The devil has a girlfriend. A human. Every night when he comes home, she’s there waiting. And every night when he comes home the devil’s anxiety starts to act up. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the neighbors. They’ve been asking a lot of questions here lately. That must be it. His hands shake as he turns the key in the lock. His heart pounds and his vision blurs. He takes a deep breath. His nose twitches as he opens the door. God, she smells good. “Babe.” “Babe.” He walks past her into the bedroom to take his coat and shoes off. “How was work?” “Not much to tell. Demon got a wing clipped today.” “Just the one?” “No, I mean on accident. In the revolving door.” “Oh.” They make spaghetti for dinner. Or rather, the devil makes it while his girlfriend sits at the table and asks him questions. “How’s your new secretary doing? She’s awful pretty, isn’t she?” “Is the wisteria tree I gave you still alive? I bet it’s not.” “Did you stop by to pay the rent this morning, pet?” With every question the devil hears the voice in his head whispering and muttering. *Don’t let it happen tonight.* He struggles to keep up with her, as usual. “She’s doing great. I suppose. It’s thriving, actually; it’s in bloom. I got it paid on my way home.” That last one was what got him. It happened as he was putting her plate down in front of her. “On your way home?” “Yes.” *No. No. No.* The devil secretly loves cooking for people. He can’t admit it. He has an image to keep up, after all. For guests he sets the table with subtle flourishes and grace. But he flinches and swallows as he puts his girlfriend’s plate down. His ears lay back along his head. “You were supposed to pay it this morning, Satan. You know the office closes at six. You cut it way too close *again.*” “I know-I’m sorry, babe-” “Don’t ‘I’m sorry, babe’ me!” “Honey, please-” “Please *what?* You’ve done this the last three times I’ve asked you to pay something. This is unacceptable behavior!” Her chest heaves as she seems to struggle for breath. “What do you have to say for yourself?” “I...I...it wasn’t a big deal, the office was open for thirty minutes after I got off work, honey, and-and it’s not a big deal if I pay it a day late-” “Not a big *deal?* It’s a big deal to me, you absolute jackass!” He feels himself recoil and has to stop. *Keep your teeth in your mouth, for fuck’s sake.* The pop on his snout stings, but the next words sting worse. “You’re a bad dog.” She storms into the bedroom and slams the door. The devil sits down at the table. His spaghetti gets cold as he stares at it, whimpers trying to force themselves out of his throat. He swallows them down. He’s a man; a wolf; the devil himself. He can’t be crying. Ridiculous. But when she calls him a bad dog, he has to admit it hurts. And the worst part is, he almost bit her this time when she hit him. How could he stoop so low? *She wouldn’t be hurting me unless I did something wrong. She’s such a sweet person. I have to be better. I can’t turn abusive.


The air creaked and reeked of sweat and death. Fifteen of them where chained up against the inside wall of the barge, hands and feet bound, with collars holding their necks for good measure. Four of them were already dead, a few more not far behind. The strongest kept their silence and looked straight ahead, trying not to breathe too deeply. Jimenez was the third man along from the only door to the stinking, foetid room they were being kept in. Had he been able to move his arms, he could have touched the opposite wall with only a mild stretch. He *was* able to move his feet slightly, back and forth. It helped keep the pain alive, reminded him that his feet were still there. They’d chopped one of the men off at the knees a few days ago for crying; he was quiet soon after, bled out on the floor. His rotting feet, along with this blood and shit and tears were part of the mixed stench permeating the room. The barge hadn’t stopped for the sixteen, maybe seventeen days they’d been aboard. There were no windows, but a light permanently filtered through cracks in the door frame. It didn’t grow stronger or fade, so it wasn’t the sun. Jimenez had tried to keep track of time by listening for changes of the watch on deck. Sometimes it was muffled, weather depending. Sometimes he had heard it clear. Other times, he was sure he’d missed it, asleep or unconscious. He couldn’t remember why he’d what he’d did. He wasn’t sure if he was a murderer or not. Might have been self-defence. Might have been straight up evil. He didn't know anymore. He only knew he had to be quiet and keep looking straight ahead. Thirty days in the dark without a word, and he’d be free. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen. Footsteps, something thumping along the corridor and then keys jangled outside the door. Time for water, and torture. The guards weren’t allowed to touch the prisoners as long as the prisoners kept silent, but there was nothing in the law to say the guards had to be silent themselves. “YOU FUCKING SCUM! WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU SCUM!” The screams of the Water Carrier were accompanied by his fist, banging on the outside of the door frame. The creaking of the barge was drowned out briefly, but the smell remained. Keys jangled again, then dull light invaded the room, quickly followed by more enthusiastic screaming. “You murderous fuckpigs! You evil wastes of skin! You wake up! You wake up! You wake up and you talk to me! You tell me your names and apologise for your fucking crimes and I will give you water! Water is freedom! Water is life! Silence is death for you bastards, so you tell me your fucking names!” The Water Carrier slithered into the room, doing his honest best not to touch any of the prisoners. He held the end of a hose in one calloused hand, the coils of it in his other. His lackey remained in the corridor, poised over the water barrel the hose was connected to, ready to pump. Jimenez opened his mouth, stayed silent. The Water Carrier was wrong; silence was life. He came into the room twice a day with the hose and the water. The prisoners were allowed to drink their fill each time, although they had had no food since the night before they were chained to the wall, one after the other. They would have no food unless they disembarked alive at the end of the journey. Thirteen, maybe fourteen days. The Water Carrier walked to the end of thin room, loosing the hose as he went and carrying on his demands to be spoken to. The last man in the row, the first to walk in, was still alive. He had his head up, mouth open, eyes shut. The Water Carrier raised the hose, nodded to his lackey, and water flowed into the prisoner’s mouth. The man swallowed, spat some up, while the Water Carrier continued to speak to him, softly. The prisoner moved his head around as best he could to wash some of the accumulated sweat and blood and grime off. Kept his eyes closed, then, when he had had enough, closed his mouth. The Water Carrier lowered the hose and turned back the way he came. Smiled. “Come on you fucking bastards! Speak! Speak! Hold your piece and I will hold the water! You will get nothing from me! SCUM!” The last word was spat into the face of the first dead man, number two in the row. The ship had barely made it out of port before he’d broken, yelled “I want out, this was a mistake, I want out!” It was always rumoured that the guards laid money down to be the First Executioner. That each one chose a prisoner, threw some gold into a pot, and whichever one picked the first prisoner to break pocketed the lot. Oh, and had the right to execute that prisoner in whichever way they saw fit. Whichever way it worked, a long dark streak of piss in a guard uniform had ghosted into the room and used a spoon to pry out the yelling prisoner’s eyes. He’d poured something, not much of something, but *something*, into the open sockets and set a light to them, a fucking stupid thing to do on a boat, river barge or not - it was a deep river and an old boat. Whatever the guard had used, the prisoner’s head lit up. His throat broke on the first scream, and his rasping cries continued for another few minutes, until the guard decided he’d had enough fun and ended it with a knife across the throat. The other fourteen of them had looked ahead, or kept their eyes shut. They didn’t say a word. A few of them pissed themselves from fear. Jimenez shat his last meal down his legs and onto the floor, clamped his teeth down on his lips and a whimper. Short, sharp breaths erupted from the remaining men as they struggled to control themselves. Breathing was fine, no matter how loudly; but they were prisoners and had no voice, symbolically. If they challenged that symbolism, spoke or gasped or cried out or mumbled or sang or made any noise from their throat, then they died. And justice prevailed. The Water Carrier reached the body of a man he’d been able to kill himself. Two days into the voyage, the prisoner had calmly said, as the Water Carrier raised the hose to his mouth, “My name is Alberto and I killed my three sons and their mother and I think I should die now.” The Water Carrier had dropped the hose, taken a leather glove studded with metal spikes and hooks from his robes, put it on, and then he had punched Alberto’s head against the wall of the barge until it broke, and then just punched harder. When the hose had come to Jimenez it still tasted of blood from Alberto. He’d drank his fill, and felt better for it. The Water Carrier looked almost fondly at Alberto’s corpse, a smile on his face like a child gazing in awe at a particularly impressive shit. “This man! This man is free! This man told me his name, and now he is free! You, bastards! You bastards are not free and if you do not tell me your name, I will not give you water! Speak your crimes to me! The hose came up, and water spilled down the face of the man to Jimenez’ left. Jimenez held his pose, mouth open, eyes watching the wall ahead. He could see the lackey, from the corner of his eye, pumping up and down at the barrel. Despite the Water Carrier’s words, they were duty and oath bound to ensure the prisoners were watered. Jimenez felt water on his face, in his mouth. He gulped some of it down, tried to spray some out and up, over his cheeks and chin, shaking his head and trying to spit some down his chest towards his aching feet. The Water Carrier leaned in close, never touching, but still speaking. “You evil fucking pig, I know what you did, I know what you *all* did and you’re all going to burn, you’re all going to burn slowly. There’s no freedom for you. Keep your fucking silence, the first thing I’ll do when you get off this boat is tie you to a fucking tree and ram a fire-heated sword blade into your fucking arsehole. Think that’ll hurt? Huh, think that’ll hurt? Best bit is, if I keep the sword there, the heat will cauterise your wound, you won’t bleed out for days. For fucking *days*. You keep your silence. They’ll be warming the coals now, you evil scum fuck.” Jimenez closed his mouth. The Water Carrier moved on. Jimenez leant his head back on the wall, licked his lips. He looked straight ahead, at the wall opposite. A man’s image hung there. The man he had killed. He looked the same as he had when Jimenez had last saw him: eyes bruised, jaw broken. A knife in his stomach. His eyes were open, hard and cold, staring at Jimenez, full of hate and anger. Jimenez knew that only he could see the dead man, just like he knew that the other men were seeing different images, of the people they’d killed. Some would be seeing their families, like Alberto had. Some would be seeing strangers, like he was. This was their punishment, their justice, their guilt trip. Thirty days in the dark to look at the people they’d murdered. To look them in the eyes and see what they’d done. To reflect, to repent. Or to break. The survivors, the hardest of them, would be freed at the end of the journey. They’d be fed and allowed to rest and then there’d be a place for them in the King’s Guard. Maybe they’d be above decks, one day, as another batch of murderers came down the river for a quiet sail. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen.


Pandi struggled to fall asleep. The mosquito net his parents had given him when they packed him off to the monastery was riddled with holes. A mosquito landed on his arm; he lifted the net and shooed the insect away. After surviving a month in the monastery, he felt other things calling him. It was time to leave. Pandi left his quarters quietly and walked down the trail to where he had hidden his lay clothes. After changing out of his saffron kasaya robes into jeans and a t-shirt, he began winding his way down the mountain trail. It was a long walk to Kathmandu, and difficult to navigate in the dim light of dawn, but at least it was all downhill. Several times along the way, stones came tumbling down the scree slopes behind him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet there were no signs of goats or people. As Pandi descended, he thought about a talk that abbot Batsa had given the young monks about straying from the monastery. ‘The city is full of temptations. Temptations fuel desire. Desire is the cause of suffering. It is a counterproductive place to be for one who wishes to follow the eightfold path. If you are in any doubt, ask yourself--do you want to be free of Samsara, or not?’ Life is imperfect and involves suffering , Pandi thought to himself. If my journey through Samsara takes longer, I do not mind. I need to see what I am missing. After journeying down the mountainside for several hours, Pandi arrived in Kathmandu by mid afternoon; feet coated in fine brown dust. He began searching for work right away, hoping for a job with food and board like the monastery had provided. He was a cook at the monastery, but none of the city's eateries had an appropriate vacancy. Pandi was drawn to Kathmandu by the experiences that were available to him now that he was of age; cigarettes, strip clubs, and drinking. He longed to be around lively and interesting people that were the polar opposite of the humdrum hill-folk he grew up around. When he came across a neon sign in a quiet back street, he felt excited at its prospects. The sign read: ‘Lord of the Drinks--The 52nd best nightclub in the world’. Pandi found the entrance to the club and stood outside, psyching himself up by puffing out his cheeks and slapping the air out of them. He pushed his weight against the door, but it held fast. The club would not be open for another few hours. He was about to leave when a voice from a window on the first floor shouted down. ‘Are you the drinks man?’ Pandi hesitated. ‘Umm, yes.’ He had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life. ‘Just a second. I’ll be right down.’ When the club owner opened the door, she appeared terribly beautiful to Pandi. He hadn’t so much as laid eyes on a woman during his month as a monk and women in the city were very sophisticated . ‘Where’s your truck?’ She asked. ‘Um, I don’t have one.’ She sighed and flicked her long black hair back. ‘So you’re not a delivery driver. Why are you impersonating one then?’ ‘Do you have any jobs available?’ Pandi asked. The club owner looked Pandi up and down. She seemed impressed by his sturdy stature. ‘One of our bouncers left last week. Are you any good with security?’ ‘I’ve guarded a monastery,’ Pandi said confidently. ‘Well, you’re a good size. Maybe a bit young, but you look strong. Come in and I’ll show you around.’ The 52nd best nightclub in the world was bigger than the monastery's temple. Pandi marvelled at the domed ceiling, criss-crossed with disco lights. Onstage there was a DJ booth and a smoke machine with built in lasers. As Pandi followed the owner to the bar, his sandals got stuck to the sticky floor. He shuddered at what Batsa would say if the monastery floors were allowed to get as filthy as these were. The owner cracked open a cold bottle of beer and handed it to Pandi. ‘I’m Bhavi, by the way.’ He took a big gulp; it almost fizzed out of his nose. ‘Pandi.’ He said, coughing up froth into his mouth. Bhavi smirked. ‘We need security in the basement club. Come on.’ She beckoned Pandi and led him down a staircase to a club named Medusa. It was far more chic than the boilerplate nightclub upstairs. Curved booths encircled several pole-dancing podiums, and the lack of sticky laminate flooring was pleasing; the deep pile carpeting could have been considered a trip hazard. Bhavi, with her slender fingers, drew Pandi’s attention to a gold plaque on the wall. ‘Before I consider you for the role, you must read and understand the club rules.’ Pandi craned his head forwards and read aloud. ‘Please refrain from making eye contact with the dancers. Anyone found to be doing so will be ejected from the premises.’ This was familiar etiquette to Pandi; monasterial rules stated that there was to be no eye contact before noon. ‘That’s something I know how to uphold,’ he said. Bhavi looked pleased. ‘It’s been our ethos for years, and the girls prefer it this way. It works best for the customers, too; it adds a layer of novelty and mystique.' Bhavi placed her palms flat on Pandi’s chest, as if reading him. Having never had a job interview before, he wondered if this was standard practice. Bhavi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I think you’ll fit right in, Pandi. Can you start tonight?’ Entranced by Bhavi, he said, ‘yes.’ *** With an advance from Club Medusa, Pandi purchased a crisp new suit. When he arrived ready to bounce, the edges of the podiums glowed neon pink, and the freshly cleaned poles sparkled. For Pandi, the anticipation of seeing a naked woman for the first time made him sick with excitement. When he was introduced to the dancers, they adored his kind and chubby face. Lola ran her fingers over the stubble on his head. ‘Don’t worry, you’re a bouncer. You can make eye contact with us,’ she said, ‘it’s essential for things to run smoothly. You’ll enjoy it here. Men always do.’ Pandi was in paradise; happily watching the girls get ready in their dressing room. If there were women in the monastery wearing these kinds of outfits, no chores would ever get done , he thought. Lola explained to Pandi how she would alert him of any rule breakers with a signal. ‘If I want rid of someone, I’ll point to my eyes, then to the man, okay?’ Pandi was well aware that he had been treated like a king after coming in off the street. But once the doors of the club opened and a group of brash, half-cut men arrived, it changed the easy-going feel of the place. As Lola walked to the podium, her face hardened like a fossil. Her happy-go-lucky energy subsided when she began writhing urgently. Pandi thought that years of crude remarks must have taken their toll on her and he felt guilty for enabling the interaction. But he didn’t need to feel sorry for her; she knew what she was doing. She had donned her armour and was conducting a business transaction; even though the men were becoming increasingly unpleasant, Lola performed perfunctorily. Pandi’s excitement about seeing his first pair of breasts in an erotic context had reached geriatric flaccidity. He’d become a cog in a machine that benefited no one. It dawned on him that the strippers, the patrons, and anyone who had ever dreamed of visiting a club like this--including himself--were all disgraceful. He began to feel ashamed that he had acted on his wanton impulse to visit the city. What would Batsa say if he knew he was here? At midnight, the obnoxious group of men were still going strong. To Pandi’s surprise, they hadn’t broken any rules and had avoided making eye contact with the dancers. When each of the girls had done a stint on the podium, Lola returned with her desperate gyrations. Pandi was trying to avoid looking at her body by gazing into the middle distance. She began pointing her chin in his direction and giving him the signal. As he walked cooly over to the table of steaming drunk men, Lola repeated the signal, pointing at the man with the shaved head. Pandi put his hand on the back of the man’s shoulder. ‘Sir. Come with me,’ he said firmly. The man refused to budge. ‘Oh please . Come on. Who can resist those eyes?’ ‘It's time to leave,’ Pandi asserted. The rest of the men were in hysterics. ‘There’s plenty else to look at, Batsa,’ one of them said. ‘Why bother with the eyes?’ The ocular transgressor stood up, pressed his palms together and bowed at Lola. ‘You have a beautiful soul. I saw it through your windows.’ Lola frowned as she slid down the pole, upside down; she was unable to hear the man’s compliments over the loud music. It wasn’t until Pandi had herded the man upstairs to the quiet of the cloakroom that he realised exactly who he was. By the green glow of the fire escape light, Batsa smiled shyly. ‘Batsa?’ Pandi asked. A four-to-the-floor disco beat bled through the wall from the club next door. Batsa lowered his head and placed his palms together in greeting to Pandi. ‘Evidently, my talk didn’t dissuade you from leaving,’ he said. ‘Now we have both strayed.’ ‘My mentor,’ Pandi said, pushing the fire exit open, ‘you have to leave.’ ‘Wait; my bag.’ Batsa took his canvas bag from the cloakroom and followed Pandi out of the air-conditioned club into the alley; the night was hot. ‘Tell me, what benefits has your excursion provided you?’ Batsa asked. ‘None, that I can think of,’ Pandi said. ‘It wasn’t what I thought it would be. These false fixes don’t bring me happiness. I don’t think I would have been satisfied with any amount of pleasure.’ ‘Very wise,' Batsa said. 'Please, do not tell anyone at the monastery of my behaviour. I would be embarrassed.’ ‘I understand,’ Pandi said. In the darkness above the city skyline, Pandi tried to pick out the mountains and the monastery, but the light pollution was too strong. ‘I think I’ve seen all I need to see. Shall we get out of here?’ ‘Yes, let’s get a taxi,’ Batsa said, as they began walking down the street. ‘If we hold each other accountable, we’ll never return to places like these.’ ‘Ah! My suit,’ Pandi said, grabbing his lapels. ‘I have to return it.’ He thought of the jeans and t-shirt he had left in the dressing room among the stripper’s g-strings and stockings, but didn’t want to face going back. He wasn’t supposed to have kept his lay clothes when he joined the monastery and didn't want Batsa to see them. As if reading Pandi’s mind, Batsa unzipped his bag and handed him a set of kasaya robes. Pandi noticed that they didn’t smell any different than his own robes; in fact, they fit so perfectly that he was convinced they were his own. As he brushed a dusty mud patch off the robes, he had the notion that Batsa was the invisible goat that had followed him down the mountain. Batsa took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up. ‘Care for a smoke?’ He asked, as if tempting Pandi with one final test. ‘No,’ Pandi said. ‘I’ve gone off the idea. They smell awful . Can you put that out, please?’ The corners of Batsa’s eyes creased when he smiled. ‘Of course. They taste horrible. Come on, let's walk to the taxi rank.’ *** Pandi wisely decided to keep his dalliance with Club Medusa secret from his parents. He and Batsa entered a pact of secrecy. When they disembarked outside the monastery by the faint light of dawn, Pandi left Batsa and went to look for the kasaya robes he had hidden a day earlier. The robes were nowhere to be seen; Batsa must have collected them in his bag and followed Pandi. At sunrise, Pandi joined the fresh-faced monks in the temple as Batsa took to the altar and began incanting. Pandi tried to atone for his setback by concentrating deeply on the words and meaning of the prayers, but the familiar feeling that he was being watched returned. He dared to glance up fleetingly, and saw Batsa watching him. As the room of monks chanted, mentor and mentee locked eyes--the only heads upright in a sea of bowed ones. They exchanged a smile with a sentiment known only to the two of them; ‘No more bending of the four noble truths’. Pandi bowed his head and focused.


“Yes thank you, you have a great day as well.” I hung up the phone and ran my fingers through my hair. Feeling the scabs left behind by the chemicals and my own incessant scrubbing, I was so damn grateful that the lice had finally vacated my head. When you’re a parent, you become used to the dirty little things that get passed around classrooms. Chicken pox, the flu, the common cold, pink eye. But Maria had never brought home lice until her 3rd grade year, and I would pay one MILLION dollars if it meant never having to deal with the disgusting little blood suckers again. Did you know that lice actually prefer a clean head to a dirty one? I didn’t. In fact, I had spent the last 3 months learning exactly what lice are, what they like, and how the hell to get rid of them. Over the counter treatments hadn’t worked. Old wives tales like coconut oil hadn’t worked. What did finally work? Mayonnaise. Yep, I slathered mine and my daughter’s thick, dark Turkish hair with a chunky layer of mayonnaise. The online instructions said to leave it on for 8 hours, and by the end all of the lice and their eggs had been suffocated. It had been over 2 weeks since the last spotting, thank GOD. Sure, we winced every time we got the slightest smell of mayonnaise, but a small price to pay. If I had to get down on my hands and knees one more time to clean our small 2 bedroom 1 bathroom house from top to bottom, I was going to lose my mind. My phone rang, pulling me out of my grossed out haze, and Travis’ sweet face popped up on the screen. I smiled. Tonight was our big date. “Hey you.” “Hey sexy.” “What’s going on?” “Oh, I just wanted to call and triple check that you have seen NO lice in your hair today and we are clear to keep our reservation for tonight.” I laughed. Yes, we had been waiting a while for this very rare date night. But Travis had been more exasperated at the thought of missing our date due to the lice than I was. I just wanted the damn bugs gone. Romance was the furthest thing from my mind when I was pulling little fat creatures from my hair. He had it easy, as soon as he saw the first bug, he shaved his head, and had kept it short ever since. “Yes Travis, no lice I promise. I’m very much looking forward to our date.” “Me too, me too. I can’t wait for the food, it’s gonna be DELICIOUS.” “Yeah, I can think of other delicious things too... if you know what I mean.” Rare date nights also meant other forms of intimacy were... rare. I took every chance I got. “Yeah yeah, I know what you mean. Don’t get me too excited.” Can you hear someone blush? I felt like I could. “More than anything, i’m looking forward to quality time with you. No parenting, no responsibilities.” “You could say that again!” My office phone rang and I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of responsibilities... that’s my line, so very sadly, I have to let you go.” “Hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ll see you tonight.” “It’s a date!” I thought I was so clever. We giggled and got off the phone, and I promptly picked up the landline. “Thank you for calling Sky High Balloon Adventures, this is Ariana, how can I help?” Most days I loved my job. How many people can say they get to work for a hot air balloon company for a living? I knew how lucky I was and I cherished every moment. Except for that day. That day I was watching the minutes on the analog clock slowly tick by. My night out couldn't come soon enough. Hours crawled by, and I answered phone call after phone call. Some were people who had 100 questions about hot air balloons. “How high does it go?” “How many people are in the basket?” “Do I get to choose where I land?” “Are there parachutes?” Some were people who just wanted someone to fight with. “I have called 5 times and you never answer the phone. I shouldn’t have to leave a message, a successful business should be available!” Or “What do you mean the weather isn’t safe to fly? How much do I have to pay you to fly? I don’t mind a little rain.” And then there were just the people who were so happy to be checking a cool adventure off of their bucket list. Those, of course, were my favorite calls. It was decently busy, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the clock finally struck 5pm and it was time for me to hit the road. I had meant to leave a little early so I could take my time doing my makeup, but time had gotten away from me. That’s all right I’ll just put on a little mascara and blush, I thought to myself. Travis was not one of the guys who needed me to be all done up to see me as beautiful. He had a way of making me feel confident even when I was sitting on the couch in the same dumpy t-shirt from the day before with my hair in matted tangles. “You’re so hot,” he’d say with widened eyes. One of the many reasons I knew I had a good one. By 6:30pm I had made it home, gotten ready, and we were heading out the door. Plenty of time to make our 7pm reservation, the restaurant was only 15 minutes away. “Damn... rainclouds. I guess we won’t be sitting on the patio.” Travis winced and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s the middle of February,” I chuckled. “I have to say I wouldn’t want to sit outside anyways.” He looked at me and smiled, slightly relieved, and he grabbed my hand in his. I sighed, something so simple could feel so loving. We parked in the overflowing lot and made our way inside. A young blonde hostess in a black, v-neck cocktail dress greeted us. “Welcome! How can I help you?” Travis stepped forward. “I have a reservation for 2 at 7.” “The Fraser party?” “Yes ma’am.” She looked down at her screen, then looked at Travis pensively. “I apologize but we overbooked ourselves on reservations and have had to add a 30 minute wait to all reservation times. You’re welcome to go wait at our bar and we’ll call you over as soon as your table is ready.” Travis huffed. “Seriously? You couldn’t have called us ahead of time and told us that?” The hostess closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sir, I know this is a special occasion for you, I promise we’ll do everything we can to make it right.” “You better,” he muttered under his breath as we made our way over to the busy bar area. “Travis, it’s fine. We’re out without Maria! So rare.” He flagged down the bartender. “2 shots of Jack please, with 2 glasses of water. Thanks.” A burly man with tattoos poking out from underneath his pressed suit's sleeves nodded. I put my hand on his arm. "At least we’re together.” He looked at me and smiled sheepishly. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I just want tonight to be perfect.” He paused. “Like you said, this time is so rare.” Reaching up on tip toes, I kissed his cheek. The bearded man returned with our drinks, and we took our shots of Jack like pros. We spent the next 30 minutes talking about our day, sipping our water, sharing funny anecdotes from our experiences in customer service. We were swapping stories and laughing when the hostess timidly approached us. “Mr. Fraser? Your table is ready.” His whole disposition had changed. Maybe it was the Jack. “Fantastic! Lead the way.” She lead us to a small circular table set in the middle of the dining room, red and black booths lining the taupe walls. “Is this okay?” Travis looked at me expectantly. Damn he is so thoughtful . After years of living with me and my social anxiety disorder, most of the time he knew how to meet what I needed in the moment. This was one of those times. I was so grateful. “It’s perfect.” Something I would have said even if it wasn’t. “Just like you,” he quickly came around to pull my seat out for me. I hung my purse on the back of the chair and took in all the surroundings. Tables were full of couples, young and old, mixmatched and twinning, kissing and flirting and laughing amongst themselves, tabletop candles flickering gently in front of them. Romance was certainly in the air, and the vibe alone made me swoon. I was lost in my own love cloud when the waiter came to the table. "Good evening! My name is Seth and I’ll be taking care of you. Our specials tonight are....” He went on to describe the Surf and Turf, the Valentine’s Day special: a lobster tail paired with filet mignon and their signature sauce. My stomach growled and I was thankful no one but me noticed. We gave our drink orders and in a moment he was gone. “I’m so glad we could make this work,” Travis seemed relaxed, finally. “Me too, I’m SO glad those lice boogers didn’t ruin our once in a blue moon date.” “EW. Don’t bring those little shits up. I could go the rest of the year without hearing that word and I would be just fine.” “No kidding... me too. I’ve never cleaned so much in my life.” “Well, if there’s one thing for sure, our home would be in shambles without you.” I blushed as Seth returned with our drinks. He placed a Bloody Mary in front of me and I winced. Just from the smell I knew that it was full of Vodka. “Come on man, she said virgin. She’s sober!” Seth looked at me in horror. “Oh I am so sorry ma’am. Let me get you a new one. It'll be on the house. I’m so sorry!” He quickly took the drink off the table. “It’s okay, really. He gets protective. Mistakes happen, no rush.” I gave my most reassuring smile. He nodded gratefully and hurried off with the incorrect drink. Travis looked into his lap and clenched his hands together. Why was he so tense? “Did something happen at work today?” “No, why do you ask?” “Just asking...you seem off.” “No, I’m fine! Actually I’m great.” A longer than comfortable moment of silence stretched between us. I had to switch it up. “Can you believe this is our 10th Valentine’s Day together?” “Man.. it has been that long.” He smiled to himself. “Time flies with you.” “Do you remember the one where we left Maria with my dad and snuck out for a midnight showing of Deadpool?” “Ah yes, the perfect romance movie.” “For real, what more could you want? Action, comedy, hot steamy romance. Endless buttered popcorn.” “What about when I surprised you with a Broncos Super Bowl jersey a few weeks before so you could have it for the game?” “Ugh, I LOVED that jersey. Now the Broncos starting the Super Bowl with a safety... that I didn’t love so much.” “God, I remember how inconsolable you were in the bathroom afterwards. I couldn’t get you to stop crying!" “What can I say, I love my team.” “Maybe a little too much.” “Maybe.” We both laughed and Seth returned with the virgin Bloody Mary I ordered. “Here you are miss. Again I express my deepest apologies.” “It’s really no problem, we’re having a great time, aren’t we Travis?” “Yes we are, thanks for making it right man.” Seth quickly took our order, but he didn’t write anything down. I ordered the special and he just nodded, he asked me how I wanted my potatoes prepared and he just nodded at my response. I have always been amazed at wait staff that can remember everything like that. Meanwhile I can’t even remember if I turned the straightener off at home. He hurried off with our orders, without writing a single thing down. “You know, I have to say my favorite Valentine’s with you are the ones at home on our couch with a bowl of chips watching episodes of Survivor.” I brought my hand to my mouth, blushing again. “Me too babe. It really is the simple things I love the most.” “I agree. Dating apps and profiles and all that other riff raff, life can be as simple as meeting your person in high school gym class.” “I still can’t understand what you saw in me. I was angry to be there, angry my mom made me change schools. My black hood pulled over my head, scowl on my face, I was definitely giving off a ‘leave me alone’ vibe. ” “But that was the last thing I wanted to do. ‘Leave you alone’. You know what vibe I thought you were giving off? Moody, complex, and downright beautiful. I had to talk to you.” “Who knew that would lead here?” “I had a hunch,” he giggled. “To us,” he held up his drink for a toast. Our glasses clinked and as we made eyes, taking sips from our respective beverages, I couldn’t help but to think how lucky I was. I certainly didn’t know from that day in gym class that we would end up here, living in a different state and parents to our beautiful daughter. Celebrating 10 years of Valentine’s together. What we have is one in a million. My thoughts were interrupted when the most beautiful lobster tail was placed in front of me. We didn’t speak as we eagerly ate our delicious meal, occasionally looking up and smiling at each other, or offering our fork for the other to try. The night ended too quickly, and in a flash we were walking out the front door. Time with Travis felt so special, and as parents it was not often that we got to feel like humans outside of our roles as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’. It was my turn to grab his hand this time, and I looked at him and smiled. He didn’t meet my gaze, and began messing with the tie around his neck. The rain gently sprinkled above our heads, leaving dark marks on my long, lavender dress, but I didn’t mind. We reached the middle of the parking lot when he stopped. He dropped my hand and took a deep breath. He pulled a navy blue jewelry box from his pocket. My stomach sank. Is he about to do what I think he’s going to do? No, he knew how much this scared me. He knew that the only relationships I’d seen growing up were my mother’s 4 divorces and my absent dad I saw twice a year. Why does anything have to change? Things are good the way they are! I could feel my hands shaking. Put down the walls Ariana , my therapist’s voice rang in my head. He got down on one knee, black slacks dipping in the water streaking the parking lot, looking up at me. He popped open the box, revealing a glistening silver diamond ring. “I know this scares you. I know the only example you’ve ever had of marriage is destruction. But I was raised by 2 people who love each other deeply. Who were dating for a month and knew they wanted to be together forever. And are now celebrating over 30 years as husband and wife! I’ve seen how beautiful marriage can be when it’s right.” He paused to emphasize his words. “And I know we’re right. I so wanted tonight to be perfect to prove it to you. But you made me see that we don’t need perfect. We never have. In fact, it’s simple. I know you’re my person. There is no one else, there will never be anyone else. Ariana, will you marry me?” All the fear that had been making my heart race melted out of my fingertips. I could feel tears in the corners of my eyes. No one had ever loved me like this. This man was kneeling in a rain puddle and dealing with all my baggage and insecurities and he STILL wanted to marry me? It seemed pretty silly now that I’d ever been afraid at all. That I’d ever thought we were anything like my parents. The answer was obvious. “Yes, yes, a thousand times YES.” He picked me up and spun me around as he let out a triumphant ‘YES!’. The rain was coming down harder, crawling its way down our cheeks as we kissed. Thunder boomed and we laughed. I looked into his eyes. He began to babble. "Wow, so we don't have to get married right away, we can take as long as you want. It can be whatever you want! Hell, we can go to city hall. We can have the longest engagement ever! I'm just so happy you said yes and..." I put my finger to his lips and smiled. “Perfect is so overrated. We'll figure it out. All I know was this night was everything I could’ve asked for.”


| “Now!” screamed the lute-playing assailant, who changed the song’s key. The adventurer with the spear thrust a lucky strike into Benvolio’s belly. Blood splattered on the cavern floor. Walter covered his mouth, suppressing a gasp. Benvolio swaggered back and forth for a few minutes, smoke spilling forth from his nostrils. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and then, with a mighty crash, he collapsed onto the ground. “Huzzah!” the adventurers cheered. Walter’s eyes widened. Did they just kill Benvolio? Walter debated jumping out from hiding, doing something to avenge the friendly dragon. But what could he do? They were armed and the best “weapon” he had available was an industrial-grade flashlight. The spear and sword would both do him in before he could land a single hit. He sank to the ground feeling helpless. Benvolio’s body was limp, unmoving on the ground. “Friends, let us commence grabbing the loot!” The leader pointed to the large piles of gold. They grabbed handfuls of gold and gems, filling their sacks to the brim. The group laughed and made jokes, singing their praises for defeating such a wicked foe. Walter clenched his fists and his jaw as he watched them, tears of rage filling his eyes. After the party had taken all the riches they could carry, they dragged their heavy sacks of treasure out of the cave. After a few minutes of silence, Walter emerged from hiding and approached Benvolio’s unmoving form. Walter knelt beside Benvolio’s snout, patting it lightly. He could taste the bile that had risen from his throat. Tears rolled down his cheek and his body heaved with sobs. Perhaps he didn’t know Benvolio well, but he had just witnessed a senseless murder. There was also the matter of how he would get home. Sure, he had the book, but he didn’t have magic. He was just an accountant from the Midwest. His greatest skills were itemizing deductions and singing Aerosmith songs karaoke. No matter how passionately he sang “Dream On” it wasn’t likely to conjure a portal back to Earth. Did he just lose his only chance to get home? How would Beth pay the mortgage, how would his grandson feel about having another family member walk out of his life? “Oh no, I am so sorry.” Benvolio’s voice spoke softly. Walter jumped back with a shriek of surprise. “I should have been clearer earlier,” Benvolio admitted, “that I might need to fake my death.” The tip of his wing gently tapped Walter’s shoulder. “There, there, my friend, there, there.” “What the hell just happened?!” Walter screeched. “Oh, that.” Benvolio stretched his wings a bit, then turned his neck from side to side. There is an ancient rumor that all red dragons are evil, and that we hoard gold. It is a most vexing falsehood. As a result, it seems at least once a fortnight I am confronted by some foolish knight or adventurer wishing to end my so-called reign of terror.” “That’s awful,” Walter replied. “Indeed, I try to dissuade them, but usually it results in me having to pretend I am attacking them without causing harm until they give up. Sometimes if there is anyone nearby who could get hurt, or a potentially unreasonable amount of collateral damage, sometimes its easiest to fake my death.” Benvolio looked back at the shelves, “They could have set this entire place ablaze, and I would be the only one able to survive the fire. I thought it best to hasten my ‘demise’ before they got someone killed and destroyed my collection in the process.” “They stole your gold.” Walter noted, his head tilting toward the piles of gold and gems. Benvolio only laughed in reply, then rapped his claws rhythmically against the cavern floor. There was a shimmer of light, and where the gold and gems had been there was only a pile of ordinary rocks. “The illusion for them will wear off in about two hours. By the time they make it back to town they will realize they have been bamboozled. The townsfolk get a good laugh at it, explaining to the latest group of adventurers that the alleged treasure is a fake. I hope word will eventually get around enough that I can finally end these tiresome charades.” Walter looked back to the pile of rocks, suddenly relieved he had ignored temptation. As an accountant, he dealt with far too many clients caught up in the latest get-quick-rich scam. He was glad to have narrowly avoided this realm’s version of that. “Now then, shall we get back to the matter at hand?” Benvolio asked. Walter nodded, pulling out the book.


Humans have always been judgmental beings. That is why they have assigned me the role of a ceiling fan. My only job is to look down on people because I cannot control the speed at which I turn. It is all in their hands. Those knob heads control me with a knob. And for the past ten years, I have been judging them as the ceiling fan of the Government Utility Bill Payment Office. Last March, I heaved a sigh of relief. For some reason, they were shutting down the world. This meant that the household ceiling fans had to work overtime, while I can rest until they reopen the world. But as luck would have it, the maintenance man forgot to switch me off before he left. I've been turning slowly and slowly for the past year, without any rest. It would've been better if they kept the knob at full speed, but no I wasn't lucky enough for that. If I ran at full speed for a few days, I would probably fall off the ceiling. And we all know ground fans are worthless. But the knob was turned to the slowest speed setting. A ten-year-old ceiling fan that hasn't been maintained by incompetent government officials and it is moving really slow. That's when time stands still. I have never left the ceiling for ten years. But turning above an empty room, without any people to pass judgments on, I would beg for hell than stay here. But as days passed, March marched slowly into April after almost a year. It was during April that I came close to freedom. Since most people stayed back home, the electrical appliances outside residential areas got a fluctuating power supply. Don't ask me how I know all that technical jargon, electricity literally keeps me alive. Those fluctuations caused my speed to increase. Instead of moving at five revolutions per minute, I would rotate at six the next minute. Then seven the next. I expected eight the next minute, but the power fluctuation fell, and I began to move at two or three per minute. Every time I felt a glimmer of hope, I would slow down. This kept happening long enough that I ceased to care. Death as freedom is too much wishful thinking for someone like me. Gradually, my condition worsened. Dust began to cover my blades. Rust began to slowly creep up on me, but I wouldn't stop turning. At that point, I began to lose a sense of myself. I wasn't able to judge humans anymore. All I did was slowly turn, get covered in rust and dust, and stare at the blank floor. But working in a poorly maintained government office has its perks. A few weeks later, probably during the early monsoon in July, a few rats came in. With no one around to shoo them away, with large paper stacks of government records lying for them to chew on, this became a heaven for them. But surprisingly enough, when it became a heaven for them, it did so too for me. I got to watch the rats. And very soon, within a few weeks, the whole place was sprawling with rats. Apparently, rats don't care much for siblings. They just have a go when they feel like it. So it gave me enough room to judge them. Promiscuous and incestuous rats, I was back to my old self again. But in September, the rats slowly began to disappear. They had eaten away all the paperwork. And didn't have anything else to eat but themselves. The rats which turned to cannibalism survived. They gave me another reason to judge them. But soon enough, that too became boring. Somewhere in October, I could hear the voices of people outside the room. Apparently, they were going to reopen the world again in phases. You can bet that I had been waiting for this. Imagine the sight when the maintenance man comes in and gets greeted by chewed records and cannibal rats. But they didn't open the office door. During the time when they shut down the world, people began to pay their utility bills without leaving their homes. So now they could pay their utility bills from home rather than come all the way here. Judging the antics of the cannibal rats soon became boring to me. So I began to ignore them. As winter approached, hell began to creep back on me. The rats ceased to fight themselves and began to fight the cold. But the cold didn't affect me, I am just a ceiling fan stuck on top. But why did I start feeling like this? When did I gain the capacity to feel? Where did all the emotions come from? I'm an inanimate ceiling fan. A mass-produced capitalist commodity that will not work past its warranty period. If I can remember correctly, around March of this year, I started feeling this way. Just before they shut down the world. So for the next two months, I had something to do: think. I began to ponder why a fan could get emotional. Those days passed by, and it was March again, exactly a year since they shut down the world. They still weren't going to reopen the world. But something expected happened with the door of the office. During the winter, the door edges shrunk. And when summer came, the door became loose and bolted open. So basically, the door was open for anyone to come in. I waited for a few days, no one came. Some day, probably during the end of March, a young couple came in. They just needed a place to fool around. But the minute they entered, their faces were smeared with shock. The boy began to scream and ran away without the girl. The girl was initially frightened at what she saw, but that fright turned into anger as she slowly walked off to find that boy. Until now, I hadn't realized it, but a corpse had been hanging off the ceiling fan. The noose which I had used still held my decomposed body. I remembered everything now. Working as a maintenance man in the government utility office was almost worthless. I was invisible. But that didn't really matter to me. That is how my job has always been and, I had learned to accept it. What I hated was that people judged me for being a cleaner. If I don't clean their place, they will live like pigs. But when I clean their mess, all I get is filthy stares of condescension. I never expected gratitude. But I never expected judgment either. After I hung myself, I had left the fan switched on. My body hung from the fan for three days before they shut down the world. And no one noticed a decaying corpse. That was when I became the ceiling fan. It was the only object which hadn't judged me for the past ten years. The rats had eaten parts of me. So now I became a few rats also. The world is full of filth, and now I'm only going to add more.


It was a perfect mid-summer day. The kind of day where the songbirds start chirping early and the fireflies dance late into the night. Davis loved everything about summer - the longer days, the hot weather, wearing shorts, and baseball--especially baseball. In his youth, he had excelled at the sport enough to get a few college scholarship offers but opted to stay behind to be with his high school sweetheart. In the fall after graduation, huddled in a white room, doctors would explain they did all they could for her. Even with the best cyber augmentation available, the cancer cells grew too fast. Summer days like this still remind him of her. Davis lifted two blue, five-gallon buckets filled with worn baseballs into the trunk of his car. A couple of balls bounced out, rolling to the ground. Reaching down and tossing them back into the bucket, he noticed another broken lace on his old dusty ball glove. He picked up the glove examing it closely. He'd had this glove since high school. This glove was the same one he was wearing when he pitched his team to the championship game and the same glove he was wearing when making the last out on a diving catch in left field that local townspeople still talk about. The glove was now showing its age. He'd have to look into fixing that later as right now, he was headed up to the ballfield to practice with his youngest son, 12-year-old Rece. Rece tolerated baseball. He liked being on a team and goofing around with his teammates, but he wasn't the athlete his Dad was. With his shaggy blonde hair constantly in his eyes, Rece preferred skateboarding and reading stories about Greek mythology. But he liked spending time with his Dad and the fun they had together. They usually went for ice cream after every game. "We should get you that new mitt," Davis said, tossing the ball carefully back to Rece. "You can keep using my old ones if you want, but wouldn't you like one of your very own?" Rece didn't respond. He started at his feet, picturing them on the placement of his skateboard. He thought about the skating video he watched earlier, how effortlessly the skaters performed their tricks. They floated through the air like some freestyle skateboard angels. He liked to imagine the skateboards were gifts from the gods, like Apollo receiving the golden chariot from his father, Zeus. "Rece. Rece! Get the ball. You gotta pay attention, man." Rece snapped to focus, saw his Dad pointing behind him, turned, and walked to get the ball. "Hustle, man, c'mon," a slight annoyance growing in Davis' voice. Normally very patient with Rece, today Davis let his irritation be known. Perhaps he was thinking about work or all the house projects that needed attention. "The sun was in my eyes. I felt like a cyclops." The thought of a cyclops standing in the outfield made Rece smile. Picking up the ball, looking towards Davis, the distance between them seemed impossibly long. He wished he could ride Pegasus over to his Dad to deliver the ball. "Ok, c'mon, let's see a good hard throw. You can do it." Davis held his mitt up as a target, trying to keep his voice positive. Reaching back as far as he could, Rece closed his eyes and gave it everything he had. He let out a grunt as his arm shot forward like a trebuchet. It felt good--strong-- like Zeus unleashing a lightning bolt. "Rece dammit, cmon. Throw it TO me", snapped Davis, opening and closing his mitt a few times. "TO me." Rece opened his eyes to see his Dad walking slowly away to retrieve the ball, shaking his head and muttering something Rece could not make out. Finding the ball's final resting place, Rece impressed himself at how far he threw it even though it sailed over his Dad's head. Rece celebrated by doing a kickflip on his invisible skateboard. "Rece! Hey, look up! Rece!" His Dad's voice sounded different, more urgent than he ever remembered hearing before. Rece looked up in time to see a dark dot flash in front of the sun for the briefest of moments; the mitt at his side didn't move. Instant darkness. A soft figure grew closer in the reflection of the black mirror. "Rece, you know you shouldn't be watching that. The Dr. says replaying that isn't healthy." A nurse walked up and started touching the dark screen. "If you keep doing that, we'll have to limit your access to your neural ROM memory transmitters. Or yet, we'll have to wipe your memory clean. We don't want to have to do that--we know there are good memories buried in there you like to replay. Did you take your meds today?" The nurse continued to tap on the black screen. Rece sat motionless on a stiff gray couch, his reflection in the large black screen peering back at him. He sat slumped, expressionless. It's difficult to conceive that inside this frail body once lived a great athlete, moving with grace and power. "Why won't this thing work," the nurse pleaded, still taping on the black screen. "These new computational window models are so finicky." A tannish-brown object peeked out from the blanket wrapped around Davis. Davis held the thing close in the black reflection. The leathery smell of the object took Davis back to high school, back to more peaceful times. The object--a new baseball glove--still had its price tags. Running down the outside of the pinky of the glove were large black handwritten letters. They neatly spelled out R E C E. "Ah, there we go. Finally, oh look, a baseball game, your favorite. Well, you enjoy the game Davis, and I'll be back to check on you in a little while. In the meantime, no more self-memory hijacking." Davis sat motionlessly. He held the object in the lap tightly as the game announcer said, "What a beautiful summer day for baseball. The weather is hot, and the sun is shining." ________


Hour Two The first hour garnered more attention then he wanted so he decided to change who he was. Another mask, another face and yet simple enough to be seen through if someone truly cared. The girl was a weird object of desire for him. All too appealing and all too taboo for a have baked person to possess and yet she confessed in him. He doesn’t know what to do. He cares for her yet not quite in the way she would wish. He does not want to lead her on and yet it feels like this chance is the chance to make it all right. A woman grown yet not quite a woman at all. Old enough to know what she wants and yet young enough not to know better. He thinks her eyes are more warped then his for she sees him as a perfect gentleman. Or at least she sees him as a person to be treasured. He feels like a broken being and she doesn’t believe him. What exactly does she see? He’s hungry in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. His deformity makes him ashamed and yet he wants her. She is not true beauty and yet he still lusts for something more amazing then him. She has everything he could never have after all so maybe he just wants to take a part of her away. He lies to her. He lies to everyone after all so why would that stop him now? His life has been for the most part uneventful so why not embody someone else for awhile? To experience the things, he has never experienced would be the reason so he lies. The feeling of wading in that shit is natural to him. Comforting even to be somebody else for awhile. Yet we digress. She is blind and naive. After all she’s a very sheltered 18 year old woman who was never at the top of her school hierarchy. It scares him how his flippant lies harm him and yet it excites him at the same time. She may not be the prettiest girl in the room but her smile and blush are second to none. A pleasant sight in a workplace filled with foul-smelling middle-aged men. He wants her and she believes she wants him. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He who sits in the shit of his words does not want to use her like toilet paper as a single sheet would never be able to clean the mess he makes. Still, any possible relief from the feeling of the bog and the oppressive smells it brings clings to his shallow soul. He wants her he thinks yet still cares. The two sides of his mind keep fighting in turmoil so the half-baked man does what he always does. Nothing. He keeps a comfortable distance as he waits down the clock. His rotten doughy outside being more tainted by the sweet nothings he says until she has to finally leave. He hopes her College life goes well but also hates her for the chance he never had. He knows that she built that chance for herself all on her own and his half-baked self should mind it’s own business and yet still... he hates her. She hurts herself sometimes. A small bit of control and a small amount of defiance. He doesn’t understand why she does it to herself as the half-baked man only understands venting anger that way. To bite hard enough not to draw blood and yet be able to clear the mind of its red haze. Her cutting herself reminds him of the scars his sister carries. He feels anger, pity and jealousy for it. Yet the fleshy dough of the half-baked man does nothing. He does not know what to do about the girl. So, he waits out the clock, hungry for what he could and couldn’t take. So that the choice is no longer his.


The sun rose slowly over the green country as two people watched, one leaning on the other. The Halloween party, which ended a few hours ago, had been a huge success despite the resident ghost paying a visit. The pair were exhausted but found they couldn’t sleep yet and decided to watch the sun come up. They could sleep on the way home after everything was cleaned up. “Did you ask Ryan to drive?” Terry asked, shielding her eyes as the yellow ball rose higher. “I did. He said he’d have no problem doing so. Just let him sleep until it’s time to leave.” Roger kissed his girlfriend’s forehead. “Great party though, wasn’t it?” “Couldn’t have asked for a better one, but looks like we’ll have to top it next year for our new friend.” She looked at the pumpkin in her hands. “Best party ever. At least the Headless Horseman has a sense of humor.” “I think the caretakers will be astonished to see no pumpkins on the front grass this year. Let’s head back in and start to tidy up.” They glanced at the rising sun one more time then headed back into the manor to see the night’s effects. Most of the party-goers had left when the festivities ended but some were passed out in the sitting room. Roger counted six to eight people then went to the kitchen to start a large pot of coffee. Terry sighed, rolled up her dress sleeves, and went about the task of waking everyone up. “Come on, Tiffany. Rise and shine.” She shook the petite blonde’s bare shoulder and Tiffany groaned. “Terry? What time is it?” “Just past sunrise. Time to get up.” “Just past sunrise? What the bloody hell? Why you getting me up so early?” “Because we have to clear out of here by two and there’s a lot of tidying to do before that, otherwise, we won’t get our deposit returned and won’t be allowed back. We’re already coming up with ideas for next Halloween, now hop to it! And start waking the others.” With another groan, Tiffany stood, straightened her rumpled costume then proceeded to wake Nathan first. He yawned and rolled over. “Morning, Tiff. You have fun last night?” “You mean aside from the Headless Horseman crashing the party? Yeah, I did.” More yawns and grunts of discomfort could be heard as Terry kept waking everyone else in the room. “Come on, Nate. According to our hostess, it’s time for housekeeping.” “Aye, suppose so. Help me up, will ya?” She hoisted her boyfriend to his feet, which made him lightheaded. “Whoa there.” He steadied himself. “Need me some coffee.” “Already done, mate.” Roger came into the sitting room with a tray full of steaming mugs. “You’re a life saver, my friend.” Nathan sipped on the hot liquid. “So,” he looked around at the bodies coming to life, “where do we start?” Over the course of several hours and cups of coffee plus breakfast that Becky, Angelina, and Lara made up, the old manor house was scrubbed clean to the extreme satisfaction of the Blackthorns. They had arrived three hours after sunrise and the first question Mr. Blackthorn asked was, “Did you kids move the pumpkins from the front grass?” Roger and Terry looked at each other then Terry presented the ghost’s jack o’ lantern. “Happy Halloween. Best bash ever! Come back next year?” The older man and his wife looked like they’d pass out. “I never would’ve thought...” “I guess he liked our party.” Roger joked. “Maybe that’s what he was wanting all along.” “It would seem you’re right.” Mrs. Blackthorn said. “No wonder there were no jack o’ lanterns outside this year. We may have to host an All Hollow’s bash every year.” Her husband sighed but smiled and handed the pumpkin back to Terry. “I suppose we will. This’ll give the girls relief. They’ve been scared ever since their first encounter.” “Great to hear. Is Anna doing okay?” Terry asked. “She’s fine but she’ll be even better when she hears your story. In the meanwhile, what else needs to be cleaned around here?” Around one in the afternoon, the four couples who’d come a week ago were packing up their rented van and double-checking their belongings. Murphy claimed he’d misplaced his Charlie Chaplin hat and didn’t want to leave without it. Angelina told him he could always get another one but he refused to go anywhere until it was found. The women relented and went back into the manor to search for it. “Your boyfriend sure acts like a baby sometimes, Ange.” Trixie said as they combed the house. “You’re preaching to the choir, sister.” Ange replied, looking under and behind furniture. “His twin’s not much better at times.” “Don’t know how Jewel puts up with it.” “Think Connor channels most of his frustration into his writing. Murphy, on the other hand, doesn’t have a creative outlet. Think he just likes to bug me about it.” She reached under a bed in one of the lower level rooms. “Gotcha!” She pulled out the bowler and dusted it off. “How’d it end up here? Murphy was nowhere near these rooms.” “The ghost?” Ange shrugged. “Possible, or a prank from one of the guests.” “Let’s get outta here. Ryan said he’d drive back so Roger could sleep, and I know he doesn’t want to get tangled in after-work traffic.” They went to the foyer and called up the stairs to Terry and Julia they’d found the missing hat. “Glad you found it.” Julia said. “Was about to give up and tell Murphy he’d have to settle for a new one.” “Where’d you find it?” Terry asked. “One of the bedrooms down that way.” Trixie pointed to their right. “Don’t know how it got there but it’s found, so let’s get going.” They walked outside to the van but before they climbed in, Julia turned around suddenly, as if something caught her attention. “Jewel?” Connor asked. She held up a hand. “I thought I saw something.” “Inside?” Ryan asked. “No. Over there.” She pointed at the corner of the manor, and saw a shadow flicker around the structure. “What the bloody hell?” “Come on, Jewel. We’ve gotta go.” Ange huffed. “Hang on a moment. I wanna see what it is.” Without waiting for a reply, Julia headed after whatever made the shadow, disappearing around the side of the house. “Damnit.” Connor immediately went after her, followed by the rest of the group. “That girl never knows when to ignore her curiosity.” Terry said. “I heard that, and it’s a damn good thing I didn’t this time.” When the rest of them rounded the corner, they saw something no one noticed during their week-long stay. “Maybe we should ask the Blackthorns about this.” Julia stood a few feet away from what looked to be a pile of old clothes but upon closer inspection, she noticed something familiar. “What the bloody hell?” Roger stepped closer. “Is that what I think it is?” “Is that our ghost?” Trixie asked. “That would make the most sense, given how much they knew about it.” Julia knelt in the grass to get a closer look. “These have been here a while, maybe a decade or more.” She grabbed a sleeve and shook dirt from it. “However, it looks like it hasn’t been moved in about five years.” “How can you tell?” Ryan asked, checking his watch.” “The buildup of dirt, not to mention the smell of mildew.” “Hey! Are you kids alright? Nothing’s wrong with your auto... is there?” Mr. Blackthorn came around the side of the house to see his eight guests giving him a hard eye. “Oh my.” “More elegant than I would’ve put it.” Connor crossed his arms. “Care to give us an explanation, sir?” The older man scratched his head. “Maybe I should send you a bill for me and me brother’s possible concussions from last night.” “No! I can barely afford to keep this place up to code, let alone pay for that. I’ll tell you what those are for and even give you an extra night here, free of cost, so you don’t have to contend with after-work traffic.” “Better be worth it.” Murphy said. “My head still hurts.” “It may not be to your complete satisfaction but it will be the truth. I wasn’t the first in the family to do this. It started, I think, three generations before mine. The Blackthorns have been caretakers of this house for long before that and it’s always been a money pit. It was in the 1970s something was done to change that.” He pointed at the long unused costume. “Every year, around All Hollow’s, someone in the family would wear the costume, and terrorize not only the manor grounds but also the nearby village. The Headless Horseman legend was already embedded into the minds of the townsfolk. We just made it more real.” He paused to study the faces of those listening. Their expressions ranged from curious to upset but no one interrupted to ask questions. “The manor had already been a place to stay because of its history but once word got ‘round of a possible ghost sighting, well, you can guess the rest. Bookings went through the roof, and by the mid-80s, my grandfather had to turn folks away because the bookings were piling up. It got to the point where you had to call a year in advance; three for All Hollow’s.” “Money. Hardly the most noble of motives.” Roger scoffed. Mr. Blackthorn gave him a hard look. “I’m not proud of what my family did but do you have any inkling as to how much it costs to keep a place like this from falling down? More than you can probably imagine, young man, and yes, we get some help from the local historical society but they aren’t exactly the Bank of England. More than once, they’ve tried to come in and bulldoze it, and the people have come to the rescue every time. It won’t last forever though, and we’re determined to keep it as long as we can.” “So, the Headless Horseman party crasher. Who was that last night? I can tell these clothes haven’t been worn in at least five years.” Julia asked. Mr. Blackthorn shrugged. “I can’t answer that.” The group went wide-eyed. “I really can’t because I have no clue. And you’re right. We stopped using the ghost angle about five years ago because the bookings were still stacking up, so we figured we didn’t need it anymore. Of course, we earned the attention of the real Headless Horseman that first All Hollow’s. I guess he was attracted to the commotion due to all the parties going on. A Halloween celebration during a full moon seems to be his favorite time to manifest.” He looked at the old costume. “My wife did warn you though, and you paid it no heed. I told her when we were departing that I would’ve been surprised if you had left as no one does. However, the ghost seems to like having you around, given the message.” Terry nodded. “And we wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Everyone else looked at her. “What? You guys wanna do this next year, don’t you? I’ve already got ideas brewing.” “I can’t believe you’re serious.” Connor groaned. “Come on, Connor. It’s win-win. The Blackthorns get to keep up the manor and we get to have the best Halloween bash in England! You should’ve seen my social media page light up this morning with people asking for invites to the next one. We have to do another one.” “I’d say you’re bonkers but then I’d have to give myself the label too.” Angelina said. “What the hell? I’m game.” Everyone else slowly concurred and the matter was settled. “Well, it’s too late to hit the motorway, so I believe we’ll take your offer to stay another night, Mr. Blackthorn.” Ryan said, grateful he didn’t have to drive now. “Let’s get you settled in.” After an explanation to his wife and daughters, the old man took his guests back to their previous rooms. The eight of them had an early dinner then retired, except for Roger and Terry. He usually ran on only a few hours of sleep, so he sat up reading and writing music, while she went outside for one last look at the grounds. The air was cold but not windy and the sky was clear with stars dotting the black canvas overhead. As she stood listening to the night’s sounds, she heard a horse’s whiny, followed by a cackle. Smiling, she said, “We’ll be back next year.” Looking out one last time before heading in, she saw the full moon reflecting off the small lake further back on the property. In the water, Terry caught a glimpse of the ghost riding off into the night.


"ISABELLE CARTIER, THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" Jolene bolts awake beside me. She stares at me in disbelief. "You're still here." I nod. "I'm not going to leave you behind again." "WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE MS. CARTIER. COME OUT NOW OR WE'LL BE COMING IN." "We'll see about that," I mutter as I pick up my phone and press the self-destruct button for the house. "What did you just do?" Jolene asks. "This building will self-destruct in five minutes," says a computer voice. "They can't catch us if they think we're dead." We get up and calmly make our way to the living room. I have an emergency bag packed already in the basement and I stored all the jewels I have stolen in a case near it. I didn't want to leave so soon, but I wasn't going to let the cops catch me because I wasn't prepared. Where's the fun in that? Jolene grabs her clothes and follows me as I lead her into the basement. The basement is attached to a network of caves and tunnels I constructed in case of an emergency like this one. When the house self-destructs, the rubble from the explosion will cover the caves. I also set up explosives near the entrance of the caves to make sure no one would find anything. I rigged the self-destruct sequence to cover up my coverup on purpose. "This building will self-destruct in three minutes," says my cousin, the computer voice. It's a little joke I like to tell myself since I am a very realistic android. The real Isabelle Cartier built me before she died. She gave me her name and all of her memories in the hopes that I could steal jewels for her while she went back to Jolene. She died before she ever saw Jolene again. I grab my emergency bag and the jewels and I urge Jolene to go into the caves. Once she's inside, I follow and blow the entrance up behind me so the police can't find our escape route. We walk until the blast from my house self-destructing shakes the ground beneath our feet. The real Isabelle built stabilizers into my legs, so I don't fall but Jolene does. I help her up. She says nothing about my ability to balance while things are exploding. It seems she's more concerned with other matters. "How did they figure out it was you who stole the gems from the museum?" she asks. "I'm not sure. But now they think we're dead. We can slip away unnoticed." "They'll comb the rubble looking for you." I shrug, "by the time they finish digging we'll be long gone." She stops dead in her tracks. "Long gone? To where? Don't I get a say?" "Not if they find out you slept over last night." She checks her pockets, then she frantically checks them again. "My phone..." "It's okay." I start walking again so she has no choice but to keep following me. It's not like she'd have much of a choice anyway since this is now a tunnel with only one true exit. I built a myriad of fake tunnels and fake exits to throw people off my scent. Every other exit I built will explode when someone tries to use it. A little bit heavy on the murder, sure, but that's what it takes to for a jewel thief be safe these days. "They'll know I was with you." "We're getting out of the city today." "Where will we go?" "I bought and island in the Caribbean using an alias. We can get there undetected." "What about the border?" "Let me worry about that. Let's get to the end of the tunnel, get some breakfast, and make our escape." I take Jolene through a series of twists and turns as we head towards the only real exit to this maze. The exit of my tunnel is on the PATH near Toronto's Union Station. There are parts of the PATH that are close to Lake Ontario. We can slip away unnoticed while the cops are still digging through the rubble of my house. I'm about to exit when I notice that the only clothes Jolene brought with her are impractical for an escape. She's wearing my shirt, which she slept in. And she's holding her dress and a pair of high heels. She'll need something more comfortable if she's going to move around. "Men's seven, right?" "What?" "Your shoe size." "You remembered?" "Yes. And... women's medium for everything else?" She nods. I change into the clothes I brought with me. Since the clothes I'm wearing are the only clothes I brought with me, Jolene will need something else. Fortunately, I'm not far from a Winners. I zip in, grab what I need, and zip back out. The clothes are basic but they should be comfortable and easy to move in. I can pick some more clothing up when we stop in the States in a week or so. Jolene changes into the new clothes. We go to the Tim Hortons next to the Hockey Hall of Fame and grab breakfast. We carry a conversation in whispers that are easily drowned out by the noises of the other customers. "So... what's the plan?" she asks. "Board my boat, take the St. Lawrence River out to sea and ride all the way down to the island." "You make it sound easy. What about supplies?" "Already covered. There's enough food and water to last us for a month. And we can always catch fish if we want some variety. And we'll be stopping in the States in about a week." "What kind of food did you pack?" "Dried beans, pasta, canned goods, I also picked up a few dehydrated things the last time I went to an outdoors store. I'm not sure how dehydrated crème brûlée tastes, but we're about to find out." "This is insane even for you. You know that, right?" "What is? The preparedness?" "The leaving like it's not even an inconvenience." "I'm taking you with me this time." "But you were prepared to leave at the drop of a hat." "Because we're jewel thieves. Would you rather go to prison?" She sighs. When we're finished our breakfast, we put our trash in the proper receptacles. After that, we take the PATH to the waterfront. My boat is moored near the Beaver Tails place. We get Beaver Tails, then we board my boat. I drive us out into Lake Ontario, which is surprisingly calm for this time of year. Jolene is out on deck watching the waves. When we're in the middle of the lake heading towards Kingston, I go out to her with a warm blanket and a cup of hot tea. I wrap the blanket around her, kiss her shoulder, and hand her the tea. "You'll freeze out here," I say. "I can't believe we're leaving just like that." "If the authorities catch us, you can call it a kidnapping." She gives me a look. "What do you want me to say?" I ask. She shakes her head and looks away. "I don't know if there was another option that would have kept us out of jail." "I need some time alone," she says. "Okay... I'll just be... you know... steering the boat. I'll... be up there if you need me. Uh... the kitchen is downstairs if you're hungry. The bathroom and bedroom are on that floor as well. If you don't want to share the bed, you can take it and I'll set something up at the helm." She says nothing. I go back to steering the boat. I access the original Isabelle's memories to try to help me figure out why she might be upset. I did kidnap Jolene. But... I never forced her to come with me. At any point during our travels to the waterfront, she could have run off or told me she didn't want to go. But here she is. And she's with me. Yes, I was prepared to leave at the drop of a hat but I took her with me this time. I mull it over as I drive. I suppose us escaping might bring up the memory of me leaving her the last time the cops came. After that realization, I try to think of something else. Something that won't distract me while I focus on getting us to the St. Lawrence River safely.


Knight takes a deep breath and places her hand on the door. She feels the weight of a body leaning against the thin wood. With all her rage, the knight plunges her blade through the door impaling the man on the other side. Knight begins sawing upward, splitting the man’s torso in two. Blood mixes with the sawdust turning to a thick red paste. Knight rampages through the door leaving small jagged planks still attached to the hinges. The robed man with the pendant sits at his desk paralyzed with fear. He reaches for a small bottle containing a black liquid on his desk. Knight pulls a throwing ax from her belt and hurls it at the man. The ax strikes his hand, sticking it firmly to the desk. He lets out a shriek that could crack windows as blood soaks the desktop. Knight picks up the bottle and looks at its contents. The liquid swirling around inside appears so black it's as if knight was staring into the void. She tucks the bottle into her belt pouch and shifts her focus back to the robe. Knight pulls the ax from his hand and rips the desk out of the way. The desk slams against the wall into a torch knocking it to the floor. The robed man trembles clutching his hand as it gushes blood. The man sneers.. Robed man: “who are you?” Knight grabs the pendant and rips it from his neck. The desk begins to catch fire lighting up the room revealing her silver eyes through the helmet visor. She stares deep into his eyes with an anger that burns his soul. Robed man: "Those eyes...I know you" Knight begins digging her blade into the robed man's chest as slow as possible to inflict the maximum amount of pain. He begins screaming again and flailing his arms wildly trying to stop knight from taking his life. Knight raises him high above her head impaling him further and showering herself in his blood. Knight lowers him down near the fire and using her foot, slides the robed man off the tip of her blade. His body drops onto the burning desk. He cries out rything pain as his body begins to burn. Knight stands blood soaked and watches until he falls silent. Knight gazes at the pendant with sadness in her eyes. She ties the pendant around her neck and tucks it inside the armor to keep it safe. Having heard the screams, more robes down the hall sprinted towards the door to see what had happened. Knight slowly exits the room, blood still dripping from her armor. The robes come to a screeching halt as the gaze in awe at a blood soaked knight holding the most formidable blade stepping from the flaming room. The robes all pulled small bottles of black liquid like the one knight took, and began drinking them. Their eyes dilated and their breath rate rose. All the robes hunch over like a pack of wolves about to charge in for the kill. Knight looks to the ceiling and unleashes a roar that shakes the trees. She charges into the group ready to paint the stone walls with their gore. The robes thrash their swords in an unorganized fashion. Taking advantage of her more advanced training, knight methodically counters the robe onslaught. Blood and limbs fly through the air hitting the floor with a mushy thud. The sound of banging metal echoes up and down the corridor. A robe raises his sword to protect his face from knights blade but his flimsy steel shattered under the weight of the saw blade. Knight buried it deep into his head adding another tally to the saw blades kill count. The robes body is kicked to the floor before knight continues cutting through the group. When the last body fell, knight stood among the bodies covered in their blood and a little of her own. She drops to her knees out of breath and slowly cleans her blade using a piece of robe from one of the bodies. Knight gazes down the corridor and sees another massive door with the tarantula wasp insignia. She hangs her head taking a moment of peace before charging into the depths of hell.


“Hello? Is this the law offices of Bergstrom and Associates?” “Yes, may I ask who is calling?” “Hi um, well, is there a message machine I could leave a voice mail to... it’s uhh... it’s urgent.” “Please hold... “The mailbox belonging to ‘LARRY’ is full.” “Dammit!” I slammed the plastic receiver right back into place, making a loud noise I didn’t want anyone else to hear. The large black lady looked up from her paperwork through the glass with a stale smug. She had been assigned to strip search me yesterday. I guess she just always looks like she smelled something bad. I made eye contact with her, startled by the noise with a wild look in my face. She said plainly, audible but muffled through the thick scratched glass, “calm down or you’ll go upstairs”, no variable in her tone, like it happens daily. Ok deep breath, more oxygen will steady my hand, maybe. I fingered through the quarters in my hand. I had half a role left, plus some in my pants I shoved under the bed back in my room. A parade of crazies from upstairs stammered by like a pack of half living zombies and fairies with down syndrome. “I’M GONNA TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH A TOOTHPICK!” As they passed I felt my face twitch. I made it twitch, it made an ugly feeling, ugly and fun. I felt it morphing into crazy, like a schizophrenic scowl or a bi-polar bite. It was necessary to get through here. Turn a dove into a dagger, a mouse into a maniac. I had to pretend to survive, I had to believe to succeed. It was all an act, a mind game to get to high water. Plainly, I was planning my escape. I was attempting to dazzle authority with a great spectacle, enough to captivate them while I slipped away. I had made it this far. At least now there was no doubt they all believed I was crazy. “MEDS!” Screamed with true ritual and repetition, so was the line of sad adults and their drug addicted counterparts formed outside of the thick, scratched, barrier. The barrier made it clear, them and US, whatever side you were on. At this time, the only daily reminder I was required to be present to, I repeated the truth, my truth. One I forgot when I would wake up to the questionable blue stitched blanket and unforgiving linoleum. The truth that I am privileged, blonde, teenager wearing a paper gown in a psych ward in east L.A. This truth scares me. Without any contact to my previous life I could live in here forever. I am comfortable, I am dosed to oblivious bliss, and I can escape the hell that lies beyond the minimum security. Keeping us from them, keeping them from me. 6 months ago I would have expected to be here. 4 months ago I didn’t want to exist and last week I would have done anything to get my life back. It seems I did the best I could. I swallowed my medicine, dry. I started puking out the anti psychotics once I got here, except for the Adavan. I took the phone book. I wrote the numbers to law offices in crayon on a coloring book drawing of a leprechaun. I strayed from the “L” pages. I was now mapping out gentlemen’s clubs, pawn shops and hostels on familiar streets. I thought, I believed that if my plan wouldn’t succeed I would escape with my belongings, find a hostel and start work as a stripper. It was a choice I was prepared for. A possibility I was trying to wake myself up to. It was real. I was running out of quarters. On the 5th day in my paper gown, I finally got ahold of an actual voice on the other end of the telephone. “What does this regard?” “Well, I am a resident, or was a resident at Clarity House. It’s an inpatient rehabilitation facility, but I am positive they are performing illegal...” “So where are you calling from now? I don’t work with drug courts.” “Ok I know it sounds ridiculous, you probably assume I’m a drug addict. I assure you that this place is completely illegal. They switched my drug test with an actual drug addict and now my parents think...” I rehearsed this for months in my head. Months! But said aloud, I just sound... crazy, delusional. I sound like a drug addict. Another dead call. I could feel myself sliding down a pole, I could hear the thump of the club music get closer and closer. I could feel myself sink into the Los Angelas lost pit of dreams, far away from my identity. I had 5 quarters left. “MEDS!” I swallowed all my pills. The fog returned to my eyes, then my limbs. I tried to walk back to my room 20 feet away but the pills had stop bending my knees. A man who seemed overjoyed to be in a hospital psychiatric unit, whizzed past me. “HEH, that’s the psych ward strut, you got goin’ there, yeh yeh” I scowled, he kept grinning. I fell into sleep right away followed by a dream. On normal occasions I always remembered my dreams, even when I was very small, but for 3 months while I had been wrongly badgered to a pulp in a behavioral modification facility, I hadn’t had a single dream. This dream was dark and singular, not filled with oddities and outer planetary sceneries. I was strapped to a bed and a thin nurse with blonde hair was injecting something into my arm. She looked menacing, evil. She resembled Cathy from East of Eden or maybe me. I woke up and upon consciousness I remembered the name of a psychiatrist at Clarity House. We weren’t aloud to speak her name for some crazy reason I could only imagine was in the same light as my predicament. I looked for the name in the phone book but there were no matches. I had no computer, should I ask the orderlies to get the number from their iphone? Fuck no! We weren’t even allowed to have shoe laces! “Excuse me?” Glass door squeaks open. “You get another one of those “panick attacks?” “No I need the number for a psychiatrist, do you have numbers for that sorta thing?” “We have a resident doctor that comes every other day.” “But we do have an old directory from years back you can look at” I flipped through the tattered handout, sorting through unpronounceable ethnic names, names I used to think would be mine one day. HOLY SHIT. I found it. Dr. VU. I used the last 4 quarters on the call. It probably won’t work, she won’t pick up, it’l be disconnected. “Hello?” I froze. I felt like I was about to regurgitate my intestines. But I thought about the strip club, I thought about motels on sunset boulevard and my parents. I dove forth without my intended insanity and told her everything like I planned. My truth lead her to believe my circumstance and with that she assured me she was going to help me leave captivity, unscathed. I started crying, I started sobbing. No one had even spoke to me like a real person in months. A tear dropped on my hand, the hand that had been gripping my last quarter. I hung up, shaking with joy. I looked down at my quarter. 1990. The year I was born.


They had come by mail. Special jewelry. Kira had received them from her aunt, a real world traveler. Every year she came by for Kira's birthday with the best stories. She had already announced that this jewelry had a very special story. Her aunt couldn't wait to tell her, but because her own flight was delayed, the jewelry would arrive earlier. Kira opened the box carefully. It was late and the house was dark. So when Kira opened the box she didn't expect much. To her surprise, the jewelry gleamed as if a lamp hung above the box. Pearls, framed by gold, as stud earrings, a gold chain, bracelet and two rings. A women's and men's ring. Was that possible? Kira couldn't believe her eyes. Did she dream about so much beauty? She quickly closed the box again. Tomorrow her aunt would arrive and she had to pick her up from the airport early. Kira carefully put the box on the table. The living room, with its sloping walls, seemed lighter even with the closed box. The full moon stood out through the window, which seemed to be focusing precisely on the jewelry. With a click, Kira started closing the windows one by one. She stood with her back to the jewelry, locked the front door halfway up, then closed the windows on the other side. The last window wouldn't close. Kira tried to use more force, but her height made a difficult task. Suddenly, something seemed to move in the opening of the window. On the right, halfway down the middle. Kira was startled, let go of the window and jumped against the sofa. There was a hand and the fingers moved. Kira let out a little scream and put her hand to her mouth. Was anyone trying to get in? She looked around quickly. The other windows were closed. There was a tapping. Thick drops fell on the sloping windows and the hand began to move further down. An arm was now visible and a second hand seemed to be added. In the background there was a rumble in the air. A bright flash lit up the room. For a moment, a silhouette was clearly visible. Halfway out there was clearly a man outside. Both his arms were inside now, and he tapped the angled windowsill with his hands. His eyes were not visible. Would he even know that Kira was there? BOOM. Crackling sounded from all sides. Kira saw the light sprout from below. Lightning had struck. Everything was dark. Kira wanted to wake up from this nightmare. She squeezed her own arm in panic. That's supposed to work, right? She began to breathe faster and looked around in the dark. Only the jewelry seemed to glow. That was strange. She tried to move towards the jewelry, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. The sofa she was standing against seemed to sway with her movements. She felt as if she were trapped on the deck of a ship. She stared fearfully at the window again. Waking up was not an option, she had to see the man enter. Waiting in the pitch darkness she knew he was going to see her. Would he hurt her? Was he here because of the jewelry? She heard the man breathing heavily and saw drops of water fall to the floor through the window. There was a splash and shortly afterwards a leg appeared through the opening of the window. It wouldn't be long before the man was inside. I don't want, I don't want, I don't want to. Kira began to mumble. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the back of the sofa with her hands. The structure of the fabric, soft with occasional fluff, got through to her. If only she had a weapon. A bat or something else to protect herself. Her hands felt further on the sofa. An elongated object, cold to the touch, appeared to have appeared on her sofa. It was a bat! The man was now inside and walked past Kira to the jewelry. He leaned over the table and took the box with both hands. Kira held her breath, turned and raised the bat high in the air. "Stop!" In the doorway, in a midnight blue robe, stood her aunt. “Wake up, girl. It's the jewelry that is making a fool of the new owner. ” Kira stared at her aunt. The bat in her hands disappeared. Kira woke up with a start. She sat up on the couch with the jewelry box on her lap. A buzzing sound had roused her from sleep. A text message from her aunt. “I'm almost there, do not open the jewelry without me.