The sound of shelling and gunfire rings throughout the trench. Soldiers scream for their lives as they suffer the wrath of man’s cruelest creations. Uniform and language blur into one as the war machine rages. In the chaos of the inferno, one’s identity becomes second only to their innate instinct to survive, and in the hellish landscape of battle, it is kill, or be killed. Thick black smoke bellows through the narrow corridors of the trench, as flames engulf all that they touch. Thick splatters of blood paint the walls of the trench, and the squelch of wet mud tangled with the distorted remains of mangled corpses can be heard underfoot. The resulting cacophony of sound is both deafening and blinding. Disoriented men stumble through the smoke and mud, thickened further by the blood of our fallen comrades. The finest, most stoic of us are reduced to the likes of children as we call for our mothers, cowering from the onslaught that we find ourselves entwined with. Injured men crawl and flail, helplessly grabbing the ankles of those still standing, hoping for some form of divine intervention. However, their fate is now in God’s hands, as they are left for dead in the cold, wet trench, some even drowning, as the unforgiving, relentless sludge fills their lungs, it's hardly the ‘glory of battle’ we were promised when joining. The smell of smoke, decay, disease, and filth fill my nose, as the metallic taste of my own blood, and the earthy, gritty taste of dirt fill my mouth. It is almost impossible to breathe, as the air becomes hot and thick with toxic smoke, and the exploding bombs knock the wind out of my chest, like a cruel beating drum. A repetitive cycle. Boom. Boom. Boom. The order for a retreat is shouted down the line. As men turn and run from the slaughter, the horrific choir of weaponry continues to play as the order is relayed. Many men fail to hear the orders over the ear-piercing sound. If they are not deaf, they are in no conscious state of mind to comprehend the order, frozen and shocked by the horrors in front of them. Human beings were not designed for this level of bloodshed. As the retreating men fall like dominoes, cut down by relentless machine guns, a low yet powerful tremor can be felt throughout the battlefield. Through the smoke emerges 5 beastly machines, monotonous in their tone, relentless in their advance. Unphased by traditional deterrents such as barbed wire or entrenchments, they continue their march, mercilessly rolling over injured men, burying them deep into the all-consuming dirt. Our men, no, our boys, could not have possibly imagined such devices, used to inflict such cruelty. As we watch our friends be desecrated without remorse by the ever-advancing enemy, we are helpless in our resolve. Many men accept that these are their last moments on Earth. They say goodbye to their families and pray that God watches over them in their absence. They make peace with themselves, accepting their fate before they are brutally gunned down in cold blood, for this is no place for remorse, prayer, or reflection. The front is a barren, godless wasteland, for if God were real, surely he would not allow such cruelty. There is no humanity here. As the trench is overrun by an insurmountable enemy, I take one last look at the sky. A small sliver of the delicate, blue, French sky is visible through the mat of grey and black clouds separating us from the rest of the world as if we were within some form of hellish, twisted arena. The sky reminds me of home, where I would seldom admire its beauty, however now, more than anything, I wish I could be back on home soil doing nothing but exactly that. I look at my hands, covered in thick, black dirt, and blood of unknown origin. Is it my own? Or that of the enemy... Perhaps my comrades? I am not sure, nor will I ever know. It’s amazing how intimate killing can be, yet ever so distant at the same time, never truly knowing your enemy. You see a uniform, and you kill the wearer, as if you were some primal hunter praying on another animal outside of your pack. None of that matters now though. I stand still, waiting to return to the land from whence I came.   **2 September, 1939** It has been 21 years since The Great War ended now, yet the memory still lingers in my mind like an ailment, unshakable, relentless in its persistence, almost as if it were the enemy itself. As I bathe, I watch the water drain, finding myself lost in the trickling sound. I see flashes of memory before my very eyes, memories of my friends bleeding and flailing like wounded animals, eerily reminiscent of the trickling I hear before me now. Whilst I am forced to endure the psychological torment of my own mind, I see the water draining start to become filth ridden, resembling the same drab brown colour of water within a flooded trench. I look at my hands, covered in thick, black dirt, as well as viscous crimson blood. As a wave of helplessness washes over me and I am reverted to my primal fears, I scrub harder than ever before. I want to be rid of the dirt.


She said “you got a lot of things to learn.” We were heading to pick up her mom from the methadone clinic in Lawrence. She was home for the weekend from Phillips. The trip from Andover was only a half an hour by car, but a world away from where she was today. Jamie grew up fast. Her mother was happy for the ride. It was a cold October that year and the couple of miles it took to walk to the clinic were wearing on her. When we got back to her mother’s apartment we immediately clambered into her sister’s tiny bedroom. Her sister got into Phillips as well but it felt too strange for her being there so she left to finish her high school career at Lawrence High. Her boyfriend had stolen a shoe box full of mushroom caps from an ex-roommate at Plymouth University and left them at the house. It was Jamie’s idea to eat them that morning. With her mother locked away for the rest of the day in her room, it felt like a safe opportunity to experiment. Up until this time in my life I had only smoked weed and gotten high on amphetamines, but I was up for whatever Jamie wanted to do. I idolized her. We took a handful of caps each. I didn’t feel anything within 20 minutes so I ate some more, regardless of her sister’s warning. She was going to watch us. Within 45 minutes I was peaking. The world shattered around me and I was floating in space. I felt a commonality with everything in the universe for a while, but the beauty faded when I couldn’t make it back to reality. I knew I had to throw up, but I could hardly make it to the bathroom, I was seeing stars. Hours passed. I begged god to make it stop. It was a horrible trip. My consciousness felt permanently altered. Later in the afternoon I began to feel sane again. Jamie and I went for a walk around her block. I had one shoe on, one barefoot. I needed to feel the cold ground beneath that foot. She was humming to “Sweet Adeline” which had been playing throughout the trip, courtesy of our babysitter dj. Upon arriving back, her sister was alone in her room crying. She said “Elliott Smith has killed himself.


Divine nature has a way of bringing things together in harmony’s best interest. The way a baby’s first cry plants a new seed in its mother’s mind. The way egrets sit on the horns of Buffalos, acting as their protectors, as small in stature as they may be. The way fish dance in an out of sea anemones, but never get shocked. Nature brings together even the animals who believed they have outsmarted their mother. Even her most challenging children. Nature has a daughter with hair holds her secrets. When the wind blows through it sometimes you hear the whispers. Pools of amber lie in her eyes and catch heat waves for a cloudy day. Her legs are made from ivy vines, wrapped and braided to give her strength. Soft green leaves stretch up her skin, making her soft and cool to the touch. And you want to touch her. Nature’s daughter has a clock for a heart and she can hear the time all the time. She can hear when it’s time to pack her things and carry herself to a place that’s louder than the ticking in her ribs. She wishes she could reach inside and bend the hands and smash the face and stop the seconds. Nature doesn’t know time. Nature’s daughter has plums on her cheeks that only grow redder. She wishes ivory soap could wash them away but they come from underneath her skin. Nature’s daughter is selfish. She wants the honey to drip from her lips but doesn’t know that too much will stick them together. She wants the sun to warm her skin but doesn’t know that too much will turn it to char. She wants the most of everything to herself but doesn’t know that too much of everything feels an awful lot like nothing. Nature has a son. He is a tree that wind cannot weather and time only makes more beautiful. His roots grow deeply and stretch to drink anything good that flows through the soil. His body is made of music. It is crafted with a steady hand like fingers pushing a bow against strings. His teeth are piano keys and as his lips open and close, breathy melodies escape, leaving the world with a new song to sing. If you look inside his ears you might see the ocean inside his head. If you lean on his shoulder for a while you might be lucky enough to hear it. It’s mighty and it roars with the marvelous weight of the tide crashing and receding. Sometimes he believes it’s more noise than he’s capable of containing. But the morning always comes and puts the stirring swell to sleep. The length of his back feels like a river stone against your hands. His eyelashes dance like fairy wings as his eyes dart back and forth between yours. He sees you. He sees you for everything that you are. He sees that the fire in your eyes is turning into embers, but he still holds his hands to the ashes to warm them. He sees that the stains of black under your eyes are spreading down your cheeks, but he still kisses your face. He sees the empty burrows inside your veins, but he still tangles his roots with yours to send them pulsing to life. He sees you. Do you see him? Divine nature has a way of bringing things together for harmony’s best interest. She carefully picks which of her children to plant in the same patch. This is where they prosper and bloom. This is where her ivy wraps around his river stones and the hands of her clock get tangled in his roots and the ticking stops. This is where her leaves float in his waves, taken under by the force but never tearing. This is where honey flows between his piano keys. This is where harmony can lay its head. This is where nature can close her eyes and smile that her children, as different as they are, have found each other. This is where we grow our garden.


A high-pitched ping echoed throughout the empty lobby. The elevator doors opened with an arduous shudder. Michael, eyes fixed on his phone, took a step forward. He retracted his foot at the sight of the elderly woman and her dog that live on his floor. The woman wore a knee length, black dress, floral pinafore, knee-high stockings and pink slippers. She stared at Michael through thick glasses and smiled. The little white terrier gazed up at Michael and let out a little yip . Michael took a step to the side and nodded at his neighbour. Both dog and owner waddled out of the elevator and into the lobby. Michael stepped into the small metal box, locked his phone screen and slid the device into his jeans pocket. He pressed the yellowed, plastic knob marked “26”. The button creaked with the pressure of Michael’s index finger. The elevator doors rattled shut and closed with a thud. The tiny compartment smelt strongly of stale cigarettes and an indistinguishable meat smell. The wall panels had the initials of neighbourhood kids scratched into their artificial wood grain. Michael plunged his hands into the deep pockets of his navy blue bomber jacket and leaned against the wall. The elevator gave out a deep whirring sound and he began his ascent to the 26th floor. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered through a metal cage. Michael let out a deep exhale and blinked a long, satisfying blink. His contact lenses were dry and irritating. The little orange dial above the door began to move as the elevator climbed higher and higher. At floor 15 Michael started to fiddle with the keys in his pocket. He slid his index finger into the keyring, all the way down to the base. With his thumb he spun the metal hoop around his finger like the wedding ring of an anxious adulterer. Michael is the coworker that clicks his pen in meetings. He’s the guy at the coffee shop that bounces his knee when transfixed on his laptop. He’s the man that whistles in the showers at the gym. These small distractions soothed him, whether he realized it or not. At the 21st floor the elevator stopped with a jolt. Michael was jostled by the force of the halt. The fluttering fluorescent lights extinguished. Michael was left in complete darkness. “For fuck sakes!” he cried out. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. At that time of night everyone was at home. Everyone was cooking dinner and everyone was watching TV. The building’s ancient power grid couldn’t cope with its modern-day demands. Michael stood upright and reached for his phone. There was no signal. “Fuck!” he spat through gritted teeth. Michael switched on his phone’s flashlight and inspected the column of buttons in front of him. He punched the red circle with the bell symbol. Nothing. He thumbed it a few more times. Still, nothing. Michael crouched down and opened the small door below the column of knobs. He took the black, plastic telephone off the hook and held it to his ear. He stood up, bringing with him a foot of cord ending in a spray of smaller wires and plastic casing. The other half of the cord was still attached to the elevator. “Fucking kids!” Michael grunted to himself. He kicked the elevator wall and threw the phone receiver to the ground. It ricocheted on the tiled floor and landed in the corner. Michael pushed both of his palms against his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He slammed his back against the elevator wall, slid to the floor and hugged his knees. Michael sat in the darkness. A faint creaking came from above. Then a twang. A twang like a thrown rock into a corrugated iron storm drain or a skimmed stone on a frozen lake. The elevator dropped. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. It was enough to turn Michael’s stomach. His heart was trying to escape his chest by way of his mouth. Another snapping sound came from overhead and Michael jumped to his feet. He looked up at the ceiling. He listened. He was desperate for silence. With a final metallic splinter the cables above separated from the elevator and the box began to plummet down the shaft. Michael’s feet lifted from the floor. Although he was falling it felt like flying. His bomber jacket bellowed behind him like a cape and his hair flowed as if he were underwater. Everything was moving in slow motion. Michael released the grip on his phone. It tumbled through the air illuminating the walls of the elevator. It cast Michael-shaped shadows on surrounding surfaces. Michael knew he was going to die. He didn’t have the time to process it in real-time. There was no saving himself. There were no poetic final words or goodbyes. He wasn’t scared. He just existed in that moment. In the last few seconds of his life he was at peace. Some say your heart explodes during a fall like that. A heart attack kills you before you hit the ground. Some say you die instantly on impact. What Michael did know is that your life does, in fact, flash before your eyes before you die. Everything Michael had ever experienced came into sharp focus. Old, forgotten memories filed deep in the recesses of his mind were now illuminated and vivid. His memories were like home movies but everything shot from his point of view. He remembered all the times he cried, feeling warm tears running down his face and collecting on his chin. He remembered every lie he’d ever told and the heat on the back of his neck and the knot in his stomach whenever he told them. He remembered every romance he’d ever had; the first time he laid eyes on them and the crushing moment he realized it wasn’t meant to be. All the times he let his mother down and all the times he enraged his father. He also remembered all the times his Dad carried him to bed after falling asleep in the car and all the times his Mum kissed him on the forehead on her way out the door. His dog Charlie licking his cheek, his first slow dance, his first hangover. Michael felt these sensations all over again. He remembered dancing around a bonfire in his bathing suit, watching the sunrise wrapped in a blanket and diving into frigid lake water. He remembered every flu, strep throat and earache he’d ever had. He felt the sensation of burning his fingers on a baking sheet again, the sheer panic after misplacing his wallet and every time he stubbed his pinky toe. He re-lived every orgasm, every meaningful hug, every electric first kiss. He replayed every knowing look from a friend from across a room. He felt the sweat running down his back and the burn in his lungs after every run. He felt the sticky feeling and heavy eyelids after a long-haul flight. The fear and excitement of a foreign city and the comfort of his own bed. He felt embarrassed at the times he just yelled English words louder or the times he returned a wave not meant for him. He experienced the adrenaline of jumping off a cliff into the ocean or stepping off a curb and narrowly missing a speeding car. Waking up next to someone you love. Waking up to a complete stranger. He heard the satisfying thud of throwing garbage into an empty trashcan, the feeling of a chiropractor re-aligning his spine and the smell of his first car. He remembered lyrics to long-forgotten songs and every password he’d ever made. Michael could smell the incense his ex used to burn and the perfume his grandmother used to wear. He could taste his mother’s spaghetti sauce and the dandelion nail polish he used to try and stop biting his nails. He remembered the comfortable silences he shared with the people he loved the most. He remembered the first time he caught snow on his tongue. He remembered the sun on his face.


The Cell (Tribute to Kafka) “How did I get here?” I exclaimed. It was a moderately large room, lit by soft electric light. I was walking along, hand brushing the cold walls. I noticed a door that I opened when I came upon it. On the other side was darkness, pure and unadulterated darkness. I peered into it, even leaning my head across the threshold into the blackness of the room. Inside I could see nothing and pulled myself back after a moment. I shut the door. I continued to circle, hand brushing the wall, for I had nothing else to do. I counted fourteen paces to a side. Twelve well timed breaths and I could encircle the whole room. Nothing else was here with me. After the boredom of walking had gotten to me, I returned to the door that led to the darkness and opened it again. Staring into the emptiness I felt an anxiety deep within me. I wondered what the room could contain, could eyes be peering back at me from the other side of the doorway. I stood there; hands braced against the door frame and continued to wonder what could be concealed in the blackness. I felt a cool breeze blow in from the doorway, or maybe I just imagined it, either way my heart seemed to be chilled by the wonder of what was hidden before me. I shut the door again and took a seat on the floor in the center of the well lit room that I occupied. From my seat I passed judgment on my surroundings. I was held by cold stone walls, the same rough stone covered the floor and the ceiling. A small light bulb hung from a wire in the center of the ceiling, and the wooden door stood in the center of a wall. I stood and looked up at the light bulb. It wasn’t anything spectacular, a mere piece of round glass, encasing a fiery filament. But it did shower light down upon the entire room, softening the cold stone walls. The wire that it was attached to seemed to jut directly into the stone above it. I assumed that it was attached to a battery, or possibly directly to an electrical plant. Yet, from my position inside of the room, I could not see where thee wire extended to beyond the ceiling. I reached up, stood on the tips of my toes, but the bulb was out of my range. I wasn’t sure what I would have done if I had been able to touch it, I don’t know how it would have satisfied my curiosity, yet I still attempted it. After my evaluation of my source of light, I turned my attention to the door. It amounted to just that and little more. It was a dark slab of wood with a nob for a handle. The face of the door was as plain as could be; the only detail to be gained by staring at it was to familiarize myself with the pattern of its grain. When I turned the nob a small metal bar pulled inside of the door and allowed it to swing open from the wall, where a small recess remained for when the metal bar was put back into place. There were also two hinges on my side of the door, allowing it to open only in my direction. I pondered the room, the light and the door for as long as I could sanely ponder anything. Yet my thoughts kept circling upon themselves in a more rapid fashion each time. I don’t know when exactly, but I do know that there were times I slept. I recall dreams about the light going out, dreams about hands grabbing at me from the inside of the dark room, dreams of beasts salivating while they begged for me to cross the threshold into the darkness of their lair, dreams that I had in fits, dreams that I would wake up from with screams fresh in my throat and sweat on my brow. Time passed, seconds, hours, weeks, maybe even years. In the room I couldn’t judge the passage of time well at all. I only knew that I had exhausted all of the thoughts that I could possibly have inside of the room. I kept my sanity as well as I could. I wondered why I was here, but was given no reason. I wondered who was responsible for the creation of the room, who made sure the light kept shining, who had built the door, but my mind held no answers. I peered towards the doorway with trepidation. I wished there was a way I could secure it in the closed position better than simply with the little bar that was triggered by the nod, but there was nothing to use to slow it from being opened. Time continued to pass. I could feel old age setting into my body but could do nothing to prevent it from happening. My breaths became shorter and my legs became quickly tired of walking around the room, which took more and more steps to encircle. The light seemed to be further and further from me as days passed. My brain moved slower, trying to evaluate what secretes could possibly be held by the room I occupied. In the end, I lay on the floor, its hard stone being my only comfort. There I closed my eyes. It felt like the light above me finally went out, yet some part of me that was far away knew that it was the light inside of me that flickered before it was extinguished. Only then did I wonder why the darkness of death was less fearful than the darkness of the unknown.


***  ***\[WP\] You're a historian exploring a crypt unopened for 800 years. You uncover a coffin that bears your family's crest and name. Upon opening it, you see a man, awake and very much alive. His eyes go wide upon seeing you, and says "Rosie, you're still alive?"***  "No," I said, "Rosalyn Darmitage passed away ten years after your seal. I'm Nadia Darmitage, about thirty generations off from Rosalyn." "Oh." The man's expression slumped by my news. His thin lips turned into a single line and his forehead furrowed in thought. "You look a lot like Rosie." "Cyclic inheritance," I said, offering a hand. For a man over 800 years, Tobias Darmitage looked suprisingly healthy. Tall and thin, with a sharp face and a mane of brown hair. His ancient linen clothes acted more natural, crumbling to dust as soon as he grabbed my hand and stepped out of the coffin. I handed over my backpack with spare clothes and looked away, glancing at the other coffins in the crypt, my nose itching from wanting to uncover their contents. "If you've inherited Rosalyn's memories, you should know the dangers of opening the crypt," Tobias Darmitage said behind my back. "I'm a person who's bad at listening to hearsay," I replied. "I'd rather confirm things myself." Chuckles rumbled behind me. "Still the same Nosy Rosie. You can turn around now." The hoodie was a bit small on him, half his underarms stuck out and his bellybutton, an outie, said hello to the world. The gym pants were thankfully black. "Strange clothes you wear this day and age," Tobias said. "I'll get you something better when we get out of here," I said. "And what's the reason for awakening one of your ancestors?" Tobias asked, his voice piqueing with curiosity. "And even wanting to take him out to show the world. I'm sure that the Hunters are still alive and well... hunting. They wouldn't take it kindly if they found me up and running." "They're busy with another bigger problem at the moment," I said. Tobias seemed to take insult on that as he harrumphed and folded his arms across his chest. The hoodie stretched to its max, seeming to burst at any moment. "No seriously, a demon lord has opened a portal to this realm," I said. "The Hunters are holding them at bay but it's not going so well." "And you want me to help the Hunters?" Tobias asked, his voice sharp around the edges. "Those who sealed me?" From what I had gathered from Rosalyn's memories was that Tobias had some megalomanic tendencies which didn't coincide with the Hunters' business statement 'to keep the world at peace'. They've killed Tobias several times or rather his predecessors. Due to cyclic inheritance, the person who gained Tobias's memories seemed to always have a deep hatred against the Hunters and rose to challenge them, once every hundred years or so. The simplest thing had been to chuck him into a crypt and keep it hidden. "Look," I said, "You can fight the Hunters *after* the demon lord has been pushed back into the portal." "Why wait?" Tobias said as he began to step up the stairs, heading to the exit of the crypt. "I can simply side with the demon." "Oh, I wouldn't recommend that," I said, as my lips split into a cheeky smile. "What would Nosy Rosie say if you allied with her killer?" He froze mid-step. "What?" But I didn't reply, instead I pushed the coffin lid back into place. I rumbled through my bag, left on the ground by the old man, and pulled out three talismans and applied them to the coffin. "What did you say about Rosie?" Tobias's voice had some crackling undertones, like gravel rolled in his throat. A tingle ran down my spine and goosebumps crawled on my forearms. It seemed like air had turned heavy and the light from my lamp flickered. I opened my mouth but words didn't come out, just a rasp and a cough. It felt like the moisture in my lips and throat and been drawn out. "Rosie wouldn't fall prey to a demon's whispers," Tobias said and stepped closer. His face was ashen and his hair crackled with electricity. My knees buckled from the man's intensity. My hands tried to pry away the invisible force strangling my neck. And then everything returned to normal. The pressure disappeared and air rushed down my lungs while I gasped on the ground. So this was why the Hunters had nicknamed Tobias and his predecessors as "The Calamity". "So, Nadia Darmitage," Tobias began, staring at me with his grey eyes. "What was your reason for opening the crypt which I was sealed in? Are you a mage in cahoot with the Hunters? You're perhaps a Hunter yourself, hoping to use the family name to lull me into a sense of safety and then push me through the portal together with that demon lord of yours?" "No," I said, my voice hoarse and still dry. "I'm not a mage, nor a Hunter." "Then what are you?" I pushed myself up on wobbly legs and stood tall and proud, meeting the eyes of The Calamity. "I'm a historian.


Damon’s 2 nd Chance By Jame Michaels Just as I was coming through the classroom door, the bell rang. “Damon, I’d like to see you after class, please.” It was Miss Mc Gary. “Yes, ma’am.” I knew what this was about. I didn’t think anyone saw me when I left school last Friday, but someone must have spotted me besides Rat Face. The real name for Rat Face was Richard. Richard was on me like stink on dodo. Not just once in a while. But ALL THE TIME! He must have a terrible home life because every day when he came to school, he had one mission. GET DAMON!! But it’s not just get GET DAMON!! It was get Damon down and beat the ever loving crap out of Damon. Over and over. Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesday and Thursday I have band practice and my Mom picks me up after school. I stopped by Miss Mc Gary’s desk at the end of class. Was I fighting with Richard after school last Friday? “No ma’am. He was fighting me.” “It looked like you were fighting.” “No ma’am. I didn’t even have my hands up. He fights me and he beats the-you-know-what out of me three times a week.” “Damon - you have to start standing up for yourself.” “But Miss Mc Gary, if I fight him I’ll get kicked out of school. I’m better off to run home.” So, I stopped taking the bus from school in the afternoon, so I didn’t have to meet up with Rat Face at the bus stop when I got off Number 23. He had to take Number 17. He got kicked off Number 23 for fighting and they put him on Number 17. And guess what? Number 23 and Number 17 wind up at the same bus stop - the last stop, at the end of the line. So I stopped taking the bus home. I walk home because it is safer. So I am walking home one day about a month ago. It had been a while since I saw Rat Face, and it looks like my walking home to miss Rat Face has been working, and who do I run into? Carolyn O’Connor. She is like the cutest girl in the whole school. She’s (secretly) the girl of my dreams. I know it’s stupid. Her father is a dentist and I don’t have a father. Her mother is on PTA or something that rich mothers do for the school. My mom works a nine to five. She wears the cutest little outfits, a different one every day, and I wear the same pair of khaki pants every day and a polo shirt. When I see her I can’t even talk and she thinks that is the cutest thing that I am tongue tied and can’t get any really smart things out of my mouth. I’d like nothing better than to take her into my arms and, and, well you know what I mean. So what does she tell me last week? This ugly guy Richard something or other has been asking her out and she can’t make him see that she has no interest in him whatsoever. What can she do? “I’d have your father call the principal and tell the principal that Richard is bothering you and it has to stop.” Carolyn nods her head up and down. “O.K. I’ll try that.” I just make it into class as the bell is ringing. “Damon I’d like to see you after class, please.” It was Friday, my last class for the week. “Yes ma’am.” I got an A on my report. My mom will be happy to see that bit of good news. After class I go see Miss Mc Gary. She wants to know how I have been making out with Rat Face. She doesn’t call him that but that is who she is talking about. I tell her what I have been doing and she wants to know how that has been working out? I tell her and she says. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to show you something.” “I was talking to my father about you and he wants to give you some training. Interested?” “Yes ma’am!” I met her dad. He was the same size as me. We spent a half an hour on hand to hand training he used in the service. I had to go back and meet him in a week for the second lesson. He and I met up in the gym at school on Saturday. Miss Mc Gary’s dad wants to see what I remember. We go through the steps. “Perfect!” her dad shouts. “I have one more for you!” They go through the paces and her dad asks if Damon thinks it will work. “Do I ever hit him in the face? That’s what he always does to me.” “No,” her dad says. “Let’s wait for the last class next week.” I walked into the last period on Friday a little early. Miss Mc Gary said, “Damon. How are your lessons coming along?” I didn’t say a word. I gave her a thumbs up sign and sat down. I got to the gym a little early on Saturday. When her dad walked in, her dad said, “Ready?” I hollered a little louder than I meant to, “Yes sir. Ready!” ”This is your last class Damon, let’s go over the first two lessons. Miss Mc Gary’s dad and I went over the three moves from the first class. “Perfect!” Then they went through the moves from last week. “You are a little rusty on the second move. Do you have someone you can practice with on that one?” I thought about it. “I think I know a guy.” They went over the last three moves. “O.K. Damon. You need to join a gym where you can go and practice these nine moves in order. Next you need to do your warm up exercises, every morning except for Sunday. O.K.?” On Friday the following week, I got on Number 23. More than just a few of my buddies knew what happened the last time I rode on Number 23. But no one said a thing. One of the kids who rode to the last stop hollered out, “Look Damon, Number 17 is already here!!” Everyone got off the bus. I got off last. As I descended the stairs of the bus, I noticed Rat Face to the left, but I was looking to the right when my foot touched the ground. Rat Face called out my name, but instead of looking to the left, I swung around to the right and did a straight arm move right into Rat Face’s chest. That move knocked Rat Face smack on his back. I then backed up to give Rat Face a chance to get up. Rat Face came forward, and WHAM, BANG , I stuck my left leg out and pushed Rat Face back and down Fat Face went for a second time. This time on his face. The ground where we were fighting was a little rocky and Rat Face cut his check when he went down. The other kids were all brave now and lined up behind me. “Had enough Richard, or do you really want me to really give you an ass whooping?” Richard raised his hand. “I give.” The following Monday I walked home from school. Carolyn hollered out from behind, “Hey wait a minute!” I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Can I ask you a question,” I asked when we were standing next to one another. “Sure.” “Can I take you to the Homecoming Dance in two weeks?” “Oh yes!! You bet you can!”


It'd been twenty-four years since she'd last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The massive building was constructed of an array of red and brown brick, contrasted by white, that lined the gleaming rectangular windows. The edges of the structure weren't sharp; instead, they were etched in like little staircases. It reminded her of the pin art she used to play with as a child. Her brother would make a contorted face and stick it into the pins, then chase her around with the horrifying 3D image. The entrance, a pointed archway, was once inviting. The bulbous white light fixtures bolted to either side of it were now nothing but beacons of dismay. Emma's hands were beginning to clam up as she took a deep breath to settle her palpitating heart. She wiped her hands on her jacket before sliding them into her pockets. She observed the forest green shrubbery that lined the walkway. It was still neatly trimmed. The small areas of grass were as well, edged perfectly where they met the sidewalk. Nudging it with the toe of her boot, she gazed up at the building. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned her back and headed back toward her hotel a few blocks down the road. Cars whirred past her faster than they should have, blowing her tight curls into her eyes. The frigid breeze was making her nose run and her eyes water. It was the very thing she was trying to hold back. "Oh my goodness, Emma? Is that you?" a high pitched voice questioned from behind. Turning around, Emma was facing a heavy-set woman who wore thick-rimmed glasses and sported a chic, platinum pixie cut. She was wearing a short, tan leather jacket over a fitted white knit top, dark blue skinny jeans, and brown knee-high boots. Upon her forearm was a fair-sized Louis Vuitton purse. The woman looked familiar, but she couldn't put a name to the face. The woman could tell. "Oh, I'm sorry, doll. It's me, Katie! Remember we went to Hites Elementary together. I wouldn't mistake those curls anywhere! I was just ordering a latte, come join me!" "Oh, sure! That'd be great," she beamed excitedly. She hadn't seen Katie since they were children, but she had followed her success online. It was like being in the presence of a celebrity. Emma followed her long lost friend into the quaint coffee shop. The aroma of fresh coffee beans was heavenly. She went to the counter and ordered a black coffee, then joined Katie at a bistro table at the storefront. "So, Emma, what brings you back to town? When you got rid of Facebook years ago, I always wondered what the heck happened to you!" That was the very reason Emma had removed herself from social media- privacy. Moreover, she was tired of living a mock-up life for others to see and judge. While Emma displayed herself as a gleaming artist- joyful and free, she was, in fact, the opposite. She was quite solemn. And, this town especially brought it out in her. "Just came to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. What about you? You moved to New York to do your designer work, didn't you?" Emma inquired. "I sure did, girl! It's absolutely amazing. I'm here visiting my family too. It's so nostalgic coming back here- a nice break from the madness in the city. So where are you living now?" Katie asked, gently blowing on her latte. "I moved to the Poconos a few years ago. Not nearly as exciting as New York, I'm sure," Emma responded. She admired Katie's outgoing nature just as much as she had when they were children. Their contrasting personalities had really brought them together. And unlike some, Katie never gloated about her wealth or success. She came from money, which helped fund her fashion endeavor to New York, but she had indeed put in the work. Emma could think of no one more deserving. "It's really tough, sometimes, girl. I feel like I never get a minute of peace. I have all of these deadlines, interviews, and then marketing. It never ends. I was so looking forward to this trip home! My phone is silenced and everything!" she said, holding up her glittery iPhone. "Wow, I don't know how you do it. You're amazing!" Emma replied in admiration. They chatted like they had never been separated. Emma checked her phone, and two hours had gone by. "Oh my, it's getting late! I had better get going. Thank you so much for the visit, Katie. You really brightened my day," Emma stated, standing from her stool and shaking the stiffness from her legs. "You really brightened my day too, doll," Katie answered, placing a hand on Emma's arm. "Let me drive you to your parents. That's quite a walk, and it's getting dark. Not to mention freezing!" Emma's parents had moved to Florida and sold the house years prior. She hadn't come to visit family and felt a little guilty for offering a white lie. However, the truth likely would've ended their visit before it even began. So the fib continued. "Oh, my parent's converted my bedroom into a home office, so I am staying at the Pinewood Suites. It'll just be a five-minute walk. No trouble at all," Emma replied convincingly. "Okay, well, let's exchange numbers! We need to stay in touch!" Katie said, swiping up on her phone. Her eyes widened, and her hands began tremoring frantically. "Oh my gosh, my mom has called a hundred times! My dad is having chest pain, and they just rushed him to the hospital! I have to go!" Katie was hyperventilating as she bolted out of the coffee shop before Emma could speak. Emma stood in silence with a sinking feeling for her dear friend. She sent up a silent prayer before heading out toward the hotel. After a brisk walk, which took longer than expected, she arrived at the hotel and entered. Swiping into her room, she set down her purse and slipped out of her coat. She changed into her pajamas and kicked back on the king-sized bed after grabbing a bottle of wine from her suitcase. She reflected on her time with Katie. "Not once did she mention it," she thought. Right after it happened, Katie's parents had pulled her from that school and enrolled her in a boarding school an hour away. She probably had a top of the line therapist while she was there. Emma had not sensed even a hint of uneasiness in Katie. Emma polished off a glass of wine and settled down under the puffy down comforter. The next day was going to be a monumental one. It was what Emma had been waiting for, the whole reason she had made the four-hour trip to her quaint hometown. The town she promised herself she would never return to. Emma smelled smoke. Mrs. Donaldson frantically instructed all of the students to push their desks to the back wall. "Get down behind and cover your heads, children," she whispered shakily. She cautiously pushed her large desk in front of the closed classroom door, making as little noise as possible. She crouched down behind her desk, and Emma could hear her whisper a prayer. "Katie, I'm scared," Emma whispered, leaning her body into her best friend. She could feel Katie tremoring. "We're going to be okay, Emma. The police will..." "Shh, shh," Mrs. Donaldson hushed nervously from across the room. Clicking boots were echoing in the hall just outside the door. She started praying again. The door handle rattled. The children gasped, many shutting their eyes tight. The door opened, slamming against Mrs. Donaldson's massive oak desk, pushing it forward slightly. A man's voice groaned deeply, and the door slammed again with more force. Mrs. Donaldson stood and whispered, "Children, keep your heads down. Do not look up." The students did as instructed, burrowing their heads further into their knees. A forceful thud pierced the air as Mrs. Donaldson slammed her desk against the door. The sound that followed was explosive, rattling the room. The class gasped in unison. "Don't look up, children," Mrs. Donaldson croaked. Emma couldn't help it; she raised her head slowly. Mrs. Donaldson was lying flat on her back, gasping, a pool of crimson growing around her torso. She stared in awe, unable to look away. Just then, another flash and bang. "We got him! Go, go, go!" A scuffle of shoes was moving about in the hall, and Emma could tell people were running. "He's dead. We got the shooter!" Things quieted down in the hall. Emma looked around, and all of the other students were still holding their heads. There was another bang at the door. The students hunkered down. "Mrs. Donaldson, we're all clear!" Silence. "Mrs. Donaldson?" Emma woke up, drenched and gasping. It was one of the many vivid nightmares she had been having for twenty-four years. But today, she was going to put it to rest. The sun was beginning to rise. Emma fixed herself a cup of coffee from the single-serve machine in her room and felt herself calming down. She thought of Katie. She pulled out her phone and searched for her on Google. She was directed to Katie's website that displayed her products, clothing, and causes. Everything was beautiful, as expected. She opened the menu and saw a "Donate" tab. Emma didn't have much, but she really wanted to support her. Emma discovered the donations weren't for Katie. There were links to several organizations that all promoted gun control. She did not offer any details about her experience; it was just the links. She pulled out her wallet and donated to every organization, thinking of Katie. Emma pulled herself together and checked her watch. It was almost time. It was a brisk morning, but Emma didn't mind. She had been waiting for this day since the announcement months earlier. It was finally happening. She found herself across the street from the brick building and could hear the even, blaring tone of work trucks reversing. Standing with her arms crossed, she observed the demolition excavator positioning itself before the structure. For twenty-four years, Hites Elementary had been the origin of torment, night terrors, and flashbacks for Emma. It was a monumental day. A man called out to clear the area. They were about to begin. Emma knew it wasn't going to change the past. She was going to have those memories forever. Nonetheless, Hites Elementary was about to be blown to pieces- and that was all that mattered.


The city of Morwenna sprawled beneath a twilight sky, its buildings huddled together like conspirators beneath a cloak of perpetual dusk. Somewhere amidst the labyrinth of alleyways and towering structures, Marcellus Draegan watched over his domain. His heart pulsed with an energy that few could understand, a relentless drive that had pushed him to where he was now: the most feared and respected man in the underworld. He had been called many things--monster, tyrant, villain--but those words were whispered by the weak, the unworthy. To Marcellus, he was something more--a necessary force, a guardian of order in a world that teetered on the edge of chaos. Marcellus hadn't always been this way. He was once a boy with dreams, a young man with hopes, but life had stripped those away, layer by layer, until only the cold, hard core remained. He could still remember the day he learned the truth of power: it wasn’t given; it was taken. And those who refused to take it were doomed to be crushed by those who did. He had been sixteen when his father died, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves in a city that preyed on the vulnerable. His father had been a man of integrity, a man who believed in the law and in justice. He was a fool. Marcellus saw how the world had repaid his father’s honesty--with a bullet in his back and his name forgotten. The law had done nothing, and justice had been absent. So Marcellus had sworn that day to never be weak, to never allow the world to dictate his fate. The first time he killed, it was for survival. The second time, it was for revenge. The third time, it was for power. And with each death, he felt himself growing stronger, more in control, more certain of his path. Morwenna was a city of shadows, and he would be its architect. Now, as he stood in his office, high above the streets, Marcellus considered the latest threat to his empire. A rival gang, led by a man named Lorcan, had been encroaching on his territory. Lorcan was ambitious, reckless, and dangerous--a man who fancied himself a king in a city with only one throne. Marcellus turned away from the window, his mind calculating the steps ahead. Lorcan was a problem, yes, but he was also an opportunity. A chance to remind the city who truly ruled its dark heart. He walked to his desk, where a map of the city lay spread out. Red circles marked areas of interest, key locations that would determine the balance of power. Marcellus traced a finger along the map, his thoughts drifting to the people who inhabited the city--those who lived their lives in ignorance of the machinations that controlled their fates. They were sheep, content to graze while wolves prowled the edges of their world. He would not let Morwenna fall into the hands of another wolf. Marcellus picked up a phone and dialed a number. A voice answered on the other end, and he gave his orders in a calm, measured tone. “I want Lorcan’s operations shut down by the end of the week. Leave nothing standing. And when you’re done, bring him to me.” As he hung up, Marcellus felt a familiar sense of satisfaction. Control. That was what mattered. He had built his empire on it, and he would die before he let it slip away. But control came at a price, and Marcellus knew all too well that the cost was often paid in blood. His thoughts turned to his mother, the woman who had raised him after his father’s death. She had been strong in her own way, but she had never understood him, never accepted what he had become. She wanted a son who followed the rules. One who lived a life of quiet dignity. Marcellus had tried, for a time, to be that man, but the world had other plans. He remembered the disappointment in her eyes, the way she had looked at him as if he were a stranger. When she died, it was with that same look in her eyes, and Marcellus had buried her with the knowledge that she would never have accepted his choices. But he did not regret them. Regret was for the weak, and Marcellus had no room for weakness in his life. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. His right-hand man, Viktor, entered, his face a mask of grim professionalism. “Lorcan’s people are pushing back,” Viktor said. “They’ve taken two of our warehouses on the east side.” Marcellus nodded, his mind already processing the information. “And Lorcan himself?” “Still in hiding, but we’re close. He won’t escape.” “Good,” Marcellus replied, his voice as cold as the night outside. “Make sure the warehouses are reclaimed. I want to send a message.” Viktor nodded and left the room, leaving Marcellus alone once more. The game was in motion, and Marcellus knew that there could only be one outcome. Either Lorcan would fall, or he would. But Marcellus had never been one to lose. The night passed in a blur of reports, orders, and strategic decisions. Marcellus was tireless, driven by a force that seemed to burn within him, pushing him to be better, smarter, more ruthless than his enemies. By dawn, the city had shifted under his command, and Lorcan’s empire was crumbling. Marcellus stood in the ruins of one of the warehouses that had been retaken. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, and the bodies of Lorcan’s men lay scattered around him. It was a scene of victory, but Marcellus felt no joy, only a deep, abiding sense of purpose. This was the cost of power, and he was willing to pay it. Viktor approached, dragging a battered and bloodied Lorcan behind him. The man’s once-proud face was a mask of pain and fear, and Marcellus felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was the moment he had been waiting for. “Marcellus,” Lorcan croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to do this. We can work together, split the city between us.” Marcellus looked down at him, his expression unreadable. “There is no ‘we,’ Lorcan. There’s only one king in Morwenna, and it’s not you.” Lorcan’s eyes filled with desperation as he realized there would be no mercy. “You’re a monster,” he spat, his voice shaking. Marcellus knelt down, his gaze piercing into Lorcan’s. “I’m what this city needs. I’m the one who keeps it from falling into chaos. You were too weak to understand that.” Without another word, Marcellus drew his knife and ended Lorcan’s life with a swift, practiced motion. He stood up, wiping the blade clean, and handed it to Viktor. “Dispose of him,” he said, his voice cold and detached. “And make sure everyone knows what happens when they challenge me.” Viktor nodded and set to work, while Marcellus walked out of the warehouse and into the dawn. The city was waking up, its people oblivious to the battles fought in the shadows. They would go about their lives, unaware of the blood spilled to keep their world intact. As Marcellus returned to his headquarters, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. Lorcan was gone, and his power was secure--for now. But Marcellus knew that there would always be another challenge, another threat to his control. And he would face them all, with the same ruthless determination that had brought him this far. He looked out over the city, his city, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He was the architect of Morwenna’s shadows, the one who kept the darkness in check. They could call him a villain if they wished, but Marcellus knew the truth. He was the necessary evil, the one who ensured that order prevailed in a world that would otherwise descend into chaos. And for that, he had no regrets. Cheryl Martin


SHYAMA Shyama walked with deliberate steps. Hard, narrow shoe heels punctuated her precise movements on the polished wooden floor. The rhythmic click-clack echoed in the small auditorium. No other sound intruded as she approached her desk to be seated. How well she held their attention with her practiced theatrical entrance. There was full seating today. Every uncomfortable hardwood chair was occupied. Twenty students sat waiting for her, some in fear, some with eager anticipation. All were perfectly silent before she spoke. She would keep them waiting and establish absolute authority without question. Before her stood a plain wooden desk where she would sit: an old, familiar school desk with a hinged top and cavity beneath, wherein books and papers could be stored; in a wide groove on the hinged lid, there lay a steel rod, about the thickness of a man's finger, perhaps twenty-five inches or so in length. Shyama found this bar at the perimeter of a small fenced construction site while walking near her home. Many passed without noticing, but she recognized a fine gift and joyfully retrieved the rod. It was rusty and somewhat dirty, lying there in the gutter. She cleaned her prize, washing and drying it with care. The iron wand of great intimidation now lay before her. This baton would command immediate attention when raised before a thankless audience. It was much too heavy for quick darting movement but bring it down swiftly across a desktop. Oh, fearful sound, a pistol shot crashing and reverberating throughout the small room. Her steel rod now lay in repose, displacing writing instruments intended for the space that it occupied. She stood before her audience, both hands resting lightly on the desk, her thin, taught body straight and unmoving, surveying the faces before her with pale, emotionless eyes. Dark greying hair was pulled back severely in perfect complement to her drawn angular features. No buried emotions would betray that implacable stare; no smile would disfigure those thin, straight lips. Without introduction, she began to speak. "You are here to learn. There is a simple process with a few simple rules that I will acquaint you with. I will not tolerate interruptions for any reason. There will be no questions before I have given permission to ask them." Heads nodded in agreement. "I will answer some questions, but always at my discretion. Do we understand each other?" A plump middle-aged woman raised her hand. "I have just a very quick question before you begin," she said, smiling hesitantly. Shyama felt slow, familiar rage tightening her stomach. She stared at the woman for several seconds, her cold grey eyes barren, without warmth or laughter. Reaching for the baton, Shyama spoke slowly, emphasizing each word with a short rap on the desktop. The clear, brittle sounds cut sharply into the quiet room. "You are here to learn. You have little understanding because you are stupid. You are stupid because you do not listen to those who would teach you. The weight of your ignorance will bind you to a life of disappointment and mediocrity. If you speak again, you will be removed. Do you understand?" Seeing Shyama's balled fists and bright, frozen expression, the woman made no reply. Nodding, she wiped quickly at tear-filled eyes but understood nothing. Silence again. Shyama continued with her teaching. "There is," she said, "a foul creature that walks this earth. It lives in shadows and darkness. A monstrous thing that cowers from any clean light of day, always avoiding the company of humankind and any pleasures there to be found. This beast is an enemy to all who live in happiness. It brings misery and chaos as surely as rich soil will bring forth a fruitful harvest." She felt anger rising again as she thought about the fiend but continued unmoved. "This creature has passed through every place inhabited by man. It is known by several different names in many cultures. We know this worthless goblin as the imp of grave misfortune." Shyama sat carefully behind her desk. The featureless masks of faces before her waited for the lesson to resume. She continued after a long, unnerving silence in a dry, penetrating voice that sounded unnaturally loud to her listeners. "There are some who claim to have seen this bringer of grave misfortune. It is described as short in stature, with heavy muscular arms and thickset legs. Wide, somewhat like a very large dog. Dark grey leathery skin. No hair of any kind upon the body. At each side of a large, rounded head, two long, pointed ears hang loosely as they do on some animals. It has thin predatory lips, similar to a hyena. It is usually seen crouching or sitting with slouched shoulders. In far distant times, many a likeness of this defiler was carved into dense wood or stone. These blasphemous images were unwisely used to protect people from evil or to discourage enemies. In their ignorance, architects often placed them overlooking doorways and gates, sometimes upon towers. These gargoyles provided no protection but instead called to their vile prince as lodestone calls to iron. Never seek this daemon. Do not invoke its name in anger or even in jest. It will find those who call to it and bring desolation and misery. Above all, do. . ." Suddenly came an unexpected interruption, an unheard-of intrusion. Brave, handsome Edwin with his long fair hair and bright innocent smile rose slowly, scraping the chair as he stood. "I have seen this unpleasant thing that you describe," he said excitedly. He spoke fervently, as perhaps an evangelist would. "It has dark, red eyes that hurt you when you stare at it. Oh! And there is a nasty smell, like rotting flesh. Makes you sick when you try to breathe. " I do think you are wrong about the ears, though, Miss Shyama. Seemed to me that its ears were wide and rather short. They stuck out from the side of its head, rather than hanging down." Shyama walked towards Edwin. Her passage marked by unrelenting precise steps. Suppressed tension and fury were well hidden, never noticed by those who watched her. She spoke so softly now with measured tight control. "You have seen nothing," she said quietly, "or possibly in dreaming you thought you did, but it was most certainly not the imp of grave misfortune that you saw." Shyama faced Edwin and touched his arm lightly with her baton. "You are mistaken, Edwin. You must apologize before you can be forgiven." Edwin blinked rapidly several times, uneasy with this sudden confrontation, but bravely continued with his earnest description. "Oh, no, dear Miss Shyama, please don't be angry with me. I really have seen this creature. I can describe it carefully for you. I was sleeping, but a sound woke me when the beast appeared, and as I awoke, I saw it quite clearly. I was very frightened. It suddenly pushed both hands through the blankets and into my stomach. Horrible, horrible, dirty thing. It twisted my bowels and blocked my lower intestine. I was taken to hospital for surgery. Couldn't work for nearly five weeks. Doctors told me they removed part of my colon to save my life." Shyama turned from Edwin, speaking to him but looking at the rest of her audience as she did so. Some of them were proud, with heads uplifted, others uncomfortable with eyes downcast. The rod of retribution weighed heavily in her hand. She fancied for a moment that she could detect the faint, acrid scent from hot, rusted steel. "You are wrong, Edwin," Shyama replied quietly, "Very much mistaken. So very confused." She swung about suddenly to face him again, her right hand raised high above her head. A graceful sweeping arc as the bar came down through the air. A faded blue-grey steel blur was visible for a fleeting moment before it crashed into the side of Edwin's face. A shrill scream came sharply before he dropped to his knees. The dull, wet sound of the blow seemed to hang in the air for a very long time. Shyama stood above him, legs apart. "Oh so terribly wrong Edwin," she said, "the very creature you claim acquaintance with now stands behind you." Many onlookers glanced quickly in the direction that Shyama had indicated. There was, as expected, nothing to be seen. Edwin was almost blinded by fresh blood in his eyes. Shyama swung her iron mace again. This time, the blow caught Edwin across his right shoulder, throwing him face down onto the polished floor. Such pretty crimson colours, so bright, against the yellow hair. Dark red pools reflected phantoms dancing from the fluorescent lights above. Shyama waited a few seconds before her ragged breathing returned to a normal, comfortable rhythm. She stepped back several paces and addressed her audience. "The lesson is finished for today. Tomorrow, we will discuss our families and family relationships." Again, metallic footsteps echoed in precise tempo as she walked to stand by the exit doors. One by one, the students stood, then moved slowly to the exit. Some walked with purpose, heads held high. Others shuffled nervously, eyes downcast. Most of them glanced quickly at young Edwin lying silent and unmoving on the floor. None commented about the widening red stain or his overturned chair. Many in attendance spoke to Shyama as they left. "Such a good lesson today." "Thank you so much; I can hardly wait for tomorrow." "Good job Miss Shyama." They moved in orderly file to a small, fenced garden, waiting again in pale sunlight for escort to the main wing. Shyama walked to where Edwin lay, standing over him for a few seconds before kneeling beside him. Kissing the back of his head tenderly, she whispered, "My poor sweet child, poor confused darling boy." Lights were shut off at the main panel. Heavy double doors closed with an amplified loud scraping sound before a final crash as they came together and locked. Fading now, sharp measured steps still faintly audible in the otherwise silent room. Edwin could not stand yet. Trying to push into a sitting position with his right arm shot blinding shafts of pain through his body. He would just lie there until the sickness left and he felt a little better or until he could think clearly again without pain. Behind Edwin, in the far-left corner of the room, was a small alcove, a necessary storage area for extra chairs, blackboards and other seldom-used items. There was also a good-sized wooden packing crate and other smaller boxes. This storage area was usually hidden from view by heavy dark-green drapes that reached to the floor. Perched upon the packing crate, so well concealed behind the drapes, unseen and unmoving, was the imp of grave misfortune. An unclean stench slowly filtered into the auditorium. Raising its head slightly, the beast wrinkled a broad, flattened nose. It sniffed the air several times before catching a familiar scent of fresh blood. The loathsome creature was well pleased. It chuckled deeply with satisfaction-a terrible gurgling choking sound. Edwin fancied that he heard a noise somewhere behind him. Far out in the distance, he thought, but he couldn't really be sure.


I have been dating this girl for about 8 months. Let's just call her Anna to conceal her identity. One day Anna told me she wanted me to meet her mother. We live in D.C. and her mother lives in Virginia so we had to make a road trip. We got to her mother's house which is secluded about 20 miles away from the nearest town. It was an old victorian style house the ones you know are definitely haunted. Her mom was amazing but a bit eccentric. She cooked us a huge dinner that night ham, turkey, with all the sides it felt like thanksgiving. After dinner, we had a few drinks to celebrate and had a blast. We turned in for the night and I slept like a baby. I woke up early the next morning so early it was still dark out. I strolled to the kitchen to fix some coffee. Her mom is a coffee addict like me so i was glad she had the good shit. As my coffee was brewing I heard some strange noises coming from one of the guest bedrooms. Scratching noises from the room directly across from mine. I open the door and whreeeer! A cat jumped out at me. I almost pissed my pants I was so freaked. Nevertheless, it was just Anna’s old cat Bella. I was walking out of the room when something caught my peripheral vision. A box the cat knocked over near the closet. So the nice guy I am, I go over to put the box back in its original place. I started picking up what fell just a bunch of old electric and gas bills. Until I came across a small red photo album labeled “Bruce.” I remember Anna telling me her father's name was Bruce and he died about 2 years ago. Cancer I believe. Curiously, I looked through the album and there were a lot of pictures of Bruce in a hospital bed that was here in the house. I could tell by the Van Gogh painting in the background. As I flipped through the pictures they just got sadder and sadder. You could see the cancer take a toll on his body, each picture he's looking more like death. I was about done looking until I saw a dvd with “2018” on it. So I peeped my head out to make sure everyone was still asleep and shut the door. I popped in the dvd and it was just a video of Bruce sleeping. Then about 15 seconds in I see Anna’s mother creep in the frame. It was a bit weird because she was standing over bruce watching him sleep. This went on for about a minute. And then shit got dark. She picked up a pillow and placed it over Bruce's face. Bruce was flailing his arms and legs fighting for air. Fighting with every ounce of energy that was left in his body. He was just too weak. His movement then came to an end. Anna’s mother removed the pillow from his lifeless face. She looked back directly at the camera with an evil grin. She picked up the camera laughing hysterically and said “It's finally over!.


It’s the week before Christmas, and people rush to do their last-minute shopping. The plaza’s décor is bright with festive colors. The parking lot lamps are decorated to look like giant jingle bells and candy canes. Christmas carols blare from the speakers mingling with the constant chatter of the shoppers. Eight-year-old Cody misses Massachusetts at Christmas. There it would be snowing, and you would have to wear a heavy winter coat and snow boots. The temperature would be slightly above freezing, causing your nose to run and your eyes to water. He can’t get used to the seventy-degree weather of Tucson and people Christmas shopping wearing shorts. Tucson certainly isn’t Massachusetts by any means. His father moved here for work. He is in the construction business, building houses, and in nineteen sixty-six, it is booming. His father told Cody he’d get used to it, to give it some time. Cody supposes he’s right, but he still misses snow. Tucson sometimes gets snow, but it’s way up on the mountains. It can look pretty. One other nice thing about Tucson is the night sky. You can see so many stars! Why just the other night, Cody saw at least twenty or thirty shooting stars falling toward earth over the desert. It was amazing. Today Cody’s dad has brought him to Woolworths on Congress Street to meet Santa. In the Sunday paper, he showed Cody the announcement,” Bring your camera and take your child’s picture with Santa!” Sure enough, Dad had his Polaroid Swinger all loaded and ready to go. Cody thinks his dad is acting more excited than he is to meet Santa. So is Dad going to sit on Santa’s lap too? Cody chuckles when he pictures his big strong father sitting on poor old Santa’s lap. “What’s so funny!” his dad asked, amused. “Nuttin’,” Cody replied. Venturing further, Dad asks, “So, what are you going to ask Santa for? Can you tell me? I’d like to know. Is it a new bike? The streets in our subdivision are nice and flat. They’ll be perfect for learning how to ride a bike. Or, seeing that we are out West, perhaps you would like a cowboy outfit. You can have a six-shooter cap, gun, and sheriff’s badge. What ya say?” To tell the truth, Cody doesn’t know what he wants. He’s feeling a little blue about going back home. But maybe he’ll tell Santa that his Christmas wish is to go home to Massachusetts to be with Grammy and Grampy on Christmas Eve. Cody misses them so much and misses their little dog, Buster, the beagle. Cody mumbled, “Maybe.” On their way to Woolworths, Cody notices a lot of “Santas” around, out in front of stores telling people to come inside. Or standing on street corners ringing bells by red buckets saying, “Merry Christmas!” On top of that, they all look the same for the most part. So when Cody asks why there are so many Santas, his father gives him the pat answer that all dads do. “Well, ya see, Cody, they aren’t all Santa but Santa’s helpers. They’re pretending to be him because not all children write letters telling Santa what they want for Christmas. You didn’t write one, that’s why we’re going to see him. This way, they’ll find out what the kids want and tell the “real” Santa in time for Christmas Eve. See?“ Cody isn’t sure his father’s explanation makes a lot of sense, but he keeps his mouth shut. At long last, they enter the store. It’s jammed pack with shoppers pushing loaded carts down crowded aisles. People are jostling one another or reaching over carriages to get to an item on the shelf before someone else can. The people and the noise are almost overwhelming as Cody’s father drags him by the hand through the chaos. He catches bits of arguments and conversations along the way, like, “I saw it first! But I got my hand on it first!” Or the conversation between a husband and his wife. Her: “Oh, Ralph, this is just what Bambi wanted, but the box is crushed! Him: It’s just a little dent. Maybe she won’t notice. Her: Ralph! It’s a Christmas present, for crying out loud! I don’t want her to think we’ve shopped at the Salvation Army store! Him: Say, that’s not such a bad...Her: RALPH!!” And so on throughout the store. The “Meet Santa” location is all the way in the back of the store in the toy department. There is a long line of kids waiting to see Santa; most are with their dads while the moms continue shopping. Santa sits in an oversized velvet chair with enormous cardboard candy canes on each side. There is also a Christmas tree with presents and an elf to help handle the kids. Everyone is so excited that they jump up and down and bump into one another while shouting and squealing in loud voices. On top of that, they’re right next to the pet center, where all the parakeets are squawking. Then, some kid opened one of the cages, and now two birds were flying around everybody’s heads. Cody thinks it is probably the same kid who does it every year. It has progressed to the point that they are now third in line. Cody can see how the procedure works. The elf calls you over to sit on Santa’s lap. If you’re bigger like Cody, you get to lean against his leg and tell him what you want for Christmas. The elf then shows the parent where to stand to take the picture. The whole thing seems to take about five minutes. Cody still doesn’t know what he wants, so he figures he’ll go with the bike. Before he knows it, Dad is nudging his shoulder and exclaiming excitedly, “It’s your turn, Cody! Go ahead, son!” Cody reluctantly steps forward. As he leans against Santa’s leg, he barely hears the familiar “HO- HO- HO” over all the noise. Then, as he stares at the floor, Santa says,” Tell me, Cody, what is it you actually want for Christmas? Tell me the one wish from your heart to make you extremely happy.” Cody stops breathing as his eyes grow large and his jaw drops open. “That’s right. I know who you are,” says Santa. “You’re Cody Leverett from One Hummingbird Lane. Am I correct?” Cody slowly nods his head. “I also know your wish is not for a bike but something bigger. So much bigger, fantastic, that you think it’s impossible for me to grant it. So go ahead, give it a try, Cody,” Santa says with a wink. Cody has become acutely aware of how quiet it has become. He looks out into the store and sees everyone standing entirely still. It’s like they’re all frozen in place! He sees his dad standing before him, about to raise his polaroid, smiling silly with a parakeet over his head. There is bird poop stopped in mid-air, about to hit him on his head! Cody thinks, “What the heck?” Then, as if reading his mind, Santa informs him that this is a little “Santa magic.” “I can manipulate time. To everyone else, you are sitting here talking with me like normal. But I’ve slowed time down to a near stop so you and I can have this conversation. So, I’ll ask you again, what is it you most desire this Christmas?” Cody’s chin puckers and his bottom lip starts to quiver. He whispers at first but then shouts, “I want to go home! I want to be with Grammy and Grampy in Massachusetts! I don’t like it here!” Wiping a tear away with a gloved finger, Santa asks, “Do you miss your grandparents, Cody? What things do they do on Christmas Eve that make it so unique? Cody starts, “Well, for one thing, we’d bake cookies all afternoon and put them in little tins as gifts for friends and neighbors. Then, I’d make two special big cookies for you!” “OH, yes,” replies Santa. “I recall the taste of your little hands and fingers kneading all that love into each one. Delicious. Please continue.” Cody does, “We also decorate the tree and hang our stocking on the mantel of the fireplace. Even Buster, the beagle, has a stocking! In the morning, it will be full of dog toys and Milkbones. The next day is extra special as it’s Christmas. On the end tables and coffee table, all around the living rooms, are bowls with ribbon candy, nuts with a nutcracker, and homemade chocolates. And for dinner, we have what Grampy calls the “Christmas Feast.” There’s a roast goose with whipped potatoes and butter, homemade honey rolls, and all kinds of vegetables and stuff. For dessert, we have pumpkin and blueberry pies, plum pudding with hard sauce, but best of all, my favorite, minced meat pie!” “WOW!” exclaims Santa. “No wonder you want to go back home! I’ll tell you what I can do, but you must keep it a secret between you and me. After your parents sleep, I was hoping you could come out to the front yard, and I’ll take you back to Massachusetts in my sleigh. How would you like that, Cody?” “That will be great!” exclaims Cody, “But what if my parents wake up and hear me? How will I get back home again?” “Don’t you worry about that,” Santa says reassuringly. “I’ll use some more of my Santa magic, and they’ll never even know you were gone. It looks like your father is about to take our picture, so until tonight, say Cheese!” Cody turns to see his father’s camera is almost to his eye, and the bird poop will miss him. Cody smiles the biggest smile he has ever smiled as the flash goes off. ... Cody’s parents watch him climb into bed, instructing him to go to sleep or else Santa won’t come. “OK!” Cody chirps and smiles because he already knows that Santa is coming. He has a set of new clothes folded on the chair in the corner, and as soon as his parents kiss him good night and close the door, he jumps out of bed and rushes to put them on. Cody opens the door a crack so he can listen to them downstairs. He can hear them hurrying around and paper crinkling, the screech of scotch tape as it is being pulled and torn off. This goes on for a while when Cody thinks he hears his dad say something like, “Why does it have to be milk? I hate milk! Why can’t it be a beer instead?” Cody’s mom scolds, “George! Just drink it, and let’s go to bed.” When he hears the third step creak, he rushes back to bed and pulls up the covers. He listens as water is turned on and teeth are brushed--the bed squeaks as they climb in and kiss each other good night. Cody soon hears his father start to snore loudly and his mother a little more softly and knows it’s safe. He hops out of bed, rushes to the bedroom window, and kneels to wait. Cody looks at the street below and can make out the Christmas decorations, the desert plants, palm trees, and cacti with Santa hats on them. Cody thinks this is the strangest Christmas he has ever seen. Cody grows tired and eventually dozes off. He is awakened by flashing lights and a soft, whirring sound. As Cody straightens up, rubbing his eyes, he sees that the flashing lights are the neighbor’s Christmas lights, and the sound is the sound of sleighbells ringing. Cody thinks, “Wait a minute! Sleighbells mean Santa’s here!” He hurriedly slips out the bedroom door and scoots down the stairs, making sure to step over the third step from the bottom. At the front door, Cody gingerly turns the deadbolt, trying not to make any noise. When he steps outside, he can see a red sleigh with tiny reindeer hitched to it. Santa’s sitting in the center, holding the reins in one hand and waving with the other for Cody to come quickly and get in. After Cody has jumps in, Santa snaps his reins, and the reindeer take off! As they climb higher and higher, Santa turns to Cody and asks, “Well, what do you think? Cody? Isn’t this great fun!” Cody only stares straight ahead, his face locked in sheer excitement. Santa informs Cody that it gets chilly this high up and that he should lean back and cover himself with an empty velvet toy sack. When he does, Santa smiles and begins to talk to Cody. “You know Cody, when you told me about your grandmother’s Christmas feast, I forgot that the elves and I have one too. As you know, we travel worldwide, and after delivering the last present, we like to take back our favorite dish from that country! I like American cuisine, but some like French, Chinese, and even Mexican. We bring it home to a big hall where we have a gigantic buffet, and everyone shares what they’ve brought back. We eat until we’re so full it feels like we might burst! It is so good!” Santa laughs, “HO-HO-HO!” Looking at Cody, Santa declares that Cody should try and get some sleep. He doesn’t want to be too tired to enjoy his Christmas wish. Cody must admit that he is kind of sleepy and closes his eyes. ... Cody slowly begins to come to. He has difficulty opening his eyes, and his head feels groggy. He can’t tell where he is when he does get them open. The room is entirely white, and Cody can’t see the difference between the ceiling and the walls. The light seems to emanate from the walls themselves, as there aren’t any fixtures to be seen. Cody is lying flat on his back with a white sheet covering him. Hearing a sound to his right, he turns to see Santa with his back to him, working on something. Cody‘s throat is dry, and it hurts when he tries to speak. “Santa! Where are we!” ”Oh, Cody, you’re awake! So delightful. But I’m afraid I have to apologize to you. You see, I lied. We’re not in Massachusetts at all. Remember how I told you we also have a feast? Well, guess what? You‘re IT! Ever since I first tasted your flavor mixed into those cookies you made, I just knew I‘d have to have you.” As Santa turns and starts to approach, Cody gives a high pitch shriek of terror! The white beard is gone, and so is the jolly old Santa face! Instead, a hideous alien, insect type is in his place, with its mandibles sawing back and forth! Cody tries to run and get free, but as he struggles, the sheet falls away, and he can see he is being held in place with metal restraints. The alien Santa senses that Cody is having trouble comprehending what is happening, so it explains. It isn’t speaking audibly but transmitting its thought directly into Cody’s brain. “Yes, Cody, you’re going to be my part of the Christmas Feast. I’ll use this little laser device to cut off or out the pieces I wish to eat first. Then, the laser will cauterize the wound, thus keeping you alive and fresh until the next time! So tonight, I’ll have a nice rump roast thanks to you, Cody.” Cody’s eyes roll back into his head, and all goes black. As the twenty to thirty spacecraft hurl through the vast expanse of space, heading for a far-off distant galaxy, their version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” echoes through the cosmos. “You better watch out-You, you better not cry-You better not pout- I’m telling you why Santa Claus is coming to town. He’s making a list, checking it twice, and wanting to find out who’s yummy with spice!- Santa Claus is coming to town. He sees you when you’re basting- Inside the roasting pan- He wants to see you smothered- In onions if he can!-Juicy thick steaks-And sausages too- That’s what he will make out of you-When Santa Claus is coming-Yes Santa Claus is coming- Old Santa Claus is coming to Town! HO-HO-HO!” The End


Young and cold, the night slowly approached a room, filled with comfy air. Behind the blanket, surfaced a tiny little lump of hand, slowly unclenched as it crawl towards a man's arm. The man tried to close his eyes. His mind began to wander peacefully, like a solemn prayer. As the tiny fist tightly gripped his arm, he steadily detached his hand from the child's fistful grip. He hushed the little soul and said, "good night, young one." His old and crummy bones began to move. Touched the hard cold surface of the floor at last, he gently escaped the room, which in truth felt comfy, unlike the ground he stood at. Man's eyes gazed towards an area before him, which laid a logbook and a feathery ink. As steadfast as he walked across the murky and dark aisle, he felt sudden violent shake. Ceiling began to fell, and objects around him collapsed. He swiftly galloped, tried to reach his son's bedroom. But what his eyes saw, gave him hard and bitter truth, as the yet warm and pleasant room, is now in shambles. The man stood tall, stared upon the now ruined space. Wickedly shivered, the house he was in abruptly flickered. Like a hasty cut to the throat, all of a sudden he stood in an empty yet dreadful nothingness. Hours upon hours, perhaps days or months, the man won't budge and still gazed to the pitch black space. He had tried to end his miserable life but alas, the floor wouldn't let him. The lack of hard surface to collide his head, conveyed that his presence in this wretched place was all but a mere fate. He began to muttered, wailed, and yelled at what he knew as 'The Higher Power', but no one replied. The mind behind his tall appearance promptly wander, made him mad in the process. His fate dwindled down, worst and worst, as he tried to walked unbending. Could not fathom how long had he crawled towards the vast nothingness, as the time and space became irrelevant. His mind could not comprehend where he had strolled. An array of light had passed, left and right, there were woman and children, husband and father, a crowded place he was in. One man in the mob yelled at him, but he still won't budge, not even a slight head turn. Steadfast he advanced, more and more weary, the man once known to appear as human, now wickedly crawled with both hands, on the lively street. Another array of lights surfaced beneath the earth people stood on. This phenomenon occurred throughout the kingdom, even a whole continent witnessed this once in a lifetime event. Bewildered as they may, the people of this vast continent did not know what came. The age of darkness had begun and they must prepare... ================================================================================= Hi, if you would gave feedback for my sentences or writing, im not a native english speaker and this is my first attempt on making story fully worded in english. I often made my story in my mother language but if you somewhat have difficulty to understand the sentences, feel free to give me feedback.


Big wide and open room. Coffee and stale doughnuts on the black table in the corner. Circle of people sitting on creaky chairs. All of them looking up at me. Mom is sitting next to me. Waiting for me to speak. “Speak your piece.” She said. I get up. Glance around the room and take a deep breath. “Do you ever seek advice on the internet? For me, that answer is yes. Every freakin’ day. I can’t make a single decision without consulting reddit. It’s exhausting. I honestly don’t know why I just can’t stay away. My name is Jessie, and I’m an addict.” ... Wake up alone in my one-bedroom apartment. It’s about 8 am. Feel the warm sun splash across my face. Turn over. Grab my phone off the nightstand. Missed call from Mom. Scroll through my homepage on my phone. There’s always something new or interesting that happens overnight. Can’t miss anything. Slowly drag myself out of my bed. Hop in the shower. Get out. What should I wear today? The red plaid flannel with black leggings? The Beatles tee with jeans? Boot up my desktop. Hop on /r/femalefashionadvice. Get a response within 5 minutes. Looks like I’m going with the red plaid flannel today. What should I have for breakfast? Looks like /u/sefronn made scrambled eggs with portobello mushrooms. Guess that's what I’m having. Drive to class. Pretend I don’t see the call from Mom. She leaves a voicemail. PSY 200. Boring lecture class. Why am I even here? The professor is just reading off the Powerpoint. Scroll through reddit. Aww /u/jarzyniowski posted a funny video of his dog. It’s taking everything in me not to laugh out loud in class. Lunch with Leslie and Matt. They keep droning on and on about something that happened in their lives. I get out my phone. Scroll through reddit. /u/CatherineEarnshaw65 just asked for help on designing her bedroom. Leslie and Matt get irritated that I’m not listening to them. I apologize to smooth it over. They aren’t that mad. They know how I am. Work at the library. Check materials in and out to students. Laptops, textbooks, chargers. Scroll through reddit during downtime. My feet hurt from standing. People keep asking me stupid questions. “Can I get a charger?” “What type of charger?” I say. “Macbook”. What type of Macbook people!!?!? There are four different types of Macbook chargers. How am I supposed to read your mind? How people can be so stupid? /u/Librarylover97 agrees with me. Finally get off work at 4 pm. I’m exhausted. Scroll through reddit before I drive off. It’s close to dinner time. In a debate with /u/masterlimbas and /u/ilovelabradors over the merits of spaghetti and meatballs vs. spaghetti carbonara. A knock at the door. Mom’s here. Shit. I didn’t think she’d come so soon. She’s dragging me to another meeting. What’s she threatening to cut off this time? Rent. Of course. We get to St. Joseph’s. I don’t know why she keeps doing this. It’s not going to work. I’m not ready. I’m not changing who I am, just because people don’t like it. I’m fine the way I am. No one will change that. Finally get out of there around 10 pm. Take a shower. Lie down. Scroll through reddit. Fall asleep. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. A few months later everything changes. Why? James ... I literally bump into someone after class. I’m scrolling through /r/punny on my phone, not paying attention. Spilled his coffee all over his clothes. He makes a joke about it. He’s not even mad. I offer to buy him a new one. We end up taking a short walk to The Split Bean in the student commons. Red comfy chairs. Dark brown wood tables. Friendly baristas wearing beanies. The scent of coffee in the air. We get to the counter. He just orders a black coffee. /u/_coffeehipster says that guys who order black coffee tend to be straightforward and simple. Sure seems like it. He tells me his name is James. He wonders what got me so engrossed that I crashed into him. I show him that in /r/punny, /u/daivatpbhatt, wrote “A man hid all his stolen money in the washing machine, which amounted to about €350,000...He was later arrested for money laundering.” He thought that was pretty clever. ... James sits next to me in class and passes me a coffee. He’s been doing that ever since I bumped into him a month ago. No matter what I say, he just won’t stop. He’s being...nice. We get to talking about how the professor is way overpaid to do nothing. After class, he offers to walk me to lunch. Sure, why not? And just like that, he’s on my mind. When I get home that night, I ask on /r/dating, what should I do when I get butterflies? Just go for it. ... We’re sitting at Fresco Alta. The restaurant is nice, dark, and quiet. The tables are covered with red and white checkered tablecloths. James ordered the spaghetti carbonara. I have to decide between the lasagna with meat sauce and ricotta or spaghetti with meat sauce. /r/food to the rescue. Lasagna it is. James asks me what I would think about us being in a relationship. I tell him that I need some time to think about it. This would be the first relationship that I’ve had, where I didn’t need to go on /r/r4r. The first relationship that doesn’t start out on reddit. It’s...different. It just feels so different. I ask on /r/dating, how should I proceed? Everyone tells me I’m crazy if I don’t give this a shot. So I do. What do I have to lose? ... From the outside, I see Leslie and Matt sitting in a booth in the corner. James and I walk into the Split Bean. They are both interested, intrigued, and a little bit suspicious that I am finally bringing him around. Within seconds, James has them cracking up. He shares stories about his life. They tell him how on earth they deal with me. When James leaves for another class, they tell me that they really like him. They tell me he’s a breath of fresh air. /u/TheYellowRose agrees. ... I’m cooking dinner for date night. I have to make a choice between baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli or red wine braised short ribs, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. /u/MightySnowBeast convinces me to go with the short ribs. He says that it’s way fancier. I think he’s right. James approved and tells me he loves my cooking. I’m about to post asking whether I should make chocolate lava cake or a chocolate mousse, but James choose instead. He doesn’t understand why I have to go to reddit for every little thing. He says that I’m capable of making my own decisions and to just go with the flow. Maybe...maybe he’s right. ... Another day, another PSY 200 class. James sits right beside me, as usual. As we walk out, we hold hands. He tells me he loves me for the first time. I don’t hesitate to say those three words back to him. I feel like I’m walking on a cloud when I head to lunch with Leslie and Matt. We gush for a straight hour. I don’t even feel the need to look at my phone. Head to the library around 1 pm. I continuously check materials in and out to students and scroll through reddit during my downtime. I finally get off work at 4pm and I’m so exhausted. ... I wake up around 9 am. I turn over and grab my phone off the nightstand. There’re no missed calls from Mom. I have to fight to drag myself out of my cozy bed. I get in the shower. I sing sappy love songs before I get out. What am I going to wear? I think I’m going with the Beatles tee with jeans today. ... I meet James for breakfast at Jackson’s Golden Spoon. It’s a cozy little diner across town. It has all of the feeling of a classic diner with cute retro booths. James orders scrambled eggs with bacon and toast. I need to decide between pancakes or French toast. I decide to go for the French toast with bacon. ... My mom comes over for the first time in a long time. I decide to cook creamy garlic butter Tuscan chicken over a bed of fettuccine. James brings over a bottle of wine. We sit down eat dinner. James really turned on the charm and actually impresses her. Throughout the entire meal, she is beaming from ear to ear. She laughs at every one of his jokes. She’s actually thrilled. I don’t hear any threats. She tells me she’s excited that she doesn’t have to drag me to a meeting. Everything is actually falling into place. I honestly can’t wait to see what the future has in store for us. ... James isn’t answering his phone today. It’s very odd. I wonder what’s keeping him busy. ... He hasn’t picked up for the past two days. What is going on? He hasn’t been in class either. I don’t know why. Maybe he switched classes? ... I’ve been worried sick about James all week. I’m walking with Leslie and Matt to the Split Bean when I see him. He was sitting and holding hands with another girl. I walked up to him and asked him what was going on. He got up and told me that he never loved me. I was just some weird girl who spends way too much time on the internet. He couldn’t believe that I actually thought we had a future together. I ran out of there sobbing. Leslie and Matt followed me, but not before throwing hot coffee on him. I call out of work. I can’t handle it right now. My life feels like it just shattered into a million pieces. I go home. Get into bed. And cry into my pillow. ... Couch. With takeout pizza. And wine. And Ben and Jerry’s. I just don’t understand. Why? Why would he do this? What did I do? Was I such a bad girlfriend? I thought we were in love. Was everything a lie? Every moment we shared...every feeling. He changed me. I thought I could never give up the one thing that made me happy. But I did. I didn’t need reddit. I spent all my time with him. I gave up the one thing that made me happy. But I wasn’t enough. ... Wake up around 8 am. Turn over. Grab my phone off the nightstand. Missed call from Mom. Scroll through my homepage on my phone. What did I miss? Slowly drag myself out of my bed. Hop in the shower. Get out. What should I wear today? The purple dress? The black peplum top with jeans? Boot up my desktop. Hop on /r/femalefashionadvice. Get a response within 5 minutes. Looks like I’m going with the black peplum top today.