I had never seen such beautiful eyes. My friends say I'm a cynic. I blame life for that. Years of feeling like an outsider looking in at other people's happiness will do that to you. I believed love at first sight was nothing but an advertising gimmick, used to draw in the unsuspecting idealists of our generation. I even made it a point to brutally tear down some of my more starry-eyed friends. Yet, there I was, gaping at what seemed to me, the most perfect human being I'd ever laid my eyes on. Alright, perhaps not the most. I’ve been told I’m prone to exaggeration. But the irony of it wasn't lost on me. My scarily determined mother had pulled all sorts of strings to get this family to agree to a meeting. I, of course, wasn't allowed an opinion. After all, what unmarried girl of twenty eight wouldn't be delighted at this wonderful opportunity? She was still at it, extolling my non-existent virtues to the parents. Parents, who were eyeballing me, probably ticking off points in the mental checklist they prepared when they went shopping for brides. "..And, there's no question about my daughter's reputation, of course... " Ah, mother. If only you knew. The memory of my last entanglement still incited a bitter tug in my weary heart. Bed sheets twisted with embarrassment, drunken words that held no meaning. I turned my attention back to those soulful eyes, now looking intently at me too. I know most wouldn't understand. The eyes were too close set, the lips were slightly crooked. Unruly, dark hair refusing to be tamed. But how I wanted press my chapped lips against that smooth forehead, and run my hands over every inch of that body. And it wasn't just lust, I wanted to hear every word those crooked lips had to say, I wanted to run along a beach holding those lean hands, I wanted to wake up every morning, next to that face. I wanted a home with hardwood floors and noisy children. The bruised romantic in me painted colourful dreams of us. I felt laughter bubble up my throat. Fate is the biggest joke of life. What were the chances that I, a lonely girl who'd given up on the idea of a happy life with the one I loved, should find my soul mate because of this horrible charade every girl my age has to go through? Yet I felt no gratitude towards my mother, who had just turned towards me and said: "Well, why don't you take him out to the balcony- you'll be able to have a nice conversation, just the two of you.” I almost choked, trying to gulp down the dry, hysterical cackle that had risen earlier. As I said, life has turned me into a cynic and fate is a nothing but a joke. I felt my heart break, as I dragged myself away from those beautiful eyes and led her brother to the balcony.


Super short and kind of sweet. I had an idea. it’s about a lucky three leaf clover. He’s never felt very lucky though. He’s jealous, you see. He’s constantly comparing himself to his more popular four leaf cohorts. When he was younger, he’d push and push hoping he could make the fourth leaf sprout, it never did. So he tried something new. Every morning, he’d wake up before his neighbours and he’d stretch up as high as he could. Hoping if he caught more sun, enough sun, he’d finally get his fourth leaf. He did this for weeks. Wake up, stretch, push... nothing. The weeks went by and nothing sprouted. But he did, however, notice something new. While he was waking up at dawn to stretch high, he noticed the four leaf clovers would sleep in late. And even worse- when they woke, they didn’t stretch. Not. Even. Once. “Lazy” he thought. He was angry. It didn’t make any sense. How could they have four leafs and not even try? The coveted fourth leaf he so wanted had never felt so out of reach. Here he was barely sleeping, stretching and pushing himself into an aneurysm, while he bitterly watched his four leaf contenders sleep till noon. It was futile. He’d given up, he resentfully came to terms with only having three leafs and went to bed. The silver lining was he’d get to sleep in, finally. The next morning came and before he got the chance to sleep in, the clover was rudely awakened by unusual sounds. The ground was shaking and the noises were coming closer. He was scared, they all were. They watched as two strange figures approached. They were enormous. The clovers quivered in fear as the figures came closer, wondering if they were coming straight to them. Sure enough, one of the figures cried out “it’s a patch of clovers!” They had all heard the legends. Honestly, they always thought it was an old wives’ tale to keep the four leaf clovers from getting too brash. (He always thought it was a cheap attempt to make the three leafers feel better, more special.) But now they knew. They also knew what was coming, so they shut their eyes tight and hoped they wouldn’t be picked. As the figures left, and when he felt brave enough, he opened his eyes. Slowly. One at a time while the other stayed wrinkled shut. When he finally looked around he was shocked to find out something truly peculiar. In this little patch of land, he saw that most of who remained were three leaf clovers, just like him. Towering above the rest as they stretched to try and change the very thing that saved them. He finally understood that he had always been one of the lucky ones. I never really wrote anything before, but just wanted to put into words what three leaf clovers might feel if they felt.


She was leaving. I politely asked her to hide her bags and belongings. I didn’t want a reminder. I figured I’d let it all hit me when I woke up after she drove away. The problem was the bags, hat boxes, and suitcases and such that filled the back laundry room where I suggested she hide them. I suggested this as it also meant I wouldn’t have to do laundry until she left. So, I was adding relearning how to do laundry to the ugliness of that first day alone. She sat me down and made me understand that her belongings were now hitting the ceiling. “I want to pack my change jar - it won’t fit.” I understood. “You’ll have to throw some stuff out.” But she wouldn’t listen. She continued to fill the room. She found nooks and crannies to hide herself and even managed to pack the washer and dryer with her belongings. “I’m finished.” She said one June morning. I went into the back room and pried the door open and just looked at her, all of her, all packed into the laundry room. She left the next day. On the ground were little bits of debris she couldn't pack. A hair clip, a bottle of suntan lotion, books... She moved to another office in another country. I began inter-office mailing her little pieces of herself that she left behind: change, paperclips, photos, lip balm... An email went out to the office explaining that all non-paper products could not continue to arrive overseas as Customs was cracking down. I gave up sending her all back. I left the laundry room alone for a month. But eventually... I opened the door to the laundry room and began doing laundry. I’ve been doing laundry for 13 years.


This is a little short story I wrote for a dnd character I'll be playing. I do this a lot as it helps me contextualize them in a more concrete way before the game. I've been trying to force myself to write more and I'm curious how something like this plays to a different audience. I will say there are definitely a few details in here that might come off as kind of random or not fleshed out. I don't think it's an issue but that's cause the initial intended audience has more context on the world (it's his world after all). Regardless, feedback is always appreciated! Sveta had never been truly alone. Her earliest memories always came with imaginary friends, guidance, and praise. In her darkest times she always had somebody to turn to, in times of fear or sadness they were always there when she needed them. While she struggled to make any true friends she never needed them, she never had fewer than three to play with. When she managed her first spell her parents were over the moon. They showered her with praise, told her she was such a prodigy (whatever that meant), and sung her praises. But she was just doing what the voices told her, they were always telling her things. With their guidance her power rapidly grew, a chorus of praise whenever she succeeded and a council of support when she failed. Sveta knew she was destined for great things, everyone told her so after all. But, as Sveta grew, the voices began to change. No longer were they content to solely support and shepherd. Slowly, that gentle guidance became just a bit more forceful. It grew and built with each coming year, with each paradigm leap in power. Soon it turned to orders, to demands, to injunctions handed down from whatever celestial realm they inhabited. Soon she realized her refuge was gone, now a hornet’s nest of commands shouting her down for daring to be somebody else, daring to be anything but the thing they demanded she be. Sveta could have taken it, could have been what they wanted. If only the voices had ever wanted the same thing. It was always strange, often the voices didn’t even seem to hear each other. They weren’t together in a chorus, but each a song unto themselves. At first they made a lovely meddled medley for they all wanted the same thing: the best for young Sveta. Slowly, their songs diverged. A discordant knot of sounds all calling for different courses, all demanding she sing along. To please one was to draw the ire of the other two. Love and care left in the wake of cold indifference as each had its faith in her devotion shaken time and again. She would reach out for help, try in desperation to open to others about her plight. All she was rewarded with was more admonishment, more disappointment, more displeasure. How dare she complain, she had a direct line to the powers above! So many toil their lives to have even a single conversation and she was born with such a gift! Sveta was chosen! Anointed! What manner of ingrate would whine about such divine providence? None seemed to consider the difficulties of having three such lines, nor the impact of being denied a self. A lifetime of this building torment. A lifetime of a mind roiling like a hurricane. A lifetime taken by three discrete forces well beyond her control. This was no connection, no concordance, no it was a chain. Her leash fought over by so many at once. A leash she may finally have the means to sever. -- Blasting sands tear across the dunes with the biting acrimony of a disapproving parent. The cutting wind screams her name with each baleful gust. Beating rays of heat press down on her back with overwhelming expectation. Even so, Sveta trudges forward across the sand. A grim determination presses her through the storm. For years every free moment she had stolen was spent searching for the means to break these shackles, to finally be free. That desperation found her here, in this forsaken land of sand and sun. She stops to take a sip of water and consult the old map once more. Not some relic from an ancient ruin but a simple piece borrowed from an archive from the city’s ignoble past. Bracing against the wind she pulls out a compass as well. Comparing its needle, the sun, and the towering spires of the city in the distance she plots a course once more. They chastise her again for stooping to such basic orienteering but she heeds them and their power no mind. With a breath she tightens her facial covering and steels herself. Onward she will forge. Always onward, lest she crumble before the cacophony in her head. For three days she fights her way through the increasingly hostile land. Those same forces that screamed in her head fought her progress at every step, it was her only solace that their efforts could not coordinate against her. Finally, she crests a hill and spies what she seeks. The tip of a long forgotten tower peeking above the sands. Its design is unique, a cathedral to none beyond this plane and a watchtower once dominating its surroundings cut into seven segments each shaped by a different force. Perhaps this place still holds a bit of the independence it purported to protect. Clenching her teeth, Sveta looks at the spire barely peeking above the sand. No obvious way in of course. She tightens her fists into balls and invokes her power once more. Her head screams as the connection ignites. While other such chosen call on their deities to send them a servant Sveta reaches down three filaments tethering her to the above. Here she feels the forces moving like a powerful river and simply plucks one from the rushing mass. A lifetime of practice has left her quite deft at picking the right ones amid the unending deluge and tumult. To her pleasure it is another success. A hulking mass of roiling ajer and stone turns to face her with the vaguest approximation of a face. It manages only confusion as it finds itself at this strange woman’s beck and call. Sveta does not bother with honorifics, she simply points at the sand beneath her and bids the creature to “dig”. Without question, and much to its chagrin, it complies. Soon a tunnel is dug and stabilized, arcing around the tower until an entrance is located. A massive hall lay below the sand creating an artificial cave beneath the sand. Sveta then simply nods, commanding the elemental to cease in its work. It looks at her expectantly awaiting its release. She ignores the creature and examines the cavernous room below her. At first she considers simply flying down but that thought is quickly cast aside, tossed into the raging river of thoughts not her own. No, it would be better to simply use a rope. Grumbling, Sveta slides down into the large forgotten chamber below. She ignites a torch with a tinderwig and frowns as the flickering flame fails to illuminate much of the structure. With another grumble she focuses inward and whispers a prayer in a language she was never taught to speak. With a brilliant display daylight ignites upon her torch, casting its rays across the room. Sveta pushes the admonishment at the use of her power from her mind and raises the beacon high above her head. A scene of pitched battle is laid out before her. Whatever the engagement was it involved many parties, some maybe even more powerful than herself. The ground is riven and torn, impacts riddle the walls from arrow sized pockmarks to craters, burns, scorches, and a million other after effects mar this once grandiose chamber. Slowly Sveta picks her way through the carnage seemingly fixed in time by the desert above. She passes by a serpentine figure encased in some ancient crystal, over numerous humanoid shaped holes, around a patch riddled with shards of metal, through a whirlwind unable to let go of this world, and past dozens of remains of kynd of all stripes. Sveta pauses on the far side of the room and glances back at the scene. Perhaps she should have taken the time to study this place, if only *they* would let her focus on something as trivial as that. Sighing once more she turns back to the towering archway. What was clearly once a set of gargantuan metal doors lay twisted and broken on their sides. Another casualty of whatever tragedy befell this place. This place, this tomb, is a labyrinthine mess of halls and stairwells. Sveta wanders and delves deeper within picking her way through what remained. It seems that dozens lived and worked here, in a hierarchical structure judging from the layout, all she can ascertain is that those at the top called themselves “shapers”. As she picks her way deeper into the structure she slowly realizes that this ancient place was built atop something far, far older. While the signs of battle seemed largely localized to the chambers above deep below Sveta discovers the scene of one more. Unlike the varied and significant marks from above the conflict here was nasty, brutish, and short. A series of blood stains smeared on the walls and floor, each punctuated by a crack in the stone telling a sickening story. The dozens of discarded weapons told of the sheer number who presumably perished in what could only be an attempt to access whatever lay in the ruin below. The still growing plants about the bodies raise yet another open question. Regardless of the combatants or their capabilities they left a hidden passage, a wall of interlocked stone like a woven fabric, open to the world. This place, this hallowed hall of sullen silence, seemed to breathe again as Sveta peered down the corridor. A sense of unease settled over her soul, compounded thrice as a rare chorus of agreement pressed against her head. Sveta had learned well to heed the voices’ warnings, they always steered her clear of the most perilous danger. But “danger” had always meant what they wanted it to. She was steered as they saw fit, oft away from what was only dangerous to the possessive. Their council of agreement told her one simple thing: “she was going the right way”. Against their protestations she continued on, trying desperately to focus on the echoes of her footsteps over the ever increasing internal clangor. The yawning stone hall stretched out with the hallowed portent of a great cathedral, yet it terminated with just a strange circular chamber. The stone gave way to a twisted architecture of brass and bronze. Sveta had been told of the others who came before. Tomb raiders, daring archeologists, wise cracking adventurers, and mummy fighting treasure hunters had all picked the ruins long clean. If there were any further secrets she would need something more than the gumption and pluck the others had borne. While she knew not where to use it, she was perhaps provided with just such a thing. A quill, made of the strangest glass, seemingly able to write its tales in the strands of reality itself. Closing her eyes Sveta pulled the quill from her pack along with the instructions provided for her. She stares at the words, they shift in her gaze as the voices shout at her once more. She had thought of this however and the simple instructions were laid out in large helpful letters letting her mind push through the discordant din. One by one she read off the pieces out loud, her wavering voice echoing back to her, ringing over the cacophony in her mind. A piece of sandstone pulled from the city’s walls, a shard of ice that had never been water, a flicker of fire from the belly of a volcano, a vial of unbreathed air, a bolt of wood from the oldest tree, the means to write one’s fate, and a mote of untapped potential. The last two had vexed Svetta for years until she came across both in an unlikely shop on the far side of the world. A shop run by almost a concept rather than a person, an entity she could not find mention of nor recall detail since. Sveta was not one to look a gift enigma in the mouth. There she procured the quill, said to write in very aether itself. In addition a single piece of unsullied papyrus. A nothing that could be an anything. As if responding to her preparation, seven slots opened along the sides of the room. With each receptacle filled the ancient structure seemed to shudder with excitement. As Sveta inputs the last piece the entryway violently slams shut behind her with a screeching crash. Then, the entire room rapidly plummets deep into the ajer below. Sveta presses herself against the floor, with only the means to hope that it does not give way. As rapidly as the terror takes hold it is assuaged. The lift wrenches to a stop, her brilliant daylight winks out leaving only the dying torch and silence to fill the space. True silence. Silence Sveta has been loath to experience for her entire life. No orders, no admonishments, no advice, no anything save for her own thoughts stretching their legs for perhaps the first time. This relief was quickly tempered by the realization of what lay before. With a belabored heave the door slides free once more. Within she sees an octagonal chamber, seven sides and an eighth for a door. Her gaze is immediately pulled towards one such side however. While the other six bear symbology and portent this one simply frames what could only be described as a wound in reality. A void seemingly anathema to the concept of existence itself. It pulled at her, promising to consume the voices along with her thoughts. She dared not look more, for it was not why she was here. Tentatively, Sveta steps into the octagonal room. She raises the meager flame of the torch to let her see. Unlike the opulent halls and cavernous rooms above this one was simple and utilitarian. No further across than need be to fill the space, no taller than to allow one to comfortably walk within. The stonework is simple and sturdy, metal reinforcements helping bear the crushing burden of ajer above. Each wall is carved with an ornate set of symbols but each seemed etched with purpose. Each told a story beyond the profligate filigree that usually adorned such secret spaces. In the center the room holds a simple statue of a humanoid figure. It stands tall and proud, the kind of figure people deify, but here positioned like a coat rack. The statue holds two items, yet clearly misses a third. First, about each wrist is a set of bracelets, one gold the other silver, etched with a symbol seen covering the place above. In addition he bares a simple headband. It is seemingly made of basic silk and cotton, yet untouched by time. As Sveta stares she realizes it is held together by something much greater. Finally, around the statue’s neck a talisman is conspicuously absent. Sveta thinks back to the figure encased in crystal above and considers trying to wrest the amulet from him. But none of this was why she was here. If she were a covetous woman, like those who had scavenged this place before, she would snatch everything she could. But no, Sveta knew disturbing such places was always dangerous. Greed served her not. So she takes only the headband, turning it over in her hands to find it held together not by the fabric but rather the threads of reality itself, the very threads she was here to understand. Idly running her finger over the soft, comforting fabric she turns now to the walls of this room. Her unyielding will constantly turning her gaze from the destroyed wall as she does. Each remaining wall bears markings associated with various elements. Fire, water, ajer, and air, all simple and obvious. What she didn’t expect was wood to be counted among their number. Casting the void from her mind that left but a sole option before her: Aether. The others promised to bend the world about the finger of those willing and able to shape them but Aether promised much more. And thus here Sveta stands. For a short eternity it is all she can manage to stare, clutching this piece of metaphysical cloth comforting her quieted soul. She knew not what she was to expect here at the end of her journey. Perhaps a great sacrifice, a magical artifact, secret knowledge, something of such monumental great worth. She was ready to spend months deciphering ancient text, learning forbidden techniques, or proving some nebulous concept of worth. She looked back at the other walls, each bearing similarly inscrutable bromide yet all lacking something that this one still holds. Life. Slowly, everything began sliding into place for Sveta. She was not here to study, learn, or even understand. She was here to *do*, to act, to shape the world around her. With that realization the symbols carved about the walls began to snap into place in her mind. They were no simple artistry, no language, no instructions, or hieroglyphs. They were a guide, leading her hand to the threads of existence like a weaver’s shuttle. With a delightful glee, the excitement of discovery that was always jealously withheld from her, she tugged at the threads with all her might. Objects were pulled from her person and flung around the room, aimless forces woven together like fabric to block them as they rebounded. A control so utterly rudimentary yet unbelievably exhilarating. She let out a gleeful shout at this realization, at a thing *she* began to learn, a choice *she* decided to make. Turning free now she sighs with satisfaction. A spark lit within her that she would protect against the storm. With a newfound vigor she steps out of the room, only affording herself that last glance at the gaping void. Perhaps when she is free she shall uncover its secrets. For now she will settle for her own. Pulling once more at the threads she extends a hand at the quill lodged in the side of the elevator. It springs to her hand like a loyal pup and Sveta triumphantly holds it aloft like a sword. Truly the pen was indeed mightier. Ready now to face it all once more she turns as the door slides shut and she ascends to the surface. -- Howling winds buffet the woman once more. The biting sand having given way to cutting ice, oppressive heat to bitter cold. The shearing screams of her name are a mere petulant whisper next to the wailing in her head. Orders and demands had long since given way to reprimands and those in turn to vitriolic invectives. Yet for once the sounds did not cripple her for eager enthusiasm and dogged determination impelled her forward through the driving snow. Gleefully she invoked her power, for once enjoying this part of herself she never could. She crossed the majority of the world with plane shifting and wind walking simply to revel in the ability. And for once she cared not for their protestations. As she climbed she wreathed herself in a glowing warmth, sheltered herself from the gale with one of her own, and pushed forward on borrowed strength. With every step the snow melts before her and a disgruntled elemental guides her path without question. On her back she hefts her greatest prize, the culmination of her meager fortune. A colossal blade forged from mithral and enchanted with an unerring edge, sharp enough not only to cut anything but to cut *nothing* as well. Embedded in the blade’s heart is that quill, the final piece in her emancipation. For once in her life she did not know what the future would bring. It was exhilarating. It was like this that she reached the apex of the mountain. A jaggy, snow covered crag of stone seemingly overlooking the entire world. As she crests the voices make their final demands. One by one they issue ultimatums and one by one she breaks them. Sveta braces as the power she had invoked dies around her, protections fading as nature crashes down like a tidal wave. The winds tear at her clothes ripping her hood free and whipping her hair to the side like a tarnished banner. The cold eats at her body, threatening to consume her extremities in its infinite spite. The air is yanked from her very lungs, each breath restoring only a fraction of what was taken. But in this state of wild yet unshaking resolve Sveta knew that this meant that she was finally at the end. As the power she had been given, the power she had been shackled to, was torn from her Sveta turned instead to the power that *she* had fostered. Looking at the sky through the howling clouds she smiles at the shimmering aurora, prismatic bands dancing in the sky. Sveta now knew what they were. From here she could see them, this place was special and those aetheric strands all seem to connect in long bending arcs. They stretched and bent about the world like a shroud, flowing like rivers, and here culminating in something even the layperson can see. To Sveta’s eye in training she searches for and spies the threads that bind her. Sveta smiles to herself, taking the deepest breath she can in the thin air, the cold tearing into her lungs. Despite standing at the zenith of her torment she was also standing at its conclusion. She casts a hand out to the side, focusing inward and pulling at the strands herself. Slowly, the massive blade begins to move from her back. It is far too large to ever functionally wield but for her it was perfect. The blade slowly rotates in the air as she wraps stands of her own about it, guiding it with practiced care to her target. She tugs at them like a weaver, puppeting the powerful blade forward. Even as ice forms on her face and clothing the world seems to settle into a quiet lull. Faintly she could hear the voices pleading now, stooping so low in their final moments. But it was too late. She thought back, never truly having known if she could be heard, but nonetheless she tried one last time. Her blade finds the tether, she tenses herself for what is to come, and flicks her wrist uttering a single perfect word. “Freedom” Reality seems to quiet about the woman as she drops to her knees in the snow, joyful tears streaming down her face. Despite nature still raging at her she can only revel in the freedom she dreamed of for so long. There was no explosion, no feedback, no horrible agony, just a sudden respite from everything bearing down on her beleaguered soul. She pulls her blade back, hugging the beautiful thing in relief and rapturous joy. As the cold begins to set back in she hoists herself to her feet, ready to make the arduous climb back down. But something gives Sveta pause, a sound cutting across the mountain top to her. Is somebody else here? She turns, looking for the sound, but there was no one here to share in her triumph. Then she hears another calling out, as if talking to yet another crowding the tiny mountain top. Slowly a revelation begins to worm its way into her mind as one by one more and more voices make themselves heard. Not one, not three, but everything all talking over each other at once. An incomprehensible deluge of thought passing through her mind headed everywhere else. She looks up at the strands again, these filaments vibrating like a harp and spiderwebbing out before her. She had not cut the tether, she had cut the restraints. In that instant freedom was pulled from her grasp and something far worse settled in its place. Sveta drops to her knees at the utter indentation of thought devastating her soul like a shattered dam. It is all she can do to clutch her head in a state of unmatched agony. And she screams.


The night I rolled into Eastbrook, after fifteen years away, the cold air burned in my lungs as if I’d swallowed a hot coal, my frozen breath was the smoke rising from my chimney esophagus. When I moved uptown, I thought for sure I’d left this small town behind. I thought I’d never walk these streets again, but then I never thought I’d take a gig like this either. Empty pockets are a powerful motivator. Turnabout is fair play though, that’s what I tell myself. Policing blackmail is a joke, you always run the risk the blackmailer releases your secrets anyway. You can keep a man behind bars, but what about information? Ideas have a reverse life sentence, once they’re out, they’re out for good. So there’s no choice but to beat them at their own game. That’s what brought Mr. Beckett to my humble office just last night. “Mrs. Colt” he said directly, opening the door without knocking. “Just Colt,” I corrected. He paused, uneasily, “... Colt, I have a favor to ask.” “I only do favors for my friends. And I don’t have any friends.” “A euphemism, please forgive me.” There was a drawl to his voice, a southerner. That would explain the discomfort with dropping the honorific, southern manners and all that. He continued, “I find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the services I’m about to request.” The disparity between his confidence to open my door with no introduction, and his sheepish need to identify my marital status gave me my first clue of what kind of man Mr. Beckett was. He was a man who was used to being listened to, and who treated appearances as a precious commodity. Probably wealthy, I could use a wealthy client right about now. “Well I can assure you, discretion comes with the profession. Mister...?” “Beckett.” “So Mr. Beckett, what’s so urgent as to bring you into my office when you could have called, but so uncomfortable you can’t admit you’re about to pay for it? I take it you won’t be wanting a receipt then?” “To be frank, blackmail.” “I see. That can certainly be a tricky situation. Tell me, what was the nature of the threat?” “To be upfront ma’am, that’s why I would like to hire you. I’d like to make my own threat.” “I don’t do blackmail,” is what I should have said. I’ve said it before. Being a private eye is an unfortunately rotten profession. When I started down this path I dreamed of being a modern Sherlock Holmes, using my brilliance to help people in their time of desperate need. Instead I mostly find myself helping desperate people confirm their worst suspicions. Every urgent act of investigation that doesn’t crush your soul, the police already do for free. So only two types of cases walk through my door. The first kind is people at the end of their rope. These are the cases where the police have done their due diligence and turned up zilch, usually missing persons cases. So, desperate with nowhere else to go, they dig into their pockets and pay me to carry on, holding out hope for good news. But it’s never good news. The second kind is a case where the client is too embarrassed to go to the police, they need someone a little more subtle . So I spend my days tailing lying business partners, and catfishing cheating spouses, and every other scheme born from suspicious minds. These types of jobs are lose-lose; best case scenario the client pays me a bunch of money to find out they were wrong, and no one’s ever satisfied with being wrong. It only feels like it was worth the trouble when you find out something awful. And sometimes the truth is awful, and then there’s no satisfaction in being right either. Like I said, lose-lose. But that’s just the above board stuff. I get a lot of skeptics and cynics in my office, but usually, people hesitant to go to the police go by a different label; we usually call them criminals. It’s not worth mentioning all the underhanded crud some folks think I can do for them, but blackmail is an obvious one that falls in a skillset like mine. Investigators find the truth; blackmail is just using the truth as a weapon. It also happens to be a crime. That night I told him as much at least, “I think you’ve come to the wrong office. I solve crimes for a living, I don’t commit them.” The snow crunching under my boots was unfortunately quieter than the sound of my growling stomach, and there’s nowhere open around here to grab a bite this late. That’s half the reason I left in the first place. Barely eight o’clock and every store window is dim. The hunger is a reminder of what brings me crawling back now, empty stomachs follow empty pockets. With one hand I produce the business card from my breast pocket, and with the other I turn up my coat collar against the cold. “Grand Rosewoods: Luxury Bed & Breakfast - Jonathan H. Becket, CEO” it reads in ornate gold letters. I flip it over to the other side. “42 Meadow Lane'' is scribbled along the back in Mr. Beckett’s nearly illegible cursive. This is the place, the sign reads “Eastbrook Cottages.” I’d heard of it before, but I’ve never been inside. I’ve never had a reason or a desire; I still have no desire but I have my reasons. It was a real sob story. “I have worked hard all my life,” Mr. Beckett had said. “And I’m not too coy to admit, by now I have become a man of means.” I don’t get a lot of those in my office. Maybe I should have already stopped listening by now, but it has been a hard year. It was all I could do to keep the lights on, and I was starting to rethink the cases I had said no to before. And now a client walks in with an offer that could turn it all around. He could put my books back in the black, and even add a little christmas bonus on top. I could at least hear him out. Beckett owns a chain of luxury B&Bs; he’s got Grand Rosewoods all over the north east. He started with just one, and now he’s opened fifty more. He was set to open one in Eastbrook this year, but he had to stop construction rather suddenly. You see, Mr. Beckett has a daughter; a daughter who grew up in the lavish conditions his hard work has afforded her. It would seem she’s fallen in with the wrong crowd, and gotten herself in a bit of trouble. The way he tells it, he wanted to make sure she had it better than the lowly life he grew up with, and so he may have been a little indulgent with her. I know the type, there’s nothing daddy’s money can’t fix. Can’t say I relate, but then I’m no angel either. Who knows where I would be if I’d grown up in that world, living the lifestyle of the rich and famous? So last month Mr. Becket gets a package in the mail. An envelope with pictures of his daughter and the previously mentioned wrong crowd. He didn’t say what was in the photos, and I didn’t ask, but it was clearly something a young lady wouldn’t want the world to see. Also in the envelope was a note that just said, “leave Eastbrook, or else.” “And you’re sure it was this Miskin?” I asked. “He practically said as much at the town hall meeting. Even though all my permits were approved, and everything was ready to go, he told me if I didn’t stop construction I’d regret it. You can ask around, there were witnesses. He’s my only competitor in the area, who else would benefit?” I was skeptical, but I listened anyway. I rang the doorbell. A few obnoxiously cheery bars of the Twelve Days of Christmas play from the door chime. It only takes a moment before the door is answered by a smiling man with a red knit winter sweater and green trousers and suspenders. “Welcome, come on in,” he waves me inside. “Let’s get you out of the cold. Can I take your coat?” He asks, looking at me over the top of his glasses. The man looks to be in his late 60’s, maybe 70’s. His hair is solid white and he has a short well trimmed beard. This is him, this rosy cheeked innkeeper is my nefarious blackmailer, Chris Miskin. “No that’s ok,” I say. “I’m still thawing,” I give a forced smile. “You must be Jennifer Colt, our last guest for the night.” “That’s me.” “Welcome to the Eastbrook Cottages. Are your bags in the car? I can go get them if you’d like.” “No need, I walked from the bus stop. I travel light.” I gesture to the duffle bag slung over my shoulder. “Wonderful, it’s amazing how little we really need isn’t it? Let me just grab your room key. But is there anything else I can do for you?” My stomach growled. “Actually, you wouldn’t know somewhere I could still grab a bite to eat? Maybe a late night diner or something?” “You’re in luck. Our chef just happened to stop by to prep for tomorrow’s breakfast. I can take you to the kitchen and we’ll see what he can whip up.” The kitchen is thankfully close at hand. The cottage is quaint, few frills, just homey. I try to keep an eye on the innkeeper as we walk, get a judge for his personality, his ticks, his tells. I rack my brain for a probing but innocuous question, but it’s a short walk. “Right through this door, Ms. Colt. Why don’t I take your bag on ahead to your room?” “Thank you sir,” I hand him my bag. It’s light, like I said. I push through the swinging kitchen door. Standing in the center of a sea of stainless steel furnishings, facing away over a three bay sink, is a tall man in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has tattoos, and a backwards ball cap in lieu of a hairnet, and a blue apron tied around his waist. “Excuse me,” I say, “not to bother you, but the man at the desk said I might be able to get a bite to eat?” Slowly he turns towards me. “Well I’ll be, Jenny Colt.” I’m stunned, who in this town would remember me? I’ve been here five minutes and already lost my anonymity. He slings a dish towel over his shoulder. “Of all the kitchens, in all the restaurants in this little town, you walk into mine.” Nick White, what are the chances? I thought he was in prison. “Well it would seem this is the only one open. How are you Nick? I thought you were in jail?” “I’m out on good behavior, finally made the nice list. You know some folks think you’re dead?” “Well then we’re both doing better than expected I guess.” I look down at my shoes, when I look back up he’s making that goofy grin of his, the one where all his teeth show up to the gums. Why’d it have to be Nick? This could be a distraction. “So, a bite to eat? I think I can help with that. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?” “I could go for an omelet.” “One omelet coming right up.” It was a very good omelet. * * * The next morning, I’m up with the sun. I try to write down everything I’ve observed so far. My natural inclination is to start looking for motive. Apart from petty competition, what does Miskin have against Beckett? I have to remind myself this isn’t that kind of job. I’m not looking for answers, I’m digging for dirt. I’ve walked long enough through the whiteout of strict dogmas and it’s cold out there; it’s time for me to operate in the gray for once. Miskin kicked a hornets nest, and now he’s gonna get stung. That’s just the way it goes. I consider for a minute that maybe he’s got nothing to hide, and I won’t find anything. Honestly the thought is a relief at first, but I’ve been in this game too long. I’m not sure any of us are innocent. I make my way to breakfast. And there he is, Nick White. He looks different. Today he’s wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket, and a chef’s skullcap. His tattoos are covered, and his face is serious but soft as he serves a croque madame to a guest. When he sees me, he flashes that goofy grin again. I look away. Miskin bounces from table to table, smiling, shaking hands, asking people about their plans for the day. Almost everyone he meets he greets by name. You could call it personable, but maybe he’s just gathering information? “Good morning Ms. Colt. How did you sleep?” I had a fantastic sleep to be honest. “Ok,” I say, “can’t complain.” “Can I call you Jennifer?” he asks. “Colt,” I almost say, but what comes out is “Jenny.” Jenny? What am I saying? No one has called me that in years, not until last night that is. “What are your plans while you’re in Eastbook Jenny?” As he asks I can see his eyes glance down at my notebook. He’s observant, detail oriented you might say. But this isn’t my first rodeo, I can use this to my advantage. “I’m a writer actually,” I say. “I’m just looking for inspiration. Something ‘slice of life,’ you know? Maybe a little small town drama. You wouldn’t happen to know any?” “Plenty, but I don’t gossip,” he gives me a wink. “I spoke with Nicholas, he says he knows you?” “Yeah, we hung out a little back in high school. I lived here for a few years before my folks died and I moved in with my cousin in the city.” Was that too much? I don’t need to tell this guy my whole life story. But then again, a little honesty can often throw off suspicion, maybe it is the best policy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he seems sincere. “Maybe you could ask Nicholas about the goings on in town? After the lunch rush I’m sure he could show you around.” I give a polite smile and make my way to a table. A voice from over my shoulder asks, “back to back omelets? Or would you like to see the menu?” Before I brush him off, I think better of it. I can make the most of this. The Nick I knew wasn’t the most principled person, and for whatever reason he seems to like me. Maybe this will be my informant, intentionally or otherwise. “I’ll have the french toast actually.” Looking up at him, I realize he’s actually quite handsome. His height used to make him awkward and lanky, but he’s grown into it now. “A good choice. I’ll get right on it.” “And Nick?” He pauses on one foot. “Do you have anything going on this evening?” * * * Over the next three days I tried every trick in the book to gather intel on my target. I asked the guests what they knew about Miskin. Many of them said they come here for the holidays every year, and he always remembers them, and personal details about their lives. Charming or suspicious? One morning over breakfast, I asked Miskin directly about his life and how he came to be here. He gave a brief response about “living the dream.” I tried not to seem too keen on the details. Through it all, I tried to work an angle on Nick, I needed to build his trust. My first day here he took me to an ice cream parlor. “Ice cream?” I asked incredulous. “It’s snowing outside Nick, it’s not cold enough?” “It is never too cold for ice cream.” As much as I hate to admit it, it was worth it. Best scoop I’ve ever had. Yesterday, he approached me. That’s a good sign, for my purposes at least. He showed me to a coffee shop. “It’s a perfect atmosphere for writing, don’t you think?” My jaw hung open confused for a moment, before I remembered that was my cover for being here. It was sweet really. I didn’t get much investigating done that day, but he was right again. The small town ambience was a nice change of pace from city living. Today I was able to spring my trap. We went for a walk downtown, a walk that I knew would stroll right past Beckett’s unfinished construction. I looked at the sign, “a new Luxury B&B. Do you think you’ll apply? Step up to the big leagues?” “And leave the Cottages? Never.” “Why not?” “You may not know this Jenny, but not a lot of people will take a chance on an ex-con. Miskin really saved me, helped me turn my life around.” “He’s an odd fellow Miskin. Can anyone really be that cheery?” “It rubs off on you.” It was true. I’d been in a better mood since I got here. A strange one, but a better one. Could I really do it? Could I keep pulling the thread on such a charming old man? Suddenly Nick leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I had no words, but another sound broke the silence. My stomach growled louder than a thunder clap. And I remember why I came, empty stomachs follow- “Why don’t I cook us up some dinner? At my place?” And for the first time I can ever remember, I thought to myself, maybe I don’t need the money. A full heart is a powerful motivator.


It was a pounding heart one could acquire only from a desperate drive through the night with a screaming cat in the car. San Diego, California to Pueblo, Colorado: Roughly 16 hours. But I have always been an unskilled navigator, so my journey to you surpassed 24 hours. 24 spur of the moment and grueling hours. As an addict to mistakes, I, succinctly, am a slave to impulse. The tank nearly on empty and mere pennies in the bank, those final few miles on that uncharted road seemed to stretch for eternity. Just beyond eternity, however, the path dumped me in that nearly deserted Barnes and Noble parking lot. The air seethed with heat, granting further significance to the icy chill upon initial entry. Crisp, new pages fluttered with every turn of the innocent perusal. Effortless dark roast swirled through the air in tempting but ultimately empty, caffeinated promises. After spotting you, I bound up from behind and wrapped my arms around your unsuspecting figure. It has been a year. A year and 24 agonizing hours. Our reunion was one of passion. The kind of unsustainable passion that weathers 22 year olds. The kind that withers away youth and replaces hope for a bright future with hope you can fix an unfixable thing. The sly brand of passion that tricks you with just enough bliss-- which is barely any if we are being honest-- to keep you motivated. That was July in Pueblo. Now, it’s January in Boulder. It’s January in Boulder and it’s snowing. It’s January in Boulder and I have been reminded why we never worked. Because, We screamed too many unutterable defamations in unbridled spite, And smashed every symbolic article in a shameful rage. Too often, reluctant tears slipped stubbornly down my cheek In the midst of sleepless nights while you escaped to safe and deserved slumber. With every grievance, I progressed down an ironic path towards a personhood of that which would deny me the one thing I needed in order to be better: your devotion. With every instant, I drew closer to fully proclaiming an identity of one whom you could never love. Not fully, anyway. But it is January, and it is snowing, and we haven’t fought today. Let’s go sledding! I’ve never been. You haven’t been in years. It’s a good day. It’s easy to examine the bountiful moments of deceit and scrutinize the other characters we allowed in, diagnosing our failure to the inexcusables. She cheated, it’s over. He hit her, it’s over. There’s satisfaction in the logic of that narrative. Things transpire in a way the audience truly believe they ought. Resentment, however, builds, not in the wake of the devastating blows, but in the spaces left by the tiniest acts of neglect. A forgotten anniversary, an overlooked birthday, a rejected dinner invitation. He starts coming home later. The texts and phone calls grow clinical. Did I even say “Love you.” before I hung up? I don’t remember. All those times he didn’t bring her flowers and all those mornings she chose to sleep late over sharing the morning and a cup of coffee before he leaves for work. But it’s January, it’s snowing, and we have both had our coffee. So, I want to try sledding. We load up the plastic, made-for-kids sled. You know, those ones with the knotted, rope lead you can get at Target or Walmart. The frivolous expense made me uneasy at the time of purchase. I shouldn’t have been so reluctant over twenty dollars. I knew how it would make you happy. I’m glad we got it. We head to the local park nestled in modest and gleaming suburbia. You coached soccer for the grade school kids here. I was impressed, you’re a natural with kids. “There’s a good hill there,” You recollect. I don’t typically like trying new things with you-- or in general, for that matter. It always seemed so exhausting and I’m already fatigued from life. But January days blanketed in snow have a certain protective quality for the ego. We climb to the top of the hill, the sled’s knotted, rope lead firmly grasped between your fingers. Your other fingers intertwined with mine. The chill pierces our lungs. You demonstrate proper seating position. Clumsily, I mimic. You push me from behind. Whoosh! I manically cackle in pure childlike joy. As the whistling wind whips in my ears and I cascade down the hill, I am liberated of all our inexcusables. Maybe the wind swept them away. Maybe I abandoned them atop the hill. Maybe, for now, I am just too fast for them to catch up to us. Later, in our apartment, we reminisce over a video you took of us sliding down together. My toes and fingers sting as they dethaw. You note how you will cherish the video when one of us is gone. I laugh at the morbidity. The fire crackles and we sip store brand, instant hot chocolate. Eventually, the inexcusables, caught us. Bogged down by the little acts of neglect, we never stood a chance of out running the crumbling foundation on which our love grew tainted and soiled. I feel the sled’s knotted, rope lead slipping through my fingers as our snowy hill melts into a mountain of past due bills, suspicious rendezvous, and empty bottles of varying sorts. We never went sledding again. It’s four years even later now, it’s January and it’s sunny in different states. I asked if you could send me the video. You said you couldn’t find it. I know that’s code for you deleted it in an episode of jealousy. You assure that you are not that petty. I’m saddened because it’s January and I want to go sledding again. But there’s no snow, so I can’t. I have held hope for our remission. But we both know, they can’t be outran--the inexcusables. So I sit in quiet submission and let them envelope and consume until, void of choice, I finally release the sled’s knotted rope lead.


It is 7:24 pm. I could see his lips moving but could hear no words escaping them. The silence was deafening and yet, I seemed to be the only one experiencing it. His head tossed back in raucous laughter at one of his own jokes, perhaps to elicit movement from my own lips. Nothing. The search in his eyes was palpable to an unsettling degree. His stubbly fingers curled round the glass, as if somehow trying to escape the last four failed seconds. His eyes flickered instantaneously to the other side of the room, subconsciously searching for the exit in a desperate attempt to escape the discomfort of the moment. He fidgeted in his chair, a whiff of last night’s cigarette mixed with a routine glass of whiskey found it’s way to my nostrils and, at last, a response from my face that was different than the statue it had become since we sat down. He blinked nervously, the realization of a stench coming from his person that perhaps was not there before. Everything about him had a nervous ring around it. The subtle beads of sweat now forming a linear trickle down the left side of his face, the way his legs fidgeted as he crossed and then uncrossed them. So many distractions were necessary for the two of us to get through these painful minutes, before either of us mustered up the courage to call it quits. He excused himself to go to the restroom, but not before using the cloth napkin with slight gold touches to wipe those beads of sweat coming down from the left side of his face, now competing against each other in some strange way. He stood and lightly paused as he fumbled with the buttons on his department store coat, his stubbly fingers struggling now as they attempted the impossible...buttoning his coat in front of me with some sort of poise that he picked up from a third-party vendor. I sat there, quietly observing the safe haven of memories that were being created all around me. The gentleman at the next table, caressing the wrist of his female companion. The girlish best friends in the corner by the door, excited plans and a refreshing giddiness about their faces. The proud parents of a college graduate, their hopeful faces staring into the moment and looking past it into their boys’ future at the same time. And then there was I, in the center of the restaurant. As If the cosmos teamed up with time to hold me hostage in an otherwise pity prison from which I was contemplating a dramatic and epic escape. I glanced at my watch, the seconds moved with relentless and stealthy steadiness. These seconds were my antagonist and my protagonist, mocking me at the realization of His return and at the same time bringing me pleasure as I reveled in his absence. It was a duality of emotions I never intended to experience, although they gave color to an otherwise blank slate of an already dulled and uneventful evening. I continued to sit, frozen in the test of my willfulness to escape. I could feel the jolting essence of muscle fibers screaming “Move! Get up! Walk out the door! Fast!” and yet, I stayed right where I was, like the stony figure this man had so desperately wanted to unmold me from. Suddenly, the stench I had experienced only moments before had crept up into my nose and I knew without turning around that the inevitable had been forced upon me. He was returning; my escape plan now a faded and distant memory. He muttered an apology, something in between telling your children you are sorry for their turtle dying and what you would hear in the middle of a conference after someone burps. He unbuttons his department store jacket, this time with a semblance of poise that was completely nonexistent before. Is it true? Could I trust what I was seeing and hearing? Could this man have changed from the few minutes in his absence until now? Could he represent the single most elevated thoughts that I clung to, a sense of fulfillment and a debonair status that was, with much certainty, never a part of this mans past? This time, I heard him say “What do you think?” He wanted to know what I thought. I could not tell you to whom or what he was especially referring. I can tell you that my reaction was nothing short of the statuesque demeanor I was so dutifully adhering to. I nodded, as if to imply a response rather than actually committing to one. He nodded in agreement, or something that resembled a nod. Then, as if the angels had flown down from the heavens to make a special trip to our time and our restaurant and our table, he looked at me and said with a half-weakened smile, “It was nice to meet you.” He stood up, then as characteristically as before he buttoned his department store jacket with those same stubbly fingers and that same whiff of cigarettes and whiskey filled my nostrils like clockwork, as if to bid me a sarcastic farewell. Without prior notice he snatched my hand, and it felt as comfortable as walking across fiery embers with bare feet. Without notice I felt a surge of hot breath on the back of my hand, and as he planted his slobbery wetness, I felt all the electrical impulses surge to my hand as if it were fighting some sort of infection. I looked up in a state of alarm, trying my best to contain the screams budding in my throat and attempting to escape my lips. I stared at his face, hard. As if trying to look through him, to find some deep sense of worthiness embedded in the catacombs of his psyche. As I continued to stare, motionless and statuesque, only the serendipitous of thoughts had come to mind. “I’m never going out with you again.” By: Melanie Veintimilla


Things had a tendency to show up in Twinlake. From a teenage boy who’d last been spotted at a roller skating rink three years ago, to celebrities everyone had forgotten, to relics of the past found in unruly bushes and beneath the floorboards of the town hall. That was probably where the town got its motto. “If it’s not here, it’s nowhere!” It was probably referring to the many artisans that sat on the streets on Sundays to sell porcelain trees and paintings of dreams you’d forgotten, and wine glasses made from the sands of beaches that had broken your heart. But for those who lived there, there was a hidden meaning. Twinlake was perfect for people who wanted to hide. The town was positioned deep in the forests of Vermont, the heart of which was a lake that was more of a pond, and streets that were more like paths, and buildings that were more like old dollhouses, teetering and ornate, filled with dust and memories. The people who lived there kept to themselves. Everyone had the same deep, melancholic core, like a rock in their chest, never able to get rid of it. Maybe it was more like a magnet, the way it drew everyone to Cheshire Lake and Twenty-Second St, and the inn with soft quilts and fine china. *** Trap shuffled his way around Cheshire Lake, clutching an old rake. He probably once had a different name, one lovingly handed to him, wrapped in silk and good intentions, but he hadn’t kept it. Maybe he had pawned it on a whim, in exchange for the map to a town where everyone had a deep melancholic core rooting them to pine trees and sallow rocks. It didn’t matter, because once he had arrived, this name had been given to him, tucked in a box that looked like a coffin, alongside rusty house keys and a book of poetry leafed with advice and a crow’s feather. Trap lived off of milky tea and paint on soft shirts. He raked around the lake because it got him out and about, and when he finished, he would take a trip to the bakery, where it smelled like memories, and the scones tasted like the old wood and rockwork of places you had never been. As he walked, metal leg scraping the ground, arthritis stricken fingers holding the rake like a lifeline, he felt his good foot hit something. He looked down. Light wash denim overalls and a black button down. This was the first new arrival in months. Covered in moss and a film of misery that would take days of hot showers to clean off, and it often stuck around, in the crevices of ears, clinging to eyelashes and between fingers. Trap waited, sitting down with a squeak, as the metal that took the place of the leg he had given up for just one more year to live, which had stretched into decades, because time was strange here. He watched the new arrival, probably in their early twenties, watched their hair drift like a being of its own. It would do that, now, and before his hair had been taken by something that had no name in exchange for a sketchbook that would never fill and a palette that would never empty, his had done that, too. The new arrival whispered a name they would forget upon waking, and fluttered their eyelids. “You wake.” Trap whispered with a voice that was not his. “Do not try to speak. Marian!” He stood with a creak, and watched the treeline, as a lithe figure that moved like dancing reeds on the shores of Cheshire lake danced over. Marian appraised the new arrival, and took their hand. “Come with me.” She said, pulling them up. *** Marian had picked the cabin on the hill, with the large porcelain bath, and the ornate copper telescope, and the woodstove near the bed. The new arrival was confused, but seemed to understand some of what was going on. The moss had fallen in a sheet when they walked through the door, a woven green blanket in its place. “Welcome home.” Marian had said, handing them a box that looked like a coffin, and walking back into the treeline. They opened it. Minthe. A book of poetry. A crow’s feather. Inside of the book was a leaflet. Welcome home This is where you belong It is normal to be disoriented, you are in the process of forgetting Please speak to Marian if the confusion gets worse Sundays are market days, where our citizens may sell their wares We don’t use money here, so no need to worry Your clothes are in the closet of your new house Uttering the name of a citizen will alert them that you need them The library is always open, and the librarian knows what you need Jade will be by with a meal, your first days here might be difficult You are safe here There was a knock at the door, and Minthe opened it to reveal someone that smelled like freight trains and red sand. “I’m Jade.” the person said, extending a black gloved hand. “Don’t speak yet.” She handed them a tray that contained a bowl of tomato soup with two halves of a grilled cheese sandwich, and a handmade mug filled with a warm brown drink that smelled like board games by a fire. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m your neighbor. Please, get me if you need anything.” *** The food was lush and filling, the drink softening Minthe’s vocal cords and easing their stiff muscles. Looking around their home, they noticed a map on their countertop. It showed the town, hand drawn by someone who knew what they were doing. It listed places. The Bakery, The Library, Cheshire Lake. They ran a hot bath, noticing spiderwebs clinging in their hair and vines pressing into their arms that didn’t wither or die in the steaming water. The closet had soft blue clothes that fit Minthe well, the vines and spiderwebs holding tight. When they tested their voice, whispering, “Jade?” there had been a knock on the door barely a minute later. “You can speak.” Jade had smiled. “Walk with me.” Arms intertwined, Jade led Minthe to the library. “This is where Aurora works. She knows almost everything. Would you like to ask her a question?” “Yes please.” Minthe whispered in a voice that was not theirs. The pair walked into the library, and were greeted by Aurora, who’s name fit perfectly. “Welcome.” she smiled. “Do you need anything?” “Minthe has a question.” Jade nudged the new arrival, who cleared their throat. “Why am I here?” they asked. Aurora smiled. “You belong here. You’re home now.”


We must have made a strange picture, the group of us, huddled on the edge of the cliff, the wind in our hair. But no one was watching, and we weren’t thinking about our appearances. We had bigger things to worry about. “Guys, we have to do something.” Charlotte crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto one foot. “This can’t point back to us.” Milo, for once not cracking a joke, stared down at the two bodies at our feet. There was blood everywhere; we were standing in a puddle of it, and all our shoes were colored deep red. “Well then,” he said, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.” Let me back up; let me explain myself. The minister was always a suspicious man. He snuck around at night. People saw him hurrying about, saw the lone flame of his candle crossing the green to the church. That would have been fine--a minister in a church is nothing unusual--but people also spotted him in town, gliding down dark alleys in his long robes in the earliest hours of the morning. Charlotte came to me, Milo, and Keene the first day after winter vacation. She said she had stayed at school for the break, and that one morning, she’d seen him going in the church’s back entrance with something red spattered all over his robes. With real fear in her eyes, she had asked us to help her investigate. And of course, with no real reason to refuse, we said yes. We found several things immediately. One of them was a locked trapdoor, cleverly hidden beneath the altar in the church. The other was a large payment logged in the minister's ledgers, made to the locksmith on the first of every month. The connection--and our next move--was obvious. “Don’t touch anything.” Charlotte said, sitting down beside the bodies, outside the puddle of blood. “We need to get rid of our clothes and fix up this crime scene fast.” “What are we even doing?” Milo asked her. “Why do we need to change anything at all? It’s obvious that Keene killed the locksmith and the locksmith,” he paused here, took a breath, “killed Keene.” Charlotte glared at him. “I know what I’m doing.” Milo glared back. “Of course you do.” Charlotte’s lips twisted back from her teeth in a snarl. “Shut up. Right now.” She yanked off one shoe and set it down beside her foot. “Take off your shoes and anything else the blood touched. Don’t let it get anywhere it wasn’t before.” No one was supposed to die that night. We were only there to get information from the locksmith. Really, we weren’t supposed to be there that night at all. But the locksmith didn’t cooperate the first time we approached him. It was Keene who suggested that we rough him up a bit, just to get him talking. He volunteered to do all the dirty work, said we didn’t even have to show our faces at all, just watch from the treeline, make sure nothing went wrong. Keene did his job, but we didn’t do ours. Keene took the locksmith from his workshop at midnight, going in and out through the window. He wore a pair of pantyhose over his head. He took the locksmith to the cliffs, held him down on the rocky ground and tried to get him to talk. But the locksmith was ready, and he had a knife. We did as she asked, piled all our bloody shoes together, then watched as Charlotte pulled the pantyhose off Keene’s head and added them to the bundle. “We need to make it look like they weren’t here for an interrogation.” “Why?” Milo asked. “Because people know that the four of us were investigating the minister, and if people start looking into the locksmith and find what we found, things’ll lead straight to us.” She glared at Milo, “You don’t want that, do you?” Taking a shuddering breath, Milo shook his head. “No. I do not want that.” “Great. Now give me your pack of cigarettes” The thing about the cliffs is that no matter what you yell or how loudly you yell it, no one will hear you. And so Keene was crouched down over the locksmith, shouting right into his face. He asked about little things. He asked about the locksmith’s wife and children, asked how he and his family were sleeping in their new apartment--fifth floor, Amaranth Boulevard. Keene was a good interrogator, and the locksmith seemed willing to answer his questions. But as soon as Keene mentioned the minister, the locksmith brought out the blade he had hidden in his sleeve and drove it into Keene’s thigh. I think that on any other night, Milo would have protested more, asked more questions, anything. But instead, he was quiet, and just dug in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and placed them in Charlotte’s waiting hand. She pulled one out before tucking the rest of the pack into Keene’s jacket pocket. “Your lighter?” Charlotte asked, and Milo handed that over too. After lighting the single cigarette and watching it burn down, she dropped it neatly in the puddle of blood, near Keene’s hand. Milo and I watched her as she worked. Apparently finished, Charlotte sat back on her heels and looked up at us. “All done.” Her smile didn’t match the limp, bloody bodies beside her. Milo avoided her gaze, instead eyeing the mound of bloody clothes, “Now what?” Keene wailed when he was stabbed. It was a rough sound. Hard to listen to. As he clutched at the deep gash in his leg, he looked frantically at the treeline. I know that he was looking for us--I knew it then too--but I didn’t do anything. Charlotte, Milo, and I just sat frozen side by side. The cliffs are far away from the town, too far for us to carry Keene before he bled out. We all knew this, and we knew how long it would take before death came to claim our friend. And so Milo looked at his watch, and looked at Keene, and looked back at his watch, and Charlotte stared out over the ocean, and I kept my attention on the locksmith. It was clear he did not have the capacity for murder. He dropped the knife, crawled away from it, his mouth opening and closing in shock. The locksmith has two young sons, and I’m sure it was their faces he saw when he looked at the dying boy--because Keene was really only a boy--in front of him. “Now,” Charlotte said, “We get rid of our stuff and go back to school.” She looked at Milo. “Make sure not to get blood anywhere, but dump it all over the edge.” Milo, swallowing hard, picked up the pile and did as she asked. His hands shook, and as he walked back to us, he wiped his palms on his pant legs. Of the three of us, he seemed to have been the most disturbed by what had happened. Charlotte stood. “Come on,” she said, “The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that someone finds us.” The locksmith was afraid: afraid of himself, of what he’d done, of what could happen to him next. And so, after throwing down his knife and scuttling away, he crawled back towards Keene with his hands out, ready to help. But Keene was a good fighter, not one who went down easily. When the locksmith was too close to get away, Keene grabbed the knife and drove it into the soft, exposed side of the locksmith’s throat. He jammed the knife in over and over again, and then he stopped, set it down. He lay down on his back gently, holding onto his thigh. I could hear him sobbing. I don’t know why he didn’t call for us. Perhaps he knew we wouldn’t have come. He died alone, slowly. And Charlotte, Milo, and I just sat, watching, until we knew he was gone. Charlotte started into the forest, and, without any other options, Milo and I followed. We didn’t speak. She led us down the wooded hillside, into town, through the darkest back alleyways to the school. Following her lead, Milo and I crept around the side of the building to our room. She pried our window open with quick fingers and crawled inside. Milo went next. Then me. She closed the window. “We’re not going to talk about this.” She said, sprawling herself across the unmade bed in the corner. Keene’s bed. Milo gulped, eyes darting from her to the blankets. She didn't notice. “Not even to the police. If they ask, say that Keene snuck out a lot, and sometimes you went with him, but sometimes you didn’t. Tonight was one of those nights, right?” Milo shook his head. There was a weight on his shoulders, on his chest, that hadn’t been there earlier that night. “But we did go with him,” he said, “We watched him die.” Charlotte sat up, “No, we didn’t. We were here. The whole time.” She looked at me, something fearsome in her eyes. “Right?” I nodded. Where Milo looked weighed down, hunched over, by the night’s events, Charlotte looked sharper. The death had not affected her as it had Milo. It had not weakened her; it had made her stronger, fiercer. She looked back at Milo, stood up and stepped towards him. “Right?” His gaze was caught on Keene’s blanket, crumpled at the end of the mattress. Taking another step towards him, Charlotte grabbed Milo’s shoulder and shook him. “Promise me,” she said, quietly, through her teeth, “That you will not say anything about going out with Keene tonight. You will say that he snuck out, and you didn’t think anything of it.” Milo finally looked up and met her eyes. His gaze was blank, but he nodded. Charlotte let go of his arm. She stepped back, looked at me. “Make sure he doesn’t say anything.” Then she spun, hair whirling out around her shoulders, and slipped out the door. Once she was gone, Milo collapsed. Her presence had been holding him up like puppet strings, but now the support was gone. He curled up in Keene’s bed, pulled the pillow against his chest, and cried. I sat down next to him. Not touching him, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of skin. “You know you didn’t kill him, right? There was no way we could have saved him.” “But we just watched him,” he hiccupped, “We watched him die.” He buried his face in the pillow. His voice was muffled. “Why couldn’t we have at least sat with him?” I wanted to tell him that maybe we were all too scared, even Charlotte, but I realized I didn’t really know. Why hadn’t we left our hiding spots, once we knew that the locksmith was dead, and gone to sit with our friend? What force had kept us behind our trees, silent and frozen? And why didn’t Charlotte seem to care at all?


From up on high, the star walker sighed, the pebble-muncher cried and the ladybug died. After the fact, per se, there was no trace, not a shred of tangible evidence. No snippets, no whippets, no crickets, no documents, no monuments, no power plants, no sour ants, no bar fights, no car lights, no head lamps, no street tramps, no beat vans, no light bans, no sport fans, no frying pans, no lying dames, no crying shame and least of all... There was no darkness. Not a droplet in the stillness. An echo of an intelligent species. Intelligent. This Maker chuckled heartily at the thought, for this maker had found the time. But not the thyme, as this rhyme grows with the limes on the stone baked crust of the blue pebbles lust. Yes, sighed the maker, it was a lusty place. A musty, fusty faucet of leaking prosperity and mindless calamity. Ha! Another laugh rippled from the Makers velvet laughing-box. It was not as if he had not thought long and hard about his decision, there was many-a-millennium spent pondering the ponderous, reaching into the gaping chasm of thought to purge the answers from his Wisdomus Tooth . He was unlucky to only have one Wisdom Tooth and this was a maker who needed answers fast. One Tooth would not cut it, he needed more. Fast. Faster than one can say fasterousnessing. Speaking of thinking, this was something the sentients of the Blue Pebble always fell short of doing and was one of the reasons for their Un-Making. It was strange, to the maker, when he thought about it, thinking didn’t seem to be a very hard thing to do. See! However, considering the creatures had installed a very large, specific muscle that was positively perfect for the job. Not to mention its many other wonderful functions. Including, but not limited to; Thermoregulatory balance, balancing, fantasising, speaking, pain, emotion, devotion, muscle motion, brussel sprout poaching, skin packet roaching, tassle twisting, hassle causing, music making, language breaking, barrier bursting, astral dreaming and last but not least... Consciousness expanding. It was an elaborate experiment to say the least; the maker did not dream the species would flourish into something so robust and intricate. But alas, the experiment was doomed to fail. To fall out of the broken sky, crashing into the flame scorched darkness of waywardness and heavy-handed brutishness. Was this The Makers fault? Possibly. Maybe. Unscrupulously. Or was there something else at play here? Was there, by any chance another reason for this catastrophe? Certainly. But it was a truth hidden deep within the depths of the cognitive cogs of one particular humanoid. Yes, the muscle named their species ‘humans’, Silly, I know. Now, let me take you on a journey to the blue pebble. My creation, my craft, my spherical raft adrift in the swallowing blackness. Let us first walk 1,391,000... I think the humans called them kilometres (and yes, you could just as easily walk 4 Yoctoargons if you happen to hail from the reaches of the Thumpingbumpingtechnotown in sector C of the Rinneganitis area of Deep Space) around what they now call ‘The Sun.


1 It had only been a few days since we had left the mainland, and only a week since the infection had been first reported. Corpses scattered across war zones, covered with the settled remnants of radioactive dust from chemical weapons had begun reacting... twitching... moving. It was only a day later that the first scientists and reporters became the first victims and the first living humans turned. From there, the destruction and rate of infection had exploded. Within 24 hours of the firsts, reports came in of massive hordes of reanimated corpses occupying major cities... turning all that stood in their way. Several countries tried sending their armies to quell the situation, but that only worsened it. Guns only did so much to zombie armies, hundreds of thousands deep, and with large explosions from tanks and bombs, came even wider contamination due to the chemicals in the corpses being disturbed and pushed higher into the atmosphere. It had become airborne... The only escape was to rural areas, or to the sea. I chose the latter... it was only a matter of time before even the rural areas would not be as safe as people had hoped. "LAAAAAAND!" An island... Those in charge had said that there we would be safe from any sort of infection. We were students and teachers. Soldiers and doctors. Men, women, and children. We were, quite possibly, one of the few hopes for maintaining the species. "Where the hell are we?" Sgt. Reynolds barked at one of the older gentlemen who had been appointed captain of the vessel. The original captain was... well, he didn't make it. Reynolds was a former Drill Instructor and has taken to appointing himself the leader of our group. At least we had someone to tell us what to do... Most of us were so disillusioned with the situation that we could barely talk. There were only a few dozen of us who had made it onto the ship from the harbor. It was a miracle any of us had made it off the mainland alive, and even more so considering the only food we had we were lucky enough to have recovered from the bowels of the ship. It seemed as if the original captain had been preparing to live at sea until he could come up with a plan as to how the hell he could survive in a world full of flesh devouring corpses... But food for one man only goes so far between a group. Zombies. They were fucking zombies. All of the films and stories had done nothing more than make us lower our guard as to how real a possibility the walking dead were. "I have no idea, but we don't have the resources to care right now." Most everyone was on deck, now, staring at the monolithic island before us. Whether we liked it or not, it was our new home, for now anyways. I, for one, was eager to get off the ship. I had always been afraid of the emptiness of the ocean. Funny how little your fear of the unknown matters when you’re faced with fear of something much greater and much more terrifying. Still, it felt great to know I would be able to step off of that heap I considered to be my floating coffin. Staring at the coastline, all I could see was sand, and a thick tree line leading into a lush forest. I was looking at trees I had never seen before that looked like they had been there for far longer than I could imagine. Vines and thick brush started to come into view the closer we got. And then something in the trees... Fruit! Or at least something that resembled the fruit I was familiar with! We were going to be able to survive for at least some time longer. Relief flooded my body. Relief that we were going to be ok. That I wasn't going to die at sea with no hope of survival. Relief that... My eyes locked onto something in the underbrush as we closed in further on the island. Something reflective... but what? The relief turned to panic as I realized what I was staring at. We were being watched. Those were eyes. I glanced around for Reynolds. We needed to be prepared that we might have company when we landed. The undead? Impossible. Not this far out, there was no way. By the time I had looked back, the eyes were no longer visible to me. Maybe I was seeing things... "Start unloading some supplies for a reconnaissance team to check out the island and we'll see if we can find any food, shelter, or signs of intelligence on this rock." Reynolds booming voice effortlessly carried itself. I had convinced myself that I just needed to get off of the boat when a shriek erupted from the forest. A sound like nothing I had ever heard. The sound of a screaming jet engine combined with the emotional tones of something living... something communicating. Birds flew from the canopy of the forest as we all stared silently into the mysterious interior of the island. "It doesn't matter, we can't stay on board," Reynolds projected over the deck, already knowing what we were all silently wondering. "Besides, nothing can really be as bad or as frightening as what we've all already seen and been through..." None of us could have possibly known how wrong he was.


7** new messages New message* Hey.. it's me. I uh, I know we haven't talked in awhile but a friend of mine asked me something that I really thought you'd get a kick out of. So, your doctor tells you that you only have 24 hours left to live. By the time he's done explaining it and you’re standing outside his office you’re down to 23:30. Whaddya do? Anyway, call me back when you get this.. I miss you. *End message New message* Hey, it's me again. I couldn't stop thinking about that hypothetical so I figured I’d call you with a similar one, but a little further along the line. So, same start but now you've got your affairs in order. Important account information written down, utilities handled, any pets have a new home to go to, all that sorta stuff. You've got about 18 hours left and none of the paperwork left to waste time on. Whaddya do? Call me back when you get this.. I miss you. *End message New message* Me again. I've got a confession to make. There isn't any friend with a hypothetical, I just wanted a reason to call you. I’m actually just sitting at home, alone, a little drunk. Kinda pathetic but, you know, I'm not the most likable guy. Anyway, back on the hypothetical, picture that you've got enough booze to pickle a pastor and no real place to go. Down to about 12 hours, whaddya do? Call me back when you get this. I miss you. *End message New message* Hey. I went to see my Dad. No I didn’t drive, I... I learned that lesson. Someone planted flowers for him, Tiger Lilies. Probably, you know I’m awful with flowers. They were orange and dotty though, he would've loved them. For our one sided voicemail game, you're drunk and wandering with 8 hours left. Where do you go, what do you want to see? Whaddya do? Call me back when you get this. I miss you. *End message New message* So I went and got Sharky's. You remember that crazy old dude with the taco truck that would park down the street from the graveyard? He finally got a restaurant, right where he used to park that old beater. Saw me staggering around and brought me inside. We talked while he cooked up some dinner, turns out his wife is buried a few rows down from Dad. Anyway, I'm sure you figured it out by now but I’m down to about 5 hours. Sharky just got the biggest tip he’s ever seen and I’m sobered up, so, what should I do? I know you're not gonna call me back but... I miss you. *End message New message* I think I maybe fell asleep after I ate, woke up in a booth with a blanket over me. Sharky left a key with a note to bring it back tomorrow.. I dropped it in his mail slot. I wandered back over to the graveyard, it’s been too long since I visited. So, I've got about an hour, no loose ends to tie up, and nothing exciting to do. Guess I'll come say hi. Sorry you won't hear this. I miss you. *End message New message* Well, it may have taken me two years to get here but I made it. I’m so sorry you got here before me. If there is an after, I'm curious how you're going to meet me. In anger? Joy? Will you even be there? Or is there nothing and I’m just talking into a voicemail that's never gonna get checked? Guess I'll know soon enough. No need to call me back. I love you. *End of messages.


On a particularly lovely Tuesday, in a particularly lovely part of nowhere specific, a tiny seedling (no bigger than the nail on your thumb) began to tumble towards the earth. The cause of this lucky event is unknown; perhaps the winds that day were quite strong, or perhaps a squirrel scampered along the branch where this seedling previously resided, knocking it off on his way to do whatever squirrels do on Tuesdays that happen to be particularly lovely. Whatever the case, the seedling was rapidly descending in the air, swirling and twirling in a most nauseating fashion on its way down from the branch where it had been growing up until now. It landed softly with an unheard thump, surrounded by what appeared to be very tall blades of grass; at least, they were tall from the seedling’s perspective. The seedling did not fully understand this yet, but the soft patch of soil and grass onto which it plummeted moments ago would be its new permanent home, for the rest of its life. If someone were to relay this fact to the seedling, it would regard the situation as one that evokes bittersweet emotions, for the seedling had merely just discovered that not only could it venture to other places besides the branch on which it formerly grew, but that doing so was a marvelously exhilarating experience. The seedling yearned to explore everywhere it could possibly reach and then some, but alas this was physically impossible. However, the patch of ground where it was currently sitting was comfortable, and had the perfect balance of sun and shade. Therefore, although the seedling would be disappointed it could not travel to new, unfound places, it would still be happy to sit in the grass and for once, have an exciting memory. The next couple of days were pleasantly exciting as well to say the least. The seedling -still growing accustomed to its new habitat- was witness to multiple less than dull events from a human’s point of view. However, to a seedling who had only recently discovered that (big shocker) the rest of the world exists, these events were quite groundbreaking. It watched attentively as a brown ant carried a speck of food triumphantly across its unchanging field of vision. It admired the grace of a fresh dewdrop as it slid elegantly down the spine of one of its neighbouring grass blades. It cringed with strange delight as a tiny spider impolitely acquainted itself with the seedling by extending four of its long, prickly appendages and using them to feel the seedling’s smooth, hard, exterior shell. These were all amazingly unique experiences for the seedling, and it would remember them as prime character building events for the duration of its life. Over a period of several weeks, the seedling began to sprout its roots, which dug deep into the ground to secure its place on the earth. At the same time, it was sprouting a stem upwards. It was thin and green; nearly translucent with its infancy. From the stem grew leaves, which gathered energy and nourishment from the glorious sun overhead. The tiny plant felt good, as if it had found purpose in life. A simple, manageable purpose, but a purpose nonetheless: to grow. And grow it did. The tiny plant, now a strong, hearty tree, was home to a multitude of small creatures and was witness to hundreds of moments, both big and small, each one holding a special place in its memories. It grew wiser with each new experience, and just a bit stronger each day. The tree from which it originally sprouted eventually aged too far to continue to flourish with new leaves each spring, or support too much weight on its branches. During a hurricane, a powerful gust of wind blew in just the right direction to knock it down. Its upturned roots however, were now home to a lovely family of foxes, which would have made the old tree very happy if it had known that it would one day be used as a shelter for them. The strong tree held a nest of three baby robins and two adults between three intertwined branches, two squirrels in its belly, seventeen caterpillars who all resided in different parts of the tree, but knew each other as neighbours, five spiders and their respective webs, and a racoon that dug a burrow underneath the tree’s roots. The tree also served as a rest stop to many birds and insects, and welcomed each new resident with the same courtesy as the last. The tree liked to think of itself as a busy, friendly hotel. Over its years, as it slowly aged, the tree saw many astounding sights. At least, they were astounding to the tree and its residents. It survived one hundred and seventy two lightning storms, two droughts, five floods, twenty one snow storms that lasted more than three days, and each spring its leaves grew back even greener than the year before. The tree was forty nine years old, and it treasured each day as a healthy habitat for the woodland creatures who were proud to call it a home. Tomorrow, it would celebrate its fiftieth year on earth. In an unfortunate yet ironic twist, it was cut down before the day could finish to make paper for posters advertising the harmful effects of deforestation.


I am bones sewn together by a sheet of pale chiffon, buried under six feet of quilted ennui. I am surrounded by cups left half-empty and unopened mail. Piles of unwashed clothes intermingle with take-out bags and bobby pins. In this little winter wasteland, there is only one footpath through all of the disarray, and it doesn’t even lead to the egress. There is no sound but the dripping of melted snow on peeling window panes. There is no smell or taste in the air. There isn’t even a purpose to breathe. There is nothing left of me. This is hibernation. Metabolic depression. Dormancy. Is this the winter where I finally let go? And would it be letting go, or getting taken? Would there even be a reason to go on once I push back these covers to reveal the shell of a human I created within just a few months? The cold has long since seeped into my marrow and into the very center of my brain. They say that it gets better, and it does. Every year, it seems to get better once the sun begins to shine and the cold moves on to the other side of the world. Such a simple cure for a hidden disease. The Predicament, my mother calls it. “You’re in quite The Predicament,” she says. “Once The Predicament is gone, how about summer-ing in Maine?”. Some may think that the things my mother says are counter-productive, dismissive even. But, the thought of Maine in the summer warms my bones. The thought of once again leaving this Hibernation, this Predicament, and assimilating with daily life once again keeps me going. And yet, I can’t seem to lift this cover. I can’t find a reason to follow that one footpath to visit the bathroom, the only other room in this house I’ve been to in days. And suddenly, I hear it, outside the window. It’s so faint, so far away. And then another. Birds. Those annoying ones that wait to sing until you roll over the first time in the morning as you try to settle farther down into your dreams. I’ve never heard birds sing so sweetly. I wonder what they’re saying to each other. Maybe they’re sharing ‘good morning's or ‘hello’s. I imagine the simple lives they lead. I question if they’ve ever had to deal with The Predicament. The Predicament receives its first blow, straight to the face. And then, I see it. Creeping up above the wet window pane. You’re early, I thought. A beautiful orange peeks at me from the thin space between the curtains. I’ve missed you, I thought again. The sun speaks, the sun knows, and I can’t wait to catch up on everything she has missed. I’m sure she can’t wait to hear what I have to say. She’ll absorb my words and thoughts and will burn brighter in return. She and I never talk about her going away once our time together is over. There are people in other hemispheres with The Predicament that have just as much to discuss with her. The birds get louder, different singers joining the choir. How long have they gone unnoticed by me? How many days? Weeks? Perhaps this is their first performance of the season, considering the ambiance the sun is giving them. I want to taste the air. I want to taste the melted snow that has begun its transformation from gloss on the grass to a barely-noticeable and damp warmth. The weak palpitations in my chest seem to get stronger, shallow breaths seem to finally reach the bottom of my lungs. The orange spotlight hurts my eyes and, yet, I can’t look away. She climbs higher and higher up the space between the curtains, coating this little winter wasteland in an apricot film. The whole house seems to sigh. I do the same. I’ve been this hungry before, but I’ve never been so hungry and so willing to eat at the same time. I’m willing. The Predicament receives its second jab, this time it seems to be detrimental. The Predicament is so real, so alive, and still so frail. It’s amazing how quickly a well-known killer can be apprehended right as its weapon comes down for one final and deadly strike. Amazing that the apprehender is a tiny stream of sunlight. The killer, The Predicament, is still there. It will never be truly quelled. It will simply be detained, thrown into a small jail cell in my mind for a few months, waiting for escape, waiting for reprisal. It will get me again and it will try to take back the progress I make while it’s gone. It will try to take the music, and the sun-kissed skin, and the sea away from me, and it will very likely succeed. It will take Maine, and bare feet, and biking. But, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and grasp onto all of the sun I can take. I am going to hold onto everything that can fit into my heart and soul. Still, it will get me again, like it does every year without fail. The sun will begin to hide for days at a time, the birds will lose their voices. The pressure to be merry and bright will make me do just the opposite. Mother will once again force vitamin D down my gullet, and she’ll return to her cycle of bringing my mail to my room once she notices the mound of paper surrounding the lonesome mailbox. The snow will cage everyone and myself inside and paint everything a sickly chalk. No sound, no smell, no taste. Blank, empty, and deadly. Hope will return as the theme of the season, but I’ll be the last one to hold onto it. The Predicament will find me again, and maybe it will finally get what it wants from me as I fail to fight back like I’ve done in the past. And still, the cover is lifted. Maybe next winter.