It was cold and sharp, and it took her breath as she entered the room. Winds created from potent magic that rushed over her no different than the winds themself. Wind magic eluded Hellena, it was so close to light in terms of technique and ability and yet a wholly different beast. The cutting winds that had just rushed over her were nothing more than the practice of Edwin, probably the best in their year at wind magic. It wasn't a matter of pure power or talent either; he was very skilled at the technique involved, evident from the intensity of something he called practice. Walking further into the room she saw half the class ready for the rounds of sparring. Some like Edwin practising swings of his sword, others stretching, and others still chatting or generally strewn about the room. Hellena personally took these moments entirely for herself, she went and sat on the floor next to the full length windows just breathing as she lazily twirled and refracted the midday sunlight through her hand, like a coin through her knuckles. Sunlight and moonlight had always recharged and relaxed her; it was as though she was less a user of light magic and more its vessel. It always felt so complicated to explain to other magic users, seemingly not a feature of interacting with their magics source. Hellena wasn't too sure about that though, more she leaned on the side of it being a resonance one had with magic, a resonance that most people never held, one reserved for those of high skill or talent. The only thing that led her to this conclusion was that Edwin would refuse to come inside until the last possible minute whenever heavy winds were deemed hazardous. She had seen him once right before, or rather during one of these wind storms. He seemed somewhere in between resigned and meditative, maybe content was the right word. Either way she was pretty sure he felt then as she did now, how she was permitted to feel most days and nights of good weather. A far more frequent occurrence than his perhaps required harsh winds. Her sunlit reprieve from the day's classes so far ended swiftly and with no notice as their instructor entered the room and blacked out the windows without even uttering a spell. “Today spar’s will be conducted to simulate night.” He announced, much to the class's dismay. Not only did this make it harder to fight, it also made it harder to observe. What was the point of watching spars that you could barely see? It just didn’t make sense in a room like this where only one match could go on at a time. “Yes, you will have to pay closer inspection, and yes it will be difficult on both sides of the class, however it is important you know how to fight and how to observe in the darkness.” He explained as the students not in seats, such as herself, made their way over. “We are also going to start off easy, Hellena you're up first and your opponent is...” He let his words draw out as he scanned the sheet in front of him, “Edwin, both of you to the front.” He said with a clap. Hellena course corrected away from the desks and towards the mat. She unsheathed her sword, a blade of impeccably carved crystal as to best refract her light magic in a fight. Her sword skills were not great but her magic was incredible and it had been enough to win every fight she’s had in the year and half she’s been at the academy. Merely holding her sword ran light through its facets edges creating a ghostly glow around her sword alone in the dark; illuminating not even her hand, for no real magic was in it, just the knowledge that it was wielded by a light mage. Edwin, on the other hand, had his sword sheathed, in what was more work than it would have been to forgo the sheath as he had yet to put his sword away when the darkness settled, and had all but immediately been called to fight. It felt far too hard to understand both as someone who was not particularly good at sword combat alone, (maybe there was some importance to the sporting nature of it she did not understand.) but also as someone who had made her way through many a fight through trickery. Mighty shows of power were easy. A stoic and cold face, that was easy. Wielding a crystalline glass sword as though it were a pen and she a poet, second nature. All together it depicted her as an overpowered monster, not the chosen by light heroine many tried to make her out to be, all together, and put simply her greatest weapon was not her magic but the fear she could instil. She knew that. She counted on the expressions and actions of her opponent to know what was working and how to hold her deceit. Her greatest strength nullified and her opponent sending her with his very first action in their bout. She was glad no one could see the tension on her face. “Begin!” The Instructor exclaimed. Her breath was stolen before she had realised what had happened. She felt the wind rage past her as though it had no intention of hitting her but rather splitting the second before. Edwin had used the moment he had brandished his sword, the motion and the power latent in that motion served to bolster his power. He had sent gale forces at her in the fraction of a moment his sword had touched the air he turned into said wind. There was a beauty in it she hadn’t felt in someone else's magic before. Footsteps brought her back to the fight as she set the light in her sword. Liquid light, a core of pure light flowing like the river over the joins and corners of its glass shell as if they were the rocks that made up the rapids. “Fuck.” She heard as Edwin jumped back from his closer position. She raced towards him, sword across her body ready to strike. It was different to all the other fights she had been in, she wanted this moment to last, this was not a chore of a class she could win with one spell, undermining the point of sword play. Why did she care all of a sudden? Why did she want to feel the rush in the power of his magic again? Why was her heart racing in a way she had never felt before? Their swords clashed with an awful sound of steel grinding on crystal yet it somehow sounded like music to her, and she could have sworn the same about him. In the brief moment her light illuminated his face she saw a smile she hadn’t in spars of his she had cared to watch before. Was she smiling during this too? Was this the first time a fight was fun? Was it supposed to be like this all the time, because if it was she could see the joy others found in a fight, in one like this. She stepped back to get the momentum to swing again. With her step his wind pushed her further back and it was like she was breathing his magic and it made her feel light headed like he had removed the oxygen in the wind he threw at her. He came at her. She moved the light in her sword to refract right into his eyes. He flinched away shielding his eyes with his non dominant arm. A back and forth she had yet to experience, one she had only just realised she had longed for. With every advance one of them made the other quickly pushed back. With every burst of his wind she felt she had less and less breathable air and it felt amazing. It felt like how others had described drunkenness. Her heart was racing with every second, every moment of the spar. She was sure she was smiling and she didn’t even care she had no clue how to end this. She felt his magic race all around her in a rapid spiral swell. Her head rolled with it, it relished in the pure power she was so delighted to feel in his winds. She wasn’t sure she would ever feel anything like this again, anything this beautiful again. Then all of a sudden the darkness of the room became blackness. ... Bright lights practically assaulted her vision as she blinked back into reality. “What happened?” She groggily asked, holding her hands to her eyes to stop the light's harshness. “You don’t remember?” Erica asked her. Wait Erica, why was she here she didn’t take this class? “You’re not-” She started. “You collapsed during your sparring class, Hellena, remember?” She prodded. “No, I was, it was, no.” Hellena stumbled over her words trying to figure out what had happened between what she remembered last and now. “I was sparring Edwin, it was...” She trailed off as she sat up properly from the bed she was laying in. “Come on.” Her friend held out her hand. She took it and they walked off together, Hellena still squinting a little bit. Stepping outside and into the light felt more healing than any rest ever would. She was enjoying the perfectness of the light of the sunset and Erica explained to her all of the reactions, theories and speculation as to what caused her collapse. Some people going as far to believe that she was some kind of inverse vampire, allergic to darkness as they are sunlight. It was sweet and good, the best she could have asked for in the moment. But then she felt what she could only name as power. Her breath caught and her heart raced and she found him in the distance before she even recognised what this was. It was Edwin's magic. It still felt glorious even when not in a fight, yet she had no clue what caused this reaction. She was too far away for his magic to affect the air and yet she felt it right before it stole her breath and her heart racing when he was too far to be a threat. It was as though merely the thought of him left her lightheaded, let alone the damage his magic could do to her. That his magic was actively committing against her. Yet she couldn’t help but long for the next time he would steal her breath.


I took in a deep breath. The air was cool and crisp, burning my lungs. This was exactly what I had sought, and it was exactly why I had come this far. Each step I took caused my legs to ache with weariness, but I had a smile on my face nonetheless. Why wouldn't I, when I would soon reach the summit? I had spent the past three days climbing so that I could enjoy the journey, but that didn't stop me from looking forward to my arrival at the top. The path was rocky and the plant life was sparse, making it more and more difficult to make my way up, but I kept myself upbeat by considering it training while I scaled the uneven terrain. The climb felt like it went on forever, but when I realized that there was no higher peak to reach, I felt oddly disappointed that there wasn't more to traverse. However, the view around me was beautiful. The rising sun shone between two other mountain peaks, casting a warm glow over me that had previously been blocked by the mountain itself. After having spent so long next to such vast cliffs, the sky suddenly opening up above me caused me to let out an audible gasp. It was beautiful, and I immediately took a seat on a nearby outcrop so as to better enjoy the view. My sword weight heavy on my waist, and in a moment of annoyance, I decided to stick it into the rock next to me to relieve myself of the burden. It was plenty sharp enough to pierce the solid stone, and I needed not worry about its wear due to its enchanted nature. As I looked around, I couldn't help but suck in a deep breath of frigid air at the breathtaking view. My fur protected my skin from the chill, but the same couldn't be said of my lungs. Nonetheless, it invigorated me, filling me with a calm sort of relief that only someone who's just accomplished a great thing could feel. However, the scene was broken up by a single figure that was impossible to notice. As I looked it over, it noticed me in return, and rose from its previous resting place. I drew in another gasp of air as the titan rose to her full height, overshadowing all the mountains around us, mine included. She was miles away, yet still made it over to me in only a few strides. The light gray wolfess looked down on me with interested amber eyes, a subtle smile highlighting the rest of her face. However, despite her curiosity, I was the first to speak. "You're blocking the view." It wasn't exactly the most respectful thing to say, even to the most unpredictable race of all. Were she to wish it, the titan could easily crush me flat with a single finger. However, in the tranquil state I was in, I couldn't help but understand that she wasn't so cruel as to do so. "I'm a view of my own, am I not?" "...That I can't deny. Is there a reason you're taking an interest in someone like me?" "You seem like quite the interesting person. Few people climb this mountain, you know, and fewer still alone. Do you have any particular reason for doing so?" "I wanted to be able to tell myself that I did. It was a fun climb." "But surely this wasn't the best mountain to visit if you wanted to climb?" That was true. The two mountains that surrounded the sun before the titan had cast her shadow over me were both taller than this one, and probably afforded a better view, too. However, one couldn't deny that the view of the valley was best seen from right where I sat. "Perhaps. However, I'm here now, and I'm glad I've done so. Is that such a strange thing?" "Not at all. What's your name, swordsman?" "Zen. Yours?" "Natasha." "Well, thank you for taking an interest in me, Natasha. I'm glad I was worthy of your attention." "Must you be so stiff?" "I find that it's better to be polite to those that are taller than the mountain you've just spent three days climbing." At this, she chuckled slightly. After that, she spun around, sitting down next to the mountain, returning my view of the rest of the valley. "Thank you." "You were right." "About what?" "It's a wonderful view." "Didn't you already know that?" "You'll find that things lose their wonder when they become commonplace. A titan would have no difficulty seeing for hundreds of miles, so it's not that special for them to do so." "What makes things so special right now?" At this, Natasha flashed me a lopsided grin. "Because I get to share it with you." I was rather... stunned at this response. Not knowing what to say, I returned my eyes to the rising sun and the trees of the valley below it. We sat like this for several hours, not talking any more. When that time was done, I silently rose from my seat and returned my sword to its sheath. My legs had rested enough, so it was now time to begin the return descent. "Where do you plan to go from here, Zen?" "Oh, probably... that peak over there." Saying that, I pointed to the next mountain, on the opposite side of the peak from Natasha. "I could carry you over, if you'd like." "...Thank you for the offer, but I'd rather do it myself." "Is there a reason for that?" "That... hm. I suppose it's hard to explain. I suppose I want the satisfaction of getting their under my own power, and the knowledge that I've earned every view that I see. If I were carried everywhere I go, I wouldn't feel any joy from being there. Does that make sense to you?" "I don't think I understand, but I'll take your word for it. There are few places I can't go, after all." "I suppose so. You've chosen quite a good resting place, though." "Right?"  As I made my way back down the mountain, Natasha and I continued to make small talk. It helped spice up the trip, although there were a few times when I had to remain silent to focus on a particularly unsteady path. She promised to catch me were I to ever fall, but I'd rather not go through that experience at all. However, there was one point where I was stuck, left unsure how to continue. The two mountains were separated by a canyon, a rapid river raging below. I could see that there were wooden posts hammered into the rock on either side, but they were quite rotten, and nothing connected them. "I imagine that there was a rope bridge there at one point, but it's long gone." A slight frown crept onto my face. If there were nothing here, I could've moved sideways along the gorge until I found a bridge, but it's not common for two bridges to be hung over the same divide. It would be quite a long trek to completely circumvent this gap, and there's no guarantee I'd be able to do so, even if I had a month's time. "I could always carry you across." I opened my mouth to protest, but Natasha cut me off before I could. "Don't say that you want to cross it under your own power or anything. If there were a ferry, you'd have taken it, and if there were still a bridge, you would have eagerly taken such a shortcut." "...Yes, you're right." As I said that, Natasha extended her hand downwards, placing it slightly below the gap. I was grateful that she didn't simply reach down and grab me. Steady as I may seem, few people can remain calm when a giantess is reaching towards them. When I stepped onto her hand, she cupped it slightly to prevent me from falling off as she moved it... not sideways across the gorge, but upwards, towards her nose. I didn't fear that she would eat me, as sustenance is no concern for titans like her, but that didn't make me any less cross. I said that I wanted to traverse this mountain range under my own power, and I meant it! As she brought me closer to her face, however, I couldn't help but close my eyes. Secure as I was in my self-assurance of safety, that didn't stop my instincts from taking over. However, instead of any sort of pain or otherwise, I felt... something touch my nose. When I reopened my eyes, I saw her massive, black nose touching my own, her amber eyes staring down at me mischievously. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." I nodded silently, not trusting myself to speak. After flashing me another lopsided grin, she returned me back to the canyon, where she carefully deposited me on the other side of the divide. Her tail swished gleefully from side to side, but it didn't betray much emotion that the face hadn't already revealed. "Th- thank you." "Any time."  The following climb took a few more days, simply because of its length. I had no problems with that, as my rations would hold out for plenty of time. I expected Natasha to grow bored with my rather monotonous routine, but she seemed rather... happy to simply remain, having sporadic conversations about the most trivial of things. "You know, it's been wonderful talking to you, Zen. I just wanted you to know that." "I can say the same for you. I've heard that titans are often uncaring of those that are smaller, but... you seem nothing like the stories." "It's true that we don't often connect with tinies like you. There are no lack of people corrupted by their greed, expecting their companionship with a titan to mean that they can use them for their own gain. Most titans grow tired of being a corrupting influence on anyone they befriend, so they simply remain distant, observing but not interfering." "Well, I'm thankful that you've reached out." "As am I. For a titan with few wants and no needs, it's good to immerse myself in someone else's life. Even so, I'm glad you've managed to remain true to your principles. "A swordsman is nothing without his beliefs."  With all the work that I put in, it was no wonder that the next peak I arrived at was just as breathtaking as the last. However, with it, came the sad inevitability that I would have to depart. I could see a tinge of sadness on Natasha's face, and I knew that the exact same thing could be seen on mine. "Must you go? There are many other mountains around the valley..." "I know, but I cannot remain so long here. These mountains were along the way, but my route remains the same. I will continue onwards to the sea, and to lands beyond." "I see. In that case, I wish you well on your travels, Zen." "I wish the same to you, Natasha." I admit, I felt quite lonely those few days I descended back on the other side of the mountain. It was actually somewhat unbearable, knowing that Natasha could reach me in but a minute, but I remained steadfast. I had already said goodbye, and I feared that if I were to drag her along with me, I would become the kind of person that she so disliked creating. Hopefully, the sadness of departure will fade with time, being replaced by the happy memories of the times we shared.  Even two weeks later, as I walked through the port city of the southern sea, I couldn't help but feel my mind wander. I tried to snap myself out of it, but I was stuck between noticing the many gazes on me and my sword, or thinking about the titan of the valley. In the end, I pulled my mind away from such distractions, instead focusing on the ships of the opposite side. The southern sea was a hotbed of both trade and travel, so there was no shortage of ships ready to depart by the end of the day. It was child's play to find one willing to take on a swordsman such as myself, especially since I was an added protection against the pirates that so often traversed these waters. When the ship cast off, I found calm once more by staring not at the port slowly disappearing behind the horizon, but at the waters below. The rhythmic rippling in the gentle breeze slowly lapped against the side of the hull, I felt myself relax muscles that I didn't realize had been tense. I gazed at the water's surface, feeling my concentration dissipate, instead replaced by an existential peace... ...Which was immediately shattered as I noticed a massive amber eye, staring up at me from beneath the water's surface. A few seconds later, the water's surface broke as a massive head rose above the sea, looming over the ship. The waves caused by the titan's emergence rocked the ship wildly, causing everyone to grab onto the nearest handhold even while panicking at the sudden appearance of such a titan. Considering that their lungs are around the same size as the ship I'm currently standing on, it's not abnormal for them to be able to spend several days underwater at a time. Even so, nobody could expect the appearance of such a creature, certainly not me. After all, even while the ship bucked wildly, I couldn't help but focus instead on Natasha's face, grinning back at me. Just as it seemed that the vessel would capsize, she grabbed it from below, lifting the entire thing clean out of the water and up to her face. A few of the weaker-willed passengers screamed and backed away across the deck, but I paid them no mind. I had a rueful grin on my face, and I couldn't help but start the conversation, just as I had the first time we'd met. "You just couldn't let me go, huh?" The vessel's crew and the other passengers stared at me like I was crazy. However, the only thing I cared about was the massive wolf's lopsided grin. "As if I'd say goodbye to the most interesting person I've met in years, just like that." I nodded, understanding her motive. I imagine that it can be quite lonely in that valley, and a change of scenery always brings about a fresh perspective. For someone unfamiliar with travel, it can be normal to cling to that which you're familiar with when in an unfamiliar setting, and for her, I suppose the only thing that's familiar would be... me.  Clearly, this would be quite the interesting journey for the both of us.


I’ve been following Jim Davies for a while now and let me tell you, this guy is by far the biggest headache I’ve ever had. A real, genuine, nice human being. Probably the nicest person on the planet. I just can’t seem to break him. Everyone has a weakness and it usually doesn’t take long to find it. Some people broadcast them and some people hide them away in tiny locked compartments of their souls, but I always find the key. Not with Jim though. I started out small. I would set up a mild inconvenience somewhere in his day to feel out his temper. Red lights, bad weather, the wrong meal at restaurants, etc. Mild stuff, but it adds up over time. It didn’t add up for Jim. Sometimes he wouldn’t even notice what I’d done because he would get distracted all on his own helping some poor old lady cross the street, or rescuing a kitten from a tree. Seriously. This guy rescued a fucking cat in a tree. You may be wondering, does it get any more cliché than that? You’re in luck. It most certainly does. Jim is the pastor at the United church in his perfect suburban paradise. He met his wife, Ruth, in high school and they have a daughter. Want to venture a guess on the name? Mary. Yep. A pastor with a daughter named after the ever so revered virgin herself. How original. Throughout little Mary’s life I’ve started increasing her attitude and disobedience levels. Jim has never even raised his voice. He came home to find Ruth in bed with another man and said they could “work it out, provided that’s what she wanted to do”. He even rides a bicycle to the call centre for the suicide helpline he volunteers with to help save the planet. His church operates a makeshift homeless shelter in the basement, that he furnished and stocks on his own dime. He doesn’t accept donations from the congregation because “God wants you to keep your money”, as if he’d really know. I got Ruth to take Mary and leave him. Cleaned out his bank account on her way out of town too. When I saw him wipe away a single tear and whisper, “good for her” I knew I had to do something drastic. Jim’s neighbourhood isn’t on a fault line. It’s never seen a tornado. Mother Nature has left this particular cookie cutter piece of American bliss alone. Until last night. I’m completely and utterly at my wit’s end. Every home in the area was destroyed. The people who survived have been flooding the big man upstairs with prayers, but not Jim. He just calmly surveilled the wreckage of his former life and salvaged the few surviving items. He even took the jacket off his back to give to the now orphaned Timmy Rogers from down the road. What a piece of work. I’ve already gotten requests from several members of his congregation in regards to making a deal to simplify their lives. Naturally I accepted, but I just know it won’t be the same when I finally collect their souls. The purity in his would have been a delicious deviation from my usual meals of corruption, and I’m sure his screams when he descended to Hell would have been the first true music I’ve heard since God kicked me out of Heaven.


There are two kinds of people: drunks, and survivors of drunks. I am a survivor of drunks. I've never liked alcohol, not the taste and not the feeling. Makes me guilty. It's like poisoning your body with something that deliberately makes you feel gross, and purposefully causes you physical damage. I'll probably never drink again after tonight. My friend decided to drag me out, even after I expressed my disinterest in drinking. She'd said "But you need to get out, you never go anywhere or do anything anymore." She's right. She didn't have me convinced until her reasoning shifted to a slight whine and she squeaked out "I miss you." Bingo. I was sold. What's one night; one drink? Maybe it'll be fun, I'd thought. I never thought to ask who the DD would be, I just knew it wasn't me. We got all dolled up, she picked me up, and we headed to the bar. And by "all dolled up" I mean I brushed my hair and wore something other than sweatpants. The night was sort of fun, but I wasn't really there. I sat at the bar on one of the tall stools that, though well into my 20's, I still felt too young to be sitting on. My mind was anywhere but in that bar. My mind was back home in bed with my penguin sheets and baby blue fuzzy blanket, watching The Office for the 6th time. I was approached by three different guys, but they all gave up as soon as they could tell I was in no way interested in leaving the bar with them. I guess sometimes your mind being elsewhere is as great a people repellent as it is a coping mechanism. I don't drink much, so after one drink of some brightly colored alcohol I was sufficiently tipsy. I didn't want to drink more so I ordered some fries and mentally checked out for the night. No more fun for me. I zoned out and stared at the T.V hanging above the bar. No football; not in season I guess. I wouldn't know, that's not my style. There was some infomercial for a big ole vacuum cleaner. The kind that's on wheels and is shaped like a barrel. It had a handy retractable tube that came out of the side, and the top opened to be cleaned out. Cool vacuum, but I wasn't quite sold. They'd have to try harder to make me think it was worth the two payments of $99.99. "Come on!" I was suddenly being dragged off the barstool by my friends and the next thing I knew I was in the passenger's seat of a car that smelled like wet dog, garbage, and pot. Fun. Once I was able to focus in on what was happening, I realized that my friend had made friends. With two guys. "Oh, no. I don't- I'm not-" I started scrambling for any excuse to leave. I grabbed at the door handle but it was too dark to see and by the time my hand found it, we had started moving. "Relax, we're just gonna hang out." My friend tried to comfort me from the back seat. I sighed and slumped down in the seat. Nobody even remembered to put their seatbelts on. When we realized that, it was already too late. I still remember Mr. Brightside playing on the radio before being jolted backwards and then sideways, glass shattering all around me. And suddenly we were tipping over in slow motion. I was upside down. Bits of glass got caught in my hair, and I imagined it all sparkly under the streetlights. Time started moving again. I wiggled my toes and hands and made sure I could move. I don't remember crawling out through the broken window onto the street, but I did. I crawled away from the car as bystanders stopped and ran over to help, a few of them pulling out their phones to call 911. I tried to get to my feet but someone told me to stay down, and sat there with me until the ambulance arrived. Me surviving was a total miracle. There's no reason I should be alive. I was the only one who survived the impact out of both cars in the collision. There are three kinds of people: drunks, survivors of drunks, and drunks that can't even survive themselves.


A nanny job for the biggest name in the comic book industry. When I saw the want ad, I jumped at the chance. It shocked me to find out Drew Kirby had a child at all. Nobody talked about it, I saw no pictures, and heard absolutely nothing about there even being a woman in his life. Perpetually single, many people assumed he was gay. Of course, if you looked at his comics, you'd notice his fixation with female anatomy. Maybe he was bi? I'm a modern girl, so I made no judgments. Everything, the movies, the comics, the TV shows, have been amazing , especially Squirrel Woman and Vanessa Vixx. Notorious for his aloofness, the man lived in a gated mansion surrounded by tall brick ivy enveloped walls that gave no hints about the building's ownership, save one little bug eyed sculpture of Benny the Rat above the speaker box. I had to talk to a camera before I could even get inside the wrought iron barrier. Mr. Kirby's abode resembled the Lucasfilm Ranch, turreted white Victorian with a gnarled old tree out front. Again, no hint about what lay inside, except maybe the rather cliche fountain of Atlas holding up the world. For a rich man, the place had a light staff. Mr. Kirby himself answered the door, dressed in casual but expensive clothing. Although in his thirties, he looked much older, his face craggy, bags under the eyes, still handsome though. Hawk-like features, dark glittering eyes, stylish black hair...As an artist, not very well built, but he'd been known to take daily morning jogs. I wondered, was he single? I introduced myself, and he let me in. Only then did I see trappings of the Kerpow Comics universe, statues of the spandex clad action woman with the bushy tail, feathery Owl Woman, Jack Rager with his trademark sledgehammer, displays of action figures, movie costumes, masks, framed celebrity photos... "Is this my new nanny?" asked an elfin voice. I turned and saw a diminutive figure draped in a large hat, veil and long flowing dress. Even the hands had been concealed in opera gloves. "This is my daughter Amanda. Due to her skin condition and light sensitivity, we always have to keep her covered up, so you're not going to be able to look at her. Hope this won't be a problem for you." Kids with problems like that just pulled on my heart strings. "Oh no, sir. I've read about things like this. I understand completely." I knelt in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Oh you poor thing!" The girl flinched. "Please no touching," the man blurted. "The nerve endings..." "I'm very sorry, sir. I would never-" "It's fine." Kirby's expression seemed to indicate he may have overstated things. "And please, call me Drew." I straightened. "Is there...anything else I need to know?" "She's very active. ADDHD. Try to keep up with her." "Oh," I breathed. "Looks like I got my work cut out for me...what happened to her mother, if you don't mind me asking? I've never heard anything-" "Long story. I'd rather not go into it." He left it at that. It wouldn't do me any good, financially, to pry, so I let it go, hoping maybe sometime I'd run into the woman, or find out in the course of conversation. Mr. Kirby outlined what he wanted me to do, and teach. I'd cook for the child, clean, teach school subjects, answer any questions she'd asked, no matter how random, personal or unimportant they seemed. Again, no touching. Every day I was to leave her alone in her bedroom for about an hour so she could take off her coverings and rest. He instructed me to knock before entering, wait for her to open the door, never open it myself. I was to go to the guest room at eight P.M. and stay there, I would call him on the cel if I wanted to go out or visit the kitchen. I could order delivery if I wanted, he'd bring it to the room for me. Weird instructions, but I just chalked it up to eccentric genius and a developmentally challenged daughter, doing whatever he said to do. He was , at least, prepared to give me paychecks bigger than any I'd ever received before. I felt sorry for the kid. She didn't seem to know anything...about anything. A lot of her questions didn't make sense, so detached from the world she'd become. I had to explain why it's unsafe to drink poison, why you couldn't fly from the roof if you wore a cape, and a lot of other basic things. I cooked lunches for her, but never dinner. Amanda wasn't just in that room for an hour, she was gone for the rest of the day, I assume because she was tired. After a couple times of being stood up like this, I gave up and went to my room. My employer never complained, in fact, I got room service. Drew apparently knew how to cook. Although he spent most his time in his home office making calls, or in the art studio, he'd bring meals to my room, and not bad ones either. I complimented him profusely, but he only looked embarrassed. I never got any signals from him being interested in me, but I didn't have to order or go out once. Not only that, he gave me a laptop to keep me busy during my down time. I started with the intention of teaching the child according to the formula of course departments, math, science, English and so forth, but I soon figured out that, according to her limited attention span, I had better chances of making a lesson stick if I sort of worked the lessons around Amanda's natural inquisitiveness, answering her questions in return for some math challenges, getting her a diary where I could see her English proficiency and suggest improvements, and so forth. I tried to get to know her better, but certain lines of questioning met resistance, such as how old she was, when her birthday was, or how her family life was going. "Everybody has a mother..." I told her about mine, hoping to get her to open up. "What's yours like?" I thought I saw a smile behind the veil. "Oh, she's nice. Awfully busy, though." "Does she...work?" Amanda nodded. "She's with the police department." Although it disappointed me to know Drew wasn't single, I still felt excited to know something about the mother. "Police officers do have a lot of work...how come she doesn't come here?" "She does. You just haven't seen her." "Does she...show up around eight?" "Yeah." "Why can't I see her?" "I'm not supposed to tell you." "I won't tell anyone. I promise." She sighed. "Daddy doesn't like it. He says the house will become a freak show and people won't leave us alone." "I won't let that happen, Amanda. I like you. Why does he think your mother is a freak? She works for the police department, right? She can't be that weird. " I wondered if the mother did something bad and got on the news. "Is she...in jail?" "No. Not anymore." "Oh. I'm sorry. You should let your mother know that it's okay. I don't judge." "Even if she's Vanessa Vixx?" I smirked. " Especially if she's Vanessa Vixx. She is my favorite cartoon character." "Good. She's my favorite mom. " I suppressed a giggle. Vanessa was a police officer, and a did vaguely recall a comic book in which the character got framed for a crime and had to fight her way out of a jail. "Now Amanda, we both know that cartoons are just make believe. In real life, police don't drive around with badgers in their cars." "Mommy does." She sounded disappointed that I didn't believe her. I told her a story about a friend of mine that lost her mother due to a divorce, and how irresponsible the mother had been. "Wow!" the child actually seemed amazed by my story. "I'm glad my mommy's not like that! My mommy loves me!" At this point, I wasn't sure what to believe, didn't know if the kid's mother was actually in the police department, or if that was all part of her imagination. "I'm sure she does...you know, people have all kinds of jobs. Sometimes people lose their jobs because of different things, and don't have money, or even a home. And that's okay. It's not their fault...did your mother lose her job?" "No. I just told you, she's a police officer with the ATPD." I groaned. "I've never seen an Animal Town Police officer in real life." "I can ask daddy if he'll let you see her. I'm sure he will, since you're such a big fan." I continued punching holes in her story. "How does your daddy... see Vanessa?" "She crossed over." "How?" "I dunno." That's about all I got from her about the subject. I gave up and taught her math (the kid excessively right brained), some history and social studies. That evening, I walked her to her room for her nightly alone time, as usual, but once she stepped inside, I noticed she hadn't closed the door all the way. I don't think she knew she'd made the mistake. Holding my breath and standing perfectly still as to not be noticed, I peered through the crack. My jaw dropped at what I saw. Amanda's outfit turned out to be an elaborate disguise. This whole time, the child had been wearing a mask under that veil, and when she pulled it away, I saw the unnaturally bright, colorful visage of a Saturday morning cartoon character. Button nose, baby doe eyes, candy apple red lips, large mouse-like ears. The hair I'd seen had also been a wig. Her `real hair' apparently was animated, red and pigtailed. I guess I must have gasped or something, for the girl suddenly turned to face me. I yelped, forced myself to look calm and friendly. "I'm sorry. I..." "It's okay. You would have found out sooner or later." "I have so many questions. How are you real? Where did you come from?" She looked bashful. "My daddy loves my mommy very much." I stared. "What?" "My mom really is Vanessa Vixx. And daddy..." Her skin darkened, took on a more realistic Caucasian hue. Somehow she could concentrate and make herself non-animated. "How?" Amanda shrugged. "I'm very special. A stork delivered me to the house." I furrowed my brow, not believing a word I was hearing, or what I saw. "Your...dad...and a lady from a comic book...they had you?" The girl nodded vigorously. "Don't tell, okay?"


As he battled the waves, the wind roared loud and hard, only his 17 years at sea was keeping the boat afloat. The main sail was ripped from the deck, and he had no power from engine. He made make shifts underwater sails at either side of the boat that he lifted to steer. The white of the sea was blinding, rich with hopelessness. He tied himself to the deck, staring at pure fear. He screams at the top of his voice, “come ahead you won’t take me easy”. Gripping onto the steering wheel, white knuckles and grit teeth. As huge wave crashed into the front of the boat, rising it up so high he is dangling from the wheel. But still he refuses to let go, only his will power, and the love for a challenge was keeping him going. As quick as the boat raised up, it came crashing down the other side like a roller coaster. Slowly his boat was filling up with a watery death, he holds the wheel with his knee, grasping at the water pump, he cranks away. As he looked ahead, he could see a very faint grey outline, he knew it could not be water as it was not moving. He laughed with the roar of a lion; the storm had been taken him to land. Only time would tell if he could make It, he had no clue where he was, but he knew his chance of survival would increase with sold rock under him. This only spurred him on, cranking the pump faster his eyes only showing the very narrowing of gaps and the salt water stuck his face. The silhouette of the land grow in darkness and size as he gets closer. The boat stops with a massive crash, he is throwing from the wheel. he knew he is a rock, he had very limited time, his mind was saying can I swim the rest, how far to shore, will he need supplies from the boat, where was he. He could he the boat ripping her self apart, no time to think, he starts to untie himself. The knots are tight after the sudden pull from the throw. His fingers were sore from cold and water, his knife was out of reach. He rushed back to the wheel as he could hear the air rushing out the boat, quickly he starts to cut. As he turns around the whole front of the boat was just under water. He keeps cutting as fast as he can, the water is up to his ankles at this point. The fear was settling in, like a cloak of death. His heart was pounding and his wide open, his brain was firing neurons making it hard to focus. As he is pulled under, the water seemed clam, as it pulled him under more. He could not feel the cold, he was running on pure adrenalin, as he cut in to the last of the rope. He finally cuts him self free, as he looks up at the dazzling light of the surface, he pulls the cord to his life jacket. The rush to the surface only allowed him to wake up to how bad his situation was. The storm was still in full force, but now with his eyes lower, he could not see anything. Just water beating him from all around him. Only to be struck with the same rock that sunk him from behind on the head. His head was ringing, he was starting to fall asleep, his head was shutting down. Slowly he gave into demise. After an unspecified time, he could hear water crashing into the shores, his head was still in pain. The sharp rocks sliced into is hardened flesh. he did not want to make any sudden moves right away; he had no clue what was broken. He slowly checked himself out, apart from a few cuts and his painful headache, he was fine, lucky escape he felt. As je pulled himself onto the rocks, he could see he was in a cave, the sea was still in full force, with no chance of swimming out, he decided to give himself a bit of time to sort himself out a bit. His head wound, was worrying him, he could feel blood, but had no clue what was going on back there. He rips his sleeve off his shirt and wraps it around his head. He squints his face as the pain increases while he does it. He looked behind him into the darkness of the cave, he did not know where it went, but he had very little options. The current of the water would likely kill him if he went out the way he went in. He took out his flip lighter and sparked it, it took a few try’s but it soon sparked to life. The cave had some depth, his small light source barely pierced into the darkness. His footing was not the best and he crouched into the walls of the cave, with one had over his head and one on the ground. He pushed on until he comes to the wall at the back of the cave, no other light, no wind from anywhere but behind, he knew it was a dead end but there might be an underwater passage. He felt this was a bigger risk that trying to go out the front. He was really stuck in a rock and a hard place. He makes his way back to the front of the cave and sits down looking out into the sea. A miracle is what he needed. No escape, no supplies, and an unknowing injure to his head. “Checkmate” he says, accepting his fate, he smiled looking out the cruel mistress of the sea. He felt no regrets and enjoyed his last view of life.


Something was wrong. Fatally wrong. He couldn’t grasp the reason for his anxiousness. As Clive stepped onto the platform at precisely 06:05 and 35 seconds waiting for his early morning commuter train, something was wrong, he thought. Something was not right. In those moments in his life, his mind concentrated on an image of Newton’s cradle, it was idle, motionless, the big brass orbs, dangling from the brass cradle, all were stationary, passive and still, but there was a sense of anticipation, the orbs were oscillating in anticipation of movement, one of the outside orbs to the left or right would start the motion, and then the orb would send all the others into a monotonous; endless click - clacking. When will one of them initiate the law of the conservation of energy, the transfer of energy, the two-way domino effect? Clive knew. He grinned with the image of Newton’s cradle in the front of his mind. He could count time, the seconds, by the rhythmic striking of each brass orb in Newton’s cradle. The kiss of the cold metal against cold metal. Click - Clack. Energy converted into time, that’s what made Clive special. Clive knew how to slow down time, to make it stop. “Don’t YOU mess up, now! Stay cool, stay calm!” Said the voice in his head. It was his imaginary friend he had been told. Clive knew different. Mr. Black stepped onto the platform at 06:06 and 10 seconds, in his commuter uniform, his pressed suit was covered with an elegant cashmere and wool full-length overcoat, and camel coloured scarf elegantly arranged on both sides of the coat covering the lapels. His umbrella hung on his angled arm, held in position like a soldier on parade. “Morning, Clive.” Greeted Mr. Black. “Not so cold this morning.” Then the hushed whisper, as he passed by Clive, to take up his normal position on the platform. “What time will she come?” “Don’t say anything, nothing, you idiot!” The voice said gruffly in his head. Mr. Gray bundled onto the platform at 06:07 and 5 seconds, as ever fumbling nervously with his numerous pockets, more than likely, trying to check on the whereabouts of his wallet, keys, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything for the day’s commute, he opened and checked his slim briefcase to locate his phone and book for the umpteenth time. “Morning, Clive.” Mr. Gray said to Clive. “Bit chilly today!” Then the whisper from behind his raised hand hiding his mouth, his lips. “What time will she come?” “You say a word, your life won’t be worth living.” The voice inside his head hissed. Mr. Brown arrived slightly late at 06:08 and 30 seconds, he continued to peer in concern at his watch, but brightened as he recognized Clive. “Morning, Clive.” Mr. Brown said to Clive. “Fine morning.” Then the whisper and furtive look for a fraction of a second, before he said, “What time will she come?” The voice in his head made a cough, sounding like a grunt. It was a warning signal, not to reply. Mrs. Mauve and Mrs. Green stepped onto the platform together in deep conversation, talking behind animated hands. As they passed Clive, they both whispered, without turning their heads. “What time will she come?” They said in unison, and then walked to their waiting positions on the platform. “Don’t....” Warned the voice in Clive’s head. Finally, Miss Pink arrived at 06:09 and 20 seconds. She strode confidently onto the platform like a catwalk model, she knew everybody on the platform had waited for her entrance this morning, for all the waiting passengers, it was the thrill of the day she imagined. She walked with the same purpose as a model, a gladiator of hearts and minds, she imagined she was walking a straight line, walking directly, purposely towards Clive, and on cue, her timing was stage perfect, she winked flirtingly at Clive, the wink that meant, anytime, I’m your license to promiscuity buddy, a longing stare to the recipient of her wantonness; an unsaid message - take me! “Shut the f..k up - you dare, you just dare!” Said the angry slightly nervous voice in his head. As Miss. Pink passed Clive, she whispered like everybody else. “What time will she come?” He followed her path looking enviously at her long shapely legs, her tight backside. Everybody was in their normal position. They all started looking downline for sight of the commuter train to the right. The tunnel entrance to the left was a dark black hole, like a large muzzle of a gun, a void, an impenetrable blackness, it was different to the darkness of the early winter morning, where the light pollution and illuminated glare, diffused the blackness, and played tricks with eyes. Then the stranger arrived. He wore dark glasses, and a long black trench coat styled raincoat. He looked around the platform and recognized Clive, he bowed his head and strode up to Clive. There was intent in his voice when he said. “Mr. Caldwell, I need a few words with you, do you mind if we talk?” “Don’t tell him anything - understand. Not a word!” Screamed the voice. “It’s an important matter Mr. Caldwell, it’s about your wife....” The stranger in the long trench coat didn’t finish the sentence. “Be careful now...” said the voice with a menacing tone. Instantly, the golden orbs started to move in Newton’s Cradle, click - clack, click - clack. The energy, and counter energy started to dance. Both the cradle and balls were shuddering, jerking in an erratic crazed movement. “What time will she come?” Said the stranger. He didn’t whisper it like the others, but as the voiced question appeared in the hushed morning air, the stranger smiled a knowing smile. Clive thought he noticed a smirk. “Keep that mouth shut, keep it shut!” The voice in Clive’s head was getting more than angry, it was becoming uncontrollable, insane! CLICK - CLACK; CLICK - CLACK the golden orbs had really started to move now, they were moving back and forth with the velocity of a funfair ride, Clive had forgotten the name of the ride. His brow started to sweat, his palms started to feel clammy, he felt nauseous. BANG! The explosion came from the black tunnel entrance, the impact, the latent energy of the explosion was made more catastrophic as it was ignited from inside the tunnel, and then the trapped energy blasted outwards with more force at its mouth, the entrance, a titanic release of deadly energy, huge pieces of masonry, metal flew like missiles through the dark morning air hissing with a deadly force, the sonic boom of the explosion deafened the dark morning skies. Clive had a slow-motion image of the chaotic debris decapitating some waiting passengers on the platform, their bodies smashed into pieces by the force of the explosion. Clive slowed the titanic forces in his mind to a still photograph type image - he made it STOP. Click - clack, click - clack the sound of Newton’s cradle returned from his peripheral hearing, as the sound of the explosive forces stopped at the same instant as the horrific images. “She won’t come now!” said the voice with evil mirth in Clive’s head. “She’s gone forever.” There was a sense of finality in the last words. ************************************************************ “They will be ready for you shortly Mr. Caldwell.” The nurse said chirpily. Clive was handcuffed to the wheelchair. Two burly attendants on each side of the wheels. The door opened suddenly, and Clive was wheeled into the meeting room. There was a committee of three men and two ladies waiting inside, all seated behind desks, files and papers, laptops in front of them, and on the side seated ready to take minutes, a transcriber of the meeting was a young administration lady, wearing a bright puce lady’s suit. Sitting separately in the corner of the room was a strange man with dark glasses. The attendants and the chirpy nurse stood at the side and behind Clive, seated in the wheelchair. “How are you today, Mr. Caldwell?” Said one of the women, a member of the committee. Before Clive could answer, the women started the introduction to the meeting. “The psychiatric team of Edmundston Mental Hospital, in attendance today, Dr, Schwartz, Dr. Sery, Dr. Braun, Dr. Zeleny, and myself the chairperson Dr. Malva presiding over case: 10476; Mr. Clive Caldwell.” Dr Malva paused. “Now, Mr. Caldwell, under the Mental Health act of 2018, we are required to conduct a regular status review of your condition. The committee has your records, and we have duly reviewed all the details, including your recent status of the last 6 months, and we find some improvements in your condition.” “We have some questions for you today. Do you feel in a frame of mind to answer?” Clive paused for some moments, before he answered calmly. “Yes, that’s OK.” “OK, looking at the records we find that your medication is stabilizing your previous traumas, there are no reported incidents of violent behaviour.” “Do you have visions, or when was the last time you had any distressing visions, Mr. Caldwell?” “I can’t remember, not for some time.” Clive quietly replied. “Good, and what about voices, do you hear any voices in your head nowadays?” “No Ma'am, and I don’t have any headaches either.” Clive added. “Very good, we the committee believe that you no longer pose a security risk, not whilst you are in this institution, and you are taking your prescribed daily medication. We have also agreed that based on a clean incident free record under the constant observation of this institution, that in 6 months, we can look at a release program. What do you say about that Mr. Caldwell?” “Great! - gettin' me time back again, - thank you Ma'am." Clive said with some hesitation. He looked to the corner of the room at the seated stranger. The seated stranger took off his dark glasses and peered directly at Clive. He had no eyes, instead where there should be eyes and eye sockets there were two black holes; they looked like tunnel entrances, with the scars and scorch marks of fire caused by a tremendous explosive blast were evident on and around the circumference of the black holes. The stranger’s expression didn’t change, his face was peering directly at Clive, and then he smirked, and mouthed silently. “What time will she come?” “Who is that?” Clive thought. “The past, and the future, YOU arsehole, don’t look at him, you idiot!” Said the voice in Clive’s head. “OK nurse, take Mr. Caldwell away, and we will see the next patient.” The attendants reversed the wheelchair out of the meeting room. Clive’s first thought, 5 minutes, and 12 seconds - meetings are getting shorter. Clive was grinning, a crooked smile which never disappeared off his face, but no one noticed his eyes, peering at nothing, there seemed to be something going on behind the masked appearance on his face, his pasted-on smile, his eyes; it was a charade for the continued monitoring and inspection of all at Edmundston. He wore the mask like a reveler at Mardi Gras, his unique disguise. Fake it, to make it. The voice in Clive’s head. “Told you we’d be out of here, just keep smiling sonny, just be patient with these arseholes for a little while longer! - who’s always looked after you, sonny Jim, always - right from the beginning of time!” CLICK - CLACK The sound of the orbs in Newton’s cradle continued counting time. Clive's time.


It is the year 2067. Many decades have passed since the gates of Azeroth opened for the days of Vanilla WoW. Little did the players of that time back in 2003 know that over 50 years later, the game they loved so much would still be going strong. Dozens of expansion packs later, the current level cap is now 340. Several new races - and classes - are in place. A new class of item, called 'Primordials' have been introduced. The geography of today's Azeroth would be mostly known to early 2000's players, with several sub-equatorial land masses now a part of the landscape (Gondwana, Pangaea and the Poles). As the early-day players grew older and became adults and eventually grandparents, WoW accounts and characters were passed down through generations of real-life families. It became commonplace for WoW 'heirlooms' to be passed down through online generations in the game that had been in existence for the past 50 years. These online items hold almost as much sentimental value as real-life heirlooms do for some. As it's players matured, so did the game. At one point, Blizzard introduced graveyards into the game - where players could pay tribute to family members & friends who had previously passed away. This is held with a high degree of sacredness & respect by the online WoW community - long gone are the days of guild raids on fallen players funerals. There is now an annual 'Rememberance Day' event in WoW where players gather at memorials to remember loved ones that have passed away. This is a free day in the WoW subscription so many inactive players come back just for this event. One of the most surprising things however, is that each realm now has an in-game president. Yes, that's right. Elections are held each year where players cast an in-game vote at Goldshire Inn to select the candidate of their choosing. Candidates must first be nominated by their guild to cast their name in the ballot. Each guild can only put forward 1 person. The president serves a maximum 2-year term after re-election. The role of this president, much like a real-life president, is to represent the interests of the players through being a direct point of contact to Blizzard. Each realm president gets 4 face-to-face meetings a year with Blizzard devs to discuss issues such as in-game experience, class balance, PVP enjoyment and server specific issues. It is expected that the presidents quit their real-life job to fully dedicate themselves to their in-game role; Blizzard makes up for this by reimbursing the presidents with a nominal salary in Bitcoin and providing an in-game Whitehouse with presidential attire. Stay tuned as I continue to report on the exciting new world of future-WoW.


A honeyed breeze carried the chatter of finches as Azi lay on the green lawn. She stared above, deep in thought, her eyes tracing the honeycomb structure of the dome. The sound of footsteps padding snapped her out of her daze. She turned to see Ascot marching over. “Good afternoon Miss!” He announced himself and stood to attention in front of her, moustache bristling in the breeze. “Hello Ascot.” “I’ve come to inform you that dinner is ready.” “I’m reading at the moment, I’ll eat later.” She gestured vaguely to the book cast aside on the grass. “Your father would like a word with you before he leaves, if you don’t mind.” “And if I do mind?” Ascot said nothing. Azi shot him a sideways glance, then smiled and got up. “Fine, let’s go then.” Azi walked along the hallway, the marble floor cool on her bare feet. Ascot’s footsteps echoed behind her. Streams of light cut through the kitchen, shining onto a long dining table where her father sat scribbling in his leather dossier. Azi sat down and took a plate before he glanced up, as if noticing them for the first time. “Thank you Ascot.” “Sir.” He turned and left. Azi began arranging food on her plate and her father went back to his dossier. After a few minutes he flicked it shut, sat back and stared at Azi. “Good afternoon Azi.” “Hi Dad.” He rested his chin on a fist. “How was school today? Interesting?” She pulled a face. “Oh yes, another fascinating day learning about hydroponics.” A glimmer of a smile passed across her father’s mouth. “Now, sarcasm isn’t going to get you very far in life. Besides, you might need that knowledge in the future - we always need more biochemists.” “Hmm, think I’ll pass on that. How about the Senate?” “I wouldn’t recommend it sweetheart. Long hours.” He smiled at her. “In fact that’s what I wanted to speak to you about - I won’t be home for a night or two, there’s an event on in town, unavoidable I’m afraid.” “So? You’re always away.” He paused and looked out of the window. “I wanted to make sure that you’re comfortable with Ascot watching the house, I know he’s only new. I could arrange for some others to come if it’d make you feel more secure.” “Dad, he’s been here for months. Besides, what do you expect to happen? Literally every house in this neighbourhood has guards. We’ll be fine.” “Two months. And Azi, I'm not sure you’re aware but there’s been some serious trouble from the dust lately. A man of my office naturally has a target on his back, and that unfortunately extends to you as well.“ “Would you get over yourself? You act like you’re in the Inner Circle already, you’ve only been a senator a couple of months. I’ll be fine.” He sat scrutinising her for a moment, then rubbed his chin, picked up his dossier and stretched. “Fine, we’ll leave it for now. I’ll see you on Sunday.” Azi closed her bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. She paced the room, rehearsing the plan in her mind. After a while she heard the front door slam shut - her father leaving. She glanced at the clock - 6:45. She had an hour to wait. She went to her window and opened it, trying to relax. The sun was almost down and dusk appeared a greyish pink from behind the dome. She watched the evening sky descend into night between the metal beams and the air grew cool and moist. Birds stopped chirping, and it was just the rustle of leaves, or the occasional car driving outside the garden wall. She checked the clock again, it was almost time. She went back down to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. On her way back she stuck her head into the security room. “Heading to bed Ascot, having an early night.” “Sleep well Miss.” “Thank you Ascot.” Azi had to refrain from running up the stairs to her room. She went to her wardrobe and lifted out lengths of rope. She checked the clock again - 7:45 on the dot. Time to go. Azi crept down the stairs and tiptoed to the garden. She ran along the side to the back corner, where the sycamore tree and elderberry shrubs gave some cover from the cameras. Then, tossing the rope ladder over a high branch she heaved herself on top of the wall. She checked that the road was clear, let the ladder down and quickly descended, tossing the rope back over the wall. She threw her hood up and walked two streets over. Only then she allowed herself a deep breath. She smiled with raw adrenaline. Suddenly she felt someone grab her shoulders and spin her around. A kiss on the lips. “Jesus, you scared me.” Azi laughed. Kam beamed at her. “What did I tell you?” Azi smiled back. “You were right, it was just that easy. How did you distract him?” “I rang him and told him I was outside the front door and needed money.” “Our front door?” Azi laughed. “How did he take that?” Kam grimaced. “Not well. He told me not to come to his “place of work” , I just played dumb. He’s gonna kill me when he comes home I’d say.” His face erupted into a smile again. “Oh well, worth it! How does freedom taste?” “Mhm sickly sweet. Think I need to wash this taste out of my mouth.” They laughed, linked hands and walked down the quiet, leafy streets of Department 1. They strolled through upper-class suburbia in the direction of the night district. Large walled villas gave way to storefronts, and bright street lamps were replaced with warmer yellow ones. More people appeared on the streets, milling from bar to bar. Kam took Azi into a quiet looking spot and they sat at a booth in the corner. They talked and laughed and drank, but as the night went on Azi couldn’t help but glance around the lowly lit bar. Kam touched her wrist. “You okay?” “I’m fine. It’s just a bit overwhelming - I’ve never been in a bar before.” “You don’t say?” “Shut up.” She pushed him, laughing. “I just keep imagining Ascot going to my room and finding it empty.” “He won’t - how many times has he ever opened your door?” “Okay, never.” Kam peered at her from over his glass. “You don’t like him very much do you?” “I do! He’s just a bit.. wooden. You’re not very alike, you and him.” “He’s just like that around you lot. Takes his job very seriously.” “Well he doesn’t have to be, not much happens in our house.” Kam looked away, picking at the rough wooden table. “I don’t think you get it. Guarding a senator’s house - that is a good gig. A hell of a lot better than going outside.” Azi’s finger circled the rim of her glass. “Dad was saying there’s been trouble.” Kam took a sip. “There’s always trouble. They don’t tell you how much trouble. Half the guys in my intake know someone who's been killed.” “Doesn’t that scare you?” Kam swallowed the rest of his drink. “It doesn’t matter. It's the best option so I’ll do what I have to.” “You don’t have to be a soldier Kam, you could be -” Kam slapped the table and shook his head. “No. You can’t just go and do whatever you want. I’m lucky I can be a soldier. A lot of people would kill to be a soldier.” He sighed. “I know it might not look like it from Department 1, but some people in this city are just scraping by.” His eyes trailed away, Azi gripped onto her glass tightly. “Okay, so show me.” Kam’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you mad? It’s bad enough I brought you here.” “You sit here and lecture me cause I don’t know anything. So show me. I want to see it, I want to know what the city’s really like.” “No way, Dad would kill me.” “I think we’ve already crossed that line.” Kam exhaled and checked his watch. “You know what - okay fine. It’s early. We’ll go for a quick walk around the Lip.” He pointed a long finger at her. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The noise struck Azi the most. Noise from every direction. Revellers roared aimlessly and swayed across her path. She glanced down dark alleyways from which escaped sounds of heated tones. She heard lives being played out above her in the screams and laughter that reverberated down from yellow bedsits. And all along the road engines rumbled hungrily as they belched out diesel fumes into the hurried night. She stumbled through, stunned, gripping onto Kam’s hand for guidance. They rounded a corner and walked away from the frenetic mainstreet. “Satisfied?” She nodded her head. “I think I need a drink.” They looked across the road to a bar with low purple lamps hanging above the entrance. A burly man stared back at them. “We’ll chance it.” Kam took her arm and they crossed the road. He whispered something to the bouncer and Azi saw him slip money into his hand. The bouncer raised his eyebrows and opened the door. They walked through and down a set of stairs. Loud music vibrated through the basement. The air was heavy with dim smoke and people drifted through a labyrinth of rooms. They found the bar and looked around, Azi grabbed Kam’s arm. “I don’t like it here.” She mouthed it at him as a scantily clad thin woman with sunken eyes glided past. Kam nodded in agreement. “Me neither, we’ll go somewhere else.” As they turned to leave some figures drifted out of the mist. Azi felt her heart plunge, a jolt through her nerves. She saw two young hollow-eyed girls gripping the waists of a man she did not recognise, and her father. His head turned in slow motion and she saw his face drop from laughter to shock and then guilt. Azi spun around and heaved Kam away. They ran upstairs into the night and back towards her house. They were panting by the time they reached her street. They stopped to catch their breath. Kam put his hands on his head. “Oh fuck this is bad.This is bad . Do you think he recognised us?” “I don’t know. I think so.” “Oh fuck. ” Kam rubbed his eyes. “I think I need to tell my dad.” She touched his shoulder. “Look, maybe it’s not as bad as we think - my friends sneak out all the time.” “No, no, no, this is not good. You’re meant to be at home, not out at night. Definitely not out there and definitely not with me .” “Kam I’m going to talk to him when he’s back, I’ll be able to talk to him.” “We just saw him with a twenty year old hooker! How well do you really think you know him now?” Azi stood with her mouth open. Kam continued. “He probably has some boy already picked out for you. I have fucked this. We’re going to be exiled.” His words hung in the air a moment. Azi took hold of him by the shoulders. “Look, you’ll be fine. Let me just explain it to him. I’ll tell him it was my idea, that I forced you to bring me.” Kam stared at the ground shaking his head. “Give me a better option.” Kam closed his eyes and exhaled. “Tell him my Dad had nothing to do with this. Nothing. ” “I will. Now go and ring your Dad and tell him you lost your keys so I can sneak back in.” Kam made the diversion and Azi slipped into the house. She lay on her bed and felt tiredness overwhelm her. She closed her eyes and she saw images of her father. Questions swam around her in head as she drifted asleep. The morning light woke her up. A dry mouth and a dull throbbing behind the eyes. Azi recounted the events of the evening and her nerves returned. She heaved herself out of bed and gingerly stepped down into the kitchen. She found her father sitting at the table writing in his notebook. “I thought you weren’t back until Sunday.” He looked up at her from underneath his brow and continued writing. She got a glass of water and downed the contents. She heard footsteps echoing from the hall and turned to see an unfamiliar man in guard’s uniform. “Your mail Sir.” The man set letters on the table beside her father. “Thank you Quinn.” “Sir.” He turned and left. Azi stared at the door he left through. “Dad, who is that?” Her father continued writing. “Dad, where is Ascot?” Her father said nothing. “Where the fuck is Ascot?” She shouted. Her father snapped his pen down on the table. “‘Where is Ascot?’ Where were you last night?” “I could ask you the same question!” Her father sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Ascot was tasked with keeping you safe. He failed in his duties and so he is no longer with us. End of.” Azi gaped at him blankly. “What about Kam?” He picked up his pen and went back to his journal. “What about Kam Dad?” Azi screamed and flung her glass at the wall beside him where it exploded with a shatter. Her father stood up. “Quinn, come here!”


The Dancer entreats the audience with a blossoming left hand, and although the blazing lights at stage’s edge render invisible the bedazzled masses, She feels the silence, the moment of transit, when observer becomes one with the Dance, believes the doors have opened to a universe of possibilities. With one inviting gesture, The Dancer has become the Conductor of Dreams... Her fingers pause. A double-tap, and a blue nail hovers over the keyboard. It descends, and all begins again... ** “These mitigating circumstances,” Curtis murmured. “Whyn’t you explain them to me?” It was the first time Professor Saanvi Deshpande had met Detective Mead on his own turf. Curtis settled back in his Obama-era Office Depot seat, fingers templed, and mirrored her serenity. “Daria’s intent was entirely self-destructive. The unloaded weapon was newly purchased, from whom she will not disclose, for the express purpose of ending her life. That it fell from her backpack in the middle of a campus rally was an unfortunate accident that no doubt saved her life.” “And why would she want to blow her brains out? Blonde and beautiful, according to you a near-perfect GPA, daughter of some rich Chicago writer.” What Curtis didn’t say hung in volumes between the West Side cop and the Mumbai-born arts department head. “And what’s your interest in all this?” “Daria’s mother, Olivia, was once a faculty colleague, before rising to prominence as a brilliant abstract artist. Her foray into children’s illustration and eventually literature was an attempt, I believe, to connect with Daria.” “That worked out,” Detective Mead opined. “That is the crux of my, ah, mitigation,” Saanvi sighed. “I’m afraid Olivia created the tragic circumstances that have led us here.” “And how is that?” “She showed Daria the future. Her future.” Curtis had learned in Saanvi’s company to suspend a certain level of belief, scissors poised. “You mean that figuratively.” “Materially.” “I’m not sure you understand ‘figuratively.’” “Olivia quite literally created Daria’s future. Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray ?” “Think I dodged that bullet. But yeah, Oscar Wilde, magical painting, some lame-ass moral about vanity and narcissism...” “You have so perfectly captured its essence,” Saanvi nodded. “Would you like to accompany me to a showing?” ** The Dancer catches his eye, or he catches hers, over a display of Galas and Braeburns and Honeycrisps. Her skills are known to a select few, and although excepting a courageous few who approach the apron with an appreciative token they are faceless, She simply knows. The sturdy woman with him glances up from the Bartletts, and she trades a sharp nod and a perfunctory smile even as her husband retreats to the Russets and Vidalias... With a breathy curse, she snags the Kroger bag next to the laptop. The fruit spills to the tiles, one rolling into the darkness beyond the kitchenette. Repeating her curse with strengthened commitment, she plucks the nearest apple with a slight stitch in her side, wipes it furiously with her tee, and snaps an angry chunk from it. She closes the laptop with exaggerated care. It had been a mistake, tonight, and she now can’t focus on the work. Her own mocking laughter is jarring. “Yeah,” she retorts. “ That’s the problem.” ** “Shit,” Curtis exhaled. “A viscerally astute assessment,” Saanvi said, elbow-to-elbow before the painting. “Olivia had quite a talent for expressionist reality.” The lovely young woman was poised in some meadow likely of Olivia’s imaginings, before an easel anchored into the prairie grass, gaze lasered on a fawn poised on the horizon, brush gripped in a raised left hand. The only apparent imperfection were the eyes, unnaturally large and cornflower blue. But as both Detective Mead and Saanvi knew, the portrait’s perfection lie in that single “flaw.” “Creepy,” Curtis amplified. Professor Deshpande understood: The cop had seen those huge, nearly unreal, utterly dead blue orbs in a guarded hospital room, after a cadre of students slammed her instinctively to the rainbow-chalked concrete of Tillson Union Plaza. The Pulse shootings, the recent beat down at Illinois State, the election year polarity that crackled even on academic ground - the cuffs were applied to Daria’s hospital bed and the social media damage done even as the Student LGBTQ Coalition surged forward to vet one of their own. Saanvi had spent a semester under Daria’s silent, sullen, ultimately deferential examination as the teen sized up her mother-appointed mentor. “So,” Curtis continued, scanning the nearly barren campus-adjacent apartment, “Mom thought this would be motivational ? Saw your friend’s stuff in Chicago one time - thought she didn’t do people any more. I mean, this is, like, amazing. Graduation gift?” “Birthday,” Saanvi clarified with a new sobriety. “Well, pre-birthday. Olivia painted this 18 years ago.” “Shit,” Curtis reiterated. ** “The state’s attorney says you get some court-supervised counseling, she’ll recommend probation on an illegal weapons charge,” Curtis told Daria as the uniform hesitantly removed the cuff from her freckled wrist. The young woman looked to Saanvi, who smiled encouragingly. “Thing is, Ms. Cray, and your mom agrees, the hospital wants to keep you for a few more days.” Daria smirked knowingly, her freed right hand locating the bed control. “So I don’t walk into an Amtrak, right? I’m 18, so I’ll sign whatever you want if you tell her to just stay home. Can I talk to Professor Deshpande before they cart me up to the loony bin? I mean, like alone?” Curtis nodded, and tapped the patrolman’s arm. “Be at the nurse’s station. Looks like they got some Krispy Kremes.” “I figure you probably did that, so thanks,” Daria said, working at a smile. Her large blue eyes were bloodshot, and, to Saanvi’s discerning view, fearful. “For everything. You know I just suck at the art thing, and I’m a royal fuckup. For example, this shit.” “We won’t belabor all the inaccuracies in that evaluation, but I think perhaps this counseling will be of great benefit to you. And your mother is deeply concerned for your wellbeing, though I assured her I’d look after you until you’re ready for her.” “That may be forever. That fucking picture...” The teen turned abruptly to the window. “Daria?” “Look,” Daria said, almost inaudibly. “I didn’t want that cop guy to think I was any crazier than, well, than I fucking am, but last night?” Saanvi placed a hand on her arm, and the cornflower eyes locked with hers. “I could have been dreaming, the shit they gave me, but I don’t think so. I saw her.” “Your mother?” “Me,” Daria snapped. “The other one. Future me.” ** The Radiology waiting room was the emptiest at mid-afternoon, so they reconvened there with two cups of truly institutional brew. “The notion of preternaturally endowed objects is widely held across cultures. Haitian Vodou offers probably the best-known example. A drawing of the subject or the notorious ‘voodoo’ doll is said to possess the power to affect or even control that individual’s health or fortunes or, if we subscribe to B horror movies or poorly written ‘60s situation comedies, inflict pain. “Some indigenous African and American cultures employ masks, statues, sand paintings, or totem carvings with generally more positive, protective intent, and the mandelas and sacred thangka paintings of Tibetan Buddhism are used in meditation and healing rituals.” “Mm,” Det. Mead nodded. “I’m only leading from my particular wheelhouse. But these are longstanding traditions, and for good reasons, be they mystical or merely psychological. Are you familiar with Obeah? Another Caribbean practice, this time intended to manipulate or extort a subject. Certain herbs and plants used in Obeah rituals or potions, like mandrake root and belladonna, have psychoactive effects, and combined with spells, use of a target’s personal belongings or hair or nails, and significant or frightening object placed near the subject’s home instill a sense of unease or terror, making it easier to control decisions or coerce money.” “I’m more accustomed to bullets through windshields or dead cats artfully placed hung on trailer doors,” Curtis noted. “You got anything maybe, I don’t know, just a little less Mulder and Scully?” Saanvi nodded pleasantly. “We could look at this from an alternate perspective, if you’d prefer.” “Believe I would.” “Van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Picasso, Pollock struggled with potentially debilitating depression, addiction, anxiety, hallucinations, psychotic episodes, or bipolar manifestations that instead informed their work. Pollock’s chaotic energy, Munch’s nightmarish ‘The Scream,’ and, well, Picasso’s surreal and shifting artistic phases. Creativity and dysfunction - one might say they go hand-in-glove.” Saanvi’s lips abruptly clamped into a Giaconda smile, and the cop studied her silently for a moment. “So you think your friend Olivia may be a little insane in the membrane?” Professor Deshpande grinned with a waggling finger. “I’m not so certain. Your brilliant young colleague, the forensic virtuoso. Christina? Has she returned to duty yet?” “Call her Chris if you value your life. But yeah, against department orders, under threat of civil action. Restricted to the lab until her utterly futile maternity ‘leave’ is over.” “That’s where I need her expertise,” Saanvi said. “I’d be interested, as well, to learn the findings of any psychological evaluation of Daria.” “You can take on the department easier than you can HIPAA. What’re you hoping to find?” “Not certain. There appear to be two possible sides to this equation - the psychology of the artist, and the psychology and perhaps physiology of the subject. As you can see in Munch and Picasso’s works, psychoses and bipolar disorder can manifest in a number of anomalies. Figures may have unusually large heads, elongated limbs, or disproportionate torsos, or be broken into disjointed pieces, possibly reflecting a fragmented view of reality. Intense, clashing colors can indicate emotional turmoil, where inclusion of surreal or symbolic elements such as eyes in unnatural locations or abstract shapes, might reflect the artist’s inner thoughts and emotions. If certain shapes or motifs are repeated obsessively, the creator may be laboring under a driving fixation or compulsion.” “Welcome to The Night Gallery ,” Curtis intoned in a creditable Rod Serling. “Sorry, got a streaming addiction. So, the first thing grabs me are the eyes. Girl’s just this side of those tacky old paintings of the kids with the creepy big eyes.” “Margaret Keane, often referred to as the ‘Wayne Newton of the art world’ and famously exploited by her husband Walter in the Sixties. Walter purportedly was attracted to Margaret by her own large eyes, so one assumes her work was to some extent reflective. But one wonders what other forces may have been at play. In portraits by artists with bipolar or psychotic tendencies, large, exaggerated eyes, may reflect heightened emotions, paranoia, or simply an intense focus on perception and observation. “Now, there are psychological explanations for the eerily prescient nature of the picture of Daria Cray. Many adolescents today suffer Body Dysmorphic Disorder - obsession with self-perceived flaws in their appearance fueled by social media and bullying. BDD can lead to excessive grooming, eating disorders, even cosmetic surgery. Like extreme epicanthoplasty and eyelid surgery to create the appearance of Barbie- or anime-style eyes. I asked Olivia if Daria has had any such procedure, and she argued she’d never allow such self-mutilation.” “Fucking mom of the year,” Curtis grunted. “Sick enough she’d hang that thing in the girl’s room. What’d she expect might happen?” “Artists often have unorthodox expectations,” Saanvi commented. “But to return to point, there also are organic explanations for Daria’s unusual features. Waardenburg Syndrome is a genetic mutation more prevalent in Northern Europe that can produce wide-set, larger-than-usual eyes. And Waardenburg can manifest in a child of non-Waardenburg parents. “The other genetic possibility is congenital glaucoma, which can make the eyes appear larger due to intraocular pressure. Olivia shows no classic symptoms, and I saw no typical indicators in Daria, either. But I imagine your Chris could address either possibility, possibly with the use of the University’s Biomedicine Department sequencing technology.” “Shit, you sound like her ,” Curtis grinned. “We are rumored to be the future,” Professor Deshpande intimated. She then paused. “Uh oh,” the detective suggested. “Quite possibly,” Saanvi said. ** Saanvi was suspended over the city, near the summit of a round glassed tower jutting dangerously from the East Loop. Here in the stratosphere - or as a colleague had once coined, the statusphere - she kept her eyes locked on her host, but Olivia Cray’s green orbs meandered from Lake Michigan to the Sears Tower to the Lake Shore traffic seemingly a mile below. Anywhere but the small woman sipping oolong under a Pollock original. “I told a friend yesterday we artists frequently harbor unorthodox expectations,” the professor commented. “Of the world, of ourselves, of those we hold dear and those we simply hold onto.” “You’re an administrator, hardly an artist.” The retort was calm, sullen, Olivia now staring imperiously, framed by the wispy cumuli seemingly within grasp. Saanvi willed herself to maintain the connection. “What were your expectations? Of Daria, that is? Or were they yours?” “I have a reception at the Palmer in three hours. I’m sorry about the cheap shot. I know you’re trying to support Daria. I simply don’t understand how.” “Olivia, my friend has secured DNA results.” The painter gripped the arms of her Roche Bobois. “I didn’t consent to anything like that. And I’m hoping you didn’t broach anything to Daria - she’s experienced enough trauma without...” “The truth? Olivia, you are correct. I am an administrator, an academic, an expert of sorts on what and how and why others create. Pour me a bit more tea, if you would.” Olivia rose and reached for the Michael Aram pot, then froze. “Yes, the right hand. Do you believe I wouldn’t be able to discern that Daria’s portrait was the work of a left-handed artist? The stroke direction and pressure, the slight smudging at points typical of one working left to right. Your signature nonetheless is right-handed. “The few smudges were efficiently but inexpertly repaired, which seem to indicate a skilled but inexperienced artist. Perhaps a student? More importantly, Daria, like you, is a right-hander. And that brings me to the one rational explanation for this precognitive portrait, this vision of the idealized Daria to which your daughter aspired and ultimately surrendered. It is a self-portrait, of a young woman with Daria’s eyes. She must have been very special to you.” Now, Olivia refilled her cup. “Not particularly, but this was the deal.” The artist bolted the searing tea, as if in penance. “I wanted a child, she’d been knocked up, and her parents disowned her when she switched to an arts major. I could solve both her problems and buy her confidence. Using a sophomore student as a surrogate might not have gone over with the administration. And she showed tremendous potential, so I continued to mentor her over a convenient sabbatical. “So we’re in the final trimester, and she’s been working on some project she didn’t want me to see. I come home to it one night, hanging in the new nursery. And she gives me an ultimatum. She’ll surrender rights to Daria, but she wants a ‘presence’ in her life. She’d keep her mouth shut, but it was to stay on Daria’s wall until the day I decided to tell her the truth. She had leverage, so I simply signed it as my own and presented it as Daria’s future - as a happy, beautiful young woman.” Olivia laughed harshly. “The DNA test. The left-handedness. Was that bullshit?” For the first time, Saanvi stared out over the lake shore, at the Navy Pier ferris awaiting beautiful, happy children, and felt only the slightest frisson of vertigo. “Simply a bit of precognitive creativity.” ** The Dancer steps lithely out of the oasis of pink and aqua as if emerging from a luminous sea onto a dark and clattering shore. She dismisses the acclaim, the clamor that follow her offstage and strides briskly past those now returned to the dock. She is the Captain of the... The Siren of ... what, the Briny Deep? “Fuck,” The Dancer growls as she shoulders into the tiny room that is hers alone Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The laptop is still open on the makeup table, its blank white screen taunting her and her abortive metaphors. The tiny woman in the folding chair beyond offers a kind smile, as if in compensation. The intruder doesn’t seem rattled by her nudity, which in this venue should make Carlie wary but somehow reassures her. Carlie nonetheless slips on the outsized terry cloth robe supplied by management. “This thing, whatever it is? No.” The woman, on the handsome side of 45 or 50, Indian or maybe Pakistani, put together with a modest flair, smiles more broadly. She nods toward the Dell. “You are a writer, as well?” “As well as this?” Carlie challenges. “The creative soul finds an outlet,” her guest murmurs. “Whether putting words and experience to paper or pouring athleticism and interpretive prowess into the dance. Or committing heart and soul to canvas.” “Shit,” Carlie whispers. “I know you.” “Professor Deshpande. I once worked with Olivia Cray.” The Dancer drops onto a case of bottom shelf tequila that has aged negligently since the Country Cabana’s third post-COVID reopening . “Probably had you for a class. How is Professor Cray--? Oh, shit. Of course, you know. How is Daria?” “She has suffered the crushing weight of a lifelong delusion, perpetuated by Professor Cray.” “The fuck did Olivia do?” The question is rimed with permafrost. “I shall tell you, if you’d be good enough to walk me to my car,” the professor offers. “And perhaps accompany me back into town. You know how to find St. Mark’s, am I right? Daria’s photo was all over Facebook and Instagram, and you felt compelled to investigate. This time, I think Daria would like to meet you for real. Needs to, I should say.” “Gimme about 15. I’m not really dressed for it.”


Red Sand What else can go wrong? Life lately has been crappy. Get a grip ! Its’ only a popsicle ! As I’m staring down at the melting red popsicle lying on the ground, I can feel my heart beating way faster than it should be for such a trivial event. The popsicle had obviously gotten soft while I walked down the beach in the heat. After finding a spot to sit , taking the wrapper off, it had just fallen off the wooden stick as soon as I went to take my first bite. Now it lay there on the sand, taunting me. It’s hot. Real hot , early August hot, hot and humid. Just wanted to give myself a little treat and think about things a bit. Even that isn’t going as planned. Looking up the beach to the crowded sandy area, I feel isolated, having walked past all the people and finding a seat on a large rock by some drift wood. Looking down at the slowly melting popsicle making a red blob on the sand at my feet, I can’t help thinking about the past few weeks. So , Nick my jerk of an ex-boyfriend was seeing someone else while we were dating. Wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t moved here to be with him. Found a job, found a place to live and 2 weeks later all I get is a casual “ I’ve been seeing someone else, you okay with that?”. Nope, not okay with that. What to do ? Do I stay ? I like my new job, like my apartment and l like the small town with its touristy attractions and constant parade of people stopping to take in the local scenery. Moving away from home was a big thing. Sure, I knew there would be some difficulties and struggles just not such a major upset so soon after my move. It just seemed that everything was conspiring against me the last number of weeks. I had thought my moving would fix that something that was missing in my relationship with Nick. Maybe I had known all along we weren’t that great together. A picture of Grandma popped into my head and her words to me right before I left. “ Everything happens for a reason” she had said. “You have to keep your mind open to all things and look for the good that can happen” So, think positive. Try some new stuff. Going to stay, avoid Nick and build a new life. Out with the old and in with the new and all that stuff. Having made the decision to stay, I need to make some plans, perhaps pursue my desire to sing while I’m waitressing at the local restaurant. Always loved to sing, everyone back home said I had a good voice. Mostly I just liked to sing. Sitting in the sunshine on a warm afternoon, anything seemed possible. Looking down at the now half melted popsicle, I hear some snuffling and a beautiful chocolate lab comes across some rocks, sniffs the air a couple times and comes right up to me. He looks me right in the face then down at the popsicle melting on the ground. “Hey boy, help yourself if you don’t mind a bit of sand” I tell him. The dog licks at the popsicle until he gets the blob in his mouth, he makes a loud gulping sound as he swallows the blob, then licks his lips a few times and sits down. He wiggles his rear end a few times until he is comfortable between rocks and sticks, then just looks up the beach, panting in the hot sun. I am glad for the companionship. Maybe I should get a dog, I think. I like dogs. I wonder who you belong to ? Where is your owner? The dog and I sit in the hot sun, I tentatively reach out to stroke his sand covered fur. He glances at me as I touch him and leans in to me a bit so I can pet him easier, then his eyes go back to the crowded beach as if he is searching or waiting for something or someone. A few minutes have gone by and the dogs body goes rigid and he focuses on a man coming up the beach. His tail thumps on the ground a few times, but he does not move. The man looks to be mid twenties, about my age I think as I watch him come closer. He spots the dog and gives a whistle, “Max, here boy” he calls out. The dog still doesn’t move, just continues to pant and thumps his tail on the sand. The man has a puzzled look on his face, then walks a bit faster toward the dog and I. Probably thinks I am holding on to him or something. Not bad looking, I think as he gets closer. Taller than I, medium build with nicely muscled arms, clean shaven with dark hair and as he comes to a stop in front of me, I notice the rich dark brown eyes. “Hi, that’s my dog” he says looking down at me, his eyes slowly travelling up the length of my body from my sandal clad feet to my shoulder length blond hair. From the look on his face, I think he likes what he sees. “He came for a visit, he likes popsicles” I reply not knowing what else to say. “Max didn’t take yours I hope. Funny, he usually comes right back when I call him. I’m Jason “the man said sticking out his hand. “No, mine landed down there before he showed up” I said pointing down at the red sand where the popsicle had landed. Jason’s eyes followed to where I was pointing. “I’m Sally” I say as I slowly stand up and take Jason’s hand. Jason gives me a big smile, “Well, Sally. Max looks like he could use another popsicle on this hot day. Would you like to join us ? My treat” he says with a wink. As I nod yes to this handsome man, I can’t help but think of my Grandma’s words that “everything happens for a reason” Even a popsicle melting in the sand.


The world is an absurd, anomalous, nonsensical place. The only part of the universe for billions of miles apparently capable of consciousness, and it’s all concentrated on this little wet rock that through the sheer statistical necessity of an infinite universe, happens to have all the goods needed for carbon-based life as we know it. Yes, Humanity, in all its glory, is the only part of the universe capable of observing itself, and we have only been here for a mere fraction of a fraction of a percent of the entire age of the universe. For all we know, it could end tomorrow. All it would take would be one orange-haired, argumentative, uneducated world-leader to decide that nuclear is the only option and then mutually assured destruction would wipe us out of existence just as quickly as we crawled out of our primordial goo. But enough doom and gloom, let’s introduce the protagonist of this story, Ernest John Griggs. Ernie was a simple American man, your “Average Joe” of sorts. He was born in a suburban Midwest town, raised in the church (though that certainly didn’t stick,) and was educated in the public school system. He was an ignorant teenage boy throughout high school, and was lucky enough to attend college, where he was able to gain a bit of self awareness and learn a few things about that wet rock he was living on with the rest of humanity. College was also where he discovered his love for Science, and where he discovered he was not nearly as intelligent as his ignorant high-school self had believed. You see, anyone who choses to master the sciences eventually comes to realize the impossibility of this task; as we humans simply are not evolved for it. That, or they go on to study theology, where they can truly have all the answers they seek, without the need for that pesky critical thinking. Anyways, to put things plainly: Ernest was a man of science, not of faith. It was this very fact that plagued him throughout his adult life. For when you are a person of science, you must rely only on what you can empirically observe before you can draw any conclusions, and one such thing that has yet to be observed is any sort of afterlife. And without any data (aside from anecdotes) to support the hypothesis of an afterlife, one naturally concludes the worst, that their very existence will come to an end one day. They will not see what great things humanity will go on to achieve (like mutually assured destruction,) and their entire existence will one day be forgotten, as though they never existed. This logic is what caused dear Ernie most of his stress in life, and ultimately what led to his demise. Now Ernest had always taken comfort in the idea that while there was no evidence of an afterlife, that did not necessarily mean it was impossible. At least that was what he told himself. Unfortunately, that comfort was fleeting, as his existential terror always seemed to win out, and it wore on him like Colorado River wore out the Grand Canyon. It caused him so much stress in fact, that despite his healthy diet and active lifestyle, at the age of 23, he had a fatal heart attack. It was cruel luck really, he had always prided himself on his health, an avid runner and plant-based eater, he hoped it would secure him at least a few more years than his fellow average American. Alas, he could not fight the overwhelming stress of his existential dread, and as he returned home from an uneventful 5 mile run, he was suddenly overcome with that seizing, tightness in his chest that was so characteristic of a stress-induced myocardial infarction. In his last moments before he lost consciousness, Ernest momentarily realized the situation he was in, and that he would soon be dead. As he collapsed to the floor in his entryway, front door still ajar, he muttered his last thoughts aloud, “Oh fuck.” For Ernie, everything went dark.