“Guardians of the watchtower of the East, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Breathe into us the spirit of the true joy of life.” “Guardians of the watchtower of the South, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Kindle within us the spirit of spiritual awakening.” “Guardians of the watchtower of the West, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Water our deepest roots, so that we may find peace of mind.” Then there was a long silence. I opened my eyes to see three women, their hands clasped, silhouettes framed by velvet curtains, faces softly illuminated by candlelight and turned expectantly in my direction. “Oh, my turn? Uh, ok,” I stammered. What was my direction again? Never. Eat. Soggy. Waffles. Well, in this case Eat. Soggy. Waffles. Never. “Guardians of the North, I call on you... to...” Everything I knew about directions and elements dropped suddenly out of my head, leaving a cold, empty space where my brain should be. The others’ faces were beginning to harden in that familiar way that I knew masked annoyance. But the more I tried to recover my balance, the faster panic began to set in. My pulse pounded in my ears and dizziness overtook me. Not now! I begged. Too late. Hurry up, I need to pee! She is so awkward, I KNEW we shouldn’t have- What idiot doesn’t know that North is Earth? “GUARDians of the North” I began again, too loud. The voices around me mercifully stilled, though the staring continued. I cleared my throat. “Watchtower of the Earth , I call on you... to... ground us in this rite. Me especially,” I added with a nervous chuckle, glancing around at my compatriots. West subtly crossed her legs. East impatiently pulled her hand out of mine, breaking the circle, and raised her arms to the ceiling. Billowing sleeves slid down to her elbows to reveal skin covered in intricate blackwork tattoos. “I conceive this circle as a place of contemplation and protection, blessed by the Goddess. So mote it be!” “So mote it be,” the others echoed. “So mm hmm hmm,” I mumbled behind them. West rushed out of the room in a whirl of honey blonde braids. The rest of us settled on velvet cushions scattered around the center of the floor. I stroked the fabric absentmindedly as I gazed around the room, observing solemn portraits hung on creamy plaster walls, lush houseplants tucked into corners, and a mantlepiece tastefully arranged with crystal and gold implements. “So you’ve never been part of a coven before?” East interrupted my reverie. “Or so I assume.” South rested her face in her hand, tapping her cheek with shining black acrylics, awaiting my reply. “This would be my first one, yes” I said, forcing a cheeriness into my voice. “So why are you here?” South asked, looking me up and down. I suddenly wished I’d changed into something black. “Is it about that thing you did before?” The others turned to look at West, who was now perched cross legged on a turquoise cushion behind them. Neither of them had noticed her return; come to think of it, neither had I. “What thing?” East snapped. “The...” she tapped the side of her head. “You know.” South rolled her eyes and exchanged a smirk with East. Keisha shot them a dirty look. Why do they always do that? I heard the thought and, before I could stop myself, offered a sympathetic glance in response. Keisha’s eyes widened and she jabbed her finger at me. “Ah hah!” she exclaimed. “You did it just now, didn’t you?” Reeling at this sudden validation, I realized I might not be insane after all. When I could speak again I asked, “Do you know how to make it stop?” “Stop?” She looked at me questioningly. I laughed, holding back the tears threatening to escape my eyes. “It’s torture .” “What the fuck are you two even talking about?” demanded East. “Shut up , Abigail.” East huffed. “It’s Isis.” “Are you Egyptian?” Keisha shot back, “I thought your great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower.” “They did!” Abigail insisted. Keisha held out a hand as if to say, well there you go. Abigail smoothed down her hair with a pout. Keisha turned back to me. “So you’re a telepath.” “My therapist calls it being a highly sensitive person.” Keisha laughed. “Your therapist would call it that.” “You know telepathy isn’t real, right? It’s just in the movies,” Abigail proclaimed disdainfully. South also spoke up. “If you’re a telepath, then what shape am I thinking of right now?” She leaned back on her hands and narrowed her eyes as if daring me to guess. “That’s not really how it works,” I offered lamely. “I only...” I trailed off, staring down at the floor. Overhear the nasty things people think about you? My head shot up. Keisha was gazing at me with something like pity. Was I imagining it or had she- Yes bitch, I did, she smirked. Abigail had been tolerating this nonsensical conversation for quite long enough, thank you. She stood up and crossed resolutely to the doorway. “Well, Callie, it’s been great meeting you, but we’re going to need to discuss amongst ourselves whether or not it feels like a good fit.” Which she is obviously not. Freak. My heart, a thing which I had retrieved and smoothed out many times before, was once again crumpled and tossed in the trash. Tensing my jaw to keep my face from betraying emotion, I rose to go. Keisha rose too, dark eyes boring holes into Abigail’s. “I don’t remember anyone appointing you the leader of this coven,” she began softly. Abigail stared defiantly back. “I might as well be. Lilly doesn’t want it, and you-” She stopped herself, pursing her lips. Keisha’s mouth smiled, but her eyes didn’t follow. “Me, what? Why don’t you just go ahead and say it? I see you two giggling and making faces at each other whenever I talk. So say it.” Abigail snorted incredulously. “You’re reading into it, there’s nothing to say!” “Callie, since Abigail is too cowardly to tell me how she really feels, I’m gonna need you to check.” I froze, eyes wide. “It doesn’t- I can’t-” You can’t? Keisha turned to look at me. I saw the pain etched in her face, carved deep by every moment of disrespect or turning away. I set my jaw and wincing, sputtered, “She says that you’re weird and probably mentally unstable and that the only reason you’re still here is because three are more powerful than two.” What had just happened? Before I had time to consider it, Abigail whirled on me, rage painted across her face. I took half a step back. Keisha shook her head. “That’s what I thought.” She sighed, and with a wry grin added, “Well, good luck getting anything done without me. I was trying to spare your feelings, but neither of you can do magic for shit.” Then she slammed the door. “Crazy bitch!” Abigail shouted after her. I stood frozen in this room which no longer seemed quite as impressive as it had before. The shimmer over everything had dissipated, leaving it all feeling a little dirty and old. Lilly still sat on her cushion, looking blankly at the wall. Abigail sat down heavily beside her and leaned her head on her shoulder. Anxiety swelled up inside me like helium in a balloon, and I began to drift toward the door. “I’m gonna go- I hope you... have a good weekend?” Then I bolted. When I burst through the door into the crisp air of dusk, I took a shaky breath. My head felt stuffed with cotton and slightly achy. I flung one leg over my bicycle seat and was about to kick off when a wave of dizziness washed over me. I set my foot back on the concrete and decided to walk. As I rounded the block, I spied a figure leaning against a car on the curb. It was obviously Keisha. I seriously considered walking back the way I had come, but she had already seen me. I very casually wheeled my bike up as she quickly wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Hey,” I muttered and nodded as I began to pass. “Thanks for backing me up in there,” Keisha said. Reluctantly, I stopped. “No problemo,” I replied, cringing even as the words left my mouth. We looked at each other. “Well, goodnight,” I chirped, giving a tight little wave, desperate to escape before my social skills failed completely. Keisha returned my wave, wearing an inscrutable expression. “Night,” she said. Despite my rush, I was too close and too tired to avoid overhearing her as I walked away. She must think I’m crazy too. The thought hit me between the shoulder blades, stunning me into stillness. I turned to see Keisha circling the car and opening the driver’s side door. After a brief internal struggle I stunned myself by calling out, “Hey, do you want to go get a drink or something?” Keisha paused, hand still on the latch, and finally smiled. “Yeah.”


I regained consciousness in a coffin of cedar, the timeless scent barely becalming my horrendous sense of claustrophobia. And then, rage; for it was apparent that some doctor had a crude sense of jest. Perhaps it was on purpose that I was entombed whilst living, yet I was not an ill mannered fellow and had few antagonists. These thoughts however, were beyond pointless. Moving my arms and legs, I ascertained that nothing was permanently damaged, though there was a feeling of-well from what I've only studied (until now, that is)-the feeling of rigor mortis. My soul and mind knew my limbs remained intact but the limbs themselves refrained from this opinion. I struck repeatedly upon that lid of my confinement, not expecting anything. My faith was rewarded. I lit my tantrum with all the dreams I was too cowardly to do while alive, and the regrets I wanted to die from, down here. Exhausted, I attempted to contain my wrath, for surely the oxygen was sparse, and this, along with the general macabre environment, had me recollecting an event that befell my companions. Never being one for minute spaces nor entrapments, I had refrained from many expeditions into subterranean ruins that my archaeological peers were so fond of, until, not two years ago, in 1872, excavating a crypt from 2516 B.C. on the island of Cyprus, they did not return. There were no claw marks, nor sanguine trails into hidden passageways, and no local unsubstantiated legends to make any cognizance of their disappearance. The queerest thing was the note they had left behind. I could not quite recall the exact words, but it was something to do with following: the most splendid musical compositions, ones never heard before on this planet, we do not want to be down here any more, and the cosmos sees us all. Most unnerving. The recount of this nameless terror, however, was not helping my present predicament. I closed my eyes with determination, recalling the events of the few weeks prior to this abysmal situation. They had gone by as something of an inebriated blur; I had been diagnosed with consumption and the outlook was grim. I recalled the hazy days as if I were staring through the malady: a few doctors around me, mumbling scientific vanity, the appalling conditions of the ward I was housed at-the face of my wife, devoid of any emotion, should would not touch me. The most disturbing fact was some figure in black that I could not remember clearly....then a sheet over my head and the feeling of extraordinary acceleration-into nothing. I ascertained this was when I relinquished command of my corporeal being, for a time. Suddenly, a day or nocturnal dream (for I could not tell the hour) or an apparition (for it could not be a memory) eradicated my current musings on my life above ground. I was on an operating table completely naked-some nurse was cleaning my corpse with some noxious liquid and, my God, opening my throat with a metallic device-pouring embalming fluid down my esophagus-a casket of cedar with a black crucifix-a rather empty funeral, for my wife had committed suicide after the announcement of “death”-the graveyard in the French quarter of New Orleans...through this maelstrom of the subconscious (or soul conscience) living photographs, there was a figure of void black through it all. At times in the foreground, often in the back almost a memory, like a forgotten companion in one's youth, yet always coming closer. I could not meet this figure, I was determined to stay away, but as with many things we dread, my wishes were in vain. The entity loomed over me, it's movements were not mortal they appeared to swim and flow as though a celestial tide from beneath the universe was caressing its formless mass. It placed something in my pocket and I awoke again, beneath that horrid lid. Yet the feeling that engulfed me now was incalculably worse. It was though I could feel the weight of the rotting earth and flesh in tons, pressing down through my varnished wooden box of mortal rot, down past my perspiring chest, down into my very soul. I had to escape. I reached into my tuxedo of death and felt the nine pronged key. My astonishment was so severe that I cried aloud, coughing up formaldehyde. Sliding my finger over it, I envisioned the little white horns and a small elongated skull, though what creature it may have been, I knew not. Though it had been on my person for some time, it was unearthly cold to the touch. I felt every conceivable inch of that hellish container again and twice over, my back itching from the new black suit. Maybe an hour had passed of this activity in agony when the morbid realisation of my death by starvation came upon me. This was it. There was not a thing more I could do. It is sorrowfully amusing how no one thinks to craft a coffin which opens from within. I should just roll over and die. Which is what I did. And my index finger fell upon some miniature hole in the bottom of my coffin. Heart palpitating erratically, I frantically dug out that spectral key of bone and with a few failures, heard the tell tale click. I turned it. And turned again. Attempted reversing, inserting halfway...nothing worked. Striking the key in anger it punctured my hand, blood swimming over it as I grasped it in frustration, cursing whatever deplorable fates had riddled me with this ill-fated existence. Then with an almost vocal sound, worthy of the half imagined apparitions of Tartarus, the bottom of my coffin opened and I fell through, barely managing to cling on to the key before all went black. Well not completely black. There was a tinge of emerald green phosphorescence. I woke, lying on molding earth (or that's what I hoped it was) in a small cavern. I stepped out, stumbling slightly, and beheld a cosmically gruesome scene. It was a phantasmagoric panorama of a rotting subterranean dream: curiously lit flora and fauna were as one, unnameable things swam and crawled through the air, pranced on stalagmites, devoured each other, regurgitated remains, only to try again, and all held resemblance to half imagined necromantic nightmares. I surmised this was not the correct afterlife for me, and I had already begun my retreat, when some imp ghoul hybrid caught sight of me, and ululated a form of repulsive communicae to it's fellow species. All saucer eyes turned on me and in that moment, I do not think I have ever been more paralysed during my life, nor after it. I ran, heart palpitating, a sick radioactivity in my nerves made worse by the unnameable sounds behind me. I ran till, I found a dark crevice, near some abyss, my hand touched something resembling marble and I collapsed. A vibration awoke me. I had hoped to awaken on my bed in my flat near the French Quarter, but I was still in this vile underworld of eons dead. I looked down. And heard the most beautiful music I will ever hear, for now I cannot recall how it went. There were virtoustic masterpieces that they could practise for all eternity. Symphonic and polyphonic. Masses in Latin, Gregorian chant and Sumerian. Even languages that bore no resemblance to the lingua this earth. I heard remonstrances akin to Mozart and Beethoven, Liszt and Chopin, Paganini, even the famed Spanish guitarist Tarrega...yet far more devious and bone chilling, the notes themselves seemed to pierce and become a parasite within the body. Upon closer inspection of these phantoms, I found that horror to be true. Some kind of green phosphorescence was eating away at them, like a symbiotic organism. At them, I mean this parade. At the bottom of a cavernous pit, stretching on for all eternity. An Abyss's Parade. With a blasphemous hairless thing at its head, it had a miter of bone, and stamped it's webbed membranous feet with a hateful irreverence. I dared not look to its eyes, but they burned. And they all marched ever so proudly. It sounded as though all of the great composer had collaborated for decades. And then, I saw my wife. In long dress, and jet black hair down to her waist. She followed them listlessly, like a dying star in the void black of space. She did not looked scared, nor relieved to be done with life, just lost. Unquenchably, eternally, and lamentably lost. “What are you doing down here?” she asked, yet the words seem not to come from her mouth but from beneath, and beyond. “I fell, I conjecture from my coffin. But Angeline, why would you..what of our daughter. What of Isabelle?” “I know not. I know not. I'll always remember... our happiest moments. ” And with that, she drifted down that cosmic parade of souls. I have never seen her again, but on occasion we will share a stroll near the beach, during sunsets, and sit on the shore with the moon, in my dreams. It was our favourite pastime, and in my dreams, where I readily live now, we remain together. *** Shaking my head from this nihilistic nostalgia, I continued through the tides of the dead, seeing history in front, beside and behind me. Suddenly I heard the familiar tones of my old archaeological comrades. I could not believe it. “We went too far my lad...He said you'd get the worst of it.” “Rather, gave me quite a chill that one did.” “What are you conversing about Walters? what the bloody hell is going on-” I stammered. Walters eyes held a pity, like an adult telling a child how the world works and how it does not. “Why Lucifer of course. Him and God made a deal, old boy. Whoever could get the most souls would build and rule the next planet. Very big deal, doncha know. You see, this is his parade. His parade to bring us all down here, for the ending.” “My God. George is this true?” “I'll say, bally unbecoming of those chaps in my opinion. We aren't toys to be tinkered with!” A final fanfare of Death, War and all the little things we hold so closely in our existence, came parading forth in a grand march of Hell's abominations. I stood with my old comrades in that phosphorescent half light, the reverberations of the demoniac denizens receding. And then Walters said. “Why art thou so morbid? One day you shall join us, yet that time has not come. Or perhaps it has. You told us to go into the crypt in Cyprus. And you knew what was down there, waiting since Hellenistic times. That BEHEMOTH, BAAL and ASMODEUS. Remember what you said to us, that god damn chant you were so adamant about. I'll never forget! LUX LUX LUX. LUCRUM INFERNALIS, SALVE ET ILLUMINARE VIA DESCENDIT AD TARTARUM! The thousand faced one ate us all. You're dead too Alec, better get used to it. Have some wine, its quite good. You'll notice the first thing that changes in the afterlife, is the smell.” And by God, the smell!


Rob, the Squirrel, was on the couch watching Maury when the phone rang. Rob, the Squirrel, was not expecting anyone to call, and the sound made him fall off the couch. Shaking himself off, he grabbed the cordless and answered. “Hello, this is Rob the Squirrel.” “Hey Rob, the Squirrel, it’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord. Just a reminder that your rent was due five days ago.” “Hey, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. Yeah, sorry about that. I had that stomach bug that’s been going around -- “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, attempted to interject with a story about his wife, but Rob the Squirrel kept talking. “so I didn’t get a chance to mail it out. Is it okay if I come by your cave later today and drop off the check?” “Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel. I’ll be going out with the missus, so if I’m not around, just put it under the rock that I also use as a pillow.” “Sounds good. See you soon, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord.” Rob, the Squirrel, hung up the phone and went back to watching a marathon of Maury. Ten hours later, he went to bed and had a blissful night of rest. The next morning his phone rang. Rob, the Squirrel, was not expecting a phone call and was so startled he fell out of bed. Dusting himself off, he grabbed the cordless and answered. “Hello, this is Rob the Squirrel.” “Hey, Rob the Squirrel, it’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord. I didn’t see you come by, and I don’t see a check under the rock that I also use as a pillow.” “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I went to drop it off, but my Aunt Barbra needed me to help move her baby grand piano -- “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord attempted to interject with a story about his Aunt Barbara, who spells her name with an extra “A” and how funny that is but Rob the Squirrel kept talking. “and you know how my Aunt Barb is -- can’t say no to that one!” Rob, the Squirrel, let out a fake laugh. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, made a sound that resembled a chuckle. “Yeah, no problem. How about this? In an hour or so, I’ll be at Phil the Hippo’s to fix his toilet. After I get done with that, I’ll swing by and grab your check.” Rob, the Squirrel, was so thrown by the request that he fell off his couch. He licked his paws to smooth out his fur. “You okay, Rob the Squirrel? I thought I heard a crash.” “I’m fine, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. Sure come over whenever you like.” “See you soon.” Rob, the Squirrel, immediately threw up last night’s dinner. Then he ate the puke. After he finished eating the residue, he threw up again. After the second puke, he raced to and fro throughout his 800 square foot apartment. His bushy tail stood erect like a Mediterranean penis, and he chittered like a squirrel possessed. \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* What was he going to do? He didn’t have the rent, and he didn’t want to piss off Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord. Faced with no other option, Rob, the Squirrel, turned on the Netflix and spent two hours searching for something to watch. He was still scrolling when the doorbell rang. The chimes interrupted his trance, causing Rob the Squirrel to fall off the couch. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell? Then he remembered the conversation with Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord. This wasn’t good. He ran to and fro around the apartment like a mad squirrel, chittering like an enthusiastic waiter at a chain restaurant. \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there patiently, listening to the racket happening on the other side of the door. “Rob the Squirrel you home? It’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord.” “Yeah yeah, one second.” He was in the kitchen for the fourth time when he opened the trash and found a paper towel soaked in marinara sauce. Feeling confident about his decision, he grabbed the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce and a pen. Rob, the Squirrel, raced to the door and opened it up. “Sorry about that. I was in the shitter. Here’s the check.” Rob the Squirrel handed over the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that now contained some scribbling in between the stains to Earl the Bear, who also was his landlord. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord took the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that now contained some scribbling in between the stains and without looking down said, “No worries. Thanks. See you next month.” Three days later, there was a knock on his door. Rob the Squirrel had been in the backyard burying and reburying the same piece of Styrofoam he had found in a bush outside for the past six hours and didn’t hear the knocking. He was semi-scampering into the house when he heard yet another knock, causing him to tumble down the stairs. Who the hell was knocking on his door? He shook himself off, raced to the front door, and opened it. “Hey, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. A little early for the rent, right?” Rob, the Squirrel, laughed and laughed at his witty remark. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there, staring. This time the sound that could have been a chuckle was fainter. “Hey, Rob, the Squirrel. A funny thing just happened to me. I went to deposit your check at the bank, and the teller, a jerk of an ostrich, laughed at me. When I asked why he was laughing, he threatened to call the Panda police. When I asked why he would do such a thing, he responded by asking me if he was stupid? Then he pointed to the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains I had handed him. I looked down at the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains and asked him what that was? He said it’s a paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains. I said, why are you showing me this? He said that’s what I had handed him two seconds earlier. A half-hour later, I left the bank red in the face. “WHAAAAAAT??? That’s crazy! He was lying to you, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. That was a certified U.S. check. He’s trying to rip you off!” The fur on the back of Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood on end. He took the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce with some scribbling in between the stains out of his pocket and held it in front of Rob the Squirrel’s face. “So you’re telling me this paper towel soaked in marinara sauce with some scribbling in between the stains is a certified U.S. check?” “Of course Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. What else would it be?” “And you’re saying if I go back down there that they will cash this?” “They better, or else! The God damn Socialists are taking over the country!” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there, not saying a word. He was a Bernie bro but didn’t like discussing his politics. Rob, the Squirrel, wrinkled his nose in thought and held up his right paw. “You know what? Hold on one second.” Rob, the Squirrel, ran to the kitchen, opened up the fridge, and stuck his paw in a jar of mayonnaise. Then he grabbed a dish towel and wiped his paw. Feeling satisfied with his decision, Rob, the Squirrel, went back to his front door holding the dishtowel. “This here is a notarized letter stating that what you have in your possession is a check that can be cashed and used as currency. That should solve everything.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, let out a sigh of relief and took the dishtowel with some mayonnaise on it. “Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel. I appreciate your help.” “No problem, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, left, but he stopped on the last step. He turned just as Rob the Squirrel was closing the door. “Are you sure this is going to work?” Rob, the Squirrel, wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Of course, it will. Why wouldn’t it?” “Okay. Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord left. Two hours later, Rob, the Squirrel, was once again on his couch, looking for something to watch when the doorbell rang, causing him to plummet to the ground. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell? Rob, the Squirrel, used his bushy tail to clean himself off and ran to the front door. “Hey, Earl the Bear, who -- “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stormed into his foyer, sending Rob the Squirrel flying into the kitchen. He ricocheted off a cabinet built in the late 80s and slowly stood up, trying to shake out the cobwebs. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood over him. He was not happy. “Do you think I’m some kind of jerk-off?” Rob the Squirrel wrinkled his nose, this time out of fear, but he had no clue what Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, was talking about. “Pardon?” “RAAAAAAAR!” Earl the Bear, who used to be his landlord, opened wide and ate Rob the Squirrel in less than three bites. Feeling satisfied with the outcome, Earl the Bear, who used to be his landlord, went back home and placed an ad in the local newspaper for an eight hundred square foot apartment. Anyone interested would need the first and last month’s rent, along with a security deposit.


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Dear Ma, Loved hearing from you, thanks so much for writing! I’m glad Dad was able to set up your new email address--we’ve had our hands pretty full and it’s been hard to sit down and write anything handwritten, for once, but our family therapist tells me journaling is a healthy processing technique so I guess you’ll get an earful. Sorry in advance! I love that you still keep up with Peter and Susie Chin! I remember their kids--we used to spend hours playing with them down at the creek when we were younger, just like you said their kids do as well. I miss that place. Sometimes I wonder if we had stayed in Oregon if Johnny would grow up with an appreciation for the outdoors rather than holing up in the shed and building his rocket. Maybe he’d be out there with the Chin’s grandkids, splashing around and getting into neighborhood shenanigans like we used to. Oh right, I suppose I should tell you about the rocket. I suppose we’re to blame with his recent obsession--I think he got turned on to space after we gave him a stack of Ted’s old Superman comics, with Kal-El being from another planet and all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to visit Krypton! I normally leave him alone while he’s welding in the shed but my parenting podcast told me I should participate in my child’s interests, so the other day I walked in to see what he might be working on. He wasn’t around but he’s really a gifted artist! As I suspected, he’s obsessed with Superman. Well, the Superman universe, at least--one wall was covered with drawings of Lex Luthor. They were a little manic, scribbled in one of those avant-garde dark-red smear styles but think with a few private lessons we could have a regular little Francisco Goya! The other walls were plastered in diagrams of this rocket, and grid maps of major cities--Los Angeles, Toronto, New York, even the Distrito Federal. What struck me was the precision with which he drew everything. Notes on the side included things like population density, intercontinental flight times, fuel charts, and even notations on the city's anti-air systems. It was really riveting stuff. I also found the rocket he’s been working on--it’s smaller than I expected, but expertly welded. I told Ted about it afterwards and now we’re looking into architecture and engineering private schools to put him in once he reaches high school! I think a private trade school might be good for him. The other kids in his class don’t really get along with someone as bright as Johnny. They call him awful things, like “weird,” “creepy,” and “hell-bent on world domination.” Poor Johnny’s handling it well, though. I asked him how he felt about it one day after school, and he told me that “they’ll see. They’ll all see.” and then disappeared into the shed. You show them, Johnny! Tonight at dinner I asked him if he planned to make his rocket any bigger, because I didn’t think it could hold a person. He kind of stared at me for a long while--we call those his Johnny stares! It’s a fun game he plays. And then he said, “no, mom, I don’t need it to hold a person, I just need it to hold a payload.” That’s also part of Johnny’s game. He always responds to questions with something cryptic. It’s like a mystery we get to solve as parents. Anyway, I’ll wrap this up. Johnny’s school psychologist left me a message asking if I was available to talk ASAP, and I think I have to tell him we’re moving Johnny to a different school next year. Say hi to Dad and the Chins for me. Hope to hear from you soon.


It had been three days since the storm started and it didn’t look like it was stopping anytime soon. I was sheltered under some cardboard boxes, which had turned too soggy to support themselves, let alone shelter me - it was as if I was standing under the rain. Many times I thought of getting up and finding a better place to spend the night but, I feared not only the frequent boom of the thunder or the occasional lightning that followed, but the thugs who came out at this time of night.. Even after decades, it seems that these people never sleep and continuously watch you from the shadows; like a curfew - if all the homeless people weren’t sleeping by 11 pm, it was these people’s job to get rid of us, like mere pieces of garbage. The boxes prevented anyone from seeing me at night, but not the loud bang of the gunshots. It was this that kept me from dozing off into the merciless night. My cold, wet hands were tucked within my legs, my legs bent inward to conserve some heat. Someone had stolen my entire cart while I had gone to find some food. It had everything I rummaged over the years; a blanket, pillow, some bits of food and water, and gloves; oh how I missed my gloves! I always brought it with me, but yesterday, I was close to a dumpster, so I decided to leave it behind. I made sure to conceal it well but someone must have been watching me. The five minutes that I took was enough for the thief to get what he or she came for. I resented myself for it and should have known better than to take the risk. All I could do now was to start all over again, like I did when I first arrived onto these streets. This time though, I knew what I had to do. The night passed and the storm had calmed down, thankfully, but that didn’t mean it was going to stop. The morning was normal; car horns blaring, huge crowds scrambling to the store with the biggest discount, pigeon droppings falling on people’s heads - all normal from a homeless man’s perspective. It was reasonable enough weather to go on a little scavenger hunt. I knew from experience that nice weather doesn’t last long, so I had to hurry to find not only a shelter, but also some food and new clothes. I got up from under the boxes and took a look around. Other homeless people had also started to look for food in the dumpsters. One man made a mistake of shouting excitedly, indicating that he had found some food, which caused others to rush towards him and fight for it. ”Amateur”, I thought but in the back of my mind, I knew I was once that amateur as well. I fixed my hair as well as I could, to blend in with the crowd. As for my clothes, I had no choice but to keep them on until they dried. People were looking at me from everywhere, as if I was some inhumane creature rather than the same species. Some were discrete about it, looking only when I was not, but I could feel their eyes burning into me. And others simply couldn’t help it. “What happened to you, freak?” “Stay away from me, oh my God! You stink.” And it was true. I did. But I had been in these conditions long enough not to even care anymore. Fashion is something one must sacrifice in order to be successful on the streets. I was shoved by some who were brave enough to touch me, and spat on by ones that were not. I continued through the crowd because I knew that resorting to fighting would do me no good as I was too weak to fight. As I escaped into an alleyway, the clatter of the crowd subsided and I pulled out my map to see where I was. North St. A dumpster was close by, but before I could get there, something caught my eye. A few feet in front of me, I could see a folded blanket. Without hesitation, I went towards it and picked it up. It was heavy, so there was something inside. It was also very warm and soft, as if it had been left in the sun before being placed here although, there hadn’t been any sun the past few days. I took the blanket with me, making sure that I wasn’t being followed. I then hid behind some trash cans behind a small shop. I placed the blanket on the ground, and opened it. Inside, there was a cylindrical container, with crimson liquid peering from within. I soon realized that that was the thing that made the blanket feel so warm. I wanted to pick it up, but feared getting burnt. Nonetheless, my heart was yelling at me to touch it. And so I did. But as soon as I did, the liquid inside the container turned a light shade of blue. My hand didn’t feel hot, instead, I felt cool. It was then that I saw the opening for the container, and so I decided to open it. I don’t really know why I wanted to open it. I should have left the container alone, and taken the blanket, but it called out to me. Like when you know something is wrong, but still end up doing it. As I opened it, I decided to test its capabilities by pouring it onto a rat that was amused by the turquoise light. The liquid just fell on the rat’s body, and drenched its fur. I looked away too soon to realize that the rat disappeared. Thinking that it was safe, I poured it into my hands. The cool fluid flowed into my already wet hands, and almost instantly, I felt a ringing in my ear. “ Miikke”. I heard my name being called by an unfamiliar voice and after a few seconds, I fell unconscious. When I came to, my eyes needed a few moments to fathom where I was. Around me, transparent walls concealed me from what seemed to be some sort of lab. There was equipment surrounding me, and I was constrained to a bed. An unpleasant and an unfamiliar aroma was floating in the air, and my mind wanted to escape this ratchet place. I would rather have been homeless than sit here waiting for something to happen. Then, an automated voice said, “Welcome Mike to the Home of the Spartans. You are in lockdown and will be released after two weeks.” That was all that it said, and then from holes in the ceiling escaped a visible green gas that once again put me to sleep. 2 Weeks Later... My body was sore and I was no longer wearing the old and soggy clothes from the day I touched the liquid. I was still in the bed but my constraints had been removed. I got up and walked around the room, trying to find a door. Then, as if on cue, a man accompanied by two bodyguards appeared from within the ground. I asked him to get me out of here and he replied, “Relax, Mike-” “How do you people know my name?” “You gave it to us 10 years ago.” That is when I went homeless. “Lies, I was homeless then. I had never seen you before in my life!” “Mike, we brainwashed you for an experiment. You were willing to risk your life for it because you said you didn’t have anything better to do with your life. You lost your wife, your job, and your house, so we took you in.” “I don’t believe you.” “I knew you wouldn’t. So here is the footage of the entire thing.” He showed me a video and it showed me and him, talking to each other. I had said that I had nothing else to do with my life. And yet, I don’t remember any of it. “We told you that you would be brainwashed and you agreed. You said you wanted to forget your past at whatever cost, even if it meant being part of an experiment that made you homeless. It all seems a lie, but it's true. Now that we’ve finished conducting the experiment, you are no longer needed, so we gave you that teleportation liquid. The rat that you tested it on has been eliminated from the laboratory. We will give you your memory back if you want it.” “Yes, I want it. Of course I want it. I need it. I don’t know what I was thinking - forgetting about my past. That’s what a coward would do. Not me. I’m Michael Gray.” “Actually, your name is Johansen Berger. To recover your memory, we need to also edit your family’s. That process will take a while, but I assure you, that as soon as we finish, you will be reunited with your family.” A week had passed and I was finally going back to my small apartment. My wife, Diane, had passed long before my memory was erased. The kids, Cooper and Lily, were left on their own to figure out the world for themselves. I was excited but ashamed. What if my kids tell me to leave? What if they don’t forgive me for what I did? I started second-guessing myself, but it was too late. I was outside their door, and so I knocked. An elderly man opened the door. “Cooper?” I asked “Who? My name is Silverstein. There is no Cooper here. He was murdered along with his wife or something, Lily, I think it was, I don’t remember.” At his words, my life crumbles within seconds. I couldn’t bear it, so I did what I could, I jumped out the window, and felt the wind rush through my air. The ground got closer and closer until it was right there. My eyes closed, and weren’t opening anytime soon.


Let me preface this with this is my first time trying something like this. I know there will be mistakes and would love to have you guys point them out to me. I have more of this story written out. Just didn't want to post a wall of text for my first time. #2 Will be released soon. Thanks :) **Pt. 1 - The Apothecary** The young man awoke from another night of wine and an empty stomach he stumbled over to the nearest pot and retched into it. His hair was a mess and his clothes tattered. He wiped his mouth with his forearm; he regained his composure and set off with the few coins in his pockets to buy himself some fine rabbit stew and refill his canteen with mead. He made his way through the village the smells of smoldering coals filled the air as smoke rose out the tips of the tattered teepees. He gazed around and saw the faces of the hard working. Blacksmiths busy in the forge, alchemists hard at work and cooks preparing meals for the village. The dirty young man reached the place where he was to order his stew when a strange man took a seat next to him, ordering something he had never heard of before. He looked down at his own dirty clothing and feet. Out of anxiety he started to get up to move a seat away. The oddly dressed man looks over and asks with a friendly tone, “Where are you off to? Isn’t your rabbit soup almost ready?” Ollie nods and let a small smile escape his lips. “I’m Ollie,” he says to the odd man meekly. “Well met, Ollie, I am Helmen, the local apothecary here in Reltun. Well- not much of one anymore since the gripes of old age restrain me from accomplishing some of my work...” he says his voice trailing off. Ollie looks up, rather intrigued. He takes a bite of his delicious rabbit soup in contemplation before asking, “Are you in need of an assistant?” he says hesitantly. Helmen tilts his head back and forth, “Perhaps if you’re serious about it we could arrange a deal.” He says gesturing to Ollie’s dirty garb. “Clean you up and get you a place to stay. This would depend though.” “What’s that?” Ollie eagerly replies. “I need a task done for me- something to prove that you are in fact, of some use to me. Follow me.” Helmen gets up and leads Ollie to his home, tucked away in the swamps. The doorway covered in heavy vines, a thick fog emanating from the woods nearby. They trudge past the vines and enter the rather humble abode. Helmen walks over to his desk, takes a piece of parchment and dips his quill in his ink and begins writing. Once done, he takes a candle and dries the ink on the parchment, rolling it up and holding it out to Ollie. “Bring me the supplies listed here. Then, show me that you’re capable of brewing and I’ll offer you a place to stay, food, and a profession. It’s only right in my old age to pass my knowledge down since I have nobody of my own to share it with.” Ollie accepts the parchment and quickly unravels it, reading its contents: *- Bark of a Phyn tree.* *- A vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp.* **Pt. 2 - Gundrak’s Demands** A large brute of a man trudges his way to Helman’s house and barges in. Skulls of his foes dangle from his waist, the chieftain Gundrak. He was demanding a shipment of Ellisium, a drug that is ideal for partying. As well as a large shipment of ‘Warrior Powder’ as they call it. It’s used to amp up soldiers before a fight. Giving them enhanced senses and inhuman strength, a forbidden recipe, however your life is more important than your apothecary license when Gundrak asks. Helmen reluctantly agrees to make the warrior powder, however he had some of the Ellisium on hand to satiate Gundrak for the time being. **Pt. 3- The Test** Bark of a Phyn tree. Ollie thinks to himself. The only tree he can think of is near the south of the swamp. So he grabs his knife and sets out. Trudging through the foggy swamp. Careful not to run into any tribesman, he makes it to the tree. However a few tribesmen seem to be camping nearby performing some sort of ritual. Ollie decides to take shelter in a nearby bush and wait until they are busy. As two of the members lay down for some rest, one remains on patrol. Ollie studies him and identifies when their shift change is. An hour before they change shifts is when Ollie plans to make his break for the tree and acquire some bark as that’s when the one on rotation is most tired. The guard takes a seat on a nearby rock surveying the mountain path as Ollie sneaks up and starts slicing some bark, he gathers some and shoves it in his satchel. He slithers away, making his escape into the density of the foggy forest. Next, is the vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp. A rather simple task as long as you keep away from the poison needles that litter the area. Having been raised in Reltun, Ollie knew the best and quickest way to acquire this. He filled up a few vials, hoping it was enough. He set off on his return to Helmen’s home. As Ollie returns to Helmen’s shanty he realizes something amiss. Helmen seems to be frantic and as his gaze sets on Ollie a light flickers in his eyes. “Did you get the items I asked of you?” he asks urgently. Ollie empties his satchel onto the table and a small smile forms on Helmen’s face. “So you’ve done it, eh?” Helmen walks over to Ollie, hands him a few coins. “Go wash up.” He says as he walks over to his closet and pulls out some fresh furs for Ollie. “These should suit you well here. Also, there’s a bed upstairs. Eat what you want. You’ve earned it... I’ll need a lot of help from you here tomorrow, so get some rest now.” **Pt. 4 The Book** Ollie wakes up the next day with a stack of books on his nightstand. A letter atop that reads: *“If you’d like to earn your keep here. I’ll need your help with my work. Start by studying these books and gathering herbs.”* * *Helman* So Ollie does as he’s told and cracks into the first book, “Swamps, Spores, and Fungi”. It outlined the various mushrooms, spores, fungus, and vegetation that grow around the swamp climate. Ollie found a recipe for an elixir that allows you to see in the night. So he set out to find the ingredients listed in the book. He returned with all the ingredients getting them ready on the countertop. He turned and looked at all the alchemical equipment and his heart sank. The book only outlined where to find the ingredients, not how to brew the elixir. Ollie heard a noise towards the door and in walked Helmen. “Ahh... the Nighteye Elixir.” Helman says as he eyes the ingredients on the table in an approved tone. ”Are you aware of how to brew it, Ollie?” he says with a piqued brow. He sauntered over to a bookshelf and read a few titles before pulling one from the shelf. “N-no.” Ollie says, rather frustrated. Helman flips through the book and finds the page labeled “Nighteye Elixir”. He sets it on the counter and grabs the first ingredient and starts the process, showing Ollie how every step of the way. Teaching him how to read the instructions and then allowing him to brew it himself. Mentoring him as if it were his protégée. A few days of Ollie foraging and concocting pass. Then one night he noticed Helman up in his study rather late. Reading a dusty book under candlelight. Ollie had never seen him do something like this before so he decided to keep a keen eye on his actions this night. Ollie heard Helman blow out the candle and so he snuck down the stairs to see what Helman could be doing. Helman carried the large black book in his hand and paced over to a wall. He pulled a board from the wall with ease, sliding the book behind before covering it back up with the board. Ollie was rather curious. What secrets could Helman be hiding? Is he a part of some criminal organization? Was it just merely valuable? There was only one way to find out.


'No matter who it belongs to, standing in front of a grave is a strange feeling. I don’t dislike it... but I cannot say I like it either. It’s cold, but it’s also real. It’s the only reality I am sure of. It will catch up to me as it caught on to this one here. ' Monologuing to himself, James placed a bouquet of white flowers in front of a tree. 'There once used to be a rock slate here, but with time, the name on it has withered away and maybe, the soul too. ' Roughly thirty years ago “Oh no I fell asleep!” James got up, panting. Mom will kill me! She WILL kill me! was all he could think of. Fumbling, he got up and picked up his school bag. He had fallen asleep on the warm grass of the temple garden. “It hasn’t been that long, kid. And you better wipe the drool off your face.” A hoarse voice startled him. He spun around to see an old man sitting on one of the two benches behind him. He had crazy white hair which looked like it was full of static. His hooded eyes looked almost closed and he was wearing a tired smile on his wrinkled face. The man was holding a bouquet of white flowers. James, who had grown red with embarrassment, ran away without a second look. He was almost home when he stopped running. A distressing thought entered his mind. The old man had found his secret place, so it no longer belonged to only him. What if that old man starts coming every day? James decided to settle it out with the old man the next day, in case the old man dared to show up. The next day after school, James ran to the temple at full speed. He stopped in front of the benches, panting. The old man was not there. “Thank God!” He puffed and fell on the bench. After a few moments of silence, he heard a somewhat familiar, hoarse voice. “Sleeping again?” The old man chuckled. He was standing behind the bench. Startled, James jumped up and blurted out the speech he had been preparing in his head since yesterday, “T-this is my place s-so you please find your own.” sensing that maybe he sounded rude, he added a “- Sir” at the end. “Oh I see, so this is your place now?” smiling, the man went around the benches and sat on the other one. “Don’t worry, I’ll go. Will you let me tell you a story before that? I want to talk but there’s no one else around.” he patted the bench. Hesitantly, James dragged his feet and sat at the corner of the bench. “A long time ago this was my place. I went to a school there-” The old man pointed somewhere randomly “- and I would come here every afternoon to play with Kiko.” “What"s that?” After knowing that the old man owned the spot before him, James felt intrigued to know his story. “Kiko was a fine lady. The prettiest feline I had ever seen, and no matter how hard I tried, she wouldn’t play with me. She would always give me the cold shoulder and climb up that tree-“ again he pointed, this time more accurately, to a big tree in front of them. “That tree is way too big for a cat to climb. Are you sure you are not lying?” James questioned. The old man burst out laughing. “I swear I am telling the truth. That tree has actually grown quite a bit since the last time I was here. In fact, this whole place is so different. The temple was smaller, the trees were younger, and there was a little stream on the other side of the forest which has now dried up. Also, there was no clear path to this place like there is now. This was a real secret place; my secret place.” James’ eyes were ready to pop out as he tried to imagine the scene that the old man had painted for him. “Was it really that amazing?!” James squealed in delight. “Yes. It was like a page out of a fairy tale. And it was all mine and Kiko’s.” James had totally forgotten about the cat till the old man mentioned it again. “You see Kiko did not belong to this place. She suddenly appeared out of nowhere one afternoon and I fell in love with her. But her lack of interest in me broke my heart. Still I decided that I would win her over.” “But it"s just a cat!” exclaimed James. “She-“the old man smiled softly, “-was so much more than a cat. She was my friend.” James didn’t say anything and continued to listen quietly. “I started getting food for her, every day. She ate it and then went back to ignoring me. After a few days, I started luring her in. I would hold on to the food till she would come to me and then pat her on her head before handing out the food. It took her a month to trust me. After that, the days went by like in a dream. Every day was fun. Going to school, playing with Kiko and lazing around at home for the rest of the evening.” “That sounds sooo boring. I do the same thing every day! Without Kiko of course. I wish I could just grow up and own a car and see the whole world and not study.” James’ eyes sparkled. “I felt like that too at some point. But now... I just wish those days would come back. Just once more, I wish I could go back, meet Kiko...” the old man’s voice suddenly grew heavy and his eyes welled up. James sensed the emotion but did not understand what happened. “Uncle?” “Ah sorry” the old man wiped his eyes and got up from the bench. “Are you leaving?” James asked. “Well, this is no longer my place. It belongs to you now. Treasure this time. One day you would long to come back but will be stuck in the real boring life.” With that, the old man walked away silently and waved one last time before disappearing around a corner. James sat still for some time and then walked over to the big tree that the old man has pointed to before. Behind it, he saw the bouquet of flowers that the man was holding yesterday and a small rock slate with something written on it in a jagged handwriting. He bent down and read it, “In the loving memory of my Kiko”. “KIKO?!” James exclaimed when he realised that he was standing in front of the cat"s grave. He dashed back to where the old man had disappeared, but could not find him. James waited for the old man to come back someday, but he never did. In his place, James offered flowers to Kiko’s grave on that same day every year till he graduated and moved out of town. Roughly thirty years later A grown up James now stood where he once used to play as a child. 'Life kept getting busy and with each passing day I kept losing myself.' James thought to himself. ' Every day was full of work and people. I finally understand what the old man had said. I too felt a strong urge to return to that time. So strong, that now I am here, recalling his words.' 'Those were the most carefree days of my life. Taking a slight detour from school to home was only natural. I could wander just because I felt like it, or sit and stare at the sky. Not every thing that I did had to have a meaning. I was at peace with my existence-' A ball came flying at his feet and James returned it to the playing kids. He looked around himself. The temple was now just a dilapidated hut. The trees had been cut off and the garden had been turned into a crowded playground. Thankfully, Kiko’s tree still remained... but who knows for how long. James walked away silently and before disappearing around the corner.


Cautiously, Hanna picked her way through the crowded hallways of her high school. Keeping her head down and her eyes trained firmly on the floor, she mumbled barely audible excuses to her peers as she crept past. None of them seemed to notice her, but at least with her head bowed she couldn’t see how they stared at her with their haughty expressions. Above her head, the school speakers crackled to life with the overly-enthusiastic voice of Carol Reems. “Fellow Lincoln High students! Remember that the cast list for the spring musical was posted this morning. Let’s break a leg!” Drawn to the far end of the hallway, Hanna continued sliding past people, brushing her elbow against a few thick backpacks stuffed with textbooks. Wincing in pain as she collided head on with one such bag, she stumbled back a pace, blinking in surprise. “S-Sorry,” she managed, pushing past the tall boy who blocked her way. Finally reaching her destination, Hanna faltered. Nothing would make her happier in life than to be part of the spring production. It was her senior year and she wanted to take a few risks, make herself gain a little confidence before college. Though, truth be told, it was all her mother’s idea. She worried about Hanna going off to college without learning how to look people in the eye, without being able to tell people what she wanted to say. Hesitantly, Hanna raised her eyes a few centimeters and stared at the corked bulletin board. Few things in life were fair, Hanna knew, but she had been so looking forward to seeing her name in black flowing script on the cast list pinned up on the wall. Hanna swiped at her face, the scratchy wool of her sweater causing her eyes to water in irritation. Salty tears beaded on her eyelashes. How could she not have made the list, even as an extra? She had studied for days! Every afternoon once school let out, she took a shuttle bus to the local library. Until 6pm when her dad picked her up in his beat-up minivan, she devoured every book the library had on acting. She knew the techniques inside and out. Surely that counted for something! Swallowing down her tears, Hanna backed away from the board, shaking her head in disbelief. She recalled her audition perfectly. For weeks, she had practiced in the mirror in her bedroom, mouthing the words until they felt natural coming from her mouth. When no one else was home, she even practiced her delivery. Her diction and pronunciation were perfect! But the audition... Hanna shuddered just to think of that horrid day. Sitting in the rows of theater seats in the auditorium, she tried to ignore all the students talking around her. Each one of them was positive they would land a starring role in the musical. They held scene scripts loosely in their hands, smiling carefree at one another. She wondered to herself then if some of them even knew what the production was about. They certainly didn’t seem as prepared as she was. One by one, Hanna watched her classmates go up on stage and fumble through the lines, eyes darting down to the scripts every five seconds. As if they had never read the material before. Grinning to herself, Hanna tried to make herself relax. She had this in the bag. “Hanna Reems,” the director called out, scratching his head with the end of his pen. He glanced sadly at his empty coffee mug sitting on the table. These auditions always took too much time. Squaring her shoulders, Hanna climbed the steps onto the blacked out stage. “This is my castle,” she muttered to herself, practicing one last time the opening line, “and you were not invited to the ball!” “Are you ready, Hanna?” The director, her science teacher Mr. Hob asked. “You can begin when you take your place center stage.” Nodding, Hanna lowered her hand to her side, knowing she wouldn’t need to glance at the script. “This -” she muttered, her voice soft inside the huge auditorium. Bashful, she cleared her throat, trying to play her sudden nervousness off as a warm up exercise. “This is my -” Hanna tried again. Her voice faded off. Mr Hob glanced up from his notes, a furrow of tiredness creasing his brow. Shaking her head, Hanna giggled, a high noise rising from deep in her lungs. “I’m okay,” she squeaked. “It’s alright, Hanna,” Mr. Hob replied after a few more failed attempts at delivering the lines. “Thank you for coming.” Waving his hand in the direction of the stage stairs, he nodded, giving her a chance to clear the stage for the next student. Slowly, Hanna felt her feet follow the path, going heavily down each step. Now, backing away from the judgemental bulletin board, Hanna found herself blinking in disbelief. Surely there had been a mistake! She knew the lines better than anyone. With a jolt of decisiveness, she turned on her heel, pushing more forcefully through the crowded hallways. It was simple, she thought, she just had to prove to Mr. Hob that she should be in the show. Why should it matter if sometimes she couldn’t get the words she planned so carefully in her mind to come out of her mouth? She would practice harder, that was all. Every problem could be solved through practice and sheer determination. Those few friends who knew Hanna well would have described her as ‘quiet’. Never likely to be outspoken. Too afraid to tell others what she really thought for fear she’d be judged. They also had told her, many times, that she overthought every situation, dreaming up the worst possible conclusions until she was too tied up in knots to find a way out. Suffice to say, if they hadn’t been in classes of their own at the moment Hanna strode through the halls of Lincoln High, they would stare at Hanna as she passed by, wondering where their shy friend disappeared to. Coming to Mr. Hob’s classroom, Hanna took a deep breath. Knocking softly on the wooden door to announce her presence, she opened the door another few inches until she could peek her head through. “Mr. Hob,” she began softly, noting that he was sitting alone at his desk, bent over a stack of papers. I’d like to talk to you, she thought, the words stuck in her throat. If you have a moment. I know I didn’t showcase myself well at my audition, but I’d really appreciate it if you could give me another chance. You see, I’ve spent the past month researching and practicing the script. I really think I could be a useful addition to the cast. Please, if you could try to find a place for me, even a small role, I’d be grateful. Hanna breathed out, waiting for a response that would never come. She stood in the doorway another moment, trying to get up the courage to present her well-prepared speech. She knew Mr. Hob was nice, and if he could, he’d give her a role. Maybe a job helping with the set at least. All she had to do was say the words. But some words are easier thought than said aloud.


“So how do you become a boy?” I found myself studying her with an intensity I rarely applied to children. She had my sister’s eyes, the outline of her face followed the same exact lines, but the way she carried herself was undeniably different. It was in the grit stuck between her fingernails, the defiant soldier-like puff of her chest and the way she looked at me directly in the eye with as much genuine curiosity as there was what could have been envy. She had the ready-to-pounce springiness of an anxious young lad. “What a silly question!” Maureen, my sister, interjected from across the table. “Why don’t you go find Will and Mason?” “How do you become a boy, uncle Tom?” I pretended to poke at a slice of bacon with as much idle disinterest as could be mustered while having a watching parent breathe down my neck. In truth I was hooked. “Why would you want to become a boy?” “Because girls are all about dress up and throwing pretend parties and pretend this and pretend that and boys get guns and swords and arrows and they get to build forts.” “What’s so bad about dress-up? when I was your age I loved pretty dresses.” spoke her mum while inserting a knife into a fried egg. “So you would become a boy just to get guns and swords?” She nodded. The look in her eyes was as noticeable as ever. Maureen was using her fork to stir the ruptured yolk with mashed potatoes. I could see the eyes staring at me from the back of her head “Silly girl!” I would say. “What’s there to like about guns and swords? If you’re born a lady then you’re a lady or a lad a lad. Always been that way! Now cease these silly thoughts and go find your cousins!” and I would watch as the glow in her eyes went out like a candle and gray over. But that’s not what I said. “Well, I think that’s a neat little thought you have there. While I can’t make you magically pop up in boy’s skin, I think what’s more important is that you see yourself as one. In fact, I think that’s all there is to being a boy, that you see and carry yourself like a young man, and as long as you still believe in that part of yourself, in time people would start calling you a lad.” From the corner of my eye I saw Maureen’s hand give a little tremor, barely noticeable to maybe even his husband but I knew exactly where to look after all these decades under the same roof. When Anna had left the room and was most likely out of earshot she turned to me. “I wish you hadn’t said that.” “Why not?” “You might give her ideas.” “I don’t see why that’s a problem.” “I’d like her to stay a girl.” “Your daughter would say otherwise.” “what good is there to be a boy anyway? when we were her age you and James and Charles would go hunting and one of you would be bound to come back hurt and crying.” “You can’t blame her. You ladies have been allowed to vote for only what? Ten years? If I were her I would want to be a boy too.” “You can’t expect her to understand that!” “Doesn’t change my point.” I said, spearing my own egg. “She’s just a child. Don’t entertain her silly ideas.” “Didn’t seem silly to me. You should’ve seen your daughter. Deadpan serious.” “I still don’t want you telling her stuff like that.” Sensing that there wasn’t much space left for argument I threw up my arms in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am!” It was difficult to judge Anna’s maturity, in the same way it was difficult for all children. Both her parents said that she was a silly girl who should learn to grow up, as did Mrs. Taylor, the nosy teacher who taught her things like reading and adding up numbers. In a way she knew she was acting silly herself, when she entertained ideas like going to bed in a certain position then waking up the next morning completely changed into a boy like her cousins. But then you can also say she wasn’t childish at all, that she had a certain early-for-her-age maturity about her, because otherwise how would she know she was being silly in the first place? Will and Mason were like two sides of the same coin. while they had the same eyes and nose Mason was both taller and leaner than his younger sibling, who was stocky and had a noticeably rounder face. The difference still would not have been comical if it weren’t for Mason’s ears, which were oversized like a mouse’s and jutted beyond the outline of his head. He was also the shrewder and more adventurous of the two. “You wouldn’t believe this rabbit hole I found! It’s just across the hill. last time I saw two of ‘em leave. there’s an entire den of little un’s inside I’m tellin’ you.” “I don’t want to go.” “Why not?” “I don’t know, what if it’s a fox den?” “We’ll catch some foxes ’en.” “What if one of them jumps out and bites us?” “Foxes don’t bite. We saw one at the market. Tame as a dog.” “What if we get rabies?” “I want to go!” The two of them looked at her with the same curiosity and shock as one would have while regarding a particularly strange breed of dog, and it might as well be true. Neither had spent much time around the peculiar species their parents called “girls”. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” “Nothing. It’s just that you’re a girl.” it was Will who spoke. “I’m not a girl.” “But you are.” Mason was apparently too anxious to wait until the end of the argument. “Great! that makes the two of us! I’ll lead the way!” The two of them marched past hills and the occasional flock of sheep, dragging a protesting Will behind. It was unusually cold and windy for late June and the English countryside occasionally blasted massive gusts that forced the trio to turn around and walk backwards. At one point Mason, still leading, tripped and rolled the entire distance downhill. Much to Anna’s giggling amusement. He got up, dusting off the bits of grass and mud caking his pants, his face red. The “den” if one could call it that, turned out to be a disappointment, a dusty hole in the earth under an apricot tree. For the span of twenty minutes Anna was crouched over it, making what she thought were rabbit noises before dangling a blade of grass over the entrance like a fisherman’s lure. Her pursuits went unanswered. In time she gave up. “What are you doing?” Mason was already halfway up the tree, clumsily perched between two branches like the bear she had seen in picture books. The canopy bowed and shook in the wind. “Apricots!” he shouted, cheerfully, pointing towards the crown. Anna peered between the leaves and saw flashes of sunset orange among the emerald. “He’s not going to make it.” said his younger sibling, also glancing upwards. Indeed Mason was right. Ten minutes later he had gained barely a meter in altitude and his legs had started shaking as if they were mounting their own protest, bringing the entire tree rattling with them. Five minutes later he gave up, dismounting from the branches, his arms bruised and with no apricots to show. Somehow he still had the energy to convince his younger brother to repeat his mistake in the way only siblings could. Will made even less progress, hardly managing to lift himself to the first fork before losing his grip and falling to the ground in a graceless heap. Anna couldn’t take more of it. “I’ll go.” The two of them glanced at her with the same incredulity as before, albeit accented by exhaustion. It was Mason who spoke first. “You’re a girl.” “I told you, I’m not a girl!” “You won’t make it.” “Would you want to bet?” Neither spoke, much to her private delight. It was hard to tell if it was purely out of exhaustion. She started climbing the tree in much the same way she saw her cousins did, using stumps and forks as footholds and positioning her weight so that they didn’t give out under her. When there were no overhanging branches to step on it sufficed to use friction, Anna dug the sole of her shoe into the bark until it left green wounds starting to ooze sap, then she hoisted her other leg up onto the opposite branch, leaning on the first one for support. But that wasn’t why she did better than her cousins. If there was one thing she truly excelled at it was that she was clever in how to avoid exhaustion. She positioned her arms and upper torso in such a way so that they would never be strained. When she felt the faintest hint of a tremor start to radiate from her leg she knew it was time to reposition it in a way that didn’t require bending at odd angles. While the siblings knew that it was bad manners to laugh when misfortune befell ladies they were still expecting her to give up when she started scaling the branches. To say that such feelings transitioned to shock, then awe was an understatement, as she hoisted herself into a perching position a full ten meters above their heads. Anna scanned the treetops for the apricots she saw from the ground. A thunderhead had reared up in the distance, it’s anvil-shaped top angry and boiling. the wind had picked up considerably, the leaves clapped and rustled, the branch she had crawled on bowed under the gust and she felt her weight starting to shift as she tightened her grip reassuringly. One of the ripe fruits beamed a sunset orange smile from between the canopy. “You see ‘em?” “I’ll see if I can reach them.” she said as she extended a scratched and bruised arm. There were perhaps half a dozen in total-much less than the three of them had observed from the ground. she twisted the apricot in such a way so that it’s stem was severed and it dropped to the ground in a muffled thud. There was a rustling in the grass beneath as the siblings scrambled after it. “How is it?” “You split it open! There’s now dirt and gunk inside” “It’s not my fault! Can’t you see how high up I am?” “Can you drop them...slower?” “No.” “Can you at least try?” She ignored them as she went after the second of them, followed by the third and fourth. She was at the sixth and last when there was a gust of wind that slammed into her like a wall. She tightened her grip again. Her left foot started to slip as the branch bobbed like a horse, a sinking in her gut as it descended followed by a rebound so strong it threatened to send her sailing. And there was a joy welling up inside her she had never felt before. “Annie? Can you try getting down?” “No!” “I think we should go home. It’s going to rain soon.” They weren’t sure if they should feel more surprised or terrified when she started to whoop, as she held her face straight into the wind, it tangled up her hair, she could hardly open her eyes as the gust roared into her like a crashing wave, perched among the treetops, shouting, whooping, the sound of it carrying across the hills as the first raindrops touched the branches.


There was once a girl who loved the hills. She would stand barefooted on their peaks, letting the grass whip around her feet and the birds chirp inquisitively from the trees. Sometimes she would slide down their gentle slopes and rest in the shade produced by the blanket of leaves that blocked out the sun but not the sky. Other times she would climb the trees and pick an apple, each morsel of food giving her just a little more time before she had to return home. It wasn't her home, despite bearing that name. But each night, she was dragged back by the chains of blood and the weight of guilt. Her parents did not yell or scream or hit, but they stared. They stared at each other with fury in their eyes and hate in their hearts. The manufactured silence hung heavy in the house, and whenever the girl choked on it, her parents would turn to glare at her too. It was said that emotions made magic, and the girl dared not think what heavy magic was woven into her house, forged by hate and sorrow. And so, every morning the girl ran. She ran into her tiny legs could carry her no further, and then she stood on the peaks of the hills where the silence was did not force her to her knees, depriving her of any breath of happiness. In fact, the silence in the hills wasn't really silence at all. Instead, one could hear the chirping of the birds, the whistling of the wind, and the skittering of the squirrels. If one listened, that is. And the girl always listened. But as night fell and the girl's stomach started to rumble, the chains would once again force her back to her house, her family, her sadness. But her heart would stay in the hills, and when she closed her eyes at night she saw the twinkling stars instead of the run-down ceiling. When she breathed, she would taste the sweet air of the night instead of the stale silence she was actually breathing in. But only when she was alone. When she was with her parents, their glares would push her deeper and deeper into her chair, her heart yearning to be free from this place of sorrow. What the girl had heard was true: emotions did indeed weave magic. But what she did not understand was that the grief, the hate, and the anger that made up her life was not powerful. No, those emotions are far too common for that. They put tiny stitches in the tapestry of life, not quite making a difference. But longing? Longing is a very powerful type of magic indeed. It doesn't weave stitches into the present or the past, but it can change the future. And the future becomes the present before one can even blink an eye. And so, as the girl dat in the house at night and ran to the hills during the day, the magic woven by her yearning dissolved the chains of blood and did away with the guilt weighing her down. And with each day, the urge to stay in the hills got stronger. At first it was just a few minutes, lingering before she was inevitably drawn back to her house. Then, she started staying out for hours, laying on her back and watching the stars. Sometimes, she stayed out all night. As time went on, those nights became more and more frequent. One is always bound to something, and with the dissolution of one confine comes another. But not all confines are bad. Some are of your own choosing.


Malcolm continued to keep me under a close watch the next day. As soon as I woke the next morning he greeted me with a hearty breakfast and a fully-planned itinerary. My every moment was guided by him. We spent much of our time down by the harbor. The bustling crowds there allowed Malcolm to more regularly stop and talk to acquaintances, and introduce his strange find. However, I watched as best as I could, the blue-clothed workers going about their day. I watched their arduous labor, their quiet movements, their rare, almost non-existent interactions with the other citizens. It was as if the two lived in separate worlds, ghosts to each other. Only once did I see one of the citizens give the blue-clothed workers any extended attention. An old lady watched a young male worker intently. She never spoke to him, just stood some ten meters off, watching his movements. I had no idea what her motive was. Her face seemed so calm, so neutral, I could read no emotion in it. The blue-clothed worker, for his part, never seemed to notice she was there. I was only able to observe her for a few minutes before Malcolm ripped me away. “Steven,” he called out, before dragging me over to a middle-aged man, with a long and pointed brown beard. Malcolm introduced us, gave my backstory, painting the picture of my oddity. “This is Steven Donsbach, one of the leaders of the island,” he said. My attention was caught hearing the title. It was an opportunity to learn more, to get a different viewpoint from someone higher up. However, it wasn’t to be. Every attempt to join the conversation, Malcolm interrupted. He filled the silence with chatter, made sure my only sentences were responses to direct questions. I wasn’t to ask any awkward questions. I was to be an amusement. Nothing more. I only had two days left on the island and I was running out of time to learn anything more. However, I awoke with optimism on the third day. Today was one of the two days when Malcolm had to work. I got dressed and ready to leave as soon as I could. But as I walked through to the kitchen, I was greeted by Tamsyn, waiting for me. She had already poured me a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table towards me. I sat down, prepared to drink another cup of the bitter black liquid. Tamsyn took a large sip from her own drink, before speaking. “Dad is at work today. He asked me to keep an eye on you for the day.” I did my best to appear upbeat. “Oh, what do you have planned?” She smirked. “I’m fairly certain my dad would like me to take you on a long walk around the island, show you a few of the smaller villages on the west side. However, I think you’re probably old enough to handle yourself.” I instinctively let out a small chuckle. “I appreciate the faith.” She looked around the room for a few seconds, pausing before speaking. “I know you wanted to talk to the blues.” “Yes.” She paused again before the smirk returned. “If dad asks, you looked at some old stone ruins on the west coast, okay?” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll tell you where they live. You can go to their settlement.” I had no idea why Tamsyn was willing to go her against her father’s wishes. But I didn’t question, I simply listened to her detailed directions. “If my dad finds out I told you where to go, he will not be pleased,” she said. “You have my word,” I replied. I once more let out a flurry of thankyous, probably a few too many, before heading outside as quickly as I could. It was about a two-hour walk to the settlement. I climbed up a steep hill away from the main town by the harbor. At the top of the hill I met a fork in the path. Straight ahead the path continued along the top of the hill. The path to the right, the one I was meant to take, descended steeply and sharply towards the sea. The path was a series of natural steps worn into the hillside from many years of foot traffic. Rocks and tufts of grass stuck out awkwardly from the brown dust path. I began my slow descent of the uneven and difficult path. It didn’t take long until I could see a series of large brick buildings nestled by the edge of a cliff. The buildings were low to the ground, with flat sheet metal roofs. They were thin, probably some ten metres across. But each was incredibly long, stretching out at least seventy to eighty metres. I could see a few people walking between the buildings, each wearing the light blue clothes that marked their fate in life. Most stopped what they were doing and turned to take in the sight of a stranger walking towards their homes. Others dashed inside as quickly as they could. As I reached the settlement I greeted the first person I met, a thin, but very tall man with disappearing brown hair. “Hello, how are you?” I tried to greet him. He seemed confused, looking around himself, hoping someone else might respond on his behalf. Coming up with nothing he merely stood in silence, staring at my chest. “It’s okay,” I said, walking slowly towards him. “I’m not a citizen. I don’t live here. You don’t serve me.” Puzzlement appeared on the man's face. Several times he seemed to go to speak, his mouth opening before clamping shut again. Finally, he spoke. “If you are not from the Bluekira Ministrations, then why are you here?” I explained to him, as I had to Malcolm, my plans to travel the islands, and my quest to learn more about the archipelago. I had somewhat assumed that Malcolm’s reaction to my story would be the default here. And I said the story expecting a sort of merry, but well-meaning mocking. But instead, there was no laughter from the man, no enthusiastic curiosity. He seemed to just accept the information and move on. “What do you want to see?” he asked. \ I asked if he would show me around the settlement. He obliged. I quickly learned, as obvious as it was, that almost all the inhabitants were away, off working their long, toiling days. Only those who worked odd hours were here. The man introduced himself by the name of Wyatt, and we began a slow meander around the outside of some of the buildings. Their concrete foundations sat a foot above the ground and formed the only bit of smooth land in the settlement. The brick was cheap and chipped in many places. Cement had been swathed on carelessly, leaving thick gray globules hanging to the side of the building. Wyatt led me inside. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. While various spotlights of sunshine managed to make their way inside through the shutters, for the most part, the building was dingy and dark. For the entire stretch of the building, there seemed to be two rows of thin - very-thin - mattresses against each of the walls. Next to each one were some personal effects. Often, just consisted of a small pile of clothes, perhaps a cup of water, and very occasionally a tattered book. In some ways, it was nicer than the prison where I had been kept on Kadear Coalfields. After all, they did have at least something resembling a mattress to sleep on here. But any slight comfort was overshadowed by the scale. This room housed a little over a hundred people every night. And this building was one of many along this thin bit of cliff, tucked away out of sight of the citizens. It was strange to see the building so empty. At night, the whole room must have been filled with voices and baked with the heat of a hundred working bodies. But currently, it felt cold, and the walls seemed to breathe an icy touch. “It’s hard to imagine so many people all having to sleep in the same room,” I said. Wyatt nodded in acknowledgment. “It makes it difficult to sleep. Especially with the noise.” “The noise?” I asked. “Snorers. They aren’t very popular,” he laughed the meekest of chuckles. “It can’t be an easy life to lead,” I remarked. “In some ways,” he shrugged. “But, it could always be worse. At least every day I get to leave, see some other part of the island.” “Some don’t?” He turned and began heading back outside as he spoke. “A handful of people look after this place. Cook, clean, mend anything that’s broken. They never get to leave here. They work here, they sleep here.” “You mean, there are a few people here who have never left this place?” “They’ll have left at some point, sure. But most won’t have been away more than once or twice in their lives.” I didn’t want to seem voyeuristic. But this premise offered another viewpoint I was keen to explore. “Would you be able to introduce me?” I asked. Wyatt scrunched his face in uncertainty. “They may not like being interrupted while they are at work.” He led me back through the settlement while he thought on it. “I need to head to work soon. I’ll take you to them before I leave.” I thanked Wyatt for his help and apologized for taking up what little time he had. He said he was happy to help, although I suspected, in reality, he had felt obligated. A lifetime of being trained to say 'yes' was not easily shaken. We walked towards the entrance of the settlement until we reached another building, near-identical to the others. Only stopping by it did I notice the difference, a small metal chimney rising from the roof on the far end, steam gently wafting from it. “This is the common space. Where we meet for dinners,” Wyatt said. “I have to head. But Perdita should be in the back there.” I thanked Wyatt once more and offered my hand to shake it. He seemed taken back by the prospect. He looked at my extended limb for a few seconds, before simply nodding, turning, and heading the other way. Inside the building, the large main hall was empty. But there was a wall about three-quarters of the way along the building, with a small doorway built into the brickwork. I could hear movement from the other side; the sound of ill-fitting sandals slapping against the concrete floor, the scraping of a wire brush, and the clanging of metal trays landing on top of each other. I walked towards the sound as I began to smell the aroma of food. It smelt edible, but not exactly pleasant. A smell of meat that was just at the point of turning rotten, weak vegetables, and boiling water. I walked into the kitchen to find a woman with her back turned to me. She had long brown hair reaching down to her waist left in a tangled-free flowing mess. She was, of course, wearing blue. The woman turned, and my whole body skipped a beat. It was Tamsyn. Tamsyn, but now dressed in the blue garments. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Tamsyn,” I cried. “What are you doing here?” “I’m sorry,” she replied in confusion. “It’s just me,” I replied, turning sideways so she could see behind me into the hall. “Is there something you need?” she said in a polite tone that masked both confusion and concern. Suddenly I noticed the small differences. Tamsyn was fair, but now her skin was as pale as milk. Her eyes were a tiny bit more arched than they had been. And she now had a small, but noticeable, mole on her left cheek. “Hello, sorry, I’m Ferdinand” I said, trying to start again. “I’m Perdita,” she replied, her eyes fixed to my chest. “Is there something I can help you with?” I looked at her face once more. I tried studying the lines and curves of her jaw, the distance between the eyes, the width of the nose. Everything was Tamsyn’s and yet... not. So similar, and yet just with the tiniest distinctions. There was only one answer. Tamsyn, had a twin.


"They say that a monster lives here," Pawel said between heavy breaths as we loaded the last bale of hay onto the back of his father's wagon, "Did you know that?" "I've heard the story," I said, peering at him quizzically and wiping the sweat from my face. The sun beat down hard on us that day and both of our shoulders were glowing red, "What about it?" "Do you think it's true?" He hopped up onto the back of the wagon and I joined him. My feet ached. I looked down at the battered boots on my feet, the soles coming apart, and made a mental note to visit the cobbler next time I went into town, if I ever got the chance again. "I don't know," I replied, looking at him and shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand. The wagon began to bounce up the dirt path. "And if it is? What then?" "I don't know," He said, peering off in the general direction of the woods with a small shrug, "If there is a beast, maybe it's been protecting us, you know?" "Protecting us? What do you mean, Pawel?" "I mean," he paused for a second as if processing what he would say, "Have you seen any Nazis around here?" "Plenty of them in to-" I started to say but Pawel cut me off with a hand up. "Not in town, Jakub," He said, "Here. They say that a monster lives here, in Skowronka. Maybe the Nazis are scared, eh?" "I doubt it," I mumbled. The village was just a collection of farms with a small market at its center. The SS was not interested in us. They had bigger fish to fry, so to speak. Pawel and I did not talk about the beast the rest of the ride, focusing instead on our various aches and pains, and how his father, who's farm we both worked on was a drunk and an asshole. We parted ways after unloading the hay in the barn and feeding the horses. As I began my walk home from Pawel's farm, I noticed my big toe poking out through the top of my shoe and decided to take a trip into town the next day. I felt confident enough in my German and had a fake story all lined up in case a patrol stopped me. I would be Herman Franz, the German, instead of Jakub Wilkowitz, the Jew. I would be a loyal German man, just on my way to buy some new shoes, nothing more. The road into town from Skowronka was little more than a narrow dirt track, just wide enough for two horses and a cart. No one in the village owned an automobile. I woke up early that morning, had a hard, dry piece of bread with water for breakfast, and started my trek. I had walked nearly ten kilometers before I saw them. Two men in long, gray coats and wearing bright red arm bands emblazoned with swastikas stood leaning against a shiny black car smoking cigarettes. They laughed and spoke loudly in German to one another. As I approached I made out some of their conversation. "Filthy Jew," this, and "Less than dogs," that. I bit back my anger and gave them as wide of a berth as I dared, without looking suspicious. I went past with my eyes fixed on my tattered boots. I could feel their eyes burrowing into me. "HALT!" One of the Gestapo officers shouted just as I passed and my back was to them. I heard the click of a gun cocking. I stopped dead in my tracks and swallowed the fear that had bunched itself up in my throat like a dry rag. "TURN AROUND!" "What can I do for you gentlemen?" I answered in my cleanest German as I turned and put my hands up in surrender, "Is there something wrong?" "What is your name?" Inquired one of the men. He was a perfect Nazi. Tall and lean, his clean-shaven jaw chiseled and his eyes as blue as the sky. The other, a shorter man with black hair and equally black eyes carried a luger casually in his right hand. "Franz," I said with as much confidence as I could muster, "Herman Franz, sir," I kept my eyes down. The man's shoes were black leather and shined to a pristine mirror finish. "Ah! Good!" The Nazi officer smiled, "a fellow German. Tell me, Mr. Franz, what brings you to a backwater shithole like this, hm?" The shorter man laughed. Rage bubbled up in my gut again but I pushed in back down, hoping that I did not look flushed, "Just trying to spread the glory of the fatherland, sir. We common folk must do our part as well," There was a long, tense silence as the officer mulled over what I had said. Finally he took a step toward me and took my stubbled, dirty chin in his immaculate gloved hand. He lifted my face to his and narrowed his perfect blue eyes as they met my common brown ones. "I can tell a liar by the fear in his eyes," he hissed quietly, "And I can smell a Jew from here to Berlin. You wouldn't... lie to me, would you, Mr. Franz?" "O-of course not, sir," I stammered, "Never," The German squinted and stared for a long moment before letting go of my chin and stepping back. "Good," He grinned a satisfied, toothy grin, "Tell me one more thing then, would you?" "Of course," I eyed the other man, still holding the loaded luger a few steps away, "Anything to aid Deutschland, sir," "They say that a monster lives here," the Gestapo officer said, catching me completely off guard. He gestured with both hands to the woods surrounding the wheat fields around us. "Tell me, is it true? Is there some great and terrible beast in these woods that my men should fear?" "N-no, sir," I managed to say trying to puzzle out whether he had heard Pawel and me talking the day before somehow, "Just silly local legends," His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His lip curled into a slight frown. A tense silence hung in the air around us. Finally, after an eternity, his chuckle broke it. "Of course not!" He laughed, "Only a stupid Jew whoreson would believe such nonsense! Be on your way Mr. Franz, and keep your eyes open for goblins and fairies, hm?" He laughed again and turned to the other man as he waved me away. Both walked back to their vehicle laughing. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as soon as I felt they were out of earshot and hurried on my way to town. The cobbler was closed when I arrived on the outskirts of town. So was the baker, the tailor, the printer and the barrel maker. The entire town was closed, in fact, and I could see German soldiers marching through the streets even from a distance. People were huddled in the plaza, some holding their families close, others, lined up on their knees. There was no fighting, no rebellion or revolt, only quiet defeat and submission. The fighting was in Warsaw, where some still clung to hope that the Red Army would save them, or that the Royal Air Force would destroy the German occupation forces. They would no doubt be on their knees soon as well though. It was already afternoon when I arrived on the hill overlooking the little town, with the sun beginning to set, but I turned and ran before anyone saw me approach. I ran back to my village as fast as I could, cutting through woods and wheat fields rather than using the road. When I got there, it was already dark, but the light of the fires illuminated the little market at the center of the village of Skowronka. There, in the light of the flames, I saw my friends, my neighbor, Ewa, the butcher Igor and his young son, my best friend Pawel next to his drunken father. They were all on their knees as their homes burned around them, a line of men in gray clutching machine guns at their backs and the same perfect Aryan Gestapo officer pacing in front of them. I just stood there and gaped as tears filled the corners of my eyes. "No..." I whispered, "Please. No..." Before I knew what was happening, there was a gun at my back and I was being shoved into the lineup of villagers. Tears streamed down my face as I was pushed to my knees next to Pawel. His face was bruised and one of his eyes swollen shut. The Gestapo officer was shouting over the flames but I did not hear him. He yelled and gestured and delivered his glorious message as though he were Adolf Hitler himself. But I did not hear it. Instead, my mind went to my mother's voice, recorded in some deep dark recess of my memory. They say that a monster lives here, she had said, placing a gentle hand over my heart, a terrible beast that only you can control. Only you can let it loose. Only you can set it free. And so, I did. I dug down into my self and grabbed a hold of the monster within as I had remembered doing only a few times before in some distant past. I felt the skin fall away from my flesh, replaced with coarse black fur. I felt my limbs grow and elongate. My teeth became fangs. My hands, claws. I could hear further, see clearer, and smell... everything; the sweat and fear of the villagers, the acrid smoke, the shit and piss in the German soldiers' pants. I heard the gunshots, felt the bullets biting into my flesh only to be spat back out and the tiny wounds sealed almost instantly. I felt flesh tear between my claws. I smelled the stench of terror as they ran from me. I felt the Gestapo officer's perfect Aryan neck snap like a twig as I tore his throat out with my own teeth. I smelled the blood. The blood. No Nazi patrol ever visited the village of Skowronka in the Polish countryside ever again. They say that that place is haunted. They say that it is cursed. They say, that a monster lives there...