Ethan was not a believer in the paranormal, nor was he a religious or spiritual man in any sense, yet there he was, sitting in the parking lot of Sister Sasha the Clairvoyant’s office. Penny turned to him from the passenger seat. “I know you’re skeptical, but thanks for doing this with me. I promise Sasha’s the real deal. I’ve been to her so many times and I always feel a sort of high when I leave.” Ethan smiled. “‘Skeptical’ is definitely a good word for it,” he said. “But hey, I’m always open to new experiences. Besides, this is easily one of the coolest date ideas anyone’s ever pitched me.” “If you’re not impressed after this, you get to pick our next 10 dates,” Penny returned playfully. “That is, if you still want to see me after this. My interest in this sort of thing has turned off many a suitor over the years.” “I can’t imagine why,” Ethan responded, just as playfully. This was only the couple’s second date; the first had been a standard affair of dinner and a movie which ended pleasantly enough with a brief kiss and a mutual promise to schedule another. They were still only getting to know each other, but Ethan already saw a great deal of potential in Penny, and he could only hope that she saw the same in him. Truth be told, her interest in the mystical did not deter him; if anything, it intrigued him. He had never been with someone quite like her. *Maybe I could use a little mysticism*, he thought. “Well, here goes nothing,” Ethan said with a sigh as he turned off the car’s ignition. They had arrived just in time for their scheduled appointment -- a “spiritual reading.” Penny clutched his hand and squeezed as they walked toward the office, making her excitement known. The building’s exterior was fairly unassuming -- without the colorful sign bearing Sister Sasha’s name, it could just as easily have been an accountant’s office. Once they stepped inside, though, there was no mistaking what kind of ambience Sister Sasha was trying to establish. The walls were painted cobalt blue and lined with psychedelic tapestries, and the floors were decorated with rugs sporting similar patterns. “Don’t let the décor deter you,” Penny whispered. “She just does this to meet people’s expectations of what a clairvoyant’s office *should* look like.” Ethan chuckled. “Well, she’s done that quite well.” They approached the front desk, where an aged, tiny woman sat behind a computer monitor that looked nearly as old as she was. “Hey there, Mary Anne,” Penny said in a friendly tone. “Oh, Penny! How have you been, darling?” It was clear to Ethan that Penny was not exaggerating how frequently she had visited Sister Sasha. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence again, love.” “Hangin’ in there,” Penny replied cheerfully. “Oh, and I see you’ve brought a fresh face along with you.” The old woman squinted at her monitor. “Let’s see here... Ethan, is it? Well, sonny, I sure hope you find what you’re looking for today.” Ethan was not sure what he was looking for. “Ha, thanks. Me too.” “And it looks like you two got here just on time. Sister Sasha will see you whenever you’re ready.” She smiled and gestured toward a curtain of beads to her left which served as a doorway into a dimly lit room. “Awesome. Thanks, Mary Anne!” Penny took Ethan by the hand and led him through the curtain, into the room where their souls would be inspected. If the waiting room had been a bit gaudy, Sister Sasha’s office was extravagantly so. Ethan glanced about the area and found that the full force of the cobalt blue motif was exerted here. Everywhere he looked -- the rugs, the tapestries, the walls -- there was blue. The low light of the room did serve to give the color a mystical aura, he thought. Shelves lined the walls, although not all were filled with books. Many of them housed crystals and stones of all colors, shapes and sizes. His limited knowledge of geology made it impossible to discern if they were authentic, though. One shelf was filled with small skulls; perhaps they were birds, or rodents. There were no windows, most likely because natural light would pollute the carefully curated ambience. At the center of the room was a large table, behind which Sister Sasha reclined on a black leather chair. “So, this is where the magic happens,” Ethan mumbled awkwardly. “You’ve got that right, my dear,” Sister Sasha said with a grin. She was a slender, tall woman well into the latter half of her life, and she spoke with a deep, raspy voice. “And Penny, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” She extended her hand, and Penny took it in her own and kissed it. Ethan hoped he would not have to do the same. Thankfully, she did not extend a hand toward him once Penny was finished; she merely gestured toward the two seats at the opposite side of the table. “Please sit down, you two. I’m sure we have much to discuss.” And so they sat, and there was a brief silence as Sister Sasha studied each of them in turn. Ethan smiled timidly, unsure if he was permitted to speak. He had no idea what she was looking for. Eventually, Sister Sasha unfolded her hands and clapped loudly. “Okay, then. Shall we begin?” The first two sections of their reading went about as Ethan had expected they would. First, the clairvoyant asked broad questions about their lives, and offered even broader insights into their desires and their troubles. *Why yes, I do have apprehensions about my career. Oh, and yes, I am a little scared of growing old. How could you possibly have guessed?* He recognized that he was being cynical, but he was admittedly having fun. Next came the tarot card readings; these yielded similarly predictable results. Ethan was quite pleased that both he and Penny had chosen to delve into the “Lovers” card, however, as Sister Sasha presented them both with a rather optimistic forecast. “You’ve both recently embarked on a journey that will lead you to true love, unconditional and unrelenting,” the clairvoyant said. Ethan and Penny turned to each other and smiled then, and Penny blew him a kiss. *Let’s hope she actually is the real deal*, Ethan thought. Finally, it came time for the palm readings, perhaps the aspect of the consultation Ethan was most skeptical of. Penny went first, and they learned that she had been a seamstress in a past life, and that she was carrying a deep regret with her everywhere she went as a result of a mistake she made many years ago. To Ethan’s surprise, Penny said she hit the nail on the head with that observation. He had no idea what that mistake might have been, but he was sure he would find out in time, and if not, so be it -- besides, it was likely none of his business. When it was time for Ethan to offer up the secrets of his palm, he extended his hand over the table and Sister Sasha grasped it in hers. She studied the lines for a moment, and then a moment longer. It seemed that she was having much more difficulty with him than she had with Penny. As she studied, she began to nod, as if someone were whispering in her ear. Ethan looked at Penny, and she shrugged, as if to say, “I have no clue what she’s doing.” The room was dead silent. The clairvoyant eventually raised her head, but she did not look at Ethan; she seemed to be staring at something just behind him, over his shoulder. She was still nodding every so often, and after a while, a smile crept across her face. Confused, Ethan and Penny turned to see what she was looking at, but as far as they could tell, nothing in the room had changed. This carried on for three long minutes, but the strange silence made it feel like 30. Finally, when Sister Sasha had heard or seen what she needed to hear or see, her gaze returned to Ethan. He was sure he could see hints of tears welling in her eyes, as if she had stumbled upon something incredibly moving. *She’s either an amazing actress or she really did just experience something spectacular*, he thought. “African violets,” Sister Sasha whispered. “If you remember nothing else about this visit, remember African violets.” Ethan did not have the faintest idea what that meant. “Erm... Is that some sort of flower?” Sister Sasha smiled. “Yes, my dear.” His hand, now uncomfortably sweaty, was still clutched within the clairvoyant’s. “Sorry, but what am I supposed to do with that? Am I meant to get African violets *for* someone?” Sister Sasha nodded, and she once again lifted her head to peer over his shoulder. “For *her*.” Ethan suddenly felt chills rush through his body. For a brief moment, he thought he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder. Startled, he swung his head around to see who was behind him, but there was no one else in the room. He turned back to face Sister Sasha, and he was sure his confusion was plain to see. “Pardon my French, but what the fuck just happened?” The clairvoyant chuckled and released his hand before reclining back into her chair with a sigh. “It looks like we’re just about out of time, lovebirds. I do hope you’ve found this as impactful as I have.” Ethan turned to Penny with a look intended to convey his complete confusion. She smiled wide, as if this was exactly what she had hoped would occur. Penny stood and shook Sister Sasha’s hand. “I know I have,” she said with pure delight. “I’ll be back before you know it!” Ethan, still on edge and struggling to find words to express how he felt, followed suit. Penny took Ethan by the hand, leading him out of Sister Sasha’s chamber and back to the front desk, where she paid for their visit and exchanged pleasantries with Mary Anne. Ethan was mostly quiet, still attempting to make sense of the bizarre advice and the phantom hand. Only once they returned to the car, back in the world of the living, did he allow himself to speak freely. “Did you see anyone else in the room with us at any point? Mary Anne, maybe?” Penny smiled. “No... Why?” “I swear that I felt a hand on my shoulder, right after she said the thing about the flowers.” At that, Penny laughed. “I told you she was the real deal.” “Oh, come on. I’m not making this up. There must have been someone else...” “Well, stranger things have happened.” Ethan let out a long sigh. He refused to believe that he had been touched by a spirit, but he also knew he was unlikely to get any concrete answers from Penny. “Stranger things really haven’t happened to me, but if you say so.” “The mystery is part of the fun! Be honest, you liked it.” “I mean, if being thoroughly creeped out qualifies as enjoyment, then yeah, you could say that. Were you not freaked out by that bit at the end? What was she staring at? What was all of that about the flowers?” Penny shrugged. “Sister Sasha works in mysterious ways. Maybe it’ll make sense someday. I’m just happy you got *something* out of it.” All Ethan could manage was a smile. “Okay... You won. I’m pretty impressed. I guess I won’t be picking our next 10 dates after all.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Penny’s cheek. “Victory!” Penny was beaming. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I know a really cute diner around the corner. Let’s get a bite to eat.” **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** Mother’s Day was always a somber occasion for Ethan, and this one was even more so. For the first time in roughly a decade, he had made the journey halfway across the country to visit his hometown. He would stay with his father, with whom he spoke infrequently in his adulthood, and together they would visit his mother’s grave. She had passed away when he was only a boy, and he was ashamed to admit that he had not visited her burial site in well over 20 years. The entire trip made him uneasy -- the exhausting and tedious drive, seeing his father after so long, visiting what remained of his mother. But at least he had Penny with him. Over six months had passed since they began seeing each other and, by all accounts, they were a perfectly happy couple. Ethan seldom thought about their visit to Sister Sasha, but he did remember what she said about their love lives -- it seemed she had gotten that prediction right, at the very least. They had even recently started discussing the prospect of living together. Ethan had assured Penny she need not accompany him on his voyage, but she insisted rather adamantly that she wanted to join him, and for that, he was grateful. “I think it’s so sweet that you’re putting in all of this effort,” she said. “I’d regret it if I wasn’t there for you. Besides, I want to see the town that made you who you are. If it made you, it can’t be all bad.” *She’s a keeper*, he thought. Together, they traversed the aisles of a florist’s shop half an hour away from his childhood home, where his father still resided. He thought it was only fair that he should bring his mother some flowers to make up for the lost time. Penny held his hand as they weighed the options. “Were you close with your mom growing up?” “I think so,” Ethan responded. “Honestly, a lot of our time together is a blur now. I was so young when she died, but she was a good mom from what I can remember.” As an adult, family never meant much to Ethan. He was grateful that his parents raised him as best they could, but he never yearned to reconnect with the figures of his childhood. In his view, they were all behind him now. They crossed rows upon rows of flowers -- anemones, irises, lilies and more -- but none of them stood out. Penny asked, “What about your dad?” Ethan considered for a moment, then sighed. “I think he tried his hardest. My mom’s death hit him hard, though. I don’t think he ever really got over it, not that anyone could expect him to. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been. I feel like a bad son saying this, but the word I’d use to describe my childhood is ‘forgettable.’” “That doesn’t make you a bad son, Ethan. Everyone has different priorities.” “You’re right. It’s just tough looking back on those days. Maybe if my mom had lived, things would have been different...” Suddenly, Ethan stopped walking as a particular bouquet caught his eye. The flowers were a vibrant purple. He inspected the sign underneath it, which read, “Streptocarpus sect,” followed by... “African violets,” he whispered. All at once, memories of his unsettling encounter with Sister Sasha came flooding back. Perhaps he had blocked the incident out of his mind because it was so difficult to rationalize, but now, he remembered it all -- the clairvoyant’s disconcerting stare, the mysterious touch, the African violets. He turned to Penny and she smiled, seeming to understand precisely what he was thinking. It was clear that she remembered, as well. While he was sure that stumbling upon the flowers was merely a coincidence, he did find them stunning, in any case. He picked up the bouquet, and he knew he was making the right decision. “Thanks, Sister Sasha,” he said. The rest of the drive was mostly quiet, as Penny took in the rural scenery that she had only been exposed to through movies and photographs prior to their trip. “It’s charming, in a way,” she commented as they passed seemingly endless acres of farmland. “From an outsider’s perspective, I can see that,” Ethan offered. “Having grown up here, though, I have to say a lot of its charm is lost on me.” “I don’t know, I kind of like how quiet it is. City life is so busy. Maybe we can retire here, one day.” She looked at him with a smirk, knowing how unappealing that idea would be to him. “Maybe *you* can,” he responded with a soft chuckle. They soon arrived at Ethan’s childhood home, a quaint two-story house nestled within a densely wooded area that was a stark contrast to the flat pastures they had spent the last few hours traversing. A long and winding gravel driveway led to the dwelling. Everything looked exactly as Ethan remembered, right down to his father’s old, dented pickup truck parked beside the worn front porch. Ethan parked the car, letting out a deep sigh. *Why am I so nervous?* Apparently, Penny could sense his trepidation, as she placed a reassuring hand on his thigh. “It’s going to be okay, babe,” she said with confidence. “There’s nothing to be anxious about.” He forced a smile. “I know. I’m just in my head. Shouldn’t I be happy to see him?” “I’m sure you will be once you start catching up with him,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go in.” Ethan nodded, then turned off the car’s ignition. He retrieved the bouquet from the trunk, ascended the front porch steps and knocked on the door. A few moments passed before the sound of footsteps emerged from the other side and the door squeaked open. His father stood hunched in the doorway. *He looks so much older*, Ethan thought. *Where has all the time gone?* They briefly stood in silence, before smiles grew upon both of their faces. “Ethan!” His father outstretched his arms, clearly elated. Ethan followed suit and embraced him in a hug. “It’s good to see you, dad.” That was not a lie -- to his surprise, he actually was happy to see him. His father turned his attention toward Penny, and they introduced themselves, shaking hands amiably. “Come in, you two! I’ve got coffee brewing.” Upon stepping into the foyer, Ethan was overcome with a wave of emotions -- nostalgia, regret, sadness. *This is so long overdue*, he thought. *Why did it take me so long to come back? Why did I leave him here, all alone?* That initial smile never left his father’s face. He led Ethan and Penny to the kitchen, where he had prepared the table with coffee mugs and bowls of chopped fruit. “It’s been a while since I’ve had company,” he said as he began filling the mugs. “Excuse me if things are a bit messy.” Ethan felt quite sad at that admission, and he struggled to find the right words. Thankfully, Penny responded first: “Oh, not at all! This place is gorgeous. You didn’t tell me it was going to be so pretty, Ethan!” “That’s kind of you to say,” his father responded. It was not until he began returning the filled mugs to the table that he caught sight of the bouquet still clutched in Ethan’s hand. He studied them for a while, as if he was caught off guard. Although he was still smiling, tears began to well in his eyes, and then they began to streak down his weathered face. Ethan was startled. “What’s wrong, dad?” This was the first time he had ever seen his father cry. Even when his mother died, he never allowed his pain to be seen by others. “Are those... What do you have there, son?” Confused, Ethan glanced down at the bouquet, and then again at his father. “These? Flowers... For mom...” His father fruitlessly attempted to wipe away his tears. “African violets?” Ethan glanced at Penny, who wore a look of concern. “Yeah, dad... African violets. Why?” His voice was shaking as he replied, “African violets were your mother’s favorite.


Black and foreboding clouds filled the air as the musty stench of mildew and smoke swallowed up my senses. Everything was rotten here. Like the scent of a forgotten time, or the spine of an old musty book breaking free from its dormant chains. These ancient aromas were whispers from the Gods; a constant reminder that they knew my sin, and as such they had brought down their fury upon me. But I was no slave to these great spirits, and I would tear down any wall they built to keep up the sanctity of man. For what is a God to a man who keeps the world for himself? Burning embers trailed the air like fireflies dancing to the rhythm of a rattlesnake’s call. The warmth of the light was a siren’s song cast out to any lost travelers in the dead of night. The chilled weather had been chipping the leaves from their trees without remorse, bringing a bleak sense of emptiness into the world. But fire only meant one thing in a world as bare and desolate as this. The eyes of a martyr stared at me from above, his cross-shaped pedestal pinning him to the flames as they engulfed his body. The painted wax eyes were melting in the inferno, leaving a trail of inky tears. Maybe he is having regrets... maybe we all have regrets... A thundering roar escaped from the bellows of the church as the foundation started to crumble, letting out a blinding light that singed the eyes. Through squinted vision, I spotted a shadow emerge from the hellfire in front of me, causing butterflies to battle in my stomach. Something draws near... I thought as I crept behind a broken stone pedestal and hid my cloaked figure from the glowing light. Through a splinter in the stone, I could make out its haunting frame as it gazed into the darkness, its eyes burning like flawless rubies. It had the shape of an ordinary man, yet its height was comparable to that of a great bear as it towered before the entrance of the church. The creature’s mass shadowed the church’s door frame as it walked into the grand hall. On its head was an open-helm bascinet in the shape of a lion that seemed to shine orange like the fire of a sun. I attempted to steady my breath as the man scanned the grand hall, sniffing at the air like a dog finding a scent. The hounds must have had my trail since the last village... As the man crept through the grand hall, the faint cracks of crumbling foundation could be heard with the roar of a fire. “Show yourself you coward!” the creature roared as he inched towards the main altar, his voice rattled with fury. The man had a crest of a lion holding a spear in its jaws on a large metal breastplate that encased his body. As the man approached, a support beam tore from the ceiling, cascading flames towards my hiding spot. In an attempt to dodge the rain of fire, I leapt to the side, exposing my figure. Looking up at the creature, I could see the humanity leave him with a beastly snarl appearing on his face, creeping into a devilish grin that widened along with the hellish fires that surrounded us. “You will die for your sins!” the monster screamed as it rapidly approached to end my life. The world was seeking enact retribution upon me. But I was Genesis, and I was its salvation.


Another year had come and gone. I sobbed as I looked around the empty room. The bright pink room that was once filled to the brim with toys, books, and clothes, a perfect preservation of a 7 year old’s life, now blankly stared back at me. I turned to the corner of the room, where a bulging trash bag lay. I didn’t need to actually look, and I really couldn’t, with my vision blurred by the fat teardrops I hadn’t let fall the whole year. Yet I could imagine the contents of the trash bag: the fidget Hello Kitty toy that squished when you closed your hand around it; the assortment of colored gel pens in a sequined pencil holder; the bookmark she carefully made me at school. Looking at her roomany other day of the year would cause a fleeting, agonizing feeling that I could turn off as quickly as it came. Over the years, I had become pretty skilled at burying my feelings deep down, completing the reverse mining process of taking my memories from diamonds to pushing them back into rock, preserving them for later. But today, the feeling stayed, piercing into my chest with an enduring pain, one I deserved. I wanted to transfer this piercing pain to the person I thought warranted it the most now: my husband, for packing up all our daughter’s items like they were common trash. ******* Leading up to Christmas, she always used to make wish lists of all the toys she just needed. Of course, the list often poured over the page she was allotted, so I bargained with her to pare the list down so she could get her most wished-for toys under the tree. That year, I put off shopping until the last minute. I always took Christmas Eve off so I could spend the day making tamales with my mom. So, I made a mental note to shop that morning before heading to my parents. She had bothered me for days, clenching her list in her tiny fist every day. On the last day, she ran up to me and reminded me that all of the miniature purses for her collectible dolls would be gone if I waited until the last minute. She had seen one at her favorite store, so I had to go buy it. Looking up momentarily from my phone, annoyed she had cut into my social media hour, I shushed her and told her I already knew. I would make sure to go to the store as soon as she stopped reminding me. But of course, I completely forgot to make time for that shopping trip that fateful morning as I rushed out the door. My mind was a jumble as I gathered all the tamale ingredients, my pressure cooker, my utensils, and my mandil , as I would most definitely need to keep my clothes clean for the various Christmas parties after we were done cooking. The rest of the day, or rather days , passed by in a festively-induced blur, as it usually does every Christmas season. My mom and I rushed through the preparing and cooking of 4 dozen tamales, then we promptly opened all their presents so we could get to the next 2 grandparents’ houses. After all the parties and overnight stays, we finally made our way home to open our little family presents. It was now the 26th of December, and with a guilty pang, I finally remembered that I had forgotten to go to my daughter’s favorite store to get her last wished for item: the miniature purses. I remember the guilt lasted in that moment for only a second. She would just have to make do with the gifts that had already been purchased. There were more than enough gifts under the tree: over 10 packages proudly declared her name, including one lavish gift that was well over $100, plus more gifts she had already received from extended family. This thought placated my guilt, quieting it for the next week as she played with all her new gadgets. My family’s quiet did not last for long. I will forever remember the morning of January 1 as the worst day in my existence. My sweet girl decided to let us sleep in, recovering from our long New Year’s Eve the night before. She changed, walked out our front door, and took the 3 block trek to her favorite store, confident she knew the walk from the times she had gone with her aunt. She was almost there, yet thwarted by a motorcycle that was unbothered to stop at a red light and fled the scene after taking our baby’s life. ******* I walked to the corner wall where the trash bag lay, letting my back thump against the wall and releasing control of my legs, sliding down to the floor with a hard plop, landing just next to it. I lay my head gingerly on the trash bag, unable to open it and place everything back in its rightful area. Instead, I let odd ends and sharp corners dig into my cheek, the side of my arm, and my ribs; allowing the poking areas of my body to feel sharp discomfort was the only sensation tethering me to this physical world. If it wasn’t for that, I would have been swallowed whole by the ocean of my grief. My tears had already started a small pond, pooling at my lap as the fading light and growing shadows indicated the hours had passed. For the past few hours, my sobs had filtered out all other outside noises, the most effective type of white noise. Now, I vaguely registered the shutting sound of the front door and the heavy, familiar footsteps ascending the stairs. I couldn’t bear to face my husband right this second, so I remained on the floor, still pressed against my comforting trash bag. Maybe if I stayed completely still he wouldn’t notice me, leave me to my grief and protect himself against my oncoming rage. As he opened the pink door, my wishes were not granted. He immediately looked at my corner, eyes growing wide as he saw my disheveled body draped on the floor. Silently, he walked the small distance between us and sat down next to me, gingerly placing his head on my lap. “Do you want me to put it all back?” He asked, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I thought 10 years would have been enough”. “100...years...would...not...be...enough,” I managed to get out in between gasping sobs. He sat up, held my face in his hands, and gave me a slow peck on the forehead. He then stood, bent down, and scooped me up in his arms as easily as lifting the trash bag next to me. As quickly and silently as he walked in to the room, he took me out of the room and laid me on our bed. He carefully covered me with a blanket, then walked out. With a heavy heart and matching eyelids, I dozed off. The next morning, as I stared at her complete room once more, I could breathe again. My memory diamonds were back in their places, mined into the walls of that pink room. My heart will never be completely repaired, or as shiny-happy as when she was here, but it would do for now.


Dellian was not fond of this place. No, she was far from fond of it. The Northern Mistlands were not like her home in the west. The wet ground made a wet sloshing sound as her horse’s hooves embedded itself into it. There were no blue skies in this part of the world, no bright days, for a perpetual early morning seemed to hang over this land, shrouding it in the eternal mist that it was so known for. A mist so thick that she could barely see her fellow refugee that was riding, not but five feet to her side. What she could see was far from comforting. Trees either taller than the towers of the fallen city that she once called home, or short, crooked, and sad things that her father called weeping willows. Occasionally, she noticed bursts of movement in the mist that she preyed were just other refugees, not some malevolent force, plotting her gruesome demise just outside of her vision. In fact, she knew she had seen evil things here. Her only comfort was that she knew that those evil things were not real, just her mind shaping the mist into vague shapes that resembled the twisted things that had laid waste to her home. But it was a shallow comfort, as it meant only she was safe from the things that she could see, and not the overwhelming majority of things she could not. She rubbed one gloved hand across the back of her white mares’ neck, his mane wet with condensation. “Don’t worry, I know you're scared, but I’ll protect you” she whispered to the animal. She knew that he would not say anything back like the wise horses she had met once before, but she hoped that her lie comforted the animal. It served the purpose of raising her confidence a little at least. She knew that she had to be brave, if not for her, for her horse, and her dolly hidden under her oversized baggy cloak. And with her mother, and father obscured by the mist, it made the burden feel like hers, and hers alone. “Hold” a voice shouted from where she assumed was the head of the pack. She started to slow down her mare, happy to hear one of her companion’s voices again. But as her horse slowed to a stop, the mist started to fade a little. Ghostly horseback figures began to appear all around, and she was eventually able to make out the other refugees in their soaked hide cloaks. A small smile crept across her lips as she saw her father’s sturdy chestnut only about ten feet in front of her. But once the fog had lifted enough for her to see into the distance, she threw back her hood and stared forward in awe. They had stopped just at the edge of a bluff, and the rest of the Mistlands slay before them. A huge ocean of bluish-green foliage that seemed to never end. Untouched streams ran through the forest, and she caught a flock of birds taking to the sky from one of the trees. From this height she could even see the pale blue sky and the sun, its light hitting the mist down below, making it glisten. The fear didn’t leave her, after what she had seen she doubted it would ever leave her. But something else joined it in the pit of her stomach. She wouldn’t call it hope, for it was something less naive and self-centered. She felt determination.


*A/N: I just read The Fault in Our Stars ...leave me alone lol.* The day she died, I knew I was a lost soul. The moment the last breath left her body, I knew that it was going to be a long time before I loved people again. The second she left, I felt a stabbing pain in my heart, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing. *** I graduated high school with straight A's, even though I never studied for tests. Even though I spent all my after school time with her, running in grassy fields until dusk. After she was gone, I lived life in dull colors. I no longer paused to watch a leaf flutter to the ground, or to watch the last rays of sun disappear behind the looming mountains. I tried to pretend I was okay, knowing I was anything but. So one cold day I pulled out a notebook and a pen. The bare trees were outside my window as I wrote. *** Monday: 1/17/2018 Dear Future Me, I don't know how to start this letter, just like I won't know how to end it when I get going. I guess I'll just start with what has happened since she left. I can't believe it's been four years already. It seems like just yesterday. I don't like Subway anymore. It's crazy how the two of us used to go there all the time after school. I watched this new show called Stranger Things. She would have loved it. I'm sorry that she didn't get to see it. There was a solar eclipse last year. I watched it by myself, but I wasn't paying attention the way I should have. She would have been so pissed at me. I've been out of high school for three years, and I'm slowly working towards a master's degree in drama. She always told me I would be excellent on the stage. I thought I knew sadness. I thought that the gentle aching on the surface of my heart was all there was to it, something that could be removed through a kiss on the forehead by my mother. I suppose that was rather stupid of me. After she got sick, I didn't let myself think of the unthinkable. She was so strong, so powerful. The person least likely to get sick and die. But she did. She fought it for a long time, but one day her spirit died like a birthday candle, dragging her along with it. I've always felt like I don't have a right to be sad about it. Her parents were destroyed and they moved away; I haven't seen them since a week after the funeral. If you could call it that. She didn't want to be buried and have everyone wear black and be all "mopey". She wanted to be cremated and have a huge ash scattering party on Mt. St. Helens. She got very metaphorical and thoughtful after she got sick; we talked a lot about deep things when she was in the hospital. She compared herself (and the cancer) to the volcano. She said there were warning signs that went away (or so people thought) but then erupted, taking those close to her (and the mountain top) with it. I didn't realize how right she was until the funeral. We tried to have fun, but we were all too hollow. I got to throw a handful of her ashes into the wind. I had to throw the burned pieces of my best friend on the top of the symbolic mountain. But sadness reaches a different level at some point; your heart sinks away and you feel so much that you don't feel anything. She was more than my best friend. I'm trying to laugh thinking about her instead of feeling that numbness, and I'm only barely getting to that point. I try not to think about her sunken face and bluish eyelids. Instead I try to remind myself of her splendid hair, the color of a raven's wing. Instead I try to remind myself of her laughter, which will always be my favorite sound. One time a few months before she got diagnosed, she told me that she loved storms. So I asked her why. She told me, "I love how every clap of thunder makes your heart race and every flash of lightning makes you gasp a little bit. And afterwards it smells so fresh and the world seems brand new." That was when I knew how important you were to me. We'd been friends on and off for years, but that was when I really knew. You were more than my best friend. So I kissed you and you kissed me back as the storm raged outside. And it was, and still is, the best moment of my life. It's been hard to come to terms with your absence. Even now I still find myself scrolling through my contacts to send you a meme before remembering you won't ever see it. I still find myself turning my head when I'm walking and think of something before remembering only your ghost and the wind is with me. The last text I sent you was "I love you". And the last one you sent me was, "I'll see you tomorrow." But you died that night. I rushed to the hospital as you entered your final minutes. I was there when your soul left. And I can't get it out of my head. Even after all this time. I guess I've been running from these feelings for four years. Maybe that's why instead of writing "her" I started writing "you". Maybe I've been wanting to tell her this ever since she died. Now I feel like I have. I've felt her presence with me as I've been writing this. She's been guiding the good memories through my mind as I tried to remember all the wonderful things that came of our friendship. Now I can. I remember everything. I remember the fireflies and the popsicles and the hair blowing in the wind. Now when I think of her, those are the first things that come to mind, not her hands going slack in mine. Now I'm smiling as I write this, despite the ink splotches dotting this page like fireflies at twilight. I'm crying, but these are happy tears. For the first time ever. These are the tears she deserves. She deserves to be remembered for the fireflies and the rain, not the cancer and the volcano. So I'm going to give her what she deserves, finally. Maybe now I can finally be at peace. Maybe it will take some time, but hopefully I can do it. I'm in the production of Romeo and Juliet at my college, I should have mentioned that. She/you would have been so proud. Love, Me *** The crisp air of autumn blows on my face as I stand on the peak of Mt. St. Helens. This is where we scattered her ashes seven years ago. I came to burn this letter and return the words of devotion and heartache and hope back to her. She deserves them more than I do. Her memory will always be bittersweet, but with more sweet with each passing day. Taking a deep breath, I strike the match that is more than a match, the match that means acceptance and peace and hope.


Night in the city was a dreary sight. Fog rolled in heavy soon as the sun had set and couldn't burn it away anymore. Homeless crawled out of the corners of the city like rats to sit down with towels and re-stitched blankets, crumpled beanies, and fingerless cotton gloves near blackened with dirt. With their cardboard pillows and canned food, they asked for contribution as men and women in business suits ignored focusing instead on the neon signs ahead, their Bluetooth headphone-smartphone combos muting the post-work world. Skyscrapers towered cold and austere above, dotted with yellows and whites of apartment lights. Above, watching their movie alone or having microwaved dinners. Downtown sound was one mass conversionary bustle, loud laughs, and louder drunken ones. Groups huddled together close talking and joking to create the warmth with one another that the city would not provide, and individuals walked fast, looking steely and destination bound. Parks which would be filled with children in the morning were now campgrounds for people whose lives didn't go the way they thought it would as tired business people drank margaritas in a bar, maybe more lonely than the collective inhabiting the playground. **Start:** Freedom! Great terrible freedom. Finally out of the bleak 70 hour a week accelerated 3 year career track starter pack. Handed in the notice to the hour of my arrival. No exaggeration, even checked the cliché of a wristwatch. What once encompassed all my waking hours in audit has dropped to a reasonable 9to5 in industry. But every time something is reduced, something comes to take its place. The curse of freedom. Protestant work ethic. The burden of responsibility. Having to think. To choose a new path. Choose to do something or nothing. But there's only one right answer to satisfy my younger self, who believed that complacency was death. So what should I do then, freedom? Evening sunset after work. Sizzling leftovers rotating in the microwave. Silent except for the chewing and the rain against high rise apartment glass. Muted TV dances colors and ideas to occupy. Done, plates washed, freedom, Macintosh. NO, go back to freedom. Look into the world again as something to act in, to shape. All these connections in my head. Fertile soil. Ideas roaring loud and then halt. Feels like its crystallized. Seed yearning to grow. All that’s left is to act. Can't just sit here. Doesn't matter what I do. Just gotta get out. Well then. I've got some good money. Don't spend often. Early retirement sounds too good- freedom right around the corner. But I'll consider tonight an investment. The miming weatherman on the TV says it'll rain again. Pull on the summer jacket on a warm night- for the look. Lift the keys off the screw hammered into the plaster wall. Helmet and gloves under arm, one handed open, lock the door behind. Motorcycle roars to life in the basement garage. Kickstand up. City lamps glow yellow recede alongside the skyline. Car tires sigh. Wet streets mirror neon traffic lights. The dark churning sky periodically webs up electric blue briefly before the rumbling aftershock. Through the door, the storming world ends where the warmth of the wooden bar begins. A comfortable buzz of conversation fills the air. Live calm rock plays on the small stage to the left. Smells of warm beer and bacon-hamburger leverage hunger. Walking to the bar, a thousand colored, calligraph labeled gems present themselves as vodka, tequila, whiskey, rum, and gin. In here shoulders relax as if a weight were taken off. Order a drink at the stool. “Beer”, don't care what kind. “Surprise me.” After a few sips, look to the band. Damn, looks good waving her hips slow in that tight black skirt. Sings well too. Wonder how it'd be to do all that, just sing and make music, to shift and shape the mood of a place til its just right. So the house goes happy and talkative. Gotta be a hell of a psychologist. Pool tables at the back. Two white haired old men. One in cargo shorts and black T-shirt has large hands like a tradesman. Another with a kitten T-shirt, headband, and glasses- comparatively small but intelligent and confident- probably a business owner. An inebriated aging woman with them dances around silly and pretty so the old men smile and enjoy their retired nights a little more. Playfully whines as she misses a pool shot. Deep sigh with a half-done drink and lean against the edge of the bar. Watches people dancing on the small space of the floor open in front of the musicians. Even if I couldn't hear it I'd know what was being played. It's that kind of music that makes you want to move just that way. Taps the notes of the song against his pant leg like a piano he learnt young. But remembers what he's come here to do, and piano fingers aint it. So he starts tapping his foot to the beat instead, large and dumb and social. Takes a sip of beer, and comments on the music to the guy next to him who doesn't look like he wants to talk. I was right. At least he responded. How about the one on the other side? Listen to a couple more songs. In the corner of his eye, Tom sees whiskey go down and adams apple bobs against stubble shaved neck. He's looking forward, as if asking for conversation. "Where you from?" Tom asks loud over the sound of the music and chatter. There's a pause as the man's 'other' scan ensues, then "Seattle. I grew up around here, stayed for business" the businessman says roughly and gruffly but more receptive than the other. "Ya? Well what do you do?" "I'm a partner with the PwC office. One of the guys who runs the place." Guy said it proud, like he deserved respect and awe. Probably used to that sort of thing. Young upstarts spoil these fuckers. "Huh. How many years you been doing that?" "16" Nodding, Tom turned back round to the music. No need to rush it. The guy wants to talk about himself. Can see it in those motherfucking eyes. Sip of beer. Glad I can't truly get drunk or I'd be too honest to play this game. Music goes along its track and the dancers follow suit. Can tell the game of pool is won. The high-pitched voice of the silly pretty woman shouting victory double hand high-fiving her white haired tradesman partner. The retiree in the kitten shirt acting displeased as if he cared about the competition in the first place, but really he's just doing it so she can gloat playfully. "Ya, I work at the EY as an auditor. Been working there for about 2 years now." Tom said knowing the guy wouldn't ask. "Two years? Hah, you've got a long way to go. Stick with it kid, it gets better. Trust me." God gruffly proclaimed, "I hated those early years. Feels like watching paint dry." "You certainly wouldn’t get that impression from the new grad corporate propaganda" "We do that so we can lock em in. Recruiting would be a pain in the ass otherwise." Smiling facetiously, he bobbed whiskey. At least he's honest. "...Then they say, 'it's not that bad I guess', ha-ha" he laughed with whiskey breath hot brushing Tom's face. Tom laughed politically and brushed his fingers across his moustache as a means of feeling sensation and to fill in the imperfect silence of a half second not having anything to say. Took another drink of beer to get rid of that. "Bastards" looking the businessman keenly in the eye. Break Looked across the bar, saw a young woman in a tight black cocktail dress, wide collar which hugged the edge of the shoulders and bottom which stopped above the knees. Brown hair tied up in an artistic knot behind her head. Small, cute, and sexy shouted from the black purse over the side of her chair. She was leaning chest forward towards the bar, smiling at a suited career man mid-forty peaking salt and pepper. She was playing with him, could see it in her eyes. Salt knew her game and played his strengths. He probably had a lot of women. Plenty of young ones like her too. Business execs and young women go together like bratwurst and wine. Tom felt an attraction to her and a slight smile come onto his face as he watched her. Pepper talking confidently, and her playfully patting the back of his arm when he told something witty, or that he thought was witty at least. Tom and Partner found racquetball in common and agreed to play the next day. Business cards change hands. Pepper and Sexy left together. Disappointing. That night, in the excel spreadsheet was marked: Row; executive #23. Columns; name, phone number, company, hobbies and interests, where from, where met, and leads. Teeth brush, wash face, sleep. Visions of the wide tomorrow flood mind as consciousness is left on the pillow. Freedom has given way to something. Early morning rise, checks his spreadsheet, closes the laptop. Finds the address in a text sent last night from Seattle's favorite PwC Partner. Grabs his duffle bag with clothes, towel, glove, racket, balls, headband, and goggles. Flipped the strap over his shoulder, keys off the screw. Roaring motorcycle to the corporate style gym holding 50 levels of condominium above. First day of his new membership. Ya I go there all the time, he said. $50 a month for endless potential. Scanned his fresh plastic bar code. Walked past the counter. Scratched his neck and sees Sexy on the treadmill. Notice one another but neither acts on familiarity. Men's bathroom, naked old men with white towels in the locker room. Well-presentable gym shorts and shirt on. Well washed to look used, new so he would fit in. Fixed his hair. Neat but not overbearingly so. Back into the open, chest out shoulders back, confident and relaxed. Shake hands with the face of PwC in front of the glass-wall racquetball courts. "Meet \[so and so\] \[executive numbers 24, 25, and 26.\] And this is Hank, he's the handyman." A game of singles to warm up, then cutthroat. Tom starts with #23, Mr. PwC at the bar to see how good he is. Close game, plays hard, but, what, I shouldn't beat him on the first try should I. Oh, what a surprise, I lost. Handshake and good game, but show a little frustration. Mix it up and cutthroat with handyman Hank and #25. Fuck, the handyman hits rollers. Shower and change into fresh respectable clothes, also new. To lunch. Three dollar signs on google maps, nice. "We met at the Chamber of Commerce." Huh, take note of that. Hell, I'm going to have to fill a notebook when I get back. But just nod as if you've heard it all before. Politics. But an hour and the city gains color. Maybe the mimosa? Let the guard down a little. Pretty funny guys. Laid back. Why am I still acting like I'm playing politics? "Ya, absolutely. I'll see you all next Sunday!" Grey again- work. Weekend comes. Sits at the bar earlier this time, now more confident in overcoming freedom. It'd be better to see the people filter in than to sit at home. Beer. Surprise me. Sexy comes in with a navy hugging dress this time, hair tied up but let down when she walks in. She's probably the same age as me. Share glances as she's passing and a first-time full body 'other' scan meets approval. She smiles this time. He looks after her with a residual response smile and then shakes his head to himself. Man, look at the way she walks in those high heels. Moon rises. Conversations grow warm. Kitchen heats up. Pool balls click. Singer brings out the psychological stew. Did you miss it? There's the end of the world right there and into the new. Sexy sits at the other side of the bar. The men shift like magnets, and sooner than you'd think. She leaves with one of them again. Time, time, time. Time that no one cares about. Routine. Grey work. Racquetball’s got some color, but it's back to grey at the bar. She's there before him one of these nights. Hasn't got a guy next to her this time. "I'll fix that." Well, they talk a little. Its politics. Act so I get what I want, but be patient. Nights come and go according to the game. But one night, starting to get bored, forget to play politics. It turns out better than he'd thought. The routine of the bar takes on a new color and it's their color. Long weekend from work one of these times. "You want to do something then?" "Sure" Sam responded.


Encasterated in a god knows forsaken place as I lost track of time; left to rot in a devious place as I tremble in fear. A twisting wave of panic, shock, helplessness dashes through the deepest regions of my soul. Regretting not having to let go of this earlier. Let me tell you how I found myself in this nerve wracking predicament in pain and sorrow... A long time ago, when I was free as a bird, I was the daughter of a rich business woman: Ella. Gaining everything that I wanted, therefore not being able to learn how to let go. I am always bullying other kids and forcing them to give me what I want, but good things don't last forever and I put my life at risk. Once I saw my babysitter’s daughter -Hazel- had a doll that I‘m obsessed with: it has ocean blue eyes, blonde hair that lights up the night and with the most eye-catching pink dress that I had ever seen. Not even having an ounce of doubt, I snatched it from her hands. Furiously, she pushed me to the ground and I went berserk; who does she think she was?! I was about to push her back, but a destructive plan came up in my mind. Smirking, I made an ear piercing scream and fake tears started rolling down my cheeks. The door was burst open by my mum and my babysitter. Her face turned purple after what she saw, my mum shot my babysitter a menacing look. “ Gloria, what is it about!” my mum spat. “ Sorry madam, please give me another chance, I’m.. ” my babysitter tried to explain, but was soon interrupted by my mum: “ There’s no such thing as sorry and chances aren't that easy to get Gloria! You and your little devil get out of here or I’ll call the security!” My babysitter was about to say something, but all her remaining words were gulped down by her esophagus. Staying silent, my babysitter gave me a distraught look and my eyes started filling with tears-my heart started feeling a little bit shallow somehow. Burning with anger, Hazel hissed as she passed me: “ I will never forget this Ella, and you will too! You will regret this! ” From that time, her words were like sculpted into my heart; every time someone said the word ‘hazel’, I shivered uncontrollably. Luckily, the memory slowly faded away and thinking everything had passed-I was back to the bully I was. As time passed by, I was more and more known. One peaceful year, or so I thought, my best friend Tracy came up to me: “ Hey girl, looking extra fancy today!” “ And you looks like we have a new target” I smiled, “ I guess nothing can escape your eyes Ella.” She laughed. I winked,“ Can't argue with that, and who is our new GUEST?” “ The new girl, duh!” she exclaimed, but seeing my curious expression, she rolled her eyes and continued: “ AKA... wait! What is her name again? Ugh.. it doesn't actually matter, the thing that matters is that she is our new target!” I just shrugged and said let’s go and not even have a second of doubt. Confidently, we walked up to the new girl. Strangely, the new girl seemed familiar: she had silky, black, wavy hair that laid down on her shoulder and her eyes were a tranquil green pool, flecked with brown and gold in the sunlight. Tracy smirked: “ Hey new girl! Isn’t it the time to hand over some money?” The girl just shot her a deaf glare and asserted: “ And isn't it the time for you to buy some manners and respect, your HIGHNESS?” “ You! ” Tracy screamed, but it clearly seemed like she was speechless. She nudged me on the arm: trying to get help from me. Sadly for her, I wasn't paying any attention. The coldness and sound of the new girl’s words ringed over and over through my ears and a bolt of lightning shocked my mind-she was Hazel! This prediction shocked me to the core and I was frozen by the fear in me. My eyes widened. Cold sweat rolled. Temperature dropped. Standing like a statue. “ Ella! What is up with you!” Tracy roared like a lion, while interrupting my thoughts. After hearing my name, the girl’s eyes become sharp, menacing and maybe even deadly! “ She is Ella?” Hazel asked. Full of coldness and anger as she spoke. Tracy frowned. “ You know her? Ella never told me anything about you. What is your name and what is that ghostly tone for?” Tracy asked, confused. “ My name is Hazel and the thing that happened between us is none of your business!” Hazel exclaimed. “ Lady, technically it does! She is my BFF!” Tracy answered. “ Not anymore!” Hazel barked. Then she just stomp of here, but before she goes, she whispered to me: “ It seemed like you hadn't changed at all Ella, and I keep my promises.” My heart started beating wildly after what I heard. I knew what she meant. I ran into the library, hoping that she wouldn't find me. That night I couldn't sleep: I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't fall asleep. The next day, I had panda eyes. “ Ella, what happened? You guys seemed to know each other?” Tracy asked, hoping to find out what was the secret between me and Hazel. “ Go away Tracy, Hazel is correct! It is none of your business!” I exclaimed. “ What is up with you Ella! I thought we were best friends!” Tracy asked. “ I thought that too Tracy, I also thought we were best friends, but you are so clingy! I need some space!” I shouted, the anger inside of me exploded. “ You snake! I had been by your side all the time just to be your best friend! I bully people because I want you to notice me! You don't deserve everything, and you totally don't deserve our friendship, you spoiled brat!” she cried. Tears started pouring down her cheeks like a fountain. “ Just back of Tracy!” My eyes became watery. I know I couldn't be myself without the company and love of Tracy, but I'm too angry to apologize. She put her hands on her face and started to run away.“ No please, I beg you, please come back! Im... I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please come back!”I cried. I can't hold my feelings anymore, it came out like my tears. I chased after her and ran as fast as I could, but soon she disappeared in the corridor. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. I was distraught. Sunderly, I tripped and my head fell onto the icy, cold floor. It went all black. When I woke up, I was imprisoned in a dark place with mice crawling around my feet, but it didn't matter. I had lost my best friend, the only, only friend who had ever cared about me. Thinking back, in my life I'm only feared, no caring friends like Tracy. My heart started feeling shallow like when I kicked out my babysitter. “ Feeling distraught like how I felt all these years Ella?” a trembling voice cried. Looking up, it was the one that had locked me up: Hazel. “ You totally don't know that my mum is sick and she is still looking after you because we were in debt right?” she continued. “I...” I tried to explain, but was soon interrupted: “ No explanations Ella, just like what your mum mercilessly did to my mum. And thanks to you guys, my mum died of illness. This is unforgettable and unforgiveable!” she cried. I was shocked. I was about to say something, but she just walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She will let me out one day, won't she? Sadly, the answer is no. I stayed in the room day after day, desperately trying to get out, and living in shame. I remembered what I did in the past few years, regretting everything I did, hoping every breath that I took will be my last.


***Flag***\*,\* ***Indian summer,*** ***cannonball.*** *Actions:* ***Christmas carols are being sung***\*,\* ***Someone is being chased***\*. Phrases: “\****It happens this time of the year”,*** \*“\****We have until midnight”***  “Crack!” the kitchen window said, as its locking mechanism snapped. Snow drifted in and scattered like a dusting of sugar over the kitchen counter. Two sets of boots tracked mud across the surface. One belonged to a skinny man, who climbed as though his gangly teenage growth spurt had just kept spurting. The other set belonged to a stubby man with a round face like a cannonball with a big nose attached. These were not nice men. They were Christmas present thieves. Sadly, it’s true, it happens this time of year. Following them through the window, the distant sound of Christmas carols serenely drifted in. They crept towards the red-green glow of Christmas lights tickling the tree upon which they sat. “Hey. Whassat?” Jerry backhanded Arsene in his big bulbous nose. “Ouch! Whadya do that for, nitwit!” Arsene stomped on Jerry’s foot. Jerry pointed towards two ghostly figures at the foot of the Christmas tree. Arsene’s mouth opened wide as he froze. One of the two figures was gangly with a long black scraggly beard, and nimble fingers unwrapping presents. The rotund man stood guard. He kicked the gangly one, and they both faced the two would-be thieves. “Who are you, old geezers? Get outta here,” Arsene fired at them. “This is our hit.” “Arse.. Arsene...” Jerry stammered, hitting him like he was a piñata refusing to open.”It’s us.” As if staring at a mirror that took decades to reflect the light, it *was* them, but ancient, wrinkled, and decrepit. “We are you,“ the old Arsene croaked, “from the future.” “And I guess the thieves of Christmas past are gonna sneak up behind us and tell us to stop stealing their jujus,” the younger Jerry sneered. Old Jerry stroked his long beard, an unconscious mannerism. “To us, you guys are the thieves of Christmas past.” “A reminder that we had a choice once,” old Arsene added. “We have until midnight when the old Santy Claus turns up,” he faltered. “To stop you... to convince you to...” He lost his train of thought. “Whatever you do. Don’t touch him.” “Why not?” young Jerry asked. “If you touch him,” old Jerry said, “his time travel juice will get on you and drag you along with him. Me an him, “ he pointed to old Arsene, “have been stuck in here time traveling with him for,” he paused tapping his fingers, “fifty years.” “We are begging you... leave now,” old Arsene added. ”Give up... something...” he shook his head clearing the cobwebs. “It ain’t worth it.” The young Jerry looked at his watch, showing five minutes to midnight. “‘ang on, what were you looking for before.” “The Christmas favor...” Old Jerry started before he clammed up with a kick in his shins from old Arsene. “What’s that then?” young Arsene asked. “Sounds kinda expensive.” “Yeah,” young Jerry added. “Why don’t you both get outta here. You’re just trying to steal what we’re already stealing.” Old Arsene shook his head in dismay. Old Jerry looked down to the floor. Paused. Then plucked something from the floor and ran. “Oi!” Young Jerry chased after him, clattering chairs, smattering cutlery, and battering through the dining room. They bundled up the stairs until he caught the old fella flagging on the landing. Pinning him to the floor, young Jerry snatched the item from his hands. It was a gold-gilt snowglobe glowing as if a firefly was trapped inside it. A flash of light filled the house, momentarily blinding them all. The room warmed as though an Indian summer was beating away the winter chills. “I would like to invite you to return that gift to the box,” a deep voice was heard from the living room. All four men were overwhelmed by a red glow emanating from the large man who filled the room as though he demanded attention. “Now that you have seen the consequences of your actions,” Santa spoke in a soothing voice to the younger versions of Jerry and Arsene. “The punishment for stealing Christmas presents is severe.” He indicated the two decrepit skeletal men, the thieves of Christmas future. “Again, I invite you to return the gift.” Jerry held the snowglobe out in the palm of his hand, as though he was Frodo presenting the One Ring. He’d probably get a few hundred for it down at the Pick N’ Snatch. Enough to get him and Arsene through the winter. He looked back at the two broken old men. Arsene whispered to Jerry as they both approached the red-clad time traveler. “Give it to ‘im. I don’t wanna end up like them. We find another way.” Nodding, Jerry placed the decoration back in the box and rewrapped the paper. “At the fiftieth time of asking,” Santa whispered, rubbing his temples. “Thank you.


The choking effect of not being able to move forward has placed me in a state of unrest yet in a state of genuine peace. I would place the unfathomable amnesia as trails of crumbs that seemingly has no end. My hands quiver anytime I'm asked the question, “ Who are you?” , because I do not have an answer to that. It's 5:30am and I hear the alarm ring. I carefully hoist myself from the bed, trying not to wake anyone. My chest tightens whenever Alex stirs from his sleep. I'm not trying to run away, I just don't want to wake him. Making my way to the bathroom, I strip from my gown, fully exposing my naked body and then I hear a slight whisper echoing from the bathroom. Your cross, Nonye. Your cross. Adrenaline floods my system. I swiftly pick up the the scissors from the counter before yelling, “who is there?” My adrenaline surges so fast that I can almost vomit. I kick open the door, yelling again. This time, Alex is already up, panicking and running out of bed with his phone by his side. Your cross, I hear it again. I remember the news yesterday. I had watched it at the office with my colleagues. They told us to be careful not to open our windows or doors. Everyone is paranoid. “These murders need to be investigated.” Timi said. He's the most sensitive man I've ever known. “There’s no pattern yet, Timi. We just have to stay watchful.” Jil advised. “If we’re no longer safe in our homes, where else can we be safe?” I mused to myself gaping at the tv in the lodge, staring intently at the newscaster. I was livid with anger at his slight stammer and his fear. He could be next and so could I. Moving from the lodge, I stumbled at the feeling of a hot breath close to my neck. The unseen entity gripped my wrist making me squeal in pain for some seconds before letting go. “Annie, are you okay?” I heard but I just scurried ahead without giving a response. “You’re doing this again?” He asks angrily after minutes of searching to no avail. “What is up with you?” “I heard someone this time, Alex. I tell you.” I persist, checking the blinds and the wardrobes in our small room. “Are we heading down that road again? There's no one here!” My hands tremble and so does the rest of my body. I can taste saliva thickening in my throat and my eyes already feel heavy with tears. “You’re seeing Dr. Moe tomorrow.” He finally says walking back to the bed with his phone placed on his ears after seconds of agonizing silence. Here I am, naked and terrified, lost, and hurt. Who is Nonye? I ask myself glancing at Alex scheduling an appointment with the doctor. It's Wednesday, 9:00am. I'm sitting on the soft brown cushion in Dr. Moe's office. Alex is not here with me, and I'm grateful for that. My doctor strides in with her smile on her face. She finally perches on the seat opposite me while adjusting her blouse. “Morning Annie.” She says still beaming. How are you today?” “The same.” I answer. “Alex told me there wasn't much progress after you suddenly stopped coming.” “We didn't have the money.” I lie. I schemed a perfect pretense of good character. I wanted to stop coming. “You were very violent during out last encounters. And Alex said you were violent yesterday. What happened?” she asks opening her pad to write into. My lips quivered. “I heard someone in the bathroom. It was like a whisper but Alex doesn't believe me.” “What did you hear?” “It said your cross, Nonye. Your cross.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I can see dense haze in the air. “Do you know what it means? Do you have an idea who the person is?” she relaxes on her chair, sucking her teeth. “No.” I scratch my wrist. “You once told me about some dreams you had about a friend. Do you think what you heard correlates to the dreams you've been having?” “I never told you the contents of my dreams.” I declared, angry and uncomfortable. “I know, but what if the voice you heard is a hint to your dreams? Think about it Annie. What did you see?” “They’re either about the future or about someone who seems so dear to me, yet unrecognizable.” “Hmmm.” She mumbles. “What about the future do you see?” “About murder, death, and panic. I fear for the people if something is not done.” “You mean about the killings going on?” She is now sitting upright scribbling with speed. “What about it, Annie?” “I have dreamt of the killer’s next victim.” She suddenly stops writing and looks me in the eye with an impenetrable expression on her face. “I saw him.” “Where?” she asks, but my my lips don’t move. I feel the same hot breath at the lodge again. She could be the next victim and so could I. I stand, bolting towards the door and I run as fast as my legs can carry me. I'm at the old house Alex found me the first time I met. It has become my abode whenever I run away from him. The house still looks the same I left it two days ago. My empty plate is on the table with the books and papers I left there. My solitude. I heave a relieving sigh before turning on the tv and sitting on the floor. It's 10am. A different newscaster is reading the news about the death of his colleague. How exact, how sad. I open one of the books on the table, searching for the name of the deceased, Tade Johnson. I read on, death by strangling. A slight giggle escapes my lips because this list had been compiled by me but I can't seem to remember when. I pick up the paper and glance through the content written on it. Your cross Moe. Your cross . I panic and exclaim. There has been a change in name. In fact, there are a list of names written on it. I try to think, I try to remember. Why are their names in my book? It's just been eight months since I met Alex and started leaving with him. What have I been doing all this while? I scramble around the house looking for clues. I marvel at the rude awakening. Turning my room inside out, I open the the small safe in my drawer, with NONYE, boldly written on it. It's 7pm. I'm home now with Alex giving me the lecture of my life but it doesn't make me miserable for I did earlier, it only piqued my interest about him. “Are you even listening Annie?” He stops to ask. “I’m sorry I annoyed you. I panicked.” I say, avoiding his eyes. “Did you hear the news today?” “You mean about the dead newscaster? I did.” “Do you know who is doing it?” He stares at me with a shocked look on his face. A countenance of terror “How’s that any of your concern? I'm keeping you safe aren’t I?” “From who?” I question. “From Nonye?” “You’re still talking about the mysterious name of this morning? Nobody bears that name, Annie!” I throw the lamp on the floor. I move the table and cut myself. I hit him on the chest hard, and continuously but he doesn't stop me. “Dr Moe is going to die tomorrow, Alex. She’s going to die.” I finally say. “I know.” He responds. “It took you long enough to know that.” I’m livid with his response and the teardrops race down my cheeks in anger. Alex cleans me up and sits me on the bed. I stare at him in awe on how well he was able to handle me. . I had checked the name after Moe, I had checked the name after Moe. My name was next. Death by poison. I was the last on the list. If I was to die, why question any longer. I don't care to know who I am. I just don't want to keep feeling miserable with every breath. It's soothing to know that my troubles end tomorrow. “Tomorrow, I’ll prepare your favorite dinner.” Alex smiles and so do I.


The future will always be unknown, and for people with severe anxiety, the thought of something being unknown is unfathomable. There once was a girl that I knew who tried so hard to be prepared for the future, she became scared of it. She became so scared that she limited her abilities, her goals, and her passions. Some may consider her doing that to herself as some sort of self-sabotage, but for her, it was completely the most logical thing to do. If the world has a 50% chance of ending negatively for her, why risk 100% of it? We’re taught in life that you must give to receive, you must be equal with the Earth and the people with-in it. However, that simply is not a reality. It is hard to be a ‘logical-wanderer’ as this person called her dilemma. Of course she had amazing dreams, and sometimes risked so much to get so little. She once spent almost $20,000 to move across the country at 18 to be somewhere she’s never set foot in, all because of a calling. The calling was telling her that this would be best for her future and of course that was her selling point when she brought it up to her parents. The future would be filled with job opportunities, amazing weather, and a good college education. But, when she was left alone, surrounded by her own thoughts in the late-night, she thought, there was really no promising future. She witnessed the smartest people she knew be dead broke, the hardest workers behind on payments, and so on and so forth. While she believed in hard work and dreaming big, she saw that sometimes, those don’t work. It was a constant battle for her. One day she was fighting for her future, staying up for hours doing work, and the next week she would miss several assignments and opportunities because she essentially stopped believing. She tried so hard to make sense of her likes and dislikes in relation to the world and thought herself to be unique, but she would then later feel irrelevant or unimportant towards the universe with her ‘uniqueness.’ That is one major thing people do not talk about when it comes to being a wanderer. In the movies, books, and songs, people describe having a spotless mind as being a carefree teenager, post-manic pixie dream and a ‘flower-child’ complex. While those are all true, there are some other key parts that are unhighlighted. Those parts are dark, and one part specifically was really big for this girl. They were the nights crying and feeling like this is nowhere near the life you want, and the feeling that you’ll never find it because all you’ve ever done was chase temporary happiness, but at the time it was not just ‘temporary happiness,’ but rather a small joy that motivates you to find the next. Never being satisfied or settled can be so damaging. You can only chase so much until your heart gives up, and you have to hope that it will give up in a spot and mental position you adore, otherwise you’ll realize that you chased the world for absolutely nothing. Maybe it is for something, but there it goes again. Uncertainty. I also had a friend, or an acquaintance would be better to say, who was a complete science nerd. But he once told me a statistic and a fact about the world that confirmed this girl’s favorite quote of all time. First, I will share the fact. The science fanatic told me that with the right conditions, in space, you technically move faster than time itself. While I, myself, am not too big on science and space, this fact really intrigued me. It essentially has something to do with the weight and the light when you are in space. I thought that was pretty cool, as it is almost like the future is chasing you. How ironic. Anyway, the quote this girl absolutely adored was always butchered by her. She only knows of this quote because she saw it in the english-translated subtitle of an Asian Television drama she watched in the 8th grade as has tried her hardest to find the name of. The show was about a girl who dresses up as a guy to get inside a really good track and field program at an all boys school. However, the quote literally has nothing to do with the plot. Despite always messing up the quote, you could still get the general idea of it. It goes something like: “Although the world spins at a predetermined speed, I will not let the weight of this world determine how fast I go.” It was funny that I learned the scientific meaning of this quote almost 5 years later. Maybe I heard because It was important for me to hear, and in terms of general ‘dream chasing motivational speaking,’ I am certain that this quote and the facts to back it up are very important for everyone to hear. In the end, I do not think this girl stopped chasing her dreams, no matter how much it killed her. She was not a wanderer by nature, but by fear of what the world may have for her. She tried everything and she went everywhere to see where the perfect place to set up shop was. I think it would be absolutely idiotic for her to give up, but then again here’s me talking with the faith and good sides of being a wanderer. It is good to have both lenses. Now, it may be the assumption of someone reading: Why should I care about the writer’s opinion when the situation is not even about her? You would not be wrong. I do find myself being critical of people of things and either not having the experience as those people, or I either have done the same stupid thing I am criticizing. However, I am the girl who just spent $20,000 to travel across the country to live in a city i’ve never even blinked in.


CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains descriptions of violence, gore, and some profanity. Viewer discretion is advised. A shrill wail jolts me from the quiet darkness of sleep to the glare of LED lights flooding an unfamiliar room. The ground I lay on is hard and cold-- have I rolled off my bed again? Another wail prompts me to push my upper body off the ground; the setting before me tilts and spins like I’ve just staggered out of an old rollercoaster. I squeeze my eyes shut against the bright, dizzying room and clench my teeth to fight back a wave of nausea. At the nausea’s dissipation, I force my eyes open again, blinking a few times to clear my vision. The room is white and appears to be made of metal. The walls hold pieces of advanced technology on silver shelves. This room isn’t my bedroom. I push myself up to stand, and it takes my head banging against the metal ceiling to kick my memories back into place. Ship #A17: my one-way ticket to a new life I never asked for. A third, much quieter cry finally pulls my attention to the enormous windows at the back of the ship crowded by a small group of strangers. A young woman sobs in the arms of another, silent one on the metal floor. A tall, visibly strong man stares with his head against the windows, tears falling to the ground without sound. Beside him stands a boy no older than fifteen clutching an old, tie-dyed bunny plush. My feet lead me to join them, albeit against my will. As I approach, the boy looks up at me, his tearful eyes the color of whiskey illuminated by sunlight. He steps slightly to the side to open a space for me, which I step into, finally getting a view of the window as our former home explodes. The blinding yellow and orange lights thrust debris every which way. Entire chunks of land are thrown deep into the abyss of space. Smaller explosions light up like fireworks amongst the stars. In its place is a void of nothingness. The sobbing woman has ceased any sound. Her silent comforter bows her head. The muscular man buries his face in his hands. The boy beside me trembles as tears pour from his eyes, and unconsciously, I rest my arm against his shoulders. Hot tears slip down my cheeks, and my throat burns with suppressed sobs. Our planet is gone, and the silence is deafening. ------ “My dear Evelyn, I hope you and the twins are safe. I’m so sorry we got separated-- everything became so frantic and confusing that I had no chance of getting back to you. I’m on another ship, but I’ll see you soon, okay? Tell Aniyah and Colton--” my voice breaks “--that Dad loves them and misses them every minute and promises we will all be together again on a new planet soon. I love you.” I lift my thumb off the button, and the recording ends. Two other clicks on the technologically advanced phone send the recording without issue as a fresh wave of tears warps my vision. “What are you doing?” I snap my head up to the boy standing in the doorway of the sleeping quarters-- this is the first time I have heard him speak since boarding the ship some days ago. Sighing, I answer, “Sending a recording to my family. We got separated in the chaos...I don’t want them to panic. The boy nods, enters the room, and sits beside me on the ground against my bed. “How are you holding up?” I ask him. “Well,” he mutters, “I haven’t thrown myself out of the emergency hatch yet.” I nod. “Did you get separated from your family as well?” I ask. The boy gazes at his tie-dyed bunny plush for a long moment before answering the question. “I never knew my dad, but my mom worked for NASA. Her team designed all of the ships. On the day of the escape, she was running around helping people get into ships and checking that nothing went wrong. This bunny--” he held up the old plushie “--was hers. When I got into the ship, she pushed it into my hands, hugged me, told me she loved me, and darted back outside. She knew she and her team were doomed. I guess part of me still hoped she was wrong.” “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, trying to hide my shock. “Thanks,” he shakily whispers back, tightly hugging the bunny. “Does the bunny have a name?” “Biscuit. She said it was fitting.” The two of us jump as a shriek pierces the air, and we wordlessly scramble out of the sleeping quarters and into the ship's central area. The muscular man is already there, along with the sobbing woman from the first night, whose shrieks dissolve into hysterical crying. At her feet lies the other woman, her comforter, with short auburn hair doused in blood and terrified brown eyes leaking spare tears. More blood pours from a deep gash on her neck like a river on the ground. “Dear God... ” utters the muscular man, who turns away from the scene with a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck possessed someone to do something like this?” I whisper. In my peripherals, the boy sways on his feet, staring at the scene in horror. I catch him as he collapses. “Who would do such a thing?!” The hysterical young woman questions. “Who even managed to smuggle a weapon onto this ship?!” “I’ve been in the sleeping quarters all day,” I quickly state, “and there were body scanners when we were boarding. It’s physically impossible for someone to bring a weapon here.” “And yet,” the muscular man chimes in with a hoarse, unsteady voice, “it seems that’s what’s happened.” I shut my eyes against the gory scene and fight to organize my thoughts-- someone on this ship has murderous intent, and this woman may not be their only target. “Let’s search the ship,” I find myself saying. “There’s a chance that, in the chaos, we gained a stowaway.” The boy makes a noise and stirs. I quickly put my hand in front of his eyes, shielding him from the bloody mess on the ground. “We should do something with her body as well,” I add, and it takes a fair amount of prompting to get the remaining three of us adults to seek out cleaning equipment. The crying woman, who reveals her name as Della, opts to manage cleaning up the gradually drying blood. I turn to the other man, Zeke, to confirm we’ll be handling the body, but he cuts me off two words in. “Can’t do bodies. I’ll stay with the kid, y’know, make sure he’s all right.” I acquiesce, and the handling of the body becomes my job. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought living on a new planet would be the coolest thing in the universe,” Della laments, turning to me as I stoop down to pick up the body. Grunting, I remark, “Not what you thought it would be, is it?” Della shakes her head. I lift the body into my arms, staggering backward as I stand back up. “There’s a hatch down the hall to the right,” Della states, pointing down a corridor without looking. “I discovered it while exploring the ship before we took off. You can put her through there,” she adds, her voice quivering slightly. “Thanks,” I mutter and step into the corridor. The blood from the young woman’s neck drips onto my hands and shirt while the blood in her hair quietly leaves a trail on the ground. Her body retains some warmth, but her dull, unseeing eyes persistently remind me of the lost life. At the end of the corridor, built into the right wall, is a small hatch with tinted windows. I unlatch the hatch, revealing a short, pristine white tube capped with another door at the end. I rest her body on the clean floor-- I hate to stain it with blood-- and shut the opening hatch with a soft click. My fingers guide themselves to a button and press down. The silence is filled with a vacuum-like sound as the ending hatch opens to suck the young woman’s body into space. A few moments pass before I release the button, and the corridor settles into silence. I breathe a sigh as tears warp my vision yet again. Once upon a time, I was the guy who rarely cried. Now, I long for the day I never have to cry again. A low hissing noise cuts through the silence. I instinctively check the tube, but its process is done. My eyes scan the corridor before finally stopping on a particularly dark corner where the wall meets the ceiling. I step closer to it; shards of white metal stand at odd angles in a distorted sort of circle, and the hissing is louder. I put my finger up to it, and nothing stops it from going through. “Della?” I call down the corridor. “What is it?” She replies. “During your exploration, did you happen to find a toolbox anywhere? I think the explosion blew out a corner down here,” I explain. “Yes, and I’ll be right there! Don’t move!” She shouts as her voice fades, and she hurries off. I wait one, two, three minutes. Della screams. Flooded with panic, I take off up the corridor. Not another murder. Not another murder. “Don’t come out!” Della cries from another room. “Where’s Zeke?!” The muffled voice of the young boy shouts. “Just stay there!” Della’s voice breaks. My hand grabs the doorway of the sleeping quarters to anchor myself, and I swing into the room as Della bursts into tears. Not another murder. Not another... “Jesus...” Zeke’s blood soaks through one of the few beds in the sleeping quarters, pouring from several wounds in his chest and one through his neck. I tentatively step closer, holding my breath as I tip my head down to look at the wounds. “Knife wounds,” I whisper, picking up my head to face Della. “Big ones, too,” I add. Della sorrowfully shakes her head. “We need to call someone.” “The ships are pre-programmed,” I remind her, “so nobody can get off-course to help us. Let the kid out of the bathroom. We’ll head to the central area.” My eyes follow Della as she walks the boy out of the room, using his plushie to shield his eyes from the gory sight. My mind whirls with questions, but one stands at the forefront: How does one woman in a small ship become the first to discover two murders in a row? ------ “There’s nobody else on the ship,” the young boy, Elias, reports. “Positive?” I ask, briefly glancing down from the step ladder in the corridor. “I’ve checked three times. Nobody else is on the ship.” “Fantastic,” I mutter. “Hand me another nail,” I request, putting out my hand. Elias rummages through the toolbox for a moment. “There are none left.” “How?” I ask in bewilderment. “That box was brand new! I’ve only used--” I mentally count the number of nails I’ve used to repair the broken corner “--five nails!” “Well, the box is empty. There are none left,” Elias repeats, matching my confusion. “Son of a bitch... ” I growl under my breath. “Della?” I call. “What?” Della yells from the other end of the ship. “Is there another box of nails up there? All of mine have vanished!” “There should be!” “I’ll get them!” Elias declares, running off. I leap off the ladder and bolt after him. With Della as my main suspect for the past two days, the last person I want alone with her is this kid. “Elias!” I shout, bursting into the empty central area of the ship. This time, Elias’ screams of terror shatter the air before Della’s. No. God, no! I fly down another corridor. The screams grow louder. Anyone but him, please, anyone but him! The screams cut to silence. I halt in front of the small storage room at the very end of the corridor. He’s just a kid. The tie-dye rabbit lies in a rapidly growing pool of blood beside its mangled owner-- torn clothing, a deep gash in his neck, stab wounds in his arms and chest, and a nearly unrecognizable face. I collapse, sobs wracking my body mercilessly. Tears stream from my eyes and burn my skin. In wiping them away, I streak blood on my cheeks. It’s too quiet. My gaze tears away from Elias and trails to Della’s silent, shaking figure curled up against the wall, splattered in blood. In a blink, my hands are curled around her neck. “You did this!” I roar. “I didn’t do anything!” Della cries, her fingers trying to pry mine away. “You were at the scene of every murder! That’s not a coincidence!” “I never hurt anybody! ” “There’s nobody else on this ship!” “ Please, I never killed anybody here! I know it looks bad, but you should have seen--!” “He’s a fucking kid!” “Something else is on this ship--!” “Nobody else is on this ship!” “Will you fucking listen to me?!” A sudden, firm crack snaps everything to silence again. Della’s head falls limply to the side as I pull away my shaking, bloody hands. I stare at them numbly for several seconds. I killed someone. A strangled cry escapes me. I killed someone. Bile burns up my throat and joins the blood on the floor. I killed someone. “That makes my job easier,” says a voice behind me. I turn around, my body heavy and slow, as if all of its energy has been sucked dry. My eyes climb upwards past the figure’s distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt to its face. Tousled black hair falls messily over his hazel eyes. I bring a shaking hand up from my bloody distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt and push my tousled black hair out of my hazel eyes. “Such a shame you couldn’t fix that broken corner sooner,” says the figure in my voice, “because it was a perfect entryway to your ship.” “Who are you?” I manage. My copy grins and answers, “I’m you , and just like you, I’m looking for a new place to reside.” My copy holds up a blood-covered knife in his hand. “I quite like your form. I would have just killed you, but then there’d be witnesses, and with witnesses comes... inconveniences.” The cold blade of the knife rests against my throat. “After all, there’s only room for one of us on that new planet,” he sneers. My body snaps into motion before my mind does, and I find myself sprinting up the corridor. My copy shouts at me as I swing into the control room and barricade the door. Before me is a long, white control panel covered in buttons and little screens all set up for the ship to deliver its passengers to the new planet. I frantically search the room for something, anything to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I resort to my own fists. My bloody fists smash navigation screens and snap buttons out of place. They tear apart wires and wreck carefully installed instructions. Alarms scream in my ears as I seize the emergency steering wheel and slam down the speed pedal. In an instant, the ship shoots off through the stars and streaks through the black nothingness of space. My copy bangs on the door, demanding to know what I’m thinking, veering so wildly off course. The ship’s energy sputters out, halting it to a sudden stop and flinging me to the ground. The lights flicker out as we drift into the void. My copy stabs at the door. I pull my communicator out of my pocket-- the screen is cracked, but the screen lights up when I pick it up. A shaking finger holds down the recording button as I take one deep breath. “My dear Evelyn, Aniyah, Colton, I’m so sorry. I must break my promise to you. Something happened, and I had to veer off course. I won’t be seeing you on the new planet. Please do not call anybody for me, for the safety of humanity depends on it. I’m so sorry to leave you. Colton, don’t give up on your dreams as an artist because I know you can make it. Aniyah, keep persisting with acting, no matter how hard it gets, because I know you will one day dazzle the silver screen. Evelyn, my dearest Evelyn, don’t waste away your life. Go out and do everything you’ve ever wanted to do. I’m so sorry it has to end like this, but I am doing this for you. I love you all. I will never stop loving you. One day, we will be together again. Until then...goodbye.” The recording ends. Two clicks send it off with perfect timing. The lock snaps off the door, and my copy’s sinister smile is my final sight as his knife plunges through my heart.


Jody was sitting in the very back of the theater, as he usually did. Even in a packed theater, not many people would elect to sit in the back row if there are other seats available. And that practically guaranteed that there would be a whole row of empty seats for him to choose from. Jody valued his personal space. He didn’t have many friends. The kids at school didn’t know anything about him or his family. Even to his teachers, Jody Teller was an enigma. And that’s how he preferred to keep it. The house lights dimmed and the previews began to play. And all the standard noises soon followed. The sounds of muffled conversations, ringing cellphones that people had neglected to silence, patrons munching on handfuls of popcorn or tearing open bags of candy. Jody was very observant for his age. And what he observed was a young man, sitting by himself in the sixth row, glancing periodically over his shoulder in Jody’s direction. At first, Jody thought he was waiting for somebody. But as the previews concluded and the title of the film flashed across the screen, it became obvious that the man was alone. And he had his eyes set on Jody. He could almost sense what the man was thinking. The man saw a young kid sitting by himself in a dark theater, no parental supervision, nobody to protect him. He saw an easy target, weak and vulnerable. Jody was a short and scrawny ten-year-old boy, with a ruddy complexion, copper colored hair, and a smattering of golden brown freckles across his rosy cheeks. He wasn’t big or strong, but he wasn’t as vulnerable or naïve as the man silently predicted. As a loner, he was very aware of his surroundings at all times, and he knew how to look after himself, watch his own back. He waited thirty minutes, then abandoned his popcorn and soda and slipped out of the dark theater, hoping to avoid the man that had been watching him. He got three blocks away from theater when a white panel van pulled up beside him. The passenger window rolled down and the driver leaned over. Jody recognized the driver as the man from the theater. Jody started to take note of his features. He was a Caucasian male, dark curly hair, about two hundred and thirty pounds give or take. It was hard to determine his height while he was sitting behind the wheel, but Jody estimated he was about 5’10, maybe 5’11. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. No wedding ring or jewelry of any kind. “Hey, do you need a ride?” the man asked, flashing a benevolent smile. Jody remained silent, studying the man, sizing him up. “Hop in. I’ll take you home if that’s where you’re heading. It sure beats walking.” “Sorry, I don’t know you,” he said. “You’re a smart kid. My dad always warned me not to take rides from strangers when I was your age. My name is Todd. What’s your name?” “Jody,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation. “Well, now we’re not strangers anymore. See how easy that was? Come on, kid. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just hate to see you walking by yourself. This isn’t the nicest neighborhood.” He glanced up at the cloudy sky and added, “Looks like it’s about to rain any minute. You don’t want to get caught in the rain, do you?” Jody shook his head. “So hop in. I’ll give you a lift home. And if you’ve got a sweet tooth, I have plenty of candy. Do you like butterscotch?” Jody considered his options. Then he shrugged internally and thought, *what the hell? Why not?* The man leaned over again to open the door and Jody climbed into the passenger seat and accepted a few individually wrapped butterscotches from the man. He unwrapped one and sucked on it, grinning from ear to ear. His parents would be so proud of him. They would eat well tonight. He had to stop himself from licking his lips in anticipation. They would pick his bones clean, then grind them to dust. Nothing would be left for the police to find. Not that they would look. The cops never looked too hard for people like Todd. Nobody would miss him. The boy slipped one hand in his pocket and felt around until his fingers found the syringe. A quick injection was all it would take. Then the man would sleep forever. It wouldn’t even hurt. Well, maybe just a little. They drove in silence for ten minutes. Jody paid close attention to all the street signs as he enjoyed his butterscotch. The man took a sharp right turn into a wide alleyway and the van came to a stop. He waited for the man to remove the keys from the ignition. Then he pulled the syringe from his pocket and stuck the needle into the man’s neck, pressing down on the plunger. The contents of the syringe coursed through his bloodstream and he was dead in under a minute. Jody took out his cell phone and made a call. It rang twice before his dad picked up. “Hey, dad. I’ve got another one. I’m in the alley by the corner of Essex and Dewitt, in a white van. I need you to come pick me up. And make sure you have enough room in your trunk.