Professor Katopodis had a habit of turning every conversation topic into an academic discussion. He had a feeling that retirement would take some time to get used to. On his first day in Palaio Faliro, a seaside town 10 km south of Athens, his wife suggested he might out go for a walk to clear his head of the 37 years of strife he had endured at the National University. Stepping outside this morning, the first thing he noticed were the oranges. Bright and plump, they littered every inch of the pavement. And then the cats. They lounged in the sun, indifferent to everyone around them. He nudged an orange with his foot toward one crouching under a parked car but it took no notice. Another car sitting on the top of a nearby BMW watched him intently. Katopodis met the felines gaze. "The oranges in the supermarket cost 2 Euros, and here they lay on the ground for free. I wonder why." The cat leaped off the car and disappeared into a garden. Breathing in the salty ocean air, he continued his walk to the market. He bought two freshly caught sea bream, the tastiest fish in the Mediterranean, to celebrate their new proximity to the ocean. "Palaio Faliro is closer to the ocean, but the price is 7% more than in Athens." He looked at the fishmonger for an explanation, but simply received a shrug. On his return home, his wife Polina looked at his purchase. “They don’t look any different from the ones in the city,” The Professor informed her, "The new fishing quotas in the Mediterranean have increased the fish stock by 20%." She placed them in the refrigerator and returned to cooking. A savory aroma of stuffed peppers filled the kitchen. The professor went to his new study to continue working on a Treatise on the Causes of Greek Economic Stagnation during the Middle Ottoman Occupation Period . The next day-he knew he should have given it a wide berth-curiosity made him peek into the rubbish bin. He discovered the bag with the two fish in it The economics implications of this were disappointing. He passed by the oranges and the cats, took and glance at the ocean, and kept his eyes open for anything else new. The crowded streets jammed with parked cars, and lined with 1960s era apartment blocks, looked very much like every other neighborhood of Athens. Hundreds of years of war and occupation by the Ottoman Empire didn't leave much standing. When the hated Ottomans left, anything they left behind was torn down out of spite, and all of Athens was rebuilt in the 1950s and 1960s The smell of coffee in the air in front of a café on Agiou Alexandrou avenue drew him inside. He ordered an espresso and a Koulouri and received a cold stare from the young woman at the cash register. As he nibbled on the sesame bread ring, he scanned the faces of the other customers. Mostly middle-aged and older men with unkempt beards and unwavering gazes. He looked around for anyone to strike up a conversation with, but they all looked like men who had spent too much time staring at the sea. At the university, students had often complemented Professor Katopodis’s on how lively his eyes were and how alert his gaze was for a man his age. Mostly female students close to the end of the term, when the optimism of spring was in the air. His mobile buzzed. A message from Helena, his former administrative assistant. “Professor Katopodis, we miss seeing you in the Economic Department this term. BTW, Adriana informed me that Professor Dougenis is also living in Palaio. Here’s his contact info...” As the mention of Dougenis, a wave of nausea washed over him. Didn’t Helena remember how repulsive Dougenis was. But this being Greece, cordiality comes above all else, and he would need to contact him at some point. Next month. He put the phone away and took this matter out of his mind. But, how he hated everything Dougneis stood for. With Greece’s economy sinking back into recession after the EU cut off the free supply of money, Dougenis was still promoting leftist economic policies. Loan forgiveness. Unemployment benefits for all. His stomach churned from the combination of espresso, koulouri and Dougenis. After finishing his coffee, Professor Katopodis continued his morning walk in this fabulous neighborhood and shook this off. He was becoming accustomed to this new life of leisure. When he returned home, a white and brown tabby cat was blocking the entrance to the apartment building. He waved his arms and stomped his feet but the cat didn't move. An unexpected puzzle. It was beneath a man of his stature to resort to violence. As idea came to mind. He opened a package of feta cheese he had just purchased, broke off a small piece and placed it a meter away from the entrance. As he wiped his finger with a tissue, the cat stood up and walked over to sniff the pungent cheese. Katopodis chuckled at his good fortune and quickly slid into the building and closed the door behind him. In the apartment, he smiled when he saw Paulina. “A feta cheese, from Epirus,” he said, offering it to her. "Where the mountainous terroir produces the ideal-" “It’s already opened?” She said, looking into the bag. “A cat blocked the door.” She didn't ask any more questions, and took the cheese and put it into the refrigerator. He went to the study to continue working on a Treatise on the Causes of Greek Economic Stagnation during the Late Ottoman Occupation Period . But words refused to come. He had to get something out of the way. On his mobile, he typed: Prof Dougneis, this is Katopodis. Helena says we are neighbors. You must be very busy, but if you have an emergency, here is my contact information. He despised Dougenis so much, and hoped hated him in return, and this would be the end of the matter. The next day, he avoided looking into the rubbish bin and went out to explore the neighborhood further. This was Athens’ finest seaside suburb. He went to the Flisvos Marina and walked the mega-yachts and trendy restaurants. Observing the diners, he saw mostly groups of salesmen in their 30s and 40s. In Greece, men and women usually socialize in separate groups. The salesman looked supremely confident with each other. He overheard bluntly stated opinions about what was the "best" and what was the "worst" without any nuance or logic to explain their position. As an Economic professor, he lamented that most economic activity looked more like this than the facts and figure he worked with. They didn't appear to be in no hurry to go back to work. Lunches can go on for hours in Greece. Things were different in London. Employees are meant to be “productive”. His 10 years in London were awful. Trapped in a fishbowl office-behind glass walls in full display for everyone else to look at-ten hours a day. He pretended to be working while all day he dreamt of escape from that glass prison. Thankfully, he abandoned the high salary and returned home. The pace of life was better in Greece. Almost everyone spends two or three hours after lunch sipping coffee and gossiping about current events before returning to do a few hours of work before dinner. The whole day is an escape, and work is a few patches in between to break the monotony. He walked back to Agiou Alexandrou avenue and found a fast food restaurant to eat in, Zorba the Pita. Looking at the menu, he wondered why mass-produced fast food was more expensive than traditional food. Surrounded by high school students, he stared blankly out the window eating a lamb pita, hoping none of the overly boisterous students would approach him. His mobile vibrated. Prof Katopodis, I believe we did not finish our discussion about the Greek civil servant pension reform. If you are free this afternoon, you should stop over at 57 Amfitritis Street and I will serve you coffee and we can finish that discussion once and for all. -Prof Dougenis The address was only 5 minutes away. Repulsive, yes. But there were some points in his argument he hadn’t made yet. Professor Dougenis. Fortunately, I have a small gap in my schedule this afternoon to accept your gracious offer. -Prof Katopodis At hour later, his face was red-hot as he lectured Dougenis on the lunacy of pension privatization. If you lecture an Economic Professor, you can expect to receive a lecture back. “The word privatization is waved around as a magic solution to every problem in Greece. But isn’t privatization simply giving the nation's most important assets to greedy individuals through corrupt deals fueled by kickbacks and nepotism?" Dougenis's voice was now at an ear-piercing squeal. “But individual effort and hard work is the bedrock of economic activity.” “You always come back to hard work. May I ask why you have strong views on this theme of hard work?” Professor Katopodis stared at the knickknacks on Dougenis's walls. A photo of Dougnesis's retirement party. Maybe he didn't have anything to lose. “My grandparents were refugees from Turkey during the population exchange. They started in Athens with nothing.” For decades, these Greek immigrants from Turkey were treated as suspect. Different. Not bound by the same ties of loyalty as everyone else in Athens. Untrustable. “In all our years working together in the National University, I never know that,” Dougenis said, "I think I better understand you.” Katopodis wonder if he opened a Pandora box. Would this change his status back at the National University? Dougenis was quiet in contemplation for a while, then he left for the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Fatourada. "Greeks. A history of struggle," he said, “Let’s have a drink to the old days. And to more discussions like this to come in Palaio Faliro." He poured two shots of the orange flavored spiced spirit. They clinked their glass and exchanged a toast. “Yiamas!” When he returned home later, the white and brown tabby cat was again blocking the door. He had a package of lamb meatballs he had received from Dougenis’s wife to share with his family. He carefully took one out and placed it about a meter away from the door. The cat cautiously slunk over, took a sniff, and began at eat. Katopodis carefully closed the lid on the package. Feeling the chill of the autumn breeze, while inhaling deeply of the salty ocean air tinged with the scent of oranges, he returned home to share what he had received with Polina and tell her all about Dougenis and how he has changed.


1.335 words Renata opened the door to the toilet and pushed her cart inside. The motion detector noticed her and the toilet was suddenly filled in a white light. She sighted, it was almost the end of her shift. She only had this toilet and two offices left before she could go home to her son. She was sure he already ate, he always did. She daily cooks a meal in the afternoon, before she goes to work and het son heats it up in the microwave once he gets home from school. He is usually still up when she gets home, just gaming or chatting with friends. That half hour before her son goes to bed is theirs. They chat or play card games. It is always the best highlight of her day. Her son is a smart boy and gets high grates in school. If he keeps it up, there will be scholarships waiting for him. It will be the only way he is able to go to the university. In the few years that he has left in high school, Renata could never save up enough money to pay for his tuition. She opened one of the stalls in the toilet and got inside. She sprayed the disinfectant all over the seat and the bowl. She took her cloth and wiped the liquid from the seat. She opened the seat and cleaned the underside, at last she cleaned the bowl itself. She closed the lit and looked satisfied at the shiny white bowl in front of her. She smiled. Just three more to go. She closed her eyes for a second and saw the face of her son in front of her. In less than half an hour she would be home. Renata repeated the cleaning ritual twice more and mopped the entire floor of the toilet. She closed the door behind her knowing the light would automatically turn of in a couple of minutes. She turned right and stood in front of the closed door of an office. She held her access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click she gained access to the formally locked office. She flipped the light switch and stepped inside. By the sight of it was this one of the very few offices that are used this time of year. Most of the people who formally occupied the other offices now worked from home. She did her standard round of cleaning. She dusted the surfaces, remover fingerprints from desks and doors, emptied the bin and started vacuum cleaning. While the sound of the vacuum cleaner buzzed loudly in her ears she taught about her son again. Since his fathers passing he had never been the same. He had always been a papa’s boy. They did everything together. When he died her son closed himself off from the world. He spend more and more time in his room and closed himself off from almost all his friends. He used to have lots of them, now there were only two left. Even them, he saw less and less. Renata’s husband had walked to the city centre to find the perfect gift for his sons tenth birthday. On his way back, he got hit by a drunk driver and was killed immediately. After that day everything changed. Her husband had always been the main breadwinner in their household. Renata started as a cleaning lady. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to pay her mortgage and to feed her son. That was everything she needed. Renate bumped to a table while walking backwards, vacuum cleaning. She felt the table move and turned off the vacuum cleaner immediately. She looked at the table. A map was laid on the entire surface, different coloured pawns were laying on top. They were standing before but the bump to the table had caused them to fall. Two of them had even rolled to the ground. Renata held her breath for a second. She taught about what she had to do next. She knew there were no cameras in the offices themselves, but there were in the hallways. So they could see her going in when the would look at the footage. Renata decided to just put the pawn back where they were before and pretend nothing had happened. She flipped them to a standing position and picked up the two that laid on the floor. She couldn’t remember where they were before, so she just guessed and hoped for the best. Quickly she left the office and finished her work. The sooner she was home the better. Marcos held his access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click he gained access to his own office. He put his jacket on a chair and his cup of coffee on his desk. He leaned with his hands on his desk and sighted. He had been puzzling with the strategy to save the hostages for more than a day now. These kidnappers were professionals. They had thought about everything. He was at the point to say to his employer: “just give them the money”. He didn’t know if the hostages would be released, but they could at least try. There was no way in. He took a sip from his coffee and took the telephone from his desk in his hand. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat. He decided to look at the map one last time before he called. Marcos put the phone back on the holder and walked over to the table. He noticed something had changed. Someone had been in here. The pawns weren’t on the same spots he had left them the evening before. He looked at their positions. This current strategy wasn’t looked into yet. He played the scenario in his head. It could work. He sat down behind his desk and checked some spots on the map of the museum they had to get into. He double and triple checked the strategy. It would absolutely work. Marcos called his supervisor and explained the strategy. He gave Marcos permission to take further actions. That afternoon the hostages were rescued and nobody was severely hurt. Marcos was praised for his amazing strategy. About a week after the rescuing action Marcos’s conscious started to nibble on him. He didn’t think it was right that he got all the fame while the person who came up with the strategy wasn’t even known. He made his journey to the basement of the office building, this is where the security was settled. He explained the situation and the guard showed him the footage of the hallway that evening. The only one who got into his office after him was the cleaning lady. Marcos figured she was the one with the strategy. Renata was cooking for her son who would eat later that day. She was dressed in some old clothes and an apron. Her hair was tight up on her head in a messy bun. She hummed with the music that was coming from the radio. Suddenly the doorbell rang. She turned off the stove and walked over to the front door. She opened the door and jumped at the sight in front of her. There were four news reporters, several vans and all the people who lived in het street. One of the reporters, a woman, asked her the first question. ‘Gina, caring news live for 2.4 million viewers. Renata, tell us. How did you do it?’ Renata was overwhelmed. She didn’t do anything, at least nothing that she didn’t do any other day. ‘Did what?’ Renata asked confused. ‘Come up with the strategy to safe all those hostages.’ An other reporter, one of the men, said. Renata remembered that the pawns on the map on the table she bumped a few days ago could look like a strategy. At leased if you used all of your imagination. ‘I.’ She startled. ‘I just bumped the table.’


It happened in an instant, in less time than it takes to blink. One moment I was just going down the road, minding my own business, trying to act "normal" (whatever that means) so people around me wouldn't feel discomfited. The next, I was deader than dead. Minding my own business... nothing unusual; been doing it all my life. I believe experts call it "masking." On days like that I thanked all past, present, and future gods us humans aren't telepaths. If people took a peek inside my head at any given moment, they'd do any, some, even all of the following: \*. Zone out and/or fall asleep from utter boredom. \*. Have an aneurysm through the whole of their nervous system. \*. Run away crying to their mamas. I've always been unusual, at least according to most people. When I was a kid, Mom would claim my brain was "wired differently" from everyone else's, which is why I was so "peculiar," as she'd put it. As for me, I never quite understood why people thought me "weird" or "different." At any rate, *they* were the ones who deviated from the so-called norm. I'm a simple kind of guy: if I have something to say, I say it with the least number of words possible, then move on once I'm certain my message's been picked up and acted upon accordingly. Likewise, I only need to listen to a statement once in order to comprehend and act as required. On the other hand, most "normies" I've come across need to have things repeated to them at least twice, and even then they're bound to screw up some way or other. Gave me no end of grief growing up, having to speak to freaking grown-ups as if they were toddlers. Some of them got real mad and tanned my hide with their stinking bells. If they'd spend half the time they waste drinking, having one-night stands, and buying junk becoming aware of their surroundings and using those oversized heads of theirs to think for a change, I wouldn't have to debase myself like this. Apologies. Seems I've gone a bit off-topic. Happens all the time. I've been alone most of my life. Mom and Dad were busy working most of the time, so they'd ditch me over at Grandma's when I was an infant. Not that I blame them; I'd ditch me too, if I had the chance. Twenty-odd years or so I carried on like this, doing my utmost to avoid all the usual "triggers," steering clear of people who'd bend my ear if they spotted me rounding a corner. "Smile and wave," Mom used t'say, smile and wave. Don't let them see it, how much they drain you, tax you, vex you, test the limits of that pittance of patience you were allotted with at birth, almost like an afterthought. Don't let them see how much you hate it when they think they can hold you up for hours at an end just because you grew up around them, how much they aggravate you when they believe they can do or say anything to you and get away with it. Smile and wave; smile and wave; wave and smile; wave-smile-and; smile-wave-and/or etc., etc. Point is, I'd had a real lousy day. I'd been having significant trouble sleeping for the past coupla months; my boss had been on my case lots more than usual. Also had to put up with this jock I knew from school, an insufferable little toady who went from dark-haired Adonis to middle-aged washed-up rugby coach in a coupla years. For some reason or other, guy believed ten-plus years of torment and humiliation could be magically wiped away with a tepid "I'm sorry"; after that uninspired sham of a spectacle, he wouldn't stop chatting me up for money or some other nonsense. To think I came perilously close to losing my temper. I wanted to yell at him, tell him to take his uninspired sob stories and sell them to anyone rich, bored, ignorant enough to buy them, but dealing with the aftermath of that would've proven an even bigger waste of time and energy. People, man... you keep explaining yourself to them over and over again with polite language; everything you say goes in one ear, out the other. If you throw a fit, however, they no longer forget: they mark you for life. They call you "difficult," "grouchy," "ornery," "temperamental," "antisocial," all two or three terms that comprise what passes for vocabulary in those mite-filled heads of theirs. Moral of the story: when all else fails, give 'em a tongue-lashing. You may get beaten up or yelled at, but they won't dismiss you so readily from then on. Damn, I did it again! Digressions, man... Uncle Paul said I should've become a lawyer, like him. Back to the day I died. Long story short, I got run over by a speeding vehicle. Don't remember size, make, or any such significant details, save that it was dark red bordering on burgundy. Might as well have been a comet, seeing how it sped by. My whole body was broken, on (figurative) fire for all of a few minutes, then I drifted away and that was that. Didn't even get to shut my eyes beforehand. When I next blinked, I was at... a stable? I figured it had to be one, with the procession of steeds coming and going and whatnot. Strangely enough, those stallions bore six legs rather than the usual four. I looked around everywhere. My surroundings were more than a bit off, to say the least. They seemed "ordinary" enough at surface level, but if you looked close enough you'd realize something wasn't quite kosher, so to speak. "I've been kidnapped!" I said to myself. "I'd better bail before I--" "Good of thee to awaken, young warrior!" A boisterous male voice boomed, echoes reverberating through my wiry frame. Before me stood an elderly man with a white beard, clad in a robe. Wielding a walking staff on the left hand, the visitor bid me follow him outside. We emerged in a torchlit courtyard connecting the stables with the rest of that citadel. The old man insisted I accompanied him some more; I didn't have it in me to refuse. At last we reached a banquet hall of sorts, filled to the brim with burly warriors from all across the Universe, if the countless races and species I beheld were anything to go by. The old man spoke to me again: "I have many names, Young Sir. Thy fellow mortals call me "Odin," among countless others. "Odin!?" I all but froze. At long last my brain caught up with the rest of me. Those weird horses, that strange pack of wolves chasing after strange golden and silvery objects... this place could only be... "Valhalla... the ancient hall of slain warriors!? This... this must be some kind of mistake!" "'Tis no mistake, Young Sir. Hadst thou proved unworthy, thou wouldst not be here." "Worthy!? Worthy of what!? I-I'm just a nerd, a stinking geek! The only battles I've ever fought were against bullies from my old high school, and *those* didn't end well!" "Do not disparage thyself. I and mine have kept thorough chronicles of thine endless struggles against fear and despair, the first and final enemies of Man, from which all others foes are born." "Fear and despair? You mean... depression? Y-Yeah, it's true; had it all my life. Don't see how it makes me worthy of Valhalla, though." "Thou didst fall and stumble, yet thou relented not. Many a day thou couldst have carved thyself thy final rest through bane, noose, or bodkin, yet thou didst none such thing." I thought back on the worst days of my life. That time I was invited to join a fraternity in college, only for them to haze me, kick me square in the nuts, toss me into the mud, and walk away laughing. That time I asked my best friend Lenny out for that stupid school dance, only for him to punch me in the face and get out of my life altogether. That time I did nearly all the work as part of a research team and the head researcher passed it off as his. God, I bawled my eyes out for months! The fact that waste of space got caught and lost his job, titles and awards ten years later wasn't as gratifying as I'd hoped, though. The night I came out to my folks, only for them to tell me to pack my things, leave, and never return. Those fifteen minutes I sat at the railroad... my closest brush with death yet, till now, that is. So I took my seat among such beauteous warriors (the females were quite the lookers, too), ate and drank my fill. I've been here ever since, training, honing my skills. Little do the living know Ragnarök is upon us. Chances are I'll run into my parents, my so-called friends, that day. Good thing their blood isn't worth spilling... \ Originally written for r/WritingPrompts. OG Prompt: "You have lived an unimpressive life, and died an unimpressive death. Surprisingly, Odin welcomes you into Valhalla, citing the many battles with depression you fought.


“We’ve got the results, 母!” Kazumi cheered. Warm sunlight jabbed at the old woman’s eyes, which made her close them tight. They stayed closed for a long time until the woman opened them again. Her lips curved into a smile, the biggest she could manage. “This is huge! They could’ve found something.” the man said, his mouth curved into a grin. He dusted off his tie with his hands, then fixed the belt on his pants. Kazumi wore a suit for the occasion, the fanciest he had. “Alright, see you later, 母! Wish me luck,” he said, twisting the cold brass doorknob. His hands were clammy, like a paper towel that’d been run under water, then heated in the microwave for a minute. He wiped his heated paper towel hands on the handkerchief he carried in his pant pocket. ↓↓↓↓↓ His hands were clasped in front of him on the glass table. Kazumi was worried that he might make sweat marks on the table. He tried not to think about it though, and focused on why he was here. The women and men around Kazumi stared at him, some of them drank coffee. “When will the meeting start?” a man asked, his cheeks redder than the U.S. flag. “Do you think they found anything?” “No, it’s impossible. No planet has what Earth has.” A tall woman strode into the room, her head high. Her heels clacked against the wood floor, and she stood at the front of the table. “Say what?” she asked the woman who’d spoken. “You, what d’you say?” The woman from before stood and fidgeted with her fingers, then answered, “I said it isn’t possible to find another planet like Earth, miss. No other planet has living circumstances like Earth-“ “Oh, you fool, sit!” the tall woman said as she shook her head. “Yes ma’am!” the woman answered, her cheeks flushed. She put her hand to her forehead, then put her hands to her sides and sat. “Tsk,” the tall woman murmured, rolling her eyes. “Today we’re going to talk about...” Kazumi leaned closer to the table, biting his lip. The woman stared at him. “The other one we found.” Everyone grinned at each other. One man next to Kazumi even stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “So we found another one? How good are the living conditions?" a woman asked. She sat down at the table and folded her hands together. “Almost exact to Earth’s. There are salty waters and fresh streams, so we have hope. We’re gonna continue our exploration today.” the woman at the front of the table said. Everyone cheered, and someone exclaimed, “We’re not gonna die!” “Yes, yes. Now, Kazumi, since you funded this whole thing, what do you want to name the planet?” “Um... maybe Dōyōni?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. Everyone nodded in agreement. “Kazumi, we’ll reveal more details to you tomorrow.” His eyebrows were raised and he said, “Actually, can I be a part of the search team?” “Okay, sure.” the tall woman nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” Kazumi was happy, but he tried not to show it as much as he answered people’s praise and left the office to his humble home. ↓↓↓↓↓ The door creaked open as Kazumi turned the key. “How did it go?” a voice startled him, and he turned to see his mom sitting on the sofa. Kazumi smiled at her and took his jacket off, hanging it on the hangers next to the door. “They found one. It’s very similar, or so they said,” he said, “they’re sending out a search team, and I’m going with them!” Kazumi’s mom’s smile faltered a bit, but Kazumi didn’t notice, he was too busy reminiscing over his gain. Thanks to him, his family tree would continue, with him at the top of it. “I knew that putting money into this would be worth it!” he yelled, a huge grin on his face. And making those little ‘rabbit holes,’ that was the best invention he’d ever created. “Benzaiten is on my side today! Oh, maybe I shouldn’t jinx it.” "I’m going to see Dōyōni tomorrow!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. ↓↓↓↓↓ The remote was calling his name. He had it in his pocket and he couldn’t stop touching it for the life of him. “See you later, 母!” he said, waving and closing the door behind. He skipped to his car, the remote burning a hole in his pocket. Last night, after spamming the ‘reload’ button on his computer, he’d finally seen an email from the tall woman. It was calling him in to explore the next day, Kazumi could’ve jumped and done cartwheels on his lawn. Though the planet - Dōyōni, was lightyears away, the little ‘rabbit holes’ he’d created helped with that. And if they could possibly live on Dōyōni, it would be a great thing for Kazumi. He smacked his own hand, which was lingering around the pocket with the remote. “Get a hold of yourself!” he said as he combed his hair back. It’d gone lopsided in the battle of his hands, and he fixed it right away. ↓↓↓↓↓ Kazumi took the remote of his pocket into his hand and placed it on the table before him, as all of the other members had done. “Now, we’re going to Dōyōni in approximately... 10 minutes, go get changed and come back. A man at the table lifted his head and said, “Can we eat before we go?” “Not unless you want to either vomit your guts out in space halfway or have a horrible headache and stomachache.” the woman said. The man shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, not really.” “I’m so excited to go!” Kazumi exclaimed, walking into the changing room. Suddenly, his phone rang. Kazumi turned back to where it was on the table and grabbed it. “Hello?” “Greetings, is this... Kazumi Nomura?” Kazumi took a pause, his eyebrows furrowed before he spoke again. “Yes, who is this?” “St. Luke’s International Hospital.” “What’s going on?!” “Your mother has been brought to this hospital from your home.” Tears ran down Kazumi’s cheeks as he thought about the worst possible scenarios. “I’ll be there right away,” he said as he ran out of the office. He’d have to miss the exploration of Dōyōni, but his mother was so much more important than any of that. ↓↓↓↓↓ “M-mom!” Kazumi ran through the doors of his mother’s hospital room, out of breath. His eyes were widened, and his hands were on his knees as he gasped for breath. His mother stared back at him, her eyebrow cocked. “What’s wrong?” “Why are you in the hospital?” She shrugged, pursing her lips. “A neighbor passed by and saw her through the window. He said that...” - the doctor paused as she looked at her clipboard - “she was lying on the floor.” Kazumi ran to his mother’s side and gave her a huge hug, to which she returned with equal strength. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’m so sorry.”


By the time I was through my high school, yet still a teenager but still within myself I was proud to have got my shit braced to the coming important years.... You know those years, which can make your life or break your life. And I was so certain that I would do good from now. I along with my best friend sunny was in a fresher year and within our eyes there was just the light of glory which seemed we may soon accomplish. Let’s suppose and give a metaphor to the age from 14 to 19 years as a tunnel. And as you enter it coz its easy to enter any place where there’s light and even at the end we were certain about the light where the tunnel ended... it’s just in between the middle of the tunnel we may experience darkness but before entering we could see the tunnel emitting a youthful light. But I guess we really underestimated the darkness which we had to endure to pass through the middle to reach the other end only to get ourselves out. But I guess we certainly entered the wrong tunnel as initially it was so full of light that we dint see the darkness surrounding us and at every moment we could clearly see the outlet of the tunnel which was shining bright but which we later found out that it was a false mirage of the light at the end, nothing else... I wish when we were teenagers, we’d knew that there’s no shortcut to success and all that glitters is not gold and bright. But anyhow moving inside this tunnel was an amazing experience altogether or maybe I can put it this way that all the glitter of entering this tunnel never actually gave me time to comprehend the darkness which may surround us and it would be that hard for us to get out of this darkness. So, without any second thoughts we dived in the mouth of this bright tunnel. This tunnel of youth and teenage in which we indulged was for sure full of glitter but offered only vice. Nevertheless, we were young, all good to explore and more than willing to indulge in the vices which provided us a light, a light of self-confidence, a light of hope, a light of physical wellbeing, a light of sexual fantasies etc. etc. you name the vice it was there and what does a vice do when you experience such stuff for the first time in your life? It gives you the light, of all the above things. A light which makes an illusion to make you feel so bright within. Sadly the moment we started indulging in all such vices in order to always stay under the light , we dint realize that we were living just in the moment under the glitter and bright light. For since the time we entered ourselves in this tunnel of drugs, women, party ; sure we were under the bright light of joy but at that time we dint realized this that we were becoming slow and hollow from inside, we didn’t realized the more we stayed under the shade of this light, the more it was making us dark. But amid all this glitter of bright light and wild nights, we never let the dark confront us. Coz we stalled in the best places of the tunnel and never wanted to tread our way forward to the exit. I guess Actually I was stuck badly in that artificial bright light zone. For after a lot of time spent under the lime light of drugs, sex and all the wild crazy stuff which I believe in the darkness don’t give permission; I really wanted to tread towards the end of the tunnel where I was able to see a ray of hope. So, in my unusual high spirits and confidence I tried to shed the lime light so that I can tread towards the end of the tunnel. But hardly I knew the moment I shed the baggage of my substances which used to give me artificial bright light, I was not able to step up my foot to walk more than 3 steps. And at this moment I realized that all this while the light I was carrying, after I started walking through the tunnel was only artificial light which sourced my body to think, move and act only if I abused the drugs and indulged in other vices. And this time it was not like before, it was some serious stuff. I happen to realize that Its a fake lime light, and it has somehow managed me to become an addict. Soon I realized in my quest of light I have actually destroyed my life by falling in this deep dark pit of addiction. Where no amount of light can pull you out from the darkness and it will sink my life into an ocean of sorrows. And coming out of it felt hopeless and also seemed impossible. It felt I am again standing at the starting point from where I started. Another thing I realized was that all these drugs play with your mind in such a way that it hallucinated me into believing that the light at the end of the tunnel was not the natural light of joy, the end was just a mirage. Or perhaps there’s only one end to this tunnel and that is the dark pit which seeps you inside itself. I guess since beginning there was no end to this tunnel, all the vices in which we indulge in life are just the mirage to a joyful light; which ends only in the dark. Infact I lead myself from the vanity of the light into well of this darkness, where my own shadow , which danced around with me under the shade of light, had left me just alone and all by myself. And now I wish some alchemy which, either makes me embrace this strange darkness or it guides me back to the light. PS: I don’t want to leave darkness either! PS: And my pet name is GREY.


Tires in the rain hissed on the street as the door opened. The scents of popcorn and petrichor mingled beneath the marquee as Rian and Angeline passed the ticket line leaving the movie theatre. The parking lot was pitch black, but Rian's car was along the street. By the light of his phone, his key found its slot in the door. "That side doesn't lock," he told Angeline. "Just pull." On Rian's third try, the car's motor exploded to life, perceptible from miles away. A lonely headlight pierced the night at a crooked angle, winking now and again. Last year's window wipers smeared the city rain across the dirty windshield. The driving wheel pulled right agressively, but Rian spared Angelia his other hand to hold. Bald tires carried Rian's uninsured lemon to Angeline's house. The brakes complained loudly on arrival. Something shifted in the trunk with a slam. Rian walked Angeline to her door. Angeline traded stupid words with her date, and pressed her mouth against his. Rian's hands crept up her shirt. She made no protest. Rian mentioned that his parents were out of town. The moment passed. Angeline's porch light was collecting moths, but the door was locked. She let herself in with the key from under the plastic rock. Rian retreated to his jalopy and made for his house as he fiddled with the radio. More than one stop sign was regarded merely as a suggestion. His windows were white with fog by the time he was home. Rian went inside through the laudry room door and kicked off his wet shoes. He threw his jacket, borrowed without his brother's permission, to the top of the dryer. Hunger registered in Rian's stomach on boredom's behalf. Without so much as a flick of the kitchen lights, he descended upon the fridge. Lo and behold, there was still macaroni salad, but in the back of the crisper, hidden like some relic, was a lone can of beer in a paper bag. Rian stared at the can, hearing the murmur of the downpour outside. He wasn't certain he could play dumb enough to his parents if there was only the one can. If there were four or five, fine, but just the one? The tab popped and spray misted Rian's face as he sucked up the foam. He closed the fridge with one socked foot, and the kitchen went dark. Rian set the macaroni salad by the microwave. On the other side of the counter there was a man sitting at the dining room table in the dark. Rian shouted and stumbled back. He threw his drink at the man, who closed the distance between them. His hands were hot on Rian's neck and arm. Releasing Rian's arm, the man's hand plunged into Rian's front pocket. Rian jerked, he could feel the man's hot breath. The man's hand produced Rian's phone. The light of the activated screen illuminated the man's face. Rian's eyes squinted as the phone screen turned to him. His eyes widened at one of many photos of Angeline, underdressed, features striking. A number of features shared even now by the man with a hand on Rian's neck. The phone vanished from site, and Rian was yanked around. His head slammed against the surface of the dining room table, a great weight held his chest down. Rian's hand scrambled for a purchase, but the table was slick with beer. The phone reapeared bearing a photo of Angeline in a swimsuit. The swish of a thumb revealed Angeline wearing even less. Rian shook his head, coughing up a failed plea. The phone turned away. The screen's light danced in the chandelier on the ceiling and across the man's face, transfixed in anguish. The screen turned to Ryan revealing a photo he'd taken himself. A photo of half of himself, and all of Angeline. Blinding pain smashed into Rian's face. Hot blood poored from his nose. Rian's vision swirled in the dark as he was struck again and again. Something hard hit him in the lip, forced its way into his mouth, breaking a tooth. His cheecks screamed with pain. The screen lit up. The man's fist struck like a hammer, driving the phone, shattering screen and all, deeper and deeper into Ryan's mouth. Slivers of glass tumbled into Rian's throat. Angeline's shameless smile beamed between the splits in the screen like the bars of a cell. An uncontrollable jet of hot vomit erupted from Rian's throat. The weight left his chest, and he pulled the phone free of his mouth, retching. Before Rian passed out, he tried to feel if there was still glass in his throat. When he awoke in morning to the sound of birds greeting the sun, Rian would recall the dark of the former night, and the sound of sobbing that wasn't his.


Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom. I take not even the slightest comfort in knowing that in that world, any man who refused the opportunity to work with Archibald Norington was a damned fool. Now, when I see where his hubris and his lust for notoriety have taken us, I find myself wondering, *What did I feel I had to prove, and to whom did I need to prove it?* The ship we arrived on has long since disappeared into darkness. Our line of rowboats is guided by small lanterns propped on each bow, the lot of us trusting Archibald’s famously instinctual sense of direction. But in my heart of hearts, I know unquestioningly that we approach the nameless mountain. I’m no stranger to fear or anxiety. The primal fear coursing through my veins is not born of my own thoughts. It’s a feeling native to this place. I feel like a rabbit seeking warmth in a den of wolves. We should not be here. “Jenkins,” I’m addressed, “stop shaking the damn boat.” I was unaware of my trembling. I don’t acknowledge Winslow or his remark, but I take a deep breath, clench my muscles, and steady myself. Soon I see a green glow on the horizon. Like a faint mist at first, but growing in intensity as we draw near it. “What is that?” asks Winslow, over the sound of his oars in the water. “I could tell you,” Archibald calls back from the lead ship, “but I won’t for the sake of your own sanity.” I write down the exchange in my log. “Cryptic cunt,” Winslow mutters under his breath. I leave that out. Before I know it, the green is all around us, a bright, pulsing glow from the depths of the sea. None of the lore of the nameless mountain has mentioned any such phenomenon. I wonder if Archibald truly knows its source. I have my doubts, but I was hired to record his journey, not my opinions of him. I peer over the edge of the boat. Do I see faint, dark shapes swimming under the surface, or do I imagine it? Soon I look up to see green light reflected against a dark surface, and a short while later I can hear the water splashing up against the rocks. The nameless mountain rises before us. We skirt around the side until we arrive at a large split in the mountain, as if it had been cleaved in two by God himself. *The ancient arrogance of man. Believing his own image could reflect that of a deity.* My skin erupts in gooseflesh and a chill creeps down my spine. The thought is not my own. It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Neither male nor female. It is toneless. Emotionless. Yet somehow it speaks with absolute authority. Do I tell my companions? I immediately chide myself for my own foolishness. No matter what I tell them, all they’ll understand is that I’m hearing voices, and I’ll find myself chained to a rock the instant we reach the shore. If I’m lucky. *“Who are you?”* I think as loudly as I can, if such a thing is even possible. Silence. Lightning strikes above, briefly illuminating the nameless mountain. I cannot see where the peak meets the sky. Perhaps it surpasses it, bridging us to the heavens. Who are we to know? *You are nothing.* Tears are running down my face. This is not my imagination. I am being spoken to by whatever being dwells in this forsaken place. Foreboding seeps into my bones, icing my veins. None of us are prepared to meet what awaits us here. Yet I cannot run, and I cannot warn the other men. An urge to jump in the water in a desperate attempt to swim back to our ship is dismissed when I look over the boat and see more dark objects than before. Just deep enough below that I can’t make out their true shape. But I can see their immense size, and the speed at which they move. I don’t need a voice to tell me what will befall me should I attempt that venture. My fate, it seems, is sealed. When finally we reach the shore and step onto solid ground, the green glow vanishes. We find ourselves in perfect darkness. Torches are lit after a period of cursing and stumbling, and we look around us. We stand on a small beach encased on either side by mountains, angling inward toward each other to eventually create a narrow alley. That path is the only way onward. Archibald takes the lead. If he is as fearful as I am, he’s doing a masterful job at disguising it with bravado. A smaller part of my consciousness posits the question of whether he has the emotional intelligence required to experience fear. Petty as the notion is, I allow myself a small smile. It does little to subdue the pit in my stomach and cold coursing through my veins, but it’s something. Our troup walks in a single file through the mountain pass. As an extra precaution we’ve tied a single rope around each of our waists, the length of rope between us about that of a man. It’s a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay together. Another small comfort. Dissonant whispers echo in my ears. None in the party reacts, so these too must be in my mind. Perhaps I have gone mad. The void in my stomach grows. I lose track of time as we march. At times it feels like we’re ascending. Other times descending. Other times, not moving at all. The whispers in my mind grow louder and louder, til I can hear nothing else. Soon they are joined by fleeting, incomprehensible visions that are forgotten as quickly as they appear. With every step my inner world becomes a chaotic storm of light and sound. Colors I’ve never seen blossom into fantastic shapes and fade away. I see seven silhouettes, vaguely humanoid, standing in a row. They beckon to me. The whispers in my head seem to be coming from them. Before I can truly see them they vanish in a swirl of smoke. I come to my senses and find that we’ve truly stopped moving. The mountains surround us in a perfect circle, and the ground we stand on is pristinely smooth. “Dead end,” Winslow says. “An astute observation,” I reply, my intrinsic sense of sarcasm briefly outweighing primal fear. Winslow glares at me. From the rear, Quinn, the company cartographer, calls us to attention. “What happened to the trail?” he asks, his voice shaking. We all turn and face what simply cannot be reality. We are encapsulated by seamless mountains, too steep to climb. There is no path to be found in any direction. We are trapped. None of us knows what to say. Even the legendary Archibald Norington is left staring forlornly at the starless sky, facing the reality that his sense of self purpose led him to a doom he cannot understand. Soon I hear the whispers return. Only this time, everyone else hears them too. Archibald snaps out of his trance and holds up a hand signaling our party to remain silent. The gesture feels less than necessary. At first, no words can be made out. The whispers sound like a harsh wind in a summer rainstorm, fluctuating from a deep rumble to a shrill scream. It sounds as though they descend from above. As the sound gets closer it gets quieter, calmer, until all the whispers have coalesced into one discernible voice. The one that spoke to me twice before. *The writer was warned*, it says. *The writer could have saved you.* The men all turn to me. I can’t see their eyes, for their faces are masked in shadow. “What does it mean, you were warned?” Winslow asks me. I no longer see any reason to lie. I tell them what I heard when we arrived. After a long silence, Archibald says, “You knew we were coming into the presence of a god, and said nothing?” “Would you have believed me? Would it have changed anything?” My breath is wasted on words of reason. Archibald grabs me and lifts me easily into the air. “You killed us all with your cowardice.” There is an inhuman hatred in his eyes as he throws me into the mountain. My breath is driven from my lungs and my vision swims. He’s on me again in an instant. He grabs my shirt in a hand and strikes my face once, twice, thrice. I feel my jaw break, my teeth dislodge. Surely someone will come to my aid. Someone will remember whose venture this was. Who truly led us all into ruin. *Insatiable lust for more than what is given will lead all mankind to ruin.* Archibald draws a knife and plunges it into my chest. A sharp pain in my sternum wakes me in my cot in the lower deck of *God’s Compass*. I know I dreamt, but I have no memory of it. The door to my cabin opens and I’m blinded by the light of a lantern. When my eyes adjust, I see Winslow, fully dressed and looking impatient. “They’re getting the boats ready. I suggest you prepare.” Winslow gives me a moment to light my own lantern before he returns to the upper deck. I dress quickly, and then dig through my chest to find my log. Archibald has asked me to document the entire voyage for his memoirs. When I find the log, my thumb touches a damp spot on the leather cover. Odd. I pull my hand away. My thumb glistens red in my lantern’s glow. *Blood?* I see that the corner of the cover is crinkled, as though it’s been heavily used, though I haven’t written a word in it. But when I open to the first page, it is my handwriting. *Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom.


Write about a character who feels like they're cut off from something. Well, another usual day. Just had my PCR-test done in the morning because of someone else in the office but nothing to worry though because I was not the close contact. Anyway it was good, because PCR screening day, meant it was another day off for everyone. Hurray! Finger crossed. Nothing to fret. Nothing to bother. Just headed home, did chores, chit-chatted with kids and parents. Confidence level was 100%. *** Since it was a rest day, I thought I would just make full use of it. The extraordinary thing I did was rearranging the rooms, trying to set aside a room for self-quarantine, just in case for future circumstance. Carrying those furniture, here and there all by myself. No one seemed to care. Mum who stayed with me just had a new modern psychological condition, nomophobia. Well, let me admit that on behalf of her. And my preschooler kids were in their own world. So imagine the hassle of shifting on my own? I thought so, but just felt I needed to. I was careful, deliberate in a way. Well no scratches on my stuffs, but I got them on my arm. My bad. As if I was moving out and moving in a new home. Not at once I glanced at the clock, but my tummy did grumbled. Well, a packet of soya drink to shut the mouth. After all this 10-hours of shifting, my body finally agreed to give it a break because my bones and muscles were not cooperating any longer. Soon, my elderly mum voiced out, “Eliz, why do you isolate there first while waiting for your result. Don’t worry, I’ll settle the kids on bed”. Well, I had no objection, because I needed much tranquility at that late evening. Too exhausted to even greet or hug my hubby who reached home two hours ago. Even a good night kiss was rather expensive that night. So, I hit the sack early, 9 p.m. in that spare room for quarantine. Earliest ever in my life. Still, before my eyelids shut, I self-assured, “Everything is going to be okay.” ***** “Ding!” My phone cracked the silence a little. I was blur, not to mention the darkness and the pain my body was handling. Getting up this way with muscles aching like millions of ants marching on my arms and legs was the best description. And my back surely I could feel tonnes of sacks on it, I hardly got up what more to grope my spec in the dark. It was a long, long process for me to sit up. All in all, 15 minutes. Finally I made it, as if I was wading in the mud trying to get myself on the shore. *** Alright, spectacles on, but loosely hung. Blamed it on my weak hand. Alright, vision cleared by now. Time came first. It was 1 a.m. Not skeptical at all. No vexation at all. Peace in heart. Soon my finger did the necessary; pressing the unread message one by one. Right, that was the one. “Open Sesame!” “SARS-CoV 2 Viral RNA (by RT-PCR). Detected.” “ORF1ab gene CT value : 36.29 ; “N gene CT value : 33.48.” “Health Ministry will contact you soon” I thought my eyes got cheated, so I zoomed to the maximum. Unbelievable! My head spun and spun. There was no way the result came out that way. All the 5W1H; What! Why? Who? Where? When? How? Bombarded this barren mind of mine. My facial muscle spasmed right away. Lips twitching, like first timer on stage. Fingers weren’t crossed, stiff like a fork. Aching legs stood rooted to the ground. Butt buried in my pillow. Back hunching like my grandmother. Busted out of sudden. No escape plan. Believe it or not, yes, I was Covid positive.It was like a bull eye shot. Still arguing with my conscience. I was told “I were to I think positively, everything will be alright. If I think negatively, everything will end up the negative way.” But what was that? I thought positively, and I got this positive Covid result? Puzzled. This empty room with just a bed and a diffuser as a companion did nothing to calm this stormy heart of mine. The diffuser did it best to moisturize the room of course but it ended up slowly swelling up my eyes. I sniffled quietly as tears threatening to spill from my eyes any sooner. I couldn’t spill any word either because fear overcame me, choking my throat for the very first time. I felt the instance of being walled up and sealed in an envelope, ready to be deported and interrogated like an alien. “Instinct, you are useless!” My heart screamed. *** Fact is fact. Fate is fate. No turning back. No amendment on the document. I had to face this soberness. I had to face defeat. I had to tell my family whom I had raffishly rest-assured earlier. With much gut, I searched “Contact - husband”. Dialled but no-answer because he was always a sleepy head. Next “Contact - Mum”. After three rings, finally she picked up. “Mum, I am sorry to wake you at this hour but to tell you this, I am positive, but asymptomatic.” “Huuuuhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!” That long response of hers did deafened my ear quite a bit. As expected, another round of questioning of 5W1H. Last but not least, “Eliz, you did the right thing today, your self-isolating room is just perfect for you. Stay there and don’t you ever step out!” A moment of chaos began in the house. Beyond my room walls, I could hear the sound of clanging pot, clicking of glass bottles, crinkling of biscuits packets, slamming of doors and rummaging of clothes. I knew they were meant for me. An hour passed, but no sign of anyone approaching me. *** Twice soft knocks on the door. There, stood my poor husband. No protective gear suit like the front liner, but he was holding his fogging machine like a combat man carrying his machine gun, ready to shoot the disinfectant fog at me, the room and the whole house. He wanted to save me and our family. He knew exactly he should perish the bug with crowns forever and stop them from invading further into the clean air at home. The fog did not suffocate me, but his calmness did spurred me. There the thick fog finally engulfed the entire room. Before I could say “I love you, honey!” trying to figure out where he was, I just heard the door bang. **** The next thing I knew, the world completely shut its door. I thought everyone was going to turn their back against me. I thought my colleagues would back stab and call me the ‘Spreader’. I thought I lost all human connection. But I was wrong. The health department had been calling me not to interrogate but asking if I was doing fine and to rest well every day. Colleagues had been sending their wishes for me to get sufficient rest too. Church members had been praying and sending beautiful encouraging stickers. My kids and family had been video-calling me every now and then. Now that I know, I had not been cut off completely, but come to realize that, it is love, patience and kindness that bring this world together. *** Guess, I just had enough rest because every cloud has a silver lining.


This rope is irritating. The smallest of spines imperfecting through the remaining uniform coils. I tighten it regardless. It begins to feel as if it’s strangling the breath out of me.... No it’s choking the winds so desperate to relieve me. I gaze below and notice a chair. It’s thrown across my feet. Pathetically fallen to the support of its head instead of it’s four purposed stumps. The room begins spinning. Around my eyes I see the freezer... The refrigerator... The Camaro... No, I’m spinning. Tight circles and unsprung coils of emotions. My eyes are weak now; my mind hazy. Thousands of needles are stabbing at my brain; or are they piercing through my skin and skull? I do not know. My glasses remain athwarted the bridge of my nose yet my vision is now hazy, blurred from reality. My mind and body have become faded, numb to this idea, numb to this reality. Silence falls across the thought that plagued my dreams. Everything turns to emptiness. What is this? Is this nothingness? What is nothing? It is neither warm nor cold. Neither loud nor silent... No, it is silence. A deafening silence. It is silence so loud it pierces my eardrums. It sounds desperate. Sad and emotional. It sounds like my mother’s tears falling upon the ground of which imprisons her kindred spirit. It disgusts me. With one selfish act, I have caused so much pain. The thought of the terrible sensations, of the one who cares the most for me, is going through is enough to make me wish I could clutch my chest. My lungs are a tighter than my chest. My throat is a clogged drain. I was suffocating before but now I am choking. I try to open my eyes but all I see is black. My body is burning up yet I am so cold. Eyes so frantically darting side to side begging to see the light. A light of hope begins to appear in the distance taunting as if it were about to run. I begin to chase after the bright spec. My life depends on this light. The future of mother depends on this light. I want to sprint but I can’t for these is no ground upon which to set my feet. I try to swim but this is space isn’t liquid. I seem to be floating. I’m being taken towards the light. I want to reach this sense of hope so badly but in the back of my thoughts I know it to be a lie. Panic is starting to set in. This light isn’t my salvation; it is my destruction. I try to turn back but there I can’t turn away. I try harder and harder; the panic and anxiety is intense. I can feel nothing but total despair for I cannot turn away from what I now know to be my entrance to whatever afterlife awaits me. I feel even hotter now. I’m so hot I can feel my skin melting. I’m melting into a pool of cool. This heat is so cold it feels vulnerable. With eyes now shut so tight, I can feel the light enveloping me. It’s cold and wet. Why is it wet? Terror is my fate. I know this to be true yet curiosity is a cunning enemy. I open my eyes finally to see the ceiling of my bedroom. My chest is rapid. My body a pool of sweat. There’s barely a crack of light coming through the window of which my bed is pushed against. The curtain is rough and torn near the top. I tilt my head to see the glow of red. There are 17 bars of red arranged to read 5:58. An audible sigh is barely breathed but enough to inform me that this is in fact real. No longer dreaming or actually dead. Marth Cohen survived again. Another terror that dragged him through every puddle of mud ever to form in his mind. Constant thoughts of how worthless he perceives himself. Thoughts of suicide are common for this soul. His life a gift he wishes would be snuffed out. He doesn’t know why. No one can ever know exactly why. These thoughts have no reason. They just are. Marth struggles to regain comfort. He tosses and he turns. He finally rests on his side staring at the clock. Another Friday rears its head. For Marth his entire school life has been nothing but pain. Tales could be told of how vile this midwestern town has treated Marth. He never liked it but he never spoke up about his treatment either. He always thought it was better to accept his life without fight than trouble others around him. Being in the graduating class has been by far the worst yeah of torture for him to endure so far. Tears started to form near the ducts of his eyes. It was almost over. In two months Marth would be rid of that school and rid of this town. Marth held back the tears forming and closed his eyes again. He would soon be escaping from this torment. The only problem with this idea was that he was wrong. It is only getting worse. It’s only the start of how bad living in this place is going to get.


One day, not so very long ago, a young nurse named Angela needed to use the laundromat. She loved to ride the waves after work, to let her surfboard carry her through cool water and salt air. She loved to ride the back of the ocean, to feel the power swell beneath her feet, to let the water take her on adventures, to spy sparkling shells buried in the sand, to follow sharks and dolphins, to make the water sing with her. But all her suits were sodden with salt and sand, so she made the trek through sun blasted streets, trudging past wraiths curled up under the barred windows of smoke shops, avoiding the stares of tattooed and bearded giants, finally pushing through the glass doors of the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her. The washers gleamed in friendly rows - though the largest one, the triple loader loomed alone in its corner, its round door dark and ominous. Angela avoided it, choosing instead a spritely little machine, a single loader. Two old women sat together watching their clothes spin through the rinse cycle. One chattered happily to the other who was wearing a sky-blue bathrobe with a pattern of shooting stars, but she ignored her friend, murmuring to herself instead. As she began her wash, the chatterbox turned to Angela. She was missing a tooth and had hair sprouting from her chin, but her eyes were bright and kind. “I’m Drusilla. My friend, Griselda, thinks something bad is coming here. Do you feel it? I don’t feel it.” “I don’t feel it,” Angela said. “Griselda is usually right. She uses herbs and sometimes runes. She has the power of sight. Not me. I just go with my gut. What about you?” “I like to surf.” “Oh,” said Drusilla, “so you’re one of those. Well, aren’t you the special one.” Before Angela could reply, a tall man pushed open the doors, bells silent behind him. He was broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, his blond hair precisely groomed - he wore khakis and loafers without socks. He surveyed the room, his cold blue eyes sweeping across the people waiting on benches, the spinning of clothes, the rush and roar of water pouring into and out of machines. His eyes swept over them, resting first on the triple loader which seemed to return his gaze and then on Griselda, her bathrobe, her grizzled hair, her restless mouth. He leaned casually against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared, the room belonging to him. “I don’t know,” Angela whispered, “Maybe I do feel like something bad is about to happen.” Drusilla whispered back, “He’s one, isn’t he. An evil one.” At the far end of the laundromat, a small door creaked open, and a tiny wrinkled man appeared. He carried a bucket and cleaning cloths and began to wipe out the machines. The blond man’s eyes swept across him, too. They swept across the glass doors as they were pushed open by a dark-haired woman carrying two heavy baskets. They swept after her as she placed one basket on the ground and loaded clothes into the washer from the other. They followed her out the door, bells tinkling behind her, as she rushed to her car for another load. A baby cried. “No, you cannot,” Griselda hissed at the blond man. Lazily the blond man straightened up, lazily the blond man swaggered over to Griselda. Lazily, he looked down on her. “You’re wrong. I can and I will.” But Griselda’s eyes were closed and her murmuring sounded like water rushing over stones or the surf retreating over seashells. The blond man swiveled his eyes to Angela and Drusilla. “They don’t belong here, you see. Immigrants. From those countries. They ruin everything for the rest of us. This is the only way they’ll learn. I don’t want to do this, but it’s my duty. It’s my duty to my brotherhood. I’ve sworn an oath, so I don’t have a choice, do I. I have to honor my oath to drive them away. To keep us pure and unpolluted.” And then he smiled, showing them his gleaming white teeth. He snatched the basket the woman had placed on the floor and inside it a baby cried. A baby with chubby rosy cheeks and curly black hair. And before Angela could think, like a thunderbolt he placed the basket with the baby in the triple loader and slammed the door shut. And then he was gone. No bells tinkling in his wake. And because it was in Angela’s nature to save lives, she rushed to open the door, but even with all her strength she couldn’t, even with the strength of the desperate mother, the door wouldn’t budge. The caretaker placed gentle hands on their shoulders, “There’s nothing you can do. She’ll keep the water from rising,” he gestured at Griselda whose murmuring had intensified, “without the silver disc, there’s no way to open it.” Drusilla held the sobbing mother, the three of them helpless as the baby’s faint cries were heard through the round door. “What disc? What’s happening?” Angie had to find a way to help. The caretaker sighed. “That...person ...you saw, Preston Simmons, owns this place. He doesn’t need the money, it’s a like a game for him, he enjoys catching people, playing with them, terrifying them. It’s fun for him. He set a trap in here - the triple loader. He uses it to scare people, sometimes worse. But he usually releases them with the disc, after they’re terrified and beg for mercy and promise to leave the country. But he became enraged last week, when no one here spoke English, and one girl laughed at him when he spoke to her, so he threw the disc in the ocean where no one can find it. Our only hope is Griselda, that she can find a way to break open the door.” Angela knelt down next to the mother whose hand was pressed against the door of the machine, the baby inside reaching for her. “We’ll find a way. We can take the machine apart. I’ll get tools.” “That doesn’t work,” the caretaker said. “He has powers, that man or whatever he is. I’ve tried everything. Everything breaks, my best electric drill. Nothing works, it’s all been tried before.” Drusilla straightened up, her eyes bright and shining as she regarded Angela. “I know something that will work - it’s you. Of course, you’re the special one. Go ride the waves. Go on, let your friendship with the ocean help us. Go now. Don’t question it - just go.” Angela struggled to the beach - she felt she could hardly move; she could hardly lift her legs as she fought her way through the thickened air. She felt the cold eyes of Preston Simmons everywhere, holding her back, his rage infecting the air, baking the sidewalks, pulling her down. She staggered through hot sand, so deep and hot, she felt she would be buried in it. Someone’s surfboard lay ahead of her, thrown on the sand - she fell to her knees and crawled towards it. When her hands touched its edges, she felt some strength return and half dragged it to the surf. But the waves resisted, they pushed her down, they held her down, pounded out her air. She thought that she would never breathe again, betrayed even by the waves. The waves roiled into violence by the force of Preston’s rage. Pinned to the sand she saw sunlight beckon through the water and the waves, finally recognizing her, collapsed and retreated. Blue sky welcomed her, the water now contrite and calm. The board floated above her head, waiting patiently for her to paddle out, to ride the right wave to shore. She could feel the roll of the water approaching her, the powerful swell approaching. The sun made a shining path over which three pelicans flew and then it was time. In apology, the water made a temple for her a shining blue cathedral she entered just under the crest of the wave. She rode through silence and blue light and absolute stillness. And as she emerged into sunlight and shallow water, a silver disc shone in the sand at her feet. Running past the eyes of wraiths and giants, water pouring off her shorts and tee shirt she slammed into the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her, and held the silver disc triumphantly aloft. The caretaker delicately passed it before the blackened, baleful door of the washer which with a guttural groan creaked reluctantly open. The mother flew to her baby who wrapped his chubby brown arms around her neck. Griselda stood up and took Angela’s hand in hers. “We have work to do,” she said. And Angela did do the work, saving lives across the world and riding waves wherever there was need of her.


High in the hills Oedipus limped on alone. It had been some days now since he had seen another soul. The late afternoon sun beat down upon his neck as he dragged his limp foot along this dusty trail, his only company the birds above. He had started out before the Sun had risen and was witness to its journey across the blue sky. Yet he hadn’t paused, nor would he, until he arrived at Thebes. He had heard that there great trouble brewed. But trouble was what he desired. Turning his back on his family, he realised the only glory he would obtain in this world would be of his own making. Cresting the hill, he leant on his staff. A clear view of Thebes and the surrounding plain lay below. This was where he would make his name, that much he knew. He began his descent. The tall walls of the city rose up and dominated the sun drenched plain, like the silhouette of some man-made mountain range against the bright open sky. Marching towards them he prayed to the gods, to give him the strength to win glory. Vague rumours had informed him of the trouble of Thebes, but it wasn’t clear what exactly the trouble was. He believed in the heroics of Man and had taken it upon himself to shed some light on the problem. He would do what was necessary, or die trying. The gods of high Olympus would surely bless one as bold as he, one who had taken charge so as to avoid his fate as told at Delphi. The last fingers of the Sun pointed out over the horizon. He drew close to those famous walls as the faint stars first twinkled in the darkening sky. No greeting or hail met him from the gates, just a gentle breeze rolling over the plain. It kicked up dust, watering his eyes to the shadowy archway ahead. He paused. He had the sensation of being watched. “I would make myself known. I am Oedipus and I am come to the aid of Thebes.” In front, something moved as smoke in the shadows. Squinting he gazed into the abyss. “Would you now, brave Oedipus? What aid would that be?” Emerging from the gloom with feline grace there appeared to him the most beautiful face. Her skin so smooth the structure so angular, like life breathed into a marble statue of a goddess. Oedipus stood straighter. “I would know who I speak to first.” “A question before that I reveal, and if you fail, you can join those, who lie by my tail.” His eyes were only now becoming accustomed to the dark. He noticed what looked like little piles of earth behind the speaker, on the edge of the shadow cast by the gatehouse. “Ask if you must, I’d rather we didn’t come to blows, it would be a crime against the gods to strike such a pretty face.” A grin appeared, revealing the sharp teeth of a lion. "Which creature has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?" His heart pounded, fire flamed in his veins. Cascading like a waterfall, images of his life until now fell in front of his mind’s eye. A second passed. "Man--who crawls on all fours as a baby, then walks on two feet as an adult, and then uses a walking stick in old age" “Very good, very good brave Oedipus! So quick on your feet?” She glanced down. “The Sphinx I am, I guard this gate, answer my riddle, and Thebes I’ll vacate.” Closer she came. Creeping as a cat, her wings outstretched. Eye to dreamy eye they gazed. She paused in front of him. Her breath reeked of death. “Speak then.” "There are two sisters: one gives birth to the other and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Who are the two sisters?" A moments silence. The breeze blew. Unsure, he looked to the sky. The stars were now on full display. The zodiac shone brightly. “Day and night.” The Sphinx beamed at Oedipus. Fluidly she lifted her paw and rammed it into her drooling maw. He watched as with swift violence she devoured herself, until all that remained was a vicious pool of gore. It reflected back the sky above. He walked towards the gate, passing the remains of the Sphinx’s victims. He beat the gate as a victory drum. It echoed off into the night. Silence. He beat the gate again. “I am Oedipus and I have saved Thebes!” In the distance he heard a door close. Another moment of silence passed. He heard bolts clanging behind the gate and the slow creak of it being opened. In that yawning gap, the light of a torched flickered casting the distorted shadow of a hand on the wall. Oedipus thanked the gods. He had glory.


NAME OF THE STORY: THE WITHDRAWAL NUMBER OF WORDS: 2,327 words THE WITHDRAWAL “There are many ways of breaking a heart, stories were full of hearts being broken by love, but what really broke the heart was taking away the dream - whatever that dream might be.” - Pearl Sydenstricker Buck. “Surely better a stone in the manure than gold in the mountain stream among the tundra temperate regions during the winter,” this were the words that were silently playing in the mind of Caractacus. “Don’t worry,” came the graduate’s voice,” who knows, I may go through.” Caractacus had attained and secured a degree in civil engineering technology from one of the most recognized and let me say competent universities. He hoped after his graduation which to speak truthfully, was well attended by friend and relatives from near, far and beyond. They all believed that it shall be OK with their lad who had just been flown into the world of the elites. The initials are that the lad was from a poor background, no, allow me to use the word humble background for etiquette roles. Let’s go ahead. Caractacus had just posted an application letter to one of the mushrooming Huduma Centers in the country, now the former are centers for electronic citizenry services that the prevailing governments had employed in the control of the populace in the previous Postal centers. The onset conversation was with an attendant at the Huduma Centre. “Let’s hope so, it’s prayers,” exclaimed the attendant, then she walked away in well measured steps throwing her well touched curl kit sideways. To the lad this was a sign of discouragement. “This woman thinks that she is better than me, a whole engineer, I object,” Caractacus murmured in his coagulating thoughts. “I will disapprove this unlearned fellow one day; I won’t stoop too low.” Caractacus had a second class upper and missed the most desired First Class Honor with a mere two points. This might have made him the topic of the day; Newspapers and Journals could arch his names, I beg your pardon, allow me pluralize the name. one could read, “KING CARACTACUS CONQUERS AGAIN” and another would enunciate “BOADICEA IS ON THE HEEL.” Now the author thinks like a historian because of self-vivid memory on the victory of Briton King Caractacus and Boadicea Queen of the Iceni tribe on the Hadrian’s Wall. The television interviews; oh! The local radio stations and then maybe British Broadcasting Cooperation (BBC) or the Cable News Network or Aljazeera umpiring and predisposing him to the actual face of the globe. The heart pain lasted just for a day since even the peers that had achieved the level were equally wallowing in deep, deep poverty. Their applications were dismissed. In those days, the Civil Engineers who graduated from the local universities suffered due to foreign employment, let me say, foreign expatriates. Am not saying that nowadays are safe. They are still endangered, undergoing employment crises. He was not shortlisted again. He said be it; he had to purge poverty from his home in the North Eastern Part of the country. North Eastern from the cognate words, means the depraved parts of the rain, arid and semi-arid lands, the region receives the North East monsoon trade winds which were called dry winds. The similarity between the origin and the preponderating cascades of the scenario accrued to the graduate was not only evident but also axiomatic. Finally, the irresolute and frivolous mind dropped from the air. “I will apply for tenders in my constituency - am their own - their own tribe, same language, circumcision and longtime inherited dressing code, the peculiar regalia of the ancient lore,” the young elite brainstormed. His mind highly boggled, faltered and vacillated with KA Stroud Engineering Mathematics’ masterpieces, Rock-Soil Mechanics, Computer Aided Designs- AUTO CAD, ArchiCAD, Auto desk and much Programming and Coding. The people from the Alpha State, a neighboring country, thronged his native country and were immediately furnished and given employment by the Mafungoan government as if it was doing charity to the alienated individuals. But does the author say, this was thanks to their well-furnished towns with well arrayed lighting systems that made even the lowland inland not only towns but also the municipalities and cities appear as Cities on a hill, which as well-known cannot be hidden. They, am talking of the local natives, received the tenders too...the only ones they (the natives of Mafungo State) managed to secure were to deflate their ego, as the state officials, called degrees. Ego was the unaccustomed or do I say the reinvigorated nomenclature for degrees whether the first Bachelors, Masters or Doctor of Philosophy or Divinity. These, tenders the Mafungoan residents received compromised construction of box culverts-this was indeed too low for a fully qualified engineer, brains highly throttled with the Lagrange-Poison findings. He declined it. He wondered why. But why! He wept silently, in his community it was forbidden for a man to weep even death to all your brothers and sisters with children, it was considered nature. A man could only weep on three occasions. First, if a man lost one of his kidneys in a war, second if a fellow man is killed in a war clash. Thirdly, which made the whole community moan, that one could be beaten by his wife to pulp, this made men weep to tears and cut themselves with blades to bleeding. He made the decision. “Am going to check the Alpha-Techno’s curriculum,” he concluded. Now Techno is another country that is at per with the Alpha in terms of technological sophistications and infrastructural aggrandizement. Shock and great stun struck him to the shirt, the curriculum was too shallow-here the author speak the truth-he understood everything within two weeks. Still, the question emerged - why did the government give them all tenders - I refused to say award them tenders. Am also angry. No, yes, I am. Focus on the text now. The poverty back in the village was a disheartening eyesore. He decided to join an Alphan who had been awarded, no given, a tender to design a road worth five hundred 500 million pakwacha by the Mafungoan currency. To his sufficient cranial cavity brouhaha, the alien did not employ any of the fundamental Canon of Engineering ethics. Instead, the plant manager brought his stuff and things were moving. No design. No cost measures. The man could sit back consummately munching down the ‘ mahindi choma’ , roasted maize and smoke cigarette distinguishingly. Caractacus had lost again, the man gave him the duty of building bumps. When he presented his design, the alien interrogated scathingly. Here, he was to handle spade, fork-jembe and related farm tools, machinery and equipment and strike to and fro till everything was done. Mind the pilgrim’s phonology. “Hey broman, ati nyinyi ndio the learned friends , ahaa! Zii manze , life is this much tight and tough, out here is difficult, but let’s just strive, Nature knows,” said the peculiar man who was fundi in the construction site in his pidgin English. Caractacus shrugged his shoulders and moved nonchalantly towards the young man, even the fundi himself. “Look here, brother, these men, we will have to withdraw them from our nation or not it’s not going be easy to be easy with us as the graduates from the tertiary institutions.” “That is very true but, remember that people like us don’t get employed by you graduates from the so called universities.” “Why do you think that we graduate individuals don’t employ you people,” said the elite with a voice that showed defeat and cares. “That is the fact chopper!” boomed the fundi. “How did you just call me!”. “You guy is a chopper, I mean, you are the brains of this country, the golden elite prototypes...”. “Stop! I see sir, you are speaking some truth, the truth itself that sets people free as some of the believers once taught me, but tell me how comes and elite is given the jobs of the fundi, forgive me my friend for that...”. the unlearned fellow, moves close now all formalities dropped approach the selected brain owner. “I am Orome Jakobo, from Sigorikomos province, I have worked with different companies in my position area fundi, recently I was promoted to the position of an air conditioning craftsman and a foreman in the Mijengo company, but hard I settled for the job, when the retrenchment letter flew rapidly into my email, WhatsApp page and the office desk.” “Sorry my friend, and what could be the cause of all these?” “What can be the cause if not the nepotism and the corruption that has completely marooned and tyrannized this generation.” The fundi continue, noticing that the elite ally is now getting the better part of the conversation, “And imagine these top notch officials just dismissed me like that, no notice, no protocols observed, just the retrenchment letter and here I am again an ardent expert I call myself to preserve my calm.” They both start humming the Just As I am song by the Billy Graham and his duet George Beverly Shea and Cliff Barrows. They sing in unison as is a choirmaster of the ancient maskil is on the lead, “Just as I am without one plea, thou bidst...ooh my soul, Lord I come, I come.” Now in the state the statement soul meant different things and the fiercest meaning was death. “Well, pardon me the negligence, I am Caractacus Kawa, a senior grandaunt of Civil Engineering from the Bard Avon University of Engineering, am from Kalande.” The two get the better part of each other, the fundi in his brown overall, the helmet broken on one side, and tied with a string on the other looks confident of himself, respecting the fellow lad. On the other hand, the engineer in his flowered shirt coated with a new overall affixed with an orange reflector and a tinge of pale green trousers looked dissatisfied. Here are two lads standing close to each other the unqualified looking satisfied and the qualified looking discontented. * * * * * * He was agitated. he was a divided house. He thought of summoning the government in a one-man-army methodology. No, this was an unviable and infertile thought that couldn’t hatch a valid consequence, his own mother survived on a pension which was a premise the government gave her. The father worked in the government as a permanent sweeper of a public toilet and secured employment in that falling of events. He himself survived on a loan that the government gave to the students faithfully. The government must not be sued at all, but why are all ways clogged and blocked; it’s all about the government. Recently, media whose news were now even more manipulated and considered gutter press, once announced that the head of state of Mafungo and the counterpart from Alpha State had struck a deal of a gigantic loan. This loan could only be paid if the Alpha State is given the Mafungo Mountain and River Odisa which were the source of livelihood for the residents. The mountain was responsible for great agricultural works while the river was for navigation and fishing. And remember that these physical features were to be given to Alpha State for a period not less than three hundred and forty-seven years. What a loss if a person cannot survive for about three months without food, what of the sadistic period of leasehold of the features. The young man was torn in the mind like a paper subjected to the concentrated sulphuric acid. Who was bad? He blamed from curriculum, government, poverty-ancestral one; but found all comparisons equivalently neutralizing each other like an acid and an alkali in chemical reaction. Back at village, in Kalande, money was needed and they fiercely asked for it. They wanted him as an engineer to have money, buy a Mercedes Benz S600 Vogue or Land Cruiser V8 and if possible NISSAN PATROL T62 v8 nothing less. Then that a descent wedding he was a Christian, stronghold of Christian outreach fellowships previously. In the capital, the loan defaulters were in threat of being arrested and detained till upon loan completion. But please, tell me, how can you source money to pay loan when you are in the jail and detained. Incalcitrant phenomena crisscrossed the mind of the students. This loan was the loan for education and they had until one and a half a year to pay it completely. Global economic crisis had hit and the Intercontinental Monetary Financial was also running out of stock. The fuel prices were fluctuating and swinging like a pendulum bob tossed to and fro and this meant that much fare was charged sometimes tripled or better still doubled. Time cut me short to speak of the rent, water and power supply deficiency. He was divided and no point appeared successful at the end of all. He pitied the uprising in his career course. Now it was done, poverty had increased in the village and in town, it is a hide-and-seek game. No love, no pity, no charity. As the days went by, Caractacus went back to the village empty handed. His burial was in a family land as the mother sang, “They have taken my son wasted before his time, I know it is true, but send rain Lord to overtake the tears of the lonely mother , min ji , as my son called me.” Then a note was read that Caractacus had left before his long departure, it was in capital, FOR YOU TO CONTINUE WITH THE STRUGGLE AND ME TO DIE AND WITHDRAW MYSELF, WHOEVER GOES TO THE BEST PLACE ONLY GOD KNOWS. NOW, I KISS THE GRAVE NOW. When this was read, all the students broke into tears and melancholic sobs, they knew they are moving in that direction if things were not restituted. And as the mourners departed there was a mound of fresh black soil with the elite lying there away from the defeats and cares of life. He withdrew himself from the of the face of the globe - hoping things would get better - as the dark skin of his body touched the black cotton soil as coffin couldn’t be afforded to wrap up the body. The withdrawal had occurred. The mother of Caractacus agreed that she would launch a campaign to help students forget the kind of trauma and depression they underwent. She had an argument that ‘BETTER A LIVING DOG THAN A DEAD LION’. This she meant that the living grandaunts were far more important than if they overstretched and died.