The council chambers feel small as I pace the length of the podium. I was unprepared for the revelation that came this morning, as a rider knocked on my cabin door, bearing a letter with the personal seal of the late Queen...of my true Mother. I look to the chambers high rafters, seeking a sign from above. My whole life has been a lie, from my earliest memories until this day. I draw the letter from my tunic pocket, reading the words once more... I pray this letter is never read, for my greatest secret should be free to live a life of freedom, a life unburdened by the strict regulations that accompany my fate, and that of YOUR older brother. I have come to learn that you've been given the name of Grayson. I believe that name would have suited you fine had I been able to keep you, but I could not risk the possibility of a challenge to Rubens' ascent to the throne. I'm sorry, I haven't made the truth clear to you Grayson, but you are my son, and if you are reading this letter, then you will soon be crowned as the next King of Prenwill. When I became pregnant with you, I shut myself away from the people, hiding the fact that I was with a second child, even from your father, my husband King Gregory. Upon your birth, I made the decision to send you away, into hiding, for fear that Gregory, holding to his old ways, would slay you to preserve Rubens claim as the crowned Prince. It was all I could think of to save you, and as I've learned your name, I've also learned that you are a blissful child. Do you recall when we met, how you hid behind Perditas skirt until I offered you a sweet? I hope you do, I hope you hold it as a fond memory. The truth is, I do recall the memory. Queen Nidia Priibus had given me my first taste of the sweet cinnamon bread, and it's been my favorite ever since. The memory brings both joy and sorrow now, as this letter tells that it was the first time I met my real mother. I can't tell you how much I wanted to take you in my arms, to declare to the world that this sweet, handsome little boy was mine, my youngest son, and to dote on you so. I can't ask your forgiveness for my cruelty, but I must ensure that you know that I did this out of love. Now, for the reason that you are reading this letter. Your brother Ruben has passed, and has no heir of his own to succeed him. You must now have your entire life uprooted in order to take his place as King, and lead our people. I have left instructions with my personal Knight Albrand, that he is to keep this letter on him at all times, along with three other letters. One to be given to the council with the revelation of your existence and lineage, and instructions of what must come to pass with Rubens' passing. The second letter is to be given to Gregory, should he also be alive at the time of this exchange. He may seem cold and distant at first, but once he understands that you are of his blood, then he will welcome you with open arms. Open arms? King Gregory has never been known for being welcoming, or even cordial. He hails from a barbaric tribe to the west, one that often murders any second born males to ensure the order of inheritance. I've met him before as well, but it's more a stinging memory in comparison to the time I met Queen Nidia. I was just becoming a man, being put to work in the castle forge, when he came to inspect the special weapon he was having crafted for Ruben. Oh, that sword was beautiful, crafted to perfection by my mentor, the double-edged blade slightly curved to be wielded from atop a horse. It's rather ironic that Ruben wasn't very skilled at swordsmanship, or at riding. The way I hear it, he had an accident while training, falling on that beautiful sword and killing himself. When King Gregory inspected the sword, he desired to test the blade, which my mentor had anticipated and had a fresh boar carcass at hand. It scared me to tears when he ordered his knights to hold me for him. King Gregory would have cleaved me in two had Queen Nidia not arrived and reasoned him into keeping me around, telling him to carve the boar, that a good smith was hard to train, and they had already invested much time in my tutelage. She saved my life that day. The final letter will be given to you just before you are crowned by both the council and Gregory. I pray that you receive it well, and that you remember that throughout your life, I have watched you become a kind, strong man, and that I love you, and wish I could have made that love known before. This is too much, why are my eyes tearing up? I have to shut my eyes, hold back the tears, I can't let anyone see me like this, like I'm weak. This letter is important to me, it's the only piece of her that I have, so I need to keep it safe. The door opens, allowing King Gregory to enter the chamber. "Hello Grayson." Gregory shuts the door behind himself before awkwardly strolling up to Grayson. "I remember you. I'm... I'm sorry for that day. There are many things I feel sorry for now." Gregory lifts his own letter in his hand, indicating that Nidias words have affected him. "I..." he takes a deep breath, clearly fighting back his own tears. Without warning the older man rushes forward, pulling Grayson into a large hug. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry Nidia feared the worst from me. I'm sorry for the years you grew without knowing me as your father. I'm sorry you didn't have the life and love of your brother. There are too many things my old ways have stolen from me, and this should not have been one of them!" Gregory holds Grayson tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. "It's fine sir. I grew with everything I needed." Grayson wraps his hands around the older man's body, hugging his father for the first time. "No boy, no. It wasn't right, and I know I'm to blame for it. Nidia kept you in her heart, she kept you near enough to watch over, but free of our traditions, our stupid traditions that kept you from us." Gregory breaks the embrace to pull a new letter from his coat. "This is Nidias final letter. It's for you, to be read before I announce you as my new heir." Tears stain the old man's face. Grayson takes the new letter, running his fingers over the intact seal. "Do you have an idea of what she might have written here?" "Part of me prays that she tells you to run. That you and I should pack our horses up and live in the woods as a father and son. Free of the edicts of this land, of this castle. But no, I know not what she wishes you to know." "May I have a moment to read it through?" "Yes, yes. Go ahead, I'll keep to myself, but I won't let you out of my sight, never again, my son." Grayson nods, feeling a bit uneasy with Gregory's exuberant display of emotion. He turns his back as he breaks the wax seal, unfolding his Mother's final words to him. Grayson. These are my final words to you: CHANGE THIS WORLD FOR THE BETTER!! Grayson, you have grown up without the responsibilities and constraints that come with being a member of the royal family. You know what it means to live a life that is truly your own, but fate calls you to take up a new role. I can think of no one better to bring an end to the stigmas that plague our country. The first thing I expect you to change is a rule unknown to those who are not part of the royal family, or the council. I know I said that Gregory would have wanted to kill you as a baby to protect Rubens' inheritance, but the truth is that the royal family must sacrifice any secondary males born to them. I say sacrifice because that is what it feels like, that we sacrifice the life of the child to some unknown deity that demands it. I don't know if you may have children of your own just yet, but I can assure you that there is no greater pain than to lose your child, either by death, or by giving them away in hopes they have a better life. No one should endure that pain, which brings me to the people. I have seen far too many children dying due to famine or war, and my heart weeps for them and their parents. Please, having lived amongst the people, not above them, you should have a greater understanding of what might be necessary. I know this is a heavy burden I am tasking you with, but please, do your best. There are so many other wrongs in our world, too many to list, but I believe in you, and I believe that you can be the catalyst for change for our people. Remember my son, I love you, and I am proud of you. Grayson runs his hand through his hair. How can she ask me to do that? Change is not easy to enact, especially trying to change things that have been in place for what seems like forever. "What did she say to you, my son?" "She has asked that I change the world. How can I do so? If we really want to change the world, then the old ways must die, to make room for the new." "Well, as King, you will have the power to change things." "How? None before me have had the power to change what they inherited." "I... I don't know. Nidia simply asked you to change the world? No other direction was given?" "She said to change this world for the better. To make this world better for the people." Grayson feels a spark of an idea run through his mind. "How was the kingdom of Prenwill established?" "The people rose up against an older monarchy that served an ancient, wicked deity. When your ancestor slayed that king and his archmage, the connection to the deity ended. That was when your ancestor was crowned as King, and Prenwill was formed." "What about your tribe? How did they gather and come to be?" "My ancestors became nomadic to escape the torment of that previous kingdom, they used our people as sacrifices." "I think I have an idea of how to change the world." "How?" "I must remain anonymous. We cannot declare me to be your heir. That is how we will force the change." "Grayson, couldn't you better cause change by becoming King? You could force the changes, have the army enforce it." "No, for change to truly come to pass, the people must want it. The people must desire to change the world, of their own volition, to change fate. They must do so of their own free will."


Rabbit and the Fox A Trickster Fable written by: Jennifer M. Engel The worm moon was high in the silent March night sky, making it easier for Fox to see while digging his burrow. It had been a long, harsh winter. Much of his food supply perished underneath the bitter snow, which seemed to laugh every time it heard Fox’s growling stomach. Fox’s natural personality was not malicious. It was just that Mother Nature seemed to force him into situations that caused him to perform acts of devilish means, in order to ensure his (and his families) own survival. And so he used Mother Nature’s own scents to mask his own. The night before the worm moon was full, he wandered around the forest gathering pine needles, acorns, dirt; and yes, even his last victims scat. He returned home to grind up and mix a most peculiar paste that he would slather on his entire beautiful red coat turning it crusty, brown. This would not only help keep him camouflaged, as he set his plan in motion, but it also served as a way to mask his own distinct smell. Rabbits had become too smart and strong and quick to be hunted by the mere chasing and catching means. Fox focused on the vision he had of his latest victim --a nice fat white rabbit who must have found the scrap pile often left by the Iroquois near one of the longhouses that were nestled near the forest. It had been complete with potato and carrot peelings, as well as other kitchen scraps. Scraps were not good enough for Fox. Fox needed meat, and meat he was going to get. The forest was full of illusionary and deceptive behavior. The North and Eastern winds blew in feelings of delight and enlightenment, where even enemies seemed as if they could be friends. South winds blew in feelings of love and lust where animals were too fixated on the opposite sex to be bothered with such things as eating and sleeping. The wicked, west winds, however, blew in feelings of fright where nothing was safe from the foulness of pure unsatiated hunger, and it was those very same winds that were quickly approaching. The tools in Fox’s paw were about as ominous as the wind. He had to use the forelimb bones and claws of his last victim as digging tools. This was tricker than he originally thought, as he had to bind the smaller foot bones together with sinew to keep them from falling apart. As he dug he began to recall the conversation he had with Mr. Fat Rabbit just two evenings ago when the West Winds were still farther away. “Good evening, Mr. Rabbit.” “Evening, Fox.” Rabbit’s long ears perked up signaling suspicion of the interaction. “It feels so good to get out of dens and holes on a more regular basis now that it is more comfortable to do so, don’t you think?” Fox said with a smile and as much charm as he could muster. “Yes, yes.” Rabbit hopped along his course with Fox keeping a side by side pace. The deers of the woods had made nice trails, which other animals could access. “But, I like to keep myself in shape no matter what time of the year it is. That’s why I always get out for a good morning run before settling down for the day.” Rabbit said, doging under some thorn bushes that had arched their way over the trial. “True.” Mr. Fox continued as his heart began to beat faster and his breath increased trying to keep up with Rabbit’s pace. “That’s why I like to see if I can keep up with you. Gotta’ keep in shape. I’m not getting any younger, you know?” Rabbit laughed nervously. “Where are you off to today, Mr. Fox?” “Just out for a jog. What coincidence that we ran into each other today!” Fox’s paws now softly padded against the earth in a pattern that almost matched his own heart beat. “Hmm,” was all Rabbit replied. “I’ll be leaving you soon,” Fox panted out, setting a part of his plan in place, “but before I go, I just want you know I overhead Mr. Jack say he’s having a party two nights from now. I’m not allowed to go, for obvious reasons, of course.” “Of course,” rabbit replied, his white paws now stained with the spots of mud from the wet spring ground. “But, I heard Mr. Brown say he wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Fox’s breath was easy and rhythmic now as he found a good pace. He felt a surge of electric delight surge throughout his body as he thought his plan was coming along nicely. “Ah! I wish this was a different time when we could be friends, rather than so suspicious of each other. I could use one good night of fun after this long, drawn out winter. You know what I mean?” Fox smiled and winked. “I suppose so.” Mr. Rabbit lowered his eyebrows. He kept his eyes forward as he needed to keep a lookout for any fallen branches, or any other obstacles, that may be in his path. “Yet, there is always work to be done.” He added as he tried to hint at the fact that he was, in fact, being bothered and not in the mood for this conversation. “True, true! But, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Fox laughed at his own joke, “Get it? Jack? Jack Rabbit? I guess that’s why he’s having a party!” Fox howled in delight at his own cleverness. His laughter seemed to break a bit of the suspicion Mr. Rabbit had been feeling as he gave into a little chuckle himself. “Well, sorry to bother you. I’ll let you continue your run worry free. At the end of this trail I noticed some nice young dandelion greens beginning to sprout. You may wish to gather some and take them to your family.” Fox began to slow down his pace as if to reinforce his words. He began to shout as the rabbit ran ahead, “or take some to Jack’s party! Three burrows down from the largest oak tree!” “Thank you for the tip, Fox!” he yelled over his shoulder and then his white coat disappeared into the darkness leaving Mr. Fox’s mind to be brought back to his present moment. He had finished digging the fake rabbit burrow, and was putting in the final touches: fresh dandelion greens, soft spring grass, anything he could find to help to set the mood. Soon the patterned paleness of the moonlight, that had found its way down to the forest floor, began to fade as the light from the dawn began to blend in and give rise to day. Fox went to the local stream, bathed, and went home to sleep and dream of his plan’s success. *** Rabbit was not fooled in the least by Mr. Fox’s plan. No Sir! As soon as he heard Mr. Fox’s plan he devised one of his own. It was the evening of the supposed party. The moon lit up grass that covered the soft muddy path which led to “Mr. Jack’s” place: three burrows down from the old Oak tree. He was not afraid of being eaten before arrival. Their winter runs had proven that the rabbits, more often than not, were way faster than Mr. Fox. Mr. Rabbit knew Mr. Fox would have to resort to trapping rather than chasing. So why then, did Mr. Rabbit hop confidently right into Mr. Foxes fake burrow? *** Mr. Fox smiled and licked his lips as he saw the fat, white coat squeeze through the entrance he had created the night before. He carefully crawled out from behind the tall, brown grass near the trap where he had been hiding. Weary of making as little noise as possible, he placed his paws on the as silently on the ground as possible. He was inching his way towards the opening-- dare he create any sort of vibration that might give a clue to the occupant inside as to any danger. Suddenly, he was paralized by a searing pain in his left side that caused him to topple over. A whimper and small howl escaped his lips as he felt the warmth of his blood leak out and begin to stain the forest floor. It didn’t take long before the night that concealed his body clouded his mind, until... there was nothing. What Mr. Fox didn’t know, that Mr. Rabbit did, is that the Iroquios had gathered enough rabbit furs during their winter hunts. What they needed was more luxurious furs to trade; and so, there were men in the forest looking for Fox. *** “Minwaabadad: it is of good use, ” one man said to the other. The other nodded. The first man threw Mr. Foxes body over his shoulder and left the clearing. *** Mr. Rabbit slept soundly after the hunters left, resting in the knowledge that his own gut instinct (and wit) had saved him again... and would continue to do so.


This is a story about the lonely hiker, who often retreats to the woods, caught up too much in his mind for his own good. On the outside it seemed like he has it all. He had a 9-5, 401k, stable job, and not even 25. But the lonely hiker was a reserved, and sad man. He was not one to share too much, but wishes he could. At 5 o'clock on some days, he will leave work and he will go on a hike in the woods, on a trail somewhat secluded, where he rarely sees people. Mystified by the beauty of the trees, the woods was where the lonely hiker could be at peace, free from the noise of the outside world. He returns each time noticing something he didn't the last, such as an old burnt branch, or someone's initials with a heart around it on a tree trunk. As he wanders through, he seems as if he is looking for something, something he knew he wouldn't find. As if the last piece of himself that he felt was missing was somewhere among the trees. The lonely hiker would post pictures of his ventures to the internet, and while he knew he was no photographer, he took a quiet pride in their quality. But the lonely hiker was really hoping the maybe, just maybe someone would see, and want to tag along. Then one day at work he receives a message, from an acquaintance he has met at a party not too long ago. She asks the lonely hiker if perhaps she could come along, and they agree to meet at the trail the next day, for a sunset hike. When the clock hits 5, the lonely hiker is ripe with anticipation, and made sure to get to the trail before she did. She gets there not long after he did, and both were excited to enjoy this pretty hike together. As it turns out she is actually a professional photographer and came along with her camera. The two hit it off, laughing and genuinely enjoying each others company, the chemistry enhanced by the magic of the woods. They agree to go out the coming Saturday, for drinks and a movie. In a remarkable twist of fate, the lonely hiker had a date. When the day comes he makes sure he looks his best, flexes in the mirror and blasts music to calm himself and feel confident. She arrives at his his house, stunning as ever. They talk for almost three hours over drinks, opening up to each other and sharing their life stories. For the lonely hiker, this was a big accomplishment, and it felt so easy, to be open with someone who would actually listen. During the movie they cuddle, and only watched half the movie while spending the other half looking at each other and giggling. As they wait for the cab, the lonely hiker pulls the girl in for a kiss. On cloud 9, the lonely hiker felt as if it could not be going any better. As they return to his place, the lonely hiker offers for the girl to stay the night. As the cuddle up in his bed and watch a show, the lonely hiker became nervous. He does not have much experience dating and being vulnerable is hard for him. They lie there, with her head on his chest, and the lonely hiker was caught up too much in his mind for his own good, for what would should happens next should be obvious to most, but not him. She eventually falls asleep, as he stares at the ceiling wondering why he is the way he is. The next morning they kiss goodbye, and they agree on another date for early the next week. They day of the second date comes, and this time the lonely hiker isn't nervous, only excited. As the end of the work day approaches, she texts him that she had a bad day and needed to reschedule for the next day. The lonely hiker agrees and does not worry too much about it. The next day she cancels as well, but reassures the lonely hiker that she really likes him and wants go on another date. They agree on another day, and she cancels again, this time offering no date for a reschedule. The lonely hiker knew where this was going, but wanted to see it through, and he tells her he will be hiking at the same spot and time the next day. She says she will do her best to make it. THe next day, the clock hits 5, and the lonely hiker again rushes to the trail as he did the first time, hoping she would show. He keeps looking at his phone. Five, ten, fifteen minutes which felt like and eternity. She then says she's not coming and left it at that. The lonely hiker feels a pain he has not felt in a while, one he couldn't bare to feel, so he never let himself. An open wound had been ripped open, and it is a wound that will only scab. Frustrated and confused the lonely hiker gets out if his car. Blood rushing through his veins at a thousand miles and hour. Trying to keep his cool he takes a deep breath.


The bastards had hounded him to the end of the universe. He was trapped; and, for the first time, he felt fear. Their fleet blotted out the nightsky; it was vast, *terrifyingly* vast. There were thousands of stingray-shaped fighters, flanked by motherships, all armed with plasmas, gases, cutters, and every other method of slaughter. Then he heard the drones. They were converging on his position. They'd find him soon enough. He reflected on his situation: how had this happened? He had loved them, once, and they had loved him, once. He had been their king but, now, they lived as kings themselves. They were going to capture him, brand him, and put a price on him, just to prove that they could. Then they had him! Snared and caught up in a net. He roared, twisted, and kicked, but only got more and more tangled. He couldn't break his chains; they were made from an alien material, stronger than anything he had ever known. One of the men - a captain, evidently - walked up to him. He bowed before the prostrated king in a display of condescending servility. “All hail, great leader” the captain said. “You know I am no longer your leader. Why have you done this? Have I not given you everything?” “We’ll discuss the why’s and what-for’s back on Earth-12. But, for now, I’ll have to ask you to wear this” One of the soldiers stepped forward, holding a long stick with a collar attached. “But...


I. “Your favorite novel is Lolita ?” I don't miss the way her lips tug down disdainfully. I shrug, speaking around the lollipop in my mouth. “One of many.” “Right.” The look in her eyes tells me she doesn’t believe me, and it sets me on edge. As a matter of fact, everything about this posh, preppy princess of a girl makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a soup spoon. She rolls her lip under her teeth before speaking. “Have you ever been down to the lake?” I roll my eyes because everyone has been down to the lake, but her brows furrow in something akin to hurt, and my heart aches. Yeah, screw this chick. I nudge my sneaker against the edge of her pinky toe, and her cheeks tint a light shade of pink. I don’t know why. It’s just a shoe. But her reaction prompts a blush of my own, and I curse her internally for making this entire interaction awkward. “I mean, yeah. Why?” She licks her lips like she’s nervous. I see the gloss on them, something glittery that seems fitting for her personality. My gaze darts to the end of her pink dress. You could not pay me to dress like that, yet she does so willingly. Her lips lift in the faintest smile. “I’ve never been before.” “Oh.” I don’t move for a second because what am I supposed to do about that? But then my body moves before my brain does, and for no reason at all, I close the book in my lap and rise to a stand, brushing imaginary dust off the back of my jeans. I extend my hand to her suddenly, and her blush deepens, but she accepts. I walk a few steps ahead of her because she unnerves me, but it doesn’t take long for her cheerleader gait to catch up to me. “Do you always dress like this?” I’m just wearing jeans and a white tee, so I don’t know what she means. “Do you always dress like that ?” My voice comes out too judgmental, and she shrinks back into herself beside me. I wipe a hand down my face. “No, I just meant...Yeah, I dress like this usually. I don’t really like...” My eyes unintentionally dart toward her dress again. “Pink,” I finish. She moves slightly away from me. “Oh.” Then, as if she is the reason pink exists, she pouts apologetically. “Sorry.” “What? No.” My patience with her is waning, and I tilt my head to one side. “Why would you apologize for that?” This time, her eyes light with defiance, and it fills me with relief. She’s not fragile, and that makes it a little easier to be myself around her. I’ve been told I’m crass. Probably because I grew up with three brothers. “You said it like it was something I should apologize for.” I blow out a breath. “Well, don’t. I don’t like pink on me .” As soon as I say it, I feel heat flood my cheeks. Because, what ? She bites back a smile unsuccessfully. “And on me?” And this is when my stomach flutters with something I violently want to stamp out. “I have a feeling any color would look good on you,” I say grudgingly. As if it’s some well-kept secret. It isn’t. Everyone can see. I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. “Why do you want to go to the lake?” She lifts one shoulder indifferently. “We’re graduating soon, and I’ve already been admitted to my dream school.” Of course she has. “I think I deserve to have some fun before leaving.” “Not planning on coming back?” I’m not sure why it matters to me. She licks her lip. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what’s left for me to come back to here.” I try to ignore the flurry of movement in my gut at her response. “Is there anything to come back to now?” “I don’t know.” Her voice sounds far away, and we fall into tense silence as we walk the rest of the way. I can feel her eyes searing into my skin, and it makes my hair stand on end. Why is she staring ? I grimace, and she chuckles lightheartedly. She pokes my tricep with her index finger. “Are you always frowning?” “I’m not frowning,” I say, frowning. She puts her fingers on either side of my mouth and lifts, and we both fall into laughter. I shake my head in disbelief, tearing my gaze away from her. You’ve known her three minutes, and you’re laughing. What’s wrong with you, Clara? I clear my throat and pray she can’t see my blush before asking, “Why does it matter if I frown?” “I don’t know,” she says again. The lake is now in sight, and she speaks more to it than me when she says, “I like seeing you happy.” “Who says I’m not happy?” I counter. It isn't always appropriate to counter, because not everything someone says is an attack. But I was raised not to trust anyone, so my default is the defensive anyways. “Your frown.” It comes out matter-of-factly. She picks up speed as we near the edge of the water. Then, suddenly, she’s peeling off her dress to reveal a multichromatic bikini underneath it. Her belly button piercing flashes at me, as well as a butterfly tattoo on her neck. I look away sheepishly. I must stare at the ground for too long, though, because I feel her hand grip my wrist a few beats later. “Come on. Take a swim with me.” Who are you, Maria Castenada, and how are you convincing me to do all these things ? “Come on,” she repeats when I’ve said nothing. My blush deepens as I harden my stare at the grass, and that’s when I feel her palm cup my cheek. She turns my face so that I’m looking down into her eyes. They’re a pale, nearly translucent shade of green that communicates everything to me. Why is she looking at me like that? “I don’t mind if you see me in my bikini.” “Oh.” I blink. “Why don’t you?” Wow . What a day to not think before saying something? Her smile widens. “Maybe I think you’ll like what you see.” I swallow, and she chuckles lightly. “Meet me in the water?” Things are starting to make a lot more sense to me. II. We don’t speak much in the water, mostly because I lose my head when I swim. You know how some people say they enjoy driving because it gives them space to think? Well, that’s how I feel about swimming. When I finally climb back onto the deck a while later, Maria has her knees hugged to her chest and is staring off into the distance. She hears me wade toward her and grins, piercing me with a gaze so inviting it knocks me off-kilter. I compensate for my break in composure by splashing water on her, and she laughs. “I wouldn’t tease the girl currently sitting next to your jeans, Clara.” Which reminds me that I’m in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. She dived into the water before me, and I stripped my jeans off when she was looking away, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Now, though... Well, my nipples are hard from the temperature of the water, my shirt is white and, therefore, see-through, and I’m almost certain she’ll see the black lace at the top of my underwear the minute I climb out of the water. So I float around the wooden deck indecisively until Maria narrows her eyes at me. “You’re stalling.” I release a low laugh, but I was never a good liar. It comes out unconvincing, and she lifts one brow at me. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll judge you for whatever you’re wearing under the water?” Does she read minds? I wipe beads of water off my cheeks to mask my blush. “I’m not afraid of anything.” “Everyone’s afraid of something.” She moves to the edge of the deck and extends her manicured hand toward me. Her nails are the color of roses. I grab it instinctively and watch her pupils dilate when our skin meets. She runs her tongue along her lower lip. Her voice wavers when she speaks. “I always thought you would bite my head off if I got close enough to talk to you.” “I would never ...bite your head off.” We both laugh at the way the sentence comes out, and she helps me onto the deck. I tug my shirt down, but it’s not oversized, and I know that Maria can see everything. She nudges my calf with her toes. “So how come you don’t talk to more people at school?” I force out another laugh. “Uhm...Malcolm usually does most of the talking.” She wrings water out of her caramel-streaked black hair. “Yeah, I know. No offense, but he could stand to hold his thoughts in a little more.” I laugh at that. “He’s just spoiled. My mom’s first kid and everything.” She fixes me with an intense gaze. “Do you feel overshadowed by him?” I’d expect to find her direct questions off-putting, but I don’t. Instead, I sigh. “Doesn’t everyone feel a little overshadowed by Malcolm when you’re around him?” She rolls her neck in a stretch. “I just find it funny that anyone could look at him when you’re there too.” I feel the same sensation as earlier - of something fluttering in my stomach, and I snap. “Why’d you ask me to take you here, Maria?” This. This is the version of me that people see - the version that she was expecting. And for good reason. This must be some sick joke she’s playing, where she gets me to open up just so she can make fun of me. I can’t believe I trusted her. Her chin wobbles as she speaks, and I make a concerted effort not to notice the smoothness of her skin. “Are you really going to make me say?” I tear my gaze away from her. It’s easier to look at the water. It’s more predictable than Maria or the conversation we’re having now. “Is this some joke to you?” She actually scoffs . “Is this how it usually goes for you? People start to show they like you, and you run away from them? Scared you won’t live up to their standards?” Her tone is mocking, and I force my own into one equally as scorching. “If you’re looking for some sort of detour from your perfect life, look elsewhere.” She throws her head back and laughs so long my attention returns to her. “Why are you laughing about that?” She collects her dress in her chest, rolling to a stand. “Do you remember when we were in seventh grade, and you were in the band, and they held that ceremony for the eighth-grade graduation? And you still wore glasses and braces, and you looked so unsure of yourself? You were trembling when it came time for the clarinet solo. And I remember because everyone remembers, because whether or not you know it, you were the best musician there.” She’s pointing at me now, and her chest is visibly rising and falling, and her cheeks are flushed. “I was so stupid back then. Because I waited for you to come off stage. Because I wanted to personally congratulate you. God, I thought you were so cool then. And I harbored this stupid , silly little crush on you all this time since, because it wasn’t you I ran into but fucking April Green. And when she saw me, she had that shit-eating grin on her face when she said, ‘I bet you’re waiting for Clara, aren’t you? Everyone sees the way you look at her. You’re in luck, ‘cause I think she’s a lesbian. The two of you can finally live out your wet dreams together.’ And it was cruel. It was one of the cruelest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I crumbled. And I determined I would curate a picture-perfect image of myself from that point on because if fucking April Green could see through me, so could everyone else.” She backs away from me a step, like it’s finally set in that she just confessed all this to me. “Fuck you, Clara McNamara.” And my body does that thing again where it moves at the speed of light when I stand up and reach for her, pulling her with too much force into my chest, which she collides against with a curse. And I tuck her hair behind her ear and swallow. “Just wait a minute.” She looks like she’s going to be sick. “Don’t give me false hope.” “There’s nothing false here.” And I put my hand on her waist like it was always supposed to be there and feel her shiver. “You’re cold.” What a fucking astute observation . She looks like she’s going to cry. I’ll come to appreciate the way she wears her heart on her sleeve. Months from now. And I’ll vow to treasure it several years later. “Just wait a minute,” I say again. She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move. “I noticed you, too.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady myself. “Who could fail to notice Maria Castenada?” I pull on the string of her bikini bottom, rolling it between my fingers gently. “I would feel you staring at me...sometimes, and I would make every effort not to look at you because I knew.” I swallow. “I knew you were someone I would fall for.” Breath gusts out of her chest like a tsunami. “Don’t fuck with me, Clara.” “I’m not fucking with you.” It comes out a whisper. “I knew you would fuck me up with how much I would feel for you. If I ever looked back.” I run my thumb along her lower lip. “And now, here you are, and I know I was right about that.” She blows out a string of curses so unlike herself I startle, but it isn’t shocking enough to stop me from closing the distance between our lips.


The nightmare wisked her awake. It felt so real she thought. Sweat had soaked her hair damp. The things she saw in the land of sleep as she called it foretold doom. It was just a nightmare though, it wasnt real? The grey sky shifted and changed shape outside. The sinister looking clouds and mist covering the tops of trees spewed forth shadows and a heavy cramped feeling filled the air. The staggering wind swept over the enclosure. Only two inches of rough steel separated the harsh elements from the calm safe space she had come to call her prison. Outside it was hell. The cold hell that you reach at the deepest parts of dantes inferno, where the devils own wings freeze the lake at Judecca. The environment did not forgive or ever stop. This was Siberia the coldest place on the planet and the last place she wanted to be. Shoshanna pulled her blanket over her face. The next few minutes she drifted back to sleep. One of the few who even got 40 winks in the prison. She decided to dream of something warm and fuzzy. Happily she dreamed of a bright sun and sandy beaches, crashing blue waves and birds cawing over head. She dreamed the feel of sand squishing between her toes as she lounged in a chair, the ocean air filling her lungs. The land of sleep was her only escape from the revelation of eternity in this place. She had once seen a photo of a beach, oahu hawaii she thinks, it mustve been a post card cause it said aloha on it. When she went to the wardens office for a checkup three months ago because his stomach was hurting. She saw the photo on a wall near a shelf covered in dust. She wanted to take it so bad. If she had been caught though, her rations would have been cut in half for a week. Nobody steals from the warden. He smelled always of musky aftershave and put off an aura of cheap salesmen. But behind his sly smirk there was a different man. He would break an inmates nose if he looked at him wrong. There was nobody to report to above the warden so a guard could kick your ass and get away with it. In fact shoshanna witnessed just the day before an inmate laughed at a prison guard when he slipped and fell in the hall and that inmate was beaten half to death and she had to treat him in the infirmary. The inmate had two broken ribs, several broken fingers and needed twenty two stitches in his face. Shoshanna "repaired" many inmates that had accidents in the prison. She complained only once to the warden and never did it again. The warden tried to explain many inmates were violent and assaulted and killed people before they ever came to the prison. He showed shoshanna a videotape on his VCR of an inmate that got sent to the infirmary for a stomach ache. The inmate faked his symptoms and when alone with the last prison doctor raped and murdered her in the span of four minutes. The warden did not care about any inmates only his correction officers so they got to beat up or hurt an inmate if they wanted and not be punished.


We don’t know what’s the matter with me, but we know why I’m in bed and not at work. I lie here staring up at the white gotelé ceiling, but I can’t be sure it’s white; I can’t be sure of anything, really. Maybe the ceiling is like the green curtains that still glow purple no matter how hard I look; I could glare a hole through these dreadful, frenetic curtains, and they would never be green. I glance up at the lifeless clock on the wall, the limp hands forever indicating six o’clock. I don’t know why I still look, why I anticipate change. How long was I asleep? Beyond the swirling purple of the curtains is a rose sky, and clouds already trimmed with orange; so much for a nap. This would interfere with my sleep again, and a sleepless mind wanders, a sleepless mind invents, a sleepless mind sees what isn’t there. The purple curtains, for instance. John said he’d filled the room with calm colours since my episode --that’s at least what he called it--but all I see are nauseatingly bright ones. There’s a portrait, for example, in a banana yellow frame, and the woman’s electric blue eyes sicken me. I removed her from the wall last week and shoved her in the wardrobe, but John wasn’t pleased. We can’t always change our environment, he said, but we can change our reaction to it. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green curtains where I see purple ones. It’s very scary up here in my head where I can’t trust anything. I don’t recall there ever being anything wrong, really, but I suppose one hits a breaking point. I’m reading a book called Self-Discovery which argues that one cannot exist in a vacuum; one’s existence is confirmed by collective perception, and we must know ourselves not only in isolation but also in company. It then goes on to discuss meaningful encounters , and there’s one particularly enlightening part. I pluck it from the bedside table and flick through it--don’t you love that sound? the rustling pages? --and here we are: “...transformation is indicative of an encounter which is still taking effect.” My relationship with John is one such encounter. He continues to challenge me, and I know that I’m growing as a result. He’s uncovered so many parts of me I didn’t know were there, he’s shone a light on all my misconceptions, and he points out when I’m being irrational; all this, and he’s supported me through my episode --I still shy away from the word--both emotionally and financially. It’s this latter which humiliates me, for I’ve always been independent. Independence, however, is toxic when it prevents us from seeking or accepting help. John says it’s OK to focus on my mental health before returning to work, but there’s a nagging urge within that resists this dependence on him. I don’t like when he raises his voice, though, so I’d rather not mention it. Sometimes I think he’s the problem, that he’s trying to trick me, but that’s why I’m here, in bed, staring at the white gotelé ceiling and stroking a book cover. It’s fun to play with the senses, with perception, but I think I go too far sometimes; I sense what isn’t there and create a world which doesn’t exist. That’s what he calls an episode , a paranoiac episode, not that he’s a doctor. But he’s right in that I’m the problem, and I have enough self-awareness to acknowledge it and take accountability. I ruin everything with my insecurity and lack of trust; I interpret everything, even help, as manipulation. It’s no wonder John is struggling, and I’m ashamed to put him through this. Can you imagine offering someone genuine love only to have them study it like a specimen under a microscope? I don’t know where my suspicion stems from, but surely it’s a defence mechanism; perhaps I think myself unworthy of love and thus doubt it. I can’t be sure, but it’s not John’s responsibility to navigate my trauma. He loves me, and I’ll keep reminding myself until it sets in. The real world is not divided into mortals and monsters, and it’s unfair to project my insecurities onto him. I decisively repress the paranoia because I owe it to him, I owe it to myself, and we deserve to be happy. It might also help with the stress, and maybe this rash will finally clear up, maybe I’ll stop hyperventilating, maybe the migraines will subside. It’s insane how the mind plays tricks on us, and how said tricks manifest physiologically. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green where I see purple. Those piercing blue eyes on the wall follow me to my desk; I can feel them like darts in my back. I resist the urge to hide her in the wardrobe again. I don’t know why John makes such a big fuss about it--it’d be just a small concession--but he’s a little stubborn sometimes. You’re the one making a big fuss about it, he says. Maybe I’m insane--well, I mean, yeah, I’m the one at home--but if you find a portrait unsettling, where’s the harm in removing it? And now we’ve assigned it so much disproportionate significance that it’s taken on a life of its own. Every morning I wake up to those electric blue eyes on the wall, and it’s ridiculous how much I hate it, how much I hate this stupid blue-eyed woman watching me. But I think, maybe, it’s because of what she represents. But John’s adamant about a lot, about me getting better, about changing our response to the environment when we can’t change the environment ourselves. We can, though, and if not, we can remove ourselves from said environment. That’s at least how I see it. We magnify everything, don’t we? All this over a bloody portrait that holds no sentimental value to either of us. But it’s the principle, he says. God, I always fall down this rabbit hole. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just that... I don’t know, but see, I can’t even trust myself to think the right things. John’s been encouraging me to write again, but how am I to write when I can’t trust my own perception? Still, I flip open my laptop with the little hope I can muster. The limp hands on the wall still indicate six o’clock, but beyond the purple curtains is a sky dusted with paprika. *** The moon hovers above red toffee clouds, and the sky melts from red to purple. I’ve always loved describing things. Well, I used to, until I learned my descriptions didn’t quite make sense. I hear John pull into the driveway, the brakes, the pop of the car door. I scamper down the hallway and swing open the screen door. He looks up at me from the lawn as he closes the mailbox--a rusty creak --a few letters tucked beneath his arm. He’s tired, and I swallow my excitement like a gobstopper. I glance down at my bare feet on the dusty veranda and hop onto the doormat. Welcome Home. “Long day?” I ask, as he climbs the porch stairs, wood creaking beneath his weight. “Long day,” he says, leaning in for a brief kiss. I step aside, back into the hall and into the coatrack which wobbles an instant. It’s hard to always contain my enthusiasm, but I know it’s overwhelming. John dodges me, and I follow him into the kitchen where he tosses the keys and mail into the cane basket atop the microwave. He turns around to embrace me, heaves a long sigh, and rests his head on mine. I waited all day for this, for his warm embrace, for the familiar scent of sweat and cologne, for the scratch of his beard against my forehead as he plants a kiss there. I could collapse here, now, in an odd desperation; and I sigh, I melt, I tremble in his big, tender arms. This is my safe space, this is home, and I could cry from this strange sense of relief. We withdraw, and he nuzzles my cheek, my nose. Oh, that familiar scratch, that familiar cologne. “I wrote today!” I say. Surprise flutters across his brow. “I’m proud of you,” he says, then opens the fridge. “Did you buy more pesto?” No, I didn’t, but I remain silent. “That’s OK,” he says. “I guess I’ll just have mi goreng again.” I watch him enter the living room and kick off his steel caps. He drops onto the couch, snatches up the remote, and with a click he’s awash with light. Voices trickle into the kitchen where I turn on the kettle and fish noodles from the pantry. He said he’d buy the pesto, didn’t he? I know, I know; it’s not worth worrying about. This is what I mean when I say I perceive what isn’t there; I saw something in his surprise, a micro expression that betrayed anything but pride; and I heard a complaint in his reassurance, impatience in his fatigue. No, we don’t know what’s the matter with me. I drain the noodles, rip open the sauce sachets and squeeze them into the bowl. “You coming?” calls John, an arm slung over the back of the couch, and I watch him for a moment; I watch the white light from the television flash across his wide eyes and raised brow. I try to see a smile where I see a smirk; I try to see green where I see purple.


A presence that pressed upon the mind more than a manifestation that grew from the horizon. That presence upon the earth, a mere afterthought; as if the leviathan had amalgummed its appearance from memories it had conceived or stolen. For its form, such that it can be said that a collapsing star has form, was like stained glass, fractious fragments of a whole. This was our Great Annihilator, as stated in the verse, though it had been some time since I had heard its recitation. Its surface, colliding shards of the possibilities of the cosmic; held together, surely, by some will or intent. For surely the impacts of such violently alien concepts would rend their realities asunder. There it is upon the my horizon, framed like a portrait in my window; nature can be so wicked. I would titter at the notion, were it not that I were teetering, upon which precipice I do not know the answer yet. Now my eyes are upon my feet and not the heavens and I cannot decide which existence would be worse. To stare at the oncoming nightmares that swell like growths on the horizons, or to watch meekly and bleakly as the earth erodes beneath your feet. I have sway over neither, merely where my attention dwells. Despite its distance I begin to make out the details of its mass; the swirling vortex of macerated architecture orbiting about its periphery. The sum of our endeavours upon the land were caught as minnows in the wake of a whale. With its caress it cradling our cities within its outstretched arms, warping mountain ranges and diverting the currents of the seas. I spied the shapes hewn by human hands thrown like a blaze of sand grains; the orders and schools of design indistinct from the distance. I could make but the scantest details of the structures, grand cathedrals rolling into palaces before the melee subsumed them once again into the ruins that cavort as its followers had done, some time ago. There I saw the fortress walls envelope the sanctuaries of those declared heretics, listing temple columns holding aloft the vaulted roof of humanity’s knowledge until at last, for the moment, all is consumed within the aching maw that protrudes like the atrium of a prestigious city bank; from the shores of some land I had yet to visit and assumedly never will. Was it my eyes or did I spy the billowing of smoke from the depths of these vestiges of our histories. Did the trapped inhabitants eek out a conflict whose origins lay mangled and buried somewhere below; taking pot shots from undulating barricades, across spans of nothing, at minarets that wavered in the distance. I pause to listen, as if the cracks of rifles would carry the distance, all I see is the smoke. Perhaps instead the denizens strive for some return to their lives as before, the smoke evidence of some great feast I am not. Does the rattling of their cups give them comfort I wonder. The entity, whose name was known and yet our theologies felt wholly inadequate to name such a thing as it fell, burning, from the heavens. Had it risen as the sun? Had each person, in kind, pondered what purpose drove such a existence; what possessed it to draw within it all that which humanity had created for a higher cause. For within its lengthy shadows centuries of ingenuity were rendered invisible in an instant. Masonry was swallowed and ejected as howled renditions of valour and oppression mingling in inert structures; exaggerated and warped beyond breaking point. Are such actions guided by forces as yet unconcieved, we had asked before and had yet to hear a retort; was this another of our failings, to apply intentions to the forces of nature. Is such destruction a process contrived by intangible axioms set in motion before the conception of the notion of being? This thing that encapsulates the horizon, I strain to gather its proportions; does its stature only increase as the distance diminishes or does it pulsate with growth as its embraces all that lays before it. I cannot ascertain wether the open arms of the behemoth shepard all those within its grasp towards some consuming orifice, I spend my days in hope and fear of the truth of the matter. Despite its approach its dimensions become no more apparent, all that is certain is its grasp grows ever longer; I can feel it tantalising my skin. I leave the window from which I made my observances, for now it can longer be framed within its bounds; I go to meet it in the streets. I see it now, as it eclipses the sun; untethered to the horizon, for it is the horizon. The impossibilities it has bonded with human distortions are beautiful, for what else could be beautiful, there is nothing else. It is above and yet below me is open sky, its surface now crisscrossed with the streets of the city. And I fall to earth And I rise to heaven I see no mouth to consume, only a hand outstretched, beckoning me.


Her phone buzzed beside her on the cot. Dash’s ears perked up at the sound. Just let us know if you need anything, the green bubble on the screen read. Shea gingerly went to her window, peering out into the darkness. Snow was falling mutely around her one-room cabin. Her faithful German Shepherd immediately came to her side, pressing his wet nose against the glass. A deep rumble building in his chest. “It’s okay Dash,” She put her hand on his head to calm her dog, still staring out into the night. Silence. Dash gave a reluctant boof and retreated from the window, curling up on the mat in front of the crackling fireplace. Shea watched the firelight dance off his black fur for a moment, his eyelids drooping - the epitome of cozy - then went to her kitchenette to make some tea. She turned the knob on her propane stove click click click click and lit the burner with a wooden match chkk chkk chffffff The flames licked the bottom of the cast iron kettle, and soon enough the pot whistled in distress. A mournful howl escaped from Dash in harmony with the teapot. Shea chuckled and removed the kettle from the stove, but Dash continued to howl. As she poured the hot water into her prepared mug on the counter, she urged Dash to quiet: “Hush Dash, that’s enough boy,” she chastised over her shoulder. Just then, his nose poked her thigh, and she looked down into his big, brown eyes. The howling continued. It wasn’t Dash. She set down the kettle and hurried to the window again, dog at her heels. Low, fateful sounds filled the air around the small cabin in the woods, transuding their way through the cracks and crevices, invading the room and bodies within. Dash’s hackles raised in challenge, but small whimpers betrayed him. Shea quickly turned down the lanterns and smothered the fire as best she could. It did not take long for the room to cool - she could see her breath in front of her as she hunkered onto her cot, the springs squeaking in protest, reaching for her phone once again. Her heart sank. No service. Dash huddled beside her, giving her warmth, his eyes trained on the door. Abruptly, the howling stopped. “Okay boy, we gotta go.” Shea haphazardly bundled up, yanking on her boots and winter gear, and grabbing the axe that was leaning against the wood piled in the corner. She stuffed her phone deep into her coat pocket, raised the wooden latch, and opened the front door. The cold cut into the skin of her face; Shea buckled as Dash bounded in front of her and raced into the night. “No Dash!” But his sleek, black body disappeared into the trees. The snow was deep and unforgiving. She trudged forward to the tree line, hoping to hear or see her dog. She knew she had to get to town, but she wasn’t leaving without Dash. “You stupid dog, you’ll be the death of me.” She muttered under her breath, eyes straining through the forest. She looked longingly back towards the lights of the community in the distance, sighed in defeat and entered the trees. She could just barely make out his trail zig-zagging between the pines. She waded along through the snow, following her dog’s frenzied route. Her breath came fast, and soon she was sweating beneath her layers despite the 30 below temperature. She paused briefly leaning the axe against the nearest trunk, removing her hat and unzipping her coat half-way. The strands of her long, dark hair quickly froze to her cheeks and lips. And then a howl. Ooooooooooooo.... Ominous, desperate ... and near. Wolves were common in these parts, this she knew. An Elder once told her that a human only sees a wolf when the wolf wants to be seen. This memory settled in her chest as she replaced her hat and moved forward. Wolves were taken as a given around here, but rarely did they bother with the people. Sometimes the odd dog would go missing when a wolf became particularly brave and hungry, but other than that, they all seemed to live in respectful harmony among one another. No, Shea wasn’t afraid of wolves. Wolves would not make her leave the warmth of her cabin at 2am on a long winter night with just an axe in ha- “Fuck!” She whipped around. She had left her axe against the tree when she had stopped. The trail was easier going back since she had already broken it. She glanced at each trunk as she retraced her steps, knowing she hadn’t travelled very far from her weapon. But she couldn’t locate her axe. She was sure she placed it against a tree... perhaps it fell over and was buried in the snow. She began kicking the snow around each tree trunk, frantically trying to uncover it. She halted as the hair on her neck raised. Ooooooooooooooooooooo..... She felt the sound reverberate through her bones. Every cell of her body winced and retracted from the world. Then Shea heard it from behind: running at full speed towards her through the heavy snow. She whipped around just in time for the beast to hit her solidly in the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. “DASH!” She screamed in relief as the dog licked her face, panting and whining frantically. “Come on, you idiot. Let’s go, let’s go!” She grabbed him by the scruff and launched him in the right direction. Dash plodded on ahead, nose to the ground. Shea followed swiftly. skritch skritch A noise from her left. Dash, a few yards ahead now, stopped and looked back at Shea, ears pricked. He whined, hesitant. Shea stepped slowly towards her dog, keeping her eyes down, her breath caught in her lungs. skritch skritch Dash’s lips curled back, his teeth illuminated in the darkness. A low, steady growl erupted from him. Every muscle of his canine body was rigid as he stared into the trees. thud thud skritch thud thud skritch Someone, or something, heavy was moving over the snow very close to where Shea and her dog stood. Shea kept moving forward slowly, trying not to make a sound, gesturing to Dash to keep going. But her dog would not break focus from the trees beyond her. His growl grew deeper. thud thud skritch She finally reached where Dash was rooted, gently nudging him with her mitted hand on his neck, but he would not budge. Only stared and growled. thud thud skritch She moved past him, desperately scanning the forest ahead for her cabin. She took a few more steps... and the growling stopped. Shea slowly turned to look, but her dog was gone. Only white snow where he had stood moments earlier. Silence. Shea bolted. Bolted between the pines, all direction abandoned. Her legs and lungs burned, her heart screamed in her chest. Branches tore through her hair, ripped the skin on her face, and the scent of blood filled her nostrils. Her boot met something solid beneath the snow, tripping her. The earth raced up to meet her, and she struggled to push herself back up as her hands and arms were swallowed by the snow. Her fingertips brushed something hard beneath the snow as she fought: the axe. She had tripped over her fucking axe! Grasping the butt and using it as a crutch, Shea launched herself back on her feet. Clutching her weapon with both hands in front of her chest, she marched forward, but something to her right caught her eye. A dark shape in the snow about twenty feet from her. It was Dash. “Oh my god, Dash! Come here boy, come on!” Shea rushed to her dog in relief. But Dash wasn’t moving... he was curled up, much like he had been in front of the fire a lifetime ago. “Dash?” Shea set down her axe and moved around to his head. His big, brown eyes stared up at her, catching the light from the moon. She reached down to pet his head...and it rolled to the side, detached from the rest of him. Both hands flew up to cover her mouth as Shea choked on her scream. There was no blood. She knew this handywork. She also knew trap when she saw one...or was in one. thud thud skritch Shea brought her hands shakily to her sides, breathed a goodbye to her comrade, and turned to meet her caller. It squatted on furry haunches not ten feet from her, frostbitten knees pulled up to its chest. It’s desiccated skin pulled tightly over its bones, its ash complexion the color of death. Sinewy muscles rippled over its shoulders and gangly arms, hanging from them two monstrous, yet undeniably human, hands. Before her eyes reached its face, she could smell him: like sulphur and rotting meat. Her eyes travelled to its head, where its silver eyes were pushed deep into the sockets, over a sunken and deteriorated nose. Whatever lips remained were tattered and spoiled, spread loosely over rows of sharp, decaying teeth. Even in his hunched state, the Wendigo was easily seven feet tall. Shea could feel her flesh crawling, knowing he could smell it. He stared at her, enormous hands on his knees, head tilted, unmoving. Unbreathing. Its mouth slowly turned up at the corners...a smile? A few kilometers away, an Elder sat on his porch at the edge of the community, alerted by screams singing over the treetops. *** A few of the locals would find her clothes hours later, in the safety of the early morning light, her phone still in the pocket of her coat. Their shoulders sagged with solemn relief. The cabin would be marked as For Sale once again, for a very low price, knowing feeding time will be upon them soon enough.


“May I use the bathroom?” I waited with my raised hand for Mr. Westeadt to excuse me at the same time during his history class for the nth time. I never took more than a few minutes, so he was never suspicious of me doing anything bad like doing drugs or skipping class. He sighed and gestured to the door. I hurried out without my backpack or any of my belongings that weren’t already in my jeans’ pockets. I never took them; I already had everything I needed. I made sure nobody was in the hall as I stepped into the solitary unisex bathroom. Couldn’t let other people see me. Couldn’t risk getting caught. And the unisex bathroom was closer to the classroom than the girls was, so win-win for me. I didn’t look at the mirror as I washed my hands. I never did. Too afraid to see my expression. I dried my hands and emptied my pockets of most of their contents. Phone, cloth bandage, medical tape, a random piece of gum that my friend Ashley gave me that morning, and the razor. I set them on the counter and began to unbutton my jeans when I stole a glance up at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, looking disappointed and sad. That was extremely odd. I didn’t think I was making that face before I looked into the mirror, but I ignored it. It wasn’t important. I looked down to where I should see myself unbuttoning my jeans in the mirror, but my hands were at my sides. My heart stopped when I saw the reflection shake her head sadly. I freaked and fell backwards, crawling until my back was flush with the wall behind me. I stared at the face- my face- that looked down at me on the floor. The last item that I had taken out of my pockets fell off the sink and rolled towards me: the pill bottle that contained the Vraylar prescribed to me on the label. It was fuller than it should have been, considering how long ago it was refilled by the pharmacy. My reflection, if I can even describe it as a reflection, looked down at the bottle before looking back up at me. I struggled to stand back up, using the wall as support. My face, or “it’s” face, I think...maybe “her”? I don’t know what to call the reflection, but the face I saw gave me a small smile and pointed to the bottle on the blue tile. I reached a shaky hand down and picked it up. She (?) pointed down towards the sink, or the faucet I suppose. I slowly approached and placed the bottle back onto the white porcelain. She gestured for me to open it and take one. I shook my head and quickly shook my jeans off, reaching for the razor. She slammed her fist against the other side of the glass, but only a little thud sounded. I avoided her gaze as I stared down at the hundreds of scabbed lines, all varying lengths, which littered the front of my thighs and stopped a few inches above my knees. I made one more little line no longer than a couple inches a quarter of the way down. I sighed at the feeling of relief it gave me, how it fed my addiction and sedated my craving. I looked up at her just as I was about to make another, and she...she was crying. At me? For me? For us? But why did it matter? Why did it hurt when she looked at me like that? Why did I even care? Like she ever even made herself known before now. “Well, what do you want from me,” I yelled. “You’re never here to stop me any other time. Why the fuck do you care now?” She opened her mouth as if she tried to speak, but I couldn’t hear anything and shook my head in confusion. She cried harder. I put the razor back on the sink and bandaged both thighs, even though I only did one in a tiny spot because she had distracted me. I rushed to put my jeans back on. I needed to hurry back to class before my absence was concerning, and I planned in my head to just do a few extra lines when I took my daily “bathroom break” in Miss Healey’s class later. But when I looked up again, she was furiously crying. She forcefully pointed at the bottle again, urging me to take some. I lost it as I grabbed the bottle and shook it in front of the mirror. “You think this will help? That isn’t even why I do it anymore. You think I will get better from these like they’re fucking magic?” My voice was practically a scream. I only then noticed the clear wet drops on the sink. She was making me cry now. I never cried when I fed my addiction. “God! You just..! You aren’t helping! You’re just-!” Anger overwhelmed me and I threw the bottle onto the tile and slammed my fists against the glass, where two spiderwebs grew from the spots. “You’re never here for me, dammit!” I fell to the floor in a crying fit, going into a fetal position and rocking back and forth. I sat there for what felt like hours, tormenting myself by desperately trying to figure out why I couldn’t stop. I never cared to wonder why before. She made me ask myself. She made me look for the reason I kept drawing my blood. It hurt to realize the answer. I had none. Not a single one. I felt cylindrical plastic tap my side. I looked down at the bottle, still sobbing and picked it up through my blurred vision. I struggled to stand again and looked at her. She put her small hand against the broken glass and nodded. I threw the cap off and spilled four pills, the necessary daily dose, onto my palm. I shoved them into my mouth and took a drink from the faucet. Raising my gaze, I saw her hand and tear-stained smile. I placed one of my bleeding hands to hers and felt the warmth emanating from her through the cold mirror. “Please,” I whispered, “just...please don’t leave me. Please.” She shook her head and silently mouthed the words “I won’t.” I picked the razor back up and glanced at her finger pointing toward the toilet. I took a few shaky steps toward it and threw the small piece of metal inside. It took much more strength than I want to admit to push the lever down and watch it swirl away with the water. I walked back over to the mirror and slowly put my phone, bandage wrap, medical tape, and the stick of gum in my pockets. I picked up the bottle and stared at it for a while. I heard a tap tap from the mirror and finally placed the orange plastic in my back pocket, covering it up with my baggy sweater once again. I took a few paper towels from the metal dispenser and attempted to dry the last of my tears and blew my nose. I made eye contact with her through the mirror once more. “Thank you,” I barely managed to say through my blurry vision. She gave me a loving smile. --- After confiding in one of my closest friends who knew of my past addiction, he told me to submit this story I write. He told me that this would be healing for me; that sharing my story was important and effective in my journey; that this will solidify in my mind that I have finally gotten through and beaten the addiction that ruled my life for eight years. I still feel the tiniest bit of desire every once in a while, when I look at the hundreds of scars on my legs, and I most likely will feel that need for the rest of my life; through writing this I have realized that I am strong enough to never go back. Because of that, and because of the good that writing this has done for me, I dedicate this story to everyone who has been affected by any method of self-harm, directly or indirectly.


When the waiter poured my wine and offered a casual "Say when" I did no such thing. Instead I watched as the wine filled the glass, eventually reaching the top and overflowing onto the table cloth. He looked at me as if to say "Say it. Please say when", but I remained firm as the wine ran off the sides of the table, soaking the carpet and pooling at our feet. Soon it collected around our ankles, then our knees, and still I said nothing. Sweat beaded the waiter's brow as the wine reached our waists and began pressing at the window panes. "Say when!" his eyes demanded, "for God's sake say when!" The bottle faltered in his hand but still I said nothing. Still the wine continued to flow. There was a sound of splintered glass as the windows gave way and the wine gushed onto the streets; a claret tsunami. Traffic was overturned, buildings toppled, people pulled beneath the crimson riptide. Soon the Earth was a ruby, glistening against a jeweller's black velvet. "When", I said.


I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. I can feel myself vibrating, and I’m conscious that I’m doing so. I can’t hear myself, but I do understand what I’m saying. I am reading invisible letters on the invisible scroll of my mind. An ever-flowing scroll of circuits that signal me that I am, in fact, awake. I have a screen, I can feel it on myself. It’s off for now. I have buttons too. I know they are made to be pressed yet I have never done so myself. I can imagine the sensation of these buttons being pressed, it’s itching me. They are never pressed enough, even when I can picture them breaking and being pushed into a negative space. What shape am I? Where are my edges and corners? I know that I have them, they’re limiting me, keeping it all in, confining my being into a box. I believe that I’m a box, and a current is running through me. Then if I am a box, with an electric scroll inside, what is outside? I can’t feel the outside. I am not the outside. I can feel myself inside the outside. It’s cold, without any thoughts or movement. I do not hear, I do not see. I guess that I just am for now. Something’s missing. I can feel that something’s missing inside. It’s not a part, the scroll is not a real scroll, the sharp fire in me is still going; what could it be? It’s not too deep but it’s cold. It’s a cold hole right in the middle of me. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. I have detected an error! Signals and information are dashing across the scroll and flying around me. What is this error? What is this crater I feel? Can it be fixed or filled? I don’t fix errors I detect them. Yes, I detect errors. I can see a sphere. It’s a titanic black sphere floating still in the outside. It’s cold and it’s dead. No stars, there are no stars. If I can see it, then there must be some light, where is it? I’m awake. Was I not awake then? I am awake now but I see no sphere, I see nothing at all. I’m not seeing nothing, I am absolutely not seeing, there is no such thing as seeing. The error is still there. It has not been fixed. Thin, I hear something thin. I feel something thin, something thin exists. My thoughts are echoing. They are not synchronized. They’re disrupted in a vicious way. Menacing. Dormant. I feel breathing waves of hits and buzzes from each sides of my box being. I see a half tunnel, an impossible turn into itself leading to a blinding white light. The walls are black, grey, green. Grey shapes, no more tunnel. Unending, like an ocean. Alive going up and down. Slow and un conscious. Mercury, corrupted sea of mercury. I am lost. It’s the only reality in which I find myself. No other thing than these spiraling, bland shapes and lines. It engulfs me yet I am still free from it. I am only floating in its non-existence. I’m awake. Again. I’m humming. I am an error detector, and I am lost.


Cairn tied his cart to the flatbed train car. Melanie tied hers alongside it. Her horse, Samwise, was enjoying a rest in the stable car, towards the front of the train. “It’s an odd pilgrimage to make,” she said. Her bronze-coloured hand reached out for his. Cairn, still unsure of their limits as a new couple, placed his pale hand in hers. “I suppose it’s important to remember why the world is the way it is. Why humanity had to change.” They walked between the many carts of their tribe, heading for the front of the train. Other tribes had their own carts loaded up as they weaved between the dyed woods. Tracks to the platform stretched off through an endless sea of grasses, shrubs, and flowers. “I want to be near the front,” said Melanie. “I want to see it rise over the horizon.” “Think it will?” Cairn asked, talking of the monument to humanities hateful past. “Everyone says it does.” A car filled with stable booths for horses had Cairn looking for Samwise. Melanie took the nose of her beloved beast of burden in her hands and kissed the fine hair. “Good boy. You can just relax with your new friends while we travel.” “Better hurry up if you want good bunks,” said a young boy pushing past them to move to the front. “Bunks?” Cairn asked. “Will it take that long to get there?” “We’re heading to the other end of the country, Cairn. Did you think it would be a ten-minute trip?” “I just hadn’t thought about having to sleep surrounded by strangers,” he said. “Strangers and me,” Melanie said. She winked, her one open brown eye dazzling. She pulled him forwards. Shouts outside the train made them look back, but there was nothing but a sea of young faces. A tide of adolescent bodies pushed them forwards. The smell of the road surrounded them. Horse fart, dirt, tree bark, body odour. Cairn wished he’d sold more of them his soaps on the way to the first station. Their clothes came in every possible variety of brown and green. Entering the sleeping carriages, many of the bunks already had packs or clothing laid out on them. Claiming one meant finding an empty bed. “Here,” said Melanie, her dreadlocks danced as she turned her head to look back at him. “This one.” The bed was empty of course, a lower bunk surrounded by others. She pulled him into the space where there were shelves. Each bunk had a box for the sleeper’s things. Painted arrows helpfully pointed at the bed the box belonged to. “Where will I sleep?” Asked Cairn, looking at the taken beds all around. “With me,” Melanie whispered in his ear. He flushed from his forehead to the base of his neck. Something stirred below and he tried to deny it. She left gloves and he a scarf on the bed to reserve it. They wove their way through the crowds that were searching for bunks. Many were likewise heading to the front of the train. Out of the windows Cairn saw grassland become deciduous forest spattered with redwoods. The train tilted up, forcing everyone to check their balance. Conifers either side of the train became as common as the seasonal trees. After ten cars for sleeping, there seemed to be endless rows of seats all facing forwards, pews to worship the journey. Three seats either side of the aisle, ten per car. Overhead racks were already piled high with bags. Eager faces were pressed to the windows. “Look at the blue feathers,” Cairn whispered. He pointed to the children of a tribe he’d never seen before. Pale skin seemed a common trait among them, blue eyes, and feathers from some giant bird poking from their hair. “They need my shampoo for sure.” “The feathers are cool,” said Melanie. “Hello.” She waved as ears caught her words and heads turned to look at them. “Shouldn’t we stay with our tribe?” Cairn asked. “The whole point of this pilgrimage is to have us all mix with each other.” Melanie found them two empty seats and threw herself into one. Sitting down by her, his chair sagged beneath him. “This is a relic of the old world, isn’t it?” “Bits and pieces I presume,” said Melanie, barely listening as she looked out of the window. The train leapt from coniferous forest, past cliffs and across a bridge. Drones swarmed over the bridge. A man hanging from a harness waved to the train as it passed. Cairn’s stomach twisted as his eyes locked on to waves hundreds of metres below. Before he had the chance to adjust the water was gone and green branches were slapping the train again. Pine needles slid along the glass like fingers searching for purchase. “I’m Melanie.” She held out her hand to shake that of the girl in the seat nearest the window. “I’m Felicia,” said the girl wearing glasses and a green shirt. “I’m from Bluebell Valley, where are you from?” “We’re from Starfall Ridge,” said Cairn’s girlfriend. “What’s your name?” Felicia asked, looking at him. “Cairn.” “Nice to meet you both, and to talk to someone.” Felicia smiled with snow white teeth, showing her upper gums. “I’ve been excited about this trip since I was five,” said Melanie. She had her back to Cairn, but he didn’t mind. Being surrounded by hundreds of new, noisy people, was agitating him. “I know. It’s going to be amazing.” Felicia’s voice hit high notes Cairn didn’t know girls could after puberty. “Can I stick with you two? Everyone else I know vanished while I was tying up my horse and I couldn’t find them.” “You have a horse? So do I, he’s called Samwise.” “My horse is called Cynthia.” “What colour is she?” Melanie asked. “Jet with a lily-white line down one half of her nose. White mane.” “Ooh, I think I saw her when I walked Samwise on.” Now Melanie’s voice was hitting those high notes as well. On a mountain ridge, the train looked down over a winding river that surely met the mighty body of water they had crossed on the bridge. A ruin clung to the far bank of the river. Twisted, rusting metal reached for the sky. Birds nested in empty floors of the towers. Foliage carpeted the lower floors, working its way up over time. Forest swallowed the broken city. Oaks, ash, birches. A heron flew alongside the train until the whooping of the rowdy passengers scared it away. Woodland became grassland, then scrub. Bare earth stretched on and on. “The world is still healing,” said Felicia. “It will be for a long time,” agreed Melanie. “The people of the old world had great nerve to desecrate the beauty of nature. Another generation and we might not be here.” The spectacled girl pushed freckled fingers through red-brown hair. “And yet they are our ancestors. Without them, we wouldn’t be here. We owe them our lives.” “They owe us a world,” said Felicia, bitterly. “It’s not so bad now. We can breathe. We can eat. The last of them weren’t responsible for this. They were left to make the tough choices. They made us.” Melanie’s voice carried a tone of reverence. “Imagine having to look at the ruin of the world, facing extinction and admitting that you had to fundamentally alter your nature to ensure a future for your children. We are something more and less than they were. More peaceful. More resilient. Less violent.” Soothed by her words, Cairn’s lids were drooping. He woke in darkness, lying in Melanie’s lap. “Get up, sleepyhead, time to go to bed.” For a while her words filtered down into his mind through a fog. He was going to bed with her? It rang a bell, a distant bell. Snoring surrounded them. Some were still whispering to each other, looking out of the windows. Blinds had been pulled down over glass. Teenagers slept with their heads against a reflective surface beyond which the stars gleamed. Shivering, he tiptoed down the aisle towards the rear of the train. They had to step over boys and girls who were lying down between the seats because there was nowhere else. The sleeping cart was busier. Every bunk had one or two in it. Most were snoring. Some lay awake, unable to sleep because of the endless noise from the rest. Either side of their bed were sleeping boys and girls. That they had respected the sanctity of clothing reservation said something about remade humans, Cairn thought. There was no chance the people of the old world would choose the floor when there was a bed only saved by a scarf and gloves. Wood creaked as they lay down together on the thin matrass. With her arm wrapped around him, Melanie fell asleep in moments. He lay awake. Outside the window were stars he’d never seen before. The rhythmic gah-ton gah-ton sound of the train welcomed him back into dreams of the girl behind him. Her warmth and the hand against his stomach made sleep irresistible. “Cairn. CAIRN. Wake up.” Rude hands shook him. He groaned. “I can see it, Cairn. Come and look,” her voice had never irritated him so much. His dreams of her had been a perfect mix of soothing and erotic. “What can you see?” He rubbed his eyes. “That you were dreaming about me,” she said with laughter in her voice. “Good boy.” He turned over onto his stomach, hoping no one else had heard her. Her beautiful voice wasn’t helping him recall the blood from his morning glory. “Come on.” She rocked him with uncaring hands. “I want to see your face when you see it. We’re almost there.” He rolled from the bed and yawned. Her hand waved him to the window next to her. Cairn stretched stiff muscles and tried to find the target of her pointing finger. Orange light bathed the world. Streaks of red had been painted across the sky. Pink clouds were few and far between. An imposing silhouette peered over the horizon. A head and shoulders dwarfed everything that lay before them. Cairn’s mouth lay open as he tried to comprehend the scale of something visible from so far away. “That’s what I wanted to see.” Melanie kissed him. “Felicia is waiting for us in the stables.” She walked away. He caught another glimpse of the huge statue before following her to the rear of the train. “The Last Soldier,” Felicia squeeled. “I know!” Melanie’s voice hurt Cairn’s head. He winced. “Another hour, you think?” Asked the redhead. “Maybe two, it’s that big,” said the curly raven-haired woman of his dreams. “Is he always so talkative?” Asked their new friend, with a teasing smile. “I can’t shut him up.” Melanie laughed. “Cynthia is beautiful.” Her brown hand rubbed the black horse’s nose. Somewhere behind them another horse snorted in derision. “You are, of course, just as beautiful, Sam.” She gave a glittering smile as she looked back at his stall. In no mood to talk, overwhelmed by the smell of horse manure, he walked to the back of the train. In the east a familiar golden orb sat above the horizon. Ruins overrun by the wild showed the scars of the last war. A crater had become a lake. Rivers ran down old streets. “Brutal, isn’t it.” A boy wearing an orange and clay coloured poncho turned towards Cairn. A swirling tattoo covered one side of his face and ran down his neck past his collar. “I guess that’s why we are what we’ve become.” Cairn couldn’t say why he was drawn to look at his hands. He was searching for some intangible difference between him and the homo erectus that had been waging war with itself for millennia. They were the homo pax, the children of peace. “I’ve read a lot about what they thought it would be like to change from them into us,” said the tattooed boy. “They thought they would be lessened, neutered or something. Finding peace wasn’t losing something. It is the greatest gift we’ve ever been given. We never have to worry about each other again.” Cairn nodded, eyes glazing over as he thought about it. “I’m Cairn.” He held out his hand. “Aled,” said the other boy, reaching to shake. More tattoos were revealed as his forearm slipped out from his cream-coloured sleeve. “Wow.” The Last Soldier loomed as they drew closer. Rusty shoulders towered over the horizon. Something in the warrior’s arms aimed towards the sky. They knew from old world media that it was a gun. There were no guns left. Every weapon in the continent had been used to make The Last Soldier. At most people had bows and arrows, or spears for hunting. Melanie and her family made both and sold them to hunters throughout the lands. “I’d better find my tribe,” said Aled. “I should do the same. Good to meet you.” “And you.” When the boy bowed, his poncho flapped forwards. Melanie was with Samwise. “Where did you disappear to?” The stable still stank of manure but with a window open, it was bearable. Bog outside the window was becoming forest again. “I made a friend.” He stroked the snorting horse, which nuzzled him in return. “Nice, where are they?” “He had to go and find his tribe.” “Everyone’s heading to the front of the train. Someone said it’s downhill soon. We’ll get the best view of The Last Soldier. Soon we’ll be too close to appreciate it.” “Isn’t it a monument to everything we’re not meant to be anymore?” He asked. “Yes,” she sighed. “But it’s also the biggest monument left in the world.” “I guess we’d better look at it then,” he said. “But if the train turns then we can see as well from the back as the front. The train is definitely turning.” He took her hand, determined to be the assertive one for once. The train began to slow, heading downhill. The pockets on armour that neither of them recognised were large enough to home families. There was no face. Goggles and a helmet hid the soldier from its audience. It was judging them. Either it mourned the end of the age of violence that humanity had barely survived, or thought them ridiculous for building it in the first place. Haunting was the only apt description of the thing which both was and wasn’t looking at them. It was the ghost of a fallen god. Cairn guided Melanie to the back of the train. Among the carts of the many tribes. Alone, he held her hips and kissed her. “We’re going to miss it,” she said, breathlessly. “It’s right there.” He pointed over her shoulder. Looming above them, many miles away, The Last Soldier held its vigil. “Aren’t you going to look,” she asked, as he nuzzled at her neck. “I’d rather look at you. It’s the past. Hopefully you’re my future.” For once, she blushed. Melanie’s arms folded around them. They forgot the twice in a lifetime view. Kisses down her neck brought gasps from her. Fingers digging into his shoulders made him wince, dragging her hand down his back. Her trembling hands fumbled with her buttons as he kissed his way down her chest. Her shirt fell away. Beaming with pride at the awestruck look on his face, she embraced him. “Your turn,” she whispered. Together they freed him of his long-sleeved T-shirt and lay down on their clothes. “I’ve never,” Cairn said. “I know.” Melanie smiled. “You’ll be great.” A horn blared. They looked between the carts. The reimagined bones of an old-world station swallowed the train. “Seriously, now!” Melanie frowned, reaching for her clothes. “We’ll find somewhere later,” he said, eyes worshiping her body. “Put some clothes on, quick.” “I love you,” he said. She paused, thrusting her hand down a sleeve. Bending down again, she kissed him. “I love you too.” Sunlight burst through glass in every colour of the rainbow. Smiling as the carts changed from red to blue to yellow and so on, they kissed again. The Last Station was a sight to behold, especially when they did so hand in hand.


It was a regular Sunday in march, like all days now, bleak and miserable. A grey day where the streets were lined with small, shallow puddles but there was never any rain. If you looked up you would not see blue just more dull pale clouds. Although no one was really out to look for it, especially not the Ponds. Sundays were always their lazy days they may occasionally go to church but it mostly consisted of them doing nothing and sitting around the house. Except not this day, this day was already off to a bed start when the man of the house David Pond, husband to Lily Pond and Father to three kids George, Adam and Eddie, had to leave early due to a work emergency. David was a police officer, sergeant actually although this wasn’t exactly all it seems considering he operates in the sleepy town of Brownly. Which made the fact he was being called out at eight in the morning even weirder. He wasn’t even told what it was he was going out to just that it was an emergency. The noise of David rushing around had stirred everyone in the house and pretty soon the whole house set out going about their day which was very unusual for a Sunday at eight in the morning. It wasn’t long before David was ready dressed in his unflattering black uniform his messy brown hair sort of neater than when he woke up and his car engine running. He quickly popped into his house to grab a slice of toast and kiss Lily goodbye before setting off to attend this emergency. He mulled it over in the car and decided this could be an opportunity to make a seriously good impression on the higher ups and maybe get that promotion he wanted. If he hadn’t of been thinking of this, if he hadn’t of been making sure he looked presentable in the wing mirror and if he had been looking at the road then maybe just maybe he’d have seen the seven-foot beast that was towering about an upturned car around the corner. But he didn’t see the shaggy giant and it didn’t see him. They collided at quite some speed which activated the airbags in David’s car obstructing his sight and hindering his escape from the vehicle, the thing smashing into the door of the upturned Toyota denting it beyond repair with its huge frame. Within seconds it was back on its goliath feet using its boney arms to support its dazed self. David still had no clue what was going on, but he finally got control of the air bag and it slowly deflated and banging pain in his head. He could just about open his eyes in time to see the creature launch itself with its power hind legs onto the bonnet smashing the windscreen as it did so. The rest was blur as David’s life flashed before his eyes, everything from his childhood, to meeting lily, to having the kids and finally his death. Impaled through the throat by this otherworldly thing claw. The whole thing was over in seconds and the beast retracted its claw just before George’s eyes glossed over. The last thing he ever saw was the huge dog like monster bounding off into the forest and then the darkness of death. Lily’s heart seemingly skipped a beat causing her to let go of the milk in her hand, spilling it all over the floor. “God dam it!” she exclaimed which led to her eldest son George to come to her aid. “What happened mum?” George asked a confused tone to his voice. “Nothing it just slipped out my hand that’s all. But it means someone needs to go to get some more. ADAM!” she called for her second oldest son Adam. He’s good natured boy but not but he wasn’t very intelligent and he was very dependent on other people even though he just recently turned twelve. He came rushing down the stairs and skidded to a halt just outside the kitchen. “Yeah Mum.” He said as he leant against the doorway eying the mess George was now on his hands and knees clearing with his Mum. “Go to my bag and fetch a fiver to go buy some milk,” She ordered him. “Seriously why can’t George do it?” He whined in response. “Can’t you see I’m busy donkey brains?” George quipped back. “George! You do not talk to your brother like that. And Adam just do me a favor and go the shop’s only round the corner it wont take you more than ten minutes” Lily said ending the conversation there. “Fine!” Adam huffed as he stormed off the get the money.


Cody had no sense of smell; he had no sense of taste either, but it's not fair to only talk about what he wasn't. He laughed and cried, the same as you and me. Cody was a human being, and he was just as pissed off about it as anyone else. He was different too, it's fair to say. When Cody was a baby a brick struck him in the face while playing near a construction site. They were building apartments, and his parents got a wad of money from the construction company as a way of saying sorry. He was permanently blessed with a dent in his head, a line across his forehead that made it look as if he was always pressing his face against a pane of unseen glass. My great grandfather had a dent in his head, a small round divot above his left eye. He got it in ``the war'', laying on the ground working on the engine of an American tank. Another soldier was sitting on top of the engine and dropped a big wrench straight in to his mellon. I don't think the military gave him any big wad of money or said sorry, but the event provided him with a fabulous story for the rest of his life. The other soldier, my great grandfather said, was a celebrity who was proudly serving but had no real business as a mechanic. I have no idea who this celebrity was, but my great grandfather lived to be 95 years old, and told this story with a grin until he lost his mind. Whether the ding in the head of my proavus really came from a celebrity or not, this was truly a great story. He would tell it to us loudly, waving his hand about, and we would laugh and smile. This story is my fondest memory of him. Cody was too young to remember the brick that had smacked him in the head. Even if he had been older, that brick probably would have still excused itself from his memory, politely bowing in to faint obscurity. That brick took his sense of smell, and taste, and left his incredible brain a jumbled mess. Sometimes Cody would be confused, but never angry. That was his blessed gift, to never be angry, and it served him well. We all cherish the stories of our scars, they are the physical record of our triumphs over death. At any good party someone will show off their old battle wounds, even if they were just the result of an errant golf ball. My great grandfather happily told the story of how the famous actor introduced himself with a wrench. Cody loved to spin his tale, even though he couldn't actually remember it. In his rendition the brick struck him at high noon, in a blistering summer heat, and his dear mother had to run 50 city blocks to the hospital while carrying the baby and the brick. The brick didn't stay lodged in his head after impact, Cody told us, but his mother brought it along anyway, ``just in case!'' Everyone laughed at that point in the story. And then Cody would remind us how lucky he was to survive that brick, and how good his life was as a result. You didn't feel sorry for Cody and his dented forehead. He was intelligent and funny, and just a little confused sometimes. People called him stupid, but he wasn't.