You’re sitting on a linen sofa, looking at a painting on the wall that depicts a young boy with blond, curly hair dressed in his Sunday’s best, posing against a doorframe. His face is turned to show its left half. Surrounding you are cherry wood cupboards and stands with 19th-century lamps, windows clothed in floral curtains, an electric chandelier overhead, and to your side, a tall mirror on top of the crested hearth. Voices buzz from the adjoining room, but you’ve sequestered yourself alone in here because you wanted another look at the invitation letter. In your hands sits a brown envelope, sealed with a green wax stamp of the same crest on the hearth, and inside, there’s a single piece of laid paper. In an old English font, it reads, ‘You are hereby invited to the Whitlock manor for a dinner celebration of the new moon. The doors open at 9 p.m. Please wear your finest clothing, and we hope you’ll enjoy the party,’ signed by Molly Whitlock. Having lived in Whitlock Hills for most of your life, you’ve heard about this new moon celebration before. Your town sits atop a wooded hillside, sheltered from the outside world, truly alone. Yet, when the night grows dark, and you look out at the mountain’s base, you see lights from other settlements, building towers that reach into the sky. Many, including you, are curious to see what those places are like, but since the last car broke down forty years ago, there’s no means to escape Whitlock Hills--except for the new moon celebration. Seeing the youth’s curiosity, the wealthy Whitlock family organizes this event every thirty days and lends its resources to send a few people away on a trip. How lucky you feel to finally have the chance at that. Your sister participated in the event a few months ago as well, and she’s still out there exploring the world, so it must be a wonderful place out there. After putting the letter back in its envelope, you rise from the sofa and walk into the other room. Inside, amidst striped wallpaper, a display cabinet saturated by ceramics, and an antique carpet under your feet, is the host of guests. Apart from you, three other people have been invited, and they’re conferring amongst each other. While you recognize their faces, you don’t really know them that well, so you stay off to the side, quietly waiting until the event starts. Suddenly, unannounced, strangers start funneling into the room. Unlike your casual white T-shirt and jeans, they are dressed in blouses or tunics with tight vests scrunching up the chest, paired with dress pants or skirts based on gender. But even more peculiar are the black eye masks they don while their hair is tucked away in brown coifs. The other guests go silent, watching the mysterious figures fill the room, cluster into groups, and start their own conversations. None of them address you or another guest. Then, upon the last masked face taking their place, a woman appears in the opening. Her face looks gaunt, cheekbones poking out and eyes bulging from their sockets. A black boater hat rests just above her brows, a curtain of blond hair combed straight down the back of her head. Her black-gloved hands hang still in front of the pleaded skirt from her blue dress, puffed up at the shoulders. She bows and says, “Welcome, everyone, to another new moon celebration. I hope you’ll have a pleasant night.” The masked people suddenly start applauding rapidly and vigorously. The other guests follow along, so you do it as well. “Now.” The applause abruptly stops, and you lag behind a second. With a mellow grin, the lady’s eyes find you, then the three guests next to you. “Some of you aspire to venture out of this town, am I correct? I can understand; there’s a lot to explore, but the world isn’t as welcoming as you might think. So, before you run off into trouble, I want to make sure you’re prepared.” From a pocket in her skirt, she grabs a red mask and puts it on. “In the outside world, there are a lot of topics that are taboo to talk about. I know that, within our little community, people like to tell it how it is, but when you’re elsewhere, you must know when to mind your manners and hold your tongue.” She steps to the side, clearing the entrance. “Breaking such a faux pas is a mistake you don’t want to make.” Her arm presents itself to her side. “Hereby, I would like to introduce my son, Jonathan Whitlock.” A young man steps forward from around the corner, blond locks curling from his head, a face much rounder and fuller than his mother’s. He appears to be at the end of his teenage years, yet still wears a sailor’s shirt and shorts, fidgeting from their awkward fit. “Please treat him kindly tonight, and I will grant you your wish for freedom.” Someone in the group beside you leans to their friend, whispering, “So, is that Molly Whitlock?” “I think so.” Ms. Whitlock raises her arms and shouts, “Let the night commence!” before she booms two claps through the room. As if rehearsed, the masked people start turning and darting around randomly, scrambling you and the guests apart like debris in a storm. Swept up in the current and pushed around, you end up in a corner, a man and woman flanking you, wrinkled smiles sitting below their masks. “Do you know how the alphabet goes?” the man says. “I’m sorry?” you reply, unsure if you heard him correctly. “The alphabet,” the woman whispers. “Could you tell us how it goes?” “Uhm... A, B, C...” You stop yourself, feeling ridiculous at having to dictate it out loud, but the expressions of the masked pair don’t change. They stare at you with raptured interest. So, you continue. “D, E, F, G.” As you hum the melody you’ve been taught as a child, your ears pick up the voice of another guest nearby. “Four, five, six, seven.” They’re counting numbers, also for a captivated mask duo. “J, K, L, M...” You stop momentarily when you spot Ms. Whitlock’s son, Jonathan, walking towards the young girl who was also invited. You stare at his smooth face, thinking about how soft his skin looks, when something strange happens. On his right cheek, a fold begins to appear, then two more above it, right next to each other. A bulge of skin pokes out and grows further until it becomes a slope, and when the slits open, they reveal a row of teeth and two sets of eyes. There’s a face, a second face, on Jonathan’s cheek. “Good afternoon,” Jonathan says to the girl. “Uh--h-hey,” she replies, her eyes unsure where to look. “Do you like it here in our house?” “Get in my bed with me!” the second face yells. “Can’t sleep anywhere else, only on the floor!” You and the girl jump, shocked by that sudden, shrill voice. The masked woman of the pair then tilts her head at you and says, “Could you continue the alphabet, please?” Having forgotten where you left off, you start back from the beginning. “A, B, C, D.” Meanwhile, you tilt to the side to watch Jonathan’s conversation. “Is something wrong?” he says, leaning forward a little with his neck, which is followed by the other face shouting, “Kiss me, sexy lady! I know you want to!” “Just uh... surprised,” the other girl says through a tremble. “What for?” “Well...” Halfway between a smile and a frown, she glances around the room, looking for something or maybe someone. “I don’t know if I should say.” “Why not? You can tell me.” “I think it would be rude.” “There are no guest rooms, so let me grab those boobs!” The girl backs away into the wall, and Jonathan immediately pursues, grabbing both her hands and gently raising them up between them. “Trust me. If it’s anything I can help with.” “The uh...” You see her neck bulge and contract from a gulp. “That face on your cheek, the things it’s saying... they make me uncomfortable.” Instantly, Jonathan’s face levels out, a hollow expression, before he steps back and mumbles, “That is indeed rude.” Two pairs of hands emerge from the other room and grab her by her arms. She yelps out, “No!” but then they yank her back through the entryway, and in an instant, she’s gone. You hear her shrill screams fade into the distance--where you can’t make out, just gone. Your heart starts to race, a loud thumping pushing on your eardrums. One of the remaining guests leaps back and yells, “What the fuck!” which causes a masked man to face him. He shakes his head, saying, “No, fuck this,” and he runs out of the room. No one does anything to stop him. The front door clicks open before you hear a loud and abrupt thud, quickly followed by the guy’s high-pitched cries, slowly smothered by a heavy groaning until a wet splat marks a stop to it. The door then creaks shut. The room is dead silent. You and the last guest exchange glances, his face frozen solid, your own going sore from the high tension. Breaking the hush, you hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice ring from several rooms over. “Dinner is ready!” “Ooo, dinner!” With an excited clangor to his voice, Jonathan rushes out of the room and into another. The masked people calmly follow after him. Now alone, the other guest slinks to you and whispers, “Do you think we can get out?” “I don’t know.” You go over to a window and tug at its handle, but it won’t budge. A lump swells in the back of your throat, causing your voice to shake. “I think we’re stuck here.” “What now?” Thinking back on what Ms. Whitlock said, you reply, “Be polite... and ignore the face.” “Oh, dear guests! Will you join us?” A sudden chill washes over the air following Molly’s words, and you know--instinctively--that you need to arrive at the table. It cannot wait, so you walk over and turn to the left, entering the dining room, red walls on every side while a long table faces you, filled with plates, dotted with candle stands. “Please, take a seat,” Ms. Whitlock says from the table’s head. Jonathan sits at her side, gorging on meatballs drowned in red sauce, and the only spots left are right in front of him. Carefully, you sit down, making sure not to draw his attention, placing your arms softly on the table and keeping your eyes on your plate. The same meal is before you, bubbles bulging and popping from the dressing like magma. Your stomach cramps up, struggling to hold everything inside. “Not hungry?” Ms. Whitlock asks you. “No, I’m fine,” you say, barely able to draw enough breath. “I already ate before coming.” “You ate before the celebration?” Masked heads turn towards you, their eyes shadowed under the sockets. “N-no, I mean--I-I’m sorry--” “Fat fuck can’t stop eating!” Jonathan’s other face makes you falter for a second, the pressure of everyone’s gazes becoming heavier. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” you quickly blurt out. “My cousin came over, happy about me receiving the invitation. Dad made some soup for us and-and I didn’t want to turn it down, so... I’m sorry if that was rude of me.” “Not at all,” Ms. Whitlock hums, a smile twitching across her face. “That’s fine, deary. Thank you for explaining yourself.” Letting your chest sink, you carefully smile back. “Your dad sucks! Mine cooks way better than yours!” The little face’s whiny voice attracts your eyes for only a moment, but when you return to Ms. Whitlock, her grin wanes. After glancing at her son in turn, she asks, “Is there something you want to say to Jonathan?” He looks up from his plate, gawking at you with wide eyes. “No,” you say. “I was just looking around.” “Are you sure? It’s rude to lie to people.” “It’s because I’m tired. I usually go to bed around this time, so...” “Oh, do you want some rest before leaving for the outside world? That’s fine. We’ll prepare some beds for you.” “Not my bed!” The little face cries. “That’s all right,” you say, pushing yourself and the chair back, glancing at the other guest next to you. “I think we’ll go home and travel the world another time.” “It’s really not a bother,” Ms. Whitlock pouts, shaking her head. “We have a room ready right now.” “I thought there weren’t any guest rooms,” the other survivor stutters. You nod along, your jaw rattling. “Yeah, and we don’t want to be a bother.” Following your words, the table remains quiet while the masked people turn their heads forward. The room becomes hot, and it feels like you can’t breathe--that the air is gone. “No guest rooms...” Ms. Whitlock’s voice drops to a low purr. “Where did you hear that?” “From...” The guy stops abruptly, shock spreading through his face right before his eyes jerk to Jonathan. All of a sudden, your neighbor is sucked under the table in a blur, so fast as if something grabbed his legs and pulled him with the strength to rip open trees. You barely hear the start of a yell when he’s gone from your sight. You look down under the table but only see a dark stain on the carpet slowly withering away. “What was that about a guest room?” Ms. Whitlock asks. You straighten and see her gaze latched onto you like a pit bull’s bite, the languid grin constant and unmoving. “Nothing,” you stutter, barely any strength in your voice. Sprouting a brighter smile, Ms. Whitlock leans over and grabs your hand resting on your chest, planting it on the table underneath her own. Then, her other hand reaches to stroke across your arm. “Don’t be nervous, sweetie. You’ve done well and remained polite; just let us get rid of your fatigue, and you’ll be off to new places in no time.” Despite your body wanting to tear itself away from this woman--this house--the gentle touch of her fingers trailing across your skin causes a numbing heat to throb through your body, her sultry whispers tickling your ears. “Won’t you stay over for a quick rest?” You fail to answer, too swept up by the sudden pleasantness of her presence, a nice, warm fire for the chill you’ve been suffering from. “Won’t you prepare a room for our dear guest, my boy,” she says to her son. “But I’m still eating.” “I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, Jonathan.” The clatter of a fork falling on a plate scratches at your ears, but you lack the motivation to look over at Jonathan. He must be standing up, retiring to the entrance hall before ascending the stairs. That’s your guess... since you’d rather bask in this hot glow some more. It makes you sluggish. Listless. For a moment, you forget what happened and think about nothing--true serenity. Then, someone sneezes, and instinctively--because it’s the polite thing to do--you utter, “Bless you.” Ms. Whitlock’s hands are pulled back, torn from your arm, leaving you in dreadful solitude, and when you look up at her, you see apathy in its most graphic sneer. It makes your head spin with nausea and constricts your chest until it stings. “Bless who?” she says. Her question stirs in your mind until you glance at Jonathan, and it finally settles in. He’s coolly staring at you while his second face is twisted in an evil smirk. You addressed it. “Bless who?” Ms. Whitlock repeats. “Remember, it’s rude to lie.” With each passing second, you feel the space around you wither as if a claw is slowly curling in on you. For a moment, you think about answering, ‘Nobody, I must be hearing things,’ but something tells you it’s already too late. Instead, you jump out of your seat, run out of the room, and into the entrance hall. Right ahead is the front door, offering freedom so close by, but then you remember the horrible sounds when it was opened and the scream that followed. You turn and rush up the steps to a hallway of doors. “Don’t be rude now.” You hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice echo from downstairs, gradually growing louder. Desperate, you try the first door you see, and it opens without a fight. However, once you step inside, it immediately closes behind you, and when you try the handle again, it's locked in place like stone. With a twist at the bottom of your stomach, you slowly turn around, and... a few feet away, you see a human skull sitting on a wooden stand. You carefully step closer, noticing that something else sits before the skull. It’s a clumped ball of chains, and once you pick it up, the bundle unfurls into a silver necklace adorned by a star pendant. The same pendant your sister wore. A hand lands on your shoulder, cold to the touch like steel, squeezing at your flesh firm enough that you know it could shatter your bones. Then, another one takes your other shoulder, holding you in place with absolute certainty. Gathering what little courage you have, you turn your eyes to the side and gently twist your head to see. A row of pointed, black fingers drape over you like icicles, their tips nudging at your skin. Unable to sense the beating of your heart anymore, you try to look back further at what’s behind you, but then you are thrust away into an endless darkness, and with the abruptness of a twig snapped in two... everything goes silent.


The window was like a massive painting of a tulip armory in pink and yellow helmets facing their three commanders - windmills made tiny by the distance. The sky blue melted into grey, tinted by tangerine. This eight-bedroom country house inn made of 1900s red bricks oddly stood amidst the vast meadow of endless green, dotted with pink, yellow, and some purple and red bits. William marveled at the view that he would wake up to for the next thirty days or so and hoped he’d finish his draft by then with the inspiring vista. He arranged his few pairs of shirts and pants into the cupboard and placed his laptop, some books, pen, and notebooks on the working desk, directly facing the natural cinema as the slowly-setting-sun brushed his room golden. He went down to the bar on the ground floor called Harod’s and was welcomed by a pesky fly. ‘Hello?’ He called. His voice echoed from somewhere in the deep. He nervously walked in. Apart from the sound of his breathing and occasional humming of the fridge, the place was silent as a tomb. ‘Hi, have you been waiting for a while?’ A man darted from the door behind the bar counter. ‘I just came in. Can I have whiskey on the rocks?’ ‘Of course, have a seat.’ William settled on the high stool at the bar counter and watched his private bartender, a blonde guy with very light eyebrows and mustache on his egg-shaped face, pour that mahogany-colored liquid on a rock glass with three cubes of ice. ‘Am I alone here? I don’t see anyone.’ William looked around the bar then back to his bartender. ‘Ah,’ the bartender waved his hand.‘ You’ll see them a bit later. ‘Shall I switch on the music for you?’ ‘Sure, thanks.’ The bartender went to the back of the house, and the music started playing. William smiled upon hearing the first song. He wasn't expecting to hear such a mesmerizing French song in a place where you think you'd randomly see the Godfather. He expected to hear some pop or alternative or even metal music in a bar with red leather couches, wooden elements, a billiard table on one side, and a darts board on the other. Random sports figures portraits hung on the walls and a framed boxing glove stood on top of a shelf, a priceless jewel in an alcoholic museum. La Vie En Rose evoked some familiar feeling, but he could not figure out precisely what. Like a memory of a past life, sitting in the middle of a garden with a transistor radio on, watching rose petals fall one by one, slowly into the ground. It confused him and raised questions about whether it really happened or it was just a story he created in his mind. It happened a lot with him in the past. He mixed up his reality with the stories he wrote. He looked at the slowly melting ice on the glass and swirled the whisky. He looked at his phone and checked his newsfeed. That’s the last day he could check social media before his phone would be chucked inside a box until he gets his manuscript done. At least that was the plan. He heard people coming in and settling themselves in the bar. The bartender wasn’t private for him anymore. Drinks were poured and served one after the other. Laughter filled Harrod's. The bar was suddenly a happening place. Strawberry and mint-flavored smoke contaminated the air fused with the aroma of sizzling Buffalo wings. William fell into the depths of social media black hole, and by the time he realized this online indulgence, he already had three glasses of whiskey, and his stomach grumbled. He looked at the menu and asked for a beef burger which was served after twenty minutes. He took bites of the juicy medium-well patty tucked between the buns and lettuces and tomatoes. He left social media some time ago and rummaged through the New York Times articles before his subscription ends for no payment in hopes of getting additional ideas for his novel. He wondered what story he would come up with, although his concept was already there--life, death, flowers, and rebirth. The flowers part came in after seeing the view from his bedroom window. William could eat massively, but his interactive metabolic system never allowed his body to show evidence. He felt heavy and sleepy with his skin and bones and burger and whiskey and decided to head back to his room. ‘Thanks, Carl,’ he handed the bill he signed and finally found out the bartender’s name on his bill. He stood up slowly and turned his back on Carl. The brightly lit bar seemed dark. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, thinking he was clouded by the whiskey. He opened his eyes and confirmed what he initially saw. The bar was filled with shadows. Shadows sitting on the tables. Shadows smoking cigars. Shadows playing cards. Shadows playing billiards on the far end of the bar. Shadows wearing suits. Shadows, everywhere. He looked back at Carl, who stood there smiling as if he already expected William’s reaction. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘You haven’t noticed until now?’ Carl asked back. William realized he was sitting amidst the crowd of shadows all those hours he spent with his eyes on his phone. He gave a questioning look at Carl. Carl served him another glass of whiskey. ‘That’s on the house. You might need it. Have a seat, once again.’ He took a swig, and the coffee-colored liquid traveled quickly down. It was warm inside. But his back shivered. Carl leaned forward. He was so close to William’s face he could feel his breath. ‘These shadows,’ he whispered, ‘were the shadows of the people who sold their souls to the devil.’ Carl sounded like a wizard passing down a curse. William felt all the hair in his body stood up. His body froze, but his heart pumped faster than ever; he thought it would pop out of his chest. ‘The shadow is automatically cut from the body once the owner sells his soul to the devil.’ William thought, who sells their soul to the devil? And as if Carl read his mind. ‘A lot of people sell their souls. Those who are in despair and have nothing more to lose. Those who can only think of two things - do or die.’ William thought of his desperate times when he lost his wife to his friend because he was so busy writing his novel that sold not more than a hundred copies while his wife found affection from someone else. On lonely nights he wanted to die in his dark house, wanting never to see the light again. They said when you dream, dream high because it's free. And that's what William did. Little did he know that he had to pay a very high price for chasing after his ambition. ‘They stay here for as long as their owner is alive. And once the owner dies, the shadow perishes quietly and dissolves into the eternal darkness.’ ‘Where do they live?’ ‘Here,’ answered Carl, his arms spread wide. ‘They were here all along.’ William wondered. It was dead quiet when he entered the bar at sunset. Again, as if reading his mind, Carl spoke, ‘you only see the shadows in the night. They are nowhere to be found during daytime.’ 'So, this is like a purgatory?' William asked. 'Hmmmm. More like a waiting room.' Carl's tone was that of a Real Estate Sales Man, showing a property to a potential buyer. ‘But, how can shadows know how to smoke or play billiards or drink?’ He remembered earlier, Carl mentioned orders even before the customers placed them. He interacted with them the way a bartender normally does to human beings hence, William thought the bar was filled with regular 'human' clients. He was just too busy looking at his phone earlier to not notice the bizarre situation around him. ‘They carry all the memories of their owner up until the day they were cut off,’ Carl said. ‘So they do the things their owners did, they mimic them.’ William’s vision started to spin; he suddenly felt vertigo that he never had. ‘And how’d they find their way here?’ he asked Carl. Carl grinned. His face was blurring in William’s vision. ‘Same way you did.’


I am used to the chemical smell in the air. We all are. We all have to be. It coats our throats and hurts when we breath, but we fight through it. There simply aren’t enough gas masks to go around. We don’t have a choice. We need food. We need wood to keep the furnaces going. Without the precious logs that others bring in, we would all freeze to death in the only thing keeping us safe from the disastrous elements. The bunker. My red hoodie and black gloves protect me from the dangerous plants. Fungi coated in poisonous slime. Flowers that bite. Countless things that have been forever changed by the damaged environment around them. I carry an ax in one hand. A burlap sack in the other. My mother warned me that I wasn’t old enough to be going into the toxic woods without a mask. That my body couldn’t protect me from the radiation. That I wasn’t strong enough to fend off all the other creatures lurking between the deformed trees. But today even my mother agreed that I had no choice. We recently lost two of our people. We don’t know what happened to them. We only know that they didn’t come back. We are already short on people as it is. So now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to harvest. I cover my mouth and nose with the red fabric of my tattered hoodie. It filters out some of the chemicals in the air. Not all, but enough that it makes a difference. I walk into the woods. Toward the center, where we started collecting years ago. The clearing in the center is filled with tree trunks and felled branches too small to be of any use to us. I approach a tree. The tree has a greenish tint to it. It’s all sharp corners and jutting branches. Not healthy by any means. I take my ax in both hands, dropping my sack onto the too-bright grass. I swing. I cut into the tree, revealing the live green wood inside. Another chop. These trees are fragile and weak. Easy to chop through. Within three swings of my ax, the tree is toppling over. It lands with a crash onto the ground. I chop some more, near the base to get the thickest logs, and chop it into smaller pieces. I leave the leaf covered tree top on the ground to decompose into the soil, only throwing the chopped up bits of it’s base into my sack. Thanks to the poor condition of the trees, they burn through so much faster. The thin branches are no good. We leave them behind to prevent them from taking up precious space in our bags. I am felling another tree when I hear something. A rustling in the branches. I spin on the balls of my feet, swinging my ax in front of me. My eyes dart side to side, examining the dark spaces between the trees. At first I see nothing. Then I hear it again. Branches crunching underfoot. Right ahead of me. I press my back against the tree. It groans as I push against it’s fresh cut. I worry that it my fall just from the pressure I am putting on it. Branches shift and crack as whatever is moving in the trees comes closer. I crouch down and prepare to pounce at the thing. My thighs start to burn while I wait until I can see the thing in the woods. Finally a shape begins to make itself known. As it comes into view, I let myself relax, standing and letting my ax fall to my side. The man approaching me is a familiar one. He wears a matching red hoodie, his more stained and torn up then mine. He also carries an ax and a sack identical to mine. He is another member of the group sent out to collect wood today. He startles when he sees me. “Gosh, Tom, you scared me! Maybe announce yourself next time? I could’ve killed you!” He scoffs as if I’ve insulted him. “Sure you could’ve. What are you doing out here anyway, Scar? I thought your mamma wouldn't let you out.” I roll my eyes. “Had to. Synthia and Craig didn’t come back last night.” “Poor guys.” He looks sad, but not distraught, although they were friends of his. We can’t afford to mourn in our situation. We simply don't have time for it. “Anyway, get out of here. This is my spot.” He looks like he is maybe going to argue, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply moves on, disappearing in the trees. I can hear him whistling as he walks away, trying in what little ways he can to brighten up the depressing woods. I finish chopping down the trees. I fill my bag all the way to the brim. I wipe the sweat off my brow, proud of myself for completing my first harvest so well. I tie the bag closed and try to lift it. Too heavy. I can’t, no matter how hard I try, seem to get it more than a foot off the ground. I sigh, the pride I felt for a job well done dissipating as I untie the bag. I cringe with every piece of precious wood that I throw into a pile behind me. I try to focus on the fact that I’ll at least have some pre-cut wood ready to collect tomorrow. That will save some time. I hope. I end up having to dump half the bag onto the forest floor. It pains me to look at the wasteful pile of wood, even if I know that I can come back and get it soon enough. Maybe even today. I retie the bag and throw it over my shoulder. I am more disappointed in my weak arms then anything else. My mom was right. I’m not strong enough to be doing this yet. I hadn’t spent long enough training for spending any sort of time outside the bunker. Everyone else had spent twice as much time as I had in the make-shift gym we have in the bunker to earn the right to leave. I walk through the woods, try to push through my already shaking arms. Pathetic. I’m pathetic. The thought repeats itself over and over again in my head. As I walk. I keep my eyes on the ground, watching to make sure I don’t trip over any roots or branches. Branches crush behind me. “I’m not in the mood for company, Tom.” I shout over my shoulder. He doesn’t respond though. He just keeps walking. “Seriously. Go away.” Still nothing. Frustrated with being ignored, I toss my bag to the ground and turn, fully prepared to chew him out for not listening to me. What I see behind me isn't Tom. Not at all. A rabid dog stares me down. Foam drips from its black lips while it stalks toward me. The ax slips from my hand while I stare the dog in the eyes, trying to convince it to back down. To leave me alone. It growls. It doesn't seem to like the eye contact. It crouches down on it's front legs, it's tail raised in the air behind it. And then it pounces.


Some people go crazy when they get laid off. A lot of companies see a dip in profits, because the demand for their services goes down. It’s not always in their control. But they keep their heads above water with a simple equation: the number of orders equals the number of staff. So when the demand goes down, turnover always goes up. It’s really that simple. X equals y. Whoever they can afford to lose to keep themselves afloat, they cut. It’s a kind of amputation with no anesthetic for some of the people they let go. They put *years* of time and effort into their jobs and build themselves up. Day in and day out, they prove themselves not only worth keeping, but worth going up the corporate ladder. They believe that enough hard work would give them just rewards. But that isn’t in the equation. A simple x equals y doesn’t care, and the realization hits hard. Imagine this. You get a job in an office like plenty of other middle-class people. You value doing your best every single day. You’re new, so you don’t have a good reputation, or any at all for that matter. But that’s fine. That doesn’t matter because you can *show* people what you’re made of. It’s not a six-figure gig or anything glamorous, but you’re grateful to have it. You’re thankful because it lets you pay the bills, feed your family, and even be comfortable. Weeks of repetitive work go by. The labor gets under your skin occasionally, but you don’t let it become a bother. It’s tiring giving extensive overtime, but the paychecks are worth it. Knowing that life is stable drives you to keep going. Months pass. Having food on the table is never a question. Paying all the bills on time and pocketing a little something for yourself isn’t a problem. People take notice of you. They see your performance is above average, but that’s being modest. They know you’re excellent as an employee, and so do you. After all, the managers share the performance reports with you for your evaluations. You’re there for a couple years now. The quality of your work hasn’t dipped much. Coworkers go to you with their questions when management is right next to them. Talk of a possible promotion goes your way. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s clear that you deserve it. The promotion to lead isn’t something huge, but you’re beginning to step up the ladder. Confidence is growing inside you. You go to work every day with a smile on your face. A goal was achieved: you never stopped proving yourself. It was only a matter of time before management congratulated you on the promotion. The job becomes a piece of who you are. And that because it isn’t just a job anymore. It’s a career, and a future looks promising. You deserve it. Your spouse knows it because of all the overtime given to feed the family. Your kids know it because there’s a growing college fund, and it’d get bigger at a faster pace from here. One morning, the boss comes to your desk with a grin. He shakes your hand. He tells you how happy he is to promote you to a team lead. Your eyes brighten with excitement. There was no way to be prepared for how soon the day would come. The family’s excited. They’re thrilled to see how happy you are. Years go by still. You’re well adjusted to the new role at work. Bosses tell you they can depend on you. The worker bees love you. But one day, not even half an hour after finishing a long shift, there’s a phone call. You don’t know the number off hand but pick up anyway. The voice on the other end says not to go to work tomorrow. The company no longer needs your services. Those words hit you like a brick dropping on your skull. Clearly there’s a misunderstanding. You just didn’t hear that right. The person on the other end confirms. The company no longer needs your services. Do *not* go to work tomorrow. Tears well up. Your spouse hears the sobs and asks what’s wrong. It’s terrifying to process, let alone tell the truth. But what’s the point in lying? You don’t have the heart to put up a façade. Days pass and you still don’t have a job. Bills are right around the corner. You look back at your bank history, realizing how careless spending was. You feel like a failure. You start asking why they cut you just like that. If having you wasn’t worth it, why didn’t they address the problem? But another realization hit. Those slimy bastards never intended on keeping you. They only wanted to squeeze you dry until a little dip in profits showed up. You apply for tens of jobs online every day, but nobody bites. Food is running out, and bills are piling now. Perhaps you see why some people go crazy when they get laid off. I sympathized pretty quickly when that scenario happened to me, but I kept my cool. The best thing to do was keep my chin up and never stop looking forward. Cracking under pressure wasn’t going to feed my wife or kids. It was ironic how one day, a promotion came walking down my path, and just as unexpectedly, so did the threat of eviction. I had to solve the problem, and *fast.* But I realized something else. Some people got taken back to the same companies after getting laid off. So that was my new plan of action. And what better way than prove myself that I was worth keeping? In the morning, I showed up like in the first interview. I wore a crisp, clean suit, hair was well-groomed, and face shaved down to the skin. The one difference? My same briefcase for work was in hand. I wasn’t ready to give up on my career, and the bosses would see that. It felt great to walk down the parking lot and to my building like in the old days. Other staff recognized me and asked how I was. I told them great, because I was coming back. They were delighted to hear the news. The only problem was that I obviously didn’t have my new badge yet. It was against company policy for security reasons, but they scanned their badges to get in and let me piggyback. Somehow, my desk was still empty. I figured they would’ve found someone else to fill the void, but it was nice to know I was wrong. The plan wasn’t even talking to the boss. In fact, it was much easier than that. I set my briefcase on the desk and *clicked* the latches open. And from inside the briefcase, the homemade poison gas emitted, and spread throughout the room.


CASSODAY 40 MILES EL DORADO 60 MILES WICHITA 90 MILES They had been in the car for over an hour already and, besides Jeff asking Adrian if he was ready to go after they stopped for gas on their way out of town, they hadn’t spoken the whole ride. With each passing mile marker, with each destination sign, taunting him with how close they were nearing home, Jeff felt his heartbeat increasing, his palms growing sweaty, his stomach churning. Even his neck was hurting for all the times he had turned to glance at Adrian, waiting for either Adrian or himself to start speaking. But nothing ever happened. The thought that they would arrive in Wichita with nothing to show for all their time together made Jeff want to scream, and he began to doubt if the last hour and a half of the ride would be enough to change his life. Jeff partly felt he shouldn’t have been surprised at this turn of events, or lack thereof. Although they were in the same friend group, Jeff sometimes felt like he and Adrian never actually talked. Mostly Jeff felt like he didn’t know how to start a conversation with Adrian. Whenever they did have a few moments together to chat, just themselves, Jeff felt the pressure of his unrequited love consume him, pressing down on every word he might say until it was flattened and useless. And Adrian, for his part, rarely struck up conversations with Jeff, which Jeff had desperately tried to understand why, but to no avail. So when Adrian asked him one day at lunch about the scholarship exam at Washburn, Jeff was taken aback. In fact, he thought he had misheard, thinking Adrian was instead telling him he was going on his own. “Oh, that’s cool. Well, I guess maybe I’ll see you there,” Jeff said, his voice quavering with disappointment. Adrian had laughed at him then. “No, sorry, I was asking if you want to go together.” “You want to go with me?” Jeff asked so skeptically that Adrian began to doubleback. “Well, yeah, but only if you want, or can...” “Oh! I mean...yeah, sure, of course. That’d be great!” Jeff exclaimed, telling himself to take it down a notch. “Ok. Cool,” Adrian replied with a small smile. “Do you actually mind driving? I think your car is nicer and my parents don’t like me driving too far with mine.” Jeff’s car definitely wasn’t nicer, but he liked the idea of Adrian depending on him. “Yeah, that should be fine. I’ll check with my parents and we can figure out logistics.” For Jeff, this was as good as setting up a date. Adrian was asking to spend two and a half hours in a car on a Saturday, plus test time, plus lunch and then maybe a tour, even dinner, and then the drive home, alone together . Adrian was asking for a whole day affair. Though Jeff knew it was unlikely that anything would happen--Adrian didn’t know Jeff was gay, and Jeff was 99.99999% certain that Adrian was not gay-the chance to spend that much time alone with Adrian made Jeff feel like it was an opportunity for something . Maybe Jeff would come out to Adrian, maybe Adrian would come out to Jeff, maybe they would hold hands while driving, maybe they would kiss, maybe Adrian would declare his love for Jeff, suggesting they get a hotel room and stay the night, having already planned out what they would tell their parents. Maybe Jeff would finally have a boyfriend. Or, maybe, Jeff thought, bringing himself back to reality, he would simply finally have someone to talk to. WICHITA 20 MILES WELLINGTON 55 MILES OKLA. CITY 182 MILES Jeff tried to time his glances to Adrian’s face with the headlights of oncoming cars, hopeful to catch a glimpse of something, anything , in his eyes. “Sorry, you don’t mind the music, right? You can choose a CD if you want,” Jeff tried, feeling stupid for asking such a question near the end of their trip. “Nah, this is fine with me,” Adrian said. Finally, Adrian’s eyes moved away from the road and onto Jeff’s. There was a message there, Jeff knew it, but he honestly didn’t know what it was. This too was something Jeff was used to. Jeff was constantly in search of some kind of nuance behind everything that Adrian did or said-every word, every look, every movement was an opportunity for Jeff to divine Adrian’s interest in him. And mostly, to Jeff’s dismay, nothing could ever be discerned...until it could. Indeed, what spurred Jeff on, what kept him going down this interstate of infatuation, were the occasional signs, or what Jeff thought were signs, of some kind of mutual interest. The most recent signs had appeared the evening of the fall homecoming dance a few weeks prior to this momentous Saturday. His friend group had dressed up and met at their friend Brian’s house for pictures before heading over to the school together. When Jeff arrived, he immediately looked for Adrian, and after he scanned the room for a second, he spotted him sitting on the couch with their friend Jason. To Jeff’s surprise, Adrian was looking directly at him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Adrian had been waiting for him, watching the door for his arrival. Adrian smiled at him and then turned back to Jason. For a moment Jeff stood frozen in the room, unable to decide what to do next until Brian’s parents yelled for everyone to head outside for pictures. Despite this burning look he received upon entering Brian’s house, he and Adrian didn’t interact until later at the dance. Jeff was standing off to the side away from the dance floor studying Adrian as he danced with his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Kara, when Adrian stopped dancing and started to head off the dance floor towards Jeff. Adrian was walking with such purpose that Jeff half-wondered if he was coming to tell Jeff to stop staring, half-wondered if this was the moment they would finally kiss. “Having fun?” Adrian said with a big, knowing smile. He had to lean in close to Jeff so he could be heard over the blaring sound of early 2000s hip hop music. Jeff felt Adrian’s nose touch his ear before Adrian corrected himself away from Jeff. “Oh, tons. I love this,” Jeff deadpanned over the voice of Mary J. Blige. He hated dances because it reminded him that he couldn’t dance with the person he most wanted to, but he always went because he also hated the idea of missing out on an opportunity to be with Adrian. “You should head out there, find someone to boogie with!” Adrian clapped Jeff on the shoulder. He was teasing Jeff, which Jeff loathed and adored in equal measure. “Did you just say ‘boogie with’?” Jeff gave Adrian an incredulous and disgusted look. “Who are you? My grandpa?” Adrian laughed and shoved Jeff a little. “Come on! It’ll be fun. You can come dance with Kara and me. And Alicia’s there, too.” Jeff saw Kara and Alica waving vigorously from the dance floor. He really didn’t want to dance with Adrian and Kara and Alicia. But he didn’t want to be a party pooper in front of Adrian either. Jeff rolled his eyes dramatically. “Geez, fine!” Adrian’s face flashed with genuine surprise. “Really? Nice!” He grabbed Jeff by the elbow to drag him out to the middle of the dance floor. Jeff’s arm burned where Adrian held him, and he didn’t know how Adrian wasn’t pulling back his hand. When they got to the center where all of their friends were, Adrian announced Jeff’s arrival, which again embarrassed but also pleased him. After everyone acknowledged his presence they all went back to concentrating on dancing. He soon found himself getting caught up in the mood around him. From the outside, he must have looked...happy. And as the music started to move through him, he realized he was having more fun than he expected. Jeff gazed at his friends and pinpointed a feeling of belonging, of non-otherness, that wasn’t usually there. For a brief moment, Jeff felt like he was one of them , and the relief was as palpable as the thumping of the bass. And then the DJ changed the song to a slow song. He had been mortified to be caught on the dance floor at such a moment and quickly started to make his way off. After a few steps, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and found Adrian pointing to Alicia, who was waving Jeff over to her. He examined Adrian’s face in the colorful dance floor light to see if he could glean any meaning from this, from Adrian’s preoccupation with Jeff dancing with Alicia. But he couldn’t, he could only see Adrian’s encouraging smile. Instead of risking coming across as rude or drawing attention to his lack of desire, he moved towards Alicia and smiled, “Hey, shall we dance?” Alicia nodded and put her arms around his neck as he put his hands around her waist. He caught Adrian’s eye one more time. This time, he didn’t have to wonder if Adrian was looking at him because Adrian’s look seemed to barrel into him. Jeff didn’t know how else to interpret the intensity of Adrian’s stare. It had to mean something, right? But the longer he held Adrian’s eyes, Jeff realized that it was his own sadness being reflected back to him. Adrian may have wanted to tell Jeff something, but suddenly Jeff wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. At this, Jeff, almost begrudgingly, turned away. He regretted it immediately. When he looked back a few seconds later, Adrian had already buried his face in Kara’s neck. Part of him wished at that moment that his crush was on Alicia and not Adrian, that this moment with her could have been the start of something, something that didn’t have to risk losing his family and friends. But he knew it would never be like that for him, and all that rushing happiness that had flowed through the music and into him for the last fifteen minutes was mopped up and wrung out. Jeff stayed away from the dance floor for the rest of the night and none of his friends tried to coax him on again. CITY LIMIT WICHITA POP 355,076 As the car ride stretched on without any semblance of conversation, let alone proclamations of love, Jeff began to berate himself for being so pathetic. One for having thought something would happen at all, let alone of its own (that is, Adrian’s) making, and two, for being unable and too afraid to initiate some sort of chain of events, whatever that might be. On the way to Topeka, they hadn’t spoken much either, but Jeff had chalked that up to the early hour and anxiousness about the test. And then after the test they had talked a lot, but mostly about the test and the answers they got to different questions and pondering how they did. Both of them felt like they had done poorly, but both of them told the other that they were sure they had done great. And then they had the tour, where they talked only occasionally, trying to listen to the guide, but making time for jokes and comments about what they were seeing or awkward things the guide said. Later they had gotten a quick bite to eat at Wendy’s (Adrian made Jeff choose), where they scarfed down their food and barely spoke. Now they were alone, really alone, without distraction. Perhaps they were tired from a long day, but Jeff didn’t think this excuse held out for an entire trip from Topeka to Wichita. The more silence there was, the more intensely Jeff wanted, needed , something to happen. This was the time. Every road sign they passed seemed to have been overwritten with the word TALK. Talk, talk, talk. Why couldn’t they just talk? The thought occurred to Jeff that he didn't even know what he would say. Was he really just going to say “I’m gay”? Or, worse, “I’m in love with you.” He pictured Adrian freaking out and asking Jeff to stop the car so he could get out and call someone else, or maybe even the police. But what if Adrian was waiting to say something? Maybe that’s why he wasn’t speaking. He was too scared, too afraid of the same rejection. No, not just rejection, absolute ostracism. Maybe neither of them could find the words to say the one thing they most did and didn’t want to say, and it was clogging up their throats and mouths until they could no longer breathe. WELCOME TO CEDAR PARK COMMUNITY Time was both rushing by and stretching out, and suddenly, but not for the first time, Jeff wished he were a different person. A braver one. One that spoke. One that wasn’t shy. One that wasn’t afraid of being who he was. One that could be the stronger person for the both of them. One that could help them cross that impassable bridge. But he wasn’t. And they didn’t speak. With each passing block, Jeff became more and more agitated and yet quieter and quieter, until he was only a sigh and Adrian only the sound of breathing. At last, Jeff pulled into Adrian’s driveway, and in a small moment of bravery, he parked and turned off the car. He felt Adrian’s eyes on him then but neither of them moved and again there was only silence for a few moments, perhaps only milliseconds, until Jeff cleared his throat. “Thanks for the ride.” For a second, Jeff was confused, thinking he had spoken. But it was Adrian’s voice coming through the silence. “Um, right. Yeah, no problem.” Adrian grabbed the door handle. “Um,” Jeff said, clearing his throat again. “Hm?” Jeff saw the mountain of syllables in front of him and couldn’t bring himself to climb it. “Did you say something?” “No, sorry. No. I didn’t. Yeah, ok, cool. I guess, um...” Jeff waited at that moment for any kind of sign from Adrian, but there was nothing. Adrian was acting as if this was all normal and expected. “Yeah, I guess I’ll see you Monday?” Adrian nodded, “Yeah, see you Monday.” And then he climbed out and shut the door. The rush of air from the door hit Jeff in the face, bringing with it the realization that on this Saturday unlike any other, but somehow exactly the same as every other day, he was ending it the same way he started it: alone.


I was grateful that the tide was now with me. I was near to total exhaustion, well, extremely tired at least. I had been holding station for most of the night, paddling against the tide just to stay the same tantalising distance from the shoreline. Now, I was slowly making progress towards the shore. Dawn had come and the last vestige of the night sky was disappearing. I calculated that I had another hour to keep paddling, then I would have about four or five hours to rest. As I rested, the tide would carry me towards the shore. Then the tide would change again. I had thought to try and paddle hard with the tide, to reach the shore before the tide turned, but I rejected it. There was a slim chance I could make it, but a greater chance that I would not, and then, the tide would draw me back out further than the point I was at now. By resting, now, I could fight against the tide. I would, at its strongest point, lose some of the ground I had made, but, by the time it turned again I would be near enough that the next favourable tide would see me to the shore. There was no notice; the first anyone knew was the two explosions just seconds apart. The first struck midship, the second, caught the prow. If it had been just the first one, maybe we would not have sunk, maybe; but for sure, it would have taken longer to sink, more would have been saved. But we had been steaming at around twenty knots, and with a hole in the bows my guess was that she had gone under in less than four minutes. I have no idea how many others might have survived, not that it could have been many. I could feel the strength of the tide had increased so I stopped paddling and checked my supplies. Not for the first time I offered up a silent prayer to my lucky stars. I had been taking two insulated containers of tea to the Bridge when the torpedoes hit, as the ship came from full speed to dead stop I lost my footing and was thrown into the sea. My second stroke of luck, if you can call it that, was surfacing to find a Charley Float just a few yards from me. Cold tea, especially more than two days old, isn’t anyone’s first choice of beverage, but in the absence of any other potable fluid I was grateful for it. I had finished the first canister and had started on the second last night. There was around two thirds remaining. Although I was fairly sure I would make landfall by tonight, I was still cautious. I allowed myself one full cup, and the settled on to the deck and closed my eyes. I woke with a start, checked my watch and saw that I had been asleep for just over two and a half hours. Despite the hunger, I hadn’t eaten for one and half days, despite the tiredness, I’d had around six to eight hours fitful sleep since the sinking, and despite the fading strength, the habits and reflexes of a sailor in wartime overruled everything else. I pulled myself up and looked around, the nearer I got to the shore the greater the possibility of being spotted. At this point, I didn’t care if it was by a neutral craft or the enemy, both would provide me with something hot to eat and drink, dry clothes and safety. But there was nothing to be seen. Except the shore, closer than when I had closed my eyes, but not by much. I took another drink of the cold tea and settled into as comfortable position as was possible in a Carley. The tide was strong enough so that I was still making headway towards the shore. I tried to remember if I had heard any voices, but nothing came to my mind. Possibly the sounds of a breaking ship and the after shock of the explosion could have made me deaf for a while. I don’t know, and it wasn’t worth worrying about it. Once again I gave a silent prayer of thanks to my lucky stars. My natural pessimism and caution had driven me to study the charts carefully and spend time off duty thinking of an “escape plan”, or should that be “survival plan” in the event we were sunk. I knew roughly how far we would be from the coastlines, and had a pretty good idea of which countries we would be passing, if they were hostile, friendly or neutral; and of course, what I could expect from the tidal waters. I had kept my mind in those first hours. Carley floats are not really designed to be steering crafts; they are what the name suggests, floats. They could hold eight men, and at a push you could cram two more. Then you just floated and waited to be picked up. The theory was great, in peacetime. But in war, you might be part of a convoy with orders not to stop and pick up survivors. A harsh reality, but why present another target to the enemy, especially one that was stationary. Or you could, like us, be a lone ship, a straggler from the convey, engine trouble that meant you cold not keep up. Or on a special mission, it didn’t matter, if you went down, you were on your own. I had searched the water for wreckage, anything that could be used as a paddle. I had pulled several spars and planks onto the float. They had served well. I sensed I was in the last hour of the current tide. Wrapping the rags around my hands once again I took up one of the salvaged planks and started to paddle towards land. We had been hit just as sunset was starting. I had drifted with the waves for a while, until I was able to orientate myself and then started towards land. I couldn’t see it, of course, but I knew it would be there and as the morning sun rose this morning I had seen it. I must have got within sight last night, but in the darkness would not have seen it. looking towards it now was all that was keeping me going. Please, I prayed, let me be lucky again, let this one have been a low and not a high. Most people, even those who have never seen the sea, know that there are high tides and low tides, but only those who have been to sea understand that a high tide can be a “low-high or a “high-high. The high-high is when the waters come further and further into the land, and are generally associated with greater force when they turn and ebb back. The reverse being true of the low-high, when the waters do not come fully up the shore and are weaker when they ebb. Having no charts or reference sheets or instruments I had no way of trying to work out what the tides might be at this time, but in my weakened state the tide flowing out from the shore was going to push me back and lose some of the ground I had gained this morning, and the stronger the tide, the further I would be pushed back. Although the air was warm at the moment, the night temperature would drop drastically. I was fairly sure that, if I was pushed back to sea, my weakened state, lack of food, and by tonight, lack of fluid, would mean that I would succumb to hypothermia before morning. That thought was the stick, and the shoreline ahead was the carrot, all I needed to keep forcing myself to paddle. I was ignoring the pain, ignoring the aching arms and shoulders, ignoring the blisters on my hands that once again were letting blood seep into the rags I was using as padding. Time passed, I could see caves on the side of the hills, it meant I was getting closer. There was more detail each time I studies a different part of the land. I forced my self to keep a steady paddle stroke, it would be madness to try and race at this point, I would just bring myself to total exhaustion. The light was fading, I could no longer make out the detail on the shore that earlier had been so encouraging, I fought back tears, I wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Time passed. The plank I was using struck something, it jarred up my arm to my shoulder and I cried out with the pain. Then again, this time the bleeding blisters on my palms protested. In my tired, state I was slow to realise what was happening. The paddle was striking the seabed. I was on the shoreline. The float wasn’t moving, it was aground. I struggled to my feet, not easy after two days sitting and kneeling on the float. I clambered off the thing and stumbled onto my knees. Using the float as leverage, I regained my feet. A dozen paces and I was on dry sand. Once again I sank to my knees. Raising my eyes to the heavens I looked at the stars, to the right was the North Star and the Plough. My lucky stars. After the ship had been sunk I had just drifted until the stars had appeared. The North Star; that was how I orientated myself and began to paddle, I looked again at the constellations. Their unchanged position on the second night had kept me on track, and now they confirmed I had made it. I was kneeling on the shore in neutral Portugal. As I looked up, I could see, not more that 500 yards away, the light of a fisherman’s cottage. I could make that last bit. Once again, I gave a prayer of thanks for my lucky stars. For me, the war was over, internment beckoned.


It happens in the middle of the night, in a city that never sleeps. Vehicles stopped moving on the newly paved road. Wild and tame animals alike stopped running the streets, yards, and sidewalks. The lights of several buildings went out. Streetlights fell silent. Even the river goes still, its fish burrowing into the muddy bottom and finding rest. A disturbing hush fell across Silver City, a city that now sleeps. A thick fog descends upon Silver City's land, clinging to skyscraper and two-story homes. Its source is unseen by the occupants. The group stands on the edge of the town, adjusting their gear and checking their equipment. Attached to their person is carriers for their chosen tools for conjuring magic. Each one of them has a unique instrument. The leader of the group, a short, stocky young woman with alabaster skin and red hair uses a flat-bottomed orb. She chose to follow the path of the mage, walking the ways of the oracles. Behind her, standing off to the left is a tall, muscular man with dark skin and blue eyes wields a staff. He follows the path of the warrior and walks the ways of the wielders. Finally, there is the elf. He is as short as the leader, but with sun kissed skin. He wields a deck of one hundred and four cards; fifty-two of them cast attack and defense spells. The other fifty-two tells fortunes. Like the leader, he follows the path of the mage, but walks the ways of both the oracle and the combatant. The elves pointy twitches, the tattoos on the forearm of the strongman swirl ominously, and the sphere of the leader glows in its pouch. "Magic," they say in unison. "Evil magic," the strongman says, "I've been with you two long enough to know it as good as I know the back of my hand." "As you should," the elves replies. "My sister is here, in Silver City," their leader proclaims. She clenches her fist and looks at the fog slowly forming around them. "We must find her." "I agree." She looks to the elf as he steps forward. He points out, "whatever caused this is bound to be roaming the city's shadows." "Then we'll just have shine a light." The leader takes her orb from its pouch attached to her belt. She beings to mumble an ancient poem. In our brightest days, out of our darkest souls. Bring us light to guide us. Bring us relief to ground us. By this I ask the gods to aid us. The orb glows bright and flings a field of yellow light around the group and expands until it reaches the edge of the fog. The elf moves his fingers through the air and says a similar spell, though in his people's language. When he's done, the field of light grows wider, fighting the fog. "We need to hurry," he says, "this fog will sap our power the instant it touches us." "Should we split up then?" The strong man asks. The leader nods, "I'll teleport to my sister’s home. It is but a few blocks from the city's center, so we will keep that as our meeting place. Both of you find the source of this unnatural phenomenon. Spread out as far as the city will take you." With their orders given, the elf and the strongman walk forward into the fog. The leader takes in a deep breath, steadying the shaking in her limbs. She clutches her orb and brings it to her heart. She closes her eyes and prepares for the sensation that soon engulfs her entire being. It’s a kind of trembling feeling that comes from being moved across time and space. A lot of mages can’t handle this kind of transportation but those who learn to be one with the slight discomfort are able to teleport to places they’ve been before. In her mind, the leader imagines her home as it was two months ago when she came for a holiday visit. She imagines the living room, with its vintage décor and the shaggy rug laid on the floor in front of the couch, to give comfort to her aging parents while they sit. She imagines it and believes in it, and then She vanishes. When the smoke clears and her green eyes recover from their temporary blindness, she’s in the very living room she imagined. She stands in front of the couch and is shocked to see it overturned. The two windows looking out to the lawn are shattered and the front door has been torn clean of its hinges. Several portraits that hung on the wall above the fireplace lay instead on the hardwood floor, smashed. She walks over and picks one of them up, her fingers tracing the broken glass. Her finger bleeds as it catches a sharp edge and a tear falls off her cheek. Before, when they stood outside Silver City limits, she had a premonition of doom. Something told her to come home, if only for a moment. Never had she wanted her premonition to be false. But clearly, it is not. The leader walks through to the kitchen, though nothing there seems to be disturbed. A single drawer containing knives and other sharp instruments has been left open. She walks over closes it, taking an uneasy breath. Something tells her she needs to go upstairs. Something tells her she must go upstairs. Her premonition is tugging strong towards the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. She goes, putting one boot in front of the other, stepping up the stairs and letting her hand run along the metal banister. Upstairs, she discovers her parents’ room has not been disturbed; everything is in its neat, tidy place that her mother would spend an hour everyday organizing. But her sister’s room is a disaster. She can see it in her head, the struggle. Blankets are torn off the bed, the dresser next to the window has been thrown to the floor, and the window is open. Did her sister managed to escape? She doesn’t know. But as the tightness in her chest spreads to her body, her pale lips form a single question. “Where is my sister?”


My eyes opened slowly, fluttering at the harsh sunlight. I sat up in my makeshift bed and groaned. My lower back was sore. Maybe sleeping on logs was a bad idea. I gathered the materials that I had used to make last night’s bed and stored them in my backpack. While doing so, I realized that I had some iron from mining yesterday. I melted the iron ingots into a sword and attached them using twine to a stick I had found in the forest. I did the same with the rocks I had collected and made a stone pickaxe. I ventured outside and found that there were tons of monsters terrorizing the village. I recognized a few that looked like the one I had encountered in the cave yesterday but the rest were unfamiliar to me. I took my newly-made sword and swung it at the creature closest to me. The sword hit the green-skinned monster in the abdomen. The attack from my sword hit him into the sun’s intense rays. The green-skinned monster, which I would call a zombie, burst into flames as soon as the sunlight hit him. I was so terrified that I ran away to the other side of the village, wondering how that just happened. After calming down, I went back to my home base and organized a few things. I realized that I still hadn’t explored the entire village yet. I explored the rest of the village, both avoiding the terrifying creatures, finding a list written on a dirty piece of paper that seemed to be a to-do list of sorts, and books with topics ranging from transportation using something called a ‘waystone’ and enchanting items with special powers. I read the list I had found. It seemed that the writer’s handwriting got messier as you read on. Almost as if they had written it in a high-stress situation. I spaced out for a bit, thinking of explanations for this. While doing so, I had to attack one of the unknown beasts in self-defense. The monster flashed white and exploded after I swung at it with my sword. Once I got back to my home base, I thought over the different explanations for the weird list. I came up with the conclusion that the list was written right before the writer’s death and that the tasks on the list were never finished. I didn’t really have a guide on how to survive in this world and I couldn’t help but feel that this list would guide me. I soon went venturing out of the village. I found a wide hole in the ground. I saw some more iron and went to mine it. But, there was another one of the monsters I had encountered earlier. I fought the monster off with my blade which was slowly getting duller. After almost being scared to death, I continued to mine in the open cave. I collected more iron and some coal. Once I was done with mining, I realized that the Sun had almost set and I needed to get back to my home base. I quickly ran back. I made a bed the same way I had the night before. I put the items I had gathered in a chest and made sure that the door was secure and slipped under the covers. Even though it took a while, I eventually fell asleep.


“Can you keep a secret?” I rolled my eyes, not bothering to look at my sister as I searched the TV for something interesting to watch. “Better than you since since you’re going to tell me one." Sarah plopped down next to me on the couch. “Well if you’re going to be like that then maybe I won’t tell you. “You can’t not tell me a secret after saying you’re going to tell me a secret!" I said, looking at her. "That’s mean.” “Fine I'll tell you but you can’t tell anyone. Janet will kill me if she knew I blabbed after promising I wouldn’t. “I’m your big sister," I said, returning to my channel surfing. "Your secrets are mine, just like that shirt you’re wearing is mine. I thought it got lost at the cleaners.” “It doesn't even fit you anymore. Do you want it back?” I waved the offer away. “Keep it. I want to know the secret.” “Kathy’s pregnant.” I turned, mouth open as my mind tried to process the bomb Sarah dropped. “Are you serious?” Sarah nodded, smiling at my shocked expression. “I was there when she took a pregnancy test. Came back positive.” “Who’s the father? Is it Tyler?” “She doesn't know. There’s been a few guys pulling into her station since he left.” “Really,” I clicked the TV off. “They broke up last month. How many guys could there be?” “3.” I shook my head at that. “I shouldn’t be surprised. She was always boy-crazy in high school, why would she change at 23.” “If I recall you also had your share of boyfriends at the time,” Sarah pointed out. “Yeah, but I never went all the way. They were more for show, something to make school fun. When they got too pushy then I dumped them.” Sarah pulled out her phone. “I’m just saying, we all enjoyed being with guys so don’t judge. You want me to order a pizza since it’s almost lunchtime?” I nodded. “Cheese and mushrooms. I’m not judging, just stating the facts. So what is she going to do? Does she know who the dad is?” “Not really. She hopes it’s Tyler since they’ve been together the longest and the others were just one night stands but the timing is too close,” she entered our order on the DoorDash app then grabbed the remote from me. “She plans on telling him but wants to wait until the end of her first trimester which is 12 weeks.” “Why tell him? Why not wait until the baby is born and get tested? If she tells him now and it turns out not to be his, that's going to be bad for everyone.” “Yeah, but if it is his then at least he had time to get mentally prepared for it,” Sarah turned on the TV. ‘Besides, just because it isn’t his doesn't mean he can’t raise it as his if he wants to.” I made a face at that. “I don’t know. From all the time I’ve been around him Tyler doesn't seem the kind of guy to settle down.” “You've only been around him four times in the three months they were dating and that was when we went to clubs or the movies.” “And?” “And, you can’t judge someone for liking to party when they are in a party situation. Come on, Jessica, let's be fair.” “I’m fair, I’m just saying she shouldn’t settle for him just because of a freak accident.” Sarah pulled up the DVR and clicked one of our favorite shows. “I don’t think it was an accident, not 100% anyway. She wanted to get pregnant with Tyler’s baby.” “Why? He’s got a shit job and they didn’t seem all that close when they were together.” “I’m just telling you what she told me,” Sarah checked her phone. “Pizza is almost here.” I stood up and stretched. “Well, if she got pregnant just to keep a guy like Tyler than she’s stupid. She’s 23, working part time at a steakhouse and he’s 25 working at his dad’s garage. It’s a good thing her parents are cool and let her live with them.” “Don’t be so harsh. She’s our friend, even if she made a stupid decision.” “Technically she’s your friend,” I said, going to the kitchen. “She’s only mine because you're my sister and we share everything.” “Is that how it works? “Yes. It doesn't work for you because I don’t have any friends to share.” “Gee, I wonder why.” The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of our food. I grabbed two cans of root beer from the fridge and poured them in glasses with crushed ice. Getting a serving tray from the closet I placed the glasses, paper plates and napkins on it “So how big a secret is this?” I said, carrying the tray into the living room. “Can I talk to her about this or am I supposed to play dumb and act totally surprised when she starts showing?” “Just let her be the one to say something,” Sarah grabbed a plate and plopped a large slice of pizza on it. “I think I’m the only one she told and I don’t want her to be hurt. Plus there’s always the chance something could happen and she could lose it so it’s best to pretend you know nothing.” “Fine, I won’t say anything. I’ll just lurk on her Facebook and Instagram for updates,” I took a slice for myself and settled back on the couch. “Do me a favor though. Don’t get pregnant.” Sarah squealed, her mouth full of pizza. I smiled at her wide eyed expression. “I’m just saying. You and Tony seem serious and I don’t want you getting any ideas. I’m too young to be an aunt.” “You’re 26 which is nearly 30. You’re not too young for anything.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “You calling me old?” “Only because you are.” I took a bite of pizza and let the moment pass. Swallowing, I raised my glass and held it out to her. “Whatever. Do we have a deal?” “This is stupid. You know I don’t believe in premarital sex.” I raised an eyebrow at her, glass still raised. With an exaggerated sigh, Sara grabbed her glass and clinked it against mine. “There. I promise not to get knocked up before marriage. Happy?” I nodded and took a long drink from my glass. I knew it was a hollow promise, I’d seen birth control in her room while collecting her dirty laundry one day. For now though I was happy to pretend all was normal. Unlike her, I knew how to keep a secret.


Of course, I love my mother. I have to admit that she’s always tried to be there for me, in spite of our less-than-perfect family. Mom supported me through all my ups and downs. She got me through braces, gymnastics, broken friendships, an absent father, going away to camps or college, career struggles, and my many moves. She was even surprisingly empathetic over bad boyfriends (if I told her about them). But my mother is so annoying when it comes to her religious stuff. She has her views, and never misses a chance to share. It makes me feel like I am 15 again, arguing with her over why I really don’t need to go to a service every week to hear another boring talk. Take my birthday box that my mother sent me yesterday. It was chockfull of darling stuff. There were some Lululemon clothes she knows I can’t afford, and a little heart-shaped designer purse that I instantly see myself casually flaunting at work. But Mom had to ruin all the great presents, and add in one of those devotional plaques she loves. It had some scripture quote from the book of Proverbs that says “Trust in the Lord with all your heart blahblahblahsomething ...and He will make straight your paths.” Now I’m stuck with this religious tchotchke from her. I’ll have to make a note-to-self and remember to put this thing up whenever my mother comes to visit. Mom’s birthday box represents our relationship- pretty good, but always having some strings attached. Or maybe not strings exactly- her input just always brings up old issues. I got some great birthday presents, but now I also have this “Lord making straight your path” stuff swimming in my head. God and my mother, they’ve got this thing going. But it’s just not for me. I don’t have that religious trust like her. She’s told me her faith has helped her through cancer and other stuff, but I don’t care. This morning, I swear there’s almost a literal spotlight shining down on that flower-decorated plaque poking out of her box on my table. (Does the morning light through my window always look like that?) “Trust, trust, trust... ” preaches mom’s plaque, and wait for those “straight paths.” That plaque can preach to me all it wants, but I’m finding no straight paths this morning. At all. The complications start even before breakfast. It’s my fault, I guess, but I had big trouble finding anything to wear for work- anything clean anyway. The laundry basket in my closet had been needing attention for some days. Yesterday was the absolute tipping point for having any clean work clothes for today. I knew I should spend some time on a trek to the apartment laundry room last night. I even had my bowl of quarters out on the kitchen counter, to remind me that I was doing laundry after work. However, it only took one phone call from my friend last night. Instead of practical domesticity, I opted to go out to Bobo’s for my birthday. I had lots of fun, but my dirty clothes did not. So my heavy perfume trick is going to have to suffice on clothes dredged out of the laundry basket for today’s work outfit. Maybe the cute new purse will distract from my wrinkled blouse or any possible aromas. My mom’s “Straight Path syndrome” continues to zigzag me everywhere but straight. In the kitchen, I’m finally almost out of the door. But while getting my travel mug ready for the car, I spill hot coffee everywhere. (At least I did not spill coffee on myself, though it likely would have blended with my already messy look). I throw some kitchen towels on the drippy mess on the floor for later clean-up- and hurry for my car. Why are the smallest most trivial things sometimes the most vital? How many battles have been lost because a bugler did not show up, or the mailroom guy didn’t deliver an updated map to the general in time? A huge ship is aimless without a little rudder, and a car - in particular my car this morning- is going nowhere. Yes, I am going to be late for work, because of one small problem. “My keys- where are my keys?” I still have my old purse with me since I did not have time to change everything to the cute new one. The keys of course are not in there, even after I frantically dump everything out on the car hood. Frustrated, I abandon the contents of my old purse on the hood, along with that troublesome travel mug full of steadily cooling coffee. Exiting the parking garage, I bolt back up the stairs, back to my apartment. I finally spot the car keys innocently sitting on the kitchen counter, as big as life, next to the bowl of quarters. I swear that the keys were not there before- I know I would have seen them. “Trust in the Lord,” whispers mom’s plaque from the sunbeam as I storm out. When I finally make it to the freeway, the radio news is blaring on about some traffic pileup. “Wonderful! More delay!” I mutter at the car clock showing how late for work I am now. I am grousing out loud about my mother and her God NOT making straight my path, when I suddenly realize the traffic news is going on way past its normal reporting time. It seeps into my frazzled brain that there is some big deal going on. Laurie’s worried phone call from work confirms it. “Ellen, are you okay?” It seems that my freeway delay isn’t just a mundane traffic jam. It turns out that it is the largest multi-car accident in U.S. history. Something like 250 vehicles are involved, and there are lots of injured people, although thankfully no casualties. Some tractor-trailer truck struck a concrete divider, which started a massive chain reaction. Multiple cars kept crashing, and they end up having to close two miles of my freeway for most of the day. I’m able to reroute around the mess, and arrive very very late for work, but with a bonafide excuse. It turns out I’m not the only late one. My boss is a total no-show- his was one of the many cars rear-ended in the chain reaction. Of course I quickly realize that if I had been on time for work as I planned, I would have been right in the middle of the accidents. It all took place exactly on my daily route, going northbound, right when I would have been there. There was a high probability that I’d have gotten major damage to my car, or to me, or both. That “making straight your path” stuff from my mom was looking a bit different now. Maybe I was feeling thankful, with a little respect for what I did not quite understand mixed in with it. So when I got home after work, even before I cleaned up that coffee spill, I did something totally out of character. I found a clear spot on my living room wall, next to my theater posters- and that’s where I hung up that little plaque. It’s not really my decorating style, but Mom will get a kick out of seeing it there on her next visit. And maybe it’s a good reminder for me to start working on my trust issues- with my mother, and maybe her God.


You walk through the doors, knowing it's going to be a bad night. The music's too loud and there are too many people. Everybody mindlessly dryhumping each other and with enough chemicals in them to think it's fun. You're not even sure why you came, your friends said you had to get out of the house for a while. They were "worried about you". Apparently it's possible in todays society to spend too much time alone. Even before everything happened you were a solitary man. Not awkward as such, you just happen to prefer your own company most of the time. There was talk of autism in school, borderline personality disorder, major depression. The list goes on, even to this day. Your friends herd you over to the bar offering a night of cost free ablution or if not ablution, then at least forgetting. Do you want to forget? Could you live without the memories? Would you be the same? You cheers the group, forcing a smile onto your face. Pulling out another mask to hide behind. The one used most often. "Happy" They take turns buying you drinks, trying to get you involved in a few little jokes. You can always make them laugh without trying. They seem to think this means you're brightening up. You do nothing to dispel this illusion. It's loud here. You're uncomfortable but the mask makes it easy to hide. Plus the affects of the alcohol are becoming stronger, perhaps it's time for a cigarette? Outside now. The air is crisp and you can see your breath after the smoke has left your lungs. This amuses you for some reason and for a split second a real smile shows through. Footsteps in the alley behind you. You turn. You don't know this man who is standing so close to you. He looks upset. You feel a warmth in your stomach. Perhaps this man is known to you after all. He turns his back on you. You feel cold. Your hand goes to your stomach. Your head tilts downwards. You stumble back, leaning against the wall. Slide.


My most memorable action? I think that award goes to Intervention at Quara 4. This planet is almost entirely covered in this deep ,blue ocean with a couple of small, tropical archipelagos. Many islands are less than a mile long and only about half a mile wide. This planet was our territory and it was very important. Not because of what was on it, but because of what was under ocean. Titanium and Aluminium. Almost unimaginable quantities of this metals. And they were essential for our fleet and military, but aslo space stations and other spacecrafts. After our war with Empire began, the Zen, race native to planet, joined the conflict on our side. But after our crushing defeat at Saalaris Prime they decided to rebel, they threw out our garrison and annouced their defection to the Empire. Lost of this planet would be a heavy blow to our economy, so the High Command decided to send our Legion to take back the planet. The operation was codenamed "Operation Tide". So we were send to special trenning for underwater combat and right after that to Quara. This wasn't an easy fight. Our enemy was well equiped and well organized. The battles in ocean weren't easy. Most of the time we were fighting among the coral reefs and in deep underwater caves. We had better technology, Zen knew the terrain. And then there were aslo wildlife. Many carnivorus fish and other creatures. But, even with all of this, we managed to push the Zen Rebels all the way to their Capital, and thats where our advance stopped. We refused to enter the city before heavy equipment arrived. So we waited, but finally our sub-tanks, as we called them, arrived and the siege began. After two weeks of fighting we were able to enter the city but the battle was far from over. I swear to you that we were sure that Rebels were in every building. No matter where we came, someone was shooting at us. They were throwing grenades, bombs, one of our guys even got hit by a block of dead coral. There were destroyed buildings and rubble blocking the streets, this wasn't an easy battle, that I can tell you. Slowly but surely we pushed forward, until we arrived at the center. There was that huge, tall building that was the city hall and this was the last bastion of the rebels in the city. We couldn't storm it right away so we resolved to siege. After a two day shelling we managed to enter the building and we captured it a day later. And our flag was planted on top of it. The capital was taken, but the battle to recapture the planet was longer. Many of the Zen Rebels were hiding in caves and smaller towns and cities. So we were hunting the remaining rebels one by one. The civilians were friendly. Most of them remained loyal to us and helped us as guides, or just by chatting with us. In exchange for that kindness, our command made sure that the help will be provided to wounded. Some of our guys were helping families rebuild their homes. One of my friends, Dero, even befriended a Zen guy called Qur, at least I think that is the eqivilant in our language. Another 3 months we spend at capturing rebels, hunting the Insurgency leaders, destroying supply lines etc. But finally, after a 7 months of fighting, the last Rebel stronghold was captured and the planet was in our hands again. I couldn't wait to finally get out of this water and spend some time in my quaters on Polaris Space Station. We were joking that we are going to sleep like a dead men. Dero said that he invites us to a pool party, and everyone just stared at him with a look that clearly said: Dude, we spend 7 months underwater. Don't even dare to invite us to pool party. Yeah, I guess we had enough swimming for now.


He was a captain of the guard. He held his pike in his hand. They had defended the walls of the city for a thousand days. With his men he guarded his ruler and the people within. Dawn was breaking. The invaders had amassed three armies and the city was at last surrounded. The sun was rising as it always did. 'Savages.' said the young soldier standing at the Captain’s side. 'A comforting thought, I am sure.' said the Captain. 'You have any sympathy for them?' 'You have none?' 'None at all.' The walls of the city stood taller than any others the Captain had seen. The ancestors of his people had built them from sandstone. The banners of the invaders fluttered miles below. 'How can they repulse you from so far away?' the Captain said. ‘May I speak freely?' said the soldier. 'You may.' 'They storm their way across the land taking city after city.' 'And?' 'They are barbarians, Captain. The thought of what they would do to our home is what I find repulsive.' 'How are the military academies these days?' 'Excuse me, Captain?' 'You must have come from one of them.' 'I did indeed.’ ‘And did they teach you about our enemy?' 'They taught us of their brutality and greed.' 'Which they called the truth.' 'Which is the truth.' The invaders were setting up their cannons. The Captain knew the signs of an oncoming bombardment. 'You look upon them with admiration.' said the soldier. 'Do not guess my feelings.' said the Captain. 'Though on that count, you are correct. I admire them.' 'Such talk around your superiors could get you executed.' 'That is why I talk to my subordinates.' He heard his fellow captains barking orders at soldiers elsewhere on the walls. He gave no such orders. Every soldier under him was already in their place. He had lined them up facing the sun as it crested the distant sand dunes. It cast a warm and yellow light over them. Some bowed their heads and spoke a prayer to the gods. 'At your academy, did they ever tell you the two questions a soldier must ask?' said the Captain. 'No.' said the soldier. 'The first question is 'Who is my enemy?' That one you know the answer to.' 'Of course. What is the second?' 'The second is, 'For whom do I fight?' Have you asked yourself that?' 'I fight for our people.' 'For the ruler of our people.' 'He is the will of us all made flesh. To defend him is to defend all.' 'A lovely doctrine. Where did you learn it?' The soldier paused. 'The academy, I suppose.' 'And whom do you think ordered them to teach it?' 'It is their belief. They teach it to us of their own will.' 'Don't play at being stupid.' 'I'm not.' 'You know the answer.' ‘I have told you the answer.' 'You lie to yourself.' 'And why would I do that?' ‘For protection. It is what soldiers do.' 'So what is the answer then?' 'Our ruler has told them to teach you such nonsense.' 'Nonsense, you say? You doubt your ruler and your faith now? 'I have never doubted the ruler’s connection to the divine. I am doubting his connection to the people.' The Captain could hear the chiming of alarm bells. The people of the city were being forced awake. His ears picked up the cries of children. They did not know the extent of the threat beyond the walls. It made no sense to them why they had to leave their homes. 'I fail to understand your point, Captain.' the soldier said. ‘What is confusing you?' 'How your points relate to each other. You say I fight only for our ruler. You also say I should admire the enemy.' 'The two are entirely connected. 'You still aren't making sense.' 'I am. You just need to think about it.' 'We might die today. Do you want to waste our last hours on riddles?' 'You might learn something. You cannot waste time if you are learning something.' ‘Can you be a more direct teacher?' ‘Very well. Do you know why I have been so successful as a soldier? Why I was promoted to Captain?' 'I would say it is your skill in battle. Now you have me doubting myself.' 'Rightfully so. That is what many believe. It is not the case.' 'Then how did you succeed?' 'I overcame the belief which burdens you.' 'That being?' 'The belief that the cause I happen to be fighting for is somehow special. That I have fought for the right reasons. I realised I was not fighting for justice. I was fighting for whoever ruled over me.' 'Our ruler wages war in the name of justice.' 'And profits handsomely as a result.' 'We are all enriched by the ruler’s gains.' 'Are you still not tired with your doctrines?' 'With reality? No. Now, on with your lesson.' 'Once I could see my own cause in that way, I realised I was viewing it through the eyes of the enemy. Then, I could appreciate how they saw their cause as being righteous.' 'Again, you show sympathy for brutes.' 'That is what you call them. Were you from among their ranks, how might you describe your mission?' The ground shook beneath them. The invaders had fired the first cannon volley of the day. It had hit the base of the walls. From what the Captain could see the structure was still holding fast. The soldier spat in the direction of the cannons. 'Were I among them, I would bay for blood. I would scream and holler and dance under the desert sun wearing only warpaints,’ said the soldier, ‘because I would be a savage.' 'Can you see them doing such things?' ‘They act civilised now. Wait until they overrun us. Watch how they treat the innocent people caught in their bloody path.’ 'I have seen it done before.' 'So you admit that I am right?' 'I have seen it done by my fellow soldiers. It was their butchery that revealed to me the courage of the enemy.’ ‘Now you speak like a traitor.' ‘I am telling you what I have seen with my own eyes. Besides, I cannot be a traitor. I am not scared. Traitors are ever fearful.’ 'How can you not be scared when you believe the enemy is courageous.' 'If I know they share my courage, I know they share my worries. As I know you share mine as well. The difference between us is that I do not think of them as monsters. That is why they do not scare me. They are only human. Humans are easily killed.' 'You think I fear them?' 'You spoke of us being overrun. You expect us to be defeated.' 'I feel only pride, even in defeat.' 'That which every worried soldier tells themselves. I have seen people die. I have killed people. The last feeling you see in their eyes is always fear.' 'So you say.' 'So I know.' The soldier did not reply. They both looked out. The Captain thought the sun to be particularly beautiful that day. 'So you admire people you see as ordinary?' the soldier said. 'Yes, I do. I admire them much as I admire you.' 'You might as well compare me to a starving alleyway dog.’ 'It is a great compliment. Place yourself amongst them once more. Imagine facing these walls of ours. They cannot see us. The walls obscure our faces. Their every detail is exposed to us.' 'Your point?' 'Would you not need incredible bravery to dare lay siege to this city?' 'I suppose.' 'And there you have it. My conclusions are all part of a whole. Our ruler is a profiteer. We wage war in his name. They know this. I also know this. Thus, I realise that our respective rulers are no better than each other. They are told the same lies as us and the same truth stands. As a product of this, I know that they are humans. They have bravery, which I respect. They also have fear, which I can abuse.' 'I believe I understand it now. Though I still do not care for it.' 'Neither did I, at first. You will come around.' 'We will see.' The Captain stumbled when the next round of cannon fire hit the walls. He regained his balance and leaned over the edge to watch the invaders. They had broken through. In the midst of the conversation he had ignored the sounds of orders. Around him, soldiers raced with pikes in hand. They were going to reinforce those defending the point of the breach. In each face he spotted the same confidence that the young soldier beside him had been sporting. 'Let us see if this really is an army of savages.' the Captain said. 'Or an army of men.' said the soldier.