Time slips away faster than most people expect. Why only a couple minutes ago you were young and in your twenties exploring life to the limit. The breeze, light and airy, stroking the sides of your skin. Birds whistling tunes on key while flying high above, mirroring how you feel. The store clerks have smiles on their faces, ready to serve you on a whim. But, most importantly, the way the world was filled with the most radiant and perpetual color. The reds were strong and bright, while the blues were deep and understanding. But time will slowly let you forget. It will displace your memories and let you only keep a few. You wonder if the world was really as brilliant as you thought or if it was only your mind trying to make the good old days seem better than they were. The color in your skin has faded and the wrinkles around your eyes droop almost as if to be holding the weight of the past. But you're only in your late forties and this all seemed to be happening all too quickly. How could time take away your life and your dreams and your, well, everything? Days fade into nights and nights turn into days. You don’t even bother to look at the sun rise and set, for the colors are as mesmerizing as greys or blacks. The fireplace lights up the carpet and sofa that were placed thoughtfully years before. You moved them from time to time and the prints still stay set in the carpet. The kettle was whistling a high shrieking noise that nobody could ignore for long. You debate with yourself to just let the noise sink to the background. Your patience gives up after a minute and you haul yourself from the couch. You pour the boiling water into a mug that says Number 1 Best Dad and walk toward your cabinet. Your eyes carefully observe each packet. You let your mouth remember which flavor it was in the mood for. An untraditional flavor that had been sent by your kids catches your eye; Caramel Apple Dream . Underneath it read Herbal Tea . You mutter to yourself about how caramel apple and herbal seem oxymoronic. You hesitantly grab the packet, unsure if it was going to set your stomach in a mood, and add it to the boiling water. Grabbing your mug, you sit at your usual spot and wait for the tea to set in. The fire’s flames get excited and burst about until calmly claiming its place back against the log. It does that over and over again. You wonder to yourself how fire can get so happy repeatedly and then remind yourself that fire has no emotions and is just heat and light. The hot liquid burns the cracks in your lips but you had become immune to this type of pain years ago. You can feel the heat trickle through your whole body and finally, you shiver at the immediate warmth. You sit there for what seems like hours, arguing with yourself about how you should have bought a television to fill in the empty space. The shadow of your couch slowly starts moving across the floor, seeping into nothing. It is completely dark and the moon is glowing onto your skin. Little tiny spurts of flame still lie on the log of wood but then they too disappear, leaving only grey ashes to scatter around. The next morning was just like the last and your eyes reluctantly open but then close immediately to the sight of the bright light. You force yourself to reopen them and look around. Same old, same old. Your bed tucked in the corner and across from that a wooden dresser, crafted by some old stickler. At least that’s what they told you at the one and only yard sale you ever went to. Your bathroom seems a little grimmer than it did before. You grab your toothbrush and rub the bristles along your teeth, finishing off with your tongue. The mail was slow; only a couple of letters, all different sizes. All of it junk mail. You open each one and read through them examining everything as if they weren’t companies trying to steal your money. Your hands brush against one that you haven't seen before. Shipped from Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home . You open the letter and read the message, making sure not to miss a single detail. Dear Jack McNugget, We would like to inform you about the hospitalization of your father. He is suffering from cancer and only has a short time left. The hospital and Sunny Hill have been working very hard to ensure your father’s recovery, but he is not doing so well. We can only hope that you will come and visit him before it's too late. His last request is to say goodbye to you. Sincerely, Sunny Hill’s Manager Pete Douglas Thoughts were swirling through your mind and you couldn’t stay put and concentrate on just one. Your feet stumble to the trash as you throw all the letters inside, even the ones you hadn't taken the chance to read. Cancer, short time left, hospital, recovery, hope, last request, goodbye, father, Father. It had been years, maybe decades since you have last heard from this man. The man who now has the audacity to call himself your father. The one who missed kid’s recitals, weddings, Christmas’s, and Fourth of July weekends. This man was the epitome of failure. If anything he wasn’t family at all. He was just an old man dying in a nursing home. Dying . It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were not going. The last thing you want to do is give him the satisfaction of your presence at the last moments of his life when he never bothered to come to yours. The fulfillment of choosing your answer to the letter makes you calm down. Your leg stops shaking and then the little pings in your head slow down. You head for the cabinet and grab a packet of green tea, blaming the cause of the letter on the absurd flavor of caramel apple. The letters didn’t stop coming. The once-monthly letters turned into weekly terrors. You stop bothering to even open them and read the silly string of notes like do we have the right address? and let us know a date you are willing to come by . Your once standard day has turned into overflowing thoughts that keep bouncing around your head. Darlin’ you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go You notice the sound from the radio and ignore so many thoughts to listen to the words. If you say that you are mine I'll be here 'til the end of time So you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go? The words took a whole different meaning. Would you regret this decision for the rest of your life? The thought of your “father” sitting on his bedside with no hand to hold. Would you be doing the exact same thing that your “father” had done to you? But didn’t he deserve it? Wasn’t this one thing you held against him that he didn’t have? The kitchen table was scattered with loose pieces of paper all trying to convey one message. The glare from your glasses bounces into the sun. It was noon and lunchtime but you weren’t hungry in the slightest. The smell of sweet roses fills the air. You breathe in a long breath and let it out slowly, glancing at the open window that you swear you didn’t open. Your bushel of roses were in a high swing of motion; the buds taking life and twirling in the wind. Your brown cabinet and ill-favored white refrigerator stood stiller than before. Everything seemed still and hushed. Car Keys . The drive was long and trees were dispersed in every direction. Google maps was doing its fair share of talking, for it had not been used in years. Turn left in 100 yards. Turn left in 50 yards. Turn left in 10 yards. Turn left in 5 yards. Turn left in 2 yards. Turn left in 1 yard. Turn left in a half yard. The sign in the front of the building looks as if it is trying to portray happiness and don’t worry we will take care of your loved ones but don’t forget to pay, because we do have dumpsters in the back . The only feeling you get from it is dread. The dread of getting closer to a place that was going to either fill you with anxiety or content. Welcome to Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home This whole situation should have come with a warning; don’t open this letter, because you will most likely have to see your dad who is not really your dad die. Or worse, he does not die and he recovers and you have to get to know him again. But cancer was a killer disease and he was not going to recover, hopefully . You pull into the parking lot and turn off the ignition once you settle in your parking spot. You look up at the building and take in the greys and, attempted to be, happy yellows. The door looks inviting enough, while the windows are barred closed. You step out of your car and look at the building once more; last chance to back away . One of many similar-looking nurses leads you through a narrow hallway. The walls were filled with pictures and fliers. The floor was white but speckled with brown and grey spots. The clicking of her heels on the ground makes your palms sweat. “Oh I’m just so glad that you finally decided to come,” the nurse says merrily. “All he talks about is being able to see you.” She flashes you a smile, almost if to be a peace offering. “Well, that’s nice,” You can’t tell if you're lying to her or yourself but you gulp the words down and don’t say anything more. You turn down another hallway, same decor. She finally stops in front of a room with number 27 on the door. “Here we are,” she glances back at you and then knocks on the door. “Mr. McNugget, someone is here to see you,” she calls softly. “Who?” Says an unfamiliar familiar voice. “Your son,” she looks up at you, smiling reassuringly. “Let him in. Let him in,” the voice says. Each let him in, more lively than the first. The nurse opens the door and then touches your shoulder before turning down the hallway back to the front desk. You walk in and see the dim light trying to seep through the closed blinds. A small desk sits in the corner with a wooden chair. The bed across from the desk is all white with a white blanket and an even whiter pillowcase. There's a dresser next to the bed with pictures of you and your children. You squint at the sight of the photographs. “How long has it been?” He asks you. You look up to the person lying on the bed and take him all in. The little white hairs that tried to survive on the top of his head reveal the smooth skin. His face on the other hand is wrinkled and grayer than yours. His arms lay neatly beside his body covered in a blanket. His hand taps the side of his upper leg. “I don’t know,” you reply bitterly. “I do.” He states. “18 years.” “Okay,” you say with a harsh k. The clock on the wall ticks at the same rate as your father’s hand taps on his leg. Time passes by and minutes go ticking away. He stares at your face while you look away, glancing at different parts of the wall. This was worse than watching paint dry . “What have you been up to?” He asks you, trying to sound eager. “Not much,” you say. A minute goes passing by and then you release the tension that has been ready to explode for more than 18 years. “You never were around. I invited you to my kid's recitals, Christmas dinners, all the holidays. You never wanted to attend anything. And then when you said you would come, you never showed up. But what could I expect? You've always been this way and now you want me to come see you on your deathbed. It’s funny how things work you know.” Each word comes pouring out your mouth like how water comes out of a faucet. Some drops of water escape from the rush, but for the most part, it was all solid and clear. “At least I know that I’m a better person than you ever were. I was there for my kids, you know? They love me. They still call and ask how I’m doing because I never abandoned them.” The tears that you had kept repressed didn’t want to stay and you didn’t know if you were strong enough to not let them pour. He lay still not seeming to be affected by a single word that you said. His face was blank and mute. Emotionless. This enrages you even more. It was like he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he had hurt you, that he had abandoned you. “So you're not going to say anything. Did you just expect me to come over here and forget everything because you're about to die?” You let the last word slip out and then immediately close your mouth shut. “No.” “No? What do you mean no?” Your face was beet red and you knew it wasn’t going to turn lighter any time soon. “No, I didn’t expect you to forgive me.” He said, even more blankly than before. You pause for a second, letting your father feel the same uneasiness of not knowing your response right away. “Who said anything about forgiveness?” You start pacing around the room. It seems as if the walls are coming closer together, trying to crush you. “Well,” He was lost for words and just watched you pace. “I’m never going to forgive you,” you say while halting to a stop. “ Never .” The air around you becomes irritably suffering. Each breath is sharper than the first. Then you realize tears are falling from your eyes and hitting the ground below. You fall to the ground and start sobbing. You can't tell what ached more, your throat or your heart . You feel a presence next to you. It’s not tall, maybe 5’8”. Your father. He drops to the ground next to you and wraps his arm around you. You want to push him away, but you don’t because this was something that you needed that you didn’t know you ever needed. The comfort from your father. The man in your life that was supposed to teach you how to not be a boy, but become a man yourself. “Why?” You ask while sitting on the rocking chair on the porch outside the nursing home. “I didn’t think you wanted me to come and that the invitations were only a courtesy.” Your father says while rocking in the same motion as you. You both have tea in your hands and are sipping it slowly. The outburst in the room had only made things more complicated. It took a while for you to ease up. Finally, your father asked if you wanted to go outside and talk things through. You said yes. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If I was inviting you, of course, I wanted you to come.” You say flatly. “When I walked out on your mom when you were a kid. I did it because I thought I was going to be a burden. I know now that that was dumb and immature. I left her with the responsibility of raising a child. You turned out great by the way.” He turns to face you, attempting to smile, but the mood wasn’t right for a smile and he knew that. You spent several more days at the nursing home, talking with your father. You hadn't forgiven him just like you said and maybe you never will. He died on your seventh day there and you didn’t feel sad. It was a bittersweet feeling. You drove home that day with a blank face, not paying attention to the trees this time. When you walk inside your house you click on your voice machine and listen to your children's worried messages. When the machine beeps again, you get up and look over outside your window. Something was different. The roses were a strong red. You look up at the sky and it is a fair blue. You then turn around quickly and look at your table. The brown is deep and rich. Your refrigerator is a milky white. You walk swiftly through your house and notice how every color is intense and mesmerizing. You walk outside and stand still, feeling the sensation of the light wind brush against your clothes. The birds are singing a tune that you swear you’ve heard on the radio. Your neighbors walk their dogs on the sidewalk looking at you with a question on their face but smile and wave anyway. Maybe time heals and maybe it doesn’t. Maybe this wasn’t real and you were only imagining this. Maybe you were always stuck in your own head, not able to notice the color. Or maybe your mind dug up the color that was hidden deep inside. You watch the sunset that night with a smile on your face. The lavish oranges and pinks seeped into one another, slowly fading away. You turn your head to the ever so changing sky and mouth I forgive you .


The myth of Dragons have been greatly misrepresented over the years. The first falsehood being that they were in fact a myth, the second being that they were large and terrifying reptiles set on destroying mankind. A dragon's size was directly proportionate to the size of it's gold hoard, but no dragon has ever gotten more than one or two coins. There are rumors that Mr. Chinue at the top of the hill has a large dragon, protecting his large pile of gold, but personally I just think they're rumors. Shop keepers especially, are good about keeping the dragon coins away from the non-dragon coins. That was another falsehood, Dragons don't care who owns the coin, as long as they travel with it. Most people when they go shopping, take their little coin purse complete with a dragon. The tricky part is making sure to trade the entirety of the Dragon's hoard, as not to upset the dragon. Some people have to pay for a tiny loaf of bread with a whole gold coin just to keep the dragon happy. You can't split it up, which is why most dragons only have small hoards. It really is a pain when you're looking to buy and the shop keeper doesn't have a dragon hoard the correct size to give you proper change. Sometimes you get lucky and get a little more back, but more often than not you get shorted change. This is just an expectation now when you go shopping. Taking a dragon from it's hoard can be dangerous, it's not going to burn down a village but you might lose a finger, and the dragon will ALWAYS find it's way back to its hoard. Which is actually my current problem right now. See, I just learned all of this about dragons today. Like 5 minutes ago in fact. Dragons aren't common in the western province where I am from, but here in the eastern province? They're everywhere! So when I spent my gold coin earlier, I got 3 silver coins and a tiny dragon back in change. Then when I saw a jacket, I spent 2 of my silver coins. Unfortunately unaware of the consequences that would follow this action. You see, my dragon was sleeping when I had spent his coins. It wasn't until later, when I was on my way back to the Western province, that I heard the high pitched wail from inside my coin purse. Confused by the sound of distress, I peaked in and immediately got a tiny green dragon attached to my nose. With a startled yelp, I swiped at my face sending the dragon tumbling towards the ground. With a high pitched battle cry, the small reptile flung itself back at me and attached itself to my shoulder. One second it was fine, sure it's claws dug a little deep into my brand new coat, but it had seemed to calm down. The next second a high pitched cry was released from it's mouth, directly into my ear. This cry went on for 10 minutes before I tried to bribe the creature. "Here dragon," I tsk'd lightly, holding up a gold coin. "I'm sorry I gave away your silver coins but you can have this one!" The high pitched squeal didn't stop. Eventually on the road I met a couple travelers who were all too happy to trade me 3 silver coins for my gold coin. A complete rip off if you asked me, but I was desperate. Holding the coins out to the dragon as a peace offering, the cry stopped for a moment. The dragon sniffed the coins, turned his nose up at them and went back to his crying. By the time evening had fallen and I had set up camp, the cry had become ingrained in my head as the most irritating noise ever, and my new jacket was completely destroyed on the right shoulder. Pulling the jacket over my head, I finally fell asleep with the screaming still continuing. -_-_-_- Waking up the next morning was peaceful... and surprising. The desperate cries of the dragon had finally stopped and I could finally think again. Looking around, I couldn't see the dragon anywhere. Everything else was the same, I still had all my possessions, I still had a hole in my new jacket. I was just down a dragon. Good riddance. I thought as I gathered up my stuff. Finally picking up my coin purse, I was surprised by the odd lump that occupied it.


Holy fuck, that hurts! Sitting in the tattoo chair she writhed in pain, as the tattoo artist carved the piece onto her wrist. “Embrace the pain!” said her best friend James. “I’m trying to!” she exclaimed. The artist ignored both of them, as he was completely focused on the task at hand and moved the needle back and forth her skin in an intricate manner. She had specifically asked for a unique piece, a symbol she had seen on the internet a few years ago. The piece was pretty striking, looking like an old, occult, mystic piece that was ancient. She thought it looked badass. The tattooist was almost done, and James had sat down on the sofa next to the door. Mira was so tired, sore and exhausted. It had been a few hours. The tattooist was finished with the masterpiece, they paid and left the parlour. It was late evening in summer. The air was still warm, and Myra’s tattoo was wrapped up nicely to avoid leaking. “that was intense!” Myra said. She couldn’t help but smile. She had wanted this tattoo for ages. She and James went home to their flat, as they were roommates. Entering the apartment Myra headed straight for her bedroom, tired and ready to sleep after the painful but wonderful experience. She had put on her pjs and closed the bedroom window, peering out into the quiet night, The flat they lived in had the bedrooms faced towards the small forest behind the neighborhood. She admired the night sky before she shut the window and got into bed. She heard James shut his bedroom door in the next room besides hers. She had fallen asleep quite fast. She jolted awake by a big thump coming from the forest facing wall. It sounded like someone had slammed their body right into it, with full force. She jumped out of bed and turned the lights on. She slowly walked over to the window. She didn’t dare open it, but tried brushing it off as an animal accidentally running into the wall. She looked out into the dark forest, but saw nothing, just trees. It was quiet now. Her tattoo was warm and sore, and since she was up she might as well go into the bathroom clean it. She went out of her and heard a faint scratching noise from James’ bedroom. She put her ear to the door to listen in. The only thing she heard was his snoring. She continued into the bathroom and rinsed her tattoo in cool water. It looked almost as if it was glowing, a faintly red glow seething from the dark black ink. But it was probably just her sleepy mind exaggerating a little swelling and blood. Pretty common for a fresh tattoo. She went back to bed, and tried to sleep. But it was impossible. She kept wondering about that loud bang. The moon didn’t shine through her window anymore. It was completely dark. After a while, Myra started getting sleepy. She started drifting to sleep, when... “Tick. Tick. Tick.” A sound. Like someone tapping on glass. It came from the bedroom window. She froze. Listened closely. “Tick. Tick. Tick.” Again. What was it? Was it branches tapping on the glass? No. No... There weren't any trees, right outside the window. She was lying facing the bedroom wall. She had to see. She slowly turned around, and there was.. Nothing. The only thing she could see were the pale grey curtains she had kept open. Suddenly, she exclaimed and grabbed her wrist. Her tattoo was searing with pain. It was excruciating. Why would it suddenly hurt?? She jumped out of bed, grasping it firmly, opened up the bedroom door and - She stood in the doorway, unable to move. It was James. He was lying on the floor, face down. She was paralyzed. The pain in her wrist had faded at the sight of her roommate. Sitting crouched on top of his lifeless body, was a grotesque, pale, creature, with a gangly, elongated body, skin that looked decayed and rotting, spread taut over its bones. There were big open wounds on its body, with pus and maggots festering on it. It had thin, spindly limbs, and from its fingers was what looked like long human fingernails. The creature hadn't spotted her yet, as it was busy devouring a chunk of flesh it had ripped off of James' corpse. This isn't real! This is a nightmare! She thought to herself, desperately trying to convince herself she would wake up any moment. About to tear off another lump of meat with its sharp looking fingers, the creature abruptly stopped. The creature stood up, in a distorted, twitching manner. Standing straight, it was taller than any man. The only sound it made, was the sound of blood dripping on the floor from its hands, as it slowly turned around. Its face was inhuman and grisly. It had a sickly pale green hue, and the hollow, sunken eyes had huge, greyish white pupils, almost filling them. The mouth... Wasn't there. The only thing that was there, was a big, empty void with what had to be teeth. Sharp, serrated, yellow, rotting teeth. It glared at her, unmoving. Unexpectedly, the creature let out a piercingly loud screech, making Myra put her hands over her ears, close her eyes and scream. In the blink of an eye the creature had dropped on all fours and skittered across the floor to where she stood. The stench of rotted flesh and blood assaulted her nostrils as the creature stood only a few inches away from her. Standing on its long, ghastly limbs, it stood tall over her, looking down. Petrified, Myra started quivering in fear. The creature crouched down, coming face to face with her. With a rattling wheeze the creature uttered "T-t-thankssssss" Myra gasped. A chill went down her spine. The creature just talked!? She thought, still stupified. "W... why?" She managed to whisper, in a quivering voice. "You ssssaved me" it hissed from its gaping hole. "No I didn't!" She said, feeling upset over the creatures accusations. "I haven't done anything! Leave me alone!" She was screaming at it now, tears running down her face in fear and anger. The creature reached out and grabbed her arm, twisting its fingers around her wrist. "LET GO, IT HURTS!" She yelled, feeling her arm in excruciating pain. "T-t-thisss" it rattled and pointed its sharp nail on her fresh tattoo. Myra's tattoo was glowing red, the symbols feeling like they had been branded on her skin. The creature made a noise that sounded like gurgling laughter. It put its own hand next to hers, and there, quickly fading, the very same symbols on its skin. As the symbol manifested on hers, she suddenly felt her arm break. She screamed in agony, and the creature stepped back, almost as if it was surprised. "WHY DID Y-" just as she was about to accuse the gholish thing, she passed out. Lying on the floor, Myra opened her eyes to see a young woman standing over her. "Now it's your turn." The young woman said, looking into the pale greyish white eyes of a rancid, rotting cadaver with spindly limbs, screeching and wheezing agonisingly in the opening of a door.


“I couldn’t believe it, Mom,” Ella said. “She's done the all things you expect at her age--picky eating, backtalk, drawing on the walls with crayons--but this was a whole new level. I walked into Charlotte's room, and her clothes were in rags--all of them. She’d got her hands on a pair of scissors and cut holes in all her jeans. She cut the sleeves off her t-shirts and--why are you laughing?” The breathless laughter through the phone grated on Ella’s nerves. “This isn’t funny. Do you know how much we spend on clothes for her? She outgrows them almost as fast as we can buy them, and most of these were brand new. I’m at wits’ end.” Hannah managed to get her laughter under control. Mostly. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, still giggling a little. “I know exactly how trying that sort of thing is. It sounds like my curse has finally found you.” “ Curse? Mom, don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?” “The mother’s curse, Ella. Every mother says it at least once, when her beloved child drives her to the edge of madness. At some point, you’re bound to say, ‘I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.’ It’s almost guaranteed to come true sooner or later.” “Oh my goodness, Mom.” Ella ran a hand through her hair, torn between laughing and crying. “That’s exactly what I did say to her.” “You’ll say it again,” said Hannah. “Daughters are a special challenge, I’ve always found. Not that your brother was any picnic. I remember the last time I said it to you, the night you tried to sneak out to that silly concert--” Ella cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Well, I suppose the daughter’s curse is one day learning just what she put her mother through.” Or waking one day to find she's become her mother, she thought with a guity twinge. Ella laughed again, a little forced this time. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Give my love to Dad, okay?” Ella spent a few moments breathing deeply, remembering the incident her mom had mentioned. They could laugh about it now, but it was still a sore spot with Ella. When she thought back to her teens, the ghost of old anger still rose in her, the old frustration and restlessness. She remembered daily battles with her mother over everything: her hair, her clothes, her dates. Nothing was ever good enough. The worst memory of all was the night of the Spaceman concert. Ella still cringed, thinking back. On the day of the concert, Ella lay on her bed, listening to music on her headphones and being the happiest girl in the world. She blew a kiss to the Spaceman poster on the wall, imagining that the enigmatic smile he wore was just for her. Tonight, her dreams would all come true. Last week, as she’d waited for the bus after school in the autumn chill, her best friend Janice had come running to her, screaming and waving two tickets in the air. Finally, speechless, she had just handed the tickets to Ella, who stared at them in disbelief. “No way,” Ella said. “No way!” “I won them on the radio,” Janice shouted. “One of those contests where you have to be the seventh caller--Ella, I was the seventh caller. We’re going to see Spaceman!” “We?” Ella asked, stunned. “You... you want me to come with you?” “There are two tickets, dummy. You’re my best friend. Who else would I take?” Janice threw an arm around her, her dangly earrings catching in Ella’s hair. Spaceman was Ella’s idol. She had every one of his albums, even the bad ones, and her room was plastered with posters of his otherworldly face. Now she was going to go to his concert, stand in the crowd, be in the actual same room with him, breathing the same air, and-- “Ella? Earth to Ella,” Janice gave her a little shake and looked into her eyes with concern. “Are you gonna faint?” “No,” said Ella. She swayed, suddenly lightheaded. “Maybe.” She sat down on a bus bench before her knees could give way. She had never been so excited in all her seventeen years. “You’ll come, right, Ella?” Janice said. Ella stared at her. “Are you kidding me? Of course, I will.” There was just one little problem. There was no way Ella’s parents would ever let her go. They made a plan, a sneaky one, as Janice’s parents were just as lame as Ella’s. Ella would tell her parents that she was going for a sleepover at Janice’s house, and Janice would tell her parents that she was going for a sleepover at Ella’s, and then they would meet at the bus stop and sneak off to the concert. “What do we do when it’s time to go home, though?” Ella asked. “It’ll be really late, Ella,” Janice said. “Your folks will be asleep. Just sneak in and go to bed. If they ask in the morning, say you got sick and my dad drove you home. I’ll say the same.” It was foolproof. Ella’s mom readily agreed to the sleepover. Hannah Thompson didn’t like to admit it, but these days it was a relief to have an occasional break from her younger daughter, so long as she knew that Ella would be safe. It was all settled. Tonight, after dinner, she would be on her way to the concert. She lay on her bed, singing along with her favorite song, “Starship Journey,” and daydreaming about how Spaceman would look out into the audience and their eyes would meet. He would beckon to her, the crowd would part, and she would walk forward to stand before him under the smoky blue stage lights. He would take her hand, look deep into her eyes, and say-- “Ella! I’ve called you three times. Dinner is ready.” Ella yanked her headphones off and jumped up. Her mom was standing in the doorway, red in the face from shouting. Ella wanted to yell at her for barging in without knocking but forced herself to smile instead. “Sorry, Mom,” Ella said as meekly as she could, brushing past her into the hallway. “What’s for dinner?” “Never mind that.” Hannah put her hands on her hips and looked Ella up and down disdainfully. “What on earth have you done to your clothes? You look disgraceful.” Ella looked down at herself. Her jeans were fashionably torn and frayed. She had cut the collar off her shirt so that it hung attractively off one shoulder like the girls in music videos wore. “I look cool , Mom. You wouldn’t understand.” She tried to keep her tone light, but she could feel an argument brewing. “Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that you have chosen to destroy the very expensive jeans that you insisted I buy you, and now--” “Blah, blah, blah,” Ella said, flapping her fingers and thumb together. “They’re my jeans, so what’s the big deal, anyway? I like them this way.” Hannah’s nostrils flared. “The neighbors will think our family is so poor you have to walk around in rags. You look trashy, and I won’t stand for it. You turn right around and put on something decent this minute, Ella Thompson.” “You wouldn’t know style if it jumped up and bit you, with those frumpy dresses you always wear. One day I’m going to get away from you and those awful dresses! I’ll move to New York or Los Angeles and be a famous fashion designer, and then you’ll see...” Ella trailed off. Her mother’s eyes had narrowed dangerously, and she knew she had gone too far. “All I see,” Hannah said in a low, steely voice, “is a bratty, disrespectful little girl who isn’t going anywhere tonight. You can forget about your sleepover. You’re grounded.” Everything Ella said after that only made it worse. She begged and pleaded. When that didn’t work, she showered her mother with compliments, swearing she hadn’t meant what she said about her being frumpy and uncool, all to no avail. Her mother simply looked at her in disappointment, shook her head, and said, “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Ella could have screamed. She did scream, in fact. She screamed, ran into her room, slammed the door, and threw herself on the bed in a storm of tears. She refused to believe that she was going to miss the concert. Meeting Spaceman was her destiny. She phoned Janice and explained the situation, sobbing and raging. Janice listened sympathetically and then made a daring suggestion. “You’ll just have to sneak out.” Ella sat in shocked silence. Could she sneak out? There was a tree next to her window. All she had to do was climb out, balance on the windowsill, and grab a branch. It wasn’t even that high up. She had been prepared for a certain level of dishonesty, but that was too far. “I can’t do that.” “That sucks, Ella, but I get it. Would you still cover for me if I go without you?” Janice asked. Go without her? Ella was silent for a long moment, seeing Spaceman once again holding his hand out to her under the smoky blue light. His strange eyes gazed deeply into hers. I need you, Ella , he said. Come explore the stars with me . Ella sat up and wiped her eyes. “Meet me at the bus stop in thirty minutes,” she said and hung up. Climbing out the window was easy, and the tree was a sturdy one with closely spaced branches. Ella couldn’t believe she’d never tried sneaking out before. She dropped to the ground and headed to the bus stop, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t followed. She waited there for a long time, growing more nervous by the minute. What if her parents decided to go for a nighttime drive and caught her? She knew how unlikely that was, but she couldn’t shake the thought. Ella looked up the street, watching for Janice. It was well past the time they’d agreed to meet. She could see her breath, and the air was icy on the patches of skin exposed by the meticulously frayed rips in her jeans. The bus came around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of her. The door opened, and Ella waved awkwardly and stood still until it closed again. The bus drove away, leaving her feeling colder and more nervous than before. Janice wasn’t coming, she realized, disappointed and a tiny bit relieved. She had no choice but to go home. As she walked back toward her house, she started to worry about a new problem. How would she get in without being seen? Her mom was probably already asleep, but her dad liked to stay up late watching TV on weekends. If he was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, there was no way she’d be able to go in through the front door. She wasn’t confident that she could climb back in through the window, but she’d try it if she had to. It was really cold now. Ella shivered and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, wishing she’d dressed more warmly. When she got to her house, she silently crept up and peeked through the window. The lights were on, but she didn’t see anyone, and her dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Where was he? It didn’t matter. Now was her chance to slip in. She patted the pockets of the thin, stylish denim jacket she wore, looking for her house key, only to realize that she’d left it in the pocket of her warm coat that still hung in the hall closet. The window was the only way. She ran over to the tree and climbed. Balancing carefully on a sturdy limb, she leaned out and reached for the window. A sudden brightness made her turn quickly. Her dad’s car was pulling into the driveway. Ella panicked. Her foot slipped, and she lost her grip and plummeted toward the leaf-strewn grass. The back of her jacket caught on a branch, yanking her to a stop just above the ground. She dangled there helplessly as her dad approached. “I think you kids would call this ‘getting busted,’” her dad said, lifting her down. For the next hour, her parents took turns berating her. Ella hunched down in a chair, angry and ashamed but grateful to be warm, as the story gradually unfolded. Her mom had called Janice’s mom to explain that Ella was grounded and wouldn’t be able to sleep over that night. Janice’s mom, puzzled, had asked if she meant Janice couldn’t come to the Thompsons’ house as planned. Hannah had told Janice’s mom that she must be confused. It was Ella who was supposed to visit Janice. Janice’s mom had said that she certainly was confused, as Janice was getting ready to go to Ella’s house at that very moment. “Janice is grounded until college for this little trick,” Hannah told Ella, wagging a finger at her, “and so are you. Of all the selfish, sneaky, underhanded--” Ella couldn’t take it anymore. “Whatever, Mom. Are you going to lecture me all night?” “Don’t you dare take that tone with me after I caught you trying to sneak out, young lady!” “Actually,” Ella could not resist saying, though she knew it would only get her in deeper trouble, “you caught me trying to sneak in .” Ella expected an explosion of anger at this, but instead, to her horror, Hannah’s shoulders slumped. She seemed suddenly old and fragile. She looked at Ella, and in a trembling, bitter voice, she said, “I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.” Ella had never felt so awful in her life. There had been little more to say. Ella had been grounded for a long time, though not quite until college. Her friendship with Janice never recovered. There was too much anger and distrust on both sides after that. Gradually, though, she and her mom became friends. Ella started to realize how much of Hannah’s behavior came from deep love and anxiety for Ella’s well-being, and she cut her mom some slack. Hannah began to understand Ella’s restlessness and need for freedom. They both learned to give each other some room to breathe. Years later, when she and Dan were newly married, they went to a Spaceman concert together. Ella was excited and the show was amazing, but it wasn’t the thrill of a lifetime anymore. She was over her infatuation with Spaceman. Ella sat at her kitchen counter, the phone still in her hand, as the memories washed over her. She tried to picture Charlotte as a sulky, impossible teenager and hoped that she could handle it. She looked at her watch. Speaking of Charlotte, it was time to go and pick her up from school. She shook her head to clear it, grabbed her car keys, and left. “How was school, honey?” Ella asked as they left the school grounds. “It was okay,” said Charlotte. “Can I go to Jessie’s for a sleepover this weekend?” Ella looked sharply at her in the rearview mirror. She’s only six, Ella. It’s fine, she thought. “Sure, sweetie,” she said, then paused for a long moment. "I like your outfit today." Charlotte's eyes widened. "Really, Mom? Thanks. When I grow up, I want to be a fashion designer like you." Ella's heart turned over. "You'll be a great one. You have a good eye." She reached over to turn on the radio as Chalotte grinned with delight and struck poses in her the back seat. As they were pulling into the driveway, the radio DJ said, “Sad news today in the world of music. Rock legend Spaceman has passed away from cancer at the age of forty-nine. The world has lost a great artist. He will never be forgotten.” The opening chords of “Starship Journey” began to play as Ella sat stunned. “Mom?” Charlotte said when Ella made no move to get out of the van. Ella snapped out of it, shut off the engine, and went around the side to help Charlotte out of her seat. By the time they got into the house, Dan was already calling her cell phone. She threw herself down on the couch and answered. “I just heard about Spaceman, Ella. I’m so sorry, hon. Are you okay?” “Oh, Dan. Of course I’m okay.” Then she burst into tears. “I guess I’m not really,” she sobbed. “I feel so silly. We never even met, but somehow I feel like I’ve lost a dear friend. I feel like, I don’t know, like--” “Like part of your youth is gone forever,” Dan said. “Like when he died, he took that young, starry-eyed girl with him.” Ella let out a sad chuckle. “Yes. Though I remember that girl wanted so much for Spaceman to take her with him, away into the stars.” “I’m glad she stayed here on the ground with me,” Dan said softly. “I love you, Ella. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She ended the call and rubbed her face, wondering what she would tell Charlotte about her outburst. Then she felt a soft little hand resting on hers and something fuzzy pressed against her face. She opened her eyes as Charlotte silently climbed onto the couch and hugged her. “I brought Captain Cuddles to help you feel better. She’s the best teddy bear when you’re sad. I’m sorry about your friend, Mom,” Charlotte said, looking up at her with wide, worried eyes, “but you still have me.” Ella pulled her daughter and Captain Cuddles into her arms and held them both tight. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said, “I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.”


He slides around the corner, presses his back tightly against the wall, and they rush past him without noticing. Resting hands on knees, panting and sweaty, he takes a moment to catch his breath. They are after him. He has been running through this building for hours. Finding him has become a competition. We all want to be the one that traps the rabbit. He knows me from a time when I was on his side. I'm not sure if he will still trust me, but what's the worst that can happen? I gesture towards my door offering sanctuary, mouthing, "Come on! They are right behind you!" He scurries over, and darts under my arm just as a team of officers turns the corner. I shut the door behind him, and brace myself as he tries to force it open. "Hey, I found him! He's in here!" He is trapped and knows it. His executioners walk in behind me. He sulks over to one of my desks. We shoot each other sideways glances as we take our positions. We nod silently saying, "Good game." His case manager storms in followed by a suit. She immediately begins to deliver the lecture she has been waiting all day to give. I sit closest to him. He won't hit me... but her... none of us are too sure about her. The suit sits closest to the door, looking uncomfortable and annoyed. He tries to explain why he ran, but she had hours of chasing to prepare this speech. There were no planned pauses for his input. He is fidgeting and looking around the room. He knows I won't hesitate to tackle him if he makes a play for the door. He and I have been down that road together at "the other place." He locks eyes with me and I see big tears welling up. I can hear him telepathically asking for help. I want to scream at her to, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" but he must have been reading my mind too because he bolts up and yells it. The suit says in his best authoritative voice, "Kevin, stop." I think to myself, "What's that bitch gonna do." He and I lock eyes again and I ask, "So, are you taking any art classes this year?" He looks stunned. He wants another reason to yell but there isn't one. It dawns on him that I am throwing him an out and he grabs it with both hands. "Not yet, but I want to." In the background the lecture from Mr. & Mrs. Bitch continues, but we have entered into our own conversation bubble. In our bubble it is calm and quiet and the topic is art. "You know there are a lot of great courses offered here." We maintain intense eye contact because this reprieve is fragile. "Is there a sculpture class? Remember when I made you... POP! I had heard it in the background too. The Bitch crossed the line. She is already at the phone and looking up the number for his mom. He begins to shake. "You gonna call her so you can tell her more lies? Just like with that email you sent her." He is getting angry again and his eyes are darting around the room. He is starting to panic. "You know FUCK YOU BITCH! I've put up with fifteen years of abuse and you know that." "I didn't lie in that email. It's not my fault if your mom didn't undesta..." "It is your fault! I am back in that house now and I hate it. What happened over that email is YOUR FAULT." She moves uncomfortably in her chair and looks away. She does feel the guilt. She changes her tone and softly says, "I am so sorry if you got in trouble because your mom didn't understand my email." He senses her weakness and lobs into his verbal assault. He goes on about how she lies and how much she hates him. He begins to make fun of her for the tears in her eyes when I turn my gaze back towards him. "I know you don't like her, but do you know your brother hates ME?" This phrase strikes him speechless. I have known him for years. I protected him from the bigger kids when we were at "the other place." He has cried in my arms more than once. "It's true. I am the one that has to boss him around and he hates me for it. I was just trying to figure out what to do with him before we found out you were missing. He is worried sick about you right now." He studies my face to for a tell. I hold his gaze and continue. "Did you hear her? What she said? She said she's sorry and that you're right. Do you think you can forgive her?" His face twists with rage and tears stream down his cheeks. He looks at her and begins screaming again. I reach out and hold his hand. "You know, all of the problems with your mom were there before her. You can't blame her for what your mom did." And just like when he was small he sobs in my arms. On cue, his brother walks in. Kevin runs up and hugs him. I would like to say he hugged Mrs. Bitch as well, but truth be told, as soon as she got him into the hall he took off running.


Edward Clark is on his way home to his loving wife and three kids. Fresh roses fall from the passenger seat to the car floor as he comes to a screeching halt at the stop light. His phone ringing is the cause of the minor distraction. Hastily answering the phone, he says “Hey honey.” with a calming tone. He has been submerged in work recently and has not had much time with his wife. Edward is a detective for the Seattle police department and he just closed a murder case earlier this afternoon. He cannot wait to share the good news with his wife. “Honey? I’m not your Huckleberry Clark. We just got a call on a murder-suicide. 14425 Coachella Rd. I’ll see you there.” The Sergeant’s voice blew through Edwards phone. He must have mis-read the Caller-ID. Edward gathers his thoughts as he presses on the gas peddle just as the light turns green. Rain begins to fall down onto his windshield. “Murder-suicide? Can’t the CSI unit handle this easily, what am I needed for?” Edward presses the speaker option on his phone and begins to search for the address in his maps. “Well we think it’s a murder suicide, there’s a note, dead bodies, and a gun in the suspects hand registered to him. However, the neighbors are giving out a different story, so we want you to take a look around.” Edward turns his car around to follow the route provided on the GPS of his phone. He glances down at the clock on his cars dash and sees that its 7:03PM. He imagines Nancy at home most likely finishing up dinner, and trying to round up the kids. “Alright, but I’ve got dinner with my wife tonight.” Edward states. “You’ll be in and out, I promise.” The line disconnects and Edward is left alone in the silence of his car. He sends his wife a text saying that he will be home late for dinner. His car comes to another screeching halt as he glances up from his phone and sees that the traffic light has turned red. The car rounds the corner off the main street when the light turns green. Deep within the suburbs, the windshield blades clear the glass of the heavy Seattle rain. He pierces his eyes for the house address when suddenly a sea of red and blue lights reflect of the water droplets on his windshield. Once the car is parked in front at the back of the long line of police cars, he sees a message from his wife. She doesn’t seem too upset with him. He promised he would be home for dinner, but she understands that his career is demanding. She always told him that his dedication is what she admires in him the most. The detective exits his car and heads straight for the yellow police tape. A cop standing on the other side of the tape waves a hand toward Edward. “I’m the detective.” Edward states as he exposes his badge to the rainfall. “Of course sir, right this way.” The police man lifts up the tape for the detective. Neighbors can be seen from the windows of their home looking toward the crime scene. The house appears very normal. No signs of forced entry. The yard is well kept, aside from the hedges that brush up agains Edward as he approaches the front door. Stopping at the welcome home mat he brushes his shoes off. He remembers when Nancy first bought the welcome home mat for their home. They had just gotten married and Edward was granted his promotion to detective. In celebration, he purchased a house for he and Nancy, before the kids came into the picture. He remembers his wife smiling at him as she set the mat down in front of their new home. Edward enters the dark home that is absent of all light. The flash of a camera goes of to his right lighting up the living room wall. He remembers how his wife wanted to paint a wall in their living room red. He hated the idea of that accent color, but he loved the idea of a happy wife more. How he wishes to be walking into his light filled home right now toward that red wall where he would hang his keys up on the wall. Carefully stepping over the family picture frames that have fallen from the wall, he steps into the kitchen. He sees a knife missing from the wooden set piece that rests on the counter top. He takes note how it is moved more from the back of the kitchen wall. Nancy would always get on him for not keeping the knife set flush with the back of the kitchen wall. Edward looks to the forensic agent dusting the counter top for fingerprints. “Did we find that missing knife?” He questions. “It’s in the wife’s hand. Looks like she used it in self defense.” The forensic agent gets back to analyzing the counter top as Detective clark turns around to see the fridge. Terribly drawn photos are attached to the cold metallic surface of the fridge and he remembers the artwork his daughter Jasmine will make him everyday in Art class. He has a folder at home back in his office. On the hardest days of work he will open that folder to remind himself that there is still good in the world. Exiting the kitchen and heading down the hall way he witnesses the array of family photos that cover the walls. He sees frame up against the wall that is cracked and remembers the tears on his wife’s face that formed when a picture she had broke during the move. The frame was given to her by her mom that had just recently passed away before they moved homes. Nancy always had a thing for being overly sentimental. His foot lands down on the wooden stair case causing a loud crack. Grasping the hand rail to his left he begins to walk up the stair case, hearing a creak with each step. As he reaches the top of the stair case another flash from a camera goes off and lights up the wooden floor. Glancing down he sees the wood stained and remembers when his daughter spilled a bowl of tomato soup on the floor of their white carpet. His daughter was so apologetic and ashamed that Edward couldn’t even pretend to be mad at her. Mistakes happen, and he always wants his daughter to be laughing, not crying. He remembers wiping her tears away and bringing a smile back to her once frowning face as Nancy focused on cleaning the mess. A metallic smell filled his nostrils as he walked into the master bedroom of the home. The sheets on the bed were in a disarray. He walks into the bathroom and sees the mirror stained. Nancy would always have to clean up the stain left on the bathroom mirror from his toothpaste. He would always shake his tooth brush violently causing the toothpaste to splash up onto the mirror. It would leave the biggest white stains right by the sink. She would always roll her eyes as she wiped the mirror clean. The forensic agent sampled the mirror with a cotton swab and placed it inside of a sterile bag. Edward walks out of the once glamorous bathroom and back into the bedroom. The metallic smell still lingers in the room. He brushes past a few more forensic agents as he exits the room and heads down the hall way to the last door on the left. Edwards hands tremble as he pushes open the door that reads “Baby John’s Room”. The scent of baby powder overwhelms his senses. He thinks back to building the nursery in his home when he found out that Nancy was pregnant for the first time. She had such a vibrant glow to her skin. He remembers the difficulty that came with setting up the crib. He never was a handy man. Detective Clark is alone in the baby’s room as he steps over toys that were left out on the floor. A thought comes to the front of his memory of how he would always walk in and kiss his daughter on the forehead no matter how late he came home. Sometimes it would wake her up and send her in a fit of crying, but Nancy never seemed to mind. Edward walks closer to the crib as a metallic smell begins to over power the baby powder. He glances down at the crib and tears pour from his eyes. His cellphone sends shockwaves through his legs as it begins to vibrate. Assuring that it is his wife calling his quickly answers the phone, concealing any sign of terror in his voice. She speaks to him in a tone that brings warmth to his heart. He smiles as he turns away from the desolate crib, focusing only on his wife’s voice. “I’m headed home right now honey. I love you.” Edward hangs up the phone and walks out of lifeless home. He doesn’t say a word to any of the forensic agents. He passes by them on the front yard as he steps out into the rain that has started to slow down from earlier. He doesn’t wish to interview any of the neighbors or call the sergeant. Edward just drives toward his home where he can hug his wife, kiss his kids on the forehead, and be a loving father. At least for the next twelve hours, until he has to grab his badge and gun, leaving his family behind as he investigates another case.


I'm writing a story about losing a lover and I dont know how to make it more sad. The title is "you belong to me" which is what the woman whispers to her spouse. They constantly revisit the place they first met on their anniversaries and during the night, they dance to the same song and she always whispers "you belong to me". One day she dies of a stroke (after 49th anniversary) and the man (70s by now) goes to the place they met, in their 50th and listens to the song they'd always dance to, while looking at old photos. When the song stops, he hears a whisper in his head, "you belong to me". Now how do I make it more sad? I'd love to share it but, I'm doing a young writers competition at one of my states university and I dont wanna have the story plagiarized before I send it to the judges and get disqualified.


I thought of you when the subway was too slow. As we were moving I think the tunnel must’ve been too small for the train because the sides scraped up against the walls and made the whole thing screech and sputter out. It was all very cat like. There was a man sitting on one of the seats up against the door at the rear of the car. He was sleeping the entire ride until we slowed down and then instantly perked up. He started shouting about how he was in a rush. How the governor was too damn busy suckling on the teets of the 1% who didn’t ride the subway to actually give a care about the city. About him, the man. About all of us. The train slowed down and he woke up as if he’d been awake the whole time, perched right in front of the car doors waiting to leap out onto the platform when the time came. I thought about that time some number of months ago on the subway. We were riding it together. It was dead cold outside, the kind that really nips at your pores, but on the train you were sweating. You were complaining about how you couldn’t get your coat off because the car was too packed. We were huddled right next to each other, holding onto the same pole, a tiny lady with a pink beanie pressed up against your chest and a lumbering man’s armpit hovering inches from my nose. We shared headphones, like all subway couples do, listening to a song that I wouldn’t be able to listen to again when you left. I should’ve known then that it would be unbearable to hear later. You can hear the grief in between the notes. When the train slowed down, you looked down at me, I up at you, and you winced like it was your fault. I didn’t mind though. I was up against you, ear to shoulder. For you the whole thing was too hot but for me it was perfectly warm. I thought of you again, in almost the same moment, when the subway completely stopped. It screeched and scraped and did what all metal boxes do when they rub up against something. But then the wailing stopped. It all stopped. The lights went out. The air conditioning turned off. It was nothing but humid darkness. Have you ever noticed what happens to sound when the lights suddenly turn off? It’s like everyone comes to the same conclusion: when the lights go out, the world goes out. Everyone’s breath catches, just for a moment. The yelling man stopped yelling, like he had been unplugged. It must have something to do with biology. One of our feeble senses is removed and everything else is kicked into 12th gear. I know I’m not making any truly profound statements. You always reminded me of that- how my thoughts only sound interesting because of the way they’re organized. But you were never very profound, either. One year ago we were again on the subway. It was the 4/5. I told you we should probably hop on the A train but you said that if we took the 4/5 we were more likely to get a newer train, one with air conditioning. You said that since the 4/5 runs through the upper east side the trains would naturally be nicer. More hospitable. The one that we got on was old, ancient even, and it wasn’t air conditioned. The air wasn’t thick, it was heavy. It was pressurized. We skitted by each station, making perfect time, and then suddenly, two stops away from where we were going, we came to a halt. In the middle of the tunnel. The P.A cracked on and told us we were experiencing heavy traffic, but we should be moving again shortly. Traffic? you said. Traffic? On the subway? I will never understand how they could possibly use *traffic* as an excuse for subway delays. Does that make any sense to you at all? Crazy, how they think they can fool us. And then you laughed. I laughed with you, closed my eyes and chuckled with my forehead on your shoulder. I didn’t find what you said very funny or interesting at all. But that’s just it. I loved you so I bought into it anyway. I loved you. And all you had for me was advice. And good music that isn’t good anymore. And complaints about everything and anything related to a subway. I hated when you complained about the subway. Because, I love the subway. It’s moving now.


They say that your life flashes before your eyes in the second right before you die. Multiply that by ten, and each time, over and over again, you get to relive a mistake you can’t correct. It started when I accidentally slammed my son’s fingers in my car door while standing in a parking lot across from my ex-wife and the guy who’s banging her and wondering how much his silver Lexus cost. My son’s howling siren of pain informed me that I was focused on the wrong thing during our weekly custodial exchange, and I managed to screw something up once again. Still, why did Sandra opt to show up with her new boyfriend, Duncan, and in his car, not hers? During my short meditation on the topic, I didn’t see our son, Stephan, double back to grab something from my piece-of-shit Hyundai, so I blindly closed the door. I thought he was out of the car. I was wrong. “Shit,” I yelled at Stephan. “What the fuck did you do?” This could’ve been another uneventful drop-off, but now it’s a whole thing. I blame everyone for this misstep. It was Stephan’s fault for not reading my mind that I was about to shut the door. It was Duncan’s fault for driving that damn car. It was Sandra’s fault for bringing Duncan. It was also Sandra’s fault for asking to meet at a park instead of her house. Stephan’s howling was going to attract all kinds of unwanted attention from anyone within earshot. And who was that location convenient for, anyway? If it’s near Duncan’s house, meaning they were taking my boy to his place, I’m going to throw an indignant shit fit. I’ve met the guy only once before, but I don’t know if he’s got dogs, guns, drugs, or Hustler magazines lying about. And while I’m at it, why are there no other adults my age named “Duncan”? What era did this guy drop in from? I wrenched the door open, releasing Stephan’s hand from between the body and the window frame. There was no blood, but those fingers were going to swell up like sausages. If I can comfort him with one arm, while getting his ice pack from his lunch box with the other, all while strategically blocking Sandra and Duncan from swarming in and taking over, I can totally fix this shit show of my own creation. In twelve years of marriage, Sandra was always the problem-fixer, bill-payer, tax-preparer, appointment-maker, decision-maven. My job was usually washing dishes and lifting heavy objects, no matter how much I attempted to get involved. Discussions went through her. Playdates were set up by her. Emails were sent to her. Parent-Teacher conferences would be conducted through the teacher and her, even as I sat there by her side. Hey, I’m a parent of this kid too! Yeah, I screwed this up, but dammit, I needed to fix it. I knew I was perfectly capable of fixing it. Back off, I’ve got this. I hoped the two of them weren’t about to swarm in and take over. “Careless again, David,” Sandra spat at me, rushing in from the side. Every syllable stung, all six of them, puncturing our entire history like pins in a voodoo doll wearing my favorite Batman shirt. “Careless,” as in You don’t care. You never do. You’re incapable of showing concern for anyone but yourself. You didn’t pay attention since it wasn’t about you. “Again.” A constant disappointment. Over and over, you screw everything up. Your only consistency is your ability to disappoint. It’s the only reliable part about you. “David!” I go by “Dave”. My friends call me “Dave”. I introduced myself to her as “Dave”. The only times she called me “David” was when I met her stuck-up parents, in our marriage vows, and at the divorce signing, confirming my full name on the decree. This time, she punctuated the second syllable as if she was telling a kindergarten class about curse words. Students, you aren’t allowed to say the word ‘Da-VID’. That word means ‘the selfish, and maniacal destroyer of lives.’ ‘Dave’ is an acceptable variation... if you must. Now I’ve got two family members upset with me. His cries and her utter disgust nauseate and paralyze me into pathetic inaction. There was an emergency at hand, and in an instant, I couldn’t function with that much disappointment swirling in my toxic orbit. Anyone else want to pile on? How about you Duncan? Got anything to say? “I’m a doctor, let me have a look,” Duncan said, right on cue. I may be a piece of shit, but since we broke up, Sandra and I have done everything we could to maintain a civil, if not wholly pleasant relationship, and not just for the kid’s sake. It took a divorce to realize we made better friends than lovers. As part of a rather amicable separation, we chose to be up-front and honest about our lives moving on, without obligating our nine-year old with secrets he had to keep from either his mom or me. Sandra moved on much sooner than I did, and it was with Doctor Duncan. A month ago, both she and Stephan told me about her new boyfriend. I unexpectedly met him recently, when I bumped into them at the market. I confidently noted he was physically nothing like me, strangely aiding my pride by looking at an awkwardly tall and lanky bird-faced man in denim and tweed. My balding, pear-shaped body mocked him silently at the time, before he crushed my hand in a vice-grip handshake, then telling me about his successful pediatrician practice. My whimsical existence as a high school drama teacher kept my composure realizing our tax brackets were quite far apart before they walked off. Now, here you are, on the scene, Dr. Boyfriend. Do you seriously need to announce your credentials to us, all to look at some pinched fingers? Want a real injury to deal with? How about I slice off your head, and shove it in that reusable shopping bag you vainly carried under your arm when we met? Thank God that in a city with thirty-thousand doctors, the only one on the scene is the one sleeping with my ex-wife . I’m still unsure when the two of them met. Maybe they hooked up prior to that fateful three-hour, tearful talk in the kitchen before I moved out. Perhaps Sandra hasn’t told me everything about her life moving on. Thanks, doc. “Mommy, my fingers” Stephan cried out as he pushed out from my arms and fell into Sandra’s, as she kneeled down to my right with the now-retrieved ice pack. He simply gave up on me, opting for her instead, regardless of the week we just had, regardless of the fun we crafted. I fed him his favorite foods, broke some of mommy’s TV rules, played a few violent video games, all to his delight. Everything I invested into the Stephan and Daddy account was just withdrawn in an emotional heist successfully pulled off by mommy. Does he blame me for crushing his fingers? Probably, but since I’m was pushed out, I wasn’t given the chance to fix this. As I stood next to the car door that started this whole mess, like a silent witness dumbfounded at what just happened, the three of them headed over to Duncan’s car in a wave of tears, soothing care from mom, and Duncan’s reassuring evaluation. “I know sweetie. I bet that hurts real bad. Keep the ice on it, ok?” “Don’t worry, buddy. Your fingers will be just fine.” The only thing I hate more than the weekly goodbye is when my only saving grace - my patented, routine farewell - has been hijacked. I love to tell Stephan how he’s the best boy ever, and how daddy loves him very much no matter what. I hug him too long and attack him with machine gun kisses on his cheeks till he giggles, and then give him a loving raspberry on the other cheek. I do it every week. It’s a genuine sign of the copious love and affection I have for him and have been showing him since day one. Admittedly, when I pulled into the parking lot, seeing the two of them there, I had a vision of doing it with a few more kisses, and getting a few more giggles out of him, just because I can. How much longer will I get to shower him with that kind of ridiculous affection? He’s nine, and any second now, he’ll instantly be fifteen, and too cool for any of that. Our time together is wasting away. These drop-offs take a little piece of my heart every week, and an agonizing departure like this is pure torture. His howls of pain transitioned to guttural moaning and runny-nose sniffling that I can’t do a damn thing about if he’s walking away, and it’s the last thing I’ll remember of our week. Worst of all, I can’t say the two words that at a minimum, will help. “I’m sorry.” They walked away with bags on adult shoulders, leaving no room for me to intercept. So, I stood there, helpless, pathetic, defeated, and unforgiven. When they opened their car doors, both of our notification systems created a chaotic chorus of chimes and beeps, alarming us that our keys are still in their respective ignitions. My car sounds like a cheap alarm clock, yelling “GET UP, YOU LAZY ASS!”, compared to Duncan’s Lexus which gently pings like a single harp string plucked by an angel. His opulent, fucking Lexus. It’s no rust-eaten, navy blue Hyundai, that smells like a burrito died under the front seat like mine, that’s for sure. I remained standing by my car, looking for any sign of hope, or positive welfare, or even a weak smile of “ Don’t worry daddy, it’ll all be fine” . All I see is the back of Sandra’s head in the car, turned towards our child, and away from me. The only final acknowledgment I get is goofy-ass Duncan, shrugging his shoulders like some hapless, detached father who has no idea what his own offspring’s food allergies are. Kids, what can you do? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t have a fucking clue of what’s going on so you just kidnap my family and ride off in your luxury chariot? Screw it, I’m done. I give up for today. I sent them off on a safe journey to wherever they’re headed with my middle finger extended upwards in a salute. I think Duncan did a double-take, but I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it really landed or not, as I descended into my awaiting jalopy. I slammed the door shut, and started the car, immediately turning the radio on as Duncan’s car pulled out from his spot. Led Zeppelin greeted me and I turned up the volume to accept their invitation to rock. Despite the excruciating volume level, I can still hear Stephan’s echoing cries from a few seconds ago, reverberating in my heart. She was right, damnit. The entire situation was my careless fault. If I was paying attention to the person that meant the most to me, instead of the asshole who meant the least, I would’ve seen Stephan’s every move, every smile, every laugh, every precious moment he gives me. I wouldn’t have crushed his innocent little fingers in my car door. I would’ve shouldered the disappointment in his eyes as he left my comfort and care. I would’ve looked at him with a smile and confidence, reassuring him that I’m the best dad in the world, and he’s my number one guy. They say you can see your life flash before your eyes the second before you die. The last ten seconds killed me like ten miserable lives of regret and pain. So much anguish in such little time. I turned the car off, extinguishing the music as quickly as I started it, irritated by all the noise, and the misplaced anger. The parking lot is occupied by one car. One driver, no passenger.


(This was the result of an English test we had, where we had to write a short story that would make you "feel good". We had 2 hours, and this was the result) Damien was no ordinary boy, in fact, he was born on 29th of February, which means that even though he has lived a total of twelve summers, his birthday has only been celebrated three times. This has, quite frankly, made the life of Damien a living hell, whereas he is still forced to attend kindergarten. One day, when Damien was playing catch with his three-year-old “peers”, completely obliterating the other kids’ self-confidence by being such a beast of a three-year-old, he fell and badly hurt his forearm. Damien felt an intense pain he never had experienced before, equal to the level of agony Lenin had bestowed upon the people of the Soviet Union when he implemented Communism, leading to the starvation and suffering of millions. Damien rolled around on the ground, clutching his right forearm with his left hand, moaning and wimping like the “three-year-old” he was. Now, the narrator of this story, which is me, was starting to feel very sorry about Damien for putting him in such a horrendous situation, so he decided to intervene and offer a lending hand, but also to further the plot of the story in an interesting way, breaking the fourth wall and keeping the reader on edge. *wink wink* As Damien was trying to rise from the ground, with all the power his gargantuan three-year-old body could muster up, barely resisting the immense temptation of crying, he saw a sudden opening in the clouds. A ray of light shined directly on him through the hole, suspiciously resembling a biblical scene. “Don’t cry Damien, my little child. I have solution for removing your pain.” Damien looked around, confused, trying to see if anyone else had heard the deep, manly, and incredibly sexy voice that had just spoken to him. “Hush my child, don’t be afraid now, you’re the only one that can hear me. Listen closely and I will make sure your pain will be relieved.” Damien looked up toward the opening in the cloud with an intense decisiveness to follow the hypnotic narrators command. “Now, that’s more like it! Alright little thing, you see that building over there, behind the fence of the kindergarten? I wish for you to jump the fence, run across the street, and enter the building. Inside will be a series of tests. If you can complete the tasks with perfection, you will be rewarded the legendary gel of pain-removal, the most precious healing artifact known to mankind, nay, alien-kind. It has a medical power tenfold more potent than the vibrating healing crystals of your present age hipster- culture. But be careful, for you must apply it on your forearm the moment you attain it, for all the worlds-, nay, universes medical conglomerates will start an offence against you, motivated by their immense greed for money.” Damien was determined to fulfil the task, but was understandably, slightly afraid of the consequences of doing so. He started to walk towards the fence of the kindergarten and jumped over it with incredible ease, for his body was already five feet tall, but the fence was made for children who had trouble defecating on their own. He walked across the street, each of his steps filled with incredible determination, completely disregarding the traffic of the busy city. Once he had reached the office building, he looked up in awe at the sheer height of it. You see, this was no ordinary building, it was a skyscraper, and a really fucking tall one for that matter. Damien entered the building, and following was a set of tasks, so mind-boggling, so intellectually demanding, so incredibly difficult, it would be completely impossible to retell as a story. In fact, the mere knowledge of it has ascended me, the narrator, to a level infinitely beyond human, and has practically made me a god. Well, it could also be because the writer of this story is closing in on his time limit, and can’t really finish it the way he originally desired... Anyway, after completing the tasks, Damien received his legendary gel of pain-removal, and quickly spread it on his forearm, instantly removing the pain that had been tormenting him during the profound and life-changing hardships he recently had experienced. Damien was filled with an immense amount of joy, for all his problems were now solved, and a feeling of relief washed over him. This made the reader of the story, you, vindictively feel good. The end.


There is a demon inside each and everyone of us. It is only through conversation with that demon that we can understand the self. Becoming whole and understanding the true nature of morality. This is the demon that ponders drifting into on coming traffic, for no other reason than to see the consequences. The demon that lusts after a passing woman and imagines tearing her clothes apart. This demon injects pleasures to us and tempts our control. I have spoken to this demon and shared its thoughts, and from that I have understood myself. It is both halves of the whole that drive us onward. The demon gives a window into the depths of humanity, a window that sees pleasures and pain. The demon that lives inside of each and everyone of us must not be able to seize control; and oh how it will try. Only the true self can hold the leash of a monster and gather wisdom from it. Only the realized self can be both with and without.


Paradise Lost Cool, calm, collected, a hotshot in the mean streets of the Dirty Sock. When he drives his Porsche through Woonsocket everyone knows who he is. Some people love him, others despise him, but all fear him. His name is Luigi, and craps is his game. The city is his Kingdom now, but it’s gonna be mine. Luigi became the Kingpin of the Dirty Sock after he won a game of craps against my pops. His name was Alfonso, and poker was his game. Unlike Luigi, everyone loved my father. At least, that’s what they tell me. Maybe they are too afraid to tell me otherwise. Either way it doesn’t matter. When it comes to power is there any difference between love and fear? What is that you said? Yeah, that’s right, I didn’t think so. Don’t get it twisted, personally I like Luigi. It isn’t his fault or my fault that my old man was dumb enough to get himself killed. Craps wasn’t my pops’ game, it was Luigi’s. Luigi came for the kingdom, so according to rule 30 of the Street Code, it was my old man that could choose the game. He chose craps because he thought he could win any game, at any time, against anyone, and he wanted to prove it against the best craps player in the city. When Luigi placed his life on the table, as per rule 30, my pops had to match. After the bet was made, my old man could only see Luigi as a dead man walking. When my dad lost the game, and Luigi lodged a bullet between his eyes, it wasn’t Luigi who sent him to hell. It was my pops’ own cockiness that did that. Unfortunately for Luigi, in my eyes, I am the heir to Woonsocket’s throne. So, as you can see, I’ve got no choice, I’ve gotta send my dad an old friend. I’ve been practicing craps since my old man died five years ago. I knew back then that Luigi wasn’t dumb like my pops. He would have to accept the challenge, but he wouldn’t choose a game that benefited me. There was only one game that he would play, and it would be a game that he couldn’t lose. Craps. So, I had to learn to be better than him at his own game, and I’m convinced I did that. When dice is in my hand it feels like part of my soul. It’s like I can control them with my mind. If I wanna roll a 12, I’ll roll a 12. If I wanna roll a 7, I’ll roll a 7. Luigi can’t beat me. “Hey kid, wake up, you fall asleep or somethin’?” Luigi yells at me. Okay maybe I exaggerated my confidence. I’m scared. I’m really, really, really scared. I mean yeah I’m a master at craps but honestly, I ain’t sure I can beat this guy. I can see in his right hand that he is shaking the golden dice that he plays with. Behind him is this dime piece rubbing his shoulders. His goons are to the right and left of him holding automatic rifles. The guy is intimidating but I think what scares me the most is he is sittin’ on my old man’s throne. Seeing that golden chair reminds me of how much of a fool he was to play Luigi in craps. Now I’m about to do the same thing. Am I as dumb as my dad? We’ll see. “Ay Luigi, nah, just chillin’.” “Did I ask you to come chill with me?” Luigi snaps back. “Nah.” While he was already impatient, I’m thinking Luigi is now ready to bust my head open. “Then why the hell are you here?” Luigi asks, as his goons’ step forward ready to confront me. At this point, I can’t even look at him. All I can do is look down and stare at the Persian rug I’m standing on. Somehow, even though I can barely breathe, I manage to reply, “Rule 30.” He starts laughing, then the woman and his goons join in. “You know with rule 30, I pick the game.” “Yeah, I know.” More laughter roars from Luigi and his gang. They keep laughing for what seems to be about a minute before he says, “You know I’m gonna pick craps, and you know you’re gonna die?” “Craps it is.” I reply realizing, without a doubt, that I’m as dumb as my old man. “Okay kid, let’s get this over with.” Luigi places a gun on the table, a gun that holds a bullet that will end one of our lives. Then takes the dice he was shaking earlier and throws them against the wall. He rolls a twelve. “You’re throw, let’s see who is rolling, you match the twelve we throw again, if not, your life depends on my dice.” I pull my dice out of my back pocket and toss them against the wall, a twelve. “Looks like we gotta roll again.” “Lucky roll kid”, Luigi replies, but I know it wasn’t luck. By rolling that twelve, I’m starting to believe I can beat this guy. Luigi rolls another twelve, but so do I. We keep rolling twelves for a couple of hours, and as time passes, I can see that Luigi is getting nervous while I’m gaining confidence. Finally, he breaks. I’m not sure if his hand was trembling a bit more than usual or if his palm was a little sweatier than it typically is but he rolled a five. All I have to do is roll something greater than five and our lives will depend on my toss. I call my shot, “Hey Luigi, check this out, I’m gonna roll a seven.” Sure enough I did. Luigi is now having an all-out panic attack. Sweat is pouring from his forehead. His legs are so weak he can barely stand. I think he might even be shedding a tear. He knows he has met his match. He knows his life is in my hands. The Kingpin knows he is gonna die, so I figure I should be courteous and give him the option of how he wants to die. Cool, calm, and collect, I look him dead in the eye and ask, “Seven or eleven?” He doesn’t reply, so I ask again, “Seven or eleven?” Still no reply, so I say “Okay, eleven.” I toss the dice against the wall and roll a seven. Did I mean to roll a seven, no, but sometimes the universe knows what is righteous. It knows that the Dirty Sock is rightfully my kingdom. I grab the gun that Luigi had placed on the table. Luigi turns and faces me. Without hesitation, I shoot him between the eyes, just like how he killed my old man. Sirens wail. “Freeze!” My finger is still on the trigger of the gun. BANG, BANG, BANG. “What’s up pops? What’s good Luigi?” Paradise Lost.


The lonesome ocean floor is bathed in eternal blackness. It is an unending pressure cooker. A hell where topside life becomes flattened with prejudice. There is no mercy at the bottom abyss. Those who navigate the waves fear the depths for good reason. Those unfortunate to go into the crushing waters without care, becomes part of the whole. An ancient structure takes quiet residence in the deep. One that houses a dormant giant waiting to arise once more. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . There are some who accept the dreams from the inanimate, Great Old One. One who arrived into his stasis eons ago. A being of ancient ancestry that sits alone. The hushed sleeper who talks through the mental imagery of those sensitive enough to receive his message. Some push pass this madness. Some slowly become insane. Others realize the fortune that they have been charged with. These are the cultists. The chosen. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The statuesque miscreant resides among the geographically, obscene stone structures at R’lyeh. A solitary place so old it was forgotten before it was thought to exist. A city, a temple, a hallowed land where its sole occupant rests dormant under the accumulated soot of sand and time. The illogically formed structures pushing against the break neck pressures of the cold depths, withstanding the brute force challenging every stony inch. Slimy, green residue spread across the tops and sides of the arcane construction. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The rare aquatic life that makes its way at this depth senses to keep a healthy distance from the esoteric perimeter. Only the most primitive, simple organisms who act by instinct alone float through its precipices. They move among the ancient buildings, keepers of the secret. A living ecosystem among the sleeping dread in its vicinity. Pittances of a pittance dominant planet. The true terror beyond anything that mortal mind can process. A growing need to awaken begins to take hold in his mind. The end of a rest. The beginning of a devastation. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The icy cold water bathes reptilian like skin, though he feels none in any meaningful way. Nothing can wake the eternal rest except its own internal call to arise. The living embodiment of world destruction within a lost city within the ambiguity of the water’s stretch. A rumor riding on the mist of a dream. A Great Old One who the solitary writer of old warned humanity about. Howard Phillip Lovecraft, the sole founder of Cthulhu enthusiasts. The one who knew of that which lives in silence below. The man who offered us a chance to know the horror before it awoke. A writer, a prophet or both. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The offensive block construction defies all logic and reason, as if created without an understanding of how the architecture should work. Tiny bubbles begin to emerge around the slumbering form. The sustained pressure immediately crushes them. The great beast begins to shift as his lengthy inaction draws to an end. He has sent his believers clear indications that their wait will soon end. They are elated that the time of reckoning is drawing close and have sworn to each other to do its bidding. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . Great Cthulhu stirs against the despondent backdrop. A righteous setting for the unstoppable terror that it will unleash across the planet. The nightmare that most think are things of fiction. There is no human made power that will come close to altering the destructive force that will make all people equal in death. No religious or spiritual incantation to match the reality that will walk unimpeded. People will learn fear from the one who has returned. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . His eyes slowly break their eternal seals and open. He is awake. He will conquer all after escaping the dark abyss. He will touch the sky once more. The sun is all that remembers his face. All buildings will topple. Their hardened concrete frames will be a mere inconvenience. Prideful, mortal interventions will have no effect. He is the one that will make the human misery of the world end. Long gone will soon be the days of warm lattes and vacations. The great museums and libraries, retainers of the greatness of human knowledge, will be of no more. Eventually, all evidence of human occupation will be wiped clean from his home. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . He moves his head, adjusting to the reality of being awake once more. Giant, obscene tentacles sway under his mouth against his chest. There is no confusion, only unresolved anger. A thunderous bellow rings forth. Acoustic sensors in proximity of the underwater sound waves are shattered in place. A submarine passing by suffers catastrophic damage, slipping quickly into a watery grave. The first humans to reap the return of Cthulhu. The acoustic sensors far enough to survive alert those keeping monitor that something is under the water, something that has caused their instruments to go off the charts. Experts frantically scramble for answers. The topside dreamers act upon their knowledge that the Great Awakening is underway. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . He stands erect into destiny. A seething need to surface grows exponentially. Mighty legs, each the statute of a small building, take their rightful place under his behemoth form. His talon laden feet rest upon the silt covered floor of the temple city, stirring the passive sediment. Large, abhorrent wings shift along the contours of his body, reawakened. Water stirs around the towering shape. Time’s accumulation that has settled on his body begins its slow descent onto the ground. His followers wait patiently in robes along the South American shorelines for first sight. Their long awaited moment nears as he takes his initial steps forward. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . An undeniable sense of dread takes place across those who ride upon and within the salty waters. Surface fleets move in all directions. Captains immediately begin making new headings back to the temporary safety of the closest docks. Those who brave on become the victims of mutineers who clamor for safety over ship loyalty. The awoken Cthulhu bends muscular legs and pushes off the bottom of the ocean floor diagonally into the water above. The Kraken of the Deep. The Great Old One. Boats begin to run aground. Crews make illogical efforts to absolve their sea legs onto land. All encompassing dread overtakes their rational minds. Submarines navigating in silence become scuttled as madness infects the inhabitants. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . People aren’t able to explain to one another why they feel the need to begin moving away from the shoreline. No one can vindicate the exodus. No one will discuss that which everyone feels. All but the cultists remain. Each gathered on one beach to watch the inevitable. They are prepared to do his bidding. His head breaks the water surface. No aquatic life is within reach as they, too, sense doom closing in. The air pushes water droplets off the putrid, emerald skin. He crosses the salty water towards the closest land. Chile. His deep yellow eyes see the first signs of ground. Trees and buildings in the foreground. He pushes a deep howl into the cloudy sky. Terror breaks into insanity. People turn on each other as their minds break. The few sane enough to flee inland do so as the insane ravage everything around them. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The sunlit shallows become beach. He takes his first steps inland. Monstrous feet cause immediate carnage. Anything ahead becomes flattened under his immense power. His mighty wings open, blocking out great swaths of the dawn sky. He throws his thick arms into the air, bellowing once more. A celebratory call to his return. No one can run far enough. No one can remain sane. All will succumb to the ocean terror on land. All will be destroyed. He moves across the ground, leaving giant, hellish imprints behind. He is here. He is now. He is the immaculate equalizer. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming


This weekend was so exciting. My Grandpa moved in with us. My Mama and Daddy say he is sick. He doesn’t look sick to me. I don’t see any bandaids. He isn’t throwing up. He isn’t running a fever. My Mama said he needed for us to take care of him so he came to stay. Whatever the reason I’m just happy to see him. He seemed sad so I ran and jumped up on his lap. He gave me snuggles and I gave him the tightest hug I could. Grandpa helps to do dishes as a chore and clean up his room in the basesment. I like that he has to do chores like me and my brother. Mama and Daddy say that everyone has to help out around the house unless they can’t. My Grandpa sits on the floor with me while I play with my blocks. He helps me build a tower. He reads stories to me too but, he doesn’t do the voices the way my Mama does. My Grandpa hangs out with my brother a lot. Mama says they are two peas in a pod. The two of them enjoy watching a mystery show on the tv and every time an episode ends they both look at each other with a need to know more like a hungry tiger looking for it’s next meal. They both say, “One more?” After Grandpa lives with us for a while our house feels different. Everyone seems worried. Mama and Daddy are too busy to play with me. My brother seems different too. I want our house to feel normal again. I like when Grandpa came to visit instead of live with us. Grandpa has started to stay in his room more often and he doesn’t do his chore of the dishes anymore. He doesn’t even make his bed either but it seems silly to make it if you aren’t getting out of it very often. When he does go outside he likes to sit in the sun on a lawn chair, while my brother and I play on our playground. Sometimes he seems happy, other times he seems sad and sometimes he even seems mad. I don’t understand what is happening but I just want Grandpa back to being silly and having fun. Grandpa was going to the doctor all of the time but now my Mama and Daddy say Grandpa has to have nurses come and see him at home. He is too sick to go to the doctor anymore. He still doesn’t look sick. He just sleeps A LOT. He stares off into space and sometimes it seems like he is a statue. The nurses come and help Grandpa a lot. Grandpa has become grumpy. I think he needs a snack and a hug. So we watch a movie with a big bowl of popcorn. I catch him crying when the movie ends. I don’t know why he would cry it had a happy ending. Olaf came back to life from the waterfall. We were watching Frozen 2 it’s one of my favorites. I came home from school today and my parents tell my brother and I that Grandpa has to move. He is moving to a placed called Hospice. I’m not sure where it is but the nurses will stay with him to help him feel the best he can. I feel an ache in my heart. “I will miss him.” I say to my Mama and Daddy. My brother says nothing but just seems sad. I don’t understand what’s happening but my heart says I don’t like it. I don’t think anyone else does either. Mama and Daddy hug me and say we can visit him everyday. We go and visit but it feels different than having Grandpa at home. The only happy part is Grandpa has a drawer of candy that he lets me dig in and get a piece and, the nurses give my brother and I a cup of ice cream. One afternoon though Grandpa started to gasp for air. It was very scary. His face told me it was scary for him too. My Mama had my brother take me to the hallway and watch cartoons but I still wondered why my Grandpa made that noise. Grandpa has stopped talking now. He just sleeps all of the time. My family is sad. They are crying. My Mama has tears on her cheeks. They say Grandpa has died. I think that means he won’t wake up. Maybe he is dreaming about his Mama. He told me he wanted to see her. I hope he dreams of her. My Mama says in a few days we will have a party to celebrate Grandpa’s life. We go to a special place. My Grandpa is laying very still in a box! He doesn’t wake up to give me a hug. My cousins and whole family are there. We tell stories about Grandpa. They are funny but he does not wake up to laugh with us. It feels like a long time has passed since I’ve seen Grandpa. I asked my parents if we were going to see him at hospice. They said, “No buddy because he died.” I’m starting to understand it means dying is more than just not waking up. It means I won’t see his face. I won’t feel his hugs. I won’t hear him laugh. I don’t like this feeling. Mama says we can go get ice cream and tell Grandpa stories to not miss him so much. My Grandpa loved ice cream and ate it almost every day when he lived with us. We also hung a picture of Grandpa and I in my room and now it feels like he isn’t so far away. After a very long time we go to see what Mama calls Grandpa’s grave. We put flowers on it. They are blue ones and I picked them out for him. I don’t want to leave him all alone but Mama says it is time to go. I start to feel my eyes water. Mama turns and sees my face and then she hugs me and tells me she misses Grandpa too. She starts to tell me a story to make me happy again. She always tries to make me happy. It helps for a minute but the sadness is still there. As we drive away I tell her, “I wish the time of Grandpa would come back.” “Me too,” she says “me too.” I see her wipe tears off of her face and I know I’m not the only one feeling sad.