My face was numb. "I...guess this is it." He said. The skies were dark. Eternal dawn without the Sun. With the only truth being pity and sadness that the truth will forever be beyond us. And our forever was about to begin. "Yes. Maybe it is." A mellow song played by the failing stereos. Both of us slacked on the floor, listening to what would probably be the last song. The ironic melody. "Was it worth the wait?" "I'm not sure. All I know is that the wait would be over soon." I sighed, reminiscing moments of my vain life. How free it was, how loved, lonely. But none of it mattered anymore. In fact, none of it mattered at all in the first place. But the memories of it do paint a smile on my face. Perhaps that's what he's chuckling about as well. "That's a nice thought." He said, weakly brushing the crumbs off his beard. "So, what happens now?" "The wait. It shouldn't be too long." I replied, taking gulps out of my beer. Eyes red and wet, his face struggled not to crumble into pieces. "I..." With his voice struggling to come out between breaths, he spoke. "I wish I married. Argh. I wish I lived some more! Laughed some more! Cried! Loved! I never thought...If I knew, I would've...hah!!" The song played on through his pleas. Pity, once again. I pitied him and him too, no one else. And that spoke volumes of how contradictory we were. Of how people, was. "...I guess that's all too late now." He added. We shared tears. It made no sense, all of this. But it felt that much more. "Maybe you did. Could've. But you'll still say the same things at this point." I saw his pain as our eyes met, I knew it. Because I also struggled with regrets. At the end of time At the end of the world. At the end of all things. There is truth and deceit. "But if it happened, it happened. Why does it have to mean anything?" I asked myself the same way I asked him. He seemed to understand despite the lack of context. Nonsense. It's the core of us all. --I watch them grow They'll learn much more Than I'll ever know-- Terrible song. It's a waste listening to such a tune in the already rickety bass. Our silent weeping didn't play well with it too, but it was comforting in a sense. "Although, I am thankful. For most of it." "Some times, huh. At least we'll have the coolest way to go." Sorrow turned to laughter, but it was grief nonetheless. As pain sowed in both of us, there was little left to resist. I just wish it all ends before we break. "Makes you wonder. How long would we have lived?" He jests, opening another can from the pile we'd gathered. Like death-row inmates. "It'd suck. I'm sure. Old age is overrated, but the experience never fails. Except for beer. If you experience beer too much, you'll be stopped." We broke out in laughter once again. I am tired. Tired. My soul was exhausted from knowing too much. It made ignorance seem so luxurious, so sweet. If I didn't know that the world was about to end, would I have faired better? Stop it. "I don't think anyone's ever passed painlessly." He continued blabbering. Silence descended upon us as the song was interrupted by the power outage. Reality turned grey and cold, it felt alone. And it was fueling the madness consuming us. No. I closed my eyes and found myself praying with whatever semblance of faith I had. Save me from this nightmare. Save us, please. But saving, what is saving? What happens when we're saved? How is saving what stops this? Don't venture there. It's dangerous. The song blurs back on one last time. --what a wonderful world. I was stunned. Nothing came on after that. "As the songs of the dead fill the space of my mind." He sang, slowed, and tone-deaf. Or at least he tried to. But the following words never came out. Hope is a dirty thing. It's a drug. The most addictive one at that. Nothing could destroy and rebuild a person over and over more than hope, and it is not something that anyone can control. This is the byproduct of sentience. A side-effect of the wonderful. For the universe is not a machine. It is flawed, designed for oblivion. We are part of the aimless process and that makes us think of a relevant future. Of a higher purpose, a madness that's run rampant throughout history. How conceited. How meaningful. My thoughts stray towards happier times. Feelings that filled me with warmth. It drove my questions away. Though stupid as that may be, I was thankful from the bottom of my heart. Was this how he felt? My spirit was at peace once more. I was also startled by how easily I settled. "I suppose the whole of life is an act of letting go." I said, content. He grins. "Yeah. A wonderful world it is." My face felt numb at those words. A prickling feeling washed over me as a low hum could be heard from the distance. "Yes." I smiled, the happiest I've been.


“But you’re...” “You would have thought so.” “But.. How?” He smiled at her, his gorgeous crooked smile, she’d always loved. She was in too much shock to smile back. She just stood there doing an impression of a goldfish. Bob, Bob, Bob. “You’re going to catch a fly” He said, still grinning triumphantly. She fought to regain her senses. “You are going to explain, right?”She wanted to reach out to touch him, make sure he was really there and not just a dream. But, she was too afraid. He tilted his head and frowned, his face darkened for a second in memory. “I don’t know how to begin.” He said simply “The beginning.” She blurted “OK, well I got up to take a leak...” He began I got up to take a leak. It was so dark I could barely see. I always thought in the middle of no where with no light pollution the nights were supposed to be lighter. I was wrong. I put my hands out like a blind man feeling my way around. Then my foot hit a rock or a root, Something. I went A over T. Cut my bloody knee and face. Literally bloody hole in jeans and everything. That’s when I gave up and put the torch on my phone on. Night sight be damned!, I’m telling you, Pirates had the right idea with their eye patches. I hadn’t wanted to disturb you, before. So I left the torch off, I know how lightly you sleep. Anyways, I digress. I walked with my torch for awhile. I should have stayed nearer the tent, I know I should have now, but that’s what hindsight is for, I guess. Then I saw a road with bushes lining the other side so I went there. I shouldn’t have gone so far but I really didn’t want to disturb you. I can’t express that enough. I was zipping up when a jeep came along the road, It flashed me and I waved. It stopped, I thought they were just checking up on me, making sure I wasn’t lost or something. Then 2 guys got out, grabbed me and threw me into the back. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I was so scared Claire, more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. If I hadn’t of just had a slash, I would have had one in my jeans. They drove off with me to a warehouse. They threw me in a cage, just left me there for days, I think. I lost track of time. They gave me food and water, but that was the only kindness they showed me. Then I made a daring escape, just like in the movies. And, now I’m here ta-da!! “But you’ve been gone for months, declared dead! I grieved for you, Mat! I grieved and I cried, I went to 2 memorials for you, candle light vigils, search parties. The works.” Mat opened his mouth to speak but Claire held up a finger, now she had found her voice she needed to be heard. “You can’t just come back with a pretty little story and a ta-da, and expect everything to be OK, you can’t, you just can’t” Claire’s voice had gotten higher and higher during this speech and she broke down in tears at the end of it. Mat rushed over and held her, sobbing into his arms. They stood like that until Claire had calmed down, she looked up at his face, he really was back. “Tell me what happened for you?” Claire shook her head “Do you really want to know?” “Yes.” He said gently staring into her eyes. She closed her eyes and nodded “OK” I woke up and you weren’t there. I was scared. I lay in the dark, It was so quiet. I listened to faint hoots, I could hear things scurrying around. But, I couldn’t hear you. I must have fallen back asleep because then next thing I knew it was morning and you were still missing. I waited for over an hour, then I went looking. I found the blood. So much blood, it seemed to me. I ran to the nearest town and got help. They launched a search party. They found your phone near the road, it must have fallen out of your pocket. The police said you had been kidnapped or just left me behind and gone off, I knew you hadn’t. I stayed an extra week but my money was running out and the trail had gone cold. You had disappeared. I had to go home, without you. I’d gone on every search party while I was there. When I got home there were candle light vigils for you, the Church held a special service for your safe return. Everyone was worried about you, I got some odd looks and comments that some people thought I’d killed you! Then they found a burned out jeep with a body in it, your blood was in it too. They said the body was you! No one saw it, they wouldn’t send it here, we had an empty box funeral for you. Good turn out by the way. I was inconsolable. I wanted to join you. I ended up in hospital twice, I spent a week in the nutty hospital on suicide watch. I was a mess. I’ve only just got my med’s right to control myself. “And now you just stand there, like you just went to get the morning paper.” She smiled through her tears. The trauma of the past few months reflected in them. Mat held her close, tears in his eyes too. “Who know’s you are back?” Claire asked “I had to find you first.” He replied. She leaned against him again. “We should tell your mam, she’s been having a tough time of it too.” she felt him nod his head on top of hers. He was back. It was real. Miracles do happen


“Fly by the Seat of Your Pants and Write a Story Without a Plan.” - Reedsy Reedsy, you don’t know what you are asking me to do. I don’t know what I am doing, which is a definite drawback to good writing. With no plan, I am like James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause,” running around and getting into trouble. Well, you asked for it. Just remember, this was not my idea. The problem with flying by the seat of my pants and writing a story without a plan is I don’t know what to write about. It’s not that there is a lack of subjects. There are plenty of topics - too many of them. I will go through them in my mind, one by one. One by one, I reject every idea that comes into my head. This one requires too much research, so I won’t have time to write this story in the one week I am given. That one has already been covered by other writers, and I don’t have a fresh enough approach to make my version worth reading. Another one is not funny enough. Okay, this isn’t getting me anywhere. That’s obvious. So what do I do now? I know. I’ll watch TV. Maybe something there will inspire me. If not, I can at least be entertained while I put off sitting down and writing something. There must be a marathon of “Law and Order” on cable somewhere. If not “Law and Order,” “Criminal Minds” is a good bet. The problem with “Criminal Minds,” though, is that it grosses me out. I haven’t been able to handle the show since that episode where they were dealing with necrophilia. So “Criminal Minds” is out. “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” is a possibility, but that deals with rape, another upsetting subject. I settle on watching old sitcoms on the Antenna TV channel. It’s tedious but safe. I think about the sink and stove full of dishes left over from when I was cooking my dinner. Now there’s something to write about - the awful, unpleasant chore of washing dishes by hand because you don’t have a dishwasher. I’ve found a perfect subject upon which to build an unplanned story. It’s full of frustration, mess, toil, and misery, and it doesn’t get any better. Unfortunately, both dirty pans are nonstick ones, and the one plate, one bowl, one cutting board, and a few pieces of silverware are equally easy to wash. In no time, with minimal effort, I am finished with the job, and my erstwhile dirty dishes are neatly stacked on the drying rack. So much for that. I go back to the computer and stare at the screen, hoping that something will appear on it that will inspire me to write a masterpiece. I click on a couple of things, and all I get are advertisements that stall the computer and force me to turn it off and back on again. This is a great way to consume time, but it doesn’t help me with my writing. It takes my old, slow computer several minutes to come back on and bring up everything that has to come up in the beginning. Instead of opening Word and trying to write something, I decide to play a game of Simple Word Search. This is one of those free games. I am a wet blanket when it comes to computer games, and I refuse to play anything that costs any money. I have played Simple Word Search so much that I have become an expert. I like games where I win most of the time, and this is one of them. Five games of Simple Word Search later, I decide to play a game of Simple Mahjong. Again, this is a free game; I have played it so much that I am pretty good at it. It’s one of those games that make the player feel smart. Sometimes I need to feel smart, this time being one of them. I play four games of Simple Mahjong, which convinces me that I am some kind of genius, even if I can’t even come up with a usable subject to write about. Life has a funny way of interjecting itself into our procrastination. My conscience bothers me, and I shut down the Mahjong game and bring up Word. The blank page taunts me. “You think you’re a writer?” it seems to say. “You’re a fake, an amateur. You’ll never win any contests and never get any books published. You’re a loser.” For a blank page on a computer screen, it’s pretty talkative. “Shut up!” I say to the blank page. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I have reached the point where I am talking to a computer screen. I heave a big sigh, sit back in my computer chair, hit the chair arms with my hands, and shake my head. I am determined to win this silly game of spiritual chicken with my mind, but I don’t yet have a strategy. I decide to take a nap, hoping that a good temporary sleep will rest my mind and help me in my endeavor to overcome its reluctance to think of something worthwhile. I set my iPhone alarm to ring an hour from now and lie down on my bed. The piercing alarm wakes me up an hour later. I was having a lively dream about being chased through the streets of my neighborhood by giant, bloodstained letters of the alphabet that refused to form into words. I am happy to wake up from that dream but as mentally barren as ever. I get up, walk to the computer, sit down, stare at the blank screen, and stick my tongue out. At that point, I have an epiphany. I have a story! Why didn’t I think of this before? I can write about my struggle to write! Why not? There are a beginning, a middle, and an end. If that isn’t a story, what is? I finally begin to type, and the words come tumbling out of my head like water in a waterfall. I’m a writer again! Blank page, you are no longer blank, and you no longer taunt me with your cruel words! The result is the story you just read. I hope you enjoyed it; it took a lot out of me.


For the first time in centuries, Eradon could not bring himself to clean the blood from his sword. He didn’t let the armorers stop him at the gate. A purple ooze dripped from his chest plate and onto the stone where he walked. The sunlight, limited to him, felt warm against his skin, and the air pure to breathe compared to the vileness of the Abyss. He filled his lungs as deep as he could with every breath, knowing soon he would have to go back. He made his way to the Resting Point. His sword, a weapon forged from the stars, scraped against the stone behind him. It left a trail of ethereal sparks the color of celestial clouds. He dragged his sword until stopping at the three statues where he would soon become the fourth, resting for a decade, then waking after the years to fight once more. The other Starforged Knights who arrived before him now posed as statues. Tela had her arm raised, sword pointed toward the sky. Her skin glowed with the essence of the galaxy. It wouldn’t be possible to awake her until the creatures of the Abyss returned. Aiken stood beside her, frozen in time with his blade in mid-swing. His hair spilling out from his helmet changed from a garnet red to a cerulean blue. Along with his armor, it rotated through the aesthetic allure of the galaxies' colors. Wymond, behind the two, knelt with his sword held over his shoulder. Eradon approached. He would take his place among them and pose for the sake of the people, who would visit from across nations to see the statues that their saviors had become. Every ten years, when he returned from battle, there used to be thousands of visitors. They would bow, cheer, and parade for the Starforged. They would fill the town square, sitting on rooftops and crowding the streets as far as he could see. People would reach out for the Starforged Knights as they passed by. Rumors had it a touch from one could bring eternal luck. Now, apart from a few armorers, the town square didn’t hold a soul. Eradon stopped before taking his place. No. He would not stand with them. He would not become a statue. This time he would finally be free. “Era,” a voice spoke behind him. He turned to face the fifth member of the Starforged. Kyoka stood with her armor shining, helmet held under her arm. Sunlight gleamed off of her silver hair. “You threatened the armorers. Why would you walk coated in the blood of our enemies? You will worry the people if you rest like that.” “I don’t see any now,” Eradon said. A pool of purple blood, as slick as oil, grew beneath him. He stared up at the statues as he spoke--he would not become one of them this time. “They stopped holding parades for us ages ago. They use us, Kyoka. We’re tools to them. We’re shackled in an endless war they refuse to aid us in.” “They are not shackles, brother,” she walked to approach him, her Starforged armor clicking against the stone. “We do what mankind can not. Cease this foolishness and remember your honor-” “I’m leaving, Kyoka.” She stopped. Her helmet slipped from her grasp and hit the stone. She turned to the other Starforged who couldn’t help her--they would be stuck in time until the next battle. In the abandoned town square, only the two sentient knights remained. “We were human once,” Eradon continued, “were we not? Over the thousands of our battles, I’ve forgotten who I was. I've forgotten why the Starforged chose me for this duty. Yet, I know now that I regret taking this blade." He held the sword in front of him and stared into its depth. An endless pattern of cosmic dust flowed across its surface. “I regret now the life I’ve chosen, being stuck in this endless loop of fighting and resting. I yearn for freedom. A stop to this madness. Today I take my leave and make my own choices.” “Era, if you renounce that blade you will wither away.” Kyoka placed a hand on his shoulder, “please, come rest. We will forget this conversation happened and we’ll continue in our duty of keeping mankind safe. It is not about the parades they throw us or the stories they’ll write, it is about honor-” “To damnation with honor! Tell me, Kyoka, are we saviors, or are we prisoners? Are we knights, or are we the pawns of humanity?” Eradon turned to her and removed his helmet. He dropped it to the stone. “Are we following the path of honor, or are we following the path of the insane?” She stepped back. A gust of wind blew past and hair flowed with it. “Speak none of this,” she said, “in time, humanity will find a way to purge the creatures of the Abyss. Our fight shall be over soon, my brother. We need to hold out until their research can end this war once and for all. They need time and we fight for it!” Eradon laughed. Broken noises of exasperated gasps. The first time he had laughed in centuries. “Don’t speak to me of time, for it has been an eternity .” He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and brought it down against the stone. It broke into the rock with an explosion of astral light. Tremors shook the ground, and cracks in the earth trailed out in snaking patterns. Ethereal sparks flew off the sword until the patterns on it faded, becoming still, a static image of the stars. The Starforged blade rested in the stone, awaiting the next chosen. Eradon had renounced his bond. The strength imbued to him faded, his shoulder plates now heavy. His agility vanished, and he no longer felt light on his feet. His balance left him, and he swayed from side to side, falling his knees, waiting for his skin to wither to dust. He waited for the thousands of years he had laid dormant to catch up to him. Kyoka watched in horror, yet nothing happened other than the constant drip of the violet blood off of Eradon’s armor. He stood and he smiled. Freedom . A life he could pave as his own--one no longer stuck in an eternal loop of rest and battle. “Eradon!” Kyoka called, “you can not leave us! We need you or we will fall in battle, the creatures will overwhelm us without you! Mankind will not last a day with your absence and it will cause an apocalypse!” “So be it,” he said. “They’ve had their chance to help and I’ve served my sentence. Nothing you say will convince me to pick up that dreaded blade once more. Either you let me walk, or you kill me, sister.” She turned to the Resting Point. “There’s no honor in murder,” she said, “you’ve abandoned and condemned us all.” For the first time in centuries, Eradon walked a free man. He turned back to see Kyoka take her place as a statue, her face a twisted look of fear. In a decade the Starforged would awake as four instead of five, and they would fight a battle they could not win. So be it.


A man begins filming with his phone. Dressed in security uniform, the night guard had a grumpy look on his face. "Oh sh\*t, it's recording." He exclaimed with an accent so Russian that almost every word he said sounded like vodka. He tries to fix the shot to capture himself, ultimately settling with his face covering the entire screen. "Every night. At this time of night. This office gets infested. What is infesting it? Rats? Insects? No, no." The Guard walks over to the Meeting Room. He pans the camera over as he approached the door, which violently swings open. "You see that?" He says, completely deadpan to what was certainly paranormal activity. He then enters and turns on the lights, revealing three women standing in the far corner. They were eerily pale. Bloody lips and hollow eyes stared directly at the man, still and silent. "What the f\*ck are you staring at? And how many times I tell you not to slam the door, huh?" The lights flicker. A moment later the women vanish. The Guard sighs, looking at all the floating chairs. "You see? This not my fault but I get paycut? Bullsh\*t!" He continued ranting as he fixed the chairs back down. The lights kept flickering but he seemed unconcerned, cursing under his breath. "I don't get paid for this." The Guard switches off the lights and closes the door as if it was all part of his routine. "And now I'll show you the Director's Office. Hey man, after I show you this, you better give me raise." This time, he opens the door and switches the lights on. Small shadows scattered back behind furniture, leaving behind absolute chaos in the room. Cabinets were open, files crumpled, and the pens were stuck on the wall. The matted floor was littered with tiny balls of excrement and piss that had a terrible stench. "Ahh, I know you see that. Messy but no burglars, sir. Just Gremlins. I am very professional security, no one can break-in." The recording captures everything. He sniffs around and retches, coughing a few times. A crowd of mischievous and high-pitched laughter could be heard. A number of tiny shadows with glowing eyes were peeking at the Guard. The room seemed to darken as they multiplied. "Oh, you think that's funny? How about I bring my cat here after burning you all with water?" He cackled in protest, mocking the tiny creatures. They flee. A round of screams and whispers of fear filled the room. "Oi! You clean all this sh\*t up. I give you all cookie. I know you like cookie. But if you don't fix this, I bring firehose." The Guard shuts the door, keeping the lights on. He checks the time before making sure that the phone was still recording. "Gremlins are not bad. But they are more annoying than my mother-in-law. They are the ones who keep hiding your credit cards mister Director, sir. If you give me higher raise, I guarantee they bother you no more." He had gone through his bag, retrieving a pack of Oreos. The Director's Office was quite loud when he'd arrived. Putting his hand on the handle, he silently counts while looking at his watch. Just before the mark, he enters. Spotless. The office was cleaner than it was after the janitors left. "Very good. Sometimes cookie don't work. Sometimes they want money like little hookers." He narrated to the camera while leaving a quarter on the desk. The Guard left the room with the lights on, double-checking the locks before he moved on. Then he stops on his tracks. "It's Thursday. That idiot will be here again." This time, he exits the building. Nothing was spoken for a while as he walked to the nearby shore. With a flashlight in hand, he arrives at a lifeguard post and finds a megaphone and a key. "I know I'm abandoning my post but that's temporary and you'll see why I have to do this." He pulls out a half-full bottle of vodka from underneath the bench. "I am not drinking on job because I am outside premises." The soft calm of the waves stopped and the streetlights dimmed. An eerie silence engulfs the beach as it was plunged into darkness. The water retreats. Loud and rhythmic hums caused patterns in the dancing sand. Followed by heavy thuds and the sound of waterfalls. Clouds parted and stars shifted to the colossus moving in the distance as if drawn by its presence. The megaphone whined. With the key, the Guard lazily turns on the spotlight that he'd set up especially for this occasion. And there it was. A monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind. The creature was so terrible to behold that it destroys the sanity of those who lay their eyes on its form. It was an eldritch god. "OI, SH\*THEAD! IF YOU FLOOD THE SHORES AGAIN WITH THAT SLEEPWALKING BULLSH\*T OF YOURS, I SWEAR TO F\*CKING GOD." The eldritch god flinched. It looked around, confused. And then it waved at the Guard. Seemingly embarrassed. As the Lovecraftian creature descended once more to the depths, the world returned to normal. Just as the Guard came down from the post, however, the waves came rushing in. That night, a flurry of curses that would've made the devil cry was heard. "As you can see, I have to do this so that you can still have an office and I would have a job. Pretty good, ah?" He explained to the camera, which was the only thing left dry. "My shift today is almost done. Later I need to get silver bullets for the full moon. Consider company insurance, please." He lights a cigar whilst getting out of his soaked garments, revealing a bear-like bod. "Oh, and my raise. I want raise. Give me raise. If you don't give me raise..." He puffs out a ring of smoke whilst checking if his gun was also wet, looking at the camera with his grumpy expression while cocking the pistol. "Enjoy the next 24 hours." The recording comes to an end.


“Don’t you remember?” Moon whispered, leaning against the wall of mirrors as he and Yujun stood alone in the corner of the room. Their bandmates were goofing off all over the rest of the dance studio space while their manager, Q, fiddled angrily with the stereo. It had been hiccuping all day long, keeping the boys from running their choreography properly for the three or four hours they had already spent there that day. The boys didn’t seem to mind though, taking the time to play cards, write, draw or, in Yujun’s case, read. (Although, if he hadn’t been so angry with Moon they probably would have been off doing something more ... fun ). Yujun flipped a page in his book, pretending not to pay Moon much mind. The boy hated to ignore Moon, but he was far too stubborn to just let things go. He was still angry at the boy, and had been giving him little to no interaction for a couple of days at that point. But make no mistake, he was listening, and his curiosity as to what the boy was talking about got the better of him. “Remember what?” Yujun asked flippantly, not looking up from his novel. Moon knew exactly what game they were playing, and edged closer toward the boy, almost cornering him, to apply pressure to their conversation. He had gotten Yujun to acknowlege him at last, so his confidence was already rising. “Last year,” Moon explained in that low, husky voice he knew Yujun adored, “We kissed for the first time in this room. In fact, it’ll be exactly a year in three days.” Yujun tried to remain stonefaced but hearing the other boy admit he remembered exactly what day the two of them had gotten together made the sides of his mouth turn up into a smile. Moon saw this and smiled himself, inching even closer, knowing he had earned a point in their game of verbal ping pong. Yujun could feel Moon's breath against the side of his mouth, and turned his face slightly toward Moon against his better judgement. “There he is,” Moon muttered, in that same voice that made Yujun melt, their lips brushing as he spoke. Yujun immediately felt his stance start to crumble, and let his eyes flutter closed as he prepared himself for Moon to close the space between them. He didn’t though, instead he snatched the book out of Yujun’s hands and grinned like an overgrown child. Yujun hated to admit he loved this playful side of Moon, especially because he was still trying to be mad at him. “You must think I’m easy, Yu,” Moon practically giggled, dangling the book in front of a blushing Yujun. The boy promptly snagged his book back, rolling his eyes as he tried to mentally cool his face off. This never worked, of course, and Moon grinned with pride. “Not easy , just stupid ,” Yujun said coldly, sliding his back down the mirror wall to sit on the floor. He shook his head as he went back to his book, scooting away from Moon as he sat down next to where Yujun was reading as well. Q smacked his fist against the stereo in frustration, letting out a few swears while he was at it. The boys all stopped and looked up in the direction of the loud bang and string of explitives. Q sighed, giving into the plans of the broken stereo, and told them they were dismissed for an hour lunch. The other four boys stampeeded toward the door, their sneakers squeaking against the flooring as they went, a parade of gray sweats and perfectly done hair disappearing into the hallway. Kai, the eldest member of their group, paused at the door and looked toward Moon and Yujun. “You guys coming?” He asked with a smile, holding the door for a moment. Even though he knew the two boys probably wanted their alone time, he never hesitated to make sure they knew they were always invited to get lunch, or do really anything, with the group. Moon shook his head, pointing to the two boys’ bags in the corner of the studio, “We brought our own. Thanks, though.” “Got it,” Kai said with a knowing look, giving Moon a subtle thumbs up (knowing he was in the dog house) as he bounded after the other boys down the hallway, the studio door closing behind him with a metallic thud. As Q went after the others, he grumbled something about the stereo, obviously irate that their day was pretty much shot. Moon and Yujun were finally left alone. This was some of the only alone time they got together when they were preparing for a new release. When it wasn’t choreo practice, it was a photo shoot, or media training, or filming a music video. Which, Moon knew, was the root of Yujun’s disapproval. Moon brought their lunches out of their bags and set them out, turning to face the boy fully where they sat cross-legged on the floor. “You’re not still mad about the shoot are you?” Moon questioned in his serious voice, opening up his lunch box. Yujun snapped his book shut and set it aside, avoiding Moon’s eyes as he opened up his lunch box as well. Where Yujun didn’t speak with words, he always spoke with actions. Moon had learned this quickly once the boys became an item. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Moon sighed meekly, taking a bite of some left over pizza the boys had ordered from the night before. He would have gotten a beautiful handmade lunch of rice and fixins, but when Yujun was mad he only packed lunch for himself. Moon didn’t much mind the pizza, but he loved when Yujun would pack his lunch. He would always write him notes and give him things like cucumbers punched from a heart shaped cookie cutter. It wasn’t the food itself, but the sentiment behind it that Moon always missed dearly when he was on Yujun’s bad side. Yujun pushed around the rice in his box with a pair of chopsticks, staring down at the food with sad eyes, not feeling very hungry at all. He had eaten his own lunch this morning for breakfast. What sat in front of him was meant for Moon, love note taped to the bottom and all. Moon leaned forward and touched the boy’s knee warmly, seeing the emotion on his face even as he tried to hide it. “Just talk to me,” Moon whispered, squeezing Yujun’s leg affectionately. That’s all it took for Yujun to tumble like a tower of cards. “You were flirting with her,” Yujun said quietly, embarrassed by his own jealousy, “The model they hired for the music video. You two were flirting the whole time , and you didn’t have to be so touchy with her.” Moon shook his head gently, “Yu, look at me.” Yujun reluctantly lifted his head, his cheeks freshly blushed again, his eyes glossy with tears he was ashamed to admit were close to falling. He was always the more emotional of the two, often crying when they would have arguments or disagree. Moon was much more rational and level-headed. They balanced one another out in a way. “Don’t cry,” Moon whispered, taking one of the boy’s hands into his own, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I was just trying to be nice to her. I don’t even like girls like that.” “Well, you sure had me fooled. You were certainly being nice,” Yujun said as his bottom lip quivered and his voice began to waver. He sniffled to try and stifle his tears, looking down at their hands as Moon’s thumb gently carressed his skin. Even as he watched the boy hold onto his hand, the fear that one day he might not want to do that anymore swirled in Yujun’s head like a tornado, whisking all of his rational thinking up into his storm of emotions. “I’m sorry,” Moon repeated, his eyes soft as he looked at Yujun. “You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” Yujun nodded his head slowly. This was always what Moon said when he meant ‘I love you.’ Yujun assumed he just wasn’t ready to say it yet, and he tried to respect that. He was already worried enough about scaring the boy away, or somehow losing him. He didn’t want to pressure Moon into anything, even though his avoidance of the phrase sometimes made Yujun’s mind race with doubt. “Love you, too,” Yujun said softly, his voice stabalizing as a single tear dropped down his cheek. Moon pushed their lunches to the side and got up onto his knees, inching over to the boy. Yujun met him half way, wrapping his arms around Moon so they were flush chest to chest. They embraced, holding one another like fragile doves. Yujun’s fingers softly traced along Moon’s shoulder blade, and down his back through his t-shirt as they kneeled on the floor. As he calmed his tears, Yujun breathed in Moon’s familair rosemary and mint aroma. When Yujun pulled his head back from Moon's shoulder the boy leaned in to kiss him, and Yujun leaned back into his inviting warmth. Their lips moving together, they once again felt the air go stiff with electricity. Each time they kissed it reaffirmed what they already knew; this was special. Moon pulled back and started dusting kisses all over Yujun’s face, finally making the boy laugh. Yujun tried to fight him off to no avail, Moon wrestling him to the floor in the process. The boy pinned Yujun’s arms over his head, straddling his waist with ease. While the two boys were similar in size and stature, Moon was much stronger than the other boy, and held him down without struggle. “Have I ever told you how pretty you look like this?” Moon smirked, leaning down to nuzzle his face against Yujun’s neck. The boy squirmed, giggling as Moon’s warm breath and wet lips touched his skin. “Get off of me!” Yujun protested through laughter, his face flushed pink, a smile spreading across his lips. “This is what you get for not making my lunch,” Moon warned playfully, planting a soft kiss against Yujun’s collarbone. Both boys gasped, their eyes snapping toward the door as they saw the bright white light of a camera flash go off in the studio. Only then did they notice the crack in the door. It had never quite closed flush. The two scrambled to their feet as they heard the footsteps of the voyeur retreat quickly down the hallway. Just as Moon reached the door, throwing it open, he saw the woman jog out of the building. She was wearing a badge that displayed a news outlet logo. Fuck. “A fan?” Yujun asked with an anxious expression on his face, standing just behind Moon as he stared down the hallway. “I don’t think so,” Moon sighed, his expression hard to read, “looked like she was a journalist.” --- It didn’t take but 12 hours for the footage and photos of them to surface online. Before the group knew it, the boys were headlining every major magazine and news outlet. Their private moment was out there for everyone to see. A strange, violated feeling crept over them and wouldn’t go away. Q sat down with the two the next day and spoke about where to go from there, especially since the entire group was going to be promoting their new album in just a few days time. They had two options; deny that the footage was them or that it meant anything, or tell the world what was really going on. The boys spoke almost exclusively about what they should do the days leading up to the release of their new music, which would also mean the beginning of their press run and promotions. Yujun just wanted to be honest. He knew lying wouldn’t make anybody’s accusations go away, anyway. They might as well just come out and say it, as scary as that seemed. Moon wasn’t so sure of the whole situation. He flipped back and forth quite a lot over the course of the days they discussed the topic. This was definitely concerning for Yujun, although he could understand the hesitation because of the ramifications of what was to come if they told the truth. Their entire group could be shunned, ruining not only their own careers but the careers of their bandmates who over the years had become like family to them. Reassuringly, though, all of their team, including Q, were very supportive of them finally coming out if that’s what they chose to do. But at the end of the day, Yujun told Moon to do whatever he felt most comfortable with. He knew he would be able to deal with either outcome and, since Moon seemed to be the most troubled, wanted him to make the decision. As they got ready for their first performance three days after the leaking of their studio kisses, Yujun could feel everyone was a bit on edge. Even their makeup artists and stylists were quieter than usual. He knew this was because Moon wasn’t himself. He hadn’t been since everything happened. While he was usually the one goofing around the most, cracking jokes and playing pranks, he sat on his own in their dressing room and stared off at the wall. Yujun thought about going over to see if he was okay, but didn’t want to put any extra stress onto him before their first performance. So, for the most part, everyone kept to themselves. It hadn’t been that silent before a show since their debut performance years and years earlier. Yujun couldn’t help but feel responsible. When they finally walked out onto the stage a little while later they were greeted by cheers from some of their fans, but an odd energy coming from the crowd overall. They seemed to be analyzing the boys much more than usual, waiting to see if any of them gave anything away. Their performance went off without a hitch though, and by the end of the song the vibe in the room had shifted for the better. Yujun felt a bit of relief wash over him, dabbing at the beads of sweat that had collected on his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. The bright stage lights shone down on the boys as the interviewer, a young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit, came out and met them on the stage. They all took a moment to catch their breath, and lined up in their usual formation. They always stood in three pairs of two, six members total, and typically Moon would be with Yujun. But that day, Moon had switched spots with Kai, who looked confused at the swap but quickly filled the space by Yujun without missing a beat. Yujun felt his heart sink a bit in his chest at this, but tried to keep his smile from drooping. “Great performance, boys,” The interviewer started off by saying, organizing his cue cards. The group all responded by saying thank you, speaking as best as they could over the excitable crowd. Each time the audience cheered it reassured Yujun that what they had done hadn’t scared everyone away ... but how would they react if they found out the truth? He tried not to think that way as the lights seemed to become hotter, and his heart continued to hammer like a drum in his chest. “Now, you’ve had to have seen the photos and footage that has surfaced recently,” the young man said, “What is going on between you and Moon, Yujun?” He moved the mic into Yujun’s face and the boy froze, trying to swallow the growing lump in his throat. The crowd held their breath, the room suddenly much quieter than before. They were all on the edge of their seats. Kai put an encouraging hand on Yujun’s shoulder, noticing the boy was shaking. “Um-“ Yujun’s started, speaking softly into the mic. That is, before Moon stepped up and grabbed it out of the interviewer’s hand. “Nothing,” Moon said simply, and Yujun’s head fell slightly at the confidence in his voice, and part of him wanted to cry. The crowd rustled softly, whispers rolling over the audience like a wave. “Nothing that should get in the way of us doing what we love. We’ve both been a part of this group for five years, and making music is important to us,” Moon went on, making Yujun’s head snap up again, his glossy eyes sparkling under the bright stage lighting. “It’s unbelievably disrespectful that we were filmed and photographed without our consent, and I’m disappointed that the personal lives of two young guys like us can make the news the way that it did these past few days. Yujun and I are...” Moon turned then, meeting eyes with the other boy. Moon saw the tears beginning to form for Yujun and smiled reassuringly, so much love in his walnut colored eyes. “We’re together. But this shouldn’t make any difference in how you enjoy our music or interact with us. We’re just people, y’know?” Moon took Yujun’s hand into his own, lacing their fingers together. There was a moment of pause amongst the onlookers, but after a beat the majority started clapping and cheering. The other members of the group joined in, beaming proudly at their friends. Even the interviewer looked touched, taking the mic back from Moon with a gentle demeanor. “Thanks for clearing that up,” the young man said with admiration in his voice, moving onto his next question. As the crowd settled and Moon and Yujun still stood hand in hand, Moon leaned over and whispered into the other boy’s ear. “You know I love you , don’t you?” And Yujun did know. Finally, he knew for sure.


When I found love, it was not something I was searching for. It was 1970, and I was touring Redwood National Park for the first time. After growing up in the swamps of Florida, seeing all those tall trees was so out of place to me. I spent a lot of my youth wandering smaller parks with my mother, and once I was able to get a job that allowed me to travel, all I wanted to do was see what the world had to offer. From a young boy, I devoted my presence to finding new places, new things, and new people. It always brought me great interest to learn something about my environment which I had not previously known. I promised myself I would visit every state, and eventually, every country I could in my lifetime. Therefore, on my 24th birthday, I felt I should harbor this interest by leaving my hometown for travels. With my first stop being California--as I have so desperately wanted to see since I knew of the states' lush greenery--I headed to Redwood in hopes of scratching the deep itch I've longed to rid myself of. I walked the winding paths for hours, my gaze trapped on the puzzles of bark that seemed to never repeat with each tree I observed. The early morning mist that encapsulated my body seemed to grow stronger with each step I took further into the thickening wood. I felt warm and invited, drawn to the voices of the forest. In desperate need of a rest, I stopped for a rest at a small wooden bench and observed a plaque stating it was made from a fallen tree. While reading, I was interrupted by a crunching of leaves behind my sight. Turning my neck, I was surprised to find a small clearing in the wet fallen leaves and twigs that lined the forest floor. I stood and approached the peculiar sight, noticing the disheveled dirt, as if the Earth below had been hurriedly dug and repacked. Curiously, I reached my fingers beneath the damp soil and pulled. After digging a few handfuls, my hands reached a hard object. I uncovered the entirety of the object and found myself holding a similarly wooden chest to the bench I was just resting on. The chest was intricately crafted, and no bigger than the length of my forearm. I settled my legs in the dirt, and opened the chest. Inside, lay a small note and a wooden ring. I observed the ring and curiously put it on my finger, where it fit snugly and accurately as if it was made for the slight grooves of my bone. I opened the note, and instead of trying to explain what it said, I will transcribe it here for you. It read: *Keeper,* *You may not have found what you have sought. However, once love grasps your finger, you will never rid yourself of it. Try as you may, love will find a way to remain with you, no matter the challenges it brings. If you take love before you know the circumstances that come along with it, you will live with the consequences.* *From an empty heart.* Terrified, I desperately grasped at the ring to remove it from my young hand. Although it splintered into my skin at the repetitive motion, the ring remained as still as the trees it was made of. I was to live with this burden, regardless of my desperation to rid it from my being. In the years following, at every passing, I am confronted with people drawn towards me, desperate for something I have not to offer. I have grown into a cold, hollow individual that cannot create love within myself, but pull others in as if that is all I am. I feel nothing towards the ground I walk on, pitying its' stillness. I would've liked to have said I fear what I have become, but as if the roots of the woods have grown into my emotional brain, I feel nothing towards the people or places I find. Two years after the incident, I met a woman while at a cheap 24-hour diner in the northern parts of Arizona. It was roughly 4 am--nighttime travel being the best way to avoid most people--and I was stopping to eat (and sleep) while en route to another meaningless destination. My waitress approached, glinting her sparkling white teeth while questioning my order and twirling her fingers on her oily uniform skirt. I spat back at her, making it clear I was only interested in the eggs and bacon I was to order. She ignored my bitter demeanor while serving me, and continued to happily attend to my needs. While finishing eating the poorly made food, I observed as the server crossed the tacky colored tiles. She was wearing a different outfit, consisting of ripped sweatpants, old shoes, and a classic wife-beater tank top. The woman, who I later came to know as Jenny, sat down at my table, and began flirting viciously towards me. Despite my coldness, she persisted as if each word I said was translated into stoic, indulgent thoughts. Jenny was in fact, beautiful, regardless my lack of positive emotion towards her. I never told her so, but she clearly appeared as if I showered her with kind words and actions at every waking moment. No matter how many times I tried to harm her, to take away the intake of air into her weak lungs, she viewed my actions as acts of pure love. Eventually, we married, but with each day that past, my resentment towards her as well as this fate I've been chosen to carry continued to grow. I will not lie and say that I never tried to feel something, or remove myself of this burden of love I was given, in more ways than one. Shortly after Jenny and I began dating, (which I will point out, was not something I knowledgeably sent from my brain to my lips) I tried again to remove my body from the grasp of love. Desperate, I went to the local hardware store to remove the ring from my body with one of those mini circular handheld saws, not afraid of the loss of a finger or two. Once the machine was up and whirring, I raised it to my hand with the ring and began to cut. The saw broke through my flesh in less than the time I could have used to blink. However, upon contact with my bone, something felt wrong. Once my finger fell, I observed my bloody opening, expecting bone, but instead greeted with stiff timber. The bones of my hand had shifted into a trunk of the forest I visited years ago. I was not to remove myself of love, as it had made its' way into an encapsulating entity, consuming the body that I once knew. I stitched myself closed, and continued on. Fifty years after the incident, I am feeling rather withered. Jenny still follows me, longingly pouring her love into my being. She refuses to see the pain I inflict upon her, and those that surround me. Lately, I have been considering what will come of me upon my death. I don't know when I will die, but before I do, I have a note to deliver to the Redwood National Park, as well as a ring.


Jonah stared at the open textbook on his desk, the words blurring together into an incomprehensible jumble. He blinked hard, trying to force his exhausted brain to focus. 2:37 AM. He had been at this for hours, desperately reviewing material for his Practical Interpretation final exam tomorrow morning. With a heavy sigh, Jonah leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He should've started studying days ago, but he had put it off again and again, convinced he could cram it all in at the last minute. Now the moment of truth was fast approaching, and Jonah was utterly unprepared. He glanced resentfully out the window at the darkened quad below his dorm room. Other students were likely sleeping peacefully, finished with their own exam prep. Meanwhile, Jonah was stuck here, anxiety churning in his gut as the weight of his procrastination fully sank in. He couldn't fail this test. As a scholarship student from a poor family, Jonah desperately needed to keep his grades up. One mark could jeopardise everything he had worked for just to get here. With a shake of his head, Jonah tried to clear his spiralling thoughts. He just needed to focus. One chapter at a time. He could do this. Taking a deep breath, Jonah began reading aloud from the dense textbook chapter on "Reality Confluence: Navigating Perceptual Frontiers of the Modern Age." He sounded out the complicated words slowly, hoping the act of speaking would help cement the concepts in his mind. "In the ontological fabric of the multiverse, emergent phenomena..." A sudden scraping sound from the hallway made Jonah jump. He paused, listening closely. It sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. He calmed himself, took a deep breath, and pushed the bowl of chocolates away. Chocolates made him jumpy in excess. Jonah hit excess before midnight. Curious, Jonah cracked open his door and peered out. At the far end of the hallway, he could see the old janitor, Thaddeus, struggle to lift a floor waxing machine in the communal lounge. Jonah watched as Thaddeus shoved the electric behemoth onto the ping-pong table. Like a gunslinger, he flourished his spray bottle and liberally spritzed the ping-pong table. Jonah wrinkled his nose at the pungent odour of solvent wafting down the hallway. Why was Thaddeus waxing the table at 3 AM? It solved a mystery of why the ping-pong tables had turned yellow and the bottom edge of the nets was always missing. Shaking his head, Jonah retreated to his room. Hendrix College could be an odd place sometimes. Glancing back at his desk, Jonah felt his motivation drain away. He was so tired. His eyes could barely focus on the tiny text swimming across the pages. Maybe he should try again after a quick nap... No! Jonah sat up sharply. He couldn't give in to exhaustion now. He had to keep reviewing if there was any hope of passing this test. With new determination, Jonah turned back to the open textbook. "The paradoxical landscapes of simultaneous existence and non-existence..." Jonah's eyes fatigued quickly. His gaze drifted to the window. Sometimes focusing on something distant helped. The quad below was bathed in silvery moonlight. It looked so peaceful out there. Jonah imagined himself lying on the grass, staring up at the night sky and listening to the gentle breeze. A lump formed in his throat. He never should have put off studying for so long. Now here he sat, trapped and frantic, while the rest of the world slept on in blissful ignorance. Sometimes Jonah wondered if he had made a mistake coming to Hendrix at all. He wasn't like most of the other students - born into money with bright futures assured. He was here on scholarship, barely scraping by while trying to navigate classes far beyond his small-town high school education. The whirring of the waxing machine stopped, but only for a moment. Maybe it was foolish to think he could handle this intense academic pressure. As freshman year dragged on, Jonah kept putting off declaring a major. He was terrified of committing himself to a field of study only to fail spectacularly. The weight of that decision paralysed him. A sudden tapping jerked Jonah from his spiralling reverie. He looked over to see a fat squirrel perched on the outside windowsill, peering in curiously. As Jonah watched in surprise, the squirrel tapped its little paws against the glass again. It looked frantic. It mimed for Jonah to open the window. "Shoo, get out of here!" Jonah waved his arms, but the squirrel didn't move. The squirrel turned its head and regarded Jonah with one eye, then the next. Its tiny fingers straining against the window. Its muscles twitched as it tried to force it open. With a sigh, Jonah relented. To his astonishment, with only an inch gap, the squirrel immediately twisted inside, scurried across his desk, and snatched one of his mother's chocolate chip cookies before leaping down and scurrying to the door. Clutching the cookie in its greedy paws, the squirrel looked expectantly at Jonah as if waiting to be let out. "Unbelievable. I was saving those." Jonah muttered. He cautiously opened the door, keeping his legs as far from the squirrel as possible. What could it harm? Maybe it would interrupt Thaddeus' work and give Jonah some much needed piece. Tonight kept getting weirder and weirder. Jonah shook his head to clear it. He couldn't let himself get derailed. His exam was in less than eight hours now. He had to keep studying. Squaring his shoulders, Jonah sat down and resumed reading from the textbook. He made it a full paragraph further before a faint, but distinct smell made him wrinkle his nose. Was that... cigar smoke? Jonah glanced around in confusion. His dorm was non-smoking, and he knew the fire alarm had a hair-trigger. The last thing Jonah wanted was to lose an hour of study time while the fire department searched through the dorm. Where was that smell coming from? Sniffing the air, Jonah traced the odour outside his room to the janitor's closet. That was impossible. There was no way someone was smoking cigars in the tiny space. Right...? Tentatively, Jonah eased open the closet door. A dozen beady eyes stared back at him. Jonah blinked in disbelief. In the dark closet, a circle of squirrels stood around an old, ragged-edged shoe box. They quickly hid their tiny cigars behind their backs. Jonah stood frozen, unable to process the bizarre scene before him. The squirrels stared at the one with the cookie. One of the squirrels finished its cigar in a few quick puffs before tossing the butt aside, snatched the cookie, and scampering toward the closet door on its little legs. Heart pounding, Jonah looked around wildly for something, anything, to defend himself from the tiny cigar-smoking mammal. But the squirrel merely tilted its head, studying Jonah curiously with its shining black eyes. Jonah scrabbled backward in alarm as the squirrel tossed the nibbled cookie at Jonah's feet, then pushed the door closed, sealing the other squirrels back inside. Jonah held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. His mind reeled. There were a couple of nattering noises, then the sound of a match being struck. Jonah jerked back in horror. This had to be a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep. Squirrels didn't do--well--whatever that was! A cold sweat broke out across Jonah's skin as the implications sank in. The chocolate coins - had they been laced with some kind of drug? Is that why he was now hallucinating wildly? Jonah raced to his room, and frantically threw out the remaining cookies, along with the chocolate coins and M&M's he'd been snacking on earlier. His heart pounded as he stared at the innocuous baked goods in the bin. What had he unknowingly ingested? What had his mom cooked? Terrified and paranoid, Jonah began ransacking his room, looking for clues about who could have done this to him. Finding nothing, he rushed to the bathroom and vigorously scrubbed his hands and face. The drug could have been transmitted through touch. He had to remove any lingering residue. Jonah stared at his wild-eyed reflection in the mirror. They were bloodshot, almost jaundiced yellow. He needed gloves immediately. Anything his bare hands touched could be contaminated, even his textbook. He raced back to his room and tore through his dresser, finally unearthing a pair of old winter gloves. He tugged them on, his breath coming in panicked gasps. But he couldn't take any chances. Safely gloved, Jonah hurried back to his desk. He glanced around warily before sinking down and pulling the textbook toward him. The chapter title seemed to waver mockingly before his eyes: "Reality Confluence: Navigating Perceptual Frontiers of the Modern Age." Jonah swallowed hard. He had to pull it together and keep studying through whatever nightmare drug trip was happening to him. The exam was still coming, hallucinations or not. He just had to make it through the next few hours. Blinking slowly against the headache pounding behind his eyes, Jonah focused on the open textbook. "Temporal variances become non-linear differentials..." he read aloud, the technical words jumbling together meaninglessly. His eyelids grew heavier, the text blurring before him. Jonah's head sank down onto the open book as exhaustion finally overwhelmed his adrenaline-fuelled panic. "Just need to rest my eyes for a minute," he mumbled. "Then I'll keep studying..." *** Jonah blinked groggily as sunlight streamed through his window directly on his face. He sat up slowly, grimacing as the textbook pages stuck to his cheek peeled off in a crinkly mess. Disoriented, he glanced at his clock before panic jolted through his body. 11:31 AM. The exam had started an hour ago! Jonah leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward. He was still wearing the gloves; he realised numbly. Frantically shaking off the lingering sleep, he ripped the gloves off. The clothes he had been wearing were quickly stripped off, and he threw on the first items he could grab out of his dresser. He glanced desperately around the room but saw no lingering evidence of the bizarre hallucinatory night. Out the window, students milled around the sunny quad as if nothing was amiss. Thoughts racing, Jonah sprinted across campus to the exam building. He got turned around and had to double back before finally arriving, panting and sweaty, outside the right classroom. After bracing himself for a long moment, Jonah creaked open the door. Rows of students sat hunched over their tests, the only sound the scratching of pencils on paper. Miraculously, the professor still sat nonchalantly at his desk. Jonah cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry I'm late," he croaked out. "I, uh, overslept." A few students looked up. Some shook their heads. The professor raised an eyebrow before beckoning Jonah forward. The professor picked up a chair from the side of the room, set it next to his chair, and motioned for Jonah to sit. There were a few snickers. Face burning, Jonah slid into the chair and took the test packet from the professor with trembling fingers. He stared at the questions before him in dismay. The professor set the exam timer in front of Jonah. Thirteen minutes left on the ninety-minute timer. Despite all his frantic studying, Jonah retained nothing. The technical jargon from last night's textbook may as well have been in another language. Jonah could barely comprehend the exam prompts, much less form coherent answers. As the last minute ticked down, Jonah scrawled the only words that came to mind in the empty essay boxes: "Sometimes reality is beyond understanding."


Disclaimer: This story contains sex trafficking and Suicide “The world is a dark and dangerous place.” That's what everyone says. That's what everyone believes. I guess that’s what happens when you live in this type of world. Let me start over. I am known as 14. We’re not supposed to talk about our birth names, I have a hard time remembering mine anyway. When I was 4 years old, I was taken and sold into the ring. The ring where we are kept in cages like animals. hung upside down for hours on end. Raped. Left shaking, cold and alone after being abused. All these awful things, but today has to be the worst. I woke up this morning shivering with tears running down my face. I had a nightmare. A nightmare that I could wake up from, only to wake up into a different nightmare, one that I couldn’t even dream of escaping. Today we are being forced to eat the remains of one of our peers. She had hung herself. I can’t help but feel anger towards her. She chose the selfish way out, now the rest of us will be punished. I wouldn’t call her a friend. We don’t have friends. We’re sold and cycled through the ring too rapidly to make any connections. The girl was named 110. I had met her briefly. She didn’t speak. I left her alone. She had a sister I'd met weeks before. They were driven mad by the idea of finding each other in the ring. Everyone knows once you lose someone they are gone. Me and the girls sat in a circle around her body. I heard girls whispering under their breaths. Curses, Prayers. Some were silent, others were crying. Afterwards we were given some grace by our handlers by being returned to our cages for a moment of rest. We were to keep silent. I feel numb, Twiddling the bobby pin I'd found on the floor while I was being moved to this unit. It is all I have. I am comforted by this object because it is mine. It is all I have. It is only important to me because I am not allowed to have it, but that’s what makes it special. I hear girls sobbing quietly to themselves. I know they’re all trying to hold their vomit in, in fear we’ll be punished for being sick. I am kept on the very top of the pile of broken girls. I feel all their pain beneath me, and I feel nothing towards them. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Being numb is the only way to survive this place. I hear the girl under me whispering. Only then I realized it was for me. “Hey, what’s that you have?” she whispered, staring at my bobby pin. Oh no “It’s nothing.” I say, quickly closing it in my hand. The girl starts rambling about a great escape, her voice getting louder and louder. “Hey, shut the hell up, Okay?!” I whisper aggressively down at her. She gets quiet, I don’t hear another peep from her. I start thinking. I know I have to get out of here. I have to try, or I'm going to end up like 110. I deserve a chance at life, so do all of these girls. I’ve had this fantasy for a while. Of being left alone without a handler, finding our way out of the underground, getting in contact with the police. Just something to get out of here. Left alone without a handler... I look to my left and to my surprise the handler has fallen asleep. You know what. “Fuck it” I say loud enough for the girl below me to here. She looks up at me puzzled. “We’re going to get out of here or we are going to die trying.” I say, I'm shaking but putting on my brave face. “It’s about time too.” She says gesturing for the bobby pin. I’m hesitant to give it to her, worried she’ll leave me for dead, but I take my chances. I don’t know how to pick a lock. She stuffs the bobby pin into the keyhole, quietly wiggling it around. After a few seconds I begin to lose hope. At last, the lock clicks and her cage slowly open. I hear a few girls gasp from below, but they are careful to keep their mouths shut in hopes the girl will help them escape as well. She slowly crawls out of her cage, careful not to make any noise that will wake our handler up. She stands up slowly, letting the muscles in her legs get used to being stretched out like that again. I hold my breath. The girl looks to be taking a minute to think. “Please don’t leave us.” I say, I feel pathetic begging like this, but she is our only hope. The girl looks worried but lets out a breath and starts picking my lock. I feel a tear roll down my face. For the first time in years, I have hope. My lock clicks, my door opens. I am free for now, but we must be careful to keep it that way. We start making our way down the pile letting girls out. The girls then wait at the bottom of the pile for everyone to be freed. The one with the bobby pin is opening one of the last cages when the lock falls to the floor, making a loud clicking sound. The handler is startled awake. He looks at us, puzzled as to how we got out. He opens his mouth to yell out, when one of the older girls snaps his neck. We all stare at her in shock as she slowly lowers his body to the ground. She looks at her hands, disgusted by what she has done, but looks up and nods at us, encouraging us to keep going. All the girls are freed. We stand at the bottom. We share our names. Our real names. I take the key from the guard and open the door to the tunnels. For once in our lives, we have a chance. We can make it out of this tunnel and be free. Or we can die trying.


“Molly’s Rocking Chair” Molly Stanley tied her little boy to the rocking chair. Theodore was a runner and she didn’t want him getting to the railroad tracks. As her only child he was a precious thing if there ever was one. So Theodore sat tied to that chair and he rocked. He rocked and he giggled, dreaming of running off to places his tiny mind couldn’t realistically conjure up. Theodore then proceeded to do what everyone does if they are lucky, he grew. But grow as he may have, the rocking chair remained a constant friend. He sat there at night as he read by the fire, he sat there after school and contemplated the cruelties of little children and he sat there and rocked pensively as his mother slowly died just after his 18th birthday. Molly’s shadow would linger over him each time he sat in the chair for the rest of his days. In the midst of his grief Theodore found love. Anna Lee stole his heart and repaired so completely that it astounded him. She took his name and they cemented their love. The child arrived the same week he got a letter from the president inviting him on an all-expenses paid vacation overseas in exchange for some light work. He cradled his little Josephine and shed a single tear for the time he’d lose as he read the letter and rocked. Theodore got a strange surprise as he began his service, this work made sense to him. Something about the sameness of routine just felt right. He was slightly shaken when he saw combat, but he found he could adjust. He rose steadily through the military ranks and saw parts of the world he’d only read of in books. He would come home on leave to Anna Lee and bounce Josephine on his knee as he rocked in the comfort of his chair and marveled at the brisk passage of time. He’d sit there and think about the distant lovers he’d had that he’d never speak of again and tried to push the guilt down beneath his feet as if he could walk on it. As naturally as Theodore took to military life, war finds a way to take its toll on everyone. For him it was the unfortunate presence of a landmine where his jeep happened to be driving. As these things go, Theodore was lucky. His life and limbs were mostly spared, both legs broken and one hand so damaged it would never be quite right again but he’d escaped with his life and could only be grateful. The recovery was difficult and lonely. The only comfort was letters from home. Anna Lee wrote of Josephine’s progress in school and funny things she’d said at bedtime. There were no passionate declarations of love or longing, making him wonder if she was suspicious of something, but he knew they would never discuss it. At long last his injuries had healed and his military days were over. He emerged from his long absence a slightly different man, old friends remarked how the wanderlust that had characterized his youth had all but vanished. It was replaced by a simple desire to remain in one place and be near his family. He would spend his days running a small grocery store and his nights in the rocking chair reading novel after novel and nursing a large cup of black coffee that somehow never managed to disrupt his sleep. The years went by and things didn’t change much. Theodore’s hair turned grey and Josephine married and had six kids of her own. The store served him well enough until he couldn’t ignore retirement anymore. More free time meant a great deal more time in the rocking chair, reflecting on choices and wondering if there was anything worth changing if such a thing were possible. He would watch baseball games and try to interest Anna Lee in the finer points of the sport but she mostly ignored him. Anna Lee stayed by his side even as arguments became a regular feature of their marriage. She found something to fight with him about almost daily. The pangs of guilt he hadn’t managed to suppress told him he deserved it. Somewhere in the neighborhood of his mid-seventies Theodore’s health began to fail him. He still held court from his rocking chair but his voice was weakening and he could no longer bounce the great grandchildren on his knee. He rocked back and forth reflecting on the life he’d lived, he considered himself very lucky and thanked whatever force happened to be in charge for his good fortune. He had hoped to die in the rocking chair but his body didn’t afford him that luxury. Instead he died in a hospital, though by the end his mind was foggy enough he believed he was in the chair anyway, tied to it again with Mother Molly by his side. Theodore’s family grieved for him full heartedly for a long time, but grief like every feeling dulls with time and eventually it was time to decide what was to become of his possessions. The only one anyone seemed to care about was the rocking chair. Anna Lee for her part couldn’t bear to see it sit empty, let alone to sit in it herself. So it passed to Josephine. She gave it a place of honor in her home and told each visitor how it was Daddy’s favorite chair and how great Grandma Molly would tie him to it to keep him from running away. The chair held up remarkably well through the years as it endured children rocking in it too hard and spilled drinks. It also continued its longtime function as a place of reflection. Josephine’s grandson sat in it the night his grandfather died and vowed to remember the rhythm of the chair and the feeling of despair forever. He would sit in it again as an adult and try to imagine the kind of man his great grandfather was as the memories of those who knew him evolved into myth. Josephine told him that if that rocking chair could somehow find a way to talk it could probably tell more about Theodore than anyone. If only.


I stared at the woman with bloodshot eyes; my lips were cracked from weeks of exposure to the harsh, wasteland elements, my skin coarse and sand-blasted, my clothing was ragged and filled with holes. I thought I was the last one alive. I've not seen another living soul in... I don't even know anymore. Whoever the nukes didn't kill, the wasteland finished off. And yet there she was. A woman in her 40s wearing a spotless white suit, grey streaks in her jet-black hair giving her an aura of dignity and elegance while her round sunglasses gave her an air of mystery. It almost looked like she was having a picnic - a small table with tea, two chairs, umbrella above it all for shade. I didn't even know where to begin to understand. "Oh come now, David, I won't bite. I even have biscuits," she said warmly. Her voice was slightly raspy, yet pleasing to the ear, calming. It exuded warmth. "How... how do you know-" I tried to ask, but a coughing fit interrupted me. "Please, sit. The tea is perfect. I know you haven't drunk anything clean in quite a while." I wanted to resist, to question, to scream, but I was too tired, too hungry, too thirsty. I fell into the comfortable, cushioned chair as if my body weighed a tonne. She handed me a porcelain cup filled with tea and I desperately lapped it up; it tasted like heaven after surviving on polluted water for so long. She refilled my cup without a word. "How do you... *akh akh*... how do you know my name? Who are you?" I finally asked, reinvigorated by the tea. "You have questions; I understand. There will be a time for me to explain all of it in detail later," she said. "Am I dead? Or hallucinating? You can't be here, I mean. You're... clean, normal. You have tea for fuck's sake," I said with as much gusto as I could muster. "David! Language," she frowned momentarily before returning to her previous, relaxed smile. "You're not dead. But you are the last human alive. Good job on surviving, mind you. Have a biscuit," she said and I hungrily accepted. "How bo yu-" I started but decided to swallow first, "how do you know that? *Who are you*?" I insisted. "God. Well, *a* God. The details are complicated," she smiled gently. There was something immensely soothing about her presence. "*Oh*," I said. There was a time when I'd scream and question the claim; I'd shake her, demand answers, accuse her of all the wrongs, beg forgiveness. Those times are gone. I've seen too much, did too much. I was too tired to doubt it. "We sure fuc- - messed things up, didn't we?" I said, defeated. "Truthfully, I've seen worse outcomes. Death is a mercy compared to some fates," she remarked ominously. Another coughing fit seized me; when I pulled my hand away from my mouth, it was entirely covered in blood. I looked at her; she saw it. "Radiation, right? I suppose I don't have long," I said with a weak smile. "You don't. I'm sorry." There was genuine grief and sorrow in her voice. "Will it hurt?" I asked. "I'll make sure it won't." "Thank you," I said and looked at the dark brown horizon. We sat in silence for a moment while I chewed another biscuit. It was amazing. "What happens next?" I said, eyes still locked at the horizon. "That's why I am here, David," she said and sipped the tea. I looked over to her, a new wave of confusion rising through me. "What do... what do you mean by that?" "I know what you've done these past few years, David. You know what conclusion I came to?" she asked curiously. My heart sank. "No," I whispered. "You're a good man." My eyes darted up to meet hers; she took the sunglasses off. Her eyes were... it was as if they were filled with milky fog, white with different hues of colour lining it, constantly shifting, moving. "You're wrong. I don't care if you're a god. I'm not," I said sternly. "You tried to help when possible," she said. "I stole." "You shared." "I killed." "When no other option existed." "I KILLED MY WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!" I yelled and threw the cup into the desert; tears flowed from my eyes, a mixture of anger and grief filling my being to the brim, ready to burst. "I know," she said softly with slightly raised eyebrows; a mixture of pity and understanding. "I also know that she was in pain and there was nothing you could do to help her. It was mercy," she said kindly and I slouched back into my chair, sobbing softly. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?" I whispered. "I want your help." "With what?" I looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. "The next one," she said. "There is much you could help me with, make the next one better, avoid all... this," she said and waved her hand towards the wasteland, the sand, the broken skyscrapers. "Because you're good. Flawed, yes, *but still good*. I need that perspective. And you deserve a break," she finished with a soft chuckle. I pondered the offer for a moment. "Can I even refuse?" I asked. "Of course. You'll pass into the afterlife gently if you do. It's an offer, not a command," she smiled. I looked back at the world. My world. Broken beyond repair. The rivers evaporated, the lush green forests burned. All that we've made, all that made us great, vanished in the nuclear blasts, and what survived withered away in the wasteland. We could do better. I know we could. "Will I see my wife again, in the afterlife?" I asked softly. "You will. Even if you decide to help me. I'm... I understand how you value her." I paused for a moment, thinking. But what was there to think about. "Alright. Where do we begin?" I asked with a newfound resolve. "No need to rush, David. You've earned some respite," she smiled and put her sunglasses back on before handing me a new cup of tea. "For now, sit with me. Drink some tea. Watch the world end with me," she smiled and raised a cup to her lips. Sounds good to me, I thought and took a sip.


Chocolate Milk Naps by Eliana Smith If Beatrice could go back and turn back time, you best believe she would. She would have started at the ripe age of 7. She would have done some things the same like staying at her Grammy's every summer, but some things differently like staying away from the older neighbor boy who knew more about life than she did at the time. She would brush her Grammy's hair more often and hold her papas hand during prayer. She would pet her now deceased dog frequently and play with her dolls only in the afternoon. She would love her mother harder and not be so harsh to her father. She would be kinder to her younger brother and hug him tighter. She would never have chosen that girl over her mother. She would have never picked up that can of alcohol and never drawn blood on purpose. She would have never said ̈i love you ̈ to that boy and never have gone to that dance. She would have done a lot of things, if Bea could have turned back time, but if she could do it all over again she would have loved herself more if anything. Bea grew up in a medium sized house on east 12th street in a small town named Rifle. The town wasn't very exciting, it's depressing, sort of if you don't make the most of it. Everyone there knew everyone even if you didn't you still knew everyone because everyone's name was always in someone's mouth that it didn't belong to. That's why the town sucked, but if you looked hard enough you could find beauty in the hidden gems, the thick forests, the beautiful creeks and rivers, the parks and street lamps at night after everyone has fallen asleep and not even a cricket dared disturb the peace. There was beauty that laid within but only if you ventured out. Bea lived at her Grammy's house in the summer. She would wake up every day at 6am and brave the cool morning air, she would exit her house and feel the crisp wind wrap around her, the breeze of sprinkler water drops coat her skin, and the dewy smell of rain that still lingered on the flowers outside of her medium sized orange house. Bea would get in the car and watch out the window as she passed dead street lamps, stray cats, morning joggers, and tired oil field workers on their way to work from Kum and Go. When she arrived at the end of the drive at her grandmothers she was pleased to see that her Grammy was waiting for her and her little brother on the sidewalk with a humongous grin and welcoming arms. Nothing would ever replace or amount up to seeing her Grammy in such a happy healthy state. Her days consisted of playing in the turtle shaped sandbox with her brother when he wasn't occupied in a wheelchair, eating ice cream and playing board games, but her favorite part was when she got to listen to her Grammy read the children's bible while her and her brother laid on the patched up couch and drank chocolate milk until their bellies filled and their consciousness floated into a deep slumber. After the day had ended and the sun set she would ride home for dinner and wait until grogginess once again took her by surprise and she drifted off to sleep, excited for the next day to come. Looking back now Bea wished as she got older she didn’t get on her phone quite as much at her Grammy's, she wished that she didn’t take advantage of chocolate milk naps and sleep all day, she wished she would have hugged her Grammy tighter and kissed her forehead longer during their farewells in the evenings, she wishes she would have told her more about her day and less about what’s going on, on the internet. Considering that her Grammy is now in her late seventies and diagnosed with dementia and in her final days, Bea wishes she would have spent more time in the gray house holding her Grammy's hand and watching the news. Bea knows she doesn’t have much time left so if she could go back in time and re-do it all she would. Bea was a straight A student throughout middle school and into high school until the second semester of her freshman year, and that is where her life began to slide down a steep hill. She fell in love with a young boy who was a grade ahead of her. They hung out every weekend, played games and watched movies together, it was a simple yet intense love, tender yet air thinning. Bea had finally found someone she called her best friend. No one tells you how earth rattling teenage love is, until you’ve lost it. She would say that it’s one of the best yet worst things that you could ever experience. After her first breakup, Bea’s world began to feel a little less bright. She knew she had always felt different than all the other children as a child, less happy and more guilty about being alive but she thought she would grow out of it. After the breakup her feelings intensified and her actions grew odd. She had lost her best friend and in place of that empty hole she replaced it with someone knew, A girl best friend. She spent every minute with her, school, the weekends, her nights, everything began to be consumed by this one girl. She began to shift her morals for this friend and her behavior differed greatly from how she normally acted before. In hopes of numbing her pain from other life challenges her friend suggested she tried other things, such as alcohol and self harm. Bea’s world lit up when she realized she could now not only numb her pain but also feel better while doing it. She chose this girl over everyone as she was the only person who made Bea feel like she was “fixed”. Soon the results of her actions stepped in and she faced the consequences of her actions around her friend. Bea and her friend were soon separated from each other and never spoke again. Bea never after picked up another bottle of alcohol as she saw what it did to her family and her mother. But some things you can’t let go of. Addiction is a disease, and not one many can control. It runs thick in your veins and clouds your vision. Bea still drew blood as an act to relieve herself from the pain she felt every day. Years went by until her mother noticed. She felt like a failure after she watched her mother collapse to the ground in tears that ran through Bea’s mind for months after. Nothing would ever replace the bond and trust that her mother once shared with her daughter before that night. Months later in February of 2023 Bea had realized that she couldn’t bare the pain any longer. That night at 11:09pm her family had gotten into a tremendous fight. One where words cut through her like a knife, and the things that were said were ones that drove you to a breaking point. Bea sprinted for an eyebrow razor knowing these were her final moments. After it was done she was tackled to the ground by her father, and 911 was called. When Bea woke up in the hospital from the tears that smothered her throat after the incident, guilt ran through her body and nausea set in. After being treated, Bea got the right help. Diagnosed with Clinical depression and Crippling anxiety, Bea felt like things made more sense. Now it’s January of 2024. Bea sits in an advanced English class writing this story for creative writing, thriving. Life is not perfect by any means. Life is not gentle, life is not kind, life is not easy, but life is beautiful. It is breathtaking and moving. Life offers so much but you must be willing to accept the challenge and explore what you are offered. Bea learned a lot in her 17 years of life. Bea saw the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the lefts and rights of life, but if Bea could go back in time and do it all over again, you best believe she would. Bea would see herself as more than an object, more than a man's woman, more than a bystander, more than a puzzle piece, more than just another person that walks the planet. If Bea could go back in time and do it all over again she would, and this time, things would be different.


Valentines Day, New York City, 1990 Quentin was desperate to make the rent. The superintendent had rapped on his door that morning with a message from the landlord: pay up or get out. It was a tiny studio in a crumbling 5 story walk-up on East 93 rd St. near 1 st Avenue. Quentin felt lucky to have it. After an unpromising job interview in the West Village, he saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of the Duane Reade drug store on Sixth Avenue. This Duane Reade grew like a split-level tumor out of the West 4 th Street Subway Station. Inside the store looked like may have been dropped there from a great height, like Dorothy’s house in Oz, and never settled itself. Its main entrance smelled of piss and was haunted by a scrawny crackhead who shook an angry cup at you when you entered. A layer of dust and grime covered the narrow aisles and sparsely stocked shelves and dust balls roamed the floors. The cashier, Prudence Pinderloo, (her name tag said), glared at him and summoned the manager, Nigel Pinderloo, a short, stout brown man, who glared at him as well and asked him a few terse questions. He was hired. When he reported for duty the next morning Quentin was planted at the high impact, temperamental register after a brief, brusque lesson from Prudence. He struggled to master its complicated keyboard and wondered if the thorny Pinderloos had designed it themselves. The pharmacy in the basement was run by Nigel’s brother, Trevor Pinderloo, and his daughter, Cecily. Hostility seeped like poison gas from the Pinderloos and filled every dirty crevice of the store. For the Pinderloos, the customer was the enemy and there were several shouting matches a day. They were from Guyana and Quentin suspected it was French Guyana where they had managed the Duane Reade on Devil’s Island. Nigel’s mother, Priti Pinderloo, worked at the store part-time. She was a tiny woman with a sweet round face and wore her gray hair in a ponytail over a foot long. Priti spent her time humming while she dreamily tickled the empty shelves with a feather duster. When Quentin carried some boxes to the storage room, he bumped into her and knocked her glasses off her face. They fell onto the floor and he, unwittingly, stepped on them. After that none of the Pinderloos spoke to him. After he punched in, he went directly to the register where he remained until one of his two fifteen-minute breaks or his half hour lunch. The Pinderloos had found a way to bark at him without looking at him and every day he asked himself, Am I here? Quentin found that, despite the nonstop volume, he liked dealing with the customers. They were mostly sturdy Greenwich Village regulars, sophisticated lifelong New Yorkers, bohemians! There were always some actors he recognized from television but couldn’t name including the guy who played Mr. Whipple in the Charmin commercials. Every once in a while someone asked him to squeeze the Charmin and took a picture with him. Dazed painters and sculptors in splattered sweatshirts on a break from their masterpieces bought cigarettes, Slim Jims, and paper towels. Interwoven among them all were the neighborhood psychos who were just trying to get warm or cool while they shoplifted. He liked it when the kids got out of school at 3pm and poured into the store to buy candy, soda, and chips. They were loud and out of control, but Quentin enjoyed their energy as the well-behaved ones tried to get the most for their money and the shady ones with wily, innocent faces, bought the cheapest thing, and stuffed their pockets with as much swag as they could fit. Though he wasn’t the most efficient cashier and could never figure out coupons and returns, the customers preferred him to the Pinderloos, of course. One regular asked, “How can you stand them?” Though he hated the exhausting job, he was able to make the rent that month. On Valentine’s Day, he was on duty for eight hours when every last-minute shopper below 14 th Street jammed the store to buy last-minute heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover’s discounted, thoughtless candy, thoughtless cards, and faded red roses for their beloveds. If he loved someone, he would be embarrassed to hand them these shoddy love tokens on this manufactured Hallmark holiday. Looking at the tense, unhappy faces at his register, he imagined the disappointed ones who would be presented with these inconsiderate trinkets. His register jammed several times and Nigel angrily fixed it without even looking at him. The lines of last-minute lovers snaked through the tight aisles and thrummed with anger and frustration. Everyone was making New York Minute calculations about each other as time stood still in the pitiless fluorescent light. The thrumming was punctuated by incongruous, peppy computerized voices promoting Valentine specials and flu shots. The smell of the cheap chocolate oozed from the bright red, heart-shaped boxes and gave him a headache. When he got a short bathroom break, he went to the pain reliever aisle, but the shelves were empty. Mother Pinderloo was dreamily massaging them with her feather duster. After five hours of his eight-hour shift, red hearts swam before his eyes, and he began to hallucinate. He thought of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem, A Coney Island of the Mind. He seemed to have fallen into a Duane Reade Of The Soul, an existential sinkhole where everything is advertised but nothing is available on the dusty, puke green shelves. A place where kindness shriveled like the ancient roses, where the Pinderloos snapped at you without looking at you. and dignity was impossible without a fight. He was ashamed of himself for having this miserable, minimum wage job, being bad at it, and for having no Valentine on this idiotic, manipulative holiday. He was drenched in flop sweat and feared that either he or the store would implode, collapsing onto the subway tracks below. He punched out after 10pm and crawled into bed where he hid the whole next day. When Nigel called to find out where he was, he quit. “I knew you were a pussy,” Nigel said. #


The feel of a bottle crashing against my hull, brought me alive. Fruity liquid dripped down my wood slats, different than the salty waves that cradled me. Along my deck feet rushed to and fro, ropes sliding over masts and spars. Wind filled the sails, the pressure pushing against me. I slid through the water, shouts rising through the air. Cheers and laughter chasing me out to sea. Years passed, full of sun and storms. I sang with the winds in my rigging, the waves keeping time. There were good captains that kept me clean from barnacles and in good repair. For them, I ran true and weathered all storms. The bad captains took me into danger and cared not when cannon fire tore holes in my belly and let the water rush in. But even for them, I was a good steed. For even with them, I was free. Not shorebound like the docks and houses my brethren constructed. I could travel to far shores, where the fish would fly along my sides. Or where ice cracked and groaned, almost trapping me with its haunting song. I flew from the ice, to the warmth of the southern seas and back again. I was the ship Aeterna and I sailed the sea. But now I am scared. My last captain has not returned. No one has been aboard padding around my decks in a long time. The tides whisper about ships. Ships that have been taken out and sunk. Ships that have been left in the dock to rot. Ships that were taken away from the sea, cut up and put to a new purpose. The wind murmurs about new ships. Ships of metal and steam. Ships that do not depend on the wind. Ships that can carry more, haul more, are more reliable. I am afraid. There are footsteps above. An old man, and young boy by the feel of them. Perhaps the old man sailed on me once. It is hard to remember. They are talking, the man sounds sad. I could never understand my sailors. The words flash by too fast. But there are people here and I am less afraid. Maybe the young boy will grow to be a captain. My captain. It has been some time since the old man and young boy have walked on my deck. There is a new sound now. Water sloshes in my hold, but that is not it. My ropes have long since rotted away, so the noise cannot be them. It is a grating noise, loud and abrasive. Perhaps it is one of the new ships. I hope it enjoys the freedom of the sea. It is odd, though. One of my masts feels lighter than usual. Pain. I am no longer a ship. My pieces have been given away, turned to some new purpose. I have lost track of where or what I am. All that I know is that it is dark in here. There is no sun now. No salt waves, or wind to sing with me. The air is recycled, controlled. People are few and far between; I only know they are there when they speak. Memories of the sea are fading, now, memories I never knew I needed to preserve. I am no longer free. Now, I am encased in metal. Metal surrounds all but one surface. There is a deep hum, a vibration that sets into every crack and fibre of my being. Another sentience. The metal is trying to speak to me. I do not want to listen. Those new ships that replaced me so long ago were metal. But I am lonely. So lonely. Perhaps I can listen. It tells a strange story. Of moons and planets. Of travel among the stars. It tells me that we are travelling through space. And then it asks a question. Will I become part of it? Part of the humming metal? Sadness still shudders through my wood. A longing for the freedom of the sea. I do not know that I would like to be part of metal that hums so happily. But... I accept. Did you know that the stars sing? It is a different song than I am used to. A quiet song. A song that has been sung for eternity and will be sung for longer still. This metal I am in sails between the stars. I sail through the stars, strange currents pulling at my metal hull. We are a ship again. We are the Aeterna. We are free! **Recording of a conversation between the Captain of the Starship Aeterna and a crewmember.** **Crewmember: Captain, I've been wondering. Why did you have the control board fitted for a wood cover instead of metal?** **Captain: Long ago, this piece of wood was a sailing ship. She wasn't the fastest, nor did she go down in history for her battle prowess. The Aeterna was a fat merchant sailer. But generations ago, long enough that we don't even remember his name, a relative of mine sailed on her. He made his grandson promise to save the ship.** **Crewmember: But sailing ships haven't existed for thousands of years, sir!** **Captain: I'm getting there son, hold onto your water. The boy couldn't save the ship from destruction, but he saved a piece. And through the generations, we have passed that piece of ship from father to son, mother to daughter. All intent on keeping the promise that old man made.** **That he would make sure the Aeterna sailed free again.