Trink and I stood over the boy’s motionless body. My hands were stained crimson, Trink’s still pristine. He always had a knack for cleanliness. “Dude, I- wh- what have we done?” The words had barely escaped my mouth when Trink grabbed me and wrapped me into an engulfing hug. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” Trink reassured me. “We just- you- we got a little carried away. This wasn’t supposed to happen...” His words trailed off. I started to speak before Trink squeezed me harder, sending me back into silence. “But it’s ok. I can- I can deal with this, Ray. Go home- ok, maybe not home. You told your parents you’d be at my house tonight, right?” I nodded, my eyes still locked on the body on the floor. Blood soaked the kid’s clothes, yet his face was still clean, locked into a mortified expression. Forever. “Start walking back. I don’t know how long I’ll take but I’ll fix this. Just start walking and don’t talk to anyone.” Trink let me go and I saw the bloody handprints I had left on his shirt. He stood still over the boy and I could almost hear the metallic grind of the gears in his head. I left before I had to see anything else. The walk to Trink’s house was cold and dark. I was thankful for the slightly oversized jacket I had snagged on the way out. The sleeves were long enough for my to pull over my hands, and the dark color of the fabric hid any stains. New or old. I tried to clear my head by going through all the events that led up to this moment. Trink and I had met during our biology class this past semester. I was watching a true crime video while evading schoolwork when I caught a glimpse of this guy behind me. He was staring straight at my screen. I turned slightly to look at him, then turned on subtitles for my video. I saw his reflection grin. He spoke to my after class that day. Our last blocks were on the same hallway, so we departed class together. Every sentence we exchanged revealed a new shared interest, most prevalent being a love for murder mysteries. Trink, as he liked to be called, gave me his phone number before leaving and told me to text him. I did so the following night. Hey, this is Ray from bio I thought so. I was waiting for your text Well, here it is Splendid. Have you checked the news yet today? No Someone murdered a kid. Hes like the 3rd one in the past 6 months. That’s awful :( Awful yes, but also a pattern A pattern ? You heard me. You think its a serial killer ? Potentially. And I want to get involved. That was months ago. Since, Trink and I have spent hours together, pouring over every detail we could find, scouring local newspapers and sneaking around crime scenes. Others saw no connection between the murders; we simply took this as a sign that we weren’t dealing with a rookie. At the time of the... day, there had been 8 kills over 10 months. The killer was getting antsy and leaving more room for error. Slowly, but surely, Trink and I were able to put together the killer’s signature: He targeted children, usually between 10 and 13. They all had some form of respiratory illness. But, most importantly, he had a two steps when killing: suffocation and then mutilation, primarily in the torso. “It can’t be a coincidence they all had screwy lungs,” I said, leaning over Trink’s shoulder as he typed furiously on our ongoing document about the killer. “Nothing’s a coincidence here, idiot.” I punched him lightly on the arm. “Yeah, and I’m sure the police know that too. Don’t get me wrong, I love overanalyzing pictures of stabbed kids with you, but you don’t really think we can solve this... “ I paused. “ Right?” Trink stopped typing and sighed. “Ray. I would have agreed with you, like, a month ago. But I- we’re too deep in this now. I can’t have you bail.” “I wasn’t going to!” I pushed myself off the back of his chair and sat on his bed. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page here. This isn’t just some cold case from the Roaring 20’s. These are kids in our community being MURDERED. We aren’t private detectives, we’re fucking juniors. We can’t overstep-” “I know, Ray, I fucking know.” Trink put his head in his hands. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I know, I know, I know, I know.” We sat in silence for a while before Trink spoke again. “God, this kinda puts a damper on my plans.” “Plans?” He hadn’t told me about any plans. “Yes, plans. Listen.” Trink stood up and turned in his chair, now facing the back with his arms crossed over the head rest. “Look, I noticed you were kinda losing interest in this. And that’s fine. The semester is almost done, exams are coming up, all that shit. But we’ve been working on this for so long, I wanted to try one more thing. And I have it all planned out.” Trink explained to me the idea of an escape room that would replicate the circumstances our murderer likely experienced during one of his previous kills. Trink would set everything up, we would meet at his house, and then we would go out together at night and try to complete it. “We could be practically inside the mind of the killer. We could, we could have the exact same thought process! We could see why he made certain decisions. We could differentiate between stupid mistakes and intentional clues planted around. And I would make sure everything was perfect.” I could see the desperation in his eyes. This was Trink’s last hope. “And it would all be fake, right?” “Of course, of course. Purely for research purposes.” Trink was leaning closer to me. I sighed. It took a few more days and a lot of pleading texts, but I finally agreed to the escape room. Trink set the date and I started making a plan with what little information I had. Time slowly marched forward to the day, right in the middle of our Thanksgiving break. I left my house at seven. When I arrived at Trink’s, we didn’t talk about the escape room. In fact, I’d almost forgotten about it before Trink broke the silence that had arisen when we had both pulled out our phones half an hour ago. It was 11 pm. “Hey. It’s time.” My stomach dropped. “Oh yeah. I almost-” Trink didn’t let me finish before pulling me up by the arm. “Grab a jacket before we leave. It’s gonna be cold.” Something was off about his voice. It was more withheld than usual. I picked a large-ish black zip-up jacket from his closet and met him at the door to his room. I started heading out towards his staircase before Trink’s arm came across my chest. “We aren’t going that way. Follow me.” I never thought my first time sneaking out of a boy’s house would consist of me squeezing through a bathroom window to go re-enact a murder. But then again, I never could have predicted the following events either. We walked in silence for many reasons. We didn’t want to be caught. It was cold, and the puffs of suspended breath in front of us would have only made it worse. It’s not like there was much to say anyway. I had no idea where we were going or what was waiting for me, but I didn’t have any reason to distrust him, right? I hadn’t known Trink very long in the grand view of everything, but we’d bonded so closely over these few months. He wouldn’t do anything. Plus, nobody except us knew about our investigation, and he liked it that way. Why risk ad- “You’re falling behind,” Trink said, finally breaking the tension between us. My eyes had mainly been glued to the ground the whole journey. I looked up and saw Trink stopped roughly 10 feet ahead of me. “My bad.” I jogged to catch up. “It’s alright. We’re almost there. Just through those trees.” Trink pointed forward at a thicket of trees denser than the ones earlier on the path. I nodded and tried to keep pace the rest of the way. I sat in the middle of a small clearing and took in my surroundings. Trink had disappeared into the trees a few minutes prior, claiming he still needed to grab a few things. I hadn’t noticed anything man-made or out of place sitting around. What did he set up, then? My questions were answered with a dense THUD! and a large black duffel bag. “Wha-” “Don’t ask questions. It’s time to start.” Trink unzipped the bag to reveal a... “A KID?” I screeched, scrambling back in horror from the unconscious boy. “Don’t worry, he’s fi-” Trink cut himself off after finally gazing into the bag. “He was supposed to be awake...” “Supposed to be- kid- what the fuck?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, thoughts barely able to collect themselves before something else urged to leave. I sat there in disbelief. Trink squatted and put his head to the boy’s chest. “He’s still breathing.” I stared at Trink, my mouth gaping. “Did you expect him to be DEAD?” “I don’t know, I forgot the fucker had asthma!” “How the hell do you know that?!” “Because he’s my little brother’s friend!” “YOU KIDNAPPED YOUR LITTLE BROTHERS FRIEND TO KI-” Trink crawled towards me and slapped his hand over my mouth. “Stop screaming. Stop it. You’re gonna get us caught.” “Cmammhmm? Comm dminf wfmt?” My words came out muffled through his sleeve. “What?” Trink brought his arm down. “What the fuck do you mean caught? What are you going to do to him?” “I don’t know, this wasn’t supposed to happen, nothing has gone to plan so f-” Our bickering was cut short by a child’s coughing. “Fuck,” Trink muttered. “He’s coming to.” Trink looked over to me with fear in his eyes. “I mean, we can’t... he’s gonna snitch. This is illegal- ok no shit it’s illegal, I...” And then something in Trink’s face changed. And he got up. And he walked over to the kid And he wrapped his hands around the kid’s throat. “What are you doing! Trink, get off- stop it! Stop! Please!” I pleaded, scrambling up and trying to pull Trink away. It was useless, Trink was bigger and much stronger than me. I continued to fight, but the reality was setting in. The boy, barely half awake, didn’t have it in him to thrash. It took less than a minute before he was gone. Trink let go and the boy fell limp. Trink was shaking. He fell back onto the ground, leaving me standing over the body. “I- Trink.” My words came out deflated. “This doesn’t even match his signature. We’re fucked. We can’t even blame the killer.” Silence. “I don’t want to go to jail..” Trink muttered. I tried shoving my hands in my pockets, not sure what else to do with my arms, when I hit something cold and dense. I pulled the item out. A pocket knife. Trink and I shared a glance, first at the knife, then each other. I flipped out the blade, and Trink shook his head. “No, Ray, please-” I turned back around and closed my eyes before finishing our murder’s signature. I now reached into my pocket, expecting to feel that same cold heaviness before remembering I had left it at the scene. I stood alone in the dark, unsure whether to wait for Trink or continue. I decided to call him. “What.” He sounded breathless. “Do you want me to head back?” “Are you not already home.” “No. I got lost,” I lied. “Are you still on the path?” I could hear the urgency rising in his voice. “Trink, we’ve got to tell the police-” “Shut up. No we don’t. They have no way of knowing it was us.” “I can’t live with this, Trink!” “Nobody knows this killer better than us! It’s the perfect crime!” He was practically screaming at this point. “I’m telling the police. We’re both responsible and we’re both kids, maybe they won’t be that hard on us.” Trink sighed. “You really don’t get it, do you?” The voice coming through my phone started to echo, and his words hit me twice. “I think you’re starting to cut out, it’s echoing-” I went silent when I heard the footprints behind me. I whipped around, once again reaching for the absent knife, to see Trink walking towards me. I hung up the phone and spoke. “Trink, jesus, you scared me. How did you find me? Was I still on the right path?” No response. Trink just glared me down as a pit started to form in the bottom of my stomach. “Trink?” Before I could say anything else, Trink stopped in front of me and continued to stare. He stood there for a few seconds before something clicked in his brain and his face settled into the same expression he’d had back in the thicket. Right before- His hands shot up around my neck and tightened. I tried to flail and scream but it wasn’t long before the night sky started getting darker and darker. As I felt my body slowly shutting off, I noticed something. Trink didn’t look nearly as horrified as he had while strangling the boy. He wasn’t enjoying it, but was not remorseful either. When Trink finally let go, my body fell slack against the cold damp ground. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket knife, now significantly duller than when it had first been used. He flicked out the blade with one swift motion, and got to work covering his tracks.


The white blur moved gracefully above the city, dropping low here and there as its search continued. It listened for the cries and sighs, for the discontented and the hollow. It needed to set things right, to give peace to the youth who so deserved it. A sob echoed through the night, the tortured sound piercing the white shadow’s heart like thousands of tiny daggers. It jerked to a stop, instincts taking over as it flew straight to a window and perched on the sill, drowning in the sorrow contained within. A girl sat on the edge of a bed. Teardrops glistened in the moonlight as they streaked down her face causing the shadow to gasp. It had never seen anything quite as beautiful before. Or quite as tortured. Her chest heaved with an unknown burden as another cry escaped her lips. She was suffering. Another innocent had fallen victim to the cruel society around her. A society that used and abused their youth, turning then into nothing more than dirty, discarded objects. Children weren’t human beings to this world. They were property. The shadow slipped through the open window, causing no more noise than a single breath. It moved near the girl, aching to free her from the pain. “Why are you crying?” it asked her softly, knowing it really didn’t matter. It would stop whatever was troubling her. The girl sat up, her bright green eyes going wide as she took in the white shadow. “What are you?” she asked, pushing herself away from it. The shadow stood there, confusion plaguing its mind. Couldn’t she tell what he was? “Well, I’m certainly not a little white bird.” She frowned, not daring to take her eyes off it. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” “I heard you crying. I came to help you.” She slid back to the edge of the bed, curiosity getting the best of her. “What do you mean? How can you help me, shadow?” “I can free you from the sadness. I can take you to a place where you will never be treated badly again. A place where you will never grow old. It’s a place where you will have no responsibilities or expectations. A place where you can simply be you.” A ghost of a smile now haunted her eyes. “This place...no one will yell at me? No one will ask things of me? I can do what I please?” The shadow nodded. “Yes. This world will have no hold on you there. You’ll be free.” She got up from the bed, her excitement at the offer no longer contained. “You can take me there? Right now?” “If that is what you wish.” “Oh, I do,” she said, practically jumping up and down. “I want to be free of my parents and their rules.” The shadow sped around the room, bouncing off the walls with delight. “You and I will have so many adventures.” It stopped, looking down at the girl. “Are you sure you want to leave this world? You can’t come back once it’s done.” The girl stopped, seriousness creeping into her face. She was quiet for a moment before looking back at the shadow. “I won’t have to be sad anymore, right? I can be free?” The shadow moved closer. “Yes, I promise no more sadness, little lost girl, for I have found you.” A smile spread over her lips. “Then let’s go.” The shadow swept forward, reaching out for the lonely child. The girl waited for its embrace, thinking of all the lovely adventures in store for her. They’d fly to its world together and start the life she always dreamed of having. Her smile faded as soon as the shadow’s hands made contact with her. They sank into her chest like wisp of smoke, tearing at her insides. Pain swept through her and she gasped, dropping to her knees. The shadow stared down at her as its fingers dug into her core. The look of terror in her eyes displeased it. It wanted to free her from the pain, not add to it, but it knew this was the only way. It ripped its fingers free, a blue glow sticking to them, coating them with a shimmer that pulsed brightly. The deed was done. It had saved her. Her body fell to the ground with a thud. It lay still, a pale shell no longer tortured by the world. The shadow leaned close to the body, holding the girl’s essence close to its chest, shielding it from the sight. “Don’t worry,” it whispered, “death is the greatest adventure after all.” Holding it’s prize close, the shadow turned and flew through the window. It was eager to show the girl its impossible world. Another lost soul for his collection. It rose above the city, soul in hand, and headed for the second star to the right.


"Thanks a lot," I say to the mailman. He hands me a bill. Trekked all the way to the last house on my dead-end street where I live. Trekked all that way to my house at the end of a dead-end street in a snowstorm , may I add. Just to hand me a bill. Can you imagine? I suppose it's his job, but sometimes, they skip my number. It happens a lot, actually. I don't blame them. Today, I wouldn't have complained. It's the last house on a dead-end street. Would you go all the way to the last house on a dead-end street during a blizzard? Just to hand me a bill? I crash the door shut so the mailman knows I'm mad. The last thing I need right now is a bill. Can you imagine? Doesn't he know I'm on my third week alone in this stupid house? I'll remember this, and I'll give him something the next time I see him. Like a "Hey, buddy... what the fuck, huh?" Anything. It's not his fault, though. I know Frank. He couldn't run a goddamn bath, that guy. No, it's not his fault. It's the universe. The universe will go far and wide to get you a bill on the worst day of your life during your third week alone in this stupid house. What the fuck, huh? Anything. Of course, if it were a letter from an old girlfriend or something more pleasing, I'm certain it wouldn't have gotten to me. Some cruel ghost would have dropped out of the sky and driven it from my hands at the very last instant. The world comes down on me like that, and I don't appreciate it. Not by any stretch. I assume the bill is for a debt I owe, and I throw it on the floor. My restaurant went under last year. Thanks a lot, universe. I don't appreciate it. Not one bit. I was worth my salt once as a cook, but it's all shit now. No restaurant, no food, starving. I haven't been able to make anything remotely edible in months. Everything comes out bland, mild, weak. My wife called me a misery guts about everything. She said I fiddled while Rome burned. She said a lot more, too. Think of any rude thing you could hear, and she said it to me. And at the worst possible time, when I was already saying the same rude things to myself. Don't you hate people who want you to hurt? To hurt like they hurt? I think that's what she was doing. "Thanks a lot," I said to her. She made an ugly laugh. "That's all you have to say? You just lost your company, and that's what you say?" I shrugged. Bland, mild, weak. "What can I say, you bet on the wrong horse!" She really didn't like it when I used phrases like that, but then she'd use phrases like "misery guts" and "fiddled when Rome burned." Hypocrites. Don't you hate people who blame you for their own mistakes? I think you call them hypocrites. Okay, maybe "misery guts" is my phrase. I think perhaps the Rome one is, too. I can't recall. Do you know what I think happened? When everything blew up between us (it was more like a dull Bang Pop crack , really), the memories got mangled. Memories get mangled if you're not careful. What really happened, then? Don't ask me. What the fuck, huh? The marriage counselor said we did a lot of blame-shifting. If you ask me, I didn't do a fucking thing. But we both got pegged for it, of course. What else should a marriage counselor do? Say, "I'm sorry, sir, your wife is crazy. She causes all the fights, runs up your credit cards, gives you endless honey-do lists, refuses to sleep with you. It's all her fucking fault"? No, no marriage counselor would say that. She stopped her ears to me instead. Whenever it was my turn, I could see a mist come over her. Blankless. Total blankness. It would make sense if she hated men. I wouldn't blame her for hating marriage. Maybe she hated both. "She's a lesbian," my wife said. She looked at me in disgust. I was supposed to know? I am a misery guts. Aren't I? You can tell by now, I'm sure. It doesn't take long to know someone. She wanted a divorce already, but that argument about the wrong horse and whatnot finalized it, more so than the papers. The papers were just a formality, like every other damn awful thing we did. I knew when I met her that she wasn't the sort to see things out. No, the day would come. I knew the day would come. If you ask me, the marriage went into crisis mode as soon as the new neighbor moved in. How absolutely stereotypical, I know. Don't get me started on stereotypes. The man is a fucking loser. Rich in his own pile. Do you know he invited her over there once? And didn't bother to invite me? He said, "he wasn't sure I'd be interested." A nice Judas kiss on the ass, that was. I kicked grass onto his law for a few weeks after that. The next time he invited her over, he knew better to invite me, too. Honestly, I wish he hadn't. The whole thing was sickening. I could smell my marriage rotting beneath his perfect fucking floorboards. When did he kill it? When did this happen? They had all of these stupid private jokes. She faced him when he spoke. (The counselor told me that means something.) All bad signs. All signposts. No point investigating. Stupid fucking David. That was his name. David. "Do you want to see my gun collection?" he asked. My wife had already seen it. "I'm all set. I don't like guns," I said. My wife rolled her eyes. Why couldn't I be more like David? Bland. Mild. Weak. "Do you cook?" I asked him. He laughed. "Cook? No, my wife cooks. Good for you that you can do that." Left-handed compliment. What the fuck, huh? "I wish you cooked, honey," I said to my wife. I tried to chuckle. Neither of them moved. Neither breathed. They wanted me to suffocate in that silence. Not funny. I could see it on my wife's face. Not funny. How could I ever compare to their stupid inside jokes? Stupid fucking David. "What does your wife cook?" I asked him. I said it pretty quietly. He didn't answer. I know he heard me. I should have said, "Thanks a lot. Thanks a lot for answering." But I didn't. To be honest, it was a rather awkward moment. I don't like guns, but I would have liked one right then. Maybe he didn't hear me. Later that night, we got drinks with him and his wife, Janice. The poor lady, she had no idea what the hell she was dealing with. She sipped on the same mojito for 50 minutes while my wife dumped her tits out in David's face. Handwriting everywhere. No point investigating. I told him to fuck off with my eyes. I told him he ruined everything. I told him, "Thanks a lot." Maybe he didn't hear me. I tried to catch Janice's attention once in a while with a how did we get stuck with these monsters? look, but she never made eye contact with me. What the fuck, huh? Maybe it's me. Or maybe David hired someone to play wife and get mine jealous. Yeah, that's something he would do. He doesn't have enough furniture to have a real wife. That's just my opinion. He would hire an actress for all of this, just to get my wife. That's what you do to get another man's wife, right? Wife? Wife. Ha. What's in a name? I'll never forget how he asked for the bill that night. Silently, proudly, using only gesticulations. What the fuck, huh? "No, David, allow me," I said. My wife rolled her eyes again. She knew I had no money. I didn't keep track of her comings and goings after that night. I'd totally given up on the marriage. On everything, really. I bruise up easy, I guess. I guess my wife was right. For good or ill, my wife was right. My was-wife. I thought about trying to fuck Janice once or twice. Maybe I still could. She probably feels bad for me. I wonder if she figured out what happened yet. I walk over to the window and see through the blinds. David's in his kitchen with Janice. They're cooking a meal together. It's Valentine's Day, after all. I guess even cheating husbands have wives on Valentine's Day. What do cucks have? You know what? This all has me thinking. Why not make a bad day worse? At this point, maybe more misfortune will actually turn things around. You know, the universe. I pick up the bill I got from Frank. The one that was apparently destined to get to me. All the way down the dead-end street. Turns out it isn't a bill. It's... it's a request? A petition? It looks like a petition from the city. What the fuck, huh? They want to help me reopen my restaurant. I think that's what it says. I can barely read it. I can't think about this now. Is this really something I have to think about now? Now I have to think about reopening my restaurant? About not doing it because everything comes out bland. Mild. Weak. How do I break it to myself? It's never going to happen. That restaurant? The one I opened for her? In her name? With her? We mopped the floors. We had sex in the kitchen. A time ago. All a time ago. Gone. I can't think about this now. I need to think about David. About stupid fucking David. About my wife. About everything going wrong. About the sex in the kitchen no longer. The dead-end street. My third week alone in this stupid house. Cuck the Valentine. Nobody hears me. Why couldn't I be more like David? It's all shit now. Thanks a lot for reminding me it's all shit now. Thanks, a lot.


The problem was their clothes. Everything else was just downright freaky, but wearing the thin cashmere and cotton of the desert, while four feet of ice covered the dunes? Blackened appendages were only the beginning. Horrible things happened to people who strayed too far from the fires, which had begun to tax the endurance of the man who was supposed to maintain them. Coleman eyed him with more than a trace of concern, up there at the head of the marching order. From beside him came a nudge. "How much longer, do you think?" "Days. Maybe weeks," said Coleman. He'd walked this trail before. Beside him, the first man cursed under his breath. "He's a wizard, inne? Cann'e, I d'know, speed us up?" Coleman took another look at the robes, which were flapping dramatically despite the lack of wind. he sighed. "One can never guess at the motives of those who wield the power of gods." There was a silence filled with shivering. Above, the first bright stars of the desert appeared between patches of fleeting cloud. There was no slowing in the wizard's pace. "That were that irony you told me about?" "You're learning." They'd started with half a dozen camels. Now they had none. The wagons were being pulled with what, for lack of a better explanation, Coleman had been forced to concede was magic. He'd never liked wizards. You couldn't trust people who wore boots that came that far up their thighs. "Reckon we stop soon?" "Who's to say?" Coleman sighed, and this was enough. Both he and the merchant walking alongside well remembered the last few nights, full of more walking and terror than any sort of rest. The worms had been new. He'd never seen worms like that in the desert before, or anywhere else in the world. Beside him, Plub was watching him closely. After a while, he said, softly, "swallowed that camel right up, didn'ee? 'Member up in the Galetops? Those dragons? Reckon those things could eat a dragon, no problem. Right shrimpy, really, those dragons." The worst of the snow had subsided. Now, only a few lazy eddies spun through the night. It looked almost peaceful, Coleman thought. Then Plub nudged him. "Would ye look at that, " he murmured, and pointed at something behind them. Coleman took a cold, sudden breath. Then he hurried to the front of the marching line. No one paid him much notice. They were focused on their feet, which were invariably clad in frozen sandals. At the head, the wizard slowed his pace. Amber eyes, glowing with the reflection of the fire, stared impassively into Coleman's soul. "Here! Wait! Is this . . . this is you, isn't it? Your magic?" He dreaded the alternative enough to repeat the question, in more or less the same degree of eloquence. "That's not how this is supposed to work," he added. After a moment, he became aware that Plub had followed him, and was slinking a little behind. "You mean the snow," said the wizard. "The answer is no. But if it reassures you, I have already noted it." "But what is it?" Coleman was whispering, for the desert silence made his voice seem very loud. "We were leaving a trail yesterday, I'm sure." "That is true." "Is it magic?" "It is beyond your power to change, suffice it at that. It poses no immediate danger. In fact, I'm sure you can imagine, it is also very good for us at this juncture of the desert." "No tracks," muttered Plub. "I thought the worms used tremors, isn't that what you said?" "It is," said the wizard. He had resumed his previous speed, and now Coleman found it difficult to keep up with him. "But there are more things to fear in this desert, than just worms." A howl split the air, full of power and teeth. As it faded, Coleman noticed that their movement had also stopped. The wizard turned around, eyes on the dunes. "Wolves?" Coleman shouted in a whisper. " Here? It's the middle of the desert! What do they eat? " "Presumably," said the wizard, "us." "This is devil work, friend. No doubt of it. Me mother told me about the devils. They spoil water in the wells, turn it into mud and drag children in to die." "Bringing snow to Prythenia, though?" "Perhaps you'd prefer the Veilmen?" said the wizard innocently. "They seemed very happy to have us, didn't they?" And he walked on. "Keep formation," he shouted back to the line. "Any man who strays is unlikely to see the sun." And that was that. The crackle of feet breaking ice continued, and now that he was listening, Coleman could also hear little pops as their footsteps disappeared. It was actually wonderful to watch. It wasn't so much that the snow filled the imprint, as it was that Time, in a microcosm, reversed to a point where the boot had never made it. First, little cracks appeared as the treads faded away, and then the condensed matter bounced up into its plane. He watched the process for maybe half a minute, before Plub pulled again on his arm. "The wagon's goin' by," he said, and they trudged back to walk along it. The ash or the snow . . . what kind of choice was that? Coleman looked up at the stars, brighter than they were in the city, and wondered if the Veilmen had brought the ice to the desert. But why would they? Why snow, instead of ash that could burn the flesh and kill cities where it fell? Why worms and wolves, when they had black wyverns with eyes that smelled of the void? Coleman had always been a practical man, and the basis of his philosophy was that there was quite enough magic and nonsense in the world, without him joining in, too. He'd never had time for spells and verses and incantations, for in his travels he had learned that there were very few things magic could do, that a clever understanding of levers, gears, and pulleys couldn't replicate. It was a good life. It kept him out of trouble. The issue being, in this situation, the trouble had come to him. "I wish we were back in Ans," he moaned. Plub looked at him, with a face more sympathetic than pitying. "Good beer in Ans," was all he said. The line had stopped. Again. A shout, presumably an order, was given down the line, but Coleman failed to pick it up. "What'd he say?" Plub shrugged. "Maybe wolves?" Coleman felt a chill run down his spine. Against his better judgement, a part of him moved his legs back up towards the front, next to the wizard. "You again?" "Coleman! What are you doing? " "I . . . what's going on?" The wizard only pointed. Up ahead, cresting a dune and looking down upon them, was a man larger than any Coleman had ever seen. "He's been there for nearly two minutes, now. Watching us." "What is it? It's . . . too tall for a man, isn't it?" "Too far south for giants," said Plub, matter-of-factly. The wizard gave him a nod. "Get the tents set up, get a fire going." "What, here? Now? " "I see no better time for it. And hurry. We will soon have guests among us." ***** "Just like a wizard." "What's that you said?" "Never gets his pretty hands dirty, does he? You'll never see a wizard, Plub, you'll never see a wizard doing a day's honest work." "That so?" "I'm going to go see what they're talking about." "Is that smart? Hey, wait!" They'd built the fires in a small ring, with the women and the older folk in the center, with the wagons. A little apart from the group, under an overhang of rock, the wizard was talking to the giant. Beside them, visible only as a dramatic silhouette in the wizard's own blue flames, was another figure, that looked to Coleman like a small bear. It was wearing spectacles. ". . . people out here, are pilgrims or lunatics. So tell me, Flavius, which one are you?" The voices carried easily on the light winds. From his expression, Coleman could guess at the wizard's opinion of his "guests." "Running from the Veils, I presume?" "Looking for a Prophet. Never heard of any 'Veils.' " The bear roused itself from its position by the fire. Now, Coleman saw that it was actually a small man, bundled in an exorbitant number of hefty furs. "Now, hold on . . . you don't mean that portal in Dyrz, do you? I was reading a few reports from down south . . . has anything gone wrong?" "You could say that. They've burned the library. Moved north." "What are you two going on about?" asked the larger man. His face was turned away from Coleman, who had slunk behind one of the nearby dunes, but his voice was loud, and carried well. He wore only a light cloak, fitted for his broad shoulders and not quite concealing the massive sword strapped across his back. "Danger, Bugn. Things you can't hit with a sword." "Where you're wrong, wizard. You can hit anything with a sword. Sometimes it just doesn't do much." "Charming," said Flavius. He turned back to the shorter man. "We're not quite sure how far they've gone. The tyragaeth chased us into the desert, but no further." Leslie gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, I think we can answer for that much. Snow in a desert . . ." "Their work, is it?" "No. Rather above their pay grade, really." He laughed again. "Your parents every tell you stories, Flavius? The old legends." "There were books at the Academy." "Hh." "What are you saying, then?" A short smile curled the wizard's features. "That this is god work?" There was a silence deeper than stars. "Yvermoney's Tales, fifth chapter." Flavius hesitated. " Ballad of Eduros, wasn't it?" Leslie nodded, and said a word that was utterly foreign to Coleman's ears. The wizard, though, seemed to understand perfectly. He began to stroke his chin, a thoughtful expression spreading across the prominent forehead. "Well," he said at last. "That changes things. So they're divine wolves now, yes?" "It's not a laughing matter, I assure you." "You're heading south." "Yes." "There's nothing but desert down there. You know that." "Yes." "I told you," said Bugn. "Looking for a Prophet. Name of . . ." "Orogas," supplied Leslie. "Have you heard of him?" The wizard seemed to be thinking. "I don't think so. No, most certainly not. Where did you hear of this Orogas?" "We had a guide," said Leslie. "He only spoke the mountain dialects, though. I'm afraid Bugn threw him off a ravine." "Stupid little creature," the giant grunted. "Couldn't speak proper language -- his own fault." "I'm sure that's debatable." The wizard rose. "Well, you've certainly given me much to think about. You won't stay, by any chance? There's meat." "No. We have much to walk. Now, if you have anything to drink . . ." Flavius smiled. "I understand." He drew up a hand and, with a series of complicated motions, drew up a heavy flagon, which the giant took. He peered in, and took a draught. "Good ale," he said. "You're improving." This received a response, which Coleman was no longer there to hear. He crept back to his own ring of flames, his footsteps conveniently disappearing behind him. Now that he knew why, though, it seemed more terrifying than charming. Plub looked at him with concern. "Ever'thin alright, friend?" Coleman hesitated. He was a practical man. There was no good that could come of terrifying the camp. No matter that his own heart seemed ready to sprint away screaming on the frozen sands -- he had to keep his nerve. "Just cold," he managed. "No fire on the dunes." He made a show of rubbing his hands in front of the orange glow. Plub laughed. "Hear anyth'n int'restin'? I've been bored." "The small talk of wizards is surprisingly dull," said Coleman, and laid out his sleeping bag. "Why else do you think I came back early?" Plub shrugged as he settled into his own mat. "Good sleeping, friend. I'll see you at the dawn." "If the wizard continues his pace, it'll be much earlier." This earned a laugh, and for a while, all was peaceful. The fire crackled beside him, and the clouds had finally dispersed. The sky glowed with diamonds. He remembered a time, when he was very young, when he had learned just how far away the stars really were. Unfathomable lengths of distance, filled with . . . nothing. He'd long ago given up trying to imagine. He was, after all, a practical man. Life was like that, he thought, as his mind drifted away. You thought you had all the answers, or no, you thought the answers, when found, would at least be understandable, but it was, in the end, so alien, and so pointlessly intertwined. You couldn't write it in a story, he decided. It wasn't like that. You'd need at least a dozen before you got anywhere near the truth. And still. You could never touch the stars. You'd never get close. But perhaps . . . and here the first of many dreams began to tug on his mind . . . perhaps that was for the best. After all, who knew what was hiding behind them? ***** The camp was sleeping. A little ways away, under an overhang of rock, the wizard watched them. Almost unconsciously, he traced his hand in a familiar pattern, and a verse rode his breath and spread through the quiet air. The fires would burn all night, now. The wards were up. He'd done all he could do. He sighed. Bugn and Leslie had passed on. No trace remained of their travel. And that was how it always was, he decided. The wake of man was nothing. Legacy, an illusion. A hand was waved. The stone moved, into a ledge under which a small fire leaped to attention. The wizard slept, and his dreams were full of gods.


I didn't know what it was yet, the first time I felt time freeze around me. When I was a kid, my dad used to always stop at every sunset he saw, every extra crisp wave. Click. Hed motion his hands like a camera and save them. He told me he'd keep them in his memory. Close his eyes and see. He was a mystery to me, A typical New England Man. The driest sense of humor i've ever come across, the fiercest loyalty in sports teams. He had this ability about him, this magic that turns the simplest moments into gold. The brightest blue eyes. I came across this old video not long ago. He was born the day after Christmas, disappointment day. When I see it now it breaks my heart. How young me and my younger brother look. All I can see is how fluorescent pink my jean jacket is, how I must've thought the rhinestones on my jeans would make me seem cooler to the eighth graders. The bluntness of my sidebangs which I still totally regret. I see Will is still not tall, his voice is still too young, he still hasn't been hurt by anything. It hurts watching us sing and trip over ourselves fighting to put the plate down, jockeying for the favorite. But the moment that will always make my breath catch is the ending. “Make a wish!!” we exclaimed, barely able to hold in our giggles, how proud we were to have made a boxed cake by ourselves. “Make a wish” he echoed. And then he closes his eyes. It's so brief, but in that second I think the earth stood still for him. Sketching his own cathedral. I don't know what he wished for. 10 more years, maybe five. Probably not six months. I don't like to think about it too much. The night after it happened I stayed up. I sat and I looked at photographs scared to even blink. I didn't want to close my eyes. I thought if I closed my eyes id be able to pretend what had happened had not, that if I closed my eyes when I opened them again, it had been a dream. I was afraid to close them because the opening of them again is what brings back reality. So I kept them open. I watched the sunrise and my eyes watered but I didn't cry because it wasn't a reality. Sometimes I wish id kept them open before that moment. A lot of the times I think I kept my eyes closed the entire time my childhood was unraveling in front of me. But as I watched my dad blow out his final birthday candles, give his final birthday wish. They opened. Sometimes I wish I could close them again, and just draw, pretend what I've seen is and is not. I'd give anything to be blind for a day, to smell the cloying scent of butterscotch and not be taken back to that birthday. But maybe it's better to go through with them open. Maybe it's better not be so sweet to the world, like icing on a boxed cake. It helps keep you guarded. If you never close your eyes again you`ll always see it coming I suppose. I feel that that can't be all though. I think it'll wrap around again. Maybe someday ill be able to trust enough to shut my eyes again. Maybe the earth will stop for me. Give me a moment of my own. His hand over mine guiding. tracing and retracing my own cathedral.


I originally wrote this for a contest that didn't come through with the prizes they offered, so now you get to read it: 100 Word Story We drifted over Greenland, in the old polar orbit. I spread myself thin, enjoying the cold of space. I could tell she was looking for something. "What is it?" I asked. She didn't answer. Then we passed out of the Earth's umbra, changing from icy cold darkness to glaring sunlight. Suddenly, there was a glint of light. "I see it!" she cried, propelling herself forward. It was a small stainless-steel capsule in orbit, filled with dust. She formed herself around it. "What do you want with that old thing?" I asked. "You wouldn't understand," she said. "It was my body.


'Good morning Ms Miela!' announced a high-pitch cheerful voice. I opened my eyes and the world was still a blur. I still felt lethargic and I could doze off again if i stayed in my bed. My warm, cosy cotton comforter wrapped around me making me feel like a child again. I glanced at my bedside clock, 7.30 A.M in red lights glaring at me. 'Good morning Hadie' I responded sheepishly to Hadie, the lady that has been catering to my needs for the past following months. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and took a second to evaluate myself. I have aged significantly throughout the years. Strands of silver white face framed my once chiselled face, my eyes still piercing blue and the crow lines around my eyes were much visible. Although age has very much catch on with me, I've never hated the lines I gained. 'The itinerary for today will be breakfast and we have a special visitor for you later on' piped Miela as she propped me up from the bed. Miela was wearing her blue uniform and her hair was neatly bun up as always. Immaculately neat. 'A special visitor?' I frowned in confusion. while dwindling with my silk pyjamas. 'Yes, you'll see later on. Breakfast for today will be bacon and eggs, just the way you like it. Now off you go to shower' she responded as she ushered me towards the bathroom. I locked the bathroom door and thought about what she said. Who was the special visitor? My husband, Elijah, should be at the day room at this timing. Elijah and I have been married for 43 years. Today is 1 st September 1991, which marked our 44 th Anniversary. We've decided to spend our golden days in this retirement home, Sunny Heights. We have two beautiful children together, Ezikiel and Bella. Both of our children are studying abroad and since the pandemic, they were unable to see us. Ezikiel and Bella are both a year apart, just in their early twenties. I miss them dearly and was hoping to see them soon. I got dressed quickly and headed towards the dayroom to look for Elijah. Hadie was busy preparing breakfast for the seniors and the smell of freshly fried eggs wafted through the white hallways. Next to Hadie was a blonde hair lady wearing a blue apron, assisting her with breakfast. She looks vaguely familiar but I can't seem to remember her. 'Hi there. My name is Miela. It's a pleasure to meet you' I said while extending my hand for a handshake. The woman looked at me with her kind brown eyes and paused for a bit. 'Hi Miela, I'm Rosette and I am the caretaker here. It's nice to meet you too' she replied while giving me a gentle handshake. Hmm, a new caretaker? That's nice. Miela could use some help around here especially with the new elderlies arriving. I realize I was still holding her hand thinking it through. I released my hand and scanned the room to find Elijah. Strangely enough, he was not anywhere in sight. 'Hadie darling, do you know where is Elijah?' I enquired politely. Hadie stopped tossing the bacon in the pan and turned to look at Rosette. They exchanged quick glances, almost a look of panic I would say. 'Well you could have your breakfast first Ms Miela, Mr Elijah is out for a walk' she responded while she tossed the bacon once more. Elijah loved morning walks, he was always the first to get up from bed before me and get about his day. I smiled to myself thinking of the flowers he would pick out for me at the sidewalk or the little stories he would share coming back from his walk. My sweet Elijah, my soulmate and lover. I first saw him when I was at the young age of nineteen, at the yearly carnival near to our hometown Chicago. He was the epitome of men to me. His dark hair grazed gently above his eyes, his dimples set so deep in his cheeks whenever he smiled. His laughter could be heard from a mile away, the type of laughter and smile that could end wars. I was mesmerised by his existence. We had a mutual friend who introduced us to each other and from that day onwards, I fell heads over heels. Soon enough, Elijah proposed to me and the rest was history. We had our trials and challenges throughout our marriage but I have always felt so much love for this being. As we grew older together, we never had a day apart. Days turned into months, months to years and I wish we had an infinite lifetime with each other. ‘Ms Miela, your guest is here. If you could make you way to the guest room’ whispered Hadie next to me. I was startled and jumped out of my seat a little bit. ‘Why thank you dear child’ I hurriedly replied as I was being scooted in the guest room. As I entered the guest room, my eyes wandered to the lilac walls and finally settled to the table where my guests were seated. There was a woman and a man whom look like they were in their mid-thirties I presume glancing at me, with a small child nestled in between them. ‘Hello mother’ the woman's voice was gentle yet stiff. Mother? I glanced around and back at her. She must have mistaken me for someone else. I caught her piercing blue eyes staring into mine and I couldn’t help but notice the pop of yellow she had on her nails. I had always painted my nails yellow in my younger days too. This was starting to feel odd. ‘I’m sorry sweetie, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I’m Miela. I’ll get Hadie to sort this out’ before I could turn away to find Hadie, I felt a small pull from beside me. ‘Grandma, it’s us! Did you forget us again?’ squeaked the little girl that had her hair tied in a ponytail. I froze in disbelief. Who were these people and what were they saying? I could feel my body tingling and my world was starting to spin. I sat down and stared at them in confusion. 'Sweetie could you please get Hadie? I think Mother is having one of her days again’ the blue eyed whispered to the man next to her. The man nodded briefly before disappearing to the hallway. ‘Mother it’s me, Bella. This is Laura, your granddaughter. We’re here to bring you home’ she said to me while reaching out for my hand. ‘What on earth are you talking about? My daughter Bella is much younger than you and she is away for school. I don’t find this amusing at all and it’s not very nice of you to do this to me, in fact I-‘ ‘Ms Miela, let’s get you to your room first shall we?’ Hadie interrupted as she brisk walk into the room. ‘Yes I would like that very much. I think these people are confused Hadie, they’ve mistaken me for someone else’ I half laughed while holding on to Hadie as we walked to my room. Hadie let it out a sad sigh and sat me down on the bed. ‘Ms Miela... I have something your diary here for you. You wrote in it every day. I would like you to read through your latest entries, I’ll be right here for you’ she whispered while handing me a tattered pink book. This was starting to feel familiar and I could feel my heartbeat thumping fast in my chest. I felt like a deer in the headlights, unable to understand what was going on but with the intuitive feeling that something definitely was not right. I flipped the journal to the latest entry. Wednesday, 12 December 1999. Dear Diary, Today the pain hurts too much. I feel like I’m drowning, the more I breathe the more breathless I get. It has been 3 months since my beloved Elijah has passed. I still see him in the hallways, his silhouette and shadows lurking in every corner. I don’t think I can do this anymore. Living feels like a burden to my old soul - why did he have to go before me? I remember everything about him every day, some days I forgot he has passed. My family has been trying to get me to come back to them but how could I possibly leave Elijahs memories here? My love, my soul, my heart. My heart is broken into pieces, into ashes and I have no hope to live on. I’m fading away and I want to be away. I want to be with Elijah. My love, my time will come soon and we will be reunited once more. Please wait for me. Always and forever. I gasped in shock and I could feel my cheeks getting wet. I felt the world caved from underneath me and somehow through this ordeal, Hadie was holding me together and that was the only thing that connected me to reality. I read more and more of the pages until I heaved into a helpless sobbing heap. I was diagnosed with dementia and I have had these days repeatedly. My journal entries felt like they were written by different people on different occasions. I have been living in 1 st September 1991 the last anniversary Elijah and I had together before cancer stole him away. I have had this day too many times, as my entries foretold. I stared at the photograph at my bedside table and my eyes drifted to the calendar next to it. 13 December 1999. I felt my head spinning, the world spiralling and I drifted into unconsciousness and darkness. ‘Ms Miela? Ms Miela?’ I felt a hand shaking me from my slumber. ‘Hello Hadie’ I smiled. I had the strangest dream, I couldn’t remember much of it. My head was throbbing too. ‘How are you feeling Ms Miela? Did you remember what happened?’ Hadie asked looking worriedly at me. ‘I had a bad dream. Could you get Elijah for me?’ I replied while yawning. 1 st September 1991 begins for me yet again. [a1]


(On mobile, sorry for formatting) Gnurl is an Orc who lived in a village that was raided and burned to nothing before he had memories. I, Gnurl, grew up adopted into a clergy, where all the minority races were treated fairly, and as equals. The Headmistress was an Elf, Yanda, and the Headmaster was a Dwarf, Hadrod. In my youth, before 9, there were a dozen orcs. So I grew with knowledge of my culture and of the orc deities. The clergy did not only encourage us to worship fervently, but also showed us how to connect to our favored deities in ways only the most devout shamans of our ancestors could. One of the orc, Jughog, was so attuned that by the age of 14(he was the oldest of us found after the raid) he could earn favor from "Beshaba" the Trickster Goddess. After being called on as one of her Blackfingers, Jughog grabbed a dagger and claimed to receive orders to assassinate the Head Dwarf. Jughog was killed in this attempt. Tossed into the courtyard after the alarms awoke the whole school, we all were present for Jughogs demise. As he hit the ground 3 stories below, I saw his ribs ripped through skin out the side of his body. A mangled cage of bones. Gathering all his remaining strength, Jughog reached and half pointed at the sky, opened his mouth and no sound came out. He didn't manage a single breath before collapsing in his own blood. Our orc family had its first of several rifts at that time. 5 of my brothers and sisters left, led by Sharog, our 13 year old Matriarch. When we learned of Sharog's death a few years later, we were told she was ambushed. She had her throat slit before she could let a warning cry. She died without last words. A few years later, when I was 16, one of the human students, Uther, killed Yan, an orc, in a training exercise. Crushed his chest with a well placed warhammer blow. The self crafted armor Yan made never stood a chance against this blacksmiths son. Yan didn't have a dignified death, no brave last words. I dont think he had a chance to have a last thought. It was sad for me, but it was unintentional. They were training and they were also brothers. We are all family at the Clergy. Yan was a skilled fighter, and the youngest of us orcs. I did not feel rage or anger like some of my kin, just sadness. Anger came later, but I was told that some anger was healthy. But my orc kin, they wanted blood. Two of them openly challenged Uther to a fight in the training courtyard the next day. They didn't wait for a response before charging him. Uther fought them both. He first raised his warhammer, deflected 2 blows from Durg, then backstepped to force Durg to overextended and step forward. While looking at his own feet, the first orc took one of Uther's overhead Blessed Smites. Decapitation on contact. Durg went limp and slammed hard into the ground. He was dead. Xugar dashed to Durg's dropped sword, grabbed it on the roll and raised both in defense high above his head to deflect the second mighty Uther blow. Those swords snapped in half towards Xugar's face and chest. Uther's warhammer kept the momentum and caved Xugar's head into his chest cavity. More orcs dead and no last words. I was silent and sad, but also proud of my brother, Uther. A great feat for a human to take on two orcs and win unscathed. Uther and his warhammer came out on top again and again over the years. He was the best of us. All but one of the orcs moved passed these unfortunate events. Another left the school. By time I was 26, and a few insignificant quibbles later, of the dozen orcs, only Yroh and myself remained at the clergy. Yroh had been studying with an elven woman called Ava for many years. They were both quite skilled Clerics, many years ahead of my own studies. Ava was a master of the classic mace and tower shield, and has been on the front lines many times when having to defend our home from raids and beasts. She is also a master blacksmith having learned from her husband, Uther. Uther was quickly a top the ranks of all the students of our class. A master of Divine Smites and Blessed Strikes only farther complimented by the weapons he's forged. His skill as a fighter has allowed him to speak with, "Marodin" the Dwarven god of the Forge, on many occasions and has been instructed and trained by "Marodin" himself. At the age of 30 he married Ava. Later that same year, Uther had to set off on a diplomatic meeting as our representative for our region of our local kingdom/hierarchy. A request for aid as we have been threatened by show of force. Our land is to be attacked by a medium sized goblin army, and they bring whelplings with them. They would overrun our school in hours. Our clergy has 40 teachers and students combined, including infants. Only two days notice we were given by messengers, little time to ask for an army. Ava and Yroh were a part of the defensive force. I was a merchant and expert wolf rider. Opris, my wolf, and I would travel for trade, carry messages to other towns in our region, keep an eye on the outer rims of our territory, or just run when I needed to get away. I was one of the best Orc merchants in our region. Always had the potential to conversate on common ground for a better barter, never intimidate. Opris, however... I had left the school 2 days before the goblins arrived and was unaware of the pending attack. These times out riding Opris in open fields has allowed me to attune with storms and winds. To feel the world breathe around me. I've learned to channel subtleties in air currents. Today, during a meditation session, I felt a sharp pain enter through my chest. This pain quickly dulled and was replaced by a great amount of pressure. Like gas. Beyond that of gas. It needed to escape immediately. I rushed to release this force from my chest, and as I did it was with intense sensations like if both scalding dragon's fire and a frozen Lich's chilling howl were in both lungs simultaneously. As I hit my knees in pain, in what I thought was surely my last breath, i went to cry out my final words, any words. Nothing from my lungs. Instead, a surge of white-purple lightning shot from my left hand into the sky. I was sure my hand was gone, just a stump, maybe not even any arm left. But it was there, visually throbbing, almost a third larger than it should be, but intact. It hurt, but was not a distracting pain. Nothing to focus on, just there. Wow, that expirence was brief, exhilarating, maybe only 5 seconds. After a brief minute on my knee, I was invigorated with elation and urge myself to get up and return home. Excited to tell my teachers and Yroh that I was a Stormcaller! Maybe half a day rides away was home. After gathering camp we get a late start, take a little longer to water Opris for the run ahead. We rode hard to beat the dusk. A long days travel, but Opris does this everyday. The sky normally orange from sunset was a dark maroon filled with black rolling smoke. Fires? At home? Opris picked up the pace. Once we were a mile away we saw the seige, and I heard the anguish of war. I cast everything off Opris that wasn't needed to kill those savages invading my home, and Opris heard my cries to make haste. By time we arrived it was late into the fight. We lost our main doors, dozens of goblins killed and even three trolls slain. With many of our clergy having been slain, I felt a lump of panic in my throat. We charged through the splintered doors and down the main garden of the school yard. I see four goblins and two friends. Ava and Yroh. As I close the gap I see Yroh is dead, pinned upright against a hedgerow of bushes. Spears left through him, his silver flanged mace gripped tight in bloodied hand. My eyes struggle to find focus though sweat and tears. I cry out in a guttural instinctual rage and call forth lightning from my left arm. I struck 2 goblins near Ava in a single blast as she bashed the skull of a third. Opris leaped to Ava's right side and slammed the forth goblin into the stone wall of the main building. I let out a stuttered cry as this pain overwhelmed my chest. This time it was unfamiliar, and I was ready for this new blessing of the gods to pass through my hands. Whimpering, I took aim at the nearest troll when my vision failed me. My legs had no strength to keep me standing. No burst of lightning, no force to shake the earth. My eyes focused on the blackness and thickness of the blood on the spear tip that is coming through my chest. I feel a small goblin foot on my back. I hear Ava call out, but her swears of vengeance on my behalf are just shrill shrieks that don't have any meaning. Why does she always have to panic in elvish? This piercing force, its back. I try to rise to my knee and focus on my aim, but I know its just another spear. In my final moments I accept death, and I shape my mouth to call out my final words. My tounge wet with blood wants to say goodbye to Ava, or to curse this goblin. To cry out for Yanda, the Headmistress, was what I knew I really wanted. Just a man wanting his mother. Yet with spears in my chest I have no words to say, and I laugh in my head as I recall that every orc I've watched die doesn't get last words. In my death I reach a courtyard. I am approached by "Avandra" the Goddess of Second chances, and she asks if I was satisfied with my time on earth? I quickly opened my mouth but quickly bit my tounge not wanting to offend a Goddess. I was not satisfied, I was young and wanted to keep my school safe, to travel with my wolf. And to kill goblins. I told "Avandra" that I was unhappy with my death but understood that I am dead. She laughs and remarks that she can undo my death, and give me a second chance. If I wanted to continue living, all I had to do was ask to continue my life, and say "thank you". After being granted another chance, Gnurl takes an inhale and thanks "Avandra". In what is just a blip, just another inhale after his words escape his tounge, 700 years after being killed, Gnurl awakens.


Author's Note: \*I have always wondered about the faceless henchmen in movies. The mercenaries beaten by a James Bond or Jason Bourne. Many of those men and women have families. What if there was a story about one of them and the story intersects with a known scene from an action movie, but from their perspective like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. This is the story of the henchman motorcyclist at the 11:11 minute mark of Deadpool. He was the only “bad guy” to escape alive from the opening fight scene on the bridge. I am assuming for the sake of the story that the escaping motorcyclist is not Ajax who shows up later in the scene on a bike. An earlier scene shows multiple henchman next to bikes so it’s possible one escaped).\* *\*\*This is an abridged version for Reddit.\*\**  Link to part 1:  **Chapter: Dr. Ford** In the ensuing months, the MCU were called on five times to respond to mutant activity. The spike in the MCU’s operations, despite years of inactivity was not lost on many of the senior commanders. What they did not know was that the Deputy NSC Advisor for Mutant Affairs and nominal leader of the MCU, Dr. Theodore Ford, was in cahoots with sectors of the Canadian government running the modern version of the Weapons X program. Dr. Ford maintained communication with Dr. Killebrew the lead scientist running the initiative. The uptick in “run-ins” was not accidental. Dr. Ford was a true believer in Project X and over the course of his long government career, covertly helped move resources and funding across the border to support the program. Dr. Killebrew was always a rogue (pun intended) and lately the Program had gone out of hand. This was an understatement considering what happened with James Howlett but that was way before their involvement and those sins were redeemed by Alpha Flight and later Howlett’s inclusion into the X-Men. That’s at least what Dr. Ford told himself. What Dr. Killebrew was doing now was wrong. His own private army. It was supposed to be OUR private army. An army of loyal mutants. Loyalty was determined by implanted explosive devices in their brains, a technology he knew Dr. Killebrew had not perfected yet. Who did he think he was? Shutting me out like this, Dr. Ford thought. Selling mutants for financial gain? Without him getting a piece. Did he think he could get away with it? That he wouldn’t know. Their mutants were never supposed to hurt civilians but yet, it had happened. Time and time again. Hence, this was the reason Dr. Ford maneuvered himself into leading the MCU and expanding it. The rising casualties caused ample justification (although few within the general public outside of a few journalists suspected mutant connections to many of the murders). He had to stop whatever plots Dr. Killebrew had cooked up and bring him back into the fold. Dr. Ford knew the situation was actually worse. Dr. Killebrew was not only stepping out on his own and going solo but was also losing control. The escapes, the random attacks. The successful capture and interrogation of the mutants, Worm Cunningham and Jacques confirmed his suspicion that Dr. Killebrew and this...Ajax, his apparent number 2 were going rogue. It would soon get out in the open. In the meantime, this Ajax was worth looking into. Dr. Ford felt a tickle in his brain as he pondered next steps. **Chapter - Professor X** A few days later, Professor X is testifying before the Senate Intelligence Committee. The hearing is at his behest. PROFESSOR X - I have information and updates regarding the covert program in Canada called Weapon X. You’ve been briefed before on Weapon X and each of you have met Wolverine, who came out of that program. Dr. Killebrew, who has led the program for years, is using it to ultimately create his own private army. In the near-term he is selling mutants to the highest bidder. Mutants from this program are connected to a few deadly incidents where civilian lives were lost. SENATOR MARSHALL - How do we know this isn’t just to provide new members for Alpha Flight. PROFESSOR X - I know for a fact that many of the recent run-ins with mutants which have resulted in over a dozen deaths, have been from mutants created from Project X. I also have proof that Dr. Theodore Ford is working with Dr. Killebrew. Or, until very recently was working with him. “There is a murmur among the Senate committee members until the Chair brings everyone to order.” CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN - You signed an agreement with our government, and with most governments of the world that you would not eavesdrop into people’s minds. Can you assure us that this...intel....did not come from a violation of that agreement? PROFESSOR X - It did not... CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN - Where then...how do you know this? PROFESSOR X - I cannot say unfortunately Chairman Lundgren looks at Charles skeptically. **Chapter - Ajax** Several weeks later the MCU is disbanded out of fear that its ranks are filled with traitors and a prevailing concern across Congress and the White House that the recent increase in mutant attacks was used as a justification for expanded funding and operations. That was true and untrue. The members of the MCU are given a choice, return to their former billets or retire with a pension. Jason is filled with rage at the news. He feels that it means the loss of his friends were meaningless. He chooses to retire, after short stints in the Army and MCU. Instead of moving back to Colorado he chooses to live in New York City which was where many of his most recent operations occurred. He takes a small apartment in Brooklyn and is in Manhattan when he gets a call from one of his MCU comrades, Danny Kehoe. Danny tells him about an opportunity for “guys like us.” Bored and rudderless, without hesitation Jason asks Danny to make the connection. A day later Danny and Jason are escorted into an office suite in a nondescript office lot in Yonkers, NY. The job description had gotten to Danny through MCU word of mouth. The job responsibilities were varied, interdictions, escort, personal security, ...what caught both men’s eye was that the job had experience working with mutants as a highly preferred qualification. Since the Unit was super-secret he wasn’t sure how they were even targeted. Soon after they sat down, a door to one of the corner offices opens and a man in his 30s in a leather jacket and jeans walks up with a smile on his face. FRANCIS: Hi, I’m Francis Freeman. Thanks for coming. I’ve been a huge fan of you guys, from afar. Despite you being a thorn in my craw. I manage a workshop which you’ve no doubt heard of. One that you’ve had a front row seat...Project X. Both Danny and JASON exchange looks. The rumors were true. FRANCIS: \*misreading the looks\* “Yes, yes I know all about the Mutant Containment Unit. You’d be surprised at the friends we have in high places JASON: You’ve killed innocent people... FRANCIS: No! No. I mean, yes. But not intentionally. Some of our clients got out of hand and it was us that requested help from the MCU and X-Men. Our purpose is to recreate Alpha Flight, and other teams of benevolent and heroic mutants. The events in the 80s and 90s demonstrate that the X-Men are not enough. We would have handled the runaways with our own but due to... complications we’re not there yet. DANNY: Looks like you have a tough time keeping the animals in the zoo.... maybe shut it down? FRANCIS: But we’ve made so much progress, I’d like to show you.... DANNY and JASON exchange looks, and simultaneously shrug. DANNY: Sure, why not. The three men travel to the elevators. Francis opens a hidden compartment and scans a digital reader. The elevator moves down. Danny and Jason exchange nervous looks as the elevator keeps descending. Eventually it comes to a rest. The door opens to a dimly lit industrial looking facility with gangways, beams and what look to be housing units scattered throughout. JASON stares in amazement: How long has this been around... FRANCIS: Decades my friend. He points to a laboratory FRANCIS: This is where we give people a chance to achieve their dreams or have a second chance at a full life. Our clients include the terminally ill, the disabled. We give them abilities that will help the greater good. Several countries have purchased our mutants. JASON: Wait, you’re selling mutants? Like, to the highest bidder? Isn’t that slavery? FRANCIS: The mutants have full mental faculties and they willingly go. They come to us to become superheroes. We view them as our clients and our customers are those who procure their services and abilities. We ensure that our customers are morally upstanding. Both the US and Canadian governments are fully aware of our actions. Again, the only reason why the MCU was called in was to help us bring down the...abnormalities. JASON: What would we be asked to do? FRANCIS: We have shipments that will need escorts. Mostly from here to various airports, seaports and the like. There are elements, including rogue mutants, that would like to steal our valuable cargo, your experience is sorely needed and you will be paid handsomely. The two men tour the facilities walking by mutants in see through glass cages. DANNY: Looks like a zoo to me \*whispers to Jason\* Danny and Jason ultimately agree to join Francis’s outfit. With no base or living quarters, they drive into Project X facility from their homes like it’s a 9-5. During their first week, they get to meet the other members of The Detail, the informal name given to the ragtag bunch of Project X mercenaries. The Head of the Detail is Gustave Zola, a grizzled dishonorable discharge from France’s Action Division. In Jason and Danny’s second week they are given their first mission, a convoy escort to a remote helipad. **Chapter - Meet Deadpool** GUSTAVE: Ok listen up, the mission is simple. This will be a convey escort to Teterboro airport. At 1100hrs we will meet with the customer and transfer the three crates you see being loaded into the vehicles behind you. New guys! Jason and Danny, you will take rear and watch our six. The other bikes will guard our flanks. Mr. Francis wants to run point...despite my repeated advice that he need not endanger himself. Francis smiles wryly GUSTAVE: Anyway, you should be aware that elements of our supply chain have been targeted by a rogue mutant by the name of Deadpool. Gustave shows everyone a picture of Deadpool on a display screen. GUSTAVE: He is a mutant but his only powers are strength, speed and agility. You shoot him and he dies like any man. There’s no intel suggesting he is aware of today’s operation but keep your head on a swivel. From the airport, we go to Pier 6 in Manhattan where we will pick up supplies. The three crates contain three mutants, hibernating in specialized life support systems designed to keep them unconscious but alive during long duration transport. The contract involves three orders, with each spaced a month apart. The customer that Gustave referred to is Mazi Talik Bhat, a warlord from the war-torn Kashmir border region. These mutants are highly specialized to operate in high altitude and cold regions. They arrive at their first destination... CUT TO: AIRPORT RUNWAY Francis sits on top of a crate. A helicopter lands a few yards away. Some men get off. One in particular approaches him. Francis smiles and taps on a crate, standing up. FRANCIS: They won’t disappoint. TAZIN BHAT: They better not. What about next month’s shipment? FRANCIS: There won’t be one. You’re not the only one with a war to win. TAZIN BHAT: That won’t do. FRANCIS: See, we’ve had this small disruption to our supply chain. Francis grabs the man by the throat and lifts him into the air. FRANCIS: We’d appreciate your patience. TAZIN BHAT: Okay! FRANCIS: We’ll deliver in full the following month. Francis drops the man, who chokes a little. FRANCIS: Pleasure doing business with you. He walks away. He and his men leave. TAZIN BHAT: A mutant?! Some men grab the crates. Francis’s convoy drives off. (author's note, the excerpt above was pulled from the Deadpool script) Jason can’t believe what he just saw. Francis is a mutant? He had to be. Only a mutant had that kind of strength. In the distance, amid the din of engines, he can hear Francis yell “Let’s move out.” The convoy snakes out of the airport on to its next destination. Manhattan. Unbeknownst to Jason, Deadpool spots Francis’s convoy. In the distance up ahead, he sees someone in red drop from a bridge into Car #2 in the convoy. JASON: What the...?! He knows from the shattering glass and swerving that whatever is happening inside is not good...and we’re not winning. Is that Deadpool? Has to be. Unfortunately, Jason gets caught in the chain reaction of crashes and fender benders caused by the ongoing commotion and crashes into a sedan. His bike is caught in the sedan’s hitch handle JASON: Who puts a hitch on a sedan?? He motions the driver to move the car JASON: Move! The sedan driver creeps forward, freeing his bike. Good! It still works. He revvs the engine and starts for the chaos, unholstering his modified PP-2000. JASON: Oh man! Catching up to the fight, Jason can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Bodies, limbs, carnage...while he didn’t have time to really get to know his crew, their loss fills him with rage. He sees what remains of Danny, who must have been slammed against the sign up there and is now human lasagna. He also notices two of his crew get out of Car #4, approaching the car that Deadpool is in. He accelerates and is close enough to clearly see both men get shot in the head. JASON: Here’s my chance! Jason speeds toward Deadpool who is on the other side of the upturned Car #3, he weaves around cars in the road. He roughly knows where Deadpool is on the other side of the car. He can see his hands in the air after all? Is he surrendering? Doesn’t matter. Half his team is dead, this mutant is going down. He clears the car and sprays Deadpool with half a clip. JASON: He’s still standing?! I know I shot him at least twice. He stops and turns around, preparing for another charge. He sees Deadpool take aim and fire. Jason somehow ducks every shot. He can hear how close the bullets are to his head. He’s still alive somehow. He extends his weapon again and sprays Deadpool with a hail of bullets. He knows he shot him again. At least once. It’s like the first shots never hit him. Jason looks back. Stunned. Jason quickly realizes that he was lied to? This was no vulnerable mutant. This Deadpool was something different. More powerful. Whether he was bulletproof or had a force field, Jason was lied to once again. Lives lost. Unnecessarily. Again! Why? What am I doing here? This train of thought happened within seconds but it was enough to inform his next decision. He wasn’t going to circle back around for another pass. For what would surely be a suicide mission. No! He realized how fortunate he was. He felt his body to make sure the bullets whizzing by, shot by Deadpool, did not find their intended target. No, this was ABORT MISSION. He was out of there. He could only hear one other convoy motorcycle at this point. His bike and the other were the only remaining sounds from the Detail. The rest of the crew is dead. He holds out a sliver of hope that the mass of meat he saw on the ground wasn’t Danny. He knew deep down that it was him. He also hoped that the motorcycle he heard belonged to Francis Freeman. **He hoped Francis survived the battle with Deadpool because he had a debt to pay and Jason was going to be the collector.** This is the end of the story but it obviously is set up for a sequel.


#Heart Surgery “We can’t afford that!” She yelled loudly, the sound riverbed throughout the small room. Not only was the room loud, but it was freezing as well. But not even the freezing temperature of the room could bother me, something much greater was paining me. The doctor replied, “I’m sorry, but I can’t lower the price any more than that, you’re just going to need to find another way to pay that” My wife’s face got red with anger, but blue with tears. Not only was she screaming at this point, but she was making a scene. But was that the most of our worries? I doubt it. Our newborn child was born yesterday. But she wasn’t in good health, she and her heart were suffering deeply and she was going to die by tomorrow if she wasn’t treated by then. However we couldn’t afford it, we were too busy paying for my chemotherapy. We could barely afford my treatment, but now we had to pay for our child’s heart surgery as well. Now she was on the floor, begging for the price to be dropped. I never thought I could see so much desperation on one’s face before, it was heartbreaking. On top of that, it was the person I loved. Seeing this much pain in someone so close to me was more painful than anything I’ve ever experienced. She has been arguing with the doctor for over an hour, and after all this I knew that we could never convince him to magically drop the price. We had to leave. I tried to comfort her, and tell her we needed to go home. But she wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard I tried she stayed there, crying and begging. I gave up and walked outside. I sat on the ground for another hour, thinking. I knew we couldn’t afford insurance, my treatment, and the surgery. My first and only child is going to die. I can’t live with that, seeing her beautiful eyes first opening up filled me with so much love and hope that I could never allow that to fade away. I knew what I had to do. After waiting forever, my wife finally came out the door. Her face was red, snot was rolling out of her nostrils, and hopelessness filled her face more than anything else. “Are you okay?” I knew she wasn’t but I needed her to know that I was still there to comfort her. She stayed silent, I guess crying and screaming for an hour sucked out all her energy. I know it would to me. I sighed and looked at the ground for a while. She eventually walked over and hugged me, crying a little more. I wish more than anything that I could tell her it was going to be okay, but it wasn’t. The hopelessness, sadness, and dread she was filling was exactly what she was supposed to feel. After around 10 minutes, she let go of me and leaned on the wall. She quietly said, “Why couldn’t we just have money? Why does that have to be the only thing standing between her and death?” I guess her turn for crying was over, my eyes filled up with tears because I knew what was coming. Our daughter... was going to be okay. I knew she was. I leaned into my wife’s ear and said “Come on, we should go home and sort things out. I have a plan that should keep her alive.” She seemed hesitant at first, but a little amount of hope brightened on her. We walked to our one room apartment, and got into bed and slept. All those emotions were enough to put me out for a week. She didn’t ask what could save her first, she was just so exhausted from crying so hard for so long. When I woke up, I almost forgot what had just happened and what was *going to happen* as well. Everything seemed like it was going to be okay, even though I knew it wouldn’t be. Waking up gives you that illusion sometimes, the tiredness somehow is enough to distract you from whatever is going on in your life. However, the thoughts came back later. She woke up after an hour of me being awake. I sat on the floor while she came over and sat next to me. We sat there in silence for a long time, just like at thehospital. The silence was broken when she asked, “You said you had a plan to save our daughter earlier, could you tell me what it is?” My stomach twisted, I knew she wouldn’t like the plan but I knew it is the only thing we could do. “The estimated time for my chemo to be done should end in a month, and that costs just as much as the surgery. Do you think you could take care of a child by yourself?” I saw that all the hope she had from earlier has vanished. Tears filled her eyes along with dread. “No. No. No, no no. Please... Don’t do this.” She started crying again and leaned onto me, burying her face in my shoulder. She begged again, telling me that she didn’t want me to do this and that she could never go on with me gone. I knew that she could never go on without me, but it would be much worse for her if her very own child were to die. I insisted that I be the one to die, not our child. Fathers are supposed to make numerous immense sacrifices for their children, I guess this was my sacrifice for my child. We cried together all night, barely getting any rest. I don’t even know if I cared if I died as much as I did about my wife. I don’t know how well she would carry on without me, she loved me beyond comprehension and she reminded me that everytime I saw her. Today was the day of the surgery, it was no longer the day the surgery was supposed to take place. After we took a loan from the bank, we paid the hospital to perform the surgery. It was a success, they saved our daughter. She was going to be okay, she was now going to have her whole life ahead of her, without me, alone with a widowed mother. I called the same hospital later that day, telling them to cancel my chemotherapy. They were confused and curious as to why, but it pained me too much to say, so I told them to just cancel it and stop asking questions. I didn’t know how long I had to live, it usually takes a few weeks for cancer to kill someone. But I knew that those final weeks wouldn’t be alone, I had my wife and my newborn daughter to be with me for the rest of my life. And that’s all I needed to tell myself to be happy.


The burning of the church was the first in a series of last straws for Richard Kennethworth. While not a religious man himself, he saw the value a church could have on a small-town community like his own, he saw the downtrodden expressions on the faces of the church's few constituents, and for the first time in his life, a wave of anger burned through him, fast and bright, but it was an accident, and he did nothing. The second in Richard’s series of last straws came when the local market closed. He heard of the SuperMarket coming into town and he waited with bated breath. It took some fighting, but eventually, the corporation won out. He sees the storefront abandoned every day when he goes to work, he remembers the smell of the bread baking wafting in through his childhood window, and the glow of the owners when he showed up on time to his first job bagging groceries. He thinks of their faces when he went to see them last, the new lines on their foreheads and the broken look in their eyes. The anger comes easier now, and it is much harder to dissipate, but that is how the industry works, and he still did nothing. The last and truly last straw was the most heartbreaking to Richard, and that was the destruction of his local lake. Countless memories came before him if he even thought of the word. His mother singing to him as a child, her soft voice lulling him to sleep under the blanket of a warm summer night. Swimming with his friends on the first day of senior year, drinking what he thought was stolen beer into the early morning. As the town grew, so did the trash, and the lake that he so cherished was tarnished and blackened, the fish that he would catch and eat with such gusto dead and floating day after day. The rope he would swing off of as a child was replaced with a NO SWIMMING sign. Richard saw his town slowly die, he saw lush hills replaced by black smoke and burned grass, smiling faces replaced by the grimaces of the distraught. The anger would not leave now, and he had to do something. The town square was not the harbinger of life that it used to be, but there was still a good amount of people as Richard strolled in with a gas can in his hands. He found a good spot, a picnic table still standing from when he was a boy, and sat on top of it. He noticed the crowd, some of which had started to gather, and he began to sing the song his mother used to sing to him as a boy, his voice hoarse but strong, and the crowd gathered larger. He kept singing, small tears forming from the corners of his wrinkled eyes. The crowd was larger now, and people were beginning to whisper as he upended the can over himself, still singing. He finished the song, and with trembling fingers searched his pockets for his matchbook. He looked out at the crowd and caught the eyes of the store owners, their eyes taught with sadness. “I’m sorry everybody, but I know we can do better” the match was lit, and Richard wasn’t angry anymore.


The land was barren, as it has been for almost half a decade. After the 2nd civil war and the consequent 3rd world war, there wasn't much left of people or clean spaces. "So what now?" He said looking at my eyes with his bright blue eyes. "We will remain together in the path to the next oasis, then we see from there." I needed him to survive, not that I can't survive on my own, is just that this was pretty much impossible without someone, to look after, to guard each other, to... Nevermind. In the mear oasis, I would find someone to come with me, and he probably will too. "We should find some shelter," he said. "Are you sure? The next safe place it's just about 30 minutes from here, and... It's over John. You shouldn't have done that. I don't know if I can trust you, not after you killed that girl." I pondered, thinking we could talk "You've killed too!" He said frantically looking at me with those sky blue eyes. Except they looked like a huge storm coming in. "Not because they fucking stole our food. Not because they wanted to just survive. Every time I shot a gun, or threw a knife, or slit a throat, was because mine or your life was endangered, not because of a fucking loaf of bread, that wouldn't make a difference to us." I stopped and breathed, trying to calm myself, but it was in vain. "We shared beds, we were more than just two guys, roaming and ravaging the wasteland from one haven to the next, searching for food and shelter." "How can you not trust me? As you said, we shared beds, we were more than just two guys, roaming and ravaging the wasteland from one haven to the next, searching for food and shelter. I wouldn't do that to you." He said, crying. Should I? No? Maybe? No. "Let's go before it gets too late and darkens here" Knowing him, he wouldn't stop talking. But he did The more time passed the denser the vibe got, to the point that I had no idea if we ever speaking. The thought that he would just murder me in sleep if I stopped having any use for me was too massive to just ignore it, for my mental health. I could see the buildings, of the clear area near. It was time. The sun would set in 40 minutes, and every minute spent in the open at night was a death sentence. Well, I've learned that even stealing bread was. I remember every moment with him, so I knew he won't do that to me, but that girl with a slit throat still haunted my dreams. We got to the city, the guards saying that we almost would be locked out since a bikers gang storm the town near the end of the day. Just as he said that the sound of motor engines got to the gates. The guard pointed to the nearest inn, and we moved there. "Two rooms, please" I asked the man behind the counter. "So this is goodbye." John said "Yes" I said giving him his key. "So goodbye.


This was inspired by a writing prompt a friend found: ************ She was 99 when I met her, I was 24 and enraptured. She had lived a life more full than any, and was still vibrant going into her 100th year. She taught theoretical Physics at my University, it was her 4th or 5th PhD, I'm not sure. Every 10 or so years she would move into a new science. She said it kept her young. For someone just shy of 100 she looked amazing. Her bright white hair was full and lavish. Her skin, wrinkled, but still healthy. Her eyes a bright blue, almost shining. She wore very little makeup, because she no-longer felt that she had to cater to anyone but herself. She smelled of lavender and honey and lye, and old soap recipe she had used for decades. She once joked that it was the same soap that Cleopatra used. I asked her for the recipe once, and she gave it to me. I swear that it is the fountain of youth. I always wished that she was 70 years younger... Her mind was amazing. She could talk on any subject as an expert. Quantum entanglement was her current favorite subject. How particles at a distance can just know that they were a part of each other, no matter how far away they were, and would change to complement the other, not to match, but to complement. The year was 2022. I was a Post Grad, and I was trying to find my way n the world. I was so close to leaving my doctoral program because I was frustrated with my lack of progress. I had been in the program for 5 years, and I felt that I should have graduated. She talked me out of quitting. She encouraged me to continue on through my research in multidimensional quantum entanglement and multi-dimensional temporal implications on large-scale matter. She explained to me that it didn't matter if others thought it was crazy, it just mattered if I followed the math. Even if I never find what I am looking for, I could still find something interesting. And I did. That summer I had a breakthrough. I cracked the code. I proved my theory. I found the key to time travel. But before I could tell her she was gone. Not, dead, but gone. Nobody knew where she went. It took me years, decades really to finally complete the formula. And on my 97th birthday the Mobius Machine was turned on. I called it the Mobius Machine because there was one trick to Time Travel, and it fixed all the paradox problems. You can't go back to before the equation was discovered, and I first discovered it the fall of 2020. I decided that I would go back, go back and finally be with the woman of my dreams. I didn't have much time, myself, but we would finally be of an age. I didn't know what happened to her that day, or where she went, so I went back as early as I could to take advantage of what time we could have. I arrived in the fall of 2020. No knowing where she would be I looked up her name on the campus directory, and found nothing. I swear that I had met her that winter. I then looked up her name online, nothing. I then went to her cottage. It was a small place in Newton, out of the way, on a lake. When I walked up to the door I notices a For Rent sign in the window. As I looked at it I noticed my reflection. I don't know why I didn't notice it before. Maybe it was old age. Maybe it was the sun. Or the smell of fall in the air. But for the first time I noticed my bright white hair was full and lavish. My skin, wrinkled, but still healthy. My eyes a bright blue, almost shining. And I smelled slightly of lavender, lye, and honey. ............. The prompt was for a unique romance story between a time traveler and an immortal... I just decided to make them the same person. This is a first draft, more like a concept, I want to flesh it out some. I'm not sure what the best way to go is. Part of me originally wanted her to send herself back in time 70 years, or longer, or unhinge her in time. But this is what felt right at the time. I also want to make a side effect of Time Travel Immortality, but I may hold off on that. I just love the idea of a Immortal Time Traveler trapped as a 97 year old woman. Edit: fixed divider for mobile.


A light laughter floats upwards. A brunette holds a handful of cut straws. A group of girls shy away before reaching out to claim their own. They all pull one of the neon plastic tubes out of the cluster, and I reluctantly follow suit. My reluctance doesn’t result of fear, but a faintly disinterest in the proceedings. The Walk, like most of Patty’s designs, is the result of a night of light drinking and the need to always have some new idea that everyone else will just think wildly entertaining. “Annalise, you drew the short straw.” “I,” the sentence is started before I glance down to compare the length of my own straw to that of everyone else’s’. “I suppose I did.” A light shrug falls off my shoulders. The whole game seems silly to me, and I’m not worried to have lost the draw. Patty walks to the sofa where her purse sits to pull out a long strip of cloth. “Blindfold time, Annalise.” Rebecca takes the length of blue cotton off her hands and closes the distance between us with a few awkward steps. I turn my back to her and tie my hair in a ponytail. The other girls watch with interest. This is the first time I have actively participated in any of the games that didn’t involve drinking. Everything goes dark as the knot cinches at the back of my head. “Can you see anything?” Patricia asks the question, presumably from her previous position at the other side of the room, and I simply shake my head in response. “Then let’s go. Unless you’re afraid of the dark.” A biting retort reaches my lips and I hold it down, reminding myself that these aren’t the girls from my previous school. As far as I know, it a friendly taunt, and not a subtle way to intimidate me. In an attempt to just be friendly a smile spreads across my lips and I shake my head. “Not afraid of the dark, but maybe this will be different.” Someone, most likely Tracy, judging by the small size of the hand grasping my elbow, guides me towards the door. “Just count to twenty, and then walk.” Tracy’s voice sounds by my ear and I inwardly congratulate myself on my excellent guess. The 6 girls take off in different directions, footsteps giving away their positions at first, but quickly fading away until I’m left with just the numbers sounding in my head. I count slowly, determined to play this silly game with as much seriousness as I can muster. If I am being completely honest, The Walk seems mostly like an initiation into this new group. The fact that we drew straws is my only consolation that this wasn’t some form of twisted setup. Once again I remind myself that these girls are followers of Patty’s whims, and not the gossiping malicious one I left behind when I transferred. A deep breath fills my lungs with the cool fall air, and I can almost feel the full moon shining down. Of course, that’s all in my imagination, but without my vision it’s running wild. I take the first step off the porch and slowly walk forward. A rustle of leaves to my right catches my attention and I quickly turn my head in that direction, tripping a bit as I do so. Obviously my brain has forgotten that I’m blindfolded. The uncertainty of the situation nags at my anxiety, but I take another deep breath to calm myself. “It’s just a game.” An inner mantra begins repeating itself, but is quickly abandoned as I struggle to figure out what’s going on around me without eyes. A scream dashes through the air, ending as quickly as it began .It was convincing, but I know better. “That’s really funny, girls. Scream all you want, I’m not scared.” There’s no response to my announcement, and I smile widely. So that’s how they want to play this. I should have known that a simple walk through the woods wasn’t all Patty had planned for whoever drew the short straw. Another scream, much like the first, cuts through the air. It’s followed by the sound of a person crashing through the forest. The smile remains spread across my face as I keep walking, these girl’s are going above and beyond to scare me. “Patty, oh my god, Patty!” Rebecca’s distressed voice reaches my ears, and for the first time I a m a little bit worried. More screams and the sound of running fill the air until I can’t even hear the leaves under my own feet. “Annalise, take off your blindfold, there’s someone-“ the sentence is torn short by another scream. I know the rules though. The blindfold must stay in place until someone comes to you and pulls it off, signaling that I have successfully completed the walk. I don’t even reach upwards, determined not to fall for their tricks. The screaming eventually quiets down, one girl at a time and I struggle to keep my footing and my breath. At some point I started running. My legs and arms burn with scrapes and cuts from the branches I had encountered. I hadn’t realized how scared I actually was until I stopped running and realized that the only sound was that of a light fall breeze, creeping through the trees. “Patty?” No response. “Patty, this isn’t funny anymore. Can I take off the blindfold?” Still no response. I know that I’ll never hear the end of it for chickening out, but that doesn’t matter anymore. A deep fear gripped me, as irrational as it was, and I need to see what was happening around me, I need to be reminded that this was just a game. My finger pulls at the knot holding the blindfold on and it eventually falls to the ground at my feet. I blink several times, getting used to seeing again as someone approaches me from the left. I turn to see Emily, the quietest of Patty’s followers, covered in blood with a knife in one hand, and Rebecca’s head in the other. A twisted smile. A knife covered in blood. A terrified girl running away through the woods.