not pity or scared but full of wonder. She sees the basket and asks "is this for me?" I look in the basket and see brand new clothes from the oak lodge store and say "I guess so" she thanks me and asks if she could take a shower and I lead her away and turn around with all my dignity fighting the urge to not leave her side. <<Violet>> I walk into the bathroom which looks clean and is beautiful so I turn on the shower and I do see shampoo that is in the trash; so they do take showers I get in and feel the warm water splash my skin and I look around and see a shampoo bottle and a soap bottle not opened so I open them and use them and it feels so nice to have the water splash my skin and I can't help my mind from wandering to last night and jakes cool skin and the way I woke up with his arms gently around me, I can't help but felt the need to kiss him, I know that he probably has a girlfriend and he is 17 and hot with his black hair, red eyes, and pale skin. But something inside of me had my hope that he would love me..stop, you just found out that your boyfriend cheated on you and unless your dying to cry your heart out then you need to realize that he will never love you and if he does he will get bored of you just like luke did and then it will be too late. I quickly clean my hair and get out and dry myself up and find a note in the basket so I pick it up and read: My name is Rose, I am Jake's adopted mom and I thought that you would be 16 by the way you looked so I went shopping off of what the storekeeper said. I hope these fit.-rose. I put the note on the side and pull out a red shirt, black jeans and a black lace bra and underwear, and quickly dress, I brush my hair after I finished up and it took a minute because below the makeup there was a bag at the very bottom filled with combs and toothpaste. As soon as I get out I return to Jake's room and set the basket down as I do I see him on the bed and I go over to him and say "thank you, for everything. I think I can go back out in the woods". He runs and grabs my arm lightly and I can't speak as his cold skin lays on mine he almost begs "no, please stay here with me I don't want you getting hurt, no I won't let you out on your own. I want you to stay here with me and the answer to your question about why being close to you is overwhelming is because I like you, I want to kiss you and I don't want you to ever leave. I realized it as you slept last night and I may not be the best person and you don't have to love me back, I have seen so many girls but you are different so please stay."


“Ahoy!” a voice shouted. Startled, the Oldman looked around frantically not minding the hot tea he spilled on his arm as he jumped. “Up here!” The voice sounded clearer and more direct. The Oldman looked to his right and up. There was a boy standing on a thick tree branch. From a quick inspection surely, the boy was no older than his mid-teens, with skin like bronze that made his big smile all the whiter. “I bet you didn’t hear me coming did ya?” The boy asked proudly. The Oldman was sitting in a half lotus position with his back up against one of the larger oak trees that were around him, and to his sides were a couple Glumberry bushes. “You are as stealthy as a street cat in a City.” The Oldman replied. The boy smiled again then lowered himself from branch to branch without hesitation; gripping the arms with ease as he finally jumped off the lowest branch and onto the ground in front of the seated gentlemen. “And just as quick.” the boy said brushing his hands to get rid of the tree resin and bark. “Although I never been to a City before.” As quick as the boy said it the Oldman wound up and blurted “Good, and I don’t recommend going to one.” The boys face changed, and the old man noticed. “Cities... have not been kind to me I’m afraid young lad.” “Cities have not been nice to my family either, Sir.” The boy said looking downwards and his smile gone. “I’ve spent most of my life at Sea.” Said the boy. *No wonder* thought the Oldman, they say the Sea-riders have the best balance out of anyone in the world. The constant swaying of ships creates an equilibrium in their core to which the Sea-riders have an unchallenged balance compared to those who have not stepped a foot on a ship. And not to mention their ability to maneuver their weight in even the direst of waves. “The Sea-riders have an impressive reputation.” The Oldman said stroking his white beard that’s clung together at the bottom with a crimson tie with a Gold emblem on it. “A reputation that they move like *water* itself.” The Oldman rose from his seat and stands in front of the boy, then bows. “I’m Irahk, it is a pleasure to meet you young Sea-rider.” The boy returns the gesture and bows back to Irahk. “My name is Kiva, it is a pleasure to meet you too, sir.” Irahk offers Kiva to a seat and to join him to share some tea to which the boy accepts. The tea leaves were picked from the Glumberry Bush that seem to be everywhere within this forest. The bright yellow berries that are flecked with black burst with flavoursome juices that it’s hard to stop eating, but the downside is if you eat too much, the poison starts to play; turning parts of your limbs a horrible yellow colour while your stomach pierces with an sharp and sickly pain, as though a dagger is stabbing you from the inside. The leaves themselves however still hold that taste of the berries and can be used to make such a delicious brew and is one of the most famous and wide-spread teas of this region. “I have not shared tea with a stranger in some time.” Irahk says joyfully. “What brings you this far deep into the woods?” The Sea is about an hour’s trek from here, East. Yet it is very unusual for a boy of the sea to be so far inward from shore, and in a forest no less. “How did you make your fire?” Kiva asked curiously, ignoring the question that was given to him. “And don’t tell me you *rubbed some sticks together.* I’ll bet a hundred gold seahorses you don’t have a firecatcher in your bag either.” Irahk knew the Sea-riders like to bet and were very abrupt, and their ways of doing things have caught onto this boy like none other. *How could I have been so absentminded*, Irahk thought. *What should I tell him?* “You learn a few things when you get to my age, young lad. There are many ways to light a fire, ways that you have never dreamt of.” Irahk smiled whilst starring at the boy, hoping the boy is naïve enough to continue. “I didn’t expect that.” Said Kiva as he follows up on a sip of tea. “I’ve been following you, y’know. And I most definitely saw your light this fire with bare hands. You’re a wizard.” The silent that followed as they exchanged glances with one another made them both realise how quiet and alone they are in the forest. “You’ve caught me young Sea-rider.” Irahk laughed, hands in the air and chin tucked down. “Now tell me, what is it you plan to do now?” Irahk sips his tea. The boy could very well be alone here, and if that is the case the Oldman will be in no danger. But he was a Sea-rider, and no Sea-rider travels alone on land so surely there would be others akin nearby. Perhaps they were already watching him from afar, preparing for an attack when the moment was right. But something seemed wrong, why would a human come face to face with a wizard, alone? Kiva took a deep breath in and exhaled, it seemed even the boy was tensed up at the matter. “Irahk, I am a friend. I’m sure you’ve heard about the raid a couple weeks ago. The one that attacked a town that housed wizards, were you one of them?” The boys face seemed sullen, like he could understand the pain behind what he just said. “Yes, I am one of them.” Irahk said bitterly. It had been a few weeks since then. The wizards were housed in a small remote town where they thought they were safe from the outside wars. The war between Humans and Wizards has been endless. The Wizards are only but a fraction of what they once were, being driven to eradication by the bountiful and cruel Kingdoms surround. Ever since the attack of the town, Irahk had been travelling long and far in hopes to exile himself and finally be free of the constant war shed. The Wizards have no other choice. And if it came to it, Irahk would take no pleasure in killing this boy if things escalated. Kiva finishes the last of his tea and rises. “I’m sorry for what has happened, Sir.” He places a clenched hand on his heart. “It pains me deeply knowing what has happened to your people. I want you to know that I am going to do everything possible to end this madness and hatred that has plagued our world for long enough.” Irahk saw the anger, the sadness billowing in Kivas’ eyes. “I am moved by your words, Kiva.” Irahk becomes solemn. “But what can a *boy* do against the kingdoms that have destroyed my homeland and the people in it?” Irahk took a deep breath in and released. “There is no hope left, none. Sorry boy, my people are gone.” A single tear starts to sprout from his eye then slides down his face. “Irahk.” Kiva said notably. “I’m Captain of a large fleet of Sea-riders, one of the largest in the world; left by my father. We have been tracking down Wizards from all over to join us in our cause, that is why I am here in this forest. And may I now ask of you something, Irahk.” Irahk raises his head with tear filled eyes and looks onto the young boy’s bronze face with a smile that’s glistening with determination. “Will you join us and help stop further bloodshed of your people?” Kiva extends an open hand towards Irahk. “Will you join my crew?” Irahk saw a destiny flash through his mind as he looked upon the fire in Kiva’s eyes, he saw visions of prosperity and hope. Now it was obvious, there were no other answer than this. Irahk joins the boy’s hand and is lifted to his feet, bones cracking n all. “My bones are old and my mind is weary. I will join you young Sea-rider. My Captain.” “Nonsense. Wizards are the most brilliant people in this world, it’s a pleasure to have you.


In the heart of Calcutta's bustling streets, amidst the symphony of trams and vendors, Eamon's antiquated bookstore stood. Dusty volumes lined its shelves, murmuring forgotten tales to anyone who cared to listen. Eamon, a man of quiet contemplation, found solace among the pages of his beloved books. One morning, as the sun's first rays painted the sky, a delicate letter arrived at his door. Its fragrance stirred long-buried memories, a fragrance that carried whispers of a love thought lost in the labyrinth of time. Kavya, the name that held the key to his past, had resurfaced through the strokes of ink on the aged paper. The letter spoke of a reunion, an invitation to the Royal Opera House--a place where memories seemed to gather like shadows. Eamon's heart quickened at the thought of seeing Kavya again. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, he made his way to the Opera House, where echoes of their shared history seemed to resonate. Guided by the melody of nostalgia, Eamon walked through the ornate corridors until he reached the grand hall. The chandeliers gleamed like stars, and the stage stood adorned with memories. And there, beneath the shimmering lights, he saw her--Kavya, the enchantress of his past. Time had etched delicate lines upon her face, but her eyes still held the same gleam that had captivated him years ago. As their eyes met, a silent recognition passed between them--a connection that transcended time's boundaries. The world around them faded as if only their hearts remained. Kavya's dance began, a graceful expression of emotions that transcended mere words. Each step was a brushstroke on the canvas of their shared history. Eamon watched, transported by the beauty of the moment, as if their souls were entwined in a dance of their own. As the performance reached its crescendo, Eamon approached the stage. With every step, memories flooded back--days spent under the Jacaranda tree, whispered promises that lingered in the air. And then, in that poignant moment, he was by her side, his hand reaching out to hers. Their fingers brushed, igniting a spark that had never truly faded. As they stood together, the weight of years melted away, leaving only the essence of their love. Their dance, a tapestry woven with threads of laughter and tears, unfurled beneath the moonlit sky. In the hushed embrace of the night, Eamon and Kavya danced--a waltz that defied the constraints of time. It was a dance that spoke of forgiveness, of the magic of second chances, and the profound power of a love that had endured even in the face of life's twists. As the last notes of the melody echoed, Eamon looked into Kavya's eyes. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, honoring their reunion. And in that gaze, they found a universe of unspoken words--a promise that they would never let go again. The symphony of their shared journey played on, a melody that whispered of timeless love amid the tapestry of their intertwined lives.


“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” he mutters under his breath sarcastically. Rolling her eyes, Matilda doesn’t bother lifting her head from the papers she is pursuing. “You need to quit watching soap operas, Theo. You’re getting too melodramatic for my tastes of late.” She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment, feeling the tell-tale tightness in her neck indicative of an incoming migraine. She can’t tell if it’s Theo’s nagging, or the topic of conversation that is inviting the migraine. She suspects a healthy, equal dose of both. “You’re only 26, Tills,” he reminds her, moving from the doorway of their bedroom to the large bed. He gracelessly slumps onto the bed on his back, resting his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling fan above. “You don’t know for certain that it could actually end badly. It’s almost like you aren’t even trying anymore.” This makes Matilda clench her hands into tight fists, her fingernails biting into the skin of her palm painfully. She has to clench her teeth and eyes closed tighter to ward off the sudden urge to cry and scream. She tries to focus on her breathing; breathe in through her nose, count to three, breathe out through her mouth, and repeat. The room is silent for the short moment that Matilda takes to gain control of her emotions. Theo can surely hear her controlled effort at maintaining her pattern of breathing, and the stiffness in her shoulders slowly moves with the concentrated effort of breathing. Just breathe. Slowly, she unclenches her hands, and turns her desk chair to face him. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans - palms now each covered in four crescent-shaped indents from her fingernails - and takes one final big breath in, counts to three, and lets it back out. She meets Theo’s eyes, and she can see that he is starting to feel regret over what he has said to her. “I have tried, Theo. For nearly four years now. I’m exhausted.” She pauses and takes another deep breath in. Three seconds. Back out. “The doctors said last time that I was lucky to have survived. They said that lung transplants are one of the most difficult procedures to fully heal and recover from. They warned me that it may not work.” Again, she pauses to concentrate on her breathing. She actually found these breathing exercises to combat panic and anxiety to work fairly well with her. She could never do them once she became sick. Her original lungs would probably have given out on her by now with how deeply she was forcing herself to breathe. It felt nice to be able to finally breathe after feeling as though she was drowning every time she took in a breath. She was going to bask in the painless, mundane action for as long as they allowed her to. “It isn’t defeat. I’m not fighting some war, I’m not a soldier,” regardless of her efforts, tears start forming in the corners of her eyes, ready to race each other down her cheeks to her chin, “I am a girl that got sick, got kind of better, got worse, got sort of better again, and is going to find out in less than 24 hours which way the pendulum will swing this time.” She turns back around to her desk, eyeing the paperwork that she had been looking over before being interrupted by Theo returning home from work. A Will, and a summary she has written up of how she would like her funeral to be planned. If there is one thing that cancer did not take from Matilda, it’s her neurotic need to plan. Shuffling the papers into organised piles, she turns off the desk lamp and joins Theo on the bed, laying her head on his chest. Automatically, one of his hands moves to her waist to pull her closer, and the other moves to stroke her short-cropped hair. “I know you’ve been sick again, but does that truly mean that you may not get better in a week’s time, or a month’s time? I mean, it’s only been five months since the surgery, Tilly. You’ve only been home for three weeks. Maybe it’ll take you longer than average to get used to the lungs.” Theo’s optimism verges on suffocating at this point. Nonetheless, Matilda feels herself relaxing into his hands massaging her scalp and waist, his voice also relaxing her now that he isn’t being loud with anger. His voice has a tone of defeat. He knows what I will say. “The scans tomorrow will confirm if the cancer cells decided to make base on these lungs, too. If they have, I don’t think I can go through anymore chemo, or anymore surgeries.” She turns her face into his chest, tears soaking into his shirt. “I know you mean well, Theo. And I love you so damn much for caring and wanting me to get better, but I’ve known for a long time that I had a higher chance of never truly getting better.” Wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve, Matilda raises her head to look at Theo. Placing her hand gently on his face, she wipes away his own tears that have started trailing down his cheeks. “Please don’t cry, Teddy.” He sniffles pathetically and scrunches his eyes closed. He presses his mouth to her forehead and presses a hard kiss to the skin. “I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t understand why none of the treatment has worked. Why are you still sick? Why you?” His voice cracks on the last question. Matilda sighs and moves to press soft kisses to his jawline. “I don’t know, Teddy. Plenty of good people get their lives cut unnecessarily short. It’s just life.” Gently kissing his lips, she gives him a small, sad smile. “If my life is getting cut short, I don’t want my final days, or months, or hopefully years, to be played out in hospital rooms strapped to machines. I don’t want to lose my hair again. I just want to live the allotted time I have left in peace.” “But what if it worked this time? What if this time, the chemo works, or the surgeries work?” He pleads. She threads her fingers through his soft blond hair, combing his fringe away from his eyes. “And what if they don’t?” He stares silently, his eyes bouncing between hers, occasionally flitting down to her lips. Slowly, he brings her lips to his and kisses her softly, sucking on her bottom lip. Her insides turn to liquid and butterflies erupt in her stomach. God, she’s going to miss this. She draws back from him, watching his face as he tries to piece together his next sentence. “I’m sorry I’ve been so insistent on you going through treatment again,” he says, rubbing her back slowly, “it’s selfish of me to make you feel guilty for making a choice about your life.” Shaking her head, she props her chin up on his chest and lets her eyes drift lazily over his face. “I don’t think you’re selfish. I would probably be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. I just need you to understand my point of view. I don’t see this as defeat. I don’t see it as cancer winning. I’m not afraid of dying anymore.” Absentmindedly, her finger traces small shapes over his neck. She focuses on her finger, too nervous now to look him in the eyes. “I’m just trying to plan everything so that there’s not much room for error once I’m gone. I want this to be as painless and easy as possible.” His chest rumbles as he chuckles into her hair. “You’re such a control freak that even your death is planned down to the last detail.” She laughs along with him. This is what she wants. She wants this conversation to not be heartbreaking every time. Matilda wants Theo to come to terms with her dying. “Regardless, Tills, I’m going to be optimistic. I’m going to use the infinite power of positive thinking to force your body to heal, even if it’s just enough for another decade with you,” he voices with conviction. Grinning, Matilda lifts her head and kisses him sweetly. “I’m counting on it, Teddy.” She strokes his lips lovingly, feeling the butterflies returning in her stomach. “That’s why I love you so damn much, even if your optimism is sometimes nauseating.” He lets out a hearty laugh and gently rolls them over until he is hovering above her, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of her head. “And your pessimistic disposition has always been what gets me hot and bothered,” he laughs, burying his face against her neck, planting sweet kisses along its length. She begins to giggle uncontrollably as his lips tickle her skin and her heart fills with giddy warmth and love. God, she wants this forever.


“Where are you Charlie?” “Over here! Hurry Luna!” Charlie and Luna met three years ago at camp Twalka, a camp for kids with Tourette’s. They’ve been inseparable ever since. Tourette’s is an incurable disease. It causes them to shout out words they don’t want to. It forced their body to do movements that can hurt them, or worse, others. These uncontrollable movements and sounds are called “tics.” Three weeks ago, they became separable. Charlie fell in love. He couldn’t constantly be at her side anymore. He had another girl to care for. This is where it all went wrong. I have nearly 2,000 tics a day. Charlie usually has around 200 daily. Our tics seem to be the same often. We will suddenly wink at each other, shout the same profanities, and more. We often end up in similar situations. People getting mad at us, not understanding, we depend on each other. The only one who truly understands everything I go through is Charlie. I keep asking myself, “why do I feel this way?” I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’ve been his go to girl for almost three years now. But she stole that from me. Seeing her stupid, perfect hands intertwine with his. Her way too big lips, pressing softly on his cheek. Her gentle voice calling him baby, like some desperately- desperate loser. Ugh, I have no reason to feel this. I can’t be jealous. He’s just a friend. He always has been. Always rolling his glossy blue eyes at me, the sparkle in his smile when I crack a joke, it’s always been him and me. Charlie and Luna. We’ve never fought. Of course we have cursed each other out and hurt each other. Those tics are the ones we hate the most. We have to be careful. But holding in a tic is more painful than anything else. The worst was when we were hiking on our trip. We were going slowly through a rich patch of plants. It was a beautiful slot canyon in Saint George Ut. His elbow dug straight into my side pushing me into the wall. There was a gap in the wall where a chunk of dirt laid. Along with the cactus that left it’s spikes deep into my hand as I tried to catch myself from falling. It had been three years since we crossed pinkies and kissed our thumbs sealing our friendship. We commemorate each year by meeting at our spot. The spot we would watch the stars, devour pizza, and laugh our heads off. I got everything set up. The pizza, the blankets, pillows, everything we could ever need. She came. (The girl we don’t say the name of.) Charlie’s stupidly perfect stupid girlfriend. I pulled him aside. “Why did you bring her here?” “She doesn’t trust you.” “Don’t you trust me?! What did I ever do to you guys?” “She doesn’t want me here alone with you. That’s all. Can’t we just enjoy the night?” “Whatever.” We listen to our music while they cuddle tightly together. She laid between us. She is always between us. She started getting very frustrated with my tics. I can’t help it. I “accidentally” elbowed her. “Yikes!” “Noooooooope!” “Flick you!” They all came out, and more. Welcome to my daily life. Of course she was too much of a baby to stay there. She insisted they went to be alone for a while. It felt like hours ‘till they finally came back. I saw the shadow of a girl coming towards me. But no Charlie. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t hallucinating. They are never apart. She walked by and went straight to her car. Flicking her middle finger up in my direction as she went. I looked out over the land trying to see Charlie down in the ditch they went to. But, the land was covered in trees. It was useless. Suddenly, a wail pierced my ears. “Where are you Charlie?” I yelled out. “Over here! Hurry Luna!” He wailed back. I followed the sound of his voice. Running so fast down the steep slope I nearly biffed it face first. My flashlight barely lit the ground in front of me. But I saw it. The half-sharpened stick laid before him. His leg drenched in blood. While a knife stuck firmly in his thigh. “Charlie? Did she do this to you?” “It was a tic. We fought and we broke up. My emotions went out of control. I was sharpening the stick and a strong tic hit me. I couldn’t hold it in, it happened too fast and I stabbed myself. It was all an accident.” Charlie began getting up off the log he previously rested on. He started getting dizzy. “No Charlie, stop moving. I’m calling for help.” He fell. Right into my arms. I fell onto my knees holding him. I didn’t realize how much blood he had already lost. I got my phone out and began dialing 911 before he grabbed my hand and stopped me. “Wait. I have to tell you why we broke up.” “That can wait!” I exclaimed. He didn’t listen. “I love you Luna. I’ve loved you for three years. I shouldn’t have done it. But I wanted your jealousy. I wanted you to love me. I needed your love. I wanted you to want me, to wish it was your lips pressed against mine, not hers. I can’t go a day without you Luna.” “You don’t need to. I’ve loved you since that second we kissed our thumbs. Now shut up and let me take care of you!” I rip a piece of my shirt and wrap it around the knife sticking out of his leg. While he rests in my lap I call for help. Five minutes until they arrive. The only thing that has ever helped my tics lessen, is music. I can’t afford to risk hurting him while he’s in my lap. I stroke his face while singing our favorite song. My slow, soft voice breaks as I try holding in tears. The red and blue lights flash on top of the hill. His eyes flutter closed.