"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Kid Quarterstaff asked. "Well, I'm trying to decrypt the directions from a secure message, using only a pencil and paper, and writing on the dashboard of tricked out RV. I'm good at math, but these are not the best conditions for trigonometric decoding," Miller's Son said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "So, no. I'm not sure if we're going the right way." "Why don't you just use the car-phone and call them?" Will Stoutly asked. "It's a secret safe house in the middle of nowhere. No phone, no internet, no electricity. Completely off the grid, Will." "So?" "So that means we can’t call, Will," Alain-a-Gale said kindly. "I would love to study your brain," Reyna Greenleaf said with a smirk. "Exponential strength. Below average intelligence." "Hey, Miller's Son is the brains," Will Stoutly said. "He solves the puzzles; I punch the bad guys." "Okay, enough talking guys. Help me look for the turn-off," Kid Quarterstaff said from the driver's seat. "It's a right turn. Either next to a big blue barn, or a split spruce tree," Miller's Son said, erasing a line of calculations and starting again. All five fell into silence as they stared out the windows of the RV into the dark winter night. The five teenagers called themselves the Merry Crusaders. None were yet old enough to become Church sponsored heroes, but that didn't stop them from doing their part to fight crime, protect their nation, and uphold the ideals of their faith. Each aspiring hero had been taken under the wing of first-generation hero, Guy of Gizbourne. The famous inventor and decorated crime-fighter had provided them with a high tech and fortified RV that acted as the team's mobile headquarters. The Merry Crusaders traveled around the United Catholicity of the Americas, helping communities that were too small to have their own Church sponsored hero. They fought against threats and criminal elements that were deemed too small or insignificant for the Church's official heroes to handle. Such problems were normally left to Peace Officers, but their resources were already stretched incredibly thin. The Merry Crusaders were glad that they could do their part to lift some of the Peace Officer Service's burden and to help out those in need. Guy of Gizbourne occasionally passed leads or missions along to the Merry Crusaders. Such was the case on this night, and the reason they were driving down an icy country road. They were on their way to give aid to another veteran hero. Members of the Vindices Catholicus of the United Americas, the premier team of Church sponsored heroes, had been escorting a witness named Ekram across the country when they'd been attacked by a group of assassins known as the Houri. The Houri had attacked Ekram's transport, drawing the heroes of the VCUA into a fierce battle. During the fray, the hero Colonel Chaplain had snuck Ekram aboard a plane. They had been on their way to the United Catholicity capital city when the Houri found them and shot down their plane. Colonel Chaplain was an expert pilot and managed to bring the plane down in the midwestern portion of the country. He rigged the plane to explode upon landing, before bailing out at the last moment with Ekram. Afterward, they had disappeared, presumably unable to contact anyone without risking the message being intercepted by the Houri. Based on the area where the plane went down, Guy of Gizbourne surmised that Colonel Chaplain had taken Ekram to an old safehouse near the crash site. Guy of Gizbourne then sent the Merry Crusaders to find the safehouse and offer whatever aid or protection they could to Ekram and Colonel Chaplain. For security reasons, Guy of Gizbourne had encrypted the message, encoding the directions to the cabin. As such, even with Miller's Son's advanced intellect, the Merry Crusaders were having trouble finding the safehouse. "Do we even know why we're going to this safehouse?" Will Stoutly asked. "Why, yes. I have managed to decode that portion of Gizbourne's message. " Miller's Son answered, happy for a break from scribbling equations on his notepad. "The VCUA has long suspected that the Ayatollah of Guinea is responsible for a major drug smuggling operation that has been flooding our country's streets with narcotics for decades. This would obviously violate the International Doctrine of Peace, but so far, the Church has been unable to prove it." "The other Ayatollahs of the Coalition of Islamic Oligarchs deny knowledge of the operation and refuse to help investigate. Luckily, a cleric named Ekram has agreed to testify against the Ayatollah of Guinea. That is, if he survives to make it to the official hearing. The Houri aren't known for easily giving up on their targets. Once we find the safehouse, we'll need to be ready for anything." "Hooray, we get to face the Houri!" Kid Quarterstaff said with a chuckle. "This is our chance to prove ourselves to the Church. Maybe they'll make an exception and let us join the Junior-VCUA before we turn twenty." "Clever wordplay and dreams of future heroics aside, how much do we know about the Houri? What exactly are we going to be facing if we go up against them?" Reyna Greenleaf asked. "There's not much information about them in the database Gizbourne compiled for us," Miller's Son said, as he manipulated a cursor on a screen set into the center of the dashboard. "I assume that’s because not much is known about the assassins or their organization." "Can you at least give us an idea of what we can expect?" Alain-a-Gale asked. "The Houri always attack in groups," Miller's Son read off the screen. "They are a covert unit, and there's evidence that they may possess some sort of cloaking ability. Reports seem to vary as to if they have superpowers or advanced technology. There’s even some evidence to suggest the Houri are clones and each has been genetically modified." "Deadly and an affront to God. Sounds like your kind of enemy, Kid," Reyna Greenleaf said, rolling her eyes. "If we face them, I'm sure you'll be the first one I have to patch up. As usual." "I may rush into fights, but I get results," Kid Quarterstaff said with a shrug. "I won't become a renowned hero if I don't challenge myself and --" "There's a blue barn!" Will Stoutly yelled, cutting Kid Quarterstaff off. He pointed toward the windshield and asked, "Is this where we're supposed to turn." "Good eyes, Will," Miller's Son said, as Kid Quarterstaff turned the RV onto a poorly maintained dirt road. "As far as I can tell, this road dead ends. The driveway that leads to the safehouse should be the only turn off we come across. They drove along for several minutes. The tires of the RV crunched through densely packed snow that covered a road pock marked with potholes. The RV bounced along, the armor plating attached to the vehicle’s sides shaking with every pothole and dip in road’s surface. The RV's headlights lit a large swath in front of the vehicle, but the view from the side windows was obscured by deep shadow. It was hard for Alain-a-Gale, Will Stoutly, and Reyna Greenleaf to make out what they were passing. The combination of darkness and falling snow made it look like the world fell off into nothing at the sides of the road. After nearly ten minutes, Kid Quarterstaff spotted the turn off. The cabin stood perpendicular to the road, surrounded by thick woods. Kid Quarterstaff turned into the driveway and slowly pulled up in front of the cabin. Suddenly, he saw a pair of eyes staring at him. The eyes were jet black, and it was only because of their contrast to the headlight beams' reflection on the snow that he noticed them. Squinting, he could make out a figure standing in the snow a few feet in front of the RV. Kid Quarterstaff could only see a vague outline of the person, their edges seemed to shimmer in the bright light. The figure raised an arm and a dark cylindrical object slid from between their fingers. Realizing it was a gun barrel, Kid Quarterstaff acted on instinct. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and the RV shot forward, ramming into the figure, preventing them from firing and sending them sailing backward several feet. Kid Quarterstaff slammed on the brakes and the RV slid to a stop. "What the heck, man?" Will Stoutly asked, annoyed. "Tell me you saw that, Mills," Kid Quarterstaff said. "I saw it," Miller's Son replied. "I guess we know the rumors of the Houri possessing cloaking abilities are true." The Houri assassin Kid Quarterstaff had struck with the RV stepped back into the area illuminated by the headlights and began to fire at the vehicle. Seconds later, more gunfire erupted from the woods to the right, the bullets ricocheting off the reinforced panels and bullet proof windows of the RV. "Everyone out," Kid Quarterstaff said, killing the engine and opening his door. "Stay on the left side and use the RV for cover." The Merry Crusaders climbed out of the RV just as the first Houri assassin stepped around to their side of the vehicle. As the assassin fired, Will Stoutly sprinted forward. The bullet bounced off Will Stoutly's body and he acted as a shield for his friends as ran across the snowy ground. Will Stoutly reached the assassin and punched her in the face. He threw three more punches, and the Houri dodged the first two and blocked the third. The Merry Crusaders did not kill and so Will Stoutly was used to holding back his full super strength. Yet, he quickly realized that the Houri were not ordinary enemies and he would need to put more force into his punches. Blocking the Houri's counterstrikes, Will Stoutly punched her in the gut, doubling her over. Then, using close to the full extent of his strength, he brought his fist down on the back of her head, knocking her unconscious. The gunfire stopped and the Merry Crusaders heard multiple sets of footsteps crunching through the snow and moving toward their position. Unlike the other three members of the Merry Crusaders, neither Miller's Son nor Kid Quarterstaff had superpowers. Miller's Son compensated for this fact by creating gadgets that aided him in his crime fighting endeavors. Miller's Son pulled three motorized drones out of a large duffel bag and turned on their battery powered floodlights. Then he activated the drones and their spinning turbines lifted the machines into the air. The drones spread out in a wide triangle and floated ten feet over head, their floodlights illuminating the area in front of the cabin. Peeking around the sides of the RV, the Merry Crusaders could clearly see a group of eleven Houri walking toward them. Each Houri was pale white, nearly translucent. The light seemed to bend around them, rendering them practically invisible. The only feature that stood out were their jet-black pupils that seemed to fill the entirety of their eyes. Each Houri was nearly identical to the others and all were obviously female. None of them was wearing clothes, yet they seemed impervious to the cold. Five of the Houri split off and began to fire at the cabin as the other six moved toward the Merry Crusader's position behind the RV. As the Houri's bullets tore through the walls and windows of the cabin, Kid Quarterstaff took charge. "Mills, you're on containment. Alain-a-Gale, you handle the shooters. Everyone else on me. The priority is keeping the Houri from reaching the cabin." The Merry Crusaders split off and leapt into action. Miller's Son pulled out a fourth drone and sent it hovering into the air above. This drone possessed a powerful magnet that pulled the Houri's bullets toward it, rendering their guns useless. Alain-a-Gale's superpower allowed her to generate and control wind. She created a whirlwind around the five Houri with gun barrels extending from their arms. The swirling vortex of wind slammed the Houri together, pinning them within the center of the whirlwind. Miller's Son pulled a launcher out of his bag and fired a canister into the center of the whirlwind. The canister released knock-out gas and soon all five Houri had fallen unconscious. Alain-a-Gale moved closer to the cabin, in case any of the remaining Houri made it past her friends. Miller's Son grabbed several sets of handcuffs and began putting them around the wrists and ankles of the unconscious Houri. The other three Merry Crusaders ran around the side of the RV and engaged the remaining Houri. The Houri stopped their advance and each took on a defensive stance. The fingers on their left hands lengthened into talons. The index and middle fingers on their right hands split apart from their pinky and ring fingers and long blades extended from within their hands. The Merry Crusaders moved into a triangular formation, with Will Stoutly in front. He burst through the Houri's formation, creating distance between them. Then all three Merry Crusaders picked a target and engaged. Reyna Greenleaf's superpower allowed her to absorb energy. During the day, her body absorbed and stored energy from the sun. Just like a plant pulling water out of the soil, she could also drain energy from living beings, just by touching them. She could then use the stored energy to heal herself or her teammates. Reyna Greenleaf caught the clawed hand of one of the Houri and held on, slowing draining the assassin's energy. When another Houri flanked her. She leapt back, dodging the Houri's blade, and waited for an opening to place a hand on the assassin and drain her energy. Kid Quarterstaff was a master of martial arts who he specialized in fighting with pole weapons. He sprinted forward and then slid on his knees through the snow, passing between two of the Houri. As he slid past, he struck one of the Houri in the back of the knee, knocking her off her feet. He then spun around and struck the second Houri in the back of the head. Unfazed by the blow she turned around and slashed at Kid Quarterstaff with her blade. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out and the Houri in front of Kid Quarterstaff crumpled to the ground. Another shot and one of the Houri Reyna Greenleaf was fighting was knocked back as a rubber bullet slammed into her chest. The Merry Crusaders quickly realized that someone was firing from inside the cabin. Will Stoutly knocked out the two Houri he was facing. Then he and Alain-a-Gale converged on the last two assassins and helped Reyna Greenleaf and Kid Quarterstaff take them out. With all of the Houri assassins defeated and restrained by handcuffs, the Merry Crusaders cautiously approached the cabin. The cabin door opened, and Colonel Chaplain stepped out. He looked over the heads of the Merry Crusaders, scanning the forest for signs of more Houri, all the while keeping his rifle at the ready. Satisfied that the coast was clear for the moment, he asked in a gruff voice, "Who are you?" "We're the Merry Crusaders," Will Stoutly said. When Colonel Chaplain only gave them a blank look, Miller's Son clarified, "Guy of Gizbourne sent us to assist you. So you know we're legit, the call sign is fruit basket." Colonel Chaplain, satisfied by Miller's Son's response, motioned to the RV with a jerk of his head. "That thing fortified and ready to roll?" "Yes, sir," Kid Quarterstaff replied. "Then climb in, and let's move out. There's bound to be more Houri on their way here," Colonel Chaplain said to the Merry Crusaders. Then he turned back toward the cabin and called, "Come on, Ekram. We're moving to a new location." Ekram, a short man of Arabic descent, quickly exited the cabin and scrambled toward the RV. He looked rattled and had obviously been shaken by the multiple attempts on his life. Alain-a-Gale offered him comfort as they climbed into the back of the RV. Colonel Chaplain took the front seat and Kid Quarterstaff got behind the wheel. Turning the RV around, the group drove back down the dirt road. When they reached the main road, Colonel Chaplain told them to head West. They drove for twelve hours straight, Kid Quarterstaff, Miller's Son, and Reyna Greenleaf all taking turns behind the wheel. Colonel Chaplain stayed in the front seat, never resting, his eyes switching between the windshield and the side mirrors as he scanned the area around them for enemies. They made it to the St. Augustonne military base without further incident. Ekram was escorted inside to await the hearing where he would give his testimony against the Ayatollah of Guinea. Colonel Chaplain thanked the Merry Crusaders for their help and the Church commended them for their exemplary service to the faith. After resting for a few days, the Merry Crusaders returned to the road, in search of their next adventure. "I'm proud of you guys. Few can say they faced off against the Houri and survived. Let alone triumphed," Kid Quarterstaff said. "I'd say we're truly on our way to becoming the kind of heroes we all dream of being one day."


Fieri walked into her room after a hard day at work. She was sick of people mistreating her. As a waitress working for a classy and expensive restaurant, it was to be expected. But she’d grown tired of it rather quickly. It was always some elderly man or teenage boy harassing her or drooling over her. She knew she was pretty, with her long dark chocolate hair curled and pinned up elegantly, and equally stunning dark eyes. She wore glasses and thought they made her seem mature, but a lot of the female customers that came into the restaurant deemed them a pointless distraction atop her curvy tattooed body. As if they thought it was an attempt to draw the customers’ attention away from her tattoos with them. An older religious woman had come in once and refused to be seated by Fieri, claiming she was the face of sin simply because she had them. After starting her job, she tried to cover her tattoos to save the face of the restaurant she worked for. She’d even swapped to contacts. But she eventually grew tired of that, too. She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Fieri often worked fifty hour weeks and never had much to show for it. She’d grown disgusted by the treatment she received at work and had even begun therapy to relieve some of the stress and anger she’d built up and buried. Her therapist had instructed her to start a journal on her phone, and after every terrible occurrence she had at work, or even at the end of every day, she was to document it and express what she felt should’ve happened, or what she wished would happen instead. The therapist had said it would be a good outlet for her, and could add some positivity in her life amidst the poor treatment. She’d even suggested a specific app. So Fieri had downloaded the journal app on her phone, but she’d never touched it. She thought it was silly, as if she were a little girl keeping a diary. She often thought to give it a try, but never actually did. Today was especially bad, though. And she decided to at least give it a chance. She opened the app and labeled a folder, “Change”. She started a fresh note in the folder and began typing: Day 1 A woman in her mid forties poured her drink on me today because it had too much ice. She said she asked for light ice, but she didn’t and we both know she didn’t. One thing I wished could change is that people be a little more reasonable. Fieri saved the note and closed the app. She then plugged her phone up on her nightstand to charge, took a shower, and went to bed for work the next morning. This next work day hadn’t gone as particularly bad for Fieri, but not better, either. She’d had two notable experiences today. One had been a family of three. And when they’d arrived, she offered the parents a booster seat for their two-year-old, but they’d declined. They had said he was advanced enough to eat without one. But their time spent at the restaurant had proved them to be wrong. The little boy spent the entirety of their meal screaming and throwing food at her every time she approached their table. The other experience had been strange. Fieri led an older woman to a table. She was perhaps in her early fifties. She’d been to the restaurant a few times, always in a foul mood. Fieri asked the woman what she’d like to drink and the woman told her. She retrieved the drink, but upon reaching the table, she bumped it slightly, spilling some of the drink onto the table, and splashing a few drops onto the woman’s shirt. Fieri panicked and immediately started apologizing in remorse for the accident. She watched the customer’s face contort into anger, then stop and completely change into something more calm. “It’s alright, dear.” The woman had told her. “It’ll wash out.” Fieri had frozen, dumbfounded. She’d never expected such a response out of the woman. The woman had reacted reasonably to the accident, rather than demanding to see her manager or pelting her with threats. Now home, she opened the journal app on her phone and clicked the “Change” folder. Starting an additional note, she began to type: Day 2 A family of three came in. The parents had a two-year-old son and refused a booster seat. The boy spent the whole time screaming and once full; he started throwing his food at me when I tried to refill their drinks or ask if they needed anything. One thing I wished could change is bringing untrained children into higher-end restaurants such as ours. Or hire a babysitter if you want to spend the evening out, I suppose. The next day, Fieri got home feeling just as tired as usual. She plopped down tiredly on her bed, kicking her heels off lazily. She recalled a few things from her day. One worthy of documenting in her app. And the other, just strange. An elderly man had come in, and she’d taken him to one of the few remaining booths at the back of the restaurant. He’d begun talking about his deceased wife and how lonely he was from the moment she hosted him. He took a seat, and she placed a menu down and asked for his drink order. He told her he wanted water, so she nodded and left to fill his drink. Upon returning, she placed his drink on the table. Before she could ask him what he would like to eat, he reached out and clasped her hand around his, and kissed it. The elderly man told Fieri she was too stunning to be working as a waitress, making minimum wage and that he could subsidise her easily. Fieri retracted her hand carefully and declined respectfully. This had enraged the old man, and he blurted obscenities at her and left the restaurant in a fit. The strange occurrence had been a family of four; two parents, a toddler and a newborn. Fieri had seen them come in and had frowned, having dealt with this the day before. But she put on a smile and went to greet them. The woman was distressed and was talking to the father. ”Chad, I know you made reservations. But I really don’t think we need to be bringing the kids in here just because the babysitter canceled.” She told him. ”But you’ve been waiting all week. It’ll be alright.” The father responded. ”I just don’t want to ruin other people’s dinners, honey. It’ll be hard enough to keep them quiet. They haven’t even napped.” ”Oh, come on Sarah. It’s our anniversary.” Chad said. Fieri greeted them and offered them a booster. She watched Sarah look at Chad, pleading for an answer. But Chad’s face had completely changed. He looked Fieri in the eyes and said, “Actually, no. It looks busy here and our babysitter canceled. We’ll just reschedule. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Sarah looked just as shocked as Fieri did, but she smiled and mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to Fieri. Then the family had rescheduled left. Sighing to herself, Fieri opened her journal app to the “Change” folder and started typing the day into it: Day 3 Today was very weird. An old man I seated flirted with me and asked if he could financially support me. I declined, of course. But he marched out of the restaurant angrily. One thing I’d change is respect. People are so openly disrespectful to not only hosts but just in general. Fieri plugged her phone up to charge and went to shower, while puzzling about the things she put into the app and the incidents that followed. It was as if things were actually changing. The following day, Fieri had actually had a good day, aside from the people who’d tipped only a few dollars. She decided she’d put that into the app since she didn’t have anything really terrible come out of the day. Day 4 Today wasn’t actually too bad. Just small tips. I guess one thing I’d change is that people should understand that I rely on tips as much as my hourly rate. It’s just rude to tip poorly when the waitress is consistently catering to multiple customers, and somehow doing it well. The next day, Fieri was actually excited to document her day in the app. She couldn’t explain what was happening, but she knew it had something to do with her notes app. It was like the things she typed were coming true. Today, a kind younger gentleman had made her day when he tipped her fifty dollars for doing such a splendid job. She insisted he didn’t, but the man had refused to take it back and claimed she deserved it for her hard work. He told her his girlfriend was a waitress and that he understood the struggle. A different couple had come in, however, and the girl did nothing but complain about her entire meal. About the steak not being to her liking and how the sides weren’t cooked how’d she’d specifically ask. Then she mumbled something about an allergy. Fieri had felt bad for her boyfriend. He’d sat there quietly, red with pure embarrassment. Then he’d quietly paid for the meal and tipped accordingly. She opened her journal app to the “Change” folder. Day 5 Today was splendid and slightly miserable at the same time. A young man tipped me 50 bucks! On the other hand, a young couple came in and the girl whined over everything imaginable. Her boyfriend was so embarrassed. One thing I would change is the public decency some people have. There’s no reason to go out in public with those types of manners, let alone a classy restaurant. Fieri laid her phone down and grabbed some clothes, then routinely went to shower before heading to bed. The following morning, Fieri sat on her bed after getting dressed for work. The weekend had flown by too quickly for her. All she’d managed to do was clean and do her laundry, after being called in to work a few hours both days. She barely ever made time for herself with how much she worked. She hadn’t even had time to document anything in her journal. Fieri thought about her journal app and smiled, an idea forming. If the things she’d typed had come true, surely this would work too. She opened it up to her “Change” folder. Day 6 I’ve been called in on my days off now for several weeks in a row, and it’s exhausting me. One thing I’d change is my manager giving me days off or maybe some PTO. Fieri smiled, sure of herself. She stood and grabbed her purse and keys, ready to get to work. She was excited about the outcome her notes would bring her this time. Walking through the restaurant, Fieri smiled slightly. She was on her way to inform the cook she needed a steak to replace the one he’d prepared for an order. A woman had come in a short while ago and had ordered a steak. Upon receiving it, she had stopped Fieri to explain to her she preferred her steak to be cooked a little longer. But she’d done so in a mannerly fashion. It had pleased Fieri, as she thought back to the note she’d written previously about manners and decency. However, she’d crossed paths with her boss a few times, without him so much as glancing her way, as if she didn’t exist. She waited until he was about to leave and caught him on his way out. ”Um, excuse me, sir? Tony?“ she asked. He turned around while digging in the pockets of his long name brand trench coat. “Yes, can I help you? I’m kind of in a hurry.” Fieri talked quickly to hold his attention. “So sir, I’ve been working a lot of overtime here recently and-“ Tony didn’t even look her in the eyes as moved to dig in the front pockets of his dress pants. “Yeah, yeah. You and everyone else, Fiery. Oh, have you seen my keys? They’re not in my pockets.“ Fieri frowned and held her tongue. Instead, she continued. “Anyway, I was thinking it would be nice to have some time off. Since I’ve not had as much time to do the things I need to do in my little spare time.” Tony sighed in frustration. “You know you’re not the only one to come in on their days off. Everyone else does too. I don’t know why you even bothered asking me such a question. I’ve got to find my keys.” He said as he brushed past Fieri, pausing for one last comment. “Oh, and don’t ask again. We need the extra help.” Fieri bit back tears as she rushed to the employee’s restroom to take a minute to recompose herself. The note she’d written hadn’t worked the way she’d thought it would. Later that night, Fieri laid in bed, still in her work attire. She had come home and flopped down on the bed, sad. She’d held her tears back all day and now she was tired of holding them back. Her dark mascara ran down the side of her flushed cheeks. “He called me Fiery. And only two of us actually come in when called cause we’re all they have. Maybe if they hired more people...” Her voice trailed off as she sat up and wiped her face. Fieri knew it was no use. That talking about it wouldn’t make her feel any better. She laid her phone down on the nightstand without plugging it up to charge and went to take a long, hot shower. Fieri didn’t touch her phone at all that night, didn’t even bother with the notes app. She’d simply gone to bed right after her shower. The next morning, Fieri moved slowly around the restaurant, having no motivation. It was only after she’d seated her therapist and asked for her drink order that she realized who it was. Her therapist didn’t respond as she looked Fieri in the eyes. “Fieri? Is everything alright?” Fieri snapped from her daze, ashamed. “Oh, Dr. Williams! Um, yes. Everything is fine. What would you like to drink? I think I missed your response.“ The therapist looked deep into her eyes and then clicked her tongue. “You abused the power, didn’t you?” ”I’m sorry,?” Fieri asked, confused. ”Oh, nothing. Nevermind that. How are things? With work, I mean. Has journaling helped?” Fieri frowned. “Things were okay, I guess, until they weren’t. I’ve stopped using my journal app. The one you suggested was great. I just, I don’t know.” “I see. I made that app, you know. Though, I’m glad to see you at least gave it a try. Makes me proud.” “I’m sorry, Dr. Williams. Did you say you made the app? The one you suggested to me?” Fieri said, appalled. ”That’s right. Oh, and I said a coffee would be wonderful.” She answered with a wink. Fieri couldn’t speak. Her heart was lodged in her throat and she could feel her pulse all over her body. She nodded at her therapist and fled to get her a coffee. From a distance, she kept watch on the therapist, refilling her coffee without another spoken word between them. Fieri had somehow convinced herself that she’d heard wrong or possibly misunderstood. She told herself there was no way her therapist would lie to her about such a thing. But how had she done it? The app was almost like magic, bringing her wishes to life. While cleaning a table on the other side of the restaurant from her therapist, Fieri hadn’t noticed when Dr. Williams got up, paid, or even left. She went to clean the table and upon lifting the napkin under the therapist’s coffee cup, Fieri found a folded twenty-dollar bill and a scribble on the back of one of Dr. Williams’ business cards. The note read: Keep journaling. Things will only get better! Fieri only smiled and tucked the note and the twenty-dollar bill away into her pocket.


I entered the main lobby of Sparrow Hospital at a near-sprint, and nearly crashed into a surly looking nurse who was stationed at the front door next to a big metal sign that read “All visitors must be screened for COVID19.” “Hold still while I take your temperature,” she said through gritted teeth. Displaying a forced smile, she rubbed the tip of a small digital thermometer against my forehead. “Thanks, now don’t forget to pick up a mask.” I followed her gaze to a box of masks which was located on a nearby table. I pulled one and put it on. “Can you tell me the fastest way to the ER?” “Yes, down the hall and to your left. You can’t miss it.” “Thanks.” I finished adjusting my mask, and started down the hallway. It had been a crazy morning so far which had started when my friend, Wendy, called me to tell me that she had been released from jail and transferred to the local ER. I knew she was going to be attending a protest in front of the state capitol, but never expected that she would be arrested. Around one o’clock in the morning,, my phone began buzzing with the text messages she was sending. “Being detained, currently in a minivan surrounded by men with guns, fml,” it read. Then, forty minutes later, “We’re pulling in front of a police station. Dunno if I’ll be able to keep my phone.” I made arrangements with work to take a half day, then worked on a project and attended an important Zoom call with a client. By eleven thirty I had wrapped up everything I needed to get done for the morning, and I left home right at twelve o’clock. I stepped through a set of double doors and found myself standing inside the waiting room for Sparrow Hospital’s ER. To my right was a window through which patients could talk to a receptionist. On the left were rows of chairs, some which ran along the wall, and one row which ran down the middle of the room. About half of the chairs were occupied, although it was hard to tell if this was due to the current load of patients or COVID19. I was getting comfortable in a chair next to a table full of dusty magazines when the door next to the receptionist’s window opened, and Wendy appeared alongside a nurse. I could see that there was a bandage on her left arm. She was scanning the room with her blue eyes as the nurse was talking to her, but before I could catch her attention she was distracted by an older couple who were stepping into the waiting room from the hallway. “Wendy, dear, are you alright?” The stout, grey-haired woman was asking her. I assumed that this must be her mother, and the dapper gentleman in the suit and tie could have been her father. Although we had known each other for nearly three months, I realized as I watched the three interact that I really didn’t know much about her family, other than she had one which included two siblings, a cat, and two dogs. I often sensed that she was reluctant to say too much about her father, and just let her share as much as she was comfortable with. I silently watched from my seat as her parents fired a multitude of questions at her, many of which she deflected with a wave of her hand or rolling of eyes. I had always appreciated her self-confidence, and willingness to speak her mind no matter what. I felt uncomfortable, as though I had crashed somebody’s party. I thought about getting up and slipping out of the waiting room. But, Wendy had called me too, and it was a whole hour long drive back to Alma. My hunch was that she was counting on me to drive her home. Finally, she spotted me. Even the mask couldn’t hide the smile that spread across her face. I recognized the creases of skin which peaked around the edges. She waved me over. “Scott, you came!” She said, reaching out and giving me a quick hug. I hugged her back, but tried to keep it as nonchalant as possible considering that every person in the room including her parents were watching. “I had to come. I’ve been worrying about you all morning,” I said, sounding far more sappy than I had intended. I motioned towards her arm. “What happened?” “It’s a cut, it only needed, like, twelve stitches,” Wendy said. “Oh my God,” her mom exclaimed. “I fell as those guys were pushing me into their van, and cut myself.” “What guys?” her dad asked. Apparently, Wendy had not shared her experiences with her parents via text like she had with me. “Policemen, Daddy,” she said. “I was arrested. Well, not arrested so much as detained for questioning. When they were done, they let me go. I asked if someone could take a look at my arm, because it hadn’t stopped bleeding.” A red haired nurse stepped to the circle we had formed around Wendy. “Here is the prescription for the antibiotics,” she said, glancing at each of us. We seemed to all take this as a signal for us to take our conversation elsewhere. Wendy’s parents followed us out into the hallway. This when her parents shifted their focus to me. “And, who are you?” her dad asked. “This is Scott McLean,” Wendy interjected. “We’ve been friends since May.” “Oh,” Her dad said, extending his hand. I accepted, and shook it. “I’m Alan, Wendy’s father of course. This is her mom, Eleanor.” “Good to meet both of you,” I said. “How did the two of you meet?” Eleanor asked. I hesitated, as I tried to think of the best way to explain how we happened to become friends. “We ran into each other at Meijer,” I said, hoping that would be enough to satisfy them. “Scott is being modest,” Wendy added. As soon as her parents weren’t looking, I began making the “cut it out” gesture in front of my throat, but it was completely in vain. “There was this guy who refused to wear a mask while he was returning bottles inside the bottle return area. I asked him to either leave or put on a mask, and he refused. Scott stood up for me.” I held my breath as I waited for her to reveal the most embarrassing part of this story. “Or, at least, he tried to. The asshole turned around and punched him in the stomach.” I winced from the memory of that evening. Her mom muttered “oh dear.” “I offered to buy him dinner as a thank you, and we’ve gone on a few more dates since then,” Wendy shared. I made a double take when I heard her reference our nights together as “dates.” I thought we were just hanging out. “Are you a student at Alma College?” Alan asked, snapping me back to the conversation. “No, Central Michigan.” I answered. “Oh, I see. What are you studying?” “I’m undecided right now, but I’m considering Communications as a major.” “He’s the co-owner of a tech support business,” Wendy said, with a wry smile. “Called ‘Nerd Corps.’” “That’s certainly . . . different.” Her dad said. We had drifted out to the hospital’s main lobby, and it was beginning to look like we were about to part ways. “Do you need a ride back home?” Her mom asked. “No, I asked Scott to drive me home. It would be too far out of your way.” It didn’t seem to bother Alan, but her mom seemed a little dejected when she answered, “Oh.” “Just drive safely, and make sure you call us when you get home,” Alan told her. He looked at me. “Good to meet you Scott.” “Thanks, likewise,” I said. We exited the hospital as a group, but her parents split off to find their vehicle. I guided Wendy towards the center of the parking lot where I had parked my blue Cobalt. “Thanks for giving me a ride home,” Wendy said. “I didn’t know who else to call.” “What happened to the friend you rode down with?” I asked. “Stacy texted me while I was in a holding cell. I told her she could go back home. There wasn’t anything she could do to help me, and I knew I was going to be there for a while.” I paused before I climbed into the car. “It all sounds so scary,” I said. “I can’t imagine what that was like.” “Not anything I”d want to do again,” she said. I fastened my seatbelt and started the car, and removed the mask I had been wearing. Wendy had already removed hers. “Are you hungry?” “Starving,” Wendy said. “I’ll buy you lunch.” “No, that’s okay.” “No, seriously...it can be my thank you for driving me home.” “You don’t need to do anything,” I said, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Wendy told me more about her experiences during our drive north. Things between the protesters and police had gotten a little heated, but it never seemed to escalate very much. The two had actually been heading back towards Stacy’s car when a van had pulled up. Four armed men dressed in army uniforms poured out of the van, grabbed Wendy and then drove away. She was taken to a city jail, processed, but never really charged for anything at all. They asked her questions and searched her purse, but didn’t find a reason to keep her. As we neared Alma, I brought up her parents for the first time since leaving Lansing. “Your parents seem nice,” I said. “Yeah, well, with the way they treat me you’d think I was still twelve.” “I’m sure my parents wouldn’t drive three hours to come see me in the hospital,” I admitted. “And, if they did, it would be to also lecture me on all of the things I’m doing wrong.” “Don’t worry, I’ll hear a comment or two about being arrested the next time I’m home. Probably over Christmas dinner. ‘Uncle Frank, please pass the cranberries and also were you aware that our twenty-year-old daughter is a convict?’” She chuckled. “Seriously, though, I know mom and dad love me, but sometimes they look at me like I’m Peter Pan, or something.” “You’re definitely not Peter Pan,” I said. She turned to me and scowled. “Really? Who do I remind you of?” “Hermione, minus the frizzy hair.” “I was always partial to Ginny,” Wendy said wistfully. “Only with brown instead of ginger hair.” I pulled off of the expressway, and turned left towards Alma. “Does that make me Ron Weasley?” I asked. Wendy was quiet as she thought for a bit. She looked away from me, out her window. When she faced me, I could see that she was blushing. “No, if I was Ginny, you’d have to be Harry Potter.” “And why?” I thought she might say it was because I was too short, or not smart enough.. “Because Ginny and Ronald are brother and sister, silly.” She said, adding quickly, “I hoped we could be more than that.” It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon, and my stomach was growling so loudly that I was pretty sure that Wendy could hear it. As we cruised down Alma’s business section towards Wendy’s apartment, I thought back to our conversation about Harry Potter. I had only invited Wendy to ride with me to the nature preserve because I had such a good time eating dinner with her that day I got punched in the gut. And, almost everybody had gone home for the summer, so I didn’t have very many other people who I could ask. But, my first impressions of her were that she was strong, compassionate, smart, and funny. I started to appreciate these traits of hers even more when we went on our walk, and now during a drive that should have felt stressful she helped me to feel more at ease, just by having her seated next to me in my car. “Do you want to pick up food from Applebee’s and bring it back to my place?” Wendy asked. “Sounds good.” I made a left hand turn into the restaurant’s parking lot and pulled into a parking lot. It looked open, but there was a big sign which announced that they were accepting take out orders only. Not a surprise. Wendy pulled up her Applebee’s app, and we placed an order. It was while we were waiting for our order that Wendy’s cell phone rang. She picked it up to answer it and, while I could only hear her responses and bits of words from the other end, it became clear after a while that she was receiving some bad news. She hung up her phone and clutched it firmly against her chest. I waited for her to say something, but she remained silent. Tears dribbled down her cheek. “What’s wrong?” I asked. She looked at me. “That was a nurse at Sparrow hospital. One of the protesters that were detained last night was diagnosed this morning with COVID19. She said I need to quarantine myself for fourteen days, and watch for any symptoms of COVID.” “Oh, I’m sure it’s just a precaution,” I said. “Everybody was probably wearing masks, so there’s a chance you didn’t catch it.” “Yes, but I was with my mom and dad, and I’ve been spending time with you.” “Your mom and dad wore masks,” I pointed out. She looked up at me with wide eyes, then glanced at the mask I had taken off before we left Lansing. “If I have to go into quarantine, it’s not a big deal,” I pointed out. “I work from home anyways.” “That’s the other thing,” Wendy said.”I can’t quarantine inside my apartment, because I’d be contaminating the apartment.” I thought for a bit. It seemed pretty obvious that the best solution was for her to stay with me, so we could quarantine together. Besides, there was no way that I would let her quarantine alone. I was about to tell her when a notification popped up on her phone saying that our food was ready. “Listen,” I said. “How about if we swing by your place to pick up some of your things, and you could stay with me for the couple of weeks?” “No, Scott, I couldn’t--” “It makes total sense, Wendy,” I insisted. “We’ve both been exposed, and we can ride this out together. It keeps your roommate safe, and if anything happens we can take care of each other.” “Well . . .” “Please,” I said. “Think about it until I get back with the food.” When I returned with our order, Wendy told me that she thought my idea was a good one. “If it becomes too much of a bother, I could always move back in with my parents for the remaining days,” she said. “We can hold on to that as an option, but I doubt it’ll come to that,” I said, then smiled. We stopped by Wendy’s apartment. She texted her roommate, Carolyn, with a list of the things that she would need, and then I went inside to help pack and then carry everything out to the car. Wendy stayed in the car to avoid contaminating anybody. I drove the rest of the way to my apartment in Shepherd, and then we ate our dinner. I gave Wendy a quick tour of the one bathroom, two bedroom apartment before I carried her things inside. Wendy called her parents from the kitchen to let them know that she had made it home safely. She didn’t mention anything about being in quarantine, or temporarily moving in with me. When I asked her about it, she shrugged it off. “There’s no need for them to worry if I don’t get sick,” she said. “And, the rest is none of their business.” Next, she called her manager at Meijer to let them know. They asked a lot of questions, but seemed appreciative of the head’s up. Always the gentleman, I offered to sleep on the couch so that she could have the bed, but she insisted on taking the couch instead. I knew that it wasn’t going to be worth my trouble to change her mind. The first four days were pretty uneventful. Even when I was in my office working, I was comforted by the idea that she was somewhere in the apartment with me. Then, on the fifth day she developed a persistent cough, and definitely had less energy. She was eating less, and complained once or twice that the spaghetti I made tasted weird. She was sleeping a lot, and on Sunday she developed breathing problems. I called 911, and then I called her parents after she had been admitted to the hospital in Alma. Tears running down my cheek, I listened to doctors as they told Wendy that she had tested positive for COVID19. I stayed at the hospital until her parents arrived before I headed backt o my apartment. It occurred to me that I was still under quarantine for another six days, only now I’d be totally by myself. I thought a lot about that day when we met. I did want to support Wendy, but only because that guy was a douchebag, and I really just wanted to take back my empty bottles so I could go back home. It was only a coincidence that Wendy was also kind and attractive, or at least that was what I had repeated to myself for days after that happened. Thinking about Wendy laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, I realized that I might have discovered too late that our friendship was the beginning of something that could be really special and long lasting.


(IP) The Door to Doom  The windows of the ancient, crumbling castles were aglow with light and life, and it brought the boy to a halt. All these years, he’d been told that the stories he was so fond of chasing were just that: pretty stories told to children at bedtime. But he was standing right here, the proof right before his eyes.  The buildings felt haunted to the explorer, and for a moment, just one, he was rooted to the spot, unsure on whether or not to go in. But he could almost hear his ancestors’ voices on the wind, urging him on. After all, he hadn’t come all this way just to turn tail and run home. Despite his unease, he went forward, and he held the reins of his mare, making soothing noises. She followed him, nickering nervously.  What secrets hid within these ancient dwellings? It was so odd to see them in real time, instead of illustrations or photographs in books. A cold wind brushed across his face, making his horse’s mane ruffle. It felt like an omen, a portent of what was to come. He raised his head and he could’ve sworn he heard faint music.  Were there people inside? Even now, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He could feel eyes on him, and it made it hard to breathe. He tied his horse’s reins to the remnants of an iron gate, and he reached into the pocket of his tunic, reassuring himself that his weapons were still there.  Despite the fear he felt, his curiosity was that much stronger, even if it meant risking his life.  \*\*  He ducked inside the first entrance he saw, and he bit back a gasp. It appeared that he’d stumbled upon what used to be the castle’s armory, there were weapons still within their sheaths, and somehow, they weren’t rusted or corroded. In fact, they looked freshly sharpened. That creeping feeling of unease reared its ugly head again, and he spun around, certain that there was someone or something behind him. For a moment, his imagination conjured endless possibilities: a restless spirit, a vicious, angry banshee, a winged beast who would rip his heart out of his chest--  But he could hear the music, as well as a soft voice, somehow male and female, ancient and childlike.  “Do you know what you’ve stumbled upon, boy?” The voice asked, its voice booming in the cavernous room. “If you break the seal, it will mean doom for us all!”  “What seal?” The explorer asked, and the voice sighed, stirring his hair with the breeze it created.  “It is a long story, boy. It would take an age for me to tell it all.”  To the explorer, the voice sounded tired, annoyed, but cultured, as if the spirit had been a noble when it was alive.  “But you mustn’t break it, or it would mean doom for not just this old kingdom, but the entire land. You’re lucky it was I who came across you, and not any of my brothers and sisters.”  “But why?”  “Because, you dear, foolish human boy, they would kill you.


Charlotte ate green peppers all day long. Both Joy and Greta stared and openly groaned at her in disgust. There she went again in the cafeteria, treating the joy of the spiciest food in the world like it was an ice cream sundae that had come to life. On days like these, Joy Conwell could literally groan out loud. If she didn't want to flunk AP Calculus, she had to get her sorry ass to the library as fast she should say Taco Tuesday. It was definitely more entertaining than someone whose idea of fun was eating a horrible vegetable. Both of them couldn't wait until they could leave the cafeteria to go to the library. At least it was better than seeing unentertaining students feed their selves. Who even wanted to take Calculus? She had better things to do than study a useless subject that wasn’t worth learning about. The thing about Joy was that she didn’t believe in sucking up to others; it was more fun to tear them down instead. Another wise woman in her orbit was none other than Greta Beth Wilford. Her hacker name was “Indigo” back in the day. Joy went by her own nickname: Vanity. With those two names in sync, both girls created the rock band, Indigo and Vanity. Usually, the two devious comrades were always able to cause havoc and create fear in the incompetent souls of others. There was nothing that could tear these two feisty ladies down. High school would be brought down to ashes, just like the rest of this burning rock. Word around Justice High School was the fact that a small but stern librarian ruled the library with an iron fist. She once made three juniors cry so badly for making noise that they didn’t stay around to attend their senior homecoming. How could anyone justify treating children like this? Joy couldn’t take it any longer. If she couldn’t pass her Calculus course, she and Beth might as well make some noise to enjoy. The Lucy J. Beauvoir High School Library had been found in 1908 by some old French fart named Jacques Beauvoir. Honestly, Greta didn’t know the name of the founder herself. She braced herself for seeing the face of Abigail Harper, who was known around her campus as “The Nagging Hag.” It wasn’t even an exaggeration. Abigail had been born in Tennessee, then she moved to Lansing, Michigan when she was twenty-three years old. Now at twenty-eight years old, she had the face of a forty-five year old woman, overweight, not caring one iota about her physical appearance. Dark circles under her eyes remained permanent with no concealer to get rid of them. Another year, another long agony of entitled preppy adolescents not respecting the library. The sardonic tone that captured Abigail’s disdain for children still remained on her mind as she walked towards the Lucy J. Wells Public Library. While its mahogany doors didn’t lose any of the magic, she was able to make sure that everything would remain in tip top shape. Just because she didn’t have a backbone didn’t mean that the whole entire staff had to struggle in this unappreciated institution. Sadly, she was also aware of Joy and her dictatorial ways. Abigail could even recall that fateful conversation that the two young women had when the school year of 2019 started. She was able to manipulate Abigail into giving her a B instead of a D for Intermediate Art. Abigail caught onto it though. Coincidentally, Joy, the cunning former student from art class thought the advice Joy was giving her became so divine in her mind that she wrote it down in her barely filled scarlet diary on March 24 th , 2019. “You could make a living doing that kind of thing.” I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it, until then. Perhaps that was the day that evil had entered her bones. Maybe it had always been deep inside of her soul. If evil messes up everyone’s perky lives, why not join the side of the villains? No one could save Joy Conwell but herself. Besides, she would be King, or in her case, Queen of the Heap. The clock above the bookcases was about to ring. At 12:30 p.m., Joy and Greta were about to wreak havoc on the library. The first step was so juvenile, yet so worth it. Both of them ran down the different aisles of the books. Greta ended up in the category of Young Adults; Joy was in the category of Sci-Fi Fantasy. Joy shot her fingers up and went one, two, three, and both girls slammed the books down yelling, “Freedom!” Thud! Abigail was aghast. She could expect childish behavior from seven-year-olds, but a couple of teenage girls? That was unacceptable. To think that she thought her former colleague Tom was a man who used to be very immature. What was she saying? He is still immature to this day. Both ladies smirked as she shook her head at herself. “Why can’t the two of you just grow up?” She didn’t bother putting her finger up towards her prune lips. Tom lost 25 bucks at the races. He was an old acquaintance back from Boston University when they were both aspiring English majors. The horseracing tournament was an intense one. Despite being in their early 20s, they had already known the thrill of a horse winning a race. Abigail still had that competitive streak in her as well. Most people would find it perfectly insane that a woman would compare herself to a horse, but she felt elegant when she did. Gambling on the other hand was something that Abigail had never participated in. Thanks to Tom’s insistent whining, he bet her that if he won 25 bucks, he would see her groan in agony as she dealt with entitled teenagers. However, if he lost, he needed to become a stripper at Tonya’s Strip Club on Reagan Boulevard. Even though it felt good to see Tom embarrass himself on stage, that didn’t get her out of being a librarian. Budget cuts were bad enough. So she couldn’t risk her job for that. Another arsenal up her sleeve was the woman in 3B. It was originally an abandoned room that allowed high schoolers to get in all sorts of mischief. When the library was forbidden from rebellious pranks, the woman in 3B could put an end to it all. To make matters worse, Joy and Greta had never gotten in trouble a day in their lives. Joy’s father, Wren Conwell, used to own a lot of stocks in the Wall Street market. When the Wall Street crash of 1987 occurred, he lost most of them, but one was still kicking. The woman in 3B took a long drink of her red wind and said, “He was skating on thin ice--that’s all I can say.” Thin ice? What did that even mean? Thud! She turned around to see a lamp on the ground. Abigail couldn’t handle it anymore. She still couldn’t trust the woman in 3B. Was she a friend or a foe? “Well, Ms. Harper, I can see that we will enjoy making your life a living hell.” She was trying her best to not cry in front of the ladies. The last thing she wanted was her supervisor giving her grief for not giving these girls any consequences. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “If you girls don’t leave this library right now, I’ll go...” Greta slammed her hand on the right side of the wall. “You’ll go where? Back to that godawful Michigan farm where the closest thing you had to luxury was a farmer’s overalls? My friend has a wealthy father than can fire you right on the spot.” Joy Conwell straightened her natural fro out, her makeup immaculate as always. As she walked slowly towards Abigail, her eyes had a snide appearance about them. Her Louboutin heels would always remain spotless as well. She leaned close towards Abigail. “She’s right, Harper. You can’t chase us down. We’re like the demonic girls from Carrie, but a hell of a lot scarier.” Tears finally fell from her face. The redness in her cheeks didn’t help matters either. She always turned red whenever she was overwhelmed by unnecessary conflict. Nighttime had come over. The woman in 3B had never contacted her throughout the day. No one had even known about her incident in the library. No matter how hard she tried, no ounce of authority roared through her. Turning on the television, Abigail planned to wash this horrible day off of her. “We’re coming to you live from Beauvoir High School, where two teenage girls had been reprimanded by a librarian. Twenty-eight year old Abigail Harper has been employed at the local high school library for roughly three years. Despite the fact that she wasn’t an experienced librarian, seventeen-year olds Greta Wilford and Joy Conwell...” Bitchy Conwell, you mean. Abigail exhaled loudly towards herself. Who gets this wound up over a child? How were these girls even able to get onto the news? Her head was completely spinning. She saw the newscaster, Mark Frederick, with a concerned look on his face. “She was so cruel....we just wanted to read books in her library. I even wanted to point out that tear in her dress, but she was already having a hard day, and I didn’t want her to feel even more embarrassed.” Abigail’s eyes were still entranced by the television. Greta hugged her with a compassionate smile, even though all she saw was venom. One thing still confused her though: When did she have a tear in her dress? She went over to her bathroom mirror. Nothing was torn on top, so Abigail decided to look downwards. She walked over towards her bed, and hiked up her skirt. Lo and behold, a single tear of her red dress was scene. It was even a small tear, it was a tear large enough to see her underwear. She freaked out. How long was I out in public like this? Did anyone else see? They must have cut me when they were violating my personal space! Abigail took everything to not scream at the top of her lungs. The girls, the news story they were able to manipulate within their own twisted narrative...it was too much. She screamed in a guttural tone, never wanting to let go of her rage. The final tear in the dress was officially her breaking point. A tear in her favorite dress from her deceased husband, Wilfred Torrington III, was clearly a step too far. . As quickly as the tears came, they stopped. She rose up from the floor, splashed water on her face, and went to her desk. On top of her desk was a ripe apple. The apple was succulent enough to taste. It wasn't much of a task, but it would maintain Abigail's sanity against her vengeance against the two spoiled brats who dared to damage her family name. Afterwards, she was able to put on some red lipstick from Revlon in front of the bathroom mirror to feel confident again. These girls wanted war? Fine. They got a bloody battle ahead of them. Nothing would tear Abigail Harper's spirit ever again.


The Warrior fell to his knees, holding a grimy hand to the ragged tear in his abdomen. His breathing was heavy and labored. The saracen's blade had slashed clean through the metal links of his chain mail armor, leaving a bloody gash. The Warrior slowly sat himself down, dripping spots of red on the earth, which mingled with the dust and the blood of his fallen brothers. He leaned his head back against a large boulder and stared up at the ashen sky. The pain in his belly giving way to a dull drone of unfeeling, he let the sounds of the raging battle melt away. Below him, in the valley, hordes of saracen charged to meet the army of crusaders. The rumbling of feet, the clash of swords, the anguished cries of the dying, all drained away from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask.As his life left him, so did all his resolve and conviction, leaving only a want of sleep.The day was warm and overcast, and the Warrior closed his eyes. The Warrior awoke on a soft, silken cushion. A lantern swung to and fro on a rafter overhead. He was in a carriage. It was dark outside, and the only sound was the clip-clopping of four pairs of horseshoes pulling the carriage into the night. A centurion sat on a cushion opposite him, his red-plumed helmet in his lap.The centurion spoke, in Latin. It took a while for the Warrior to translate. "Is it over yet?"The Warrior shook his head. "Not yet."The centurion accepted this, nodding solemnly. The Warrior's wounds started to ache, and he went back to sleep. The Warrior clawed his way up the wall of the trench, his throat gagging on the noxious green cloud that enveloped the ground, filling his nostrils. Dimly, distantly, through the forest of pain, he recalled being told that the poisonous German gas was heavier than air. The Warrior desperately climbed over the top, forcing himself to stand and take huge gulps of air, but the cloud was too thick. The top of his steel helmet barely broke the top of the cloud, and he collapsed, his lungs full of chlorine. His oxygen-starved mind numbed, the sounds of battle draining away. The blasts of gunfire faded from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask.Suddenly a carriage appeared out of the gloom. A crusader, in chain mail armor, stepped out and helped him to his feet.The crusader spoke something in a forgotten tongue, yet the Warrior understood. "Is it over yet?"The Warrior shook his head. "Not yet."The crusader climbed into the carriage, and the Warrior followed. The Warrior skidded across the sandy desert ground, dragged by the arms by his fellow soldiers as plumes of dust sprouted from the earth. He heard the creak of a door, followed by frantic shouting in that foreign language he'd been hearing for the past month. One of his squadmates propped him up against a wall, giving him water from a rusty canteen while the others called for a medic. A soldier with a red cross on his sleeve hurried over. He dressed the Warrior's wound, assuring him everything was going to be alright. At that moment the back wall of the house exploded, taking the upper stories with it. Dry dust rained down from the ceiling, spraying the Warrior's raw flesh with dirt. Through the clearing dust, the white trail of a rocket darted through the gaping hole in the house. It hit the ground, the high explosive sending a shockwave through the bodies huddled in the room. The Warrior was thrown to the floor, shrapnel peppering his battered body. Already his squadmates began firing back, the clatter of their weapons blending in with the rest of the white noise. The Warrior's forehead was pressed to the floor, its cracked concrete surface blurred and out of focus. Blood leaked from his multiple hits, and with the medic dead, there was no way to save him. His hands felt the warm earth as he let the sounds of battle fade away. The pop of a grenade launcher, and the earth-shaking boom that followed, all trickled away from his mind like the dregs of wine from an emptied flask. There was the clip-clop of hooves and the creaking of wheels. The door opened, and a voice beckoned him outside. Outside was a carriage, and standing by it was a rifleman, his uniform a hundred years out of date. On shaky legs, the Warrior stood, and the rifleman helped him into the carriage, where a centurion and a crusader waited. The rifleman closed the door behind him and the carriage started to move."So," he said. "Is it over yet?"All eyes in the carriage were on the Warrior.The Warrior saw the feeling in their eyes.Weariness, sadness even, with just a lingering glimmer of hope. He knew that they had all asked the same question, and received the same answer every time. He didn't want to disappoint them, yet - he had to tell them the truth. "No," the Warrior said, shaking his head. "Not yet." And the carriage continued on.


I had barely a chance to enter my chamber before my peace was befouled by his presence. He stood before me, silent, eyeing my person as a stray, starved to a quiet, brooding lust for my essence. I was piturbed, to say the least. For what reason does this creature have to disrupt my own solitude for its own selfish desire of my soul. " Be mindful demon", I said to him. " Be not so careless in encroahing my dwellings". Addressing him directly brought forth no response. I was dreadfully unaroused by his intrusion as wished only for a restful bout of sleep. I abruptly stepped around him, undoing my trousers and removing my shoes in process. Still as a breathless sigh, he turned himself about to maintain a strong gaze enamoured with the prospect of my soul. I unfastoned my tie and removed my shirt, donned my evening blouse and, once more, faced this rude abomination seeking to unnerve my character. " You can stand there if you like", the annoyance in my voice was was masked with an apathetic tone. " Be forewarned, though. Any attempt to molest my wellbeing, be it through an attempt to possess or infiltrate my dreams, will be taken as an affront to my patience and courtesy. I will not stand for it in the least and you will suffer the consequence if you do". A light faded from his eyes and no longer seemed envisioned with the prospect of comsuming my breath. He slacked his form and began to fade away. I granted him one last nod in his departure," I bid you goodnight , sir", and snuffed my lamp.


Last light. It's like first light for the sailors of old, except it is the final hour of sunlight before the darkness of night swallows the sun for the second half of the day. Usually, Tholan would be busy at this time with the cruxes, setting up new boundaries. This night, however, was different. It was his turn to patrol with Lindia, and both would be checking upon the older cruxes near the trees about five miles out from their community. This night, there was going to be a full moon. This meant one thing: the Hunters would be coming. Tholan couldn't help but remember the lesson from a few days ago, a lesson repeated once a month, yet required out of reasons of security: "The Hunters like to push into the forests," stated Garrold the Gray, the community's leader. "They also have a knack of coming towards, and even force-entering, homes that are in the woods that they mistook as abandoned. Hence, the cruxes." Here, he indicated to the large pieces of wood, fixed together into x-shapes with twine. "These are set up in certain areas as a means to ward off the Hunters, especially if they are of a dark-red color. For some reason, the Hunters turn away from such a colored designed creation, almost as if afraid of going beyond in areas where these things lie. Perhaps it's something from their history, or maybe it is like the colors of poisonous animals that warn any to not attack them. Either way or not, we must be sure that our community remains hidden even with the use of these cruxes, to be placed as far from our community as possible, while keeping any useful resources within the boundaries. Children are not to go beyond these, I cannot stress that enough!" "Now, are there any questions?" It just happened to be, that day, that a bunch of children actually showed their hands. Garrold chose one of those hands. "Yes...uh, Cassie, right?" Cassie, just eight years of age, smiled and stepped forward. "So, sir-Mister Garrold, sir, uh...is it true that Hunters can kill with a sound?" Garrold shook his head. "No, child. That is a fabrication that children spread to each other. No, Hunters don't kill with a sound, the sound is just accompanied by their ability to kill from a distance. Next!" Another child was picked at the time, this one named Harlon. He asked, "Garrold, sir, are the cruxes magical?" Garrold, again, smiled. "In a way, yes. There's a special and spiritual ritual that we do, upon and around the cruxes, but you need not worry about how it is done. You're too young; when you become a young man, we'll teach you everything you will need to know in making, placing, and blessing the cruxes." Tholan remembered that he was the last person picked with a question on his mind. "Why do the Hunters hunt us?" When that question was asked, Garrold went silent for a minute, pointing his nose to the ground as if the scent of the Earth would give him an answer if he inhaled deep enough. The smile was gone; in its place, a growing grimace formed on the face of the community's leader. "Heh, why indeed?" He then looked directly into Tholan's eyes, his grimace now acting out a fake smile for the sake of sincerity, to help relax the audience as they became more invested in the words of Garrold. "The list goes on and varies, from mistakes of the past to myths that continue to haunt dreams and make paranoia the daily drug ingested by the Hunters. Many of them blame our people for unprovoked attacks on their people, including their children. Some view our community as diseased, which actually works in our favor to live out here and carve out our own existence. There are even a few that believe that, in killing us and even eating us, they'll gain great strength and become far greater Hunters than before. Regardless," he paused, and waved his hand to the crowd, "the greatest influence of the Hunters is fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. Fear of the idea of a perceived threat near their territories, maybe even replacing them." Garrold waved his hand in Tholan's direction. "Don't worry about it, kid. You don't bother them, they won't bother you." Tholan nodded, the memory of that day dissipating in the background of his focus. He was near a river, one that the community utilized for fresh ingesting as well as bathing. This was a new spot, so he had to set up his last crux here. Later, he figured that he would go hunt deer, maybe bring a buck back. He wondered about bringing Lindia with him when a strange feeling suddenly trickled upon his spine like a cold sweat running up to his skull. He looked around, wondering if anyone was watching him. No one. No animals, even. Tholan shrugged, and set up the crosspiece of wood. Right now, it was just the plain light-brown wood, two large pieces held together by a carefully tied knot of rope, wrapped tight enough that neither pieces could slide out even if made wet. As if being reminded, Tholan checked his pack from which the cruxes were strapped; water, brush, rubbing alcohol, lantern, matches, dry cloth, bandages, and a Bowie knife (an heirloom of his grandparents). He pulled out all the items except the lantern, and then he got to work. He picked a spot near the river, one that was devoid of a lot of plants and was mostly flat. Using the knife, Tholan dug makeshift post holes and set the crux inside, setting it up as a standing X. The knife was then used to create a circle around the crux, carving the shape into the ground. From four points of the circle, he created straight lines directly to the post holes. He then looked to the sky; the full moon was coming. He quickly took off his clothes and crouched in front of the crux, waiting. He looked around, just to make sure of his solitude, and then bent his head forward with his teeth set upon his raised palms. The pale moon shown down from the cover of clouds, waiting for the sun's departure over the horizon. Tholan waited, ignoring any sights and sounds, keeping his eyes closed and his palms set to his teeth. He counted the minutes, enduring the night's cold air amongst other things. Finally, it was time. He bit into his palms; the blood trickled into his hands and upon the wet dirt. He rubbed the blood upon the crux, the light-brown now showing as dark-red in the moonlight. Finally, he carefully grabbed the rubbing alcohol, pouring it in the circle carved upon the ground. The liquid ran around the carving, making its way to the four points that fell towards the post holes. Now came the hard part; the sealing, followed by the blessing. Tediously, he picked up a match and, after a couple scratches on the sandpaper edge of the matchbox, took the now lit matchstick and touched it to the circle. Immediately, the alcohol caught fire, with the post holes catching. The bloody wooden construct also went up, slowly from the bottom and moving to the top. Tholan grabbed the dry cloth and suffocated the crux, putting out the fire and leaving the red design within the dying light of the circle. Before the moon was hidden again, he knelt down and held his cut hands to the crux, uttering a prayer to his community's patron deity. Once it was done, he erased the circle and lines, pushing more dirt into the post holes to hold the sign. He had to relieve himself and did so a few feet away from his work. This would drive away wolves in the area, while the crux would (hopefully), drive off the Hunters. The moon was covered, but he was still naked. He stuffed his clothes in the pack with all the other supplies. Time for some food, he thought. He walked to the direction of his home... The uneasy feeling came back, this time accompanied by his hair standing up. He froze for a moment, then took his pack and pulled out the lantern. He wouldn't have difficulty with the matches this time, and the lantern shown brightly. In an instant, the light reflected off of two reflective surfaces in the dark. Tholan turned instantly, but the surfaces were gone. Back and forth, the lantern showed the flora, but no fauna. No other animals. Not even insects. Tholan knew something wasn't right, and it was close. He ran. Into the woods, staying within sight of the river, he moved quickly through the brush and past the trees, giving an occasional check over his shoulders. Sure enough, shadowy figures were caught in his glimpses, moving from spot to spot, keeping pace with him. Their eyes seemed to glow in the dark, following him as fast as he was running. Finally, he reached a clearing. He slowed and stopped; any more in his current direction, and he would be endangering his home. This must be where he stands, even if it was his last. Besides, the moon returned. Quickly, he blew out the lantern before dropping it. The shadowy figures slowed down and started approaching him with caution, four in total and all masked. Two held bows, one approached with a woodcutter's axe, and one stayed behind the others, with a rifle in hand. They paused as Tholan composed himself, towering over them and baring his teeth and nails. He was facing the Hunters, and they were going to kill him. The bows fired their shots. Tholan dodged one, while another nicked his shoulder. Steel, he thought. It was a prelude of what would come. Damned Hunters, with their hubris in mocking him and his people! As the bows were being reloaded, he charged, only to be met by the Hunter with the axe. He definitely saw the silver-lined edges, and moved out of the way of the swing. In turn, he swiped the first bowman, hitting him in the throat. A gurgle was made in place of a scream, and the bowman fell with a hand on his neck. The second bowman aimed his bow, and Tholan dodged yet another arrow (this one smelling strongly of silver). The axe-man turned and swung his axe again, nearly hitting Tholan's nose. Tholan, in turn, shifted from the aim of the rifleman, trying to move one assailant between him and the other. A shot rang out, with the round clipping his left ear. It stung, but he would manage against the wound. The axeman suddenly charged and shoved the shaft into his chest, almost pushing him down. He pressed his feet down, digging deep into the earth. For a moment, the momentum was against him as the axe-man shoved with all his might. Tholan dug deeper, and halted the assailant. Then, he pushed back, bringing the attacker back. He stared deep into the reflective surfaces behind the mask, eyes of fear and determination, and he growled. The axe-man growled back, and tried to yank his weapon back. Tholan allowed him, clearing an opening to the chest. His nails punched deep into the heart of the axe-man, who howled almost as good as Tholan could. The axe swung back, catching Tholan's left shoulder. The rifleman was now rushing Tholan, his rifle rising to his shoulder. Tholan saw him coming, but was limited in his movements. What could he do? The rifleman roared, his finger moved to the trigger... A blur of brown knocked him over, his next bullet missing by a mile. A thrashing came from the feminine form on top of the rifleman, slashing to and fro. Near death, he grabbed a knife from his side and slashed at her chest. Yelping, she stabbed her nails into his eye socket, killing him instantly. Tholan pulled his own nails out of the axe-man's chest, and made his way to the brown-furred individual. She stood up as well, and growled until he was close enough. She looked upon him, and her facade changed. Rushing over, she hugged him, sniffing and licking him all over. He, in turn, licked her ears. Lindia was wounded, but alive. They both were. But they had to leave. Tholan pointed, and Lindia nodded. They quickly moved into the darkness; the forest would claim this fresh red sacrifice.


It was Halloween, and everyone was excited in Mayontown. The adults would take their kids to each house hoping for the best for each of the child so they aren’t sad that their child came home crying because they got suckers instead of chocolate. No one wanted their child to come home with less than any other child because they would have to hear it at the annual Mayontown Halloween party every year and everyone knows that the Stevenson family gets their children the most candy. Everyone thinks that they put extra in there, but no one can really tell. That was until they tried this year. “Okay everyone ready?” The Stevenson’s mom said to the group “We are.” said the Smith’s mom “We are.” said the Mason’s mom “We are.” said the Orlando’s mom “Wait where’s the Clover’s family?” said the Smith’s mom “Oh, wait I see their van coming now, never mind.” “Always late to the show.” said the Stevenson’s mom “Hush, Lisa.” said Sandra (the Mason’s Mom) “Well, can you blame me?” Lisa asked “You’ve been late before also to things and we haven’t said anything?” Sandra replied “Oh, whatever I’m sure you said a thing or two behind my back now let’s all hush and have some fun.” Lisa responded as Rhonda Clover and her family came walking up “Hey Rhonda how you doing?” Sandra said “Oh, you know the kids want to wear this and that so they can get their candy. This one lost that so had to go find it and then get it placed right and I told them if they don’t get going then they won’t even get candy so that go them motivated and here we are.” Rhonda replied “I’m glad I only have two.” Sandra replied They all giggled and said they better get going before everything is over before they get started. “Now before we get started remember the rules. No putting extra in the bags. No going back to the same houses after a while. Once, you have went to all the houses you feel you can you come back here and wait for the rest of us to get back here.” Lisa said “Yeah Lisa, no putting candy in the bags. We know that’s how you been winning every year. We’ve been honest and there’s no way your kids can have double what we have.” Wanda the Orlando’s mom said “Oh, sure whatever Wanda look in my vehicle right now and see if you see any extra candy in there. Go ahead all of you.” Lisa said As all the women finally gave in and looked in his van, they gave in that she didn’t have any candy in her van, but somehow, she has some hiding somewhere. The women didn’t say anything, but they knew something was up when her kids' bags were always twice as big as their kids and everyone went to the same houses at least they thought. You would never think these women could be so jealous over something so jealous, but these women's kids meant everything to them that competition is part of the jealousy issue. Each of the families headed in a direction where they thought they could get the most candy for their kids. Sandra and Rhonda headed to the houses on the left while Wanda and Rachel headed to the houses on the right. Lisa said that she was going further down to the end of the road and coming back this way. That way when we go to the end of the road she will be at the beginning of the road. The kids scrambled like crazy to get the best candy possible. They ran from one house to another as fast as possible trying to be the first one there hoping if they were there first, they would get the best candy. Wanda and Rachel got back to the beginning of the road first and then it was Lisa believe it or not, I guess, she wanted to make sure that we didn’t blame her for cheating again with the candy and then Rhonda and Sandra came following in a few minutes later. Once every one was at their vehicles they got to their vans and agreed to meet at the town hall to weigh their bags. They warned their kids that they better not munch on any candy or it could be a chance of not winning. The families met at the town hall and weighed the candy to see who the big winner is for this year. All the other families are hoping that it isn’t the Stevenson’s like every year. Each family went up one at a time. The announcer called each family up to the stage. The announcer said, “First, the returning champion for three years in a row the Stevenson’s family that has two children with 20 lbs. 5oz.” “Next is the Mason’s family that also had two children and has, oh, 23lbs. 2 oz. “the announcer gasped, “Now just wait there are three more families.” “The third family is the Clover’s family now this family has four children so watch out! The total is, wow, only 18lbs 5oz. Well, they are small children, but still give them a round of applause. Great try, kids!” the announcer said “The fourth family is the Orlando’s family they have three kids in the family so they can fight for this too. They have 21lbs. 7oz. Not bad at all so close to being in the lead.” the announcer said “Well, we have one last family, but either way we will have a new winner it will be either the Mason’s family or the Smith’s family that’s up next. The Smith’s family has two kids and they are not too small so this should be a close call. Okay, is it all on there? Alright, here goes nothing the total is 25lbs. 8oz. The Smith’s family wins the Halloween candy collection trophy for the year!!” the announcer said We all clapped, but Mrs. Stevenson was not happy at all! Her face could rip you in half! Everyone was congratulating the Smith’s family flipping out the they actually beat the other family. They were saying how they would have to work twice as hard next year. The moms took their kids to the house to get their costumes off and get to bed for the night because now it was the parents party time. After all the kids were in bed at each house all the parents met at the town hall for the adult version of the Halloween party. The men were in the left corner smoking their cigars and drinking their whiskey and brandy while talking about football and the current scores of the super bowl with what team was sure to win. The ladies lingered over in the right corner drinking their vodka and tequila complementing Mrs. Smith getting the trophy this year. All they heard over the complementing was Mrs. Stevenson complaining that they needed to check Mrs. Smith’s vehicle for bags of empty candy since they accused her all these years. “Okay, Lisa I apologize for blaming you for cheating. I don’t know how you did it all these years, but you and your kids must have done some hard work because I made mine. We went to every house on the block and they told them they were in a contest and got a couple more pieces not much. Is that how you did it?” Rachel asked “We did work our butts off you’re right. I’m not sure if they said they were in a contest or not, but we all worked our butts off so congratulations Rachel, I will beat you next year!” Lisa replied “Well, Lisa, I look forward to it, but are you forgetting we have some other families here that might beat the both of us?” Rachel asked As everyone laughed at the statement Lisa knew that she would be the winner no matter what!! Everyone had their fun, said their goodbyes and went their way home. Lisa couldn’t stand being a loser !! She hated losing!!! All the way home she thought about that trophy!!! As Lisa turned left, she saw Rachel’s house. She wanted that trophy so bad. She should have been the star at the party not Rachel. Rachel hasn’t been in the group long enough to win, she thought. All she had to do was crawl in one of the living room windows, grab the trophy, and get out before anyone noticed. Lisa quietly pulled up to the house and sneaked up to the house. She looked in the window to make sure no one was up and she saw the trophy sitting on the living room table. Easier than she thought, now all she has to do is open this window, grab it, and go. Lisa lifted up the window and climbed inside she stopped because she thought she heard something. Lisa continued on because nothing seemed to happen. There she was holding the trophy and reveling in the moment when out of nowhere Mrs. Smith’s husband came running down the stairs with a gun. Before she could say anything as she turned around, he shot her right in the chest and she fell. Bill, Mrs. Smith’s husband ran down to see who broke into the house. He turned on the light and to his surprise it was one of his wife’s friends. He sat there in disbelief as Mrs. Smith came running down wondering what was going on. As Mrs. Smith came running down, she got halfway down the stairs and started screaming because she saw what had happened. “Bill what did you do?” Rachel said “I heard someone breaking in and when I saw them, I just shot before I did anything else. I didn’t know who it was.” Bill replied When Rachel came all the way down the stairs Bill was calling the cops and Rachel looked over and couldn’t believe what she saw Lisa had died because she wanted that stupid trophy. If she knew she wanted it that bad she would have just given it to her she didn’t have to die for it. I can’t believe what greed can make you do sometimes even die for it! WOW!!