Luna Whitemoon stood in front of the two doors. Both stood over ten feet tall and were made out of pure water. Shimmering waves of crystal clear blue shone on one, while dark, abyssal waves, with the rumbling of thunder, were the other. It appeared to be an easy decision. The clear one reminded Luna of her home on the small islands away from Falconus. She and her village always swam in the clear waters of a continent-less earth, as the warm sun sent rays of light into the sandy bottom of the oceans. Fish of illustrious colors dazzled under the light as Luna remembered that time. She stared into that door. Dark faint shapes, like feathers in wind called to her, urged her forward into the door. She stopped herself. It would be so easy. The House of Waves made this Luna’s test. Stand in front of two doors. Whichever one you chose determined whether you would be their champion. She was lost in thought, swimming through her memories before she smiled and went through a door. As a child, the world always appeared like one thing. With the sun, stark white sandy beaches, and the warm wind whispering with the laughter of children, the world appeared to be a paradise. To the children, it would last forever. It was their parents' job to keep that vision alive. Until it was too late. Luna remembered her days as a child well. To her, it seemed ordinary, but to others, remembering what you ate and the exact words you asked your mother when the stars fell from the sky on every full moon, was a gift. The gift of memory. The total recall was a gift she would use well in her years studying under the House of Waves. Learning, reading, a small scholar with cloud white hair, becoming an encyclopedia of knowledge about the oceans, about the lakes, and streams, waterfalls, and rain around her. Everything that had to do with water, was in her library of a mind. So much so, she wanted to become water. The teachers for the House taught her and other students the way of water, not only a style of combat but a way to channel your own inner waters to maintain balance in your life and in turn, keep the balance of the world, because to let your own inner water flow out into the world in a way where you flooded it with poison, was as much of a sin as a man thinking he was a god ruling the planet with a malevolent fist. As the years went by, she remembered the word of the atrocities, of the death surrounding the land of Falconus. She remembered being thankful, of being grateful that she didn't have to see the carnage from the god’s elementals storming cities and enslaving others. Her family was safe, and so was she. That’s all that mattered. Yet like that God’s hand of power, reality came striking into her world. She knew the emotional world of anger rarely on occasion, sometimes when she would fail in a sparring session with another student or when her mother urging her to leave the House Of Waves behind, to be wife to a man that would only show her off as a trophy as the white-haired islander who talked to the moon. That’s where her name- Whitemoon came from. She was as dark as her brothers and sisters, yet her hair flowed like the moonlight under its home and shone in the sunlight. It was hard for her to hide from the stares in her earlier years, but she learned to be like water: to just flow with it. Eventually the flow changes. The flow changed the night, the god of Power struck down on her home. She was in the moonlit night, feeling the glowing radiance of the moon absorb into her hair, illuminating it in a ghostly light. She remembered the feeling of the cooling sand and how it stuck to her feet as the water sent chills down her calves. She loved it this way. Although her mother and villagers went against swimming in the water in the dark, instead of the fear others felt from it, she welcomed the solitude. Over time, the dark depths changed. She learned over time to appreciate the light in the darkness. Because the dark wasn't always bad. It could be warm and could drift her into the light. She remembered the cooling waves under wrap her in its soft grasp. She turned and looked up from the dark depths up to the moon. It told her of one thing: to trust in the waves. Even in chaos, even in unpredictability, the waves would lead you through. Luna just wished it would lead her back home when the stars started to rain down once again. Only this time, the shooting stars were actually heated chunks of diamond in space, crashing down as fireballs. She felt the thundering boom along with the muffled voices of panic. Keep going....just keep going...this is only a test. Luna swam, deeper into the dark depths, further away from the moon, deeper to the source, as the second door, the one of the dark and thundering unknown was starting its challenge. She didn't expect the door to do this. She thought the mysterious leviathans of the ocean of the tentacled creatures in the underwater caverns would test her, but not her own memories. Not her own nightmares she was experiencing every night before this test. A part of her wanted to, so badly, swim back up to the surface, to the moon, to crash back into reality and see, see the smoke and flames after the colossal shockwaves sending tsunamis across the planet. She so badly wanted to breathe cool rushing air, and swim, with all her strength back to the remnants of her home island, find her mother, find her sister, her teachers, her classmates, save them, help them anything! But like water, the past is unavoidable. It's uncontrollable. You can bottle it up, but it only forms, and always finds a way out. Maybe as vapor, but eventually it comes back as rain, ready to come down slightly, then crash down upon you until you’re soaked. Luna sank deeper into the abyss, until the pleading sounds of her mother, of her family, were gone, and only the beating of her heart remained. Her heart beat, faster and faster, with it, came the rumbling of something around her. S if she was in the bowels of a dark beast, the waters around her rumbled, growling, hungry for its next dinner. She could feel the panic set in, all the terror, something she didn't feel until that day. On that day, Luna eventually did return to the surface, after the crashing waves, the mouth of the twin gods of the Seas swallowing any land there was over. She didn't know it was angry then. She felt it as grief. As pure anguish. The hole of loss within her was so great, greater than a lagoon. She searched around her, across the dark and moonlit night, only to find no light, no source of home. Home was gone. She searched that entire night for survivors, but the only thing she could find was remnants of homes, and the lifeless bodies of people she once knew. Their eyes told it all. They thought it was another shower, another light show, then before the full horror could come, their world was flooded. Who knew once warm, nurturing water could turn on the people so quickly? Luna didn't know until that day. The day when she felt alone, truly for the first time. She was lost in that void of a night until the morning, where she spent three more nights, searching, hoping, yearning for her family. She never found her mother’s remains. Whether it was the fish or hungry carnivores sharing the depths with her or just the other gods deciding to spare her the mercy of more pain, Luna Whitemoon’s life changed. She was found by a messenger ship, sent originally to spread news, but now to look for any survivors. They thought of her as an omen, a sign from the god of power himself that he was not to be trifled with. The sailors kept their distance, until when they met the land of Falconus, then sent her off, alone, in an unknown land she only heard about, that was suffering from the same god’s might. Now she could see firsthand the destruction and misery she tried to ignore for so long. It's why she chose the door of dark waters. It's the door anybody would avoid. We try to hide, to look away, to ignore, and be oblivious to the world around us. Luna did that once, and it cost her her world. Now here she was, back in her memories, swimming in deep dark waters to something... It started off as a twinkle, an illusion from her oxygen-deprived mind until it grew. It grew until the warmness soothed across her frozen skin, bringing her back to life. As the light grew, so did the gulping of air. It should have been water flooding her encapsulated lungs, instead, air entered. The most interesting thing was, she never opened her mouth and sucked in water. She could feel more air fill her body until the blinding light sucked her into somewhere... What stood out to her first were the pillars of bright water surrounding her. On top of them figures barely corporeal staring down at her. She looked down and watched in awe as a pillar of water formed around her knees and became solid. She opened her mouth to speak, but the figures spoke, in unison first. They pounded like the gentle waves of her home island. If the ocean could speak it spoke through them. She knew who they were: The House of Waves. Luna Whitemoon...chaos you have seen peace. Through destruction, did you truly value creation. Through darkness did you find the light. The ever-changing waves have called to you. And you have answered. You realize that through madness and pain can you make it to acceptance and peace. You have a light inside of you. Like the Lunar Goddess’ gift to you in your outsider of an appearance, you have been chosen by The House of Waves... The pillar rose until she was closer, at level with the figures. They circled around her, drawing nearer until the center of the figure stepped forward, and like an invisible wall of water, the figure’s translucent appearance disappeared and a woman nodded to Luna. She was tall, appearing young, but Luna, knowing better, was thousands of years old. The woman’s hair was stark white, like hers, and her eyes were the brightest blue she saw. Her ebony skin stood out the most. She reminded Luna so much like herself, she could be looking into a mirror and wouldn't know. “You’ve seen and felt the God Vukon’s wrath. The man turned god has proclaimed himself ruler and tyrant of this planet. In order to defeat him, we need a worthy warrior. And we have chosen you. Only you, with the calming but crashing waves of our sanction, can help lead the rest of the champions and yourself to Vukon’s defeat. Have you accepted?” Luna Whitemoon shuddered. Were there others like her? Of course, there were! All the years of training, of meditation, of reading, all came to this point, and she forgot one thing: other champions from the other houses were out there, waiting, searching for the others to come together and defeat Vukon. The woman let out her hand and a stream of energy flowed towards Luna. Luna let out a hand and the powers of The water sanction formed a fist in her hands. The watery hand changed. It rounded, softened until flower petals appeared. With peace, there is its opposite war. With darkness comes light. With vengeance comes justice. Luna knew all these things. She had vengeance in her. She only wanted to strike back at Vukon for what he did to her and her people. She also knew the compassion and fairness that came to justice. To rightfully set balance back to the scales of Falconus. The land called to her pleaded to her for her help. She wasn't going to fail again. She wasn't going to swim away from the challenge. She was a tsunami, storming across the seas towards it.


I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic--a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside. I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal--if it weren’t for the subtleties. In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run. Each successive photo told a similar story. The family, always in different settings--their quaint living room, a local park, their dining room--always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me. The last photo on the roll was different. It was taken inside the house, in what looked like the living room. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help. I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure. The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight.


“Let’s go Robert, you need to leave” the robot said to the old man, his mechanical voice box creating an almost realistic empathetic voice . “Can it, Tin Man!” the old man angrily replied, unwillingly hopping off the brown, frozen bench The thin snow layer on the cold winter’s afternoon, buckled under the robots mechanical heel. Machines had no need for clothes or rest. The robot couldn’t understand the man’s need to revisit this place once a week. Death was death. Deactivation. No longer existing. To revisit a place of death again and again, always bringing 2 roses. The old unshaven man, now painfully standing and grunting, his calloused hands struggling with his old blue jumper zipper began slowly limping towards the car, placing his old woollen cap on his head, hopping in the passenger side, looking more fidgety than usual. The single scarlet rose twiddling in his fingers. Suddenly then man grew angry, huffing and puffing his chest. His hands fidgeting more and more, the rose in an iron vice in his hands. The old man reached for the steering wheel, yanking it to the side in the way of the graffitied wall to the left. However, he was old and couldn’t so much as change lanes. He cursed loudly and reclined into his seat. “Why do you try Robert? That was the 3rd attempt this month. 11th ?attempt to injure yourself this week“. The robot said softly , the plastic flaps and mechanism moving to seem sad and concerned. The old man paid no heed to the pouting robot “Do you believe I want - “ “WANT...BELIEVE?!” the old man interjected. “You can’t want or believe!. You're a thing, a bunch of ones and zeros in a box!” his screaming silencing the old radio playing what he called “rock” “We do believe Robert, no in the way humans do, but our sensors and ‘zeroes and ones’ work in ways that enable efficiency and fulfilment. Your rules, implemented in us a birth - ” “You know nothing of birth or life or living” he interjected, yanking at the locked door handle in vain, then reclining in defeat “ I know that it is my job to babysit you and make sure you're healthy and alive, in compliance with the laws of humans, on robots. I do not want to be here. I was built as a surgeon, to save one another from deactivation. Being here is a waste of my capabilities ” “Can’t you see keeping me alive is torture?” his eyes, dark grey and suffering, filled with the pain of 200 years of existence” “I must, I’m sorry Robert, you’re the last human. We must protect humans” the plastic flaps and synthetic, stringy fibers contorting back into a deadpan expression, both sets of ‘eyes’ on the dead road ahead. “You’re a monster....” Robert weakly rebutted. “And yet humans are the ones who killed and fought and destroyed one another. You’ve been killing each other from the beginning with Cain and Abel. You built faster, better, easier ways to kill one another, all you’ve ever done is kill, kill, kill” the mechanical voice box whirring, straining against the torrent of thoughts and words. “I keep you alive, feed you pills, drive you around, do everything for you.....to help you”. As quiet filled the car, the gravely, unkempt roads almost bucking under the car filled the air, while Robert sat up, head down in what looked to be anger and hate. The scarlet rose now crushed and picked apart, leaving only thorns. “Now tell me who’s the real monster here?”  P.


(WP) A Bitter Feud She didn’t know just how many times she’d told her children no. To hell with the life-saving, advanced medicine and drugs they were always trying to push into her body. Why didn’t everyone understand how tired she was? This was not a life, not even a pale imitation of it. Stuck in a hospital bed, plugged in to machines, unable to hold down more than a few bites of food. Evelyn wouldn’t have wished this life on her worse enemies, and there had been many. But even now, close to death, she couldn’t make herself regret it. That wasn’t her style. Bitterness crested in her throat, as sour and familiar as bile. Was it so hard to understand, wanting to move on? Evelyn was broken out of her angry thoughts by the arrival of her nurse, Holly, with someone following in her wake. “Miss Eve,” Holly said, smiling warmly, “You have a visitor today!” Evelyn had to resist pulling her face into a scowl; she *hated* being called Eve, and what was worse, Holly knew it. It brought back unpleasant memories. But perhaps the nurse was torturing her. Some people got their kicks by being shitty to the infirm and elderly. Holly smiled and checked her vitals, then left her with her visitor. It was Evelyn’s only son, Charles, and she shook her head before he even opened his mouth. “I said no, and that isn’t going change any time soon, Charles. It’s not when you were little, when you could flash those dimples at me and get whatever you want--” This diatribe was followed by a harsh, wracking coughing fit, and she covered her mouth, ignoring the tiny dots of red that covered her palm. “If you’re not careful, Ma, you’re going to hurt yourself, going on like that,” Her son replied, mildly enough, but his eyes, dark like hers, flashed with silent anger and hurt. “I brought you lunch.” *What’s the use if I’m just going to throw it all up in an hour, if I’m lucky?* But she didn’t say anything; she was sure that he could see what she was thinking, anyway. Without another word, Charles walked to the chair that was next to Evelyn’s bed and sat down. He took out a picnic basket, and then put paper plates in front of them, along with paper cups, which he filled with sweet, tart apple cider. “Why are you doing this, Charles?” “You’re our mother and we love you,” Charles said, still mildly. “We don’t want you to die--” “You and your sisters are so foolish,” Evelyn snapped, interrupting him, watching as he divided the food into two equal portions: half a ham sandwich, slathered with mustard and garnished with bright tomatoes and Swiss cheese, and a bowl of soup, her favorite: borscht, made from her own recipe. To anyone else, this would’ve looked like a gesture of goodwill, of love. But Evelyn knew better. It was a bribe from her own children, to stay in this miserable existence.


It is cold and there is no avoiding that. No longer a chance of denying it. I cover myself in layer upon layer of clothing, donning thick jackets and sweatshirts, pants with thermal lining and tight-fitting boxers with the same. Mom taught me to leave no room for wind or air or breathing or any stray snowflake to enter into my little mobile cocoon. I wouldn’t be out of place in one of those Arctic Research stations. Smiling to myself, I wondered if I looked like the Michelin Man or perhaps a resurrected mummy. I hoped that Brendan Fraser wouldn’t pop out of one of the snowbanks that flanked the driveways and sidewalks of the city, intent on uncovering my treasure and healing my curse. Something rustled as the wind blew and I froze, almost literally, scanning the white-capped trash cans that the sound had come from. A cat skittered out, sliding across the icy road on his way home. I breathed a sigh of relief, pushing mist like a dragon through my scarf. As I watched, the cat clambered onto a porch and disappeared through a little door. “Good. It’s too cold for you,” I said to myself, resuming my solemn march. My little toy watch read 8:31 PM. The weatherman had said it was 14 degrees with a wind chill of 7 degrees. Shuddering, I pulled my heavy coverings tightly around me, burying my gloved hands into big pockets. It’d been a couple miles since I left my home. I wasn’t going back either. This Christmas had started off badly. Charlie Mercher, the horrid father that he is, had lost himself to a bottle of caramel whiskey in the early evening. The rest of the night, which was usually reserved for celebration, had been a violent flurry of harsh words and frightening promises. Mary Mercher, my sweet old lady, wouldn’t let me near him. I’m not sure what the fight was about this time, but I’m pretty sure that momma is my momma and that dad may not be my dad. I didn’t know what to think of that. I didn’t want to think about it either. I share my momma’s nose, small and with a wide bridge. I’ve got her brown hair and her brown eyes. We’ve got the same sense of humor and the same freckles and the same favorite foods but . . . the only thing that I share with my dad is my last name. I preferred my first name anyways; Thomas sounds much better than Mercher. What did Mercher even mean anyways? Angry? Drunk? Unfaithful? My younger brother Michael liked his last name. But he couldn’t speak yet. He’d just throw his little chubby arms up gleefully when I’d say it. He had dad’s eyes. I didn’t. My heart was cool with guilt, but what was I supposed to do? There’s no way little Michael would survive out in this cold. My only chance as a ten-year-old is to march forward. I’ll send help when I find it. And I will find it. Well, I hope I will. Just me and my cold coats. There was a fire department somewhere nearby. I knew it was childish, but they’d always been my heroes. They’d rush into frigid fires to save people from their untimely doom. Modern day knights in shining armor! I always thought that those flaming houses I’d see on the news looked like dragons. Their doors were mouths that breathed fire and consumed families. The kids in my class laughed at me when I told them that I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up. “That’s so childish!” “You’re too skinny!” And all the laughter a young man could endure. I’d do it anyway. Heat flushed my face at the memory, thawing my icy cheeks for a moment before succumbing to the screaming cold. It hurt and I couldn’t find the fire station. I searched for some time, following the moon through a curtain of fluffy white. The houses on either side of the street were alive with light, the silhouettes of happy families and normal lives performed a play for me beyond sheltered, warm curtains. A young boy spotted me while he stood by a brightly decorated tree, his window curtains drawn to let in the night's winter beauty. I stopped and stared at him for a while, and he returned the favor. I waved. He waved. I opened my mouth to say something, but a woman appeared. She scolded the boy, ignoring his protests, and closed the curtains. I wondered, had my parents been any different, if I’d be on the other side of that window too. Shaking the thought, I marched on, a cool chill finally piercing my layers of protection. After what seemed like a very long time, a town broke through the suburbs. Tall buildings rose on either side of me like giants decorated in bright lights. The spectacle seemed a stark contrast to the icicles that hung from their roofs. As I crossed the street, a man dressed in a black suit stopped me. “Hey, kiddo! What’re you doing out in the cold so late?” He smiled warmly. I shrunk away from him. “None of your business,” I grumbled, hiding my face behind my scarf. His smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t mean to offend you, son.” He lifted his eyes, gazing behind me as if looking for someone. I followed his stare into the blizzard that followed me. “It’s getting pretty bad out here. Do you have somewhere warm to stay?” I shook my head. “I see. Where are your parents?” I didn’t answer. “Hmm. Do you need help?” I shook my head again. “I got you. Well,” he gestured to a tall, brightly lit building behind him. The doors were open to the cold, the inside of which was lined in benches filled with well-dressed people. “If you need somewhere warm to shelter, you’re welcome here. We have hot cocoa!” There was cheerful singing coming from the building. It sounded like a particular type of celebration. “Are you having a birthday party?” I asked. He chuckled, following my eyes to the building. “Actually, yes! I suppose we are!” The man saw my expression. “Oh, don’t worry, they may not sing well, but you know what they say, joyful noise and all that!” He laughed heartily. I smiled along with him. The man appeared friendly enough and the building looked warm and inviting but . . . “No thank you,” I said. “I’m on a mission.” “Oh yeah? Can I ask you what your mission is?” I thought for a moment. Distrustfully, I responded, “I’m trying to save someone.” My little brother needs help . I wanted to say, but the knot in my throat nearly choked me. Between it and the cold, I struggled to move. My bones hurt. Hot cocoa sounded really good. I wouldn’t mind singing either. Part of me hoped that they had a birthday cake as well. I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d celebrated a birthday, but my friends at school would tell me about theirs all the time. “Save someone? Who?” I didn’t respond. After a moment, he continued. “Well, you’re in luck, son! I just so happen to know a Man who’s in the business of saving people!” He grew excited. I didn’t respond. “I could introduce you, if you’d like. Maybe He could help save whoever you’re trying to help as well.” “Are they a firefighter?” I asked. “Hah! A firefighter? I suppose so! But He fights the kind of fire that lasts an eternity. Actually, He’s already defeated it.” “He must be very brave then.” “Oh, He was .” “Was?” “Mhm,” the man smiled solemnly. “He died, nailed to that up there by the very same people that He fought the fire for.” He pointed to a giant cross on the pointy part of the building. “How could they do that? Wait, He died up there?!” I exclaimed. “Oh! No, not that exact one. That’s just a copy.” “Why is it on your building then--if it killed such a brave man?” My imagination swam with the idea of a yellow-clad firefighter hanging from those pieces of wood. “That’s a good question, son. We put it there to remember Him and what He did. But do you want to know the best part?” He asked. I nodded, intrigued. “He rose again three days after His death. He used His blood to put out the fire!” My eyes grew wide, welcoming the sting of the bitter wind. “He must’ve had a lot of blood . . .” The man chuckled. “Enough to cover everyone who was on fire and doesn’t want to burn anymore . . . including you and me.” We stood in silence for a moment, the howling wind tossed my scarf wildly. I’m on fire? I wondered. “Would you like to come inside?” “He’s in there?!” “Mhm. Well, He’s everywhere, but we can talk about that later.” “I-” The biggest part of me wanted to go in with the man. To sing. To eat. To meet this mysterious firefighter who defeats eternal fire with His blood. I wanted to shake His hand. To tell Him about mom being mom and dad being maybe dad. I wanted Him to save my little brother, to take him with Him to whatever firehouse He served at. But dad had warned me about buildings like this. He’d told me to watch out for the people under the cross. He told me they were judgmental and mean and that they’d always make promises that they didn’t intend to keep. Fear ran rampant in my heart. I shook my head. “No, thank you.” And I ran, my feet crunching through the snow. The man called out after me, panic in his voice. I thought he’d come after me, so I picked up the pace. Focus! Find the firehouse! Send help to little brother! It didn’t take much more wandering before I realized just how lost I was. Turning back, the man and building were nowhere to be seen. Did I take a left to get here? No, a right and then a left! No, no, that can’t be right. Continuing onward, I stumbled into a large field with a sign that read “ Calvary Park .” My legs were soaked through with slush, refreezing and melting with the cyclic heating and cooling of my movement. I could no longer feel my face. I tried to touch my nose, wondering if it was still there, but couldn’t tell. I sniffed a few times, filling my lungs with an aching coolness. I fought the panic that icicles might form inside me. At least I have my nose. A bench sat beneath a quaint street post, bathed in its soft light and covered in a layer of fluffy powder. My body ached and burned with a violent numbness. I yawned, finally slowing down enough to realize just how tired I really was. It wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a while, would it? I plopped down onto the bench, sending an avalanche off its sides. Leaning back, I stared into the silent sky. It was pitch black. No, my eyes were just closed. I forced them back open. The darkened sky erupted with sparkling lights above me, only partially shrouded by the lazy drifting of snowflakes, all illuminated by the gentle moon. As I lay there, my strength abating, my breathing slowing, I listened to the intense nothingness. How can a world be so active and yet so quiet? I wondered. There was a sudden bout of panic as I fought the urge to sleep. No. Don’t close your eyes! But they’re so . . . heavy. They almost closed. “ Help!” I called out to the darkening heavens. “Timothy!” “H-huh?” I groaned. Someone was rushing toward me. They spoke my name with a voice that I recognized but had never heard before. They wrapped me in a thick blanket and scooped me up from the bench. I opened my eyes dreamily, fluttering as their heat seared my body. “G-uh?” I grumbled. “Shhh, son. I have you.” He wore a yellow and tan coat. I brushed my hand against it. It was cold, like mine. “C-old,” I struggled to speak. He grabbed my fingers with a gloved hand. “Shhh, son. I know. I’ll get you somewhere warm.” He ran through the streets, carrying me like a little child. I wanted to protest. To remind him that I am ten and not a kid. To tell him to go rescue my younger brother, the one who really needs it. As my eyes slowly regained focus, my body warmed by the man, I realized something about Him . . . “Fire . . . fighter?” I whispered weakly. The man smiled a glorious smile. One that instantly warmed my body and something much, much deeper. “Of sorts, yes. Be still, son. It’s my birthday today, did you know that?” His hair was fluffy, spilling out from under a fireman’s helmet. I touched it. It felt like sheep’s wool. I remembered the feeling from a field trip last year in Ms. Hooley’s class. We visited a farm. I liked petting the animals, even though I wasn’t supposed to, but there was one animal that was softer than all the others . . . A lamb. “Birthday? I met a man earlier who was celebrating a birthday too . . .” “Is that so? Well, we should go,” He said, setting me down on some steps. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned. There was warmth in me now where there had been only ice before. “I-I am. Thank you.” I looked up into the man’s big, green eyes in bewilderment. This man is a firefighter! A hero! My hero. I knew someone who needed a hero. “My-” “Your brother, right?” He interrupted. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t. “Don’t worry, son, I’ve got him covered,” He winked, “I’ve got you too. It’s going to be all right, trust me.” “Th-thank you.” Somehow and for some reason, those words felt more concrete to me than even the hardest stone. I believed that this firefighter could quench any fire. I thought back to the man from earlier and the weird conversation that we had shared. “Am I on fire?” I asked. “Hah!” The man smiled brightly. “Not anymore, Thomas.” “You know my name?” He nodded. “And many others. Regardless, you’re not on fire outwardly, Thomas, and I do not fight outward fires. I leave that to men like you.” “I-I don’t understand,” I responded. “Most people don’t,” the stranger replied, “but I know someone who can teach you about it.” He stood from where He had laid me down and walked toward an open door, banging on its wood loudly. I realized that there had been singing before, behind the wonder and chilly fuzz in my ears, but it stopped at His beckoning. “Oh my gosh!” “Is he okay?” There were suddenly a lot of well-dressed people surrounding me. The man from earlier, the one who spoke in strange riddles of an everlasting firefighter, helped me to my feet and brought me inside. “Are you okay?” They asked. “Get him some hot cocoa and a change of clothes!” “Oh Lord, please don’t let him have hypothermia!” “Should we call 911, Pastor Michael?” “No,” the man, Pastor Michael, responded. “He’s not hypothermic, but he got pretty darn close. Son, what happened?” “I-I-” With so many faces around me, each twisted with worry, words became very hard to find. “I was so cold, but He-” I pointed to where the firefighter had been, but no one was there. “He saved me . . .” “Who saved you?” Pastor Michael followed my fingers, confused. “The firefighter. Didn’t you see him?” He looked at me now, his brow furrowed. “Firefighter?” “I didn't see anyone.” “Are you sure he's okay?” “Maybe he’s delirious?” The congregation chattered on and on, but the Pastor simply stared at me. We had a silent conversation, one that only he and I understood. I had been put out. I wasn’t on fire-even on the inside-anymore. Not in the way that I had been. That night was full of fear and worry but ended in warmth and good conversation. Pastor Michael listened to my story about dad and about mom, calling someone who could help. They took my little brother and I away, putting us in a new home with a couple from the congregation. They were friendly, protective, and never missed a church meeting. We celebrated every birthday, every holiday, and I had my fill of a blessed life-not to mention birthday cake. And whenever someone would ask about my understanding of Jesus Christ, I’d tell them, quite plainly and quite simply, with the same bewilderment that I felt as a child, that Christ had saved me twice that night. Once from the searing cold. And once when He put out the fire that consumed my soul.


Autumn in Canada is my favorite time of the year. How everything around us becomes beautiful and cooler, providing us a relief from the heat. The beautiful transformation of tree leaves in stunning shades of yellow, orange, red and brown blows my mind. Currently sitting in a coffee shop which have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks, having a hot chocolate. Trying to make my sullen mood a little better. “Good evening.” A old lady nearly in her 70's stood in front if my table. “Good evening.” I said “Can I sit with you, if you don’t mind. I was seeing you from a while and you seem a little sad to me. So I thought you would like to have some company.” She said giving me a wrinkled smile. “I won’t mind, please take a seat.” I said and thanking me she sat comfortably in front of me. “Oh how rude of me, I am Luna by the way. Nice to meet you.” She said taking her hand out for handshake. “Hailey, nice to meet you too.” I said copping her actions. She looked at my almost finished hot chocolate before saying, “They have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks. They are amazing, have you tried any?” she asked “Um, no I haven’t. But-" she cut me off “Ah! You should try their classic pumpkin spice latte. Wait I will order them for both of us.” She said and immediately ordered for us. I smiled at her ebullient nature. She had pale and wrinkled skin but her eyes and smile shined bringer than the sun. “You have the same smile like my granddaughter.” Her eyes twinkled when she talked about her grand daughter. “Do I?” I asked with a smile. "Yes, you know once Charlie Chaplin said 'You will find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile'." She said and I nodded “You should meet her some day. You both must be of same age. She is a lawyer in New York, what is your profession?” she continued “I am a CA, Chartered accountant.” “Oh that’s amazing, your parents must be proud of you.” She said and I nodded my head as yes. Our conversation was cut off by the waitress who bought our ordered drinks. Their latte had two difference from others which was they used honey instead of sugar and using more pumpkin which added a good different taste. "Isn't it amazing?" Luna asked "Absolutely amazing." I said and we both smiled. “Why were you sad Hailey?” "Just had a bad day." I said trying to drop the topic. "You can tell me the reason for your bad day, if you don't mind." She said looking calculatively in my eyes. I took a deep death before speaking, “I.. I had a argument with my mother this morning.” I said looking at my latte as tears started to well up in my eyes. “Talk to me, share with me. They say sharing with the strangers makes you feel a little better.” She said, giving her a week smile I told her, “Me and my mom had a fight this morning. She wants me to go back to Italy and help her with her boutique. She wants me to leave this job as a CA and help her with her work. But I don’t want to leave my job and go there. I love my job, but she doesn’t understand. Infact she doesn’t want to understand.” I exhaled deeply. Luna took my hand in her fragile hands saying, “Do you want to know Luna's autumn theory?” she said and I was confused. "Luna's autumn theory?" I asked “Its my autumn theory.” She said smiling at me. Before I could even reply she continued. "I don't really care what your answer is. I was going to tell you anyways." She said and we both laughed. “Autumn season is know for its beautiful change which it brings with it. The weather getting colder; changes of green leaves into yellow, orange, red and brown shades; days become shorter and nights becomes longer. It’s the season of changes, maybe for good or bad its up to you. If your mom doesn’t understand or don’t want to, you change your style of explaining her. Make her realize what you really want to do. Autumn teaches us to change. Change you ways my child, and everything changes.” She said and I was speechless. I was just staring at her with a smile. She is right, I need to change my ways of explaining my mom and she will understand me hopefully. Luna's phone vibrated, looking at the screen she smiled and looked at me. “Its my time to go. Have a good day my child. God bless you and smile more often. You have a beautiful smile.” She said and my smile widened. Hugging me goodbye she left the coffee shop. Meeting Luna in this coffee shop and her telling me ‘Luna's autumn theory’ was a life changing event for me. Sometimes things happen which we don't even expect. When we think all the doors are closed and we don't have any choice, maybe the closed doors aren't locked and waiting for a knock. Maybe we just have to knock the doors and seek for a perfect solution. Maybe what seems so difficult isn't that difficult. Maybe its just your power of not losing hope and keep trying. Deciding to change my way of telling my mom what I want, I smiled. I have an idea how to explain her. Victor Hugo a French poet, prose writer, dramatist, essayist and politician once said, 'There is nothing more powerful in the world than the idea that came in time.' This autumn have bought a change in me which is a life time lesson. I took out my phone, dialing my mom's number I waited for her to pick up my call. After a few rings she picked up the call. “Hey mom" “Hello" “Mom, next week I will be coming home for a few days.”


A shoe goes sailing through the air and crashes through a wall and into the coat closet behind. It doesn't take much; the wall is just a thin layer of sheet rock with unimaginative paper covering it. The sound of it rattles the whole place. I just sit on the couch and listen. My brother screams from his room less than two feet away. His small arm stretched out from under the door; his tiny fingers pulling at the medium length brown carpet. He cries out “why momma” as he pulls. I can tell he has snot running out of his nose and tears rolling down his cheeks, just from the sound of his voice. I just stand in the hall and listen. The phone rings, it’s my mother again. She asks in a manic voice why I’m punishing her. She tells me I don’t deserve her love. She pleads to know why I don’t love her back. I can hear the addict she is sleeping with in the back ground coughing; it’s the cough of too much cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes. I just hold the phone and listen. I hear the voice of Tim Allen coming from the television behind me. The taste of Tuna Helper turns my stomach. I have tears running down my face. My father stands in the kitchen. He stops his lecture on starving children long enough to take a pull of his beer. I count the silence, almost four seconds. He must be mad at her again. She and my step brother laugh from the living room. I just lie on the table bench and listen. I ride with my grandmother in the Ram Charger. She smokes long skinny cigarettes with the windows rolled up. I love her, but I hate smell. I hold the button to roll my window down. She quickly rolls it back up. “The a/c is running,” she says. I feel a bit dizzy from the bluish smoke; I’ll probably have a headache soon. My brother sits in his booster seat behind us calling out truck each time he sees one. My grandmother speaks between draws from her cigarette to tell me she loves my brother, but that his mother is a whore. I just hold my breath and listen. The sun hasn’t gone down yet but I’m in bed. My step-mother is going out and my father has unhooked the ignition coil from the engine. It won’t run. She screams why, it sounds like my brother. He laughs and tells her he hasn’t done anything. I wonder if she is a whore as I spy and listen. I stand in the shower. The water is as hot as I can take. I gently squeeze the bottle of V05 and breathe it in. I hear my his alarm going off repeatedly. I know I need to get out, but he is vomiting violently into the toilet just on the other side of the glazed shower door. The water is turning cold. I begin to shiver as I listen. Chris Cornell’s voice pleads for a black hole sun through the small speakers of the Zenith tv. I see the headlights through the living room windows. I count the foot falls as they climb the steep steps to the trailer door. I can hear someone fumbling a key into the lock. She stumbles through first. “He drank too much tequila,” she says as she makes her way past me and down the hall. He claws his way in like a zombie and falls to the floor, the screen door slamming just shy of his feet. He is snoring before Chris is done. I bob my head and listen. The engine of the Honda screams for relief. The tires squeal as we barely make the deep curve of the small country road. “Your grandmother found your grandfather not breathing on the porch,” she says. I wonder if the car will fly off the road at the next turn, it’s sharper than the last. My mother tries to navigate at 90 and light a Virginia Slim at the same time. I light one for her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Eric Clapton moans for Layla on the radio. I hold tight and listen. The ICU is cold and quiet. I watch the lines on the small monitor bounce to the rhythm of my grandfather’s heart. “He’s woken once,” my grandmother says to my great aunt. “He was talking to his mother.” She died when I was four, I think to myself. My mother walks in and hands my grandmother a styrofoam cup of sweet tea. I can hear the ice slide together as she takes a sip and hands the cup to me. I take my turn; it taste of earth and sugar. She smiles at me and gives me a peppermint. I save it for later. The three of them begin to make plans for if he doesn’t wake back up. I squeeze the peppermint and listen. The wind roars past my ears as I sit in the front seat of the boat. I take in a deep breath as my father slides the boat around an ox bow in the river. I let my vision soften as I stare at the reflection of the sky in the water. I raise my arm and point to a deadhead sticking just above the surface. I feel the boat shift just in time as my father pulls the tiller handle and deftly dodges the stump. He opens the throttle on the two stroke Mercury as we enter a straight part of the river. I close my eyes and pretend to fly as I listen.


Got bored, wrote a thingy Alliterating Absurdity It’s dark here... I can see only about a few meters. Every direction is just pathed stone, uneven but easy to walk on. I’m unsure if I’m outside or inside, I see no stars or moon but I feel small gusts of wind randomly. I remember, easily actually, clearly walking into the nearby park to clear my head. My hood up and head downtrodden I never new how long I had been wandering, if long at all. ... It’s not cold anymore but not exactly comfortable enough to shed the light jacket that protects me from the anything in the dark. ... Walking in one direction with no point of reference is confusing, horrifying, ... simple? I knew the second I saw no sides to the path bleeding away into grass and found no stars, at least silently standing by as sentinels, that there was no possible way I was still wandering the small greenway. Hysteria, ... what I expected, ... never set in while wandering around in the paved murk. Just an amalgamation of feelings dominated by a confused curiosity. We all get to a point where we feel the prank can’t really go on any longer, but no suspicious person casually strolled by and pointed out the cameraman or the ... comfortable audience revealed behind some large fake wall, just the sounds of normal foot falls on smooth stones dominated the dark. I knew fear would escalate when the mind tricks started preying on the empty sensory input abundant in the area around me. I think I switch directions, I wander to my left from the path I perceived I was walking. Noises and shapes dancing and peaking from the perceived sphere of light my eyes can see, real or misplaced imagination, ... does it matter? It’s all unknown, the prank and the lost scenarios now discarded for a growing sense of insanity. My watch says it’s only been fifteen minutes in this place, it feels like more but I think the watch is a little more concrete then just human time keeping. I’m not insane and if I am ... then I hope someone finds me before I leave. The watch. I can hear the tick, a hand-me-down from my father, not a present or gift but just a watch, use or don’t he gave me his watch and replaced it with one exactly the same. Why not give me that one? Too late, don’t care. .... tick .... That click wasn’t from my watch, my shoes maybe? I stop, peer around and what the hell else did I expect to see, just dark and stones. I do the stereotypical drop to the floor and inspect it like some answer to the insane minds enigma. I find a fetal position after internally laughing at imitating insanity. The sound of sharp speedy steps stops my self solace. A person ... just outside of my periphery ponders poking into my stone polka dotted palace of self pity. I wait, wanting and wishing for the wisp to whisk me away from this wobbly world. The tick tock clock clicks and I’m back in the park. Street lamps bathe a nearby bench. And I go home to sleep swathed in my soft smooth shelter. English is my first language but I’m just shit at grammar and general English mojo / spelling. Came from my head but could be influenced by well known stories I forgot I read.


Yes, I wish I’d held on to my morals. If I did, I would have still been on one of the modern cruise ships on my way to Cancun. A hollow coconut shell would have easily found its resting position in my hand, flaunting its tiny Hawaiian inspired umbrella and an “adult” cherry floating on a bright blue cheap alcohol. My Vitamin D demanding skin would have been tanned and not burnt, my new aviators would have been put to use, and my effort would be well on trying to gracefully flirt with the muscular server who would offer me pea-sized hors d'oeuvres every five minutes or so. Well, while I’m busy fantasizing on what would have happened, it’s far from reality, so far, that you couldn’t even see it from a telescope. ꧁꧂ I unwillingly felt the dense, frosty water quickly rush through my reluctant lungs without a second thought. Automatically, I unfastened my weak jaw about 180 degrees to gasp for some required oxygen, only to affectionately invite more unwanted water into my shattered body. I perceived the clearest of panic attacks creeping through the surreal corridors of my mind. I sensed it lurking. Knowing that I would be swallowed by the dark cloud of trepidation did not make too much of a difference as I voluntarily let it happen. The darkness overcame my body; I could’ve been frantically drowning in the icy waters but I was supposedly floating amongst the other surfacing debris. No one will ever have the privilege of knowing my state of being, not even myself, any memory of this incident was completely and utterly forgotten. I don’t recall I was conscious at the time. The vivid blue, cloudless sky housed a radiant sun which dazzled its glistening rays upon my senseless body. I was greeted with about six Great Egrets circling me in a flawless unison as I aggressively spat out the grainy sand out of my parched mouth. I was supposedly washed up on the uninhabited regions on Cozumel, an small island right off the Mexican coastline; about a fourty-five minute ride from Cancun. Little did I know that on the other side of the island from where I was washed up, was a small business of hotels and restaurants bustling with clients coming for a well-deserved vacation. Being way too weak for exploring, I would have never known. I was too dehydrated to think clearly and standing up so abruptly was an imprudent mistake. Dazed and disoriented, I stumbled and vigorously fell to my knees right where I was washed up in the first place. All my middle school knowledge about never to drink sea water left a blank mark in my memory as swallowed gulps after gulps of it. It did leave a rather bitter taste but I couldn’t care less. I looked back almost unintentionally and noticed a relatively large waterproof duffel bag; then it hit me. My memory steadily began returning. Remembering brief parts of what had happened, helped piece the complex puzzle together, into what seemed to be an unlikely story which wouldn’t receive an excessive amount of empathy. It was all planned out; every single possibility of what could or could not go wrong was written on those precious A4 papers back at home. Odette and I were entirely sure the heist would lay out perfectly infront of our eager eyes. Blueprints upon blueprints of the cruise ship’s hidden vents and vaults unavoidably piled themselves up on my chaotic desk. The exceptionally large cork-board which overflowed with elaborate notes, pins and strings, all lead to this one heist; a heist that Odette and I have been persistently planning for about two aching years now. We agreed to the fair deal that she would forage for all the required sources and classified information whilst I perform this rather intricate money heist. But all went burning into high blue flames. I got caught in the act, red handed, in flagrante delicto whatever you’d like to call it, but I was frozen clenching the duffle bag filled with money in my trembling hands. When flustered, one’s rational reasoning transforms into a ludicrous one beyond description. I bolted through the back door and hurled myself into the Caribbean, facing the deserved consequences of a 72 meter fall ahead of me. That was what I now call my quick sniff of death, yet I didn’t die. I have no objective as to why I voluntarily agreed to being a crucial part of this scheme, I had no reason to. Odette did find me in a rather vulnerable state of mind and promptly took advantage of my situation. After my mother died a sincerely tragic death, Odette invited herself back into my life after a few years of distance. She cautiously used her well-trained manipulatory skills to draw me into the center of her trap. I was fairly financially stable at the time and committing such a felony was an unconditionally foolish and an unnecessary act; but she promised, she promised that all this would get my mind off the tension, strain, and malevolence of the outside world. I cluelessly believed her. I eagerly poured out my heart and soul to her; I found comfort in an old friend, and to know that what she’s done for me was all for her personal benefit, crushes my core to pieces. I just shouldn’t have been so naive. As nightfall drew and my senses began slightly returning, my attention turned to the glaring lights shooting across the horizon. Many boats sped through the water and the deafening helicopters which spoilt the sweet stillness of the Mexican air, shone their overwhelming lights directly down at me and that’s when I truly realized that this was at long last, the end. Inevitably, I was subconsciously sure that I could never get away with such an offense; I didn’t have the finesse and mastery of a thief and I could never obtain it. It wasn’t in my nature. I heartily acknowledged and valued one last state of absolute calmness as I focused on the shimmering stars which reminded me of my beloved mother who always told me that everything will always find its course.


I’m not what you would call the adventurous sort. I have a very logical view of the world. The laws of nature can be described by calculable equations and repeatable experiments. However, I have learned that this way of thinking just doesn’t contain the full story. I was never very superstitious, but once I described the past few days, that’s the only logical conclusion. I could not deny the power of this divine beast. It was just two days ago that I had seen her for the first time. Nudging around the alley trash cans, her coat was jet black, and not filthy at all, the way you would expect a stray to look. I had been on a smoke break at the restaurant I cook at, and my second cigarette had expired already, so I had to go back in. I honestly didn’t think anything of it, because, with a coat that clean, I was sure someone was searching for it. When my shift ended, I wasn’t surprised to see that the cat was gone. I started on my way home which was a few blocks away, and I swear shadowy figures were following me. I told myself it was all in my head, but that didn’t calm the beating of my heart. I was speed walking before I realized, and out of breath soon afterward. I leaned against a streetlight to try and center myself, and admittedly, the light would block the shadows. No, not on this night. Not this time. This time, the figure of a horned creature began to wriggle itself to form under the light. I wanted to run so badly but couldn’t catch my breath. It was like trying to breathe through an IV. Just as the creature was going to reach me, the cat appeared from nowhere and landed directly between the shadow creature and myself, and just as it landed the creature dissipated as if it were vapor. Now I’m hyperventilating and am scratching at the edges of my consciousness trying to explain this phenomenon. The strange thing turned and looked me in the eye as if to show discontent. “Get ahold of yourself, Master!” The sun crept in through the curtain, casting a cone of light on my face. I’m lying in bed, let out a yawn, and sit up. I’m sweaty, so sweaty that I soaked through my pillow and covers and saturated the mattress. Confused, I roll out of bed, and head to the shower, while peeling my shirt off my back, like a banana. I started remembering what had happened and wrote it off as a bad dream. Once I was showered and dressed, I grabbed my work gear and headed out the front door, but when I opened the door, the cat was sitting there in the middle of my welcome mat. I feel this pressure on myself as I get dragged backward, stiff as a redwood, by nothing. The creature walked in, slowly, waving its tail back and forth. The door shut and I was laid gently on the floor. The cat jumped onto its perch on my chest and peered into my soul. “Why does your heartbeat so frantically? Such a being as yourself should never fear magic.” For what seemed like an eternity, I stared blankly into its eyes. They were human eyes, not the slit feline eyes that should be there. As if sensing my thoughts, they transformed immediately. “I understand now. You never knew of your gifts. You never discovered who you are truly meant to be. No matter, we must get you to safety, and then all else will follow.” “How are you speaking to me, you are a cat. How did your eyes change? How are you doing all of this!” The feline paid him no mind though and continued to babble to himself quiet curses about my apparent ignorance. “Let me go! I dema-”, suddenly my mouth was sealed shut by some unseen force. “I really must concentrate; I hadn’t expected you to be void of all knowledge. You were meant to hold the Great Knowledge; you didn’t have any materials I needed for our quick return. Truly, you don’t even remember me?” I had no idea what to say. It just wasn’t logical; it made no sense. The magic cat, the changing eyes, the forces being used on me. But, if all that was real, what about those shadowy things? I wanted to scream, I wanted to run away and hide. This could not be reality. “Well, I know this all must be pretty stressful to take in, but- oh goodness,” at that moment the pressure released off my body. “See, I am not here to hurt you. You really must come with me; I promise I will explain everything just as soon as we are safe. I looked at the door and decided escape was futile. This thing would just pin me down with his magic. I pointed to my mouth to indicate my need to speak. With just a blink, the Cat released my lips as well. “Before we go anywhere, I need to know who you are, and how you came to be. I have a life; I can’t just go hang out with some illusion my mind created.” “Master, surely your closest ally, and student, does not strike you as mere illusory tricks. This must be some kind of spell.” “I have never met you before, much less, experienced anything half so crazy as these last 12 hours.” “Look, I’m sorry, but I insist you come with me.,” with that she spoke a few syllables, and suddenly we were pulled upward in a spiral. I saw the full spectrum of color stretch out and lose pigment. The very fabric of reality was coming apart and flowing back together violently. My stomach felt like we were falling from the top of the roller coaster. I was freezing at one moment, hot the next, and yet this all took place in fractions of a second. The Cat landed on its feet suddenly, too suddenly. I hadn’t expected the floor and came tumbling down hard and rolled a few yards. “Here, in my realm, I can certainly feel the dark energy cast on you. Come with me, hopefully, we can undo this sorcery.” I barely gained my bearings again, but the cat, whose name was Midnight, was quite insistent that we move forward. He seemed uneasy about the source of this spell he was convinced I was under. We traversed a great desert of this odd-smelling sand. It was a dull grey color and rocky. Something was familiar about that, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I tried to forget about it. Midnight directed my attention to the tower, and I stopped in my tracks. There was something far too weird about the way it was designed, and I don’t know what came over me, I pounced on the cat. “What the hell is that tower; where are we!” Midnight began opening her mouth, but all that came out were meows. Everything went black, except Midnight. Midnight was turning a deep crimson red with bright yellow eyes, and she grew to be enormous instantly. She lifted a huge paw with impossibly sharp talons fully exposed and swiped at me, except before she could tear through me, I fell through the ground as if the Earth tore apart under my feet. I began squeezing my fists and my eyes shut tightly and let out a blood-curdling scream. At that moment, I knew I was going to die, and so I continued to scream until blood flowed from my mouth. Once again, I sat up in bed covered in a pool of sweat, only this time my cat, Midnight, was standing atop her scratching tower, where her food tray was bare. I had been in a nightmare. My face fell into my hands, at the edge of tears and I just let reality wash out the taste of the nightmare left on my body. I brushed the blankets aside and swung my feet out to the side of the bed. I chuckled to myself while I considered the absurdity of my dream. With a big grin, I jumped out of bed, and I felt it between my toes. It was cold and crunchy, and I opened my eyes wide, and let out a huge grunt. I jumped right into the used kitty litter, and I wished I returned to the nightmare.


The old woman stood at the glass case, thumbing a folded up five dollar bill in her hand. At last the line had moved forward enough for her to see half-gone trays of pastry delights, all neatly labeled with colorful cards and cheerful designs. So many options to choose from, but she knew what she wanted. She let out a sigh of relief to see there were still a few of her choice left, all pink and red frosting with heart sprinkles. “Hello ma’am, what can I get you?” The cashier barely looked at her, but she didn’t mind. The little shop was packed near to bursting for the grand opening. “I’ll take the romance cookie, please!” It was then that the cashier fully noticed Rose, the little woman bundled up in her threadbare housecoat and silk headscarf. “Ma’am, can I interest you in a Youth Pop?” “No thank you, sir, just the cookie please!” She replied with more grace than she felt. Young people. They always thought old people wanted to feel young again. Maybe some did. Not her. There was only one thing she wished she could feel again. “It’s my anniversary,” she whispered, but the cashier had already taken her money and bustled away to the far case. When he returned she thanked him with more sweetness than he deserved. With the craft paper package in hand, Rose navigated through the throng of incoming customers to the street again. Her feet ached, but the fresh air was a nice change from being cooped up inside like she usually was around this time of year. April was the month Marty had died, five years ago almost to the day. Usually she spent the month in isolation. If she was honest with herself she spent most months in isolation, but this year she felt... different. Instead of turning on Memorial Street, like she usually did every April, Rose paused and looked up at the street sign. A little further down was another street, one she hadn’t visited in a long time. Perhaps she would. With joints that protested every step, she couldn’t decide if haste made her little trip worse or better. Maybe she should have gotten that Youth Pop at the shop after all. With a determined grimace she powered on. Garden Street soon came into view. It’s tall lamp post street sign hadn’t been replaced since the first time she’d seen it, nearly fifty years before. She followed the sidewalk until her destination finally came into view. City Arboretum. Memories rushed back to her in a flood, sweet memories of springs that weren’t as lonely as they were now. White blossoms littered the lush lawns, kites billowed up in the breeze, and young families picnicked on heirloom blankets. It was just as she remembered it. So happy. So full of love. It took some time to find their old bench, but she did. New paths had been paved, and new benches put in, too, but despite years of wear she still found it. Marty’s carved handi work was mostly filled in now with grime and dirt, but it was still there on the back of the slatted bench. *M+R FOREVER.* She ran her fingers over it cautiously, feeling a wave of unexpected emotions as tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment her feet started to point towards the exit again seemingly of their own accord. She stopped. Her knees ached. Her feet protested. Begrudgingly Rose sat down. Despite fighting the aches of her walk, she couldn’t help but smile. So many beautiful memories of the old bench came back to her. It was then she realized she didn’t need to feel young again, nor did she need the little cookie she’d ventured out just especially to get. She could celebrate her wedding anniversary without it. Hours passed. The cookie remained untouched. Rose stayed, happily soaking in the rays of the sun for the first time in what seemed years. She said hello to every passer-by, and pet each cute little doggie that reminded her of dogs long passed. No one noticed when the kindly old lady with the silk headscarf never opened her brown paper bagged treat. “It’s my anniversary,” she told every young couple. They cooed and congratulated her, but never asked what anniversary it was. No one stayed to listen. No one noticed when her eyes shut, a gentle smile on her face. In her daydreaming Marty sat next to her, holding her hand just like the old days. She re-lived the time they snuck through the arboretum at night and canoodled, trading boozy kisses far past curfew. She couldn’t think of this place without remembering taking their wedding photos in the spring blossoms, and bringing their first puppy to play with the other neighborhood dogs at this same bench. This time she didn’t fight tears. She embraced the simple joy of living in those moments for a last time. No one noticed when Rose breathed her final breath of sweet, fresh air, but that was alright. It’d been the best day she’d had in years.


Listen, I don’t know where to begin. I don’t even know how we got here, to be honest. But here we are, and we sure as hell aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So we might as well make the best of it. Here, take a cigarette. I’ve got a few left. I guess you’re probably wondering why it happened. Well, why does anything happen? Just dumb fuckin’ luck, usually. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was just a down-on-his-luck construction worker looking to make some extra cash so I could pay my rent in the winter - construction slows in the winter, you know. Anyways, maybe in hindsight it was all a bit too good to be true, but that’s not what I was thinking at the time. I wish I had. But where I should have been seeing red, I just saw green. The job seemed simple enough: all we had to do was dig. Dig a few holes out in some worksite in the desert, and walk away with two hundred bucks in cold hard cash, every night. That was the catch, though - we could only work at night. The boss said it was because the sun was too hot out there during the day, and we’d be risking heatstroke if we worked while it was still shining. That sounded reasonable enough to me. So I get out there on the first night. There are five other guys out there with me - four with shovels, like me, and another guy there to supervise and tell us where to dig. Each hole had to be at least five feet deep and five feet wide. We spaced out far enough so we wouldn’t bump into each other and got to it. It wasn’t until I was about two feet deep in sand when I realized I had no idea what I was digging for. Maybe some kind of cables were being laid through this spot. I asked the supervisor guy. I didn’t get an answer - he told me he’s paying me to dig, not to ask dumbass questions. I guess he was sort of right. Some private company must want to keep this project quiet. So I played along, and kept digging. After about twenty minutes, we all started to finish up at roughly the same time. We climbed back up to level ground, one by one, and waited for this guy to finish his cigarette and come point us to the next dig site. I watched the lit end of the smoke burn down closer and closer to his fingers - it was just about all I could see in the darkness. He took his time, anyway. When he finally finished he came to inspect our work. He looked into each hole for a minute or two, like he was looking for something in the bottom. Finally when he was satisfied, he told us to fill the sand back in and start digging another hole a short ways away. For a second, we protested. What was the point in undoing the work we just did? But, again, no answers came - no dumbass questions, just digging. So we did as we were told. I, for one, needed the money more than I needed my curiosity satisfied. We dug for about two hours before packing in for the night. Before we left, the supervisor handed us each a couple of crisp hundred dollar bills from a large brown envelope. A hundred dollars an hour was enough to keep my mind on other things - a couple nights of this and my rent would be covered for the month. A few weeks, and I’d be set until summer. So I came back the next night, and the next, and the next. For a while, it was the same - dig a hole, call down the man, fill it in, repeat. The only thing I could figure was that they must be looking for something out here. But what could it be? Buried treasure? Did that tight-lipped bastard ordering us around have a map with a big red X on it, pointing him to this shithole? Whatever it was, apparently we weren’t finding it fast enough, because after a week there were five more shovels and one more cigarette burning in the distance. So our progress was doubled, and we reorganized twice as many grains of sand each night. But the money kept coming, so there wasn’t much to complain about. I had my days to enjoy my new cash flow, and we weren’t working long enough hours to lose much sleep over. I think it was the eighteenth night in the desert. I was onto my third hole of the night. I guess after a while, the monotony started to get to me or something, because I just couldn’t stop thinking about what could have drawn whoever was paying us to look out here of all places. I heard one of the other guys say that this whole area used to be a mountain chain, but over the years the peaks were battered down to sand by the elements. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place anything interesting would be buried if you ask me. But as I was thinking, I guess my body kept digging on autopilot - I was six feet deep by the time I snapped out of it. I could have climbed out and called one of the supervisors over, but something felt different about this hole. As I stood and looked to the bottom of the pit I had dug, something told me to keep going. I can’t explain it... but I had come that far, and I felt like my work wasn’t finished. So I dug the blade into the sand again, and again, not stopping to measure how deep I was going. Of course, the other nine guys had stopped at five feet like normal, so when the cigarette cherries died out and the supervisors came down to check our work, both of them stopped to gaze down at me. One of them asked me why I hadn’t stopped. I told him; something was down there, I could just feel it. I expected him to call me a dumbass again. But to my surprise, he actually called out to the other diggers and told them to drop what they were doing and come over to expand the area I was working on. I hardly noticed them joining in, honestly, that’s how focussed I was. Almost like I was in some kind of trance. I just kept digging and digging, that feeling pushing me to go deeper and deeper beneath the surface of the sand. We must have spent an hour working like that - me digging deeper at the center, the others widening out the walls. Not that any of us kept track. We were all lost in the work. But all of a sudden, I felt a solid clang when I pierced my shovel through the sand. I had struck something, probably a rock, big enough to not budge in the slightest when I struck it. It sent vibrations through the shovel and up my arm, snapping me back to reality for the moment. I looked up and could barely believe my eyes: we must have dug twenty feet deep. How long had we been at it? I knelt down and started scooping sand away by hand so I could try and get that rock out of the way. I realized then that my heart was pounding. I felt anxious, like we were getting close to something big. I pushed the sand as fast as I could, trying to get to that rock - and then, there it was. Only, as I got the sand off of it, and the others noticed I’d found something, we realized it was way too big to be a rock. That, and the top was perfectly round. Like, unnaturally round. Like it was artificial. Manmade. The supervisors called out for us to call it a night. I have to say, it was tough to walk away from what we’d - what I’d - found. I kept looking back at it as we packed up to leave. Hell, I almost forgot to stop for the money I earned. All of a sudden that wasn’t why I wanted to be out here. I just had to know what that thing buried in the sand was. I thought about it all night. I don’t think I slept four hours, and when I did I think I dreamt of the thing. If it was some kind of artifact, shouldn’t some professor type guys be digging it up? Arachnologists or whatever? I guess that didn’t matter, because now I was the one doing it. And now I was invested. The next night I got there almost an hour early. I had to do a double take - since last night they’d put up one of those aluminum sheds that take no time to set up. I guess now that we couldn’t fill the holes in to keep our work secret, this was the next best thing. At least it hid what went on inside. Even though I was early, I wasn’t the first one there. I got to the door of the shed and the first supervisor was standing there, smoking a cigarette. He let me in - a few men were already digging, with supervisors standing at the edge of the hole and looking down on them. More diggers trickled in, and by the time they stopped coming I counted thirty of us with shovels, and six supervisors directing us. A few of us worked to uncover more of the object in the middle of the hole, and the rest of them kept widening the hole so we wouldn’t get trapped. It wasn’t long before we got a clue to what this thing was - as we dug down, we saw that the round top was just the tip of something way, way bigger. It was definitely manmade. Turns out it was some kind of pillar. On top it was carved into sort of an egg-shaped tip about two feet wide, and at the base of the egg there were some kind of decorative carvings - at least, they looked decorative. A flared base separated the top from the main pillar, which was almost a perfect cylinder. It was perfectly circular all the way around, and as we got a little deeper we started to notice it was flaring outwards ever so slightly as we got closer to the bottom. Not that we stopped to measure. We just kept digging, down, down, down, desperate to unearth this thing. And the deeper we dug, the stronger the urge got. We worked all through the night, way more than two hours. We hardly noticed the time passing. We just wanted to see what was down there. It was nearly sunrise when the supervisors had to tell us to stop. We were more than curious. We were determined. The next night, we were ready to start almost as soon as the sun went down. It seemed like there was no end to the thing - the more we dug, the bigger it seemed. Every night for a week, thirty-six men met under that sheet metal roof to see just how far into the darkness we could dig. Then suddenly, we struck something else. The pillar finally came to an end about forty feet from the top. What we found was that it was connected to a huge, flat platform, and this pillar marked a sixty-degree corner of it. Again we realized this thing was way bigger than we had imagined - it seemed obvious that the platform was probably a large hexagon if the other corners were the same angle, and they were probably marked with a pillar of their own. As our mental image of this thing grew, so did our eagerness to keep going. And our workforce had to grow, too, to keep up with the demand. It was delicate work, so we couldn’t use machinery - before long there were over two hundred people on site, working all through the night to expose this thing. Later I found out there were two hundred and sixteen; thirty-six supervisors, a hundred and eighty diggers. Bigger and bigger the hole grew, and every so often it got close enough to the walls of the shed that by the next night it had to be replaced with a bigger one. We got to the point where we were so deep in the sand that the heat of the daylight sun didn’t reach us, and the light wouldn’t penetrate the shed, so we couldn’t even tell day from night as we worked. So we worked through the days, too, with nothing to stop us. I don’t know how long we’d been working like that when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a break. I had no thoughts of stopping for food, water, or sleep - I felt no hunger, no thirst, and no fatigue despite digging for days without rest. It should have been a disturbing realization. But instead I pushed it to the back of my mind, forcing away any distractions to the process. Finally, after what must have been months in the desert, it was done. We could never have known the size of it when we started. It was on the scale of a football field or a baseball stadium. As we had guessed, the platform formed a huge hexagon, with each corner housing a pillar just like the first one we found. I think it’s called a dais - I heard that word in a video game or something. A big platform used for religious ceremonies and stuff. It definitely gave off a spiritual vibe. Not to mention the effect it had been having on us as we worked. It was hard to take it all in at once in the darkness - you could really only see a few feet in any direction. But once we had finished marveling at it, we kept shuffling around on autopilot. The compulsion to dig was replaced with something else - like a magnetic pull I was drawn to the center of the platform. I couldn’t see the exact center since I didn’t have the pillars for reference, but something was definitely drawing me in. I wasn’t the only one, either. Shortly after I got there it started to get crowded, as all of the diggers tried to reach that spot that was apparently calling to us all. The supervisors were up to something different. They had arranged themselves around us, six of them in a line, with each line radiating from the center out toward one of the pillars. I looked toward the first pillar we had dug up, and saw the original supervisor standing nearest to us, with five others dotting the space between him and the pillar behind them. The six supervisors that formed the ring closest to us was each still smoking a cigarette, and so I could just barely make out that they were each holding a piece of paper. I may not have heard it if I hadn’t seen his lips move in the dim light, but the first one began to read from the paper, his voice barely carrying across the room. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, it was just a dull rumble by the time it reached my ears. But every now and then he’d pause, and the other five would respond all at once, reading from their own papers. Their voices were calming, almost like a lullaby. I could have stayed there forever, I was so relaxed and content. But it didn’t last forever. The voices eventually stopped, and for a moment, there was complete silence. Then, in a quick motion, the first supervisor touched his paper to the tip of his cigarette. The paper burst into flames, and before he burned his fingers he tossed the page high into the air. The others immediately followed, and in the air all we could see were six fireballs floating in the darkness. I turned away in shock and pain, my eyes not used to the light - but the light didn’t care. It kept growing larger and stronger. The light of the flames seemed to activate something in the pillars themselves. They slowly started to give off light of their own, barely noticeable at first, but as the flames died the glow of the pillars grew and grew, until it became unbearable. Even with my eyes closed, the brightness made them hurt. Brighter and brighter, I was sure I’d go blind - then, all at once, darkness fell over us again. When I opened my eyes, the supervisors were gone. Me and the rest of the diggers were left on the platform, huddled at the center, wondering what had just happened. Slowly we began to realize just how strange everything had been up to this point - as we came back to our senses, we started to panic just a little. It was like coming out of hypnosis. Why had we been so obsessed? How long were we out here? And when was the last time we ate or slept? We figured the supervisors just went home for the day, so we might as well go home too. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been home, come to think of it. But we quickly realized that wasn’t an option. The entrance to the hole was nowhere to be found. The panic grew. Was this some kind of sick joke? How could we get out? Eventually someone noticed that they couldn’t even see the ceiling anymore. There was no sign of the shed that used to be there. But in the dark we couldn’t be sure. Someone else grabbed a rock and threw it upwards - in response, we heard the thud of the rock as it hit only sand. See, the place we’re in now, it’s not the same platform we dug up. It’s virtually identical in every way - same six pillars, same big hexagon. But we’re somewhere else now. This place, wherever it is, still has sand all around. It hasn’t been unearthed yet. That’s right. We’re underground. No way of knowing how deep underground, either. Now you’ve heard it, you know as much as we do. But we’ve got a few ideas. We figure whoever built these things, ages ago, must have figured a way to use them for transportation. Some kind of mystical understanding of the universe that got lost to the sands of time, literally and figuratively, along with their civilization. We dug one up, but wherever it sent us, there’s no way of knowing. We could be at the center of the earth for all we know. So all we can do is dig. Lucky for us, it seems like we still don’t need to eat or sleep. Or I suppose that’s unlucky, depending how you look at it. Obviously there’s something supernatural at work here, but at least it means there’s a possibility of getting out of here. How long’s it been? Well, you tell me. Every now and then, someone like you comes along who manages to transport themselves here accidentally - like I said, we don’t know how any of this shit works. It teleported us underground, who’s to say it doesn’t affect time too? But if the info we have from people like you is true, we’ve gone through a few presidents since I first got here. Down here in the darkness, though, with no sun to rise and fall and mark the days, time all kind of just starts blending together. So we dig. Some of us dig, still hoping we find a way out someday. Some of us dig because they don’t know what else to do. Some of us do it to keep from going insane. But it’s not all bad. We’ve got a few cigarettes left. Every now and then we’ll light one up and it lets us see how far we’ve come. We try to conserve them, though - only so many to go around. But you’re new here, so go ahead, feel free. I’ll have one with you. Call it a welcome to your new home. Just one question for you.


You could say he was an outsider, because he was all the wrong shape. The same shape, but different none-the-less. For starters, he was bigger than all the others, he ate more than them, was expected to live longer than them and had a wild sleeping pattern - making it difficult to meet the demands of their nocturnal raids every second evening. He would not give up even though he was still a lowly squire awaiting his induction into knighthood, because of his guinea pig upbringing. He was brought up by his furry guinea pig parents, only for them to perish fighting for the new world rodent peace pact - a raging war amoungst the rats, guinea folk, flying squirrels and porcupines alike, which ended in most of the other species of rodents to leave the Woden lands for the rats to capitalize on and build it into Rattingworth. This definitely separated him from all the other sir-rats surrounding him in the kingdom as Gawain the Guinea pig was left to Morgause and her critters as an orphan once the wars settled. “Gawain”, he heard from inside the Armory, “Come and attend sir Basil of Rattingworth immediately!” He made his way inside and saluted a few Rattingworth guard’s standing stoically, as best he could by grabbing the tufts of hair from his bottom and holding them to his forehead - a typical respected greeting in this part of the land, but it was birthed from obviously having the long rat-esque tails, which all the rats had for these types of pleasantries. Gawain was carrying a chainmail shirt and a wooden plated breastplate perfectly fitted for this specific knight, to dress him before the ceremony. He noticed that Sir Basil was chittering to the young rattish page boys, sitting on the floor and idolizing him with his broad toothy grin on his face and a mug of wine sloshing about in his gnarled left hand. He liked Sir Basil for his kindness, as this knight didn’t seem to mind the way Gawain looked and always specifically called out for him for special suiting up occasions. “Ah, Sir Gawain of Burrowin. How wonderful for you to come and visit an old shard like myself.” He said, while flashing his red-stained smile and clapping Gawain on the back. He always did make up funny highborn names for Gawain to be a knight of and this warmed him dearly. “Now you must tell me how you enjoy Lady Iso’s delectable vegetable broth... she said she just had to give you three servings so that you don’t starve!” Gawain slowly wound around the page boys on the ground and found the armoury’s writing desk to lean the heavy armour on. He cleared his throat and replied, “Very good indeed sir! Your mistress makes the best broth in the kingdom!” And this is where his stomach decided to unceremoniously growl. He looked at Sir Basil sheepishly (as if a Guinea pig could) and back down at his stomach. Sir Basil’s laughter boomed throughout the echoey chamber and with this satisfaction he downed his whole mug of wine and the page boys took this as a sign to run rat-boyishly out of the room. His crinkly aged eyes followed them out of the chamber and fell onto Gawain again, which relaxed the oversized squire. “Now then, lets suit up for the ceremony and see if we can get out of this war business eh?” He winked and beckoned Gawain over with his one good hand. Gawain dressed Sir Basil and shined his metal boots for good measure. Seeming satisfied as usual, Sir Basil gave him a respectful nod and marched to the door on the other side of the armoury, which led into the main courtroom where they were scheduled for today's proceedings. Before he grabbed the doorknob, he turned wildly around towards Gawain, so close that he felt his whiskers and smelled the wine emanating from his armour now and murmured, “Remember to chin up, pull your stomach in and be proud that you are different, but needed and that’s what gets us through this darn world in the end.” He had a sparkle in his eye that Gawain always remembered as a small guinea pig pup and he nodded at this old shard of a knight. Definitely having feelings of admiration towards him now. Sir Basil proceeded to open the door and they were both overshadowed by the greatness of the ceremonial court, stories high with crimson red tapestries clinging to the walls, which were shining with a stoney opulence. Gawain felt intimidated every time, as it was a court that he was usually barred from, but with these ceremonies everyone was invited - even the “lowly rats” from the south region. He followed a short while and took his place amoungst the other squire’s in their allotted pew, where they turned up their twitchy noses at him and shuffled a little down from him. They were always doing this sort of thing and he never decided if it was from fear or because they thought he was too different to them and jealous of the “special” attention. Sir Basil walked on and up towards the elevated stand, where he met with Lord Ambrosai of the Woden’s kingdom - in front of the large ceremonious gathering. Gawain couldn’t say what serious and ceremonious matters they were on about and felt his vegetable broth kicking in, giving him a bit of the sleepy eyes that could no longer focus on anything around him. What did catch his attention and woke him up was a sudden and violent crack at the wooden doors leading to the gardens and the whole gathering shuffled in their seats and looked around alarmingly, twitching their little noses towards the strange sound. Lord Ambrosai immediately rested his acorn sceptre that he usually paraded at these things on the ground and Sir Bazil stopped mid sentence. The doors blew open, making the wooden shards spray all about the sparking foyer, highlighting a silhouette of a parachute like membrane, stretching from wrist to ankle. This different rodent-like figure with her cape flapping in the outward breeze came strolling in. Merin had her best on today, as she sported a deep purple cloak with velvety orange slippers and had a saunter without a care in her step, through to the aisle towards the front. Sir Basil laughed to himself and grabbed another wine-filled mug from the grass-encrusted table next to him and started inhaling the liquid as if he expected all of this. Gawain had a feeling that he probably did and was always prepared. Lord Ambrosai finally announced, with an irritating edge in his voice, “Ahh, Lady Merin, enchantress of north Treetingwood. How lovely of you to join!” Sir Basil rolled his eyes, but still did a semblance of a bow towards her, which made him slosh some of the wine on the carpeted floor around him. Merin wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and pointedly stared her beady black eyes towards them both as if they were just puppets on a stage. Her orange velvet steps were sinuous and so was her voice which uttered, “You know why I’m here dear sirs. For you see I’ve needed that acorn sceptre - a family heirloom I might add - for far too long now!!” With the last words she smacked her lips closed and stopped in her tracks. The highlord handed this acorn sceptre that she was referring to, towards Sir Basil and he held it lightly in his good hard, while still playfully sipping from the mug in his bad one, without question. “Lady Merin,” he started again, while his hairy hackles began to stand on edge under his pompous frilly shirt, “This is not the time for such deep conversation...” “Deep conversation?” She cut in dexterously, “I’d enjoy nothing less!” and with that, she threw her cloak back and exposed her dangerously glowing hands, which seemed to signal a charge of similar flying squirrels to glide through the open windows and front door of the courtroom that she had already exploded open upon entry. Dressed in plain woollen dresses, very different to her own, the squirrel folk seized the ratfolk around the chamber, which made Gawain shoot up to his bare furry feet and make a still sleepy movement towards Sir Basil to act as some sort of protection. The rat squires around him looked pointedly annoyed at his freedom, while they sat in the clutches of their winged capturers, but he gallantly moved on. The enchanted squirrels couldn’t seem to get a grip on his mass even with their claws and so he batted them off of himself to stand next to the knight. Merin seemed frighteningly irritated at this and began storming her way through the wild crowd towards the three. Once her army of squirrels settled the crowds down with each lowly and highborn rat in a chokehold, she cleared her throat and set her purple electrifying magic from her hands unto the Lord and Sir Basil. The whole room of admirers and followers gasped at this scene, but did not dare move in their holds. Gawain felt helpless and scared, but she barely seemed to notice his large mass next to the highborn rats and she walked up to Sir Basil and plucked the acorn sceptre out of his hand - suspended in this purple magic, not even being able to move an eyelid at what had just happened. Her cloak brushed Gawain’s open toes and this made him automatically freeze like they seemed to be even though he wasn’t under their same spell. Merin moved towards him then and smiled a malicious smile as if she had just noticed him then, before turning to leave, but before she could round up her party to do so, a strange sound of high-pitched air sort-of trumpet filled the ceremony room and she paused. Gawain dropped his furry hands to his belly and looked awkwardly down at it. She however did not look amused about his passing of gas, even though the entire room filled with chittering laughter at this. If he didn’t feel like the attention wasn’t on him, he felt it now as the waves of laughter seemed to anger her more and she pointed her sceptre at his grumbling belly. Before she could do any further damage, her eyes opened wide and she began foaming at the mouth. Gawain was totally shocked by this absurd response to his wind, however the air around him was filling up with a rather pungent vegetable-broth smell. She collapsed soon after and the purple magic that enveloped the highbord rats disappeared. The flying squirrels one-by-one also seemed to shake her grip from their minds and all joined in with the laughter their previous captives were still enjoying around that funny and absurd sound. Lord Ambrosai and Sir Basil gave Gawain a shocked look even though their eyes wanted to smile through it all. Sir Basil clapped the large Guinea pig on the shoulder and muttered, “Must have been the missus’s vegetable broth giving your old stomach some trouble eh?” and he flashed that fatherly smile he usually did. The Lord shook himself straight and reached for the sceptre lying next to the sorceress, who was in her own farty trance on the floor. He regained his place and looked out to the sea of furry faces, rats and squirrels alike. “Thank Burrowin’s children, we and the acorn sceptre are safe!” The crowd whooped and cheered at this in jubilation. He then rounded Gawain’s other side and both Sir Basil and him lifted both of his hands up to the crowd for all of them to cheer him on. “And thank this brave um...” He thought for a second and whispered to Gawain, “What are you exactly little or rather, large sir?” Gawain looked down quickly and muttered, “A guinea pig my Lord.” “Sir Gawain of Burrowin to be exact.” Sir Basil chimed in.” And this brought some amusement to the old Lord's face. “Let’s thank Sir Gawain of Burrowin for being the smelliest, but also the bravest rodent there ever was!” The crowd chimed together. “Hear, hear!” and carried on their whoops and cheers, which made Sir Gawain the Outsider feel pretty at home in this kingdom.