Once upon a time, this was a beautiful Garden. Now, I sit below the broken rib-cage of a tree. I see a skeleton of an arm dangling over my head. Once upon a time, this was a branch. Hope falters in its gaunt, dying fingers like the flickering glow of fading stars in the shroud of night’s darkness. Once upon a time, those were its twigs. Foolish little fingers they are, still waiting for that touch, the touch of the Hand of Life. Years have passed, those silly twigs should have given up already, like the rest of the Garden, like me. They should have forgotten what its touch felt like, those warm, gentle fingers, that had promised Life and had left my Garden forever, left me forever. They should have gotten used to the whiplash of the merciless winds by now, to their cold, lifeless touch, that had stripped them bare of all their leaves, whose corpses lay beneath my feet. Yet, somewhere a tiny ray of Hope glimmers. It will die soon. I hear creaking noises behind. I turn back and squint in the dark, the silhouette of a tiny figure comes walking towards me. A kid, it seems. “What are you doing here, kid?”, I ask, as the child slowly walks closer. The child looks at me, with a start. Maybe, he hadn’t noticed me in the dark. “I was chasing a butterfly. I came here in your Garden, Sir, looking for it. Have you seen it?”, the child asks me. His voice sounds vaguely familiar. “No butterfly comes here kid. I haven’t seen one for years.”, I say. “But why?”, the child looks at me questioningly. “Look around, kid. My Garden is dying. You came looking in the wrong place. Go home, kid.”, I say with a sigh. He looks around. I see his eyes growing wider. “But what happened to you, O Tree?”, he asks the huge Oak Tree over me. “Trees don’t speak. Not anymore.”, I say. “They do speak to me.”, he protests. “Maybe, you can’t hear them.” Silly boy. Trees don’t speak to grown-ups; I think to myself. Or maybe, we don’t speak to them anymore. I smirk as the boy’s question is met with silence. Suddenly, something shifts within me. No, it’s under the ground, right below where I am standing. I feel the ground tremble ever so slightly. Something moved silently underneath my feet. I watch in awe as the gigantic Oak tree turns slowly towards the boy, its once majestic branches drooping over his tiny head in a bow. The tree begins speaking with a low grunt. “Dear boy, many years ago, I was a strong, magnificent tree. My powerful branches and elegant leaves were home to a hundred birds. They were the Life to a thousand Springs. Spring danced with the bees and butterflies in the cracks of my branches. Monsoon sang a million notes with my rustling leaves and chirping birds in the golden drizzle of the dawn. Summer would envy my gorgeous shades and Winter would tickle me back to sleep with its gentle cascade of snow. I was known far and wide as the Tree of Love.”, the Tree pauses for a while and then begins with a sigh. “But one day, a monster crept into the heart of our beloved Garden. He came stealthily and silently and took shelter in my shades. He was known by many names. Some called him Ego while some called him Pride. He grew stronger every day, feeding on the darkness of Fear, Loneliness and Pain. Then a day came, when he grew more powerful than - “. I hear a sob. The little boy turns behind. I see a rose weeping. A little away from us was a rose bush. All the roses were black. “Why do you cry, dear Rose?”, the boy asks. “My little one, these tears cannot wash away my pain. Once upon a time, I was a red rose, blooming and beautiful, and so were my friends. We were called the Flowers of Joy. We used to bring a smile on every face that saw us. Our fragrance touched every heart and filled it with Hope. But that beast of Despair snatched our smell from us. That monster, who called himself Greed, stole our colour. Envy, the evil beast, robbed us of our Beauty and Joy.” “I was once a Lake.”, the swamp a little distance away spoke. “My waters shimmered in the brilliant sunshine and glowed with all the colours of the dawn and the dusk. But Time, the ruthless Giant, stole away my Youth and kept it caged in its darkest maze, called the Past, from where one can never return. Time wanted all my Youth for itself.” The Oak Tree says, “This Giant sucked the sunshine out of our Garden and left it barren and dying. We use to love the Monster, care for him. We nurtured him with all that we had. We tried to heal its Darkness, its Fear, its Anger with our Love. But he couldn’t let us in. He fought us and ran away from our Light, when all he should’ve fought was his own Darkness. So, he snatched away from us, all our Love and Beauty and Happiness, in the hope of healing himself, for he never found these within him. But little did he know, that he was going to lose forever, what he had never even looked for. That was the curse on the Giant, for he was never happy again. And our beloved Garden of Mind grew barren and empty, never to be blessed with new Life again. Our beautiful Garden of Hope lost its sunshine forever. Our Garden of Life withered.” “But where is the Monster now? Can he hear us? Will he eat us alive?”, the child asks with unspoken fear in his eyes. “He is right here, in my Garden.”, I say. The child looks questioningly at me, as though my answer is a little unfinished. After a long pause, I say, “Maybe, I am the Monster.” I look into his eyes in the dark. “Are you not scared of me kid?”, I ask. We stare at each other in silence. Time seems to have frozen. After an eternity, it feels, the child slowly walks closer and extends a tiny arm towards me. His little fingers touch me softly, somewhere close to my chest, where a tiny ray of Hope is still throbbing, where a tiny bit of me is still alive. Something strange happens next. I see Sunshine for the first time in years. I look at the child in front of me. He looks around, awestruck. His eyes are brighter than the Sunshine. He gapes in amazement as he looks at the Oak Tree and the Rose Bush and the Lake. But all I see is the child in front of me, for now I know who he is. “How did the Garden grow young and beautiful again?”, the child asks in wonder. I smile and take one long look at my Garden of Innocence, before looking into the bright eyes of my Childhood. Then I whisper, “It’s all because of you.” -----------------------


“Arlow, I got something to ask you. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t ask you. What do you think, Arlow? Should I ask you?” “I don’t know, Lance.” Arlow locked the club room, tucking the key into his bag. The season had turned fairly cold, and the few students milling around the university campus were bundled in woolen hats and thick coats, a few with twined hands and smitten expressions. Every year Arlow would often ignore the fact that it was Valentine's day. It was a sickly sweet holiday that often had him gagging as soon as he stepped out the door to red colourful billboards. But this year, gazing at the couples made him feel even colder. He knew he’d be staying late for practice, but had still forgotten to bring his scarf. The harsh chill bit into his neck. Even he could be a bit of an idiot sometimes. Then again, the reason he was always staying late for practice was the idiot standing in front of him, hemming and hawing loudly. “I guess it’s okay,” Lance said finally, two decibels too loud, “Because I always ask you things. Say, Arlow, what’s the coolest way to confess to someone?” “Confess what?” “You know! That you like someone.” Arlow stared politely at him, letting his breath fog in a thin stream, and then walked off towards the school gates. Perhaps Lance had accidentally watched a romantic movie. Or one of their friends had set him off in some vindictive text. It was the season of course. Not that Arlow followed Lance’s love life closely. Though, recently he did have a personal interest. “It should be exciting, right?” Lance hummed to himself in deep thought, arms crossed. Even in his winter jacket, his sleeves were still slightly pushed up. His obnoxious resolution to the chill only made Arlow feel colder. “In what way, Lance,” he said politely. “Like what if I was in a volleyball game! Nationals! And I was smashing down this killer straight! Then I yell out, I like you!” Lance imitated the straight a few times, as if he hadn’t already practiced for an hour. “I don’t know who would hate you more,” Arlow said thoughtfully, “Our team or the other team.” “What?” Lance staggered back, shocked, but quickly jogged to catch up. “What if it was a killer cross?” “The move isn’t the problem, Lance.” “Killer feint?” “Why would you think that’s different?” They walked in almost silence for a while, broken occasionally by Lance’s groans at some thought or another. He wondered if Lance actually did have something in mind. No, that would be absurd. Lance only had volleyball on his mind. But perhaps Arlow had been conceited in this assurance. He had always let his feelings rest within him, quiet and unbidden. “What about a killer cut shot?” Lance said, thumping his fist into his hand triumphantly. “Perhaps,” Arlow said, reluctant, “you should consider the classics.” Lance tilted his head to the side. “What makes a good confession.” Arlow rubbed the joint of his index finger. “The purpose of a confession”. “You’re right, Arlow!” Lance’s yell attracted some stares of passing students. Arlow tucked his head down further into his collar, the material bunching up black curls around the nape of his neck. They moved steadily towards the station. Flyers with hearts stared back at him with their crossed T’s and dotted I’s. Arlow’s nose scrunched and his eyes crinkled at the sides. It felt like everything about today was mocking him. There were more pedestrians now, though he didn’t fear losing Lance in a crowd. The twin tufts of his ochre hair stuck out from the crowd, but he could always follow Lance’s outraged hollering if need be. “I think the coolest confession would make their hearts skip a beat,” Lance decided. “Heart palpitations are a serious medical occurrence.” “Arlow! Listen, what if it’s not about how loud you yell it, but what you say.” Lance’s forehead knitted itself into knots. “A clever way of saying it!” “For example?” “Like if I said to you, give me all your tosses.” Lance grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He was practically sparkling under the station lights, enamored by his own genius. “That would be very annoying. For another thing, it’s impractical. Have you forgotten about your teammates? Think about the other team, as well. They would--” “I get it! Geez!” Lance closed his eyes, grimacing. Even the ends of his spiky hair seemed to be drooping. Arlow withheld a sigh, a mixture of annoyance and a little bit, just the tiniest bit, of exasperated affection. “But it’s not a bad idea,” he finally said. “Speaking about something only the two of you know is romantic.” “Right? Right?” Lance opened his eyes, grin returned. “A secret code! Like a cool confession in Latin!” “Well,” Arlow said, ignoring the stupider parts of the statement, “A love letter is also classic.” “Love letter!” This time, the yell certainly did attract the attention of the people on the platform. But the train pulled up in a loud grumble, leaving Lance to mull as they entered. There was only one seat left, which Arlow took. This already happened once or twice, and Lance always vehemently insisted that Arlow take it. Given how loudly Lance squabbled, Arlow conceded without much resistance. Besides, he did like their quiet times. Lance stood in front of him, withstanding the train’s lull. When Lance was quiet, he could be quite handsome. He had a somber silhouette and a serious composure, face strict lines and eyes bright on an unmovable point. Annoyingly, though, Arlow also missed the loud Lance at these times. It was strange not to see him yelling, his eyebrows quirking. He was someone always in motion. Arlow looked down, tracing the line of his pinky finger. It was all Lance’s fault, him and his strange conversation, which made him think about these things. He should stop thinking about it. He wondered if this hypothetical person who deserved all these confessions even knew about this side of Lance. “A love letter,” Lance said somberly, “is like a gift, isn’t it? Then isn’t the more the better? Wouldn’t your heart skip a beat if someone confessed to you with a love letter and ten dozen roses and a coupon to the sports store and maybe that cool t-shirt in that store we saw the other day?” “That’s called a bribe, Lance.” “That’s fine, isn’t it?” His annoyed sigh must have convinced Lance back into grumbling thought. Night had already touched down on the outside world, brushing over the buildings. The lights in the buildings flickered on, though they were only vague pulses from the faster train. In the opposite window’s reflection, he could see Lance’s broad back and his own face, subtle with an expression he couldn’t place. He lowered his eyes to the bag in his lap, following where the strap dangled over the seat. When they exited the train, the air had only gotten colder and Arlow blew on his fingers, mildly annoyed. Under the station lights, he could see the redness over his pale fingertips. A sudden warmth wrapped around his neck, and when he looked up, Lance was draping his gray scarf on Arlow’s shoulders. “Thank you, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance tied the scarf. “You’re choking me, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance untied the scarf. “I guess,” Lance said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I could say what I liked about them! During the confession. What do you think?” Arlow thought the scarf smelled like Lance, and that he didn’t dislike that. He allowed himself to touch at the fringes, guilty for some reason he couldn’t compose. “What would you say?” he asked instead. “I don’t know! I guess I’d say, you know. You know. With the you know!” “Ah.” “Don’t sound so judgmental, Arlow! You know I’m not good at this stuff!” Lance ruffled his hair in anguish. He was making some gibberish noises with his throat. “It’d be nice,” Lance said, “if after you confessed your super cool confession, they’d go out with you. Right?” “You’re not expecting that?”. “I didn’t realize it until now! I mean, it makes things a lot easier if you think about it that way. That a confession is just the start of something new.” Lance grinned, eyes glinting under the street lamp. “So you have someone in mind,” Arlow finally hedged. He turned slightly away, almost like he examining the concrete walls along the street. Lance always had good night vision. He might be able to see any suspicious flush on his face. “Hey, what’s your idea of the best confession?” Lance asked, completely ignoring him. Arlow sighed, curling his fingers around each other. “I don’t have a preference.” “Really? What would you want the person to say?” They stopped in front of Arlow’s house. Lance’s bright eyes peered at him, watching intently. It was quiet around them. Lance’s house was further away. There was a shortcut from the station, but Lance always insisted to walk together. Arlow ran his fingers along the bumps of his knuckles. He could imagine himself saying it in the heat of the moment. He could be bold and say something charming. It doesn’t matter as long as it was you, Lance. The thought made a sick feeling rise from stomach to throat. It sounded just like something those valentines flyers at the station would have written across them. Confessions were heavy. They weighed like stones on his heart, and it would be a burden on Lance. They were constantly together, a part of each other's daily routine. It would be irresponsible and irrational for him to confess. He ran simulations in his head, imagining his confession in a whisper to a shout, but the best outcomes were nothing but fragmented wishes. This was silly. Lance was just talking about a hypothetical situation. But the words still tingled on the tip of his tongue. At that moment, he could say it. Instead, he tightened his grip on his shoulder strap. “Isn’t it getting late?” he tried. “Come on, Arlow. Come on, tell me. Arlow, tell me. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else! Tell me--” “It doesn’t have to be said,” Arlow finally muttered. “You want someone to text it to you? Great idea! I found a great picture of a cat that’d fit perfectly.” “Not exactly,” Arlow said, cutting off the cat picture speech, “But sometimes, you can tell someone loves you by the things they do, and not just the things they say.” He pulled the scarf up higher against Lance’s gaze. Lance’s mouth had dropped open slightly, surprise written all over his face. He was obviously impressed by Arlow, and Arlow looked away to his house nameplate. His cheeks felt warm. “Well, a spoken confession is better,” Arlow said, straightening his shoulders. “If I really had to say, I’d like a confession that gave me time to respond.” “I don’t get it,” Lance said with confidence. “Sometimes I’m told my expressions are difficult to read.” Arlow shrugged. “I’d just like a chance to explain myself in return, so they don’t misunderstand my expression.” “Really? But I like your expressions, Arlow. Every time you look at me, I fall in love with you all over again.” Arlow stared at the wall. “Jeez! It’s late! When did it get this late! Why didn’t you say it was this late!” Lance glared at the night sky, kicking at the pebbles in the road. “I was going to do stuff tonight, too.” “I... did tell you. Lance.” His words sounded stiff, but Lance apparently didn’t notice, groaning to himself. “What? Well, whatever. Get to bed early, that’s an order, Arlow!” Lance waved, walking off down the street. Arlow opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even consider what he was trying to say. He hadn’t misheard. The words rang distinctly in his ears. He was having heart palpitations. He was an idiot. He was an absolute idiot to be so swept up in such stupid words. Lance hadn’t even realized it, but here he was, heart beating in his ears and face definitely redder than any reasonable excuse in the cold. He leaned against the wall, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. But Lance had definitely said love. He said love. He was in love with him. This entire stupid time, he’d been trying to stupidly research the best way to say it. Lance was an idiot. He was an idiot. His thoughts were fluttering around him, and he wound the fringe of the scarf around his fingers tightly. The heat flamed up from inside him. He had buried something deep within himself with an impractical carelessness. Someday, he always told himself, but that someday was here, and he could feel it grow inside of him, warm and happy. Happy. He was happy. He could indistinctly hear rapid footsteps approaching him. Someone in a remarkably fast run. Finally, he looked up to see Lance flying at him in a flurry of kicked-up snow, face a matching flush. “Arlow!” he yelled. “I messed up! Wait, forget about that! It slipped out! Arlow! I was going to do it during a killer joust! Arlow! Let me do it again! Hold on! I’ll do a better confession! Arlow!”. Arlow turned away, pressing the scarf to his face to hide his expression. He supposed they could be idiots together. “Hey,” he finally said, cutting off Lance’s frantic squawks, “What do you think is the coolest way of telling someone that you like them too?”.


Scarlet Storm stood near the library door. She saw her reflection in the glass, her red suit with her black mask that went around her eyes. Her blonde hair tied into a braid and her hazel eyes staring back at her. The other side was filled with darkness and silence. She was hesitant to open the door. Sure, only the motion sensors went off but anyone could be waiting inside. Her worst enemy, a homeless person, a kid who was doing something on a dare, it could be anyone. Scarlet didn’t know why she was scared to open the door. She was a hero and faced villains of all sorts. She had been tortured, questioned, knocked down, but she always got back up. At this point, she had no reason to be scared. She has seen the worst, she was sure of it, so why did she tremble at the thought of opening this door? She thought about leaving and letting the police deal with this but she couldn’t. Anyone who would be trying to send a message that would get to her would break into the library. People who only knew her secret identity made her even more scared. Scarlet opened the door. She was able to since she worked at this library. She loved it for it was her second home. A place she has been in since she was a kid. A place that helped her grow and may or may not be a secondhand therapy, look that is expensive. She began to walk across the room. She had only been in a library a few times at night. It always had at least lamp lights on but now she walked in blackness, her only light begin the moonlight that streamed through. The library was still and not a sound was made. She made her way through the aisles of books until she got to the part with multiple desks and saw a figure sitting at one. Scarlet recognized the person immediately. The person sitting there was no other than her arch-nemesis, Wildfire. Her brunette hair was in messy, wavy curls. Her black boots were on the table, her suit was black with orange, yellow, and red streaking her leggings. She had a red mask around her eyes. “What are you doing?” she called. Wildfire rolled her eyes, “Getting a book, something wrong with that sweetie?” Her voice was like honey and smooth, Scarlet about fainted. “Something is when you're breaking into the place.” “I was going to put it back. Can’t I just do some reading in peace?” Scarlet saw the book she was reading. It was about nuclear fusion. “What are you going to do with that?” “What does it look like I’m doing? Blowing up the city? I’m a science major and textbooks are expensive. You wouldn’t know Miss. Art Major.” Wildfire taunted. “Something doesn’t make me believe that,” Scarlet says. “Oh look at you trying to be the hero again. Like you always do.” Wildfire said bitterly. “It’s what I do best,” Scarlet says, eyes narrowing. Wildfire stayed silent and counited to read her book, ignoring Scarlet Storm. “Aren’t you tired of it?” Scarlet blurted. “Here comes the hero complex,” and Wildfire rolled her eyes. “I mean it aren't you tired of it?”, Scarlet continued, “The fighting, the planning, the hurting? Are you tired of any of it?” Wildfire raised her eyebrow. “Aren’t you tired of it? The fighting back, the planning to stop it all, the pain you’ve been dealt all for the safety of this city?” “Of course I’m not..” “Then why would I?” “I-” “ I see. You just want to be the hero. You think that you are the hero! And you’ll believe the people who tell you that you are so stoic and brave!” Wildfire taunted. Scarlet stared. She had no idea what she could say. “You once held my hand...” “What was that, dear ?” Wildfire asked. “You once held my hand,” Scarlet said louder. “Were back at this again. The desperate plea to make me stop the life I’m living and hopefully remember the life I used to live because you think that was better.” “At least you wouldn’t have become this!” Scarlet yelled. “Have you possibly consider that I like this life better?” Wildfire said. Scarlet stared at her. “With that face again. You stupid hopeless romantic! You can’t possibly believe that I would be in love with you still but I think that you do. I know that you can’t take a hit on your ego and you can’t believe that I’m not in love with you anymore.” “I know that you’re not in love with me anymore.” “Then stop caring for me. Stop caring about the life I’m living. Fight me like you fight all the other villains.” “You are not a villain,” Scarlet says. “What else have you conceived me to be? You try to stop me and try to convert me to a superhero life. I think that under that surface you call yourself heroic, you’re convinced you are above me.” Wildfire yells. “I believe this life your living won’t help with all the hurt,” Scarlet says. Wildfire stares at her eyes blazing in anger. “Take the hand that you once held and let it be your knight in shining armor.” “YOU ARE NOT MY HERO...You couldn’t deal with the cards that I’ve been dealt.” Wildfire yelled. “ You think that you are a villain but I know you're not. Under all the hidden anger is a beating human heart!” Scarlet screams, feeling her eyes start to water. “A heart that is beating but a heart that is broken and angry.” “I know that you are upset...that I didn’t come in for you. I'm sorry that I never helped you...but please let me now.” Scarlet begged. “You are the knight in shining armor who came way too late. You watched my world crash down and saw my monsters prevail.” Wildfire whispered. “I know but let me help you put it back together.” Scarlet pleaded. “You are not my hero and you never will. You can be the hero for everyone else but never me.” Wildfire said looking Scarlet in the eye. “ Please...” Scarlet pleaded one last time. “Go home Scarlet Storm. Stand up get out some things don’t go as planned.”


November 24th, 2022 So, Jess was right. I’m fucked. Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fucked. You’d think I’d be more pissed off about having killed myself than the 4.2 billion dollar Orion capsule that I’ve broken. But I’m feeling way worse about the capsule right now. Isn’t that weird? Like who cares about an already semi-broken ship compared to their own life? Well, actually Captain Picard would. What would he do in this situation? “Computer, lights!” Nope. Still pitch black. So, what happened is this: I woke up feeling pretty good - considering. I’d basically talked myself into the idea that if Artemis had a button to blow itself up, that button would be pretty clearly labeled as such. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my time at NASA, it’s that NASA loves to argue with itself about safety issues. I certainly don’t want to say they try to make things idiot proof, but aerospace engineer proof? Actually, that’s worse, idiots don’t break out screwdrivers, soldering irons, and raspberry pi setups when they want to jerry rig something. Anyways, as long as I’m being kind of semi-reasonable with what I do, I’ll be ok. Right? Wrong. But at the time I thought I was on the right path. I tried one last call to NASA telling them what I’m about to do, on the off chance they can listen but not be heard, or on the off, off, off chance that they’ve been messing with me and this is when the joking stops. Nothing. Alright. Frozen Computer Emergency Procedure “Step 1: P. Mod. S. > On.” I’m saying it aloud, like it’s somehow more official that way. There is a P. Mod. S. button, I’m just not sure whether a little red LED in its center means it’s on or off. I push it. The little red LED in the button’s center starts to blink. I say some things that are unfit for publication, then push the button again and it goes back to a solid red LED. Whatever jackass though blinking was a good option for an indicator light should be shot. Flashing if 50% more off than a solid light, but it’s 100% more attention grabbing. Which wins? I’m calling solid light “on”, but at this point if I break this thing then NASA has no one but itself to blame. By the fifth step my back is just plastered with sweat, and by the seventh my fingers are shaking so badly I’m having to use extra effort to making sure I don’t hit anything around the buttons I’m aiming for. You know what it feels like? Imagine you were dying and there were a thousand shot glasses in front of you, each filled with a slightly different colored liquid. Twenty of the glasses have a cure if you drink them in the right order, the rest have poison. And you have to pick the magenta shot... Now the lilac... Now the falu one...” What’s falu? Exactly. “RTZ Mn > I” I say. Push. The Orion shuts down. Total black. No more blinking console lights, no more LCD screens, no more cabin lights. Blackness. I can’t even see my hands. It just so happened the Orion’s windows don’t have a view of the sun for this step, so the only lights are from pin prick stars shining in through Orion’s small windows. The emergency manual hadn’t warned me this was going to happen. We were right in the middle of a procedure. I couldn’t even see well enough to try and find the button to push it back to where it was. By the way: space problems. I was “sitting” in the commander’s chair, but that’s a euphemism. Really, I was floating against a twisted, zig zagging, chair that different parts of my back and legs and butt would bump into every few seconds at random. If it wasn’t for the seat belt... i guess it’s actually a harness... anyways if I wasn’t strapped in, I would have just slowly drifted away. In space, chairs suck. You want to know something else that sucks? Drifting through a totally dark Orion capsule on your way to a bulkhead that you can’t see but you’re going to bump into at any second, all without any feeling of motion. If it hadn’t been for Orion’s windows, and the points of starlight out of them, I would have completely lost my orientation and thrown up. What should have taken about 20 seconds with light ended up turning into a half hour ordeal. But I eventually did find a flashlight. If NASA ever wants to pull a really good prank on astronauts, turn off the lights, and have the cabin speakers play what sounds like something scurrying over metal. Even absent the sound, the capsule is spooky as hell. When I unpress “RTZ Mn” nothing happens, guess it can’t just be “unpressed”. So, question time. Do I keep going through the computer freeze checklist, or am I now into the total power loss checklist? I eat a Skor bar, in the dark. I don’t want to waste those flashlight batteries. It’s been a long day so I also might as well get some sleep and come at this fresh tomorrow. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


Setting The Scene. It was the year 2050 and technology had advanced greatly. People no longer used vehicles like cars buses and trains they would fly. In personal hover crafts between building. The level that you would fly on determined the speed you could fly at. There were robots in the shape of human bodies but made of metal. They were used for many things like driving hover crafts and cleaning. Cyber Cafe. Zak was enjoying his morning coffee while playing on the internet. The computers had the capability of making an image come out of the screen. The image would appear between the face of the user and the screen of the computer. Zak was playing his favourite game an fps called Millennium. When his friend Rad comes into the cafe and says to Zak. "What's up man what are you doing to day?" "After I've finished this level I'm flying to the park. Do you want to come?" "Can't see why not." Zak seems to have killed all the enemies on the level but can't find the exit so asks Rad for some help. "I'm stuck how do I get out of this level?" "There's a secret passageway just there I've completed this game at home. But be careful there's more enemies behind it." Zak uses the secret passageway and kills the remaining enemies then exits the level. They then leave the cafe an head to the hover craft. Flying Hover Craft. Zak drives the hover craft because he can't afford a robot chauffeur. His hover craft is messy it's full of takeaway wrappers. The two of them are sat in the hover craft when Zak starts the electric engine. They raise upwards vertically to the top level because Zak wants to travel fast. Then he gets up his speed in the lay by and joins the stream of traffic. Because they are up high they are above most building and have only the borders to guide them. The borders are black and white signs with arrows pointing in the direction of travel. They are held up with wire which is attached to poles inserted into the ground. As they reach their destination Zak slows his speed and lowers down. He finds a parking space just outside the park. The Park. The park is surrounded with a white stone wall and there's an iron metal fence which is open to let customers in. There are two robots in the entrance way taking money before letting in the customers. Zak and Rad are at the entrance way when the robots speak. "Money please." Rad offers to pay. "This ones on me." Rad then speaks to the robots. "Can I pay by card?" "Just swipe twice." Rad swipes twice and the robots greet them in. "Enjoy your day." Zak and Rad walk into park the weather is good. They decide to walk around the lake. As they pass the grand bridge they notice how busy it is. Half way around is an icecream machine. Zak asks Rad which flavour he wants. "What do you fancy?" Meanwhile the icecream machine is waffling on repeating it self. "Get your icecream vanilla chocolate or strawberry." Rad speaks to the machine. "Vanilla please?" Then Zak speaks to the machine. "Strawberry please and that's it thank you?" "Please insert your money or swipe your card." Zak swipes his card and two cones drop down then the yellow and pink icecream swirls into the cones. They sit on a park bench looking out at the lake. The icecream tastes so refreshing on a hot day like this when Rad asks a question. "What are you doing later on this evening?" "Hopefully completing Millennium do you want to help me?" "Ok." They finished their ice creams and walk back to the flying hover craft. Then they fly back to Zak's apartment. Zak's Apartment. Zak parks up his hover craft on the drive and they go to the front door. "Body detected voice recognition activated." "It's me Zak let me in." "Welcome home Zak." They go inside and Zak goes to his PC he goes online and retrieves his level. Zak plays Millennium all night and with a little help from Rad eventually completes it. The boys are hungry and order a takeaway pizza. The pizza delivery robot is flying high and fast in his hover craft. When his circuit board glitches and the robot swerves hitting a border sign. The hover craft tumbles through the air and crashes through Zak's living room window. There is now half an hover craft in the living room. During the impact the pizza delivery robot is mangled and is now saying. "Malfunction malfunction place your order malfunction malfunction please swipe your card." There's pizza and pizza boxes scattered all over the living room floor and Zak say. "Pizzas up." The boy eat their pizza and go to sleep on the sofa for the night.


Nick tossed about in bed. He couldn’t sleep. He gave up trying to keep his eyes shut because he knew it was useless. And his pillow was on the wrong side of the bed. Nick sat up and put the pillow on the right side of the bed. He straightened his blankets and lay down on the bed, still unable to sleep. He stared at his ceiling. And then he stared at the window. There was the moon. How round and bright it was. He got up and went to the window to get a closer look. Nick admired the moon. He lived in a flat on the 7 th floor. From up there, he saw someone dressed from head to toe in black sneaking around. Nick’s bedroom door opened and someone came in. “Nick,” It was Nick’s half brother, Alfred or as Nick called him, Al. Nick’s parents left him when he was two. First his dad and then his mom. It was his most traumatic experience. Nick had been sent to a foster family with his half brother Al. They had shared the same mother. The Wools family had taken them in. Nick now had a new mother and father, Brittany and Samuel. Nick was also introduced to his new sister Precious. “I couldn’t sleep either,” said Al taking out some chocolate buttons from his pockets. Nick licked his lips at the sight of them. They were one of his favourite foods. He didn’t mention the person in black to Al but took a chocolate button and popped it into his mouth. “So...” There was a big CRASH and the window exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces. “What the-,” said, Al. “What’s going on!” yelled Brittany and Samuel from their bedroom. “I don’t know,” yelled Precious back. Nick and Al ran to their parents’ room. “What happened?” asked Samuel. “Nick’s window got broken,” said Al. “How?” asked Brittany. “I don’t know. We were just-” “What were you doing?” demanded Brittany. “We were just eating chocolate-” “I want some too,” said Precious at once. “We were just in my room and then the window shattered into pieces,’ said Nick. “How?” asked Brittany. “We don’t know!” said Nick and Al at the same time. Samuel grunted. “A window can’t just shatter into pieces by itself.” “What if something was thrown at the window?” suggested Precious. “That might be it. Let’s check what happened to it,” said Samuel. They went up and found among the glass pieces, a small grey pebble. “Who would do that?” wondered Samuel aloud. Nick thought that was the time to tell them about the person in black. “Before that happened, I saw a person in black, dressed like a robber, sneaking around.” The family stared at him at this news. “Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Samuel. “I... I don’t know,” muttered Nick. Al bent down and picked up the pebble. “Why did the person in black throw the pebble at the window?” asked Al. “For what reason?” “Quick!” said Samuel. “Check if anything is stolen.” “Don’t be silly Sam,” said Brittany. We live on the 7 th floor. The person couldn’t have climbed up here,” Precious looked out of the window. “Look here!” Everyone went to the window and peered out. There was a ladder leading to Nick’s window from the 6 th floor’s balcony. “Would you look at that,” said Samuel. “The person in black’s living in the same place as us.” Everyone stared at each other in shock. “Does that mean this place isn’t safe?” asked Brittany. “Maybe... we’ll have to move,” said Samuel. “Is anything missing?” “Nick dug into his drawers. All was there. He searched his cupboard. Everything seemed to be in place. “Why is your backpack thrown in the corner?” asked Precious. “I didn’t put it there,” said Nick and went to get it. He opened a zip and felt about in it. There was nothing in it. “Oh no, it’s missing!” he exclaimed. “What’s missing?” asked Samuel. Nick looked at Al. “The chain,” he said. “Huh?” said Precious. “Our mother gave Nick a gold chain when she left,” said Al. “Is it real gold?” asked Brittany. “Yeah,” said Nick. “Well we can get it back; we know the person stays in this building,’ said Samuel. But for now, how about you sleep in Al’s room, Nick?” Nick brought a sleeping bag into Al’s room and they talked about stuff and ate chocolate buttons and had a spooky story contest and they fell asleep. In the morning, Nick woke up with Al’s foot on his face. He pushed it off and got up and started getting ready for breakfast. Nick woke up Al and they had a swordfight with their toothbrushes and were very late for breakfast. Brittany and Samuel didn’t mind though that they were late. Brittany just made them toast and served it to them. After breakfast, Samuel led them to the couch and said that they were all going to have a talk. “We are going to go to the 6 th floor and find out who are the people living there,” said Samuel. Brittany was shocked. “But that wasn’t what you said Sam!” “How else are we going to find the person in black?” “Can I come?” asked Precious “No, you’re not coming, it’s too dangerous,” said Samuel. “Just Nick and me,” “And me,” said Al. “Yes, and Al,” added Samuel. After the talk, the three of them went to the ground floor and went to the guard to talk. “Who is living on the 6 th floor?” asked Samuel. “Eh, only Edgar Walker, the Jones family and Martha Crick,” said the guard a little surprised. “Thank you,” said Samuel and turned to Nick and Al. “First we’ll visit Martha Crick and then the Jones family and then Edgar Walker.” Nick and Al nodded. They left for the 6 th floor with the guard looking at them with a puzzled expression. They took the stairs to the 6 th floor. There were five rooms. Only three of them were used. Nick, Al and Samuel wondered which one to enter. Little did they know the guard had heard them talking and he had called the police because he thought something suspicious was going on. “Let’s go in this one,” said Al pointing at a door that said, 101. Samuel knocked on the door and opened it. “Hello? Sorry to disturb you but-” Samuel stopped mid-sentence and looked around the room. It was empty. “Oh,” said Nick and Al. “To the next room.” They went to room 102 and knocked on it. A lady with a blue pleated skirt appeared at the doorway. She was carrying a baby and holding a milk bottle. Nick thought that she must be Martha Crick. “Hi um, is your husband in?” asked Samuel. Martha looked surprised. “My husband?” she repeated. My husband left me nine years ago!” Nick’s stomach gave a weird jolt. It had been nine years since his mother left him. “We’re sorry for disturbing you,” said Samuel politely. “It’s alright then,” said Martha and shut the door. Nick knew that the woman’s face looked familiar. He couldn’t put his hand on it. It might’ve been his mother but he had forgotten her name as well as his father’s. He only remembered his surname which was Walker. They came to door 102. Samuel knocked on the door. A small girl opened the door. “What do you want?” asked the girl. “Is there any boys in your family?” asked Al. “Well my father and my brothers,” replied the girl. “Were all of them in the house last night?” asked Nick. “No, my father was at work and my brother’s slept at their friend’s house,” said the girl and then frowned. “Why are you so nosy?” “Oh we’re not being nosy,” said Al. “Some toxic gas was released yesterday and it wasn’t safe for people to go out. That’s why we’re making sure no one went outside last night.” “Oh,” said the girl and shut the door. “How un-polite,” said Samuel and walked to the last door, 103. A man opened the door. “Hello, are you Mr Edgar Walker?” asked Samuel. Have you been anywhere last night?” But Edgar Walker was staring at Nick. Nick told himself that this couldn’t be his father as there were lots of other Walkers out there. “No, I haven’t,” said Edgar, still looking at Nick. Precious and Brittany appeared from nowhere holding hands. “Then what’s that?” asked Precious pointing at Edgar’s trouser pocket. “That’s my chain!” shouted Nick. The police arrived with the guard behind them. “What’s all this about?” asked one policeman. “This man stole my chain from me in the night!” said Nick. Now the guard looked mightily confused. “What?” he said. The policeman went to Edgar and took out the chain from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “B-but that’s mine!” protested Edgar. “You climbed the ladder and broke the window and took the chain,” said Samuel. “I never did such things,” said Edgar. “You can’t accuse me without proof!” “I have proof,” said Al smugly. He brought out his phone from his pockets and showed them a video of the man in black entering the room from the window. The man searched underneath the bed and on top of cupboards and then searched in Nick’s bag and brought out the chain. When the man climbed out of the window, his mask dropped and he was revealed as Edgar Walker. The police handcuffed Edgar and led him outside. Martha Crick came out and stared at Edgar. They shared a look at each other. And then they looked at Nick. “Do you think we should tell him?” asked Martha. “Nah, he’s better off not knowing,” said Edgar as he sat in the back seat of the police car. The cars zoomed off to the police station and Martha was nowhere to be found. And then Nick knew something. Martha and Edgar were his parents. With a sigh, Nick followed his other parents home.


It was dark, pitch black. Where am I? Where was I last? I died. Am I still dead? A light so dim, yet so blindingly bright to me appeared in a vertical line. The line grew wider and wider, all until the stone slab above my coffin was completely removed. I removed it, I lifted it, without even willing it. And my body continued to move until it was outside of the crypt. It was night, but there was a full moon. And a little girl in front of me. She clutched a black book to her chest as if it were the last thing she had left in this world. I've heard stories of this, I imagined the possibility, but I never thought it would happen to me. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She choked the words out. "Please, save my papa!" I looked around. That seemed to be permitted. In the distance, there was a raging fire. It engulfed a village. My body willed itself to move in that direction. It started as a walk, and then it became a full on sprint. My armor and sword were still on me. They clanged as I ran. It felt somewhat nostalgic, charging into battle. But this time was different. There was no fear, no excitement. I would not die. I was already dead. In the village center, a man was tied to a pillar, below him was a pile of branches and twigs. Surrounding the man was a retinue of five knights dressed in identical white tabards with the symbol of the order, a dragon. These bastards again. One of them was about to set the man on fire when another saw me. "What have we here?" he declared. The others turned around, to me. "I knew it! I bloody knew it! A necromancer!" He wasn't wrong. But this is going too far, to kill so many for the one. I tried to speak but I could not. My body moved itself, closer to the man on the pillar. "Step back, foul abomination!" They blocked my path and aimed their swords at me. I'm going to enjoy this. I stepped forward once more. They then spread out and surrounded me. A common but effective tactic. The first to swing was the crier. It was a long drawn out motion. It was easy to intercept and swat away. His sword flew out of his hand and onto the ground behind him. As he stood dumbfounded, with his arm still held up from his initial attempt to attack, I charged forward and slamming the flat end of my blade into his chest. He flew backwards and fell to the ground. Fighting with swords and armor was tricky business. Swords were slashing weapons, likely only to bounce or break off of the steel plates of armor. What I need is a mace. Four left. I was constantly darting my head left and right, watching for who would make the next move. One shouted to their fallen comrade, "Oi, get up, Ornstein!" Ornstein was writhing on the ground with an arm held up against his chest. "Damn it!" There was a tinge of fear and frustration in his voice, as if he was unable to accept what had just transpired, as if he never could have imagined it in his wildest dreams. It was a restless, defiant shout. He charged at me in a fury with his sword held back, ready to swing. But before he could, I stepped forward and slashed at his held up wrist. "Aughhhh!" He dropped his sword, knelt down, and clutched his wrist with his good hand. It was by no means possible to cut his hand off through the armor, but he wouldn't be able to use it for at least a week. Seeing their dwindling numbers, the rest lost all control and attacked. Their motions were stiff and their stances were nonexistent. These men were either new recruits or wildly inept. The battle was tedious. No one was going to die because of the protection our armor offered. It was just a beating. I would simply keep on hitting them with the flat end of my blade. And on the rare occasion when they would hit me, I wouldn't feel it at all. I mean, I could feel that something hit me, but no pain registered. The last one still conscious begged, "I give, I give! Please, don't kill me!" I knocked him out. I had no intention of killing them once I realized how little fight they actually had in them. But what happens if I leave them alive? What are the chances they come after the girl? Would they know her father had a daughter? They were able to find the father somehow. Can I take the chance? Systematically, I removed the helmets of each knight and slit their throats. Someone stood in the corner of my vision. I turned my head. It was the girl. How long has she been there? She looked at all the dead men, horror mixed with panic in her eyes. Then at the man tied to the pillar, her father, with eyes of relief, of joy. Intent on releasing him, her father, she threw her book aside, rushed past the dead, and started undoing his ropes. Once free, he began to fall. He could not stand. His daughter dutifully rushed underneath to catch him. But before she could attempt to bear the weight, my body rushed over and caught him . I could not tell if that action was voluntary or not. He lay resting, his back against the very bonfire that was meant to kill him. He still breathed, but was unconscious. There were bruises and cuts all over his body. Blood streaked down him from head to toe. "Papa, wake up!" she implored while clutching his hand with both of hers. I wanted to tell her that he needs his rest, that she should leave him be, but I could not. His eyes opened slowly. His voice was coarse and quiet. "Maggie, is that you?" The space between the words were long, as if it took all his might to utter a single syllable. She tightened her grip, inched closer to his face, and said excitedly, "Yes, it's me, Papa!" He looked at me. "My god, you've done it. Where I always failed." He looked back at her. "You need to run, get out of here. They'll come for you." She said with pure intention and nothing else, "What about you?" "My sweet girl, I cannot come with you. My journey ends here. Travel east from here, in the direction of the graveyard, follow that road until you meet an inn. There should still be some money in the hut. If it's still on fire send in your friend. If it's done burning then still send him in, it could collapse at any second. If there's no money there then search those knights. I know death is scary. I know that. But it's not the end." He took one last, long breath. "I'll always be with you." And like that, he lost all of his strength, his hand slipping from his daughter's grasp, his neck falling to his side, and his eyes, closed. I couldn't see her eyes, as I stood beside her, vigil. But her head did not move. I don't think she could process what just happened. "Wake up, Papa! Wake up! Please, please wake up!" She gripped onto his shirt with both her hands, buried her head in his chest, and began to cry and wail, endlessly. "No, please, please, please. Don't leave..." I could do nothing but watch. It was hours before she would leave that spot. In the end, she returned to her home. It was burned to a crisp, the walls and ceiling did collapse. I doubt there was anything left. She had me search anyway, though. I found a jar filled with mostly copper coins, and some silver. When we returned to the town center, she just stood there, motionless, as if she was unsure of what to do next. Perhaps she wanted to bury her father, give him a proper rest, but she also wanted to respect and heed his last words. Perhaps she was debating whether she should pilfer from those knights of the order. On one end it was sacrilegious to steal from the dead, but on the other, they practically killed her father. She turned her head to me, tilted it upward until her eyes reached mine, and said, "loot them." I had no qualms with it. It was only natural to use whatever you could, as weapons and shields were liable to bend and break during the heat of battle. And Some men would always compare and gloat over who had obtained the greatest treasure afterward. Ah, those were the days. We couldn't carry any of their weapons or armor, so all that happened was the money jar got a little, no, a lot fuller. And then we did as her father instructed, we traveled on the east road. She continued to clutch the black book against her chest. And I held the jar. As we passed my crypt, she stopped. Then she entered it and left with a helmet in her hand. She raised it up, at me. I took and equipped it. It would be best if people didn't know I was what I was. After a while of walking, she started to slow down. I wanted to tell her I could carry her, but I could not. After another hour or so of walking, she collapsed. She was still breathing. Must have just been tired. It must have been a long night for her. I knelt down, scooped her up, cradled her in my arms, and continued to walk. That seemed to be permitted. She still held that book against her chest. It was the last thing she had left in this world.


A campfire of green flames burned in secret under the stars. It was hidden by the deep woods where prying eyes were unlikely to see. A young woman in a black dress with long, dark hair stared into the flickering green light with rage in her eyes. She had been betrayed. Scorned. Made jealous by a woman more beautiful than her. The young woman did not fear the shadow that sprung forth from the fire. It was tall, twice her height, and had two glowing red jewels where its eyes should be. It was the Shadow King, Master of Shadows and one of the spiteful lords of Hell. No one had ever managed to summon him before, though many had tried. He came only when he pleased, not bound by the spells of witches nor the will or any man. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said to the young woman. His voice was deep and raspy. Like a thousand souls crying out in pain, their voices stolen from them and used for evil.  “Phoebe Mitchell.” The young woman’s face contorted to an expression of hate as she spoke the name. Her jealous rage burning her soul before its time. In her hand was a note and she tossed into the fire from which she summoned the Shadow King. The Shadow King disappeared as quickly as he came, and the fire went out. The young woman struck a match and lit a candle before inspecting the ashes. A wooden music box sat where the flames had just been, and she knew what she must do. Sherry traveled through the abyss a second time and found herself in the same place as before in her dream. The familiar smell of death filled her nose again. Rick had arrived ahead of her. She could hear his screams coming from the dark caverns in front of her as the shadowy demons tore him apart before stitching him back together with rusty needles and thin barbed thread just so they could do it again. The bastard was getting what he deserved. She picked herself up from ground and wobbled. Her legs were weak, and balancing was hard to do. The shadows moved in on her, creeping along the wall and moving from rock to rock. They meant to tear her apart just as they were doing to Rick. So, she ran fast as she could. The weakness in her legs was unforgiving and Sherry tripped over herself repeatedly but somehow managed to keep from falling over. The shadows followed but kept their distance. They were enjoying her fear and cackled with wicked, hissing laughter. “Leave me alone!” Sherry said loud as she could when she didn’t have the strength to go any farther. Inside she knew what this was it for her. This is the place where she would spend the rest of forever being tormented by the shadows. They moved in, encircling her in a ring of black mass. Then something happened that should not be. A great peace came over Sherry and her heart was comforted. A voice was speaking to her but not using words. “Go forward. Do not be afraid,” she felt it say to her though she did not hear anything. The black circle grew tighter, and she was scared but Sherry did what she felt was being said to her. “Save him,” she felt the voice say to her again. It was speaking directly to her heart and giving her courage. Part of her wasn’t sure this wasn’t her own mind playing tricks on her, a defense mechanism in a time of peril. But doing what was being spoken to her heart was one of only two options. The second being that she would give in and accept her fate. That was not Sherry’s style. She was stubborn and thick of skin and refused to go down without a fight. She approached the edge of the circle, the shadows joined together to close in on her, and spoke. “Get out of my way.” Sherry did not expect them to move, nor did she expect anything to happen at all. The evil intentions of the shadows radiated from the circle, and she felt them on her heart as loud as the voice that she could not hear. But the circle broke, and shadows scattered, retreating to the walls of the caverns that they slithered from. They watched as she stood stunned by how they listened to her command and obeyed. Their shapeless eyes never left her. Sherry walked on with her head held high. It was posturing at its best. Her bravery nothing but desperation. She knew that she was no match for the shadows should they want to turn back and drag her away. What she didn’t know was there was a light that she couldn’t see shining brightly behind her. But the shadows could, and darkness must always flee in the presence of light. An angel sent to guide her and speaking words of encouragement to her heart as she made her way through this portion of Hell. Her time on Earth was over but her purpose had not been served yet. She still had work left to do. There was an innocent man who did not deserve to be here but was stolen before his time by the shadows. Sherry knew exactly what she was meant to do here. “Call the Shadow King.” The angel was speaking to her heart again. So, she did, and the Shadow King appeared before her. It was only the second time he had come when summoned and the first against his own will. The powers from above commanded it and he was powerless to disobey. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said. His red eyes glowed. “The Shadow King,” Sherry said. “You. You’re my enemy.” He stared at her, and they stood in silence. It felt like forever though it could have only been a moment. Time had no meaning here. Then he spoke. “What do you want?” “You cannot have who you took in my place. My family’s curse ends here.” Then she saw the light as the angel made itself visible to her. Its wings surrounded her like the shadows and the Shadow King fled at the light’s command. Helga never escaped her bonds that night. In her struggle, she fell into the grave Rick had dug for her and died there like he intended her to do. Three bodies lay lost in the woods, and it would be years before their skeletons were found. As for Billy, he woke up in his bed not knowing that he had been missing for three years. During the moment Sherry and the Shadow King stood in silence time had slipped by in the place where it had no meaning. The Shadow King knew his reign of terror on Sherry’s family was over and held onto his moment as long as he could before letting go. Billy never knew he was gone and did not remember where he had been. He was spared the torments of Hell that were never meant for him. His life had been lived valiantly and true and now he was returned to the Earth to continue his good works. Had Billy never been taken then the Shadow King wouldn’t have been stopped. But the moment he took an innocent soul a plan was put into motion. But maybe that was the plan all along.


Some people have what the kids call ‘resting bitch face’. I have the opposite. Something about my face, something I can’t put my finger on, makes people want to engage me in conversation. My mother says it’s the family curse. My grandmother says it’s a blessing and I should be grateful. Either way, even when it’s 8am and all I want in my waking coma is coffee, another hasty grab-and-goer will make a comment about the weather or the increasingly poor service of British railway lines. I nod and smile because I like to think of myself as a polite, reasonable human being. Yes, it’s raining again, yes all week, yes hope the sun comes out soon. Oh, your train was late? Mine too, it’s terrible, simply terrible, did you know in Japan they apologise if the train is so much as thirty seconds late? Why don’t we do that here, it’s just an outrage, it really is. If this city had an emotion it would be ‘simmering disappointment’. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? I could swear I saw you at Jim’s party,” says a bloke with a briefcase. The pair of us jostle for prime position, as close as possible to where the train’s carriage doors jolt to a stop. I clutch the cardboard sleeve of my coffee cup, ridges digging into my fingers. “I don’t know anyone called Jim.” I smile distantly. “Really? Oh. Well. Did you see in this morning’s paper-” I am the queen of small talk. It’s a crown I never wanted. On the plus side, I never have to check the news. There’s always someone eager to tell me what the prime minister’s gone and done now, or which celebrity recently got pregnant. I nod along to what the bloke is saying, agreeing that the country really has gone to the dog’s. It’s just easier not to argue. The train draws in with a chuffing screech. I get my elbows ready, even as I step back to let out a trickle of people with backpacks and rollalong cases. I board. There’s not so little room I’ll be left standing but there are no free double seats either. I’ll have to choose someone to sit next to. Getting the same train at the same time, I spot all the usual suspects. There’s the old lady with the grandson studying in Sweden. There’s the schoolboy who plays football and scores practically every goal, don’t you know? On the other side of the carriage is Mary. I know her name is Mary because she is unapologetic about using her speakerphone to have loud arguments with her boyfriend, rolling her eyes at me whenever he’s talking. Behind her there’s a pair of men too old to be lads but still eager to talk about laddish things like Top Gear and the FTSE 100. Today I am not in the mood for guessing if a Lincoln Continental Mark V Landau is a car or an investment fund. At the very back, I see someone new. She’s dressed for the office in a prim grey skirt and sheer black tights, but her feet are clad in chunky trainers. I spot a pair of heels jutting between the handles of her handbag. Her eyes look dreamy and far away. The moment I spot the white gleam of earbuds, my mind is made up. Earbuds buys me two minutes of quiet. Maybe even five, if I’m lucky. I hurry to claim the seat next to hers. I have my pinched smile at the ready, a weapon to deal with the awkwardness of sharing personal space with a stranger. Pretending someone isn’t there when your knees are almost touching is one of the weirdest phenomenons of public transport. She doesn’t look up. I allow myself a slow exhale. I watch the other passengers board, the way they carefully scan the seats for the most favourable option. Someone’s put their bag on the seat next to them. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about the “Is anyone sitting here?” they get for their efforts. Etiquette on trains demands irritation be disguised as perfect, placid politeness. I wait for my new neighbour to pop out her earbuds and ask what stop we’re at. She doesn’t. I wait for her to comment on the weather or the increase in train fares. She doesn’t. I actually get to drink my coffee before it gets cold. Between sips, I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. I decide it’s her eyes that make her pretty, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. I wonder if she’s going to get off first. We’ll have to perform the awkward train shuffle when I get up to let her out. I’ll accidentally stand the side closest to the doors and she’ll need to squeeze past me, making the whole thing even more excruciating. The thought’s enough to put me on edge. I sip my coffee and try to discern which carriage door makes for the most sensible exit. Thankfully, I am spared by being the first to leave. It must be the only silent train journey I’ve had in my whole life. I am so grateful I want to say thank you. The only thing holding me back is knowing how resentful I feel when people ignore the fact I’m wearing headphones. Even the biggest ear dustbins in the world do little to neutralise my curse. So I say nothing. For once I’m not exhausted before the day’s even started. It’s easier to bear the good morning chatter of my colleagues without having to sip cold coffee. I whizz through the day’s customer complaints, managing to sound sincerely contrite on the telephone. Amazing how much difference a quiet morning makes! The arrangement becomes regular. Every day she’s on the train with a free seat next to her. I don’t hesitate for a second, ignoring any attempts to make eye contact and/or conversation on my way there. For the first time, I realise peace somewhere away from home. I get to drink my coffee. I start to bring books now I have the quiet to read them in. We’ve never spoken and yet I look forward to seeing her each day and claiming a few precious minutes of silence. Well, not really silence, not with the chuff of the train and the ringing of phones, the rumble of wheeled bags and the flat automated pronouncements of “The next station is-”. But the closest I’ll get to it in the middle of the city. I wonder what my new seat buddy is like, where she’s come from, which office she’s going to. I briefly consider sweeping social media to see if I can find any trace of her. I surreptitiously scan her for details - a badge, lanyard, a branded carrier bag. It’s at the point when I’m sneaking glances at her phone to see if I can discern whether she’s an Apple or an Android girl that I realise I may be a little obsessed. Then I start to consider if there’s a reason she won’t talk to me. Is it because I’m ugly? Unfriendly? Have I offended her in some way? Maybe she overheard me saying something she didn’t like. Maybe I’m not cool enough for her to talk to, which overrides any curse I may or may not have. I decide, for the sake of my sanity, to sit somewhere else. “Hello, love. Haven’t spoken in a while.” Oh, help. I remember this lady, she’s always tanned from long holidays in the Mediterranean. I make ‘mmm’ noises. I stuff my book into my bag. “Nice to see the sunshine, in’t it? Just last year I went to Spain and-” I make the required impressed noises. I wonder what it would be like if I told her I wasn’t interested. But that just isn’t what you do, is it? Anyway, it makes her happy to talk about her holidays and I don’t have the heart to put her off. I feel my coffee growing cold. She gets off at the next stop. I hear someone else on the search for a seat and brace myself, wondering what I’ll end up hearing about next. I blink, stunned. The quiet girl takes the seat next to me. I should say something. But she doesn’t look at me. She sits and taps at her phone. She’s still wearing earbuds. Her getting up to sit here was a purposeful decision, she was already on the train. I should say something. But what? I don’t start conversations, other people start them for me. For the rest of the journey, words gum up my throat. Everything I come up with seems stupid. When we reach my stop, she gets up without me having to ask. And she *smiles*. I smile back, utterly dazzled. Then I have to run to get off the train before the doors close. I spend the rest of the day thinking of conversation starters. I scribble questions on my notepad, only half listening to angry customers. I come up with a shortlist. I cross out half of them. I list categories: weather, news, TV shows. I strategise what path to go down for each topic. I try and guess her responses. The next day, I square my shoulders. I am ready. I even rehearsed, watching my face in the mirror to check my expressions. I take my seat. As usual, she’s listening to something. Why isn’t she talking to me? I can’t take it anymore! I have to hear her voice. Just to check she isn’t some strange hallucination. If I make a complete embarrassment of myself, I can always start boarding a different carriage. Or maybe I’ll just walk. “It isn’t raining today!” I blurt out. “We might even get a glimpse of sunshine.” She blinks at me. Her eyes look darker when she’s actually focused on something. Someone. Is every word supposed to be this gut-wrenching? Is this how it feels for all the people compelled to talk to me? I used to think people *liked* to prattle on and on about nothing. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe this is just a safe way to get started, a tentative check to see if the other person wants to chat. *Please talk to me. Please.* She nods. “Only because I brought my umbrella. Forgetting it means it’s guaranteed to rain, carrying it around all day brings out the sun.” Her voice doesn’t sound like I imagined. It’s lower but sweeter, soft on vowels. She parries my lame line about the weather perfectly. I thought she might be shy, but maybe not. Already the plans I spent hours on have become useless. She takes out her earbuds, watching me curiously. “You must be cursed!” Then I laugh, high and nervous. She looks at me, opens her mouth, closes it again. Silence. Awful, awkward silence. “The train’s busy today, isn’t it?” Why did I say that? The train is busy every day and it’s certainly no busier than usual. I cringe into my coffee cup. My strange gift has left me extremely lacking in conversational skills. This may just be the most painful train ride in history. I think it even beats the time an old man insisted on telling me all the ways I reminded him of his ex “Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, looking away. “I work near Farringdon. Customer complaints.” “I’m closer to the Barbican. Office admin.” It’s clear she’s only being polite. I struggle and flail and pity the numerous individuals who have ever felt the same way. I could ask her more about her job, but her face tells me she’s not particularly interested. I take a gamble and ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer to. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” Her face comes to life. “A thriller about an alcoholic stalking her ex. Not sure if I like it.” “Oh. Why not? Is it not exciting?” “Well - “ We have a conversation about novels. A perfectly passable conversation where I sound halfway intelligent. I make her laugh. I want to do it again. I feel ridiculously light, as if I might fly away like a carrier bag on a windy day. I didn’t realise a single conversation could mean so much. I briefly worry it’s a fluke and she won’t want to sit with me again. But I’m wrong. Each morning, we smile at each other and say hello. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes I’ll open my book and she’ll put in her earbuds, both of us welcoming a quiet journey. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out one day, rain-damp hair stuck to my cheeks. My coffee cup sleeve is soggy. I check her bag for the bulge of her umbrella. It seems to be missing. “Lou,” she says. It’s about a year since we began sitting together on the train. I mention this to her and she laughs and says I have a good memory. *Lou* laughs. I can talk about her. I can think about her as something other than *the girl I sit next to on the train*. It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m looking forward to sitting down. I want to tell Lou about this one customer who insists on using a Nokia phone he bought the year of the millennium, but is outraged it ‘doesn’t do Skype’. I bounce onto the train. Look around to the two or three seats Lou favours - window, slightly to the back of the second carriage. She isn’t there. It’s fine. She’s probably on holiday or maybe she’s sick, though she didn’t mention anything about travelling to sunny climes or coming down with a cold yesterday - I sink into the nearest seat, mind racing. I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her second name. There didn’t seem much point as we saw each other every day. But what if she never comes back? “You alright?” asks the chap in the seat next to me. “You look pale. Do you want a drink of water?” “My friend isn’t here today,” I tell him. “I hope she’s alright.” His glasses have thick black frames a fraction too big to be trendy. He launches into a rant about the lack of carriages on the train and I tune him out. I’m thinking. Plotting. How do I find one woman in the near infinite depths of the city? Maybe it won’t come to that. Lou will probably be back before long. A week passes. Then two. Maybe she really is gone. Without even a goodbye. Is this related to the curse? I don’t know what else to do. I scroll through my contacts to find a number I should dial more often than I do. I dial. No answer. She’s probably left the phone in a plant pot or next to the sink. I don’t bother with voicemail. I dial again. “Hello?” a deceptively feeble voice says. “Hello Grandma. How are you?” “Why are you calling me? You *never* call me. Your mother says you don’t have time for idle conversation. Are you still living in that horrible mousehole?” “Yes but - “ “You need to get onto the landlord, you must be so embarrassed whenever you have people around.” “Grandma, I need to ask you about-” I lower my voice so I sound less crazy to my fellow passengers. “The curse.” Silence. Has she dropped the phone? Accidentally hung up while trying to work the volume? “It’s not a curse!” she suddenly squawks. “That mother, putting ideas in your head -” “OK, fine! The blessing then. I met someone it didn’t work on. She didn’t talk to me. And I think *she* might be cursed - or blessed - as well. It always rains when she forgets her umbrella.” “Ridiculous. Witches these days have absolutely no imagination. When I was young, they had fire in their bellies. Old Tommy, he said - ” I have to interrupt her or I’ll be here all day. One mention of Old Tommy and it’s all over. “Grandma, do you know how to break the, um, blessing?” “Why would you want to? Before I met that nice witch I spent all my time chatting with people because otherwise we’d all sit in silence!” I imagine my grandmother yapping the ears off anyone who would listen with her never ending stream of dramas, just like she does now. The young witch must have thought she was being oh so clever with her curse, not realising my grandmother would revel in it. In stories, curses can be broken if the person mends their ways. My grandmother was eighty-nine. I didn’t have a hope of her changing. But maybe that was fine. If she didn’t want to tell me all about her neighbours Messy Margerie and Sly Simon I would only worry something had gone terribly wrong. I listen for as long as I can before lapsing into friendless despair softened only by copious amounts of ice cream. The next day, I decide I’ve had enough of despair. I don’t have to be friendless, not when people come to me so effortlessly. Lou might be gone but I can make another friend. Maybe. I try hard for the rest of that week and the next. I ask earnest questions about paella from the Mediterannean and relate anecdotes about my mother’s holiday infatuation with a waiter named Luca. I learn I really should consider investing in a stocks and shares saving account if I ever want to buy a property. I urge Mary to break up with her disappointing boyfriend because she deserves better than someone who can’t properly pair up socks. I feel better. I feel connected. I feel like people’s smiles are more genuine and maybe my grandmother is right, my ability isn’t so bad after all. Although. I can’t quite quell my longing for quiet. Even one morning a week drinking coffee and sharing a pair of earphones with Lou would be enough. My head spins with new names - I wish I’d found out hers. I wish I’d followed her on Twitter or asked for her Instagram or if I were really bold maybe even her phone number. So many ways to connect and I couldn’t use a single one of them. I try typing her name into Google and Facebook but do you know how many Lous there are in one city? Too many for one tiny screen to handle. You can probably scroll to infinity. Even then I’d have to hope for an up-to-date picture without a hat or sunglasses on. I board the train. I decide to sit next to Mary and see how her boyfriend hunt is going. But just as I am about to head over, I catch a flash of a familiar face. “Hi!” says Lou. I stare at her, wondering if she’s real. Someone behind me sighs loudly when the train doors bleep a warning. I am hustled onto the train by the impatient throng behind me, to the empty seat next to Lou. My heart thunders in my mouth. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m pleased to see her and desperate to know where she’s been and on top of all that I feel a tiny bit betrayed. “It’s nice to see you,” says Lou. “I missed the smell of your coffee in the morning. Always wakes me right up.” “...Are you back now?” “Not really. There was a flood in the office and I got relocated. Maybe permanently.” “Oh. So I probably won’t see you around as much then,” I mumble. “That’s kind of why I’m here.” And then she gave me the most adorable look, simultaneously beguiling, sheepish and shy. “I really miss you.” “I missed you too. I wish I’d asked for more than your name.” “Are you asking now?” she laughs. And I did. And then question after question after question. We miss Lou’s stop. Then we miss mine. We ride the train all the way to the end of the line and by the end I glow, warm and happy and sated by a conversation I want to have with all my heart. After that, a strange thing happens. People stop cornering me everywhere I go. I am no longer burdened by the chatter of strangers. I get the odd person every now and again, but they no longer seem *compelled* to talk to me. Questioning my grandmother gets me nowhere but I have a sneaking suspicion I know what broke the curse - a genuine interest in my conversational partners, a return of their efforts to connect. The only downside - I have to start buying newspapers! And I carry an umbrella everywhere, because if Lou forgets then it rains.


\Content Warning Small detail mentions of child abuse, selling people, sex slaves and illegal actions against the human body.  \  In my line of work there is little room for moral rightness. I follow the money and that is all I care for. Objects of unspeakable origins have graced my possession only to be handed off to the highest bidder. The odors of dens and whore houses I have crawled into in order to practice my trade do not linger on my clothes for very long. The trauma of my wares does not bother me in the slightest. It is not honest work and that does not bother me either. I have had many clients in the past and have never failed a delivery. Credits are traded in hushed whispers, as if the patron is shy. The things they buy would lead one to a different impression but that is not something that worries me. Everyone's money is good money. One case I am working on involves something called a “Caged Flytrap”. I had never heard of such a thing. The info brokers I have on retainer could only point me to an auction house that specializes in human goods. I am not new to this type of trade, I have obtained fresh thigh meat and full living people. I have some reservations about children, but there is little I won’t deal in. Everyone is dealt a bad hand from time to time, who am I to waste opportunities like those? There is a knock on my door. I answered it to find my hired driver waiting to take me to the Auction House. I gather my files and head out. On the ride there, I look over the little info I have. A caged flytrap is only referenced once in physical documentation. It indeed involves a living human, but aside from that there are no discernible details regarding what exactly they entail. I arrive at an alley where my driver opens the door and bids me a good time, he’s funny like that. Walking down the length of the alley, the brick walls are lined with chipping white paint that once advertised a cattle exchange yard. Just past a green dumpster sat a large iron door that seemed too well maintained for the area. Such subtleties are lost on the overprotective types. I knock on the door three times followed by a sharp cough. A thin sliding view hole squeaks open, revealing a set of beady blue eyes. “What” an echoed voice calls from behind. “It’s a lovely day for rain, don’t you think?” I responded. The door opens with a hush of air, leading to a small landing that descends into a dimly lit marble staircase. The heels of my shoes click calmly down the smooth surface of the stairs, lending to the vast emptiness of the stairwell. At the bottom, there is a small wooden door. I open the door to lead myself into an amber lit, red velvet lined room. There are already a few bidders waiting in large leather chairs facing a grand stage gilded with angelic motifs not dissimilar to an opera house. A thick black curtain is drawn over the stage. Each fold is exaggerated by bright stage lights burning their circles of yellow and blue into the void-like surface of the material. A wooden podium is silhouetted by the soft shadows cast from the ambient light. I find myself an open chair in the back row and await for the main event to start. Cocktail waitresses and waiters walk along the aisles offering sinful concoctions in scantily clad lingerie. Well mannered and polite, they show little interest in the individual person they are serving, as it should be. Such places are known for not prying too much into the personal affairs of their patrons aside from their bank accounts. I take a small glass offered to me containing an unknown but very well crafted drink and listen to the conversations around me. There is a hum around the room discussing interest in the various goods up for sale. A tall man in a fair suit exclaims his excitement for the upcoming offering of a young boy. Another woman details the last time she was here and bid on a few pounds of rump she served at a dinner party unbeknownst to her party guests. A shrill bell chimed and it was time to start the first auction. Patrons found their way to seats and awaited for the first offering. A dark eyed woman in a tasteful dress walked onto the stage welcoming everyone to tonight's event. She spoke with well chosen words and did not waste time with unnecessary pleasantries. She stood behind the podium as the black curtain opened. Placed on a black pedestal stood a mummified hand encased in glass. The auctioneer explained the piece to be the mummified remains of a well known pharaoh recently unearthed. Looking into the audience she started the bid at 2.5 million dollars. Several numbered paper cards shot up exclaiming offers. The hand sold for 6.2 million dollars. The auctioneer congratulated the woman who won the bid as the crowd clapped. Mummified remains in this market are usually ground into paint pigment and used in over the top portraits for the sole purpose to brag that it contains authentic mummy brown. Many other items were auctioned and sold including human meat, a taxidermized conjoined fetus, several sex slaves of various ages and other objects of immoral value. As the auction was winding down and the black curtains found their way back to a closed position, I got the feeling that I had come to the wrong place. I have not heard a single mention of a caged flytrap or anything related to them. As I stand up, the auctioneer announces that there was one final object up for bidding. The curtains open back up and reveal a figure covered in a white sheet. Before I could sit back down, the auctioneer pulled the sheet back. What I was seeing was not like anything I had ever seen before. My mind could not comprehend what was on that stage. The auctioneer backed up to her podium and my eyes finally adjusted to the monstrosity before me. The figure for sale resembled a young woman. She wore a tattered white garb stained with dried blood and what looked like soot. Her hands were held stiffly at shoulder height by a rough plank of wood like a pillory. Around her neck and head was a large iron cage adorned with copper snakes and butterflies. She stood motionless, gasping behind the device she was woven into. The auctioneer stated that this was a caged flytrap and bids start at 145.5 million dollars. My card shot up without thought. My client placed no limitations on this object, money was no object. “150 million” I shouted a little too loudly. The crowd looked back at me with murmured whispers. It seems they had no idea what this Caged Flytrap was. I guess we are all in the same boat. No other offers were given and I won the bid. The curtains closed over the monster and the auctioneer congratulated me on winning the bid. I walked over to the ticket kiosk to fill out the paperwork and turn in the paper card I was using. Money is never exchanged in hand at these places. Far too much to deal with in person. Bookies and brokers will deal with the cash later. I beckoned my driver to pull around to the loading bay. As I waited, two burly men walked over to me with the Flytrap covered in the same cloth as on stage. They informed me not to remove the cloth until she was delivered. They placed a heavy importance on that request. I took hold of the Flytrap’s arm from under the cover and guided her over to the car. Her skin was much warmer than I had anticipated. This was a living human after all, why had her warmth shocked me so much? I sat in the back with the product and rode in silence to my clients rendezvous point. We arrived first. It was a peaceful, railed cliff overlooking a lake. The moon hung so plumply in the sky, it seemed to drip into the water with every gentle wave. I saw headlights cast a shadow over the inside of the car and I stepped out, placing a mask over my face. Although I am entwined in the underground lives of my clients, I must keep some modesty. “Oh good God, you actually found one.” My client exclaimed. “Please, remove the cloth. I must see it.” I informed him of the strict instructions not to remove the cover until it was secured at a residence. My client agreed and admitted to being a little excited over the whole ordeal. My client's men placed the Flytrap gently in the back of their vehicle. Both me and him were looking past the horizon as the situation was being secured. “Do you know much about them? The Caged Flytraps?” My client asked. “No, sir. there isn’t much information on them in our files. I had almost thought it was a myth.” I responded. He looked over to the car with his newly acquired thing then looked back at me. “They are orphans who are taken at birth. Stripped of all humanity, dignity, touch, interaction and any other comforts you can think of.” He said. “They are abused and neglected until the point of death. This process makes it impossible for them to form personalities. They are essentially mindless shells.” I held back a gulp. Even in my field of work, this was a little too much for my stomach. “They usually die-” He continued. “The process is so hard on the body. How do you remove a soul without killing the flesh? That’s what makes them so rare. Well, someone figured it out a long time ago. The Caged Flytraps are feral but very obedient. They do whatever you ask them to. Do you know why they gave them the name Caged Flytraps?” “I couldn’t begin to wonder, sir.” “If given, they will eat humans alive. Like an animal.” He said flatly. We stood there for a while longer. He turned to his car and got in. As they backed out to drive away, he rolled down his window. “Your payment will be much higher for finding this one, olé boy. My thanks.” He said before they sped off. I waited a moment after I couldn't hear the car anymore. I retched over the railing and vomited through my mask. My driver came over with a handkerchief to help clean me up. He helped me up and to the car. I sank back into the seat and closed my eyes. “Are you okay, sir?” My driver asked me. “Yes, I’m fine.” I responded. “Just a little sea sick from watching the water.


She lay there in front of him, shock evidently seen in her eyes. Life had left her body, but the shock and dread did not leave her eyes. He had always heard there was peace in the eyes of people who leave us, but this was not peace! She was there in a pool of blood with *Maa Kali*’s photo in one hand and it felt like someone had offered a sacrifice to the goddess and bathed her in the blood of his wife. A cross had been nailed in her other palm, an offering to *Jesus* as well. A final nail in the coffin? A void filled his eyes. A void like never before. He could not see anything; his bloodshot eyes were wide open but nothing was visible anymore. Slowly the voices around started to sound like noise and then it faded away. This could not be the same woman he had seen that morning before leaving to work. His heart was about to give up on him and suddenly, he felt a blow at the side of his head as fell down next to her and fainted. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- The sun had just begun to retire for the day, shining its last bit of glory for those eyes of mankind who would witness the beauty of it. Shresht sat by the shore and looked at the sky as it changed its colours. It was golden yellow at first, which slowly turned into crimson red and finally hues of green entered the picturesque display. It was magnificent in every possible way. As time passed, the beautiful full moon was out. Its light made the waves look like series of diamonds, rising up and descending with the waves only to finally kiss his feet softly. “*Devi maa* and her beautiful creations”, he thought as he got up to return home and that is when he first saw her. Short hair that shuffled swiftly with the cool night breeze, wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt and a blue denim. With flip-flops in her hands, she was walking along the shore, smiling and looking at one of nature’s most inconceivable beauties. It was almost love at first sight for him. Almost! It was when she got a little closer that he had observed the cross pendent in her neck. He smirked, touched the *rudraksh* around his neck and walked away from the scene. But even as he walked away, he could not forget her perfectly peaceful face and the radiant smile. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- “Shresht! Shresht! Wake up! You cannot fall weak now. Raunak will need you. Pull yourself together”. It was his friend Nakul. Shivering and still dizzy he manged to slowly sit up a little and found a wall to support himself. He felt weak in his legs with absolutely no strength to move anymore or look anywhere else. Him fainting and falling on the floor next to her had smeared a share of her blood on his face and hair. The blood, mixed with his sweat, was now dripping drop by drop from his chin. It was as though it was her holding on to him for a little bit longer not ready to let go so soon, not sure whether to drip and fall on the floor or to push ahead this journey just a little longer. Raunak! Their 5-year-old son was still at school. He mustered as much strength as possible and asked Nakul to pick up Raunak and take him to a hotel and stay with him in a room. He would contact Nakul and let him know where to get Raunak. He knew he could not sit there forever. She had left him and he would have to make arrangements for her final rites. Looking at her body again made him nauseous. The peaceful and radiant face he had seen for the first time was nowhere now to be seen. He felt a throbbing pain in his head and a hollow cavity in his chest. It was too much to take in and Shresht broke down and started to cry loudly, screaming at intervals until his throat dried up and just a screeching voice was left. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - “Hey there! Someone loves watching the sunset a lot”, Shresht looked up to see whose voice it was. There she was, the beautiful angel like face. Shresht’s voice gave up on him at the wrong time. His mind went blank, but squeaked out ‘Say something you idiot!’. At last he just smiled and looked away, not wanting to stare anymore. She sat down next to him and the wind playing its devious role carried her lavender like fragrance straight to him. He pulled down the sleeves of his pullover to make sure his Goosebumps were not seen. “Anika Sebastian”, she introduced herself. “Hi. Shresht Kashyap” “Ah, Kashyap huh” “Ah, Sebastian huh” Both smiled and continued to look at the beautiful sunset. There was something serene about the moment. It felt like everything had paused for the time being. The vendors selling various snacks and toys could not be heard anymore, the noise from vehicles nearby fainted away, people and their cheerful laughter muted, and his gaze was fixed at the sunset. There were just the waves, the sunset, her fragrance and also the desire to turn around and look at her once. Life was going on, but their moment had paused. The colours of the sky were seen to be more elegant than ever. The gods seemed to be extremely happy and all their cupids were released to make hearts meet. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - “We need to take revenge! They have killed our people. Let’s wait till Sunday and during the mass we will burn down their churches”, people were speaking. Shresht looked around and there were just people he did not recognize. But, revenge? Whom will he kill? His own family? Make others go through what he is going through? All for what? A set of Gods he can’t even see! God was the reason that people used, to do this to his Anika. It felt all meaningless. Why were they all here? Shresht looked at Anika again, slowly pushed himself towards her and pulled her up and hugged her. It did not matter that she was in a pool of blood, it did not matter that there were people around. He just closed his eyes and embraced her. The moment paused again. The voices and screams of people muted and everything faded. He could just feel her body, it was cold, warm blood dripping around. “All of you get out of here!! Out now!!!”, he shouted. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Their love had bloomed for over a year, life had now become quite dependent on each other. Going against everyone and their wishes they first said “I Do” to each other and then in a small temple event with *mantras* echoing everywhere, Shresht tied the knot. It was happiness everywhere. Irrespective of the weather, be it hot sunny days or gloomy rainy days, both of them knew how to make each other smile and love. Love like they never did before. They were warned of the consequences every now and then, from both sides of family. However, it did not bother them. They had created a small beautiful world for themselves. Celebrating life and festivals from both religions. They attended the Friday *Devi pooja* and also attended the Sunday mass together. People would gaze at them like a hunter at his prey. But all this never daunted them or their love. Soon Raunak was born and they instilled the same values in him. Love and respect are all the 3 of them knew. Every evening, the 3 of them would sit by the shore, watch the sunset, laugh, embrace each other’s warmth and retire for the day with the Sun. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - With the few friends they had, he completed her final rites. In ways followed by both the cultures. He had looked at her face for as long as he could, held her hands in the hope that she would wake up again with the angelic smile and kiss him, may be if he had delayed enough he could hear her voice just once more, sit down by the shore one last time. He had left a bouquet of lavenders at her grave and kissed the grave. As the bus moved away from his village his feeling of emptiness just continued until finally Raunak held his hand and looked up at him with teary eyes. Shresht hugged him and kissed his head. There it was, the same warmth and the beautiful lavender fragrance. “*Baba*, where is *ma*?” “In a better place dear. Where there is no God or religion and where happiness prevails. One day you will grow up to understand why you are not associated with any religion”.