Sheesh, I have literally posted three stories in one day! How crazy is that! For all who are still here, I give you, the next of Rune's adventures! Shoutout to Antman (Katelyn) for being so awesome and sticking by to read this series! ____________ Rune fell onto his backside, in shock. His face was blank, his breath tiny plumes. Goosebumps were raised on his bare arms. After only a few seconds, he trembled with cold. Tiny white flakes drifted from the sky. Rune’s ears twitched as they collected the white flakes. He didn’t move. Only breathed, his mind completely empty. He had no thoughts. Slowly, he sunk onto his back, cold seeping through his thin shirt. His deep purple eyes closed and his breath rushed out. Only one word now loomed through his mind. Why? Rune seemed to collapse further, as if he could collapse while already being down so low. Far up and far away, Artemis and Colden watched Rune as he gave up. In their minds, two words. Get up. Get up . They were rooting for him. They needed him to come to his senses, to fight. To see a reason to rise. Rune lay still among the tall, frozen grass. He thought of everyone who was out to get him, to have him locked up or killed. Admiral Gallas wanted him mind controlled, unaware of his own body, acting out someone else’s will. Artemis wanted him to overthrow his own people, thinking only for humans. All other humans hated him. Sarsh hated him now, too. What was the point in fighting, in living, if there was no one to love, and no one to love him ? But then, Rune remembered something else. His siblings. Tycho’s wide smile and loving character, Sharn’s quiet and thoughtful nature, Amarillius’s motherly, caring heart. They loved him, yet he had given them no love. They stayed with him, though he was never there for them. And if he gave up, they would have no one to love them back. Rune rose, a light dusting of snow falling off his chilled body. Far away, Artemis and Colden breathed a sigh of relief. “Do we go get him?” Colden asked. Artemis shook his head. “He is not ready. Just wait.” “How will we know when to get him? There is no way for him to talk to us.” “We will know, I assure you. If he is as smart as he seems, he will know what to do.” Rune stood among the falling flakes, trembling with cold. Quickly, he morphed into a vayne. The creature’s fur would keep him warm until he found a solution. He bounded through the tall grass, a blue streak among brown and white. He raced toward the woods as an idea formed in his mind. As he ran, he morphed back to himself and came to a stop at the base of a tree. It was small, but would serve his purpose. Rune’s arm transformed into the blade and seconds later, the ringing of metal on wood echoed through the silence. The sarsh sweated freely as he worked; it chilled him to the bone and the shivering caused him to slip. Beside the gunshot wound, there was now a neat slice down his leg where he had accidentally cut himself while chopping a tree, hot silver blood welled from it, soaking his pant leg. His body felt frozen and stiff, but he kept moving. One hour later, Rune was trembling so violently, his whole body ached. His skin was soaked with frozen sweat, his clothing dirty. But in front of him, a massive pile of freshly cut wood was stacked in a pyramid. The wood was rich with oil and would burn well. Exhausted and almost falling over, Rune held his cybernetic arm to the wood, the single blue flame licked against it. In seconds, it caught and spread, burning bright and hot. Rune’s shivering lessened as the warmth blasted upwards and outwards, the air wavering with it. The sun disappeared below the trees, as the fire burned on, Rune kept moving, adding more wood and hoping Artemis would see somehow and come back. Colden had said they were watching, so they had to see the massive fire. They didn’t, or if they did, they didn’t come. But something else did.


A tiny hand reaches towards a small, round, faintly glowing berry growing in a wild berry bush. “Not ready!” an elderly woman chirps, smacking the hand away only hard enough to sting for a second. The hand, belonging to a wide-eyed, confused boy, retracts quickly from the berry bush. The child looks up at the woman, eyebrows furrowed unhappily. “Why not, Oma?” the child whines. “The moon is not full in the sky,” the woman says, turning and pointing through the trees at the just over half-full moon, “We must wait until it is full, that is when the berries are ripest.” The child looks to the moon and sighs dejectedly at the sight of the thing. “How much fuller does it got to be?” the child questions once he turns his attention back to his grandmother. The woman looks back up to the sky and squints her eyes. She purses her lips and shrugs, “Not much longer,” she reaches for his hand, and lifts a basket of berries from the ground, “We will come back when it is time.” The boy glances to the moon one final time before grabbing his grandmother’s hand and following her down the dirt path back to their village. As the boy lays his bed that night, he finds himself searching for the moon through the cracks in his blinds. Once he’s sure his parents are sound asleep in the other room, he slides out from under the covers and hastily yanks the string to his blinds. They reel open with a clatter, and he jerks his head to his door, waiting for someone to come running in at the noise. He stands, breathless for more than a minute, staring through the dark of his room. Finally, he lets out a sigh and peers through his window. The moon almost seems to stare back at him, its eye only half open. He traces the outline of it on his window with the tip of his finger thoughtfully. Suddenly, he jumps up with an idea on his mind, and hurriedly tip-toes over to his drawer. He digs through it as quietly as a child can, and eventually pulls out a small marker. He pops the lid off the marker and begins to draw on his window, giving the moon a second, crudely drawn eye and a toothy smile. He smiles similarly back at it, only with his front two teeth missing. At this point, he slinks back into bed and curls up under his covers. The boy stares out the window until sleep eventually takes him. He repeats this same routine each night for days, watching as the moon’s light slowly creeps from center to edge. “*Psst*,” his grandmother whispers through the crack in his door one night. He had only just gotten into bed, and wondered why she would come at such a late hour to see him. “Oma?” he questioned curiously. “Yes,” she says, peeking her head into the door with an excited grin, “Put your clothes on, it’s time.” The boy had never jumped out of bed so quickly in his life. “Quietly!” she chirps in a hushed yell. He nods and continues getting ready. Soon, they’re back on the path to the patch of forest again. The boy looks down at his hand that his grandmother is not holding, and watches it tremble with excitement. He can see the bush before they even get to it, and wonders why it is covered in fireflies for a moment. All at once, he realizes that it is *not* fireflies, but the berries that are glowing so brightly. The boy tears away from his grandmother and sprints towards the berries, smiling from ear to ear. His grandmother lets him go easily, as she remembers her first time seeing the moonberries, too. In pure awe, he stands in front of the bush. He cautiously reaches towards one, a single finger extended out. He pokes one, gently pressing its glowing skin. He giggles, and turns towards his grandma who is finally by his side. He looks to the berries, then back at her. She nods in approval, placing her hand on his back to urge him forward. She holds her basket near him in wait. The boy plucks one, causing the leaves to quietly rustle. He goes to place it into the basket but his grandma stops him. She points to his mouth and his eyes widen. “Can I?” he asks. “Your patience should be rewarded,” she says softly, glancing up at the moon. He turns to the moon, still holding the plump berry between his fingers. Closing his eyes, he puts the berry into his mouth and bites down. The taste is unlike anything he had before. It’s sweet, tangy, yet mild in flavor. He savors it as long as he can before it melts away from his taste buds. When it’s over, he and his grandmother begin to pick handfuls of the ripe berries to fill the basket. They stand there for some time, combing through the bush that never seems to run out of berries no matter how many they pick. Once she is satisfied, his grandmother takes the boy’s hand and they begin back down the path to their village, both with smiles plastered on their faces. The boy looks up at the full moon as they walk, imagining its one, gleaming eye looking down on him fondly. He sends it one last toothless grin, and giggles.


Prompt: A man gifts dreams in a world where people have forgotten how to dream. When I first heard about him, I thought he was a myth; like Big Foot or the Yeti. I didn’t think it was possible, not anymore anyway. We, the human race, lost our ability to dream back in the late 2050s when governments began approving the commercialization of “designer babies.” For the first time in human history, parents could choose specific DNA traits that they would want their children to inherit. Children grew up brighter, more athletic, beautiful and eventually more successful than children conceived through traditional insemination. In a world filled with perfect human beings, the poor couldn’t afford to compete and over time the world’s population shrank to a point where everyone had been created in a lab. We now possessed the richest pool of genetic material than ever studied before. However, by about the second or third generation people began forgetting how to dream. It took years for studies and research to effectively conclude that people were no longer able to dream. Scientists dully explained the connection between the neurons that are active during the REM phase while we were asleep and nucleotides in our DNA, which became repressed and extinct over time. It was similar to the theory behind natural selection. The damage was done; it seemed inconsequential to people back then, they didn’t need as much sleep as the generations before then. Large genetic corporations who essentially customized babies spun it as “evolution.” People had no choice but to move on. Decades flew by. Dreaming was a lost design and Oneirology a forgotten science; our brains could no longer build the framework we needed to dream.The world we grew up in dreaming was a fable, told to little kids to get them to sleep. My grandfather used to tell me stories when I was a young boy about his grandfather who like all humans at the time, could dream. He spoke of the limitless nature of dreams; of precognition, visions and anything you ever wanted. I was always fascinated by the idea even though I never completely understood it. It was hard for me to imagine what a dream was, but I used to wish that when I fell asleep that I would be magically whisked away into my world of imagination. As I grew up, desires of dreaming faded away over time when I met the love of my life. All I wanted to do was to be with this gorgeous woman who somehow loved me too. I wanted to spend every moment of life making her smile and watching her laugh. She lit up my life and we were inseparable. I knew early on that she would always be the best thing every happened to me, I guess I won the jackpot early. You don’t win the lottery twice.. We were so close to getting married when she passed away in car accident. They could barely identify her remains. I’m I could’ve saved her if I was there. There was a giant hole in my heart and I didn’t want to fill it. My life was never going to be the same. Everything I saw was grey; I didn’t want to meet people or work anymore. I only wanted to be with her, at least one last time to say goodbye. I just wanted to see her smile again. Dreams.. The one place I knew I’d find her. While conducting research on the last known man to have dreamt, I found out that there was a man who was still alive, but barely. Through some persistence I convinced Mr. Takahama’s children to let me interview him. He was a lot older and more frail that I had pictured. The backstory was that he, being one of the earlier generations of designer babies, he retained the ability to dream till he was a teen. Now, at 120 years he was the last of the fortunate. During his interview, he told me that he last dreamt a couple of years ago. I was shocked, but his children brushed it off as a sign of old age. He pulled me closer and whispered, “there is a man who goes by the Dreamer, seek him and you shall find your answers.” I chuckled at the suggestion but Mr. Takahama said this more sternly than anything he had all evening. I went looking for “the Dreamer” but most my leads were dead ends. I was mocked by my colleagues at the university. I was searching for a ghost, for a man who didn't want to be found. A few people had heard of him but no one knew anything about him for certain. I spent the better part of a year chasing a shadow. I was close to giving up, but I wanted to experience what it felt like to dream. Fortunately, a few days before I was about concede in defeat, the phone rang. The man, one of my leads, spoke hurriedly, “we found him, we found Aserinsky.” “Who?” I asked. “Eugene Aserinsky, the Dreamer. We’ve located him Vienna. You better fly out tonight. This is the last chance you’ll ever get." I was excited but I tried to keep my expectations in check. I had never been so close but every other lead had ended in disappointment. I barely slept a wink on the flight to Vienna, Austria. I had so many questions and thoughts spinning through my head. I prayed that answers awaited me. I made my way towards the Albertina, a historic museum built in the 17th century, to meet Aserinsky. My contact had told him that I had spent a significant portion of my life studying dreams and managed to convince him to meet me. I wasn’t sure what to expect. He looked the part; an elderly man worn down by time. His silverish hair resonated wisdom and his light brown eyes gleamed of visions unseen. He spoke with a certain charisma that few developed. It became immediately known to me that he was the one I pursued. “Do you know why I asked you to meet me here?” He spoke clearly but softly. “Not really, I know this museum stores some of the rarest paintings from the Renaissance period centuries ago.” I replied, hoping to impress him. “Exactly, these painters were considered to be visionaries, romantics, dreamers and philosophers. This time period had a huge impact on human culture; the arts, science and the humanities. I’ve had dreams where I’m lost in this beauty.” “Dreams.. Do you dream?” I asked nervously. “Yes, I do dream. A long time ago, I discovered I had a gift for being able to dream and that I could give others the ability to dream. Our brains are no longer as capable of processing REM as decades ago, so the few men who I gave my ability to, eventually killed themselves because they couldn't distinguish a dream from reality. Why do you wish to dream so desperately?” “I wish to be with the one person who completed me. She was taken away from me and I would do anything to be with her again.”, I reasoned. “I must warn you that dreams are powerful; they are as real in your minds as life around you. You may die from your brain being unable to process the nerve impulse transmissions.The sad part would be that your mind wouldn’t know the difference between a dream and death.” Confidently I replied, “Yes, I understand the risks.” The next thing I remember is falling asleep in my bed, floating away in a timeless time where my soul escaped into a life that wasn’t my own. I didn’t know if I was dreaming or dead but I saw her. She looked as gorgeous as ever. Even if it was death, I found some solace in knowing that I would finally be with her.


It was a hard thing, being dead. Watching the rise and fall of the seasons without the heat of the sun on your face or the chill of a winter storm. Seeing the world change in flashes and cutscenes but with time standing still. Growing attached to the people living in your house (he always thought of them as lodgers) only to find them suddenly grown or gone. Most of all, Art just felt so very, very tired. Whenever he manifested, it was with a feeling of immense sadness, and with the basement door at his back. He could go anywhere in the house but not beyond the garden. He never went into the basement. He didn't think he'd be tired. Weren't you supposed to sleep when you're dead? Instead he found himself roaming at all hours, and after all these years he could still never get used to the sensation of knowing his feet were walking without being able to feel wood or carpet underneath him. He'd love to just stub his toe. Or bang his head on a doorway. That would be amazing. Because he was dead, but didn't feel dead. If he concentrated hard enough, really put a lot of effort in, he could move things. More than once his frustrations had boiled into a blind rage and he had lost awareness for a few moments only to find he was standing in a room full of thrown furniture, or next to a chandelier that had been pulled from the ceiling. But he could never remember doing this, despite knowing that he had. Those days tended to scare the lodgers. Some had walked around burning sage, or brought in priests to sprinkle holy water. That tended to sting for a long time, but he came back eventually, usually with the sense that something was incomplete. It was a very old house, though whether it was old when he was alive he couldn’t say. He could remember nothing from the Time Before. He didn't mean to scare people, most of the time. He felt he had been a good person when he was alive, and generally let people be themselves, but he could not abide the slightest injustice toward women. Once, a very elegant couple and their two children had lived in his house. Avena was tall, with a carefree laugh that reminded him of somebody. She had some business that she ran from home. Alexei was shorter, well-built, and worked outside the house. He sounded educated, but often reduced his wife to tears with demeaning vulgarity and cruel insults. Then one evening in summer, he crashed a fist into her stomach. Once. Twice. A third time. As she collapsed, gasping for air as he draped himself on the leather couch, Art was overcome with a bitter flash of memory. It laid itself over the scene as if then and now existed at once. The oak and white furniture of now phased into heavier, darker cabinets and hard chairs. A man in a waistcoat, face crimson with rage (father?) standing over a woman (mother?) who was pleading for her life. “Please,” she said over and over again. “He’s yours, I swear it.” “You’d say anything, though, wouldn’t ya? I married you when ya had nothing, nothing, took ya outta the gutter where I shoulda left you. And all the while ya’d betrayed me with him, a damned foreigner, like I’m not good enough for ya.” He punctuated each sentence with a slap of his leather belt and the woman threw her hands up to protect her face. He leaned in close. “I’ll teach ya a lesson, and that little bastard of yours upstairs then.” Faster than Art thought possible, the man wrapped the belt around her throat. She kicked and slashed his face to ribbons but he was fierce and implacable. With her last breath she reached out, toward Art, her eyes wider with panic. As she slumped to the floor the man stood up and looked where she had been reaching. “There ya are, ya little bastard. I’ll show you and all.” The man, his face twisted with blind rage, thump thump thumped across the floorboards and swept the boy off the floor and held him before the brass mirror in the hallway. “Look at ya, ya little pup,” the man said in a frenzy, as he throttled a boy no more than twelve years old until his eyes bled. The room spun and Art found himself back where he had been, standing in a doorway watching the two newest lodgers. He raised his hands in front of where his face should be. He had always fancied that his hands were large, callused and rough, the hands of a man. Now they were slight and bony, the hands of a child with a lot of growing ahead of him. The two visions of himself sat one on top of the other, with the deep sense that had to act, for the sake of the woman who must have been his mother, murdered just a few feet away. Alexei got up and walked through Art. As Art turned around he saw the man briefly take on the hulking rage of his father before reverting to his normal, well-built shape. That morphing, and seeing his own hands transition from child to man to child again, put the kernel of an idea in Art’s mind, though he wasn’t sure he had the strength to accomplish it. He crept toward where the woman had pulled herself up by using a side table for support. She could not have been much older than his mother, and though they looked nothing alike Art realised he knew this all along. Drawn by long dormant instinct, he tried to hold his hand out to her, but all that happened was the lamp on the table started to flicker and pulse. The woman saw it, and looked around her. “If somebody is there,” she whispered, “please help me.” She limped off toward the small room he knew she used as an office. From upstairs came the sound of the shower, and Art’s half-idea blossomed into something fully formed. As he made his way up the stairs, each lightbulb he passed flickering for a moment or two, he wondered how he could feel so much older than a lad of twelve. Had it been the years of watching people come and go? Had he been an old soul even in youth? He knew there was an answer, could feel it rolling around the edges of his consciousness, but it was just out of reach. No matter. He had a job to do now, and he intended to do it well. Alexei came out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel before going to the sink to brush his teeth. He slicked his hair back with his hand, then realised he couldn’t see himself in the steamed mirror, and Art knew his opportunity had arrived. He moved quickly behind Alexei, and as the man wiped the mirror clean Art came forward . Alexei wasn’t looking as he wiped the glass but then screamed in transfixed horror as he saw not his own face, but a dripping decayed mass of a thing, green in places with decay and mottled with neglect. It was a ruined mockery of a human being, mostly bleached white as if it hadn’t seen the sun in a generation. Its eyes were gouged out and its lower lip missing. The creature laughed at him, a rattling hollow laugh that Alexei could feel right down his breastbone. “Look upon your sins,” the cadaver said. “Or next time you’ll be joining me in hell.” Alexei screamed and screamed and screamed and when Avena came up eventually, having enjoyed hearing his terror for over an hour, his hair had gone bone white and he had slashed his eyeballs with his nails. She held him by the jaw, this once supremely confident brute now blinded and hoarse, and laughed. Not a malevolent laugh, but the relieved laugh of one who has had long prayed-for justice. “My guardian angel must have been looking out for me,” she said, mostly to herself as she tapped on her breastbone three times. “Thank you.” Art, exhausted by concentrating so much on his apparition, faded out to the sound of her whispering “thank you, thank you, thank you”. Do you dream when you’re dead, he found himself wondering in the void. Or are you remembering? He was not asleep, he could never truly sleep, but he was being overrun by emotions that felt almost ancient. It was like old muscles awakening after being long out of use. Flashes of faces, of darkness, of hands scratching in the dark and crawling through perpetual night. He felt the march of time, felt it flowing through him, and then past him. He saw new faces, families, felt their growth and traces of their memories. He saw lights turning on and off, heard soft steps on the landing, curtains rustling without wind. When he became fully aware of himself, he was again standing with his back to the basement door. Yet things were different this time. It wasn’t just sadness that he felt. It was tempered now with resolve, determination. He was, he realised, ready to go down there - but he didn’t want to go alone. Avena, he realised, was not in the house. He could sense her absence, but felt also that the place had not been lived in for some time. How much time has passed, he asked himself. And yet, as he drifted through silent rooms and past covered furniture, it had not changed much. He knew without remembering that he had been here many times since that night, but only as a shadow of himself. He also knew that he had been welcomed. There was a jangle of keys and the front door opened stiffly. Two women came in confidently, as if it was a long familiar place. The bright winter sunlight obscured their faces until they shut the door behind them, and he found, happily, that one of the women was Avena. She was older, the passage of time marked in crows’ feet and silver streaks in her hair, but she was no less herself. She carried herself with the contentment of a life well lived. The other woman was shorter, with sandy rather than auburn hair, but the resemblance was remarkable. Her daughter, no doubt, and eventually he remembered her name had been Rebecca. No, Becky. She hated Rebecca. The two took a few steps in and Avena held her hand up to stop Becky. “There,” she whispered, with the hint of a smile. “He’s here.” “Are you sure you want to do this mom? I mean, it’s his house. It wouldn’t be fair to hurt him.” “He did something incredible for me, once. He gave me my life back. I want to return the favour Becky. I’ve been waiting years, it’s why I’ve kept this place for so long and why I keep coming back. You know, you thought I was mad when I told you, but then you felt him yourself, that time when your brother had a seizure in the bathtub.” The daughter nodded. “I remember,” she said gently. “He said he went under and then something pulled him out of the water and just held him up.” “So now we owe our guardian angel two favours. You know something has trapped him here. That’s what all the books say, isn’t it? Unfinished business? He deserves as much peace as anybody.” “But we can’t force him out.” “We won’t. We’ll just give him a way, if he wants it.” Without thinking, Art made the crystals on a dusty Tiffany lamp jingle. “There!” said Avena. “He’s listening.” “Can you tap something,” said Becky. “Once for no, twice for yes?” With amusement, Art tapped twice on the sideboard. “Do you want us to do something?” Two taps. He knew what he wanted, but how to tell them? They were looking at each other, trying to answer the same question. He moved down the hallway toward the kitchene, then tapped twice on the solid wood doorframe. “Let’s follow him,” Avena whispered. “I’m nervous,” said Becky. “What if...?” “Don’t worry. If we were supposed to be scared of him we would have known that years ago.” “That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Becky as they walked toward the back of the house. “I’m worried about scaring him.” Art was confused, as if he should know what they were talking about but couldn’t call it to mind. Having brought them this far, he drifted to the basement door. But it was hard. Part of him absolutely did not want to go down there. The rest of him knew it was time. He tapped twice on the door. Avena and Becky exchanged another look, and Avena unlocked it. The door swung out into pitch darkness, and Art was overcome with fear. There was pain in the darkness. “Do you want to go on?” asked Becky. One tap... then a hesitant second. “Do you want us to come?” Two taps. Avena flicked a switch but the ancient yellow bulb barely threw back the blackness. “I think I only came down here two or three times,” she told Becky. “I never liked it.” Art had already begun down the stairs, almost cringingly slow as he fought a rising panic and despair. It was pressing on him from the air itself. “You’re not alone,” said Avena, and he knew she was talking to him. “But it’s the only way we can find out how to help you be at peace.” The light grew gently brighter, then changed colour, and Art felt himself abruptly shift between then and now. There was a thumping, raging charge down the stairs, right through him and the others. Though they couldn’t see anything, both shivered. The cruelly contorted man was dragging a barely conscious child down the stairs, not caring if his legs clattered and stumbled. “You’re scum and you’ll stay here,” he roared at the child, before returning back up the stairs and turning the light out, locking the door behind him. Art felt the sensations of scrabbling around on a dirt floor, inching one direction and then the other in the hope of finding something, anything. His legs weren’t working. It felt like it was going on for hours, before the door was flung open briefly and a heavy thing wrapped in carpet crashed down the steps, knocking the child over. The light lasted just long enough for him to see his mother’s dead face. Snapshots and sensations washed over him. Lights flicking on and off to taunt him with his mother’s putrifying face while he ate scraps; the sound, not the sight but the sound of rats eating at her eyes and lips in the abyss despite his efforts to fight them off; the hands of a child growing steadily to be the hands of a man, worn and callused from attempts to climb the stairs and pry the door open until his strength grew almost to nothing. And every day, the corpse of his mother kept watch over him. Sometimes his father, spoke to him; other times, out of guilt or boredom perhaps, he left the light on and threw Art books. But mostly there was just the dark, and silence, and starvation. The flight through memories slowed, then stopped. His father was sitting by the end of the staircase. He had set a bright flashlight on the step next to him, the intense white casting shadows over every crag of his own decaying face. His great strength had turned to flab, and his breathing was loud and ragged. He had something wrapped in a thick tarpaulin at his feet. Art, having spent half a lifetime in the dark, could barely look in the man’s direction. “There comes a time,” his father wheezed, “when all accounts ... are settled.” He was staring at the floor as Art lay a few feet away, weak and feverish. His legs had never truly recovered. “I don’t have much time ... left. Maybe your mother ... cursed me. Maybe ... I am your father ... isn’t life a blast? But no more of that.” “What do you mean?” Art was struggling to think, and was increasingly ill on the floor in the cold. “I mean ... no more of that.” And with a rush of speed belying his decrepit state, from the tarpaulin he dragged a hefty pickaxe, and crashed it down on Art’s stunned face. Floating outside of themselves, now-Art sharing the space and feelings of then-Art, newly freed from his mortal shell. His father was digging a pit, pausing frequently to rest, and when it was deep enough he used the pickaxe to shove Art’s broken body into it, along with the carpet and what remained of Art’s mother. Art watched the man begin to fill it in and drifted up and out of himself, losing contact with the world and disappearing into the void ... before appearing for the first time outside the basement door, ignorant of everything that had come before. Now-Art walked down the steps, tapping as he went so Avena and Becky would follow. In the centre of the room was a rough, discoloured patch, wide and irregular. He slammed his foot down on it three times, they looked at one another, and then dug at the packed earth with their hands in a flurry. It was nearly an hour before they found the first shreds of carpet, and another fifteen minutes before they uncovered the skull of a young man. Both of them heard a gasp of pure relief and a whispered “thank you”. And then, for the first time in the longest time, Art slept.


“Tick... Tick... Tick...” “How longs he been doing that? Asked the Officer “Ahh about 3 days.” Chuckled the guard. “Man, why do y’all always get the crazies?” “Shit, you tell me.” The officer responded. The prisoner, restrained by a straight jacket, slowly creaked his head toward the door. An eerie, almost sickening grin formed on his face, he didn’t look human. His jaws unclenched as he once again started in with, “Tick... tick...” “Man I’m outta here.” Joked the officer. The guard shuffled around, “You just gonna leave me here with the clock?” “YUP.” Echoed through the halls as the officer got further away. The guard turns back with a murmur and decides to sit down and just watch the prisoner. There he is, rocking back in forth in his chair, “Tick... tick...” “Man what is it with you and ticking anyways?” There’s that sick smile again as the prisoners head rotates towards the window. “Tick-“ “You a fuckin bomb or something? Do I need to call in the bomb squad to dis-arm you? The guard laughed. “Seriously though... What exactly are you counting down to?” “Tick... tick... tick...” The guard frustratedly unlocks the prisoners room and walks in against orders, he walks over to the prisoner and knocks on his head, “HELLO? ANYBODY HOME?” ... He knocks forcefully on the prisoners head this time, “HOW BOUT YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING TICKING FOR!” ... The prisoner let’s out a chuckle, then it gradually escalates to a hearty laugh as the guard watches, bug eyed. “Oh man, time.. it’s a funny thing isn’t it?” “Not really.. What you talkin about weirdo?” “The unstoppable marching of time of course... just think, we could have all the technology, power, wisdom, and riches in the world, yet when the time comes, there’s no buying extra. Time waits for no man, and death waits with cold hands-“ “Okay Socrates cut the shit, I’m just trying to do my job and you’re bugging the fuck out of me with your ticks. Care to stop?” The prisoner chuckled “Like I said, time is a funny thing. You’re passing the time until your shift is over, I’m passing the time until my trial. Each of us have a timer over our heads, ticking, counting down to the day we cease to exist...” The prisoner notices the guards face of confidence drooping, “Oh! but you won’t have to worry officer, your timer is almost to zero, you won’t even have to finish this shift.” “Wait.. what the hell does that even mean?... You can’t hurt me you’re in a straight jacket. If you’re threatening me I can shoot you right fucking here and right fucking now.” The prisoner just grins and looks at him. The guard yells while drawing his pistol and putting a bullet in the chamber. “I’m not fuckin around man, CUT. THE. SHIT.” The prisoners mouth clenches once again and forms that sickening grin as he looks up into the guards eyes. “Tick... tick...


**Broken World** The man swept through the streets of what remained of Larneth. The once prosperous city was now a refuge for the peasants the handicapped, the poor... In other words - filth. Even so, this filth saw him as a hero, and so he had to play the part appropriately. Their pleas and screams boiled his blood. When they groped his scarlet cloak, his hair stood on end and he had to stop himself from recoiling in disgust. He didn’t know whether his self-control could channel the barrage of fury and repulsion he felt towards these animals into his plastic mask of smiles and empathy. They made him remember a boy he wanted to forget, one that he hated being reminded of. He remembered a boy who was seen as the one amongst these oppressed people who would strike back. If he was still here, the flames of justice would fuel him to make sure these people did not stay like this. He would comfort the crying children, help the men and women get on their own feet. Against all odds, he would restore places like Larneth to their former glory, and unseat the corrupt leaders of this broken world. The boy who made everyone smile. The boy who made his parents proud. They said he would go far. They said he would come back. They were wrong That boy did not make his parents proud. That boy did not go far. That boy did not come back. That boy was killed by the matured Amadeus Dabaso. An eternity of torture passed, and he returned to the present. He had reached his destination. A dilapidated building was cowering in front of him, looking as though if he was too loud it would crumble into dust. Gliding forward to the entrance, with his cloak billowing behind him like fire, he spoke. The illusion broke. A modern building which resembled a castle stood in front of him, glaring down at him with a triumphant leer. “Well, Amadeus! You took your time,” said a cheerful voice from behind him. Amadeus took off his hood, revealing the face of a young man in his 20s.“Good evening, *Greed*,” he said, without turning around. “Ah, you’re so uptight about the rules! Well so be it, *Wrath*.” Greed replied with a smile. Greed was a man at his prime, with clothes that represented that of some kind of royalty, clothes that were lined in gold. In contrast, Wrath was wearing a red cloak over plain clothes. “We’d best not be late; Father wouldn’t be very pleased.” Greed muttered, his eyes drifting to the large castle. “Pride has outdone himself this time. Who would have expected a castle, eh?” Wrath said quietly. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.” Wrath swept towards the castle, but Greed stayed behind. “Wrath, one of the Seven Great Transgressions known to man, born of a desire to avenge or to serve justice upon those who have wronged you.” Greed’s tone had morphed into a forced friendly tone, as if he was trying to praise Wrath. Wrath stopped in his tracks. “Never once have I ever seen you show any wrathful, vengeful side. Hell, I’ve never seen you get angry even once! You must be suppressing them, right? You’ve got nothing to worry about! We all savour our own Great Transgressions as much as we can. It’s the sign of our rebellion against God himself!” “So why does Father favour you so much when you show the least rebellion against God and don’t have any connection to your name whatsoever! I don’t want to start doubting Father but when everything seems as weird as this...” There was a deafening silence. Wrath broke the silence with a whisper. “I have a connection to my name. Just because it is invisible to the likes of you does not mean it is not there. Perhaps I’m not favoured more than everyone else. Maybe it’s just that you are favoured less. After all, it is the nature of the greedy to rebel against their masters and seek their own personal gain.” Wrath began to walk off. “Although, quite frankly, I think the ugly nature of the envious suits you more.” Wrath disappeared into the castle, while Greed stayed, motionless, rooted to the spot, with a look of fury etched into his face. The moment he had entered the castle, he had known something was not right. The castle had somehow managed to get his heart to an unnatural pace. The silence closed in all around him, threatening to swallow him whole. Shadows jumped across the wall. He turned around sharply, eyes darting frantically. Nothing. Then why was he so...unnerved? What made his legs threaten to collapse? What made his heart scream at him to turn away? He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Despite the incessant protests of his body, he forced himself forwards. The only sound in the labyrinth of silence. Five hooded figures sat around a grand table, adorned with jewels and gemstones. The rest of the room was as grand as the table, with paintings of ancient battles, forgotten even as legends. Spears and lances stood on display, studded with amethysts to give them a purple gleam. Most predominantly, a single throne sat at the head of the room, draped in a purple cloth. An uninterested man sat there, examining a glass of wine. His appearance gave no hint to what age he could have been; he looked anywhere from 20 to 60. His slit of a mouth opened. “Where is Amadeus and Greed? Its understandable that Amadeus would be late-he is not accustomed to the castle after all. But I expected more of Greed...” The woman in the purple hood spoke. ”It seems that Greed is toying with the boy, taking advantage of his vulnerability in the castle. You know how much he infuriates Greed, Father. Anyway, they’re here now”As if the words had sparked it, the grand doors slammed open. Greed walked with a gleeful face in front of Amadeus. Amadeus’ hands were shaking and his face was disfigured by hatred; Greed’s taunts and gibes were still fresh in his ears. “I’ve brought Amadeus!” Greed declared, in a singsong voice. Although everyone’s faces were covered, Amadeus could feel the excitement rippling through the room. The man known as Father twisted his mouth upwards. “Welcome, Amadeus. I trust you were able to find your way around the castle?” Laughter echoed around the room, with all of the hooded figures gazing at Amadeus with delighted eyes. They had never been this excited to see him before. The feeling of danger that the castle had sparked turned into bright flames. Amadeus gave an empty smile. “Greed was...accompanying me. It wasn’t hard to navigate the castle with him leading me.” The woman in the purple cloak mocked him “You didn’t get too scared, did you? Maybe Greed should have held your hand as well!” The rest of the figures guffawed, relishing his humiliation. His clenched fists shook in increasing intensity. His shallow breaths gave testimony to the assault on his self-control. He turned to Father with a quaking voice “ I don’t mean to be impudent but I’ve noticed that you are referring to me with my original name. Is something wrong?” Father’s smile widened across his entire face, a smile which normal people couldn’t be able to achieve. “No, Amadeus, nothing is wrong. In fact..” He got up, throwing the glass of wine on the floor. The glass, which should have shattered on impact with the floor, hit the floor with a thud. The wine remained still, as if it was stuck to the glass while the glass rolled around.“Everything is going according to plan.” He should have trusted his instincts. He had walked into a deathtrap. The small boy appeared in his mind again, wandering across the streets. His haunted eyes and dirty face never stop moving as he surveys his surroundings. But all his eyes can find are mountains of rubbish and abandoned piles of debris. No food. No water. Not a single living soul for miles around. He had walked into a death trap... But that boy still managed to survive. So why couldn't he? Even if it was a death trap, he wasn’t about to kneel down and die. Lightning cracked across the room as Amadeus flashed towards the open window. Impossibly, The man in the light blue cloak was already there. His hood flapped open, revealing a face riddled with happiness.


You may have seen him; he probably walked past you on the tube platform and you hadn't even noticed. You are, perhaps, subconsciously familiar with the way he walks because he walks like no other. It's like his upper body is frozen in time while the stick-like legs carry him forward with a curious spring in his step. He hovers over others, cutting through the sea of people with only his head popping up above the surface as he swiftly maneuvers around the crowd. Perhaps, you've made eye contact with the lanky boy and you don't even know it. He seems ordinary and yet there's something strange about the way he looks at you; there's an unquenched curiosity in his eyes, the green circles peering into your soul slowly and so very deeply as if they were perfectly willing to illuminate every dark corner of your mind just to get to know who you really are - the childlike desire to discover you, the real you. He stands straight as a stick and only his eyes rotate in their orbits, gauging the world around him. Sometimes, he turns his head to take a better look. You can never tell what he's thinking though, believe me I've tried many times, and I think it's because his face is often still and emotionless - except for the occasional smile. Despite the enigmatic look you can tell that the gears are turning behind his pale skin, you get that distinct feeling that he's constantly processing some information. You can practically feel him think. He's easy to spot, if you know how, because of the clothes he wears; it's like he's stuck between his yesterday and your tomorrow. Like two distinct periods of time have somehow been merged together resulting in a calamity; he doesn't quite fit with the people around him, an aura of space surrounding him at all times. I remember seeing this creature on a platform one day, I think he was waiting for his train, he hovered over the edge peering into the dark tracks below as if he was reading something written on their surface. When his train made its way out of the tunnel entrance and crossed the spot he was staring at it was as if he was snapped out of a trance, glancing up at the door, which somehow ended up being precisely where he stood, he slid into the train as if carried by the wind itself, his eyes bathed in the memories of his past and dreams of the future. And just like that, he disappeared.


She didn’t mean to stumble upon the website. It was never her intention, she was a well raised young lady. Always did as she was told, obedient and kindhearted. Never would she even dream of creeping around on the dark web. But the message she received piqued her interest. “You’ve been invited to join The Red Room. Reply at your earliest convenience for further instructions.” Of course she was curious, but she was also scared. Ignoring the message, she let it eat away at her through the day. Until the moment a second message came in from the same unknown number. “Reply at your earliest possible convenience, Adrestia.” She was shell shocked. At first, she’d assumed they had the wrong number. But somehow, they knew her name. The dam holding her back from responding had broken. Thoroughly intrigued, her fingers swiftly typed out an answer. “Who is this?” Adrestia sent the message, wasting no time. “Our identity is not important. You’ve been invited to join The Red Room. Please proceed to the following URL.” A link to a website was attached. Hesitating, her thumb hovered over the hyperlink, many doubtful thoughts running through her mind. What if it was a prank? What if this link would give her phone a virus? What if this was actually dangerous? But her curiosity got the best of her, still. “Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” She sat down at her desk, deciding to pull up the website on her computer instead. As soon as she did so, a darkly themed site appeared on her screen. At the top of the page, in large, bold letters was WELCOME TO THE RED ROOM. Her hands began to shake as she scrolled, graphic images appearing with every click. It was somewhat of a forum, with anonymous posters on every page. However, this was no normal forum. These posters were serial killers. Some still wanted and at large, some currently being investigated and some who've never been caught. One particularly gruesome post detailed the use of a torture method known as the Colombian Necktie. Drea continued to click through the numerous posts until she stumbled upon a tab of the website. LIVE RED ROOMS. She clicked on the tab without a second thought, immediately entering a live chat room. On her screen was a lightly tanned male in a chair, clearly tied up. A tall man with a black ski mask on walked around him, twirling a knife in his hands. Adrestia muted her volume, fearing that the male's whimpers and pleas could be heard from outside her room. Looking on with interest, she watched as the man dragged the knife along various parts of the hostages body, watching the dark blood drip down his thighs and abdomen. She sat there for a half hour as the man was tortured, eventually plugging in her headphones so that she could hear his terrible screams. The video ended soon after, the tanned adonis falling limp and pale in the chair. Her screen went black, leaving her to stare at her own reflection. Adrestia studied her own face. A grin was set upon her lips, and there was a fire in her eyes like nothing she’d seen before. She picked up her phone, a message having come in. “Would you like to join The Red Room?” Without a moment of hesitation, she replied. “Yes.


I hate you! ... I let the words fill the room. I let the words carry me away. Silence fell over the classroom, everyone dumfounded by my sudden outburst. I screamed it again “I hate you!” a tear rolling down my cheek as I said it. Memories of all the good things we did together, of all the good things we had together flowed in like an unstoppable wave carried by an earthquake of grief and anger. I was reminded of the time we went into the mountains to the secret lake, and how a storm had us seek shelter in a cave. We were cold and wet, but we somehow managed the night. And when we woke up the next morning, we witnessed nature's true beauty in the form of a glistening lake in the morning sun, surrounded by untouched and thriving plants and wildlife. It truly was astonishing. I was reminded of the time we went on the class excursion to the countryside to look for different species of plant and animals, you saw a salamander and started following it, only to get stuck in sink mud and have the hole class help you free. All of us had a good laugh when we pulled you up, as both your shoes and trousers had stuck better to the mud than to you. You were as sour as a trout and we laughed our asses of. But not all the memories were good ones. I was reminded of the first time I felt jealous. You had been to someone’s 16th birthdayparty and one of the girls there had fixed herself to you, for some reason it made me really mad and I didn't know what to do with the anger so I pointed it at you. We fought for a while, threw some bad words around, but after a day or two we both apologised to each other. I really felt horrible for the things I had said. I snapped back to reality for a moment as you stared at me with those cold, dead eyes and uttered the word “why?”. I wanted to hit you to scream at you, but nothing happened, except pain. Before when people had said that words were the strongest weapon in the world, I had only scoffed, but now I knew the truth, and the truth hurt. The memory of when we first met popped into my head. I tried to think of something else, but it didn’t work, it was as if I was strapped in place in my own mind. I saw the moment you stepped into our classroom in eight grade, you had just transferred in from a smaller school. I didn’t think much of you then, I certainly didn’t hate you, yet somehow, I knew that over time I would come to absolutely adore you. Then the memory that I had tried to forget, the memory that I had tried to push away from me to no avail, appeared. My memory of when you lost yours. We were in the city and about to cross a road, you’d just finished your exams and because of that you were really happy. You had this big grin on your face that just beamed with joyfulness. I looked at you and laughed, and you laughed with me. That moment was pure happiness and joy, while the next was simply panic and pain. I fell to the ground. Everything hurt and I couldn’t move, I tried to call for help but there wasn’t any air in my lungs. I passed out shortly after. I opened my eyes and looked around. All I could see was the bed I was lying in and the white walls that surrounded me. Where was I? Was I in heaven? No, everything hurt to much. Was I in hell then? No, it was to white and new looking and there weren’t any flames. Then where was I? A woman opened a door to the left of me. All I could make out was that she wore a white lab coat, and that’s when I realised, I was in the hospital. Three weeks I had to stay in bed, but I got better. You however weren’t as lucky. You had suffered major head trauma and had lost your memories from the last five years. “You didn’t remember any of the things that we did together, any of the things we had together. And you wonder why I hate you!” I stopped just realising that I had said those last words out loud. I looked at you but didn’t see those lifeless eyes you had just moments ago, rather I saw your eyes full of life and emotions. And a single teardrop rolling down your cheek.


Nick, Amber and I decided to hang out by the lake today, just like in old times. We used to spend hours there, swimming, throwing rocks and jumping into the lake from a swing that was attached to a nearby tree. I guess that might have been the most fun I've had in my whole life. Especially now, since we see each other so rarely. After high school ended, everyone kind of went their own way. Nick is studying aeromechanics, Amber is studying biology and I... well, let's just say I took a year off. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do in life, and I wasn't going to waste that year on something I'm not interested in. Even though my parents still don't agree with my idea. They think that I'm wasting a year of my life either way. But it is MY life in the end, so I couldn't care less. Anyway, to get back to the topic. We're going to go swimming and maybe even sleep by the lake tonight. I guess we'll see where the adventure takes us. I grabbed a six-pack of beer and hopped into my truck. We agreed that I'd pick everyone up. So I did. After a five-minute drive, I arrived at Amber's place and honked four times. Amber glimpsed through the window and yelled: - I'm coming! - She ran out of the house, and I got out of my truck to have a proper greeting. She jumped on me, and I spun her around. Long time no see, sis. - I know, right? So, what have you been up to? - We make our way towards the truck. Nothing much. You know, the usual. - Oh, come on. We haven't seen each other for almost a year, and the best I can get out of you is "nothing much"? - Well, I really haven't been doing anything worth mentioning. - Did you decide what you were gonna study? - Nah. Not yet. I guess I'm leaning towards something techy. - Then you're definitely leaning in the wrong direction. - We both chuckle. Yeah, but technology stuff brings in the money. - It does, but will it make you happy? Besides, you couldn't stand doing something you aren't fully interested in. You'd get bored of it after two classes. - True that. - Nick is already waiting for us in front of the house. I don't even get to stop the vehicle, and Amber is already outside, saying hi to Nick. I love both of them, but I always felt like a third wheel. Not that I really mind. I love hanging out with the two of them. Hey, hey, hey, who's my favourite driver. - What's up, future Steve Irwin? - I'll take that as a compliment. - Nick and I have a very complicated handshake. I can't believe we both still remember it. You should. Are you guys ready for this? It's about time we had some fun together. - It's gonna be a great day. I'm as ready as one could be! I've been looking forward to this since we parted ways. - I know, right! - Amber says as she leans back in her seat. Having arrived at the lake, we set up camp and crack a beer. After that, we go swimming and do the usual: jump from the swing. It was so much easier when I was a kid. Growing up isn't fun. Depends on the viewpoint, to be honest. If I wasn't a grown-up, I wouldn't be able to spend the night here. In the open. Without my parents. Drinking beer. But here we are. We went to sleep in a tent that Amber brought. I guess they had a few spares at the college. Or at least that's what she said. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the "toilet". Which was a large tree. As I made my way back to the tent, I realised there was something wrong with the lake. Very wrong. It wasn't there anymore. Or at least it looked like it wasn't. I tried to get closer to where the edge of the water was during the day. To my surprise, there was no water. I ran to the tent to wake up my sleeping pals. We did drink, but I definitely wasn't that drunk. I removed the side of the tent which was used as a door and at that moment I got even more scared. Amber and Nick were gone. Their stuff was there, but they were nowhere to be found. I looked around the tent too, and there was nothing. No footprints. And my truck was still there. I turned around to face the lake once more. Somewhere around what should be the middle of the lake and the deepest point, a light turned on. That unknown light revealed a wooden house covered in moss. The door of the house opened, and a beautiful voice started calling my name. James... James... I need you. I need you to help me. - The first thing that came to my mind was a mermaid song. The way these words rolled off the person's tongue... it sounded like a mermaid song. It made me remember a story my mom always told me as she put me to sleep. It was some stupid myth about a goddess living beneath our lake. She showed herself only to worthy people. You know the classic, those who were honourable, pure of heart and similar shenanigans. And she always started everything with: "I need you to help me." Her most prominent moment was when she called upon a knight and gifted him a sword. The sword was made of moss and blessed by her divine might to be unbreakable. The one who yielded it had the power to command waves. The knight used that sword to defend the town from a savage army set to destroy it. He died during the battle, but he accomplished what he was destined to. The sword was never found. It's an interesting little story for a kid who loves knights and dragons. Especially since it was set in our town. But I thought it was just a story. As I was thinking about this, my legs literally walked me to the house. I found myself standing in front of the open door. Although the house looked ruinous from the outside, the inside shone with a golden shine. I stepped inside. Looking around, I realised that everything was actually golden. Directly across from where the doors were, there was a throne. On that throne sat the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. Golden hair, an armour of beautiful moss, even though I have no idea how moss could be beautiful. She stood up and walked towards me. James. I am so glad you answered my call. I'm sure you have heard stories of me and all this seems very unreal. I assure you that it is, in fact, quite real. Everything you see around you is as tangible as you are. But we do not have time to dwell on such unimportant things. There is a task that you must perform. A task that will shape the future of this town, but also your own. Once more, a great danger has befallen this town. You must be the one who rids the town of this danger. - She points her hand towards the wall, and a golden sword flies towards her immediately. As it touches her hand, it turns into a sword made of moss. The sword of legend. I grant you the power to use this sword in times of need. In the name of Vadhillde, I knight thee. - I put my hands in front of myself, and the sword flies towards me, stopping directly in front of me. I grasp it and immediately fly out of the house and into the tent. Opening my eyes, I realise that it's daytime. I look around and Amber and Nick are there. Nudging both of them at the same time, I'm still trying to process the events which happened just a few moments ago. At least it felt that way in my mind. Slow down, James! Where's the rush? - Nick wakes up first. You won't believe what just happened to me. Or at least, what I think happened. - I retold everything that happened during this mysterious night, only to be greeted by bursts of laughter. You really want us to believe that Vadhillde manifested herself?! And that she chose you for some mythical quest? Dude, you're out of your mind! - Wise words from a guy studying aeromechanics just so he could create a spacecraft capable of transitioning through dimensions in mere seconds. I'm telling you what I had seen! And I held the sword with my bare hands! - Well, where is it, James? Where's the sword? - I look around and it's nowhere to be found. Maybe, it was all just a very elaborate dream, buddy. - Amber says as she pats me on the back. Maybe she's right. We get out of the tent and start packing our bags, but something is odd. The water level seems to be much higher than last night. I think nothing of it since I am still shaken by my visions. Or dream. Whatever. As we're about to leave, a service van with the emblem of Amber's college stops right next to my truck. Amber recognizes one of the people in the vehicle as her professor, Mr Hendricks. Hi professor, it's me, Amber Ardens. - Oh, hello Ms Ardens. I didn't know you were from this part of the country. You were pretty lucky, might I say. The water level had suddenly risen exponentially in just one night. It's unseen of. We were immediately contacted so we rushed here as fast as we could. - I'm in awe. And so is everyone else. This has to have something to do with my dream. Oh, my! But what could cause something like this? - That is what we are here for. We'll try to uncover the reason for this occurrence. Until then, I'll have to ask you not to go swimming anymore. - Of course professor. If you need anything, I'll be on standby. - Thank you, colleague Ardens. - We pack our stuff and I drop everyone off at their homes. It was quite a silent ride. But something keeps bothering me. I feel drawn to the lake, to its depths. Hopefully, it will fade soon. During the following night, the urge to go back to the lake overcomes me. I have to see what's drawing me there. I hop into the truck, and I'll be damned, what's sitting on the seat next to me: the freaking sword. I grab it and it feels much lighter than it looks. I arrive at the lake and immediately jump into the water without even taking my clothes off. I swim as deep as I can and for some reason, I feel like I could hold my breath forever. A the bottom of the lake, I find the wooden house. But the doors are closed. Still, I can hear a voice calling me, begging me to come in and help. But it's not the same voice. This one is raspy and gloomy. As I place my hand on the door handle, shivers run down my spine. Something's off. I open the door and the same view as yesterday appears in front of me. A golden interior. And Vadhillde is sitting on the throne. Thank you for coming, James. I truly need you. - Need me for what? Where is the danger? And why do I feel so uneasy? - You feel the danger in here. That is why you arrived. You fool. - The raspy voice exclaims. Vadhillde stands up and turns around to reveal a creature so hideous, which seems to be a part of her. It's as if she has two sides, two beings in one body. This creature is made of aquatic moss. Its insides are visible through the holes in the moss. But the most hideous thing about it is the face, a mix between a witch and a frog, such an awful abomination. She starts approaching me, and I grip the sword tighter. I point it towards her and she starts laughing as the house goes from golden and shiny to dark and gloomy. The walls become covered in mud, and the only thing that is still golden is the place on the wall where the sword once stood. Did you really believe that I would hand you the only weapon capable of destroying me? I am a goddess, not a foolish human! - She grabs me by the neck and lifts me up. I try to stab her multiple times, but the sword just goes through her. Remember how it once was and return it to that state. - I can hear the mermaidish voice once again. But what could it mean? I look around while I still can, but my vision is getting blurry. What can I do? I notice the golden spot where the sword used to be and throw it as hard as I can. The sword seems drawn to that place as if it was a magnet, and as soon as it touches the wall, the monster releases me and fades from Vadhillde's body. I fall to the floor, and everything starts to turn gold once again. Thank you, my boy! You've saved me and this town. As a reward may luck be on your side for all of eternity. - What was that... thing? - I ask as I stroke my neck. Nadhillde. My demon side. She slowly grows on my back through the millennia. Every now and then, she grows ever so powerful to overthrow me inside of our mind. In those moments, I require heroes such as yourself. Now go and use your reward well. - She touches my forehead and teleports me to my house. I open my eyes, and once again, it's daytime. My phone starts ringing as soon as I stand up. It's Amber. Hey, the professor called me. The water level magically receded. Want to go for a swim? - Sure, but you won't believe what happened to me last night. Also, I think I know what I want to study. - Can't wait for the story. Really? And what's that? - Cryptozoology. You know, researching mythical beasts and stuff. - That's not even a real science, James... - Try and say that to Vadhillde and Nadhillde. They seemed pretty realistic to me.


Bliss: Horrible things happen in Bliss. Some say the small town is cursed, haunted, home to a cult, among other things. One outrageous accusation is that the town is ran by a group of corrupt politicians who orchestrate publicity stunts in order to bring attention to the town, and the issues they want to address. The odd thing is, that most of the incidents claim victims who are not native to the town. Almost as if the town is weeding out those who weren’t born on it's soil, the newcomers always end up disappearing or the victim of some cruel and strange crime. One such case involved a young man and his father. For sake of discretion, we will omit their actual names and replace them. Frank, and his son Gideon were traveling for the summer when they were stranded in the southern United States. After a week of gathering funds and resources to keep moving north back home, they found themselves in central Georgia. Crossing the state became difficult after the vehicle they were using needed extended maintenance. Arriving in Bliss, the first mechanic on the road seemed less than eager to help them, but managed to get them on their way quickly. “Now you can leave so fast we won’t even remember you” He said with a nervous chuckle as they paid him for the service. “Do you think there are rooms available at the motel?” Asked Frank, the father of the sixteen year old boy whose attention span was that of a scared rabbit. “Oh no, you can go much further than Bliss, no reason to stay here.” The mechanic made it very apparent that it would be a waste of the small family’s time to stay in the tiny town. “Thank you, have a good day, it was nice to meet you.” Frank said, leading his son back to their car. “Likewise sir” The mechanic sighing in relief as the man turned to leave. It was nearly midnight, and the two needed to stay somewhere for the night as they were exhausted. They stopped at the only motel in town. The neon sign shining the word ‘vacancy’ was just what they were hoping to see. However the clerk desperately tried to turn them away, explaining that there was no room, and half of the rooms were being cleaned. “Can’t you just help us? Please? My son and I need a place to sleep. We are exhausted.” Frank asked, trying to trigger the clerk’s compassion. “Fine, we have one room and you can have it, but only one night.” The clerk gave in, allowing them to stay. Just as the two left the office the clerk frantically got on the phone and began dialing. Frank and Gideon, impressed by the fact the room is clean, didn't care that it wasn’t a fancy or less reputable establishment, they simply need a bed, a shower, and maybe coffee in the morning. The two quickly went to sleep in the pitch blackness of the room, with only the streetlight outside illuminating the curtains. Gideon woke to loud footsteps in the dormant parking lot. He softly placed his feet on the floor and stepped to the window after hearing voices conversing. He was curious, but not afraid, he was well versed in mixed martial arts and felt as though he could fend off anyone with the intent to harm them. Sliding the curtain to the side, Gideon gazed at two figures outside talking. It was hard to tell who they were at first. He cleared his sleepy eyes and went to the door, slightly opening it to get a slight peak at the two. He recognized the mechanic from earlier, who seemed to be talking to the motel manager. The two seemed to be frantic and nervous. Gideon realized something was wrong when the manager pointed to the room they were in. The mechanic then brandished a heavy wrench and knife. Gideon’s eyes grew to the size of golf-balls, he shut the door quietly and stayed low to the floor as he made his way over to the bed his father was sleeping in. “Dad, Dad, you have to wake up!” He spoke softly but intensely, hoping his father would pop up quickly. Frank wiped his eyes and looked at his son with a squinted face, trying to go back to sleep “What did you hear something?” Frank said, slamming his head back to the pillow. “No dad, I mean yes, but.. “ Gideon stammered and became frustrated quickly. “Dad wake the fuck up, two guys are outside and they have weapons” Gideon said, ripping the cover off of his father. “What are you talking about!?” Frank said, stumbling out of the bed. He made his way to the window and saw a man standing in the middle of the parking lot wearing a large hat. For a moment he could swear he was dreaming, but then readjusted his vision to see it was a helmet, similar to a biker’s helmet. “There's a biker out there, but no bike.” he said, looking back from the window to the bed. Clk clk clk, a knock hit the door. Then a second time. The two men scrambled to their clothes and got dressed. They both went toward the door, Gideon stayed near the nightstand. The manager began speaking, “Look sir, we are gonna have to ask you to leave now, we will get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out you are here.” Frank and Gideon were confused, and flustered. Frank didn’t know how to answer the manager. He decided to open the door slightly kept closed by the latched chain at the top. “I’m real sorry mister but we don't make the rules. You have to leave now before we are put in a position we don’t want to be in.” Said the manager, with the mechanic staying behind him with something heavy in his hands. “Ok, we will leave. We don’t mean any harm just please don’t do anything rash, we are sorry if we have done anything wrong.” Frank pleaded in a raspy voice. Frank shut the door and the two grabbed their things quickly. They came to the door, where the mechanic and the manager were still waiting just outside. Once opened they crossed the doorway and Frank met eye to eye with the manager. “I’m sorry for whatever we have done” Frank spoke to him. “You are the lucky ones. If you didn’t remind my father so much of us, you would be stains on the sheets. Just like anyone that comes through Bliss.” The manager spoke softly, his voice cracking with regret. Frank now looked over to the mechanic, noticing now how similar they looked. “You’ll find your car at the intersection south, well out of town. We couldn’t allow it to be seen here. Go now before the turn of the hour, and protect your son from the sounds on the way out. The two began walking with their luggage, it was around two thirty A.M. when they sat out. The Constance County sheriff’s department found the vehicle at the intersection south of Bliss. It was abandoned and looked to have been that way for several days by the time they found it. The deputy who found the vehicle had many questions, when he asked the sheriff, he sat down for a long talk about the horror of Bliss.


Prologue It was the kind of love id always wanted To get to this present moment in time I have to rewind to the 17th of September 2013. It was a moment I will never forget. I worked in a small shop in a small town. The clock said 10am and there he was. The man who would consume every thought in my mind for the next few years. When I say every thought, I mean every single thought. His name was Ryan, slim, dark hair and absolutely beautiful. He swept me off my feet from the moment he said hi. The next two years were crazy. Falling in love day by day. It was the small things, like forehead kisses and unexpected hugs from behind. The turning up at my door with 12 red roses for no reason. The way he was able to say “I love you” without even opening his mouth. I knew this was the man who I would spend my life with. But life doesn’t always go the way you want does it? At around 2 and a half wonderful years into the relationship of my dreams. Something changed. He broke my heart. He left me. It was May 31st 2016 when he told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Only days before had we sat in a café eating breakfast talking about the future. Only now do I realise that even that early morning in the café there was something wrong. I was so blind sighted by the love I saw when I looked in his eyes that I didn’t notice him taking one step away from me day by day. Where was the love we fought so hard for? Where was the man who fell so deeply in love with me? Both questions I still don’t know the answer to. That Tuesday morning, I could feel it in my stomach. I could feel what was coming even though id convinced myself it was just a phase that would pass. It was over within minutes, the blunt texts, the hard to decipher messages, the coldest feeling I’ve ever felt. He text me saying things aren’t ok. I replied, “are you leaving me?” he responded almost instantly after hitting the send button. The word read “yes.” I immediately crashed. It was as if my brain had shut down, my heart exploded, and my body didn’t know whether it was coming or going. Being in the state I was in I rang and rang until I got a voice at the other end of the phone. “Ryan don’t do this,” I begged. I felt pathetic, worthless and as if my world had ended. Something inside me still felt like I was waiting for him to come back. For weeks I spent hours after hours just praying for a text, a call, his face. But it never happened. I don’t understand how somebody can love you for so long then just change. I still can’t get my head around it. However, I still don’t know where my head is at. I went through the usual stages, denial, emotional mess, pretending I’m OK. One day I hope I am as happy as I am pretendin to be Chapter one I’m a train wreck and I know it The first week wasn’t even the hardest. I was ok, I was waiting for the phone call saying he had made a mistake. Waiting for him to turn up on my door step with that smile I couldn’t ever resist. I sent texts, but didn’t get any reply. It was the second week that killed me. I could feel myself becoming mentally unstable and the worst thing was I was trying so hard to hide it. So he may go tell his friends and family that I’m some crazy woman who was obsessed with him? But it wasn’t obsessed. It was love, real god damn love that he once felt too. But there’s two sides to every story isn’t there. I thought we were ready? He told me he was, he convinced me he was, then he went and said the commitment after 3 years scared him. So why someone would spend a year saying they can’t wait to move out and wake up to my face every morning to turn around and say they’re growing up too fast? Being the bigger person I said OK, let’s slow it down. He was having none of it. The feeling of the person you would give everything in your heart and soul for standing there saying it’s time to call it quits was the most stomach wrenching id ever felt. The third week is when the drinking started. Any excuse to clear my heart from the feeling being in a million pieces. However, it didn’t work that way. Alcohol in, emotions pouring out. Sober me tried to stay strong in front of people. Drunk me let the world and the town know I was hurting. The drinking was reckless. Every day I knew nothing good would come of not being sober. But I did it anyway. It's been 100 days since he told me it was over. Of these 100 days I don’t think there’s any one of them his name hasn’t been in my head. Some days I’m stronger than others. Some days I am not. I am a train wreck and I can’t seem to stop myself. The month of june I think the only person I was fooling whilst pretending to be ok was myself. My mother could see right through the fake smiles and perky attitude. I had myself convinced I had my sanity. I guess I just thought I would wake up one morning soon with a text saying he made a mistake... the text never came surprisingly.


In 2017, I was part of a secret maritime task force called The Leviathan Killers. We belonged to the US Navy and had close to sixty members, who were mostly handpicked from DEVGRU, Delta Force, and various NATO UDT teams. We were the best of the best in maritime combat, and we specialized and trained to kill deep-sea threats in heavy gear. We would usually operate between one to eight thousand feet, even more, so we used specialized and classified suits designed by the best combat engineers. We were all extremely proficient at swimming, weapons use, and every underwater combat technique was battered into our heads as second-hand nature. Given the rise of hostile activity in the deep oceans in the late 2010s, we frequently went on more operations. We would handle explosive disposal, naval sabotage, rescue, and intel, but we mainly found and destroyed extremely hostile deep-sea organisms with precision. The weapons we used were various modified underwater rifles and explosives, which were of an extremely high caliber due to the recoil of the guns being significantly lowered in the deep ocean. I joined while I was in DEVGRU, and I was offered a spot on The Leviathan Killers. I was a member for six years when I went on one of our most eventful operations. \*\*\* We were going to the Mariana Trench. It was deeper than any other operation we had ever been on, so we had to use experimental suits to survive the temperatures and insane pressure. Death would be mercy at those depths. Deep in the Mariana Trench, a distress signal from a US research submersible had gone out a day before we had deployed there. The researchers in that submersible were dead, but what caught our interest was the fact that the submersible's readings still showed that living organisms were surrounding the submersible, and were taken as hostile. The Leviathan Killers were deployed to investigate. We arrived on a large warship and dove directly into the trench in our suits, and as I put on the suit, I talked with the marine biologist and expert of the trench. "Doc," I said. "Any chance of leviathans down there?" "Possibly," the marine biologist said. "Hard to tell, the food sources down there are sparse if there are any." "Then what the fuck destroyed the submersible?" "We don't know." "How deep can these suits go?" "Fifteen thousand feet, at the absolute maximum." "Why that deep?" "The ocean is much deeper than we think." "I can't imagine the fucking things that live that deep." "There are horrors within the abyss." With the weight carrying us deeply, we descended fast into the abyss. I looked around to see the light disappearing, and I held onto my rifle as we descended. Two dozen other members descended along with me, and within a few hours, we had reached the destination, the bottom of the deepest place in the world, at the exact coordinates of the submersible's location. It was pitch black, and the darkness was pierced as we turned on our extremely bright helmet lights, and searched the wreckage. The research submersible was fucking destroyed, and it was clear that it wasn't just the pressure that had done to it. I walked over to the wreckage while the others watched for any signs of movement, and I noticed something inside the wreckage. I reached down, my light illuminating a wriggling, pale tendril inside. I showed it to my team, and we were instantly on guard. It was cut off recently. In the distance, my teammate spotted a red light blinking in the far distance, only visible due to the sheer blackness of the trench. It was far, but steadily approaching, and we couldn't hit it this far. When it got within six hundred meters, we began taking shots at it. As soon as the first bullet hit the red light, all our suit's lights, our floodlights, and any source of light instantly cut out. Now let me describe a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time. Fear. I had gone on raids on terrorist groups in the Middle East, assassinated the deadliest extremists and insurgency leaders, killed monsters both human and not, been shot, been stabbed, been gassed, been tortured, and had tortured countless people, and as a result, my sense of fear and adrenaline had significantly numbed. I had killed literal leviathans before. But at that moment, when all our lights went out at the deepest hell we could descend to, and as the red light approached, I felt every sense of fear and primal instinct come back to me. That feeling was primal, as if I recognized that red light from the worst nightmares of my ancestors, and standing at the bottom of the ocean holding a rifle, I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to seek refuge. We were blind, and anything we shot at, we would definitely miss. It was absolutely pitch black, darker than anything else I had experienced, even at depths close to these. It was the void, and there was only one thing penetrating it was something that I couldn't see, didn't want to see. It approached, and no matter how closely it got, it seemed to never grow or shrink. I had no idea where my teammates were, my lights, communications, and electronics weren't working, and the red light was rapidly approaching. I was stepping back blindly, into the void, slowly, as the light approached. It was only twenty feet away when it suddenly cut out, and everything turned black. All thoughts of my mission, my teammates, my family, and my country, all that I had fought so hard for instantly disappeared as I turned the other direction and ran. The water resistance made my footsteps feel like an eternity, and I would never escape this thing, but I sure as hell tried. I suddenly felt a commotion as water rushed around me, objects brushed past me, and suddenly my headlight, and only my headlight, turned on and I screamed. I was mostly used to extreme gore, but this was something else. Something else fucking entirely. My teammates, all who were married and had kids, the people who I had fought alongside and would die for, were now ripped to fucking shreds. Every single one of them, and their suits, was torn apart, and their organs were ripped out, their skin pale and crushed by the pressure, their faces were ripped off and floating in the water. The deepwater was flooded with crimson, and I saw the decapitated head of one of my teammates float in front of me with an expression of horror I can not describe. I dropped my rifle and ran. I ran slowly but I ran, my dying light illuminating the bare seafloor, as I constantly felt something brush against me. I was running, closing my eyes, slowly making I was across the seafloor, my steps dragged out as I kept screaming, and screaming until my lungs were hoarse. I coughed up blood. The suits were supposed to give us air for up to ten hours, and I ran and ran and ran across the seafloor, screaming and constantly turning back, only to see nothing. But there was something, hiding within the pitch black of the ocean, and the primal sense of utter dread was rising every second, besides the fact that I could neither see, feel, or hear anything near me anymore. But I could sense that there was something, something horrible, worse than anything I could imagine within that blackness. I must have run a mile or two the hours I ran, and I suddenly stopped. Only a few meters away from me, illuminated by my headlight, was an enormous, endless, black trench within the Mariana Trench. It was extremely deep, even from my limited visibility I could tell it was a true abyss. Something swam past me, something fucking huge, and I turned to see that fucking red light approaching me at breakneck speed. *Any chance of leviathans down there?* With no other options, I jumped into the abyss, the trench within the trench. *Possibly, hard to tell, the food sources down there are sparse if there are any.* I sunk deeper and my lungs burned as I screamed and screamed, and my headlight touched nothing illuminating nothing, as I descended into the void. *Then what the fuck destroyed the submersible?* I kept sinking, and the horror was so bad I wanted to kill myself, and I tried ripping my suit off to expose and kill myself to the deep. *We don't know.* I looked beneath me, to see nothing but utter black envelop me, and it kept ongoing, and I wondered how deep the ocean truly was. I had devoted so much of my life to it, and yet now it was going to kill me. *How deep can these suits go?* I sunk and continued to for hours. Time became irrelevant, and I was stuck in my mind, and I constantly punched my helmet, and the fear was driving me mad. *Fifteen thousand feet, at the absolute maximum.* I couldn't form thoughts, the utter dread was screaming at me that something huge and something unknown was watching me, following me as I sunk to my death. I closed my eyes and screamed, blood and pieces of my lung splattering the inside of my helmet. *Why that deep?* Hours and hours passed, my oxygen slowly ran out, and I finally hit the floor of the trench. I opened my eyes, the taste of copper in my mouth, my throat burning as I slowly walked forward, madness and fear pounding into my mind. I was at the bottom, the true end to the deepest point, the deepest hell on earth. *The ocean is much deeper than we think.* I walked aimlessly, waiting for my oxygen to run out so I could be granted the sweet bliss of death. In the distance, I saw the fucking red light, that fucking red light blink into sight, and it approached quickly as I screamed once more. *I can't imagine the fucking things that live that deep.* I wanted death. Death, and nothing else. I ran towards the light as it approached, screaming and closing my eyes, and waiting for the beautiful feeling of my flesh ripping as I died and left this wretched abyss. I ran and ran until I slowly stopped and I opened my eyes. The red light was in front of me, and my headlight was illuminating it. I looked up and floating in front of me, at the deepest hell on earth, I saw an organism, so horrifying, perfect, beautiful, dreadful, unholy, demonic, eldritch, and I fell to my knees and experienced a fate much worse than death.


Granddad of the Dead The necromancer lived in the mausoleum at the center of a graveyard, and the ancient stone building shone bone-white in the moonlight. It was a beautiful night, the dark navy fabric of the sky speckled with bright stars like jewels. Tonight, he was expecting visitors. Of all people, his son-in-law, his daughter, and their child, his grandchild. But not his only grandchild, oh no! His daughter was expecting, and they were dropping off Violet for a bit of well-earned time together. He was looking forward to it, even though it had been years (literally, years) since he had actually babysat. How, exactly, could he use his powers to entertain Violet? He wasn’t exactly good with children; he could barely remember his own daughter at that young age. But they’d find something to do, surely. He could be hip like the young adults that his daughter and son-in-law were. The necromancer was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the series of sharp knocks on the door. He walked through the mausoleum to the front door and pulled it open with a dull scrape. On the threshold stood his daughter, Hecate, and his son-in-law, Prometheus. In Hecate’s arms, Violet was squirming to be let down, wriggling like a fish. She wore a dress as purple as her name, adorned with yellow daisies. Her short, reddish-blonde curls were loose, and her bright green eyes seemed to sparkle, even in the damp, dark resting place that was his home. She was beautiful. “Okay, Daddy, we’re leaving now. We’ll be back in a few hours. And remember, no necromancy around the baby!” Hecate said, hissing the last part under her breath so Violet wouldn’t hear. She was dressed in a sparkling, wine-colored dress that showed off her baby bump, diamond earrings sparkling in her earlobes. Her long, dark curls were gathered in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck, and she tottered in five-inch heels; her father resisted the urge to laugh. Only his daughter would come to a graveyard in such fancy footwear. “I love you, Daddy.” Hecate murmured, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. Then she swooped down on Violet and kissed her forehead. “Please be good for your Granddad, okay, baby? We’ll be back in a few hours. Have fun. I love you!” Violet nodded, smiling up at her mother. Prometheus smiled at his father-in-law, handing off the diaper bag to him. “Thank you so much for this, Alastair, sir. We really appreciate it.” “How many times have I told you not to call me ‘sir’ anymore?” Alastair replied, laughing jovially. “You’ve been married to my daughter for almost five years now. Call me Al.” He winked. Hecate tugged on her husband’s arm, impatient to leave. “Come on, honey, I don’t want to mess our reservation at the restaurant.” With a final wave, the couple parted, with Hecate blowing kisses at Violet. \*\* “Grandad, let’s do something fun!” Violet squealed, jumping around him in circles. She was like a tiny little ball of sunshine, full of energy and so much joy. It made him wonder if he’d made the wrong choice, all those years ago, choosing to excel in the forbidden, dark arts. Perhaps his life would be entirely different, had he taken the alternate path. “What would you like to do, darling?” Alastair asked. He’d bought several coloring books, crayons and markers and colored pencils, as well as puzzles, sketch paper, and even an ancient TV and a bunch of kids’ movies. Just because he didn’t have company much didn’t mean that he couldn’t keep his granddaughter entertained. “Let’s have a dance party, Granddad!” Alastair hoped fervently that Hecate would not reprimand him. But surely this counted as an exception. “Very well!” The old man raised his arms and his fingers glowed bright lime green. At his gesture, there was a groaning, scraping sound, and then the dead were emerging from their stone coffins to dance around the child. Alastair hummed a jaunty tune, and in the middle of it all was Violet, spinning in circles and laughing happily. She clapped her hands and swayed back and forth, jumped up and down, and Alastair’s minions began to mimic her. Perhaps this magic wasn’t so useless after all.


I never questioned what my mother had told me. She didn't know who my father was. I only knew that somehow I would become something great, and he would know I was his son. My mother had come to America from Argentina when I was young. I was without my mother for a few years, living in my village with my aunt. The town was small but enough for a boy of five years old. I have fond, although very few memories of my family and I outside, all the time, considering we didn't have glass windows, just holes in the walls. One night, a snake was in my room, having climbed through our open windows, and no one was worried. A way of living, usual for us here in our bungalow and sleepy village. This way of living was how we all lived there in that part of Argentina. We had electricity but no running water. We would collect water from the streams nearby. I remember watching my grandmother catch our chickens to kill for dinner; I was always so hungry, especially for chicken, for our diet was consistently rice and beans. Poverty was why my mother went to America; to save me from this life. However, to leave Argentina meant I would never see my father, a father that I didn't even know his name. A man that I would one day grow up and look like, and yet the face would be mine but carry a resemblance to a stranger. I had visions and daydreams of what would happen if I met him. I wanted to be something great, I wanted to be somebody, make a name for myself so he couldn't ignore me or pretend he didn't know I existed. I wanted to become more than the boy from Argentina. I didn't feel like a piece of me was missing by not knowing my father. Not knowing him had given me the resolve to become a fantastic athlete, to pursue a better life, and not waste the gift of being in America. The ironies of my life would occasionally beset me. I can watch people complain about the modern conveniences in this world while many starve and live on pennies a day. While the only way I escaped a fate as tragic is my mother's persistent need to give life to her son, a life that is better than the one she knew. I supposed that was why I didn't ask more about my absent father. She had little emotion about him, so minimal feeling. I chalked the idea up to her, not knowing who my father was. I liked to imagine him as the kind of man I want to be. Present, persistent, and powerful. I tried to imagine that I could become somebody he could be proud of, whether he knew of me. I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother more. That is until I became a father. I had a son, and I didn't know what it meant to have your heart live outside your chest--this feeling of holding this child and knowing that I will be the role model in his life. I will be the one to show and give him a life that I hope is as good and better than mine. My mother could tell by the look in my eyes; I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a father. I had mentors who took me in and gave me advice throughout my life, and helped me along my journey. Yet, to be a father to this little personality in my arms, how could I do it and not have ever had a father? These questions lead me back to Argentina, as I stand at the edge of finally knowing my father. My wife had found him with my mother's help, and they thought it would help me. I embarked alone to where he was. A trip as a young boy, I had only dreamed about. Finally, as I stood there, all the questions In my mind carefully aligning themselves together, with everything I ever wanted to tell him piling up in mind. I find that all the questions and all the mystery would remain. As I read the epitaph on his headstone, it said, "I was somebody," and his name. A name I had only learned days ago. He had died young, only a few years older than I was at that moment. At that moment, I realized I was granted a gift by my mother to have not been told a single thing until that moment. I was given a chance to hope that my father was out there waiting for me. And he was, he was waiting for me on the other side of this life. I had a feeling he was there with me as I kneeled by his grave. I would never know him, and I would never know what his voice sounded like, or even what he looked like. I know his life will be carried on through my son and all those who come after my son. I am somebody, just as my father was somebody. He was an idea to me, someone to strive for and to make proud. While I was sad, I was hopeful. I had the opportunity to be in my son's life and be the dad I had wanted in my life. I had a rare and so beautiful gift that I would continue to live my life to make my father proud. I put my hand on the grass, as the warm Earth gave me strength. The only thing I had was this moment with him--this one moment with my father. I didn't say anything, and the silence was speaking more volumes than anything I could try and say. I knew he would wait for me on the other side, and he would live on in me. I finally stood up and took one last look at the inscription. "I am somebody"-yes, Dad, we are.