Again. It's the first thought that goes through Alice's mind, when a text of her boyfriend pops up on her phone screen. -- ‘I got caught up on something. Gonna be a little late. Love you.’ , -- it said. There comes a moment when you see that things aren't how they used to be, and you have to decide if they're worth fighting for or if it's better to just let go. Alice's mom's voice echoed inside her brain as her fingers wavered on the call button. No. She wouldn't call. It's been a long time since he called to justify his actions. Or even to ask how she was doing. The woman's freezing hands clasped the phone together, as if keeping herself to giving into the anger flowing inside her body at the moment. Again. Alice didn't get up from the bench beside the fountain, using the excuse that the big warm coat she was wearing kept her there, not letting her move. She was so tired. Tired of waiting and waiting for him. Waiting for someone who would never be on time on her life in the moments she needed most. Or to simply just be there, without a reason to. She doesn't remember the last time they said I love you with actually meaning and not because they were used to say the three words. It was always rushed. The last thing to say in a call. The last thing to type in a message. The last thing to say when one of them left the house. But it hadn't actually meant something in quite a while. Like a forgotten letter left to waste in a pile inside a box somewhere in your moving stuff: it must've meant something to you some time in your life, until it stopped being important. Later on, you probably won't remember it anymore. Or need it. The worst part was that she was the one feeling those things. Alice didn't remember what loving Harry felt like, not anymore. She wanted to. She really did. So, as her hands played with a butterfly sticker some kid must've glued on the bench she was sat at, her mind wondered through possible outcomes their conversation would have once he got there. A few minutes later that felt like hours, a panting and grumbling sound startled the thoughtful woman sitting alone by the water fountain, evoking her to search for the unknown source of it. A man on the oposite side of the monument had his hands on his knees and breathed heavily, as if he had just finish running a thousand miles marathon. Alice would recognize that worned out shoes anywhere. He must have sensed the stare and looked up, finding her dark brown eyes in a flick of second, before she swerved away. A curl falling asleep on her face due the action. Harry walked to her after straightening his back, not realizing the gloomy atmosphere he had brought with the moment he stepped into the park. “-- I'm sorry.” the man begun, ready to apologize like he was so used to “-- I had an emergency meeting to attend and I couldn't miss it, when I looked at the time it was way past nine and no reservations could be available at this time...” Harry sat down beside her, sighing. He sounded defeated, apologetic. She was glad, he should be. But why would he schedule a reservation today? “-- I didn't forget our anniversary, okay?” Oh. “-- I just didn't have any time to- actually, that sounds worst, doesn't it?” Alice blocked out everything he said next due her mind alerting today's date: 7th of July, when they made it official. “-- ... if you want. ” Harry's voice came alive to her again. She blinked, staring at the ground. He wasn't the only one forgetful in this relationship. “-- Love?” “-- Hm?” “-- Are you mad?” He moved to put a hand on her tight the way it used to always sooth her no matter what had happened, then deciding against it. That reminded Alice something had changed. “-- No.” She just didn't think they were worth fighting for anymore. When she finally glanced at Harry, he seemed conflicted on feeling bad or relived about her answer. He was inclined to feel relieved. It was an easy way out, anyway. She didn't blame him. He took a glimpse at her hand resting on the bench, contemplating whether or not should intertwine with his. Why is he hesitating? “-- I can't do this anymore.” He paused his fingers from reaching out, eyebrows furrowing. “-- Do what?” “-- This.” she said as a simple conclusion in an essay. “-- What?” Now the woman really didn't know if her boyfriend was just playing dumb or trying to absorb what she was talking about. “-- Alice?” he questioned after a pregnant pause, tone getting desperate to grasp the why's of that conversation. “-- It's okay for you to forget a few traditional movie nights,” Alice said, resting against the bench after feeling discomfort on her back for the previous position. A cold wind breezed past them and she grasped onto the memory of he holding her against his body to warm her up in the cold streets of the city “-- or a few walks in the winter.” Harry suddenly felt the need to interrupt, but his tongue seemed tight as a rope. “-- Even two dinners at my mom's during the last weekends. That's okay.” Harry knew it wasn't. “-- It's okay for you to keep me waiting on friends gathering or dinner dates for most of these last two years,” she bit her cheek, he saw it. “-- Or at home, because you had something important to do and I missed you.” his heart clenched at the last sentence “-- Alice-” “-- It's not okay...” her tight voice interrupted him abruptly, not really caring for what he was going to say “-- For things to stay exactly how they are right now.” She turned to him completely, pursuing her lips, ready to throw the bomb “-- I can't, no, I won't, keep waiting for you to realize these things or waiting for you to have time to talk about it.” Harry stared, not reacting at first “-- I won't keep waiting for you when there's nothing to wait for anymore.” He back away as if he had been slapped. “-- What? Alice-” he sputtered out “-- What are you talking about? We can work this out. Do something else tomorrow-” “-- You still think I care about an anniversary, Harry?” she shook her head, avoiding the hurt look on him when she said an anniversary, as if it was no longer an important matter “-- I'm just tired. We both stopped putting efforts in this relationship a long time ago.” Alice concluded, getting up. Harry shook his head, quietly protesting inside his head and leaving his hair disheveled. As her hands seeked comfort and warmth on her overcoat, he eyed the girl he was supposed to be in love with for the rest of his life, but that was long forgotten too. She was right. He didn’t want her to be. “-- I’m sorry, Harry.” She really was. “-- It’s okay.” He really was. And she heard on his voice and saw in his eyes that he was tired to.


Wife, daughter, sister, mother, friend, grandma. Of all the names I’ve been known as throughout my life, none have meant more to me than Grandma. The day your mother told me she was pregnant was the happiest day of my life. The day you were born put every other day to shame. The day I first held you in my arms made me feel more alive than any other in my long long life. Because you see, my grandchild, the first time I saw you I knew everything was going to be all right. So as the snow makes the rest of the world look empty and you sit here in my home, I want to tell you that everything will be all right. I wish I could tell you that everything will be all right. Wife, daughter, sister, mother, grandma. That day, oh that day, I remember every detail, isn’t that ironic? Winter was fast approaching and the skies blushed pink. The sun had gone into hiding and fog hung loosely around the streets. The doctor’s room was a stark contrast to the world around it. The fire was lit, giving the room a warm glow. Two leather chairs were placed opposite each other. An old coffee table separated them, decorated with a single vase holding a single flower. A single petal had fallen onto the stained wooden table. Quite informal compared to most doctors, but it fits perfectly in this ancient town. Wife, daughter, sister, grandma. The doctor’s voice was soft, gentle, comforting as if it was designed specially to make bad news seem less bad. He welcomed me in and offered me a seat. I took it willingly, glad to let my bones rest for a while. I wore my famous blue coat and the floral dress your parents had got me for my birthday. My hands clung to my stick as I lowered myself into the seat. He walked to the other and sat down with ease. My breath was shaky and my hands matched, my heart raced as I waited for the words to leave his lips. After a week of looking over my results, he had finally come to a conclusion. “You have dementia.” Wife, daughter, grandma. You see, my brain is starting to fail me. I’m forgetting the past and muddling it up with the present. I try not to let my age defy me but I keep losing my keys, my purse, my name. Some days I go to feed Buddy, not realising that he’s no longer here. Sometimes when the clock strikes 5, I expect to see Grandad walking through the kitchen door, forgetting that it’s been 27 years. My brain is starting to fail me as I forget time, and days, and loved ones. And all my old names. Wife, grandma. But my grandchild, as the snow causes the world around us to fade and this disease causes my memories to go, I want you to remember this: Every time I see you, every time I look into your eyes, I remember. I remember the first time I saw you, the first time I held you, the moment I knew everything would be all right. So, while I may not remember when your birthday is or the last time you came round for tea or, some days when my memory is at its worse, your name, I will always remember that I love you and that everything will be alright. Forever and always your Grandma.


I felt something stir in me and my eyes snapped open. ‘No.’ It was only a whisper against the stark silence of the night. This couldn’t be happening - not right now. I’d taken steps to make sure this didn’t happen at a time like this. I wasn’t ready and it was already too late. My muscles were already starting to clench and I doubted I could make it out. I had to try. I rolled off the bed, taking the duvet with me as it wrapped loosely around my waist. Fuck - that could be a problem but I could always replace it. I got onto my hands and knees, not trusting my legs to carry me. I could already feel my feet starting to spasm and I gasped when one of my calves started to cramp. When the cramp eased, I crawled toward the door as quickly as my stiffening muscles would allow. When I got to the door, I lifted my hand towards the handle and dropped it as an electric shock shot down my spine and held me down for what felt like minutes. I writhed and groaned as my body contorted - nerves wildly firing. Trying not to fight it, I tried to breathe but my chest felt as if it was held by iron bands. My mind raced to explain how this could have happened but to no avail. I just needed to get out. I screamed and howled in frustration, frozen in front of the bedroom door. I reached up, grabbed the door handle and pulled it down. Thankfully, the door swung out and I started to pull myself out. My legs had become useless now and sweat beaded on my forehead with every painful movement I made towards the front door. With every panting breath, every passing second, I inched closer and closer to safety. All I could think about was getting out before it was too late. For a second, I pictured what this would look like to anyone who was looking in - me crawling slowly across the floor, drenched in sweat, helpless, but using every ounce of strength I had. It was almost out of a B-horror film. I had to stop when another jolt in my back stopped me dead in my tracks. It felt like I’d instantly turned to stone and time halted. If it wasn’t for the blinding white-hot pain pulsing through me, I could have laughed at the ridiculousness of this. Years! It had been years since I’d been caught off-guard like this. I did everything I was supposed to and took my meds every day until they ran out every two months and I had to find myself in the woods to allow this to happen. I was sure I wasn’t anywhere near the end of this round, but here I was, in the middle of the night, straining against my own body’s change. Something was wrong but I couldn’t think about that now - I had to get out. A gasp escaped from my mouth as I regained control over my ever-useless body. The door started to blur around the edges and it took me a moment to re-focus. It was close but I could make it before I passed out. Nearly there. With arms and shoulders screaming at me, I closed the gap to the end of the hall. I felt the fire in my bones and all I could hear was the blood pulsing in my ears. My mind started to drift and the door got further and further away with every second. The darkness in the edges of my view was closing in fast. I wasn’t going to make it. I got this far, only to fail. I had been so close. I reached out - frustrated, desperate - before the blackness took me. ====================***==================== From the rooftop across the road, Lewis had watched it all unfold. The bugs he’d planted in the apartment told him when it was complete and he made his move. He crossed the street and made his way to the apartment and let himself him in with the key he’d copied a few weeks ago. Amazing how easy it was to clone the building and door passkey in a restaurant - dressed as a waiter, standing by a jacket for up to 2 minutes, while taking the orders of a very indecisive date. Natasha had played her part perfectly. A smile spread across Lewis’s face - it was unbelievable how easy this had all been. Considering what he was getting paid by his client, he had expected more of a challenge. A week of sugar pills and it was only a matter of time until his target was vulnerable. Lewis stepped into the hallway and approached the black cat. He looked deep into the cat’s amber eyes, looking for anything human, but, as he’d been told, there was none. He stroked the cat’s head and the cat leaned into his palm; eyes closed in pleasure. A quick movement and the tranquiliser dart was deep in the side of the feline. It let out a gentle yowl but it was already becoming drowsy. Minutes later, Lewis was walking out of the building, holding the sleeping creature. He knew how rare werecats were these days and his client had amassed quite a collection, maybe the largest ever seen, but in the end it didn’t matter - protected species or not, there was money to be made when dealing with exotic animals.


Mama was a superstitious woman. She hung the dreamcatcher with the bristling white feathers above her bed, and her wooden bedstands were brimming with opalescent stones brought by mysterious vendors to ward off the pernicious spirits, the entry ways were lined with salt, horse shoes were hung on nails, and in the center of her room was the Hamsa, the evil eye watching over her. Despite all her protective symbols, Mama was never content, she always needed more. Mama loved to say she knew the future, specifically my future. I remember days in my youth, sprawled under the sun-kissed garden, her angelic voice calling me, running through our field of lilies and roses, the chickens cooing and pecking at the floor as I strolled by. Those sweet summer days when the rays of light shone through the full branches really gave mama’s garden an ethereal glow. I saw the sunspots, marks of heaven, across her face, and she would smile at me, but somewhere hidden behind those eyes was always a glimmer of fear. In the night, under the guise of her protective symbols, we sat out in the twilight, and looked up at the stars accompanied in complete harmony with the cricket’s chirping, hidden in the leaves, and the crackling of the wood, the maple burnt scent, and the ash rising upwards. She got deadly serious. I remember the reassuring face vanish. Her face went pale and still, as if she saw a vision. Her eyes went dead, beady, and she spoke with a voice I never heard before. She was visited by a famous seer who lived in the mountains, the hooded man only appeared on rare occasions. He came to see her when she was pregnant, all those years ago. Mama boasted of her talent in the prophetic arts, the celestial bodies spoke to her and she listened. The famous seer laughed at her. Mama could not see the future. She did not know the man she loved would leave his seed with her. She did not know he did not love her. She did not know he would vanish before dawn when he found out. She knew nothing. She must stop her false prophesizing. She was angering the spirits, the nights were growing colder, the winds were growing bolder, dark days were coming, people were disappearing. She needed to stop. In return the seer, who was a kind man duty-bound to the people of the mountains, would give her a vision. This was her reward for her cooperation. Mama smiled and wished for one thing. She wished to see my future. The seer took her to this very spot, he waited for the right moment. While the fire was burning, he pulled out his seer’s bones and scattered them into the fire, the bones hissed and moaned, a teakettle of pressure building until the bones grew dark and grey and Mama got the vision. Her eyes were mesmerized, unmoving, even when the smoke burned her eyes, she kept still, and she wept. I asked Mama what the vision was. She told me, under the light of the fire, my life would be beautiful. It was foretold my life would have purpose and meaning beyond my understanding and that I would be happy. This happened a year ago. Ever since that day, when she told me of the vision, Mama began to change. The next coming days her spine began to curve, her shoulders would bend. Mama would say nothing, but I knew she was afraid. Below her eyes there began to grow blotches of green and purple. I wanted to call the doctor, but Mama said no. Within weeks Mama looked like she had aged years. I noticed clumps of hair fallen on the ground. I do not know if she ripped them out or if they fell on their own. Mama stopped getting out of bed one day. She stopped wanting to move. Her bones became so stiff I could not budge her at all. It was like she was nailed down. Her arms and legs started to grow thin and she would not eat. I brought her soup, but her teeth became so brittle sometimes I found a tooth swimming in the broth. I took care of her. When the nights were cold, I brought her more blankets. When she was hungry I made her food. Mama is growing deathly sick and tired. When she thinks I am not looking I know she has her painful tears because I have to clean them later on. It was a Tuesday. I was twelve years old. The sky was an ominous grey, not the grey of a light rain or a pleasant windy day, but the dark monstrous grey of amassing clouds, the grey of a tumultuous thundering storm. I awoke early that day with the feeling of falling. I felt something was terribly wrong. I went to the kitchen to make mama her green tea. I was heating the water to a boil on the stove, watching the singular bubbles come to the surface, warming my hands over the heat, and I felt something. It was behind me. Something watching me. At first I was scared but it was not there to scare me, it was there to pity me, and I grew sad, and the water began to bubble and the loud hiss came, and I heard a quiet croaking groan. It came from mama’s room. I went to her door and dared to peek in. A chilling cold wind washed over me. I will never forget that chill. The freeze in every bone and joint in my body, tingling from the base of my spine up to my neck. I opened the door and saw Mama there on the bed. She was sitting upright. She had on her all her jewelry, the spellbound stones, the phantasmagoric display of gems and crystals adorned on her neck and arms, the enchanted blanket with the five pointed star, the dreamcatcher stood still, the bed was overflowing with the minerals which were promised to protect her. Mama was dead. She was grey, pale, and still. “When Mama?” I started breathing heavy. I felt a boiling hot surge of anger poured over me, pin-needles poked every inch of my skin, the universe was prodding me. “When will my life be good?” “When mama?” I started to yell “What use was the gems and the crystals?” “Mama?” “ANSWER ME” ... And the boy grabbed the mother by shoulders and shook her violently, the jewelry spilled on the floor, the stones cracking under the pressure, and he yelled at his dead mother, and the evil eye, the Hamsa, stood in the center of the room, watching.


God died for me a hundred times. once, when i was 5 and my sister died in front of my eyes. attached to a metal grill, stuck in the same position for minutes. on the gray, rainy day, when it was the age of counting stars, i started counting the hardships felling on us. the electric shock, the sudden darkness in life, my light vanished and so did the God. second, when we four had to leave school and stay at home for an unknown period of time, when my father was away, miles away. struggling to earn, struggling hard to bring us there with him in a foreign land. we waited and waited and saw the day turn in to night and the nights in to days. i had nightmares, maybe my father was a laborer or followed rich people with his files. my childhood wasted counting the best moments i had before in my life. third, when we had to return from the land we died waiting to live in. the land where it felt like even my most bizarre dream would come true, we had freedom of youth, freedom of dreaming and freedom of living normally. my hands are the witness of wiping all the tears and dreams escaping from my eyes the time when the pilot announced landing. fourth, when i couldn't go to my dream college. after years i saw a gleaming ray before me dancing. i thought i could catch every single nightingale, i can go to my dream college. i can start things from the bottom all again and forget the haunting past in my brain. i can walk those classic halls and sit in front row of my class, be good student who respect her teachers. i show them the spark in me gradually increasing in to the brightest fire of youth. fifth, when my grandfather left us although we weren't close. the absence of my paternal grandmother was grand and worst than anything, having him no more was no different. humans are bad yet humanly absence is worst, my dear. its weird to have things living longer than humans. we had one less human heart. what kind of failure. sixth, when my favorite publisher rejected my book, left me on seen and blocked me from every where. my first novel had my heart, i tried to put my best vibes in to it, my silver lined hard work in it, my burning patience in it. my broken thoughts and love in it. my heart of glass in it. it shattered in to pieces, the moment a stranger with black eyes and hair rejected my work. i could hear the shattering of glass, i walked on those pieces back to my home. seventh, when my mother got diagnosed with diabetics, i couldn't believe it, she spent the entire night staring at the bare ceiling asking why me? she loved eating sweets and fruits and cakes and ice creams and what not. and now suddenly she has been prohibited with it all. "how can she live like that?" i cried in the darkness of nights. eight, when my brother failed his college exams. he sat in the corner quietly listening to my mother complain how it feels the end of everything. i never saw my brother this quiet before, as if he can not do it anymore. can not handle the pressure to be successful, study anymore. the excruciating pain in his eyes, i think i will never forget it. ninth, when i finally fell in love with this perfectly molded human being. who sat in front of me for two weeks, without uttering a single word and watched me study and complete projects. he too did his work and in the end left a coffee, with a note of 'be happy life is short' and a smile until one day, i talked to him and we decided to visit every single museum in the country. it was a planned love, a prayed love, a wanted love, a love more than just a desire, i-want-you-here kind of love. the feeling of touching and being touched is exclusive, its indescribable. with very tracing, a new love island is made. but it didn't last long. i got a call at 12:00 am one day, my lover died in a train crash. 120 people dead and several missing. the agony inside me watched the clock until days passed by, reminding me of my childhood. my sister's death, my grandfather's death. next day, i rushed to the hospital, searching him in room to room, from hall to hall. from doctor to doctor. but all i found was h=other hundreds of people searching for their loved ones too. until today, god for me, took a birth for the first time. when i saw him waving at me with a fractured hand inside my favorite person, my lover. i never saw God any where except in him, except in humans. "you thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you." the air whispered in my ear, in my paused body. we hugged hard in middle of no where, "i missed you and the God in you!" i muttered. and suddenly, i saw my own bleeding body in middle of the buzzing street, the cars screeching to stop and the women screaming on top of their lungs. the kids crying their heart out as if mourning on my death. people gathering when they lift the coffin, people praying for my here after. and soon everything is fine and back to their routines. sometimes, people die suffering. sometimes everything ends like that. sometimes death is way better than living. sometimes crying your heart out looks the best option. sometimes my heart get numb. sometimes i want to talk to every single human on earth and tell them how unfair my life was. sometimes i want to watch people be happy. sometimes i sit by the tree watching the passerby s. it wasn't my fate, I inherited it all.


Amari had been four when she had been taken in. The person who’d found her and then offered her a life of luxury and greatness had had really smooth skin. Not a single wrinkle, like a canvas stretched too thinly on flesh. She listened when he told her how powerful she could become, but was wary to go with him. Strangers were dangerous. But really, could someone cause her more hurt than she already had? She wanted out. She knew she should have waited, given more thought to it, checked if he was reliable, but when the man offered his hand to her, she took it, and told herself it was just to see if his skin felt as smooth as it looked. ---- “What’s your name?” Amari asked. She was standing with the smooth-skinned man inside what seemed to be a mansion, her hands fisted at her sides. She might’ve come with him, willingly, but she could still be careful. Her eyes were pieces of coal set aflame. The man grinned. “Call me the Magister.” “Can I sleep now, Magister?” The Magister ruffled her hair. “Of course, you can. Come with me, I’ll show you your room.” He took her hand in his, and pulled her up an endless flight of stairs, past torch lit hallways and stopped in front of a huge oak door. He pushed the door open, picking Amari up and plopping her on the four-poster bed. “Lie down. You can sleep here.” Amari spread a wary hand over the silk covers, searching for harm in the bed or his words. Finding none, she lay her head down on the pillows, slipping inside the duvet. The Magister sat himself down beside her. He watched as the fire in her eyes lessened, reducing slowly but surely until finally she mouthed a silent “g’night” and the flames were put to rest. Long after, when the Magister shut the door behind him, he smiled to himself. He had found her. He had found her. ---- The Magister laughed when she asked to be taught how to make herself invisible first, but she pouted and didn’t move. Eyebrow raised, he asked her why she wanted to hide herself. Was there something she didn’t want the Magister to know? Before she could reply, however, he laughed it off and agreed. Then he walked a few steps forward before turning back and looking her in the eye. He knelt down to reach her height. Assuming he wanted a hug, like he had many times before, claiming it was for his own sake and not hers, she went forward and put her tiny arms around him. As she leaned in, suddenly a shock went through the tip of her ears where they grazed the Magister’s skin. A string of broken sentences flowed into her mind - a few more years and... incredible power the likes of which no one has seen before... I’ll make her a... she’ll be my pawn- but just as quickly as they’d come, the flurry of thought cut off. She jerked back out of his grasp, and stared at him, eyes wide. The Magister slowly raised his hands to the side of his head, his eyebrows furrowing. Before the Magister could figure out what happened, Amari had already disappeared to some far corner of the mansion. ---- When she was seven, the Magister tested her. Said that he needed to evaluate if what she had learnt for three years could pay off or not. She remembered climbing over mountains, crawling through the jungle, summoning that deep blue power inside her, like she was reaching into the depths of an ocean, and seeing his face as he beheld the yellow rays that then burst out of her hands, like the rays of sunlight that pierced the darkest ocean. The Magister had asked her then, You see what you’re capable of? She thought of the dark, shadowy area beneath the stairs, where she invariably found her way to every day, hiding and using the golden wisps that sprouted from her fingertips to overhear conversations in the grand hall. The Magister often talked with his friends there. They talked a lot. The Magister talked a lot to her, too, but always about simple things. About how she was feeling and what she would like to have for dinner. With his friends, however, he did not mention food. He spoke about battles and wars and revolutions. Of magic and peace and love. He spoke about how Amari would be the key to everything, the piece that would tip the scales in their balance. Amari heard, but she could not say anything. Not even when they were alone again, and he was asking her if the bed was comfortable enough for her. Every time she thought about voicing her own opinion, she was hit by a painful reminder. She’d been on the streets, scrapes on her hands and knees from falling over at every stray pebble, little feet struggling to, but unable to do more take a few more stumbling steps forward. The leftover food she’d scavenged from dumpsters always left that bitter taste in her mouth, like she was being abandoned on the road all over again, wrapped in a measly blanket, not understanding that no one would come for her no matter how much she cried. She had been weak. Pitifully weak. Unable to fend for herself. Yes, she had been weak, but now? Now she wasn’t. She wouldn’t ever be if she simply continued to listen to the Magister. Whatever he told her, she would do, because he had saved her. So, when the Magister asked her, even though some part wanted to tell him she didn’t truly wish to take part in all the things he talked about, she simply said, I see. ---- Amari was the most powerful mage in the world. That’s what the Magister always said, that’s what his friends all believed. Amari believed it too. With a flick of her fingers, she could slice the mountains she had climbed up, panting, just a few years ago. She could clap her hands, entwine her fingers, and the same mountains would stitch themselves back together, as if nothing had torn them apart in the first place. She thought of herself as those mountains. Always appearing calm and stoic, both unstoppable force and immovable object, when in reality, she could be torn apart just as easily as- She jerked her head, a sharp movement. How did it matter if she could or could not? She’d just stitch herself back up again. ---- “Sixteen thousand of them,” one of the people in the hall gleefully started. Amari was 11, in her spot under the stairs, with extra shields and wards placed over herself to avoid detection. The numbers the speaker quoted sent a chill down her spine, and she wondered if it was possible the numbers did not mean what she thought they did. “Sixteen thousand of them eliminated in one attack! It was definitely a good idea to use her,” they finished. When the speaker cast a glance at the ceiling, right at the area where Amari’s room would be, she realized they meant her. And then realized that her worst fears had been answered. She immediately cut off further sound. Something threatened to regurgitate up her throat, like her stomach was turning itself inside out. She had been told to collapse a building, and she’d done it without feeling, assuming it was one of the many exercises she performed every day to strengthen her power. She had not stopped to think that there might be people inside. No. No. She had to be true to at least herself. Although she had not known at that time that she was committing a crime, she had suspected that sooner or later they would instruct her to do something like this. She had been negligent, not checking whether she could sense life forces inside, wanting to get through the task as soon as possible. “Sixteen thousand people,” she whispered to herself, wondering if the gold strands she weaved in the air weren’t actually cruel, dark black. “I’ve killed sixteen thousand people.” She felt herself begin to come apart. She wondered if it was actually possible to stitch back humans just like she could stitch back mountains. She wondered if she had any reason to not do what she really wanted to anymore. ---- The Magister found her, like he always did. “You were listening, weren’t you?” “How did you know?” Amari asked, her voice hollow. The Magister smiled, “You forgot to hide the traces.” So, she had. In her revulsion over what had happened, she had carelessly forgotten to hide the traces of her magic after muting the voices off. “I’ll be more careful next time.” That was supposed to be the end of the conversation, but the Magister lowered himself on the bed she was curled up on. A distant memory flickered through Amari’s mind, one where the Magister had given her a bed to sleep on for the first time, and sat on its edge, the comforting weight beside her lulling her to sleep. Even now, his presence soothed back the edges of her that had begun to fray. She felt something inside her calm down considerably. She knew he knew that she calmed down in his presence. She hated it. She hoped that one day she would be able to escape from here. From him. ---- It wasn’t a whole sixteen thousand the next few times. It was two, maybe three people, a group of travellers, a family living in the outskirts. No, not even a thousandth of it, but it felt much heavier. She wondered if Atlas, holding the sky felt the same weight on his shoulders. She thought holding the sky would be easier. ---- She did wonder, sometimes. All the time, really. She wondered about herself and her magic and what if she had never been born and why the world was as it was but mostly, she wondered about the Magister. She wondered if he thought of her as a daughter. Probably not. Maybe he did. Why else would he care for her? She thought about him as a father- or at least the closest equivalent. Or maybe he simply wanted to ensure she was happy and healthy, all the better to use her as a weapon later. As his pawn. She wondered. She wondered if she could leave him and go away, just as her biological parents had once. Would that be the tearing apart event? She wondered. ---- She toppled mountains over a valley. There seemed to be a caravan traveling there then. She saw it too late. That night she dreamt of her golden magic turning black, an ink that spread through everywhere, staining the world. She couldn’t see anything but herself, and the darkness left by her own hand. When she woke up, she found that the black had seeped into reality. When she flicked her fingers, she found she controlled the shadows. And the shadows were easy enough to work with. ---- The seventh time, it worked. When the Magister came to her, she felt only disgust. A little bit of fear. A wave of fury that threatened to spill out of her and seize him. He stepped forward. She stepped back. He took a larger step forward. She moved quickly and stepped forward too. Before he could understand what was going on, she slapped two hands to the sides of his head. (A/n: “Before he could understand what was going on, she slapped two pieces of bread to the sides of his head.” WHAT ARE YOU? AN IDIOT SANDWICH.) ---- It hadn’t taken long to send the black wisps into his mind. She found a few barriers, a few walls to keep powers like hers away. For those few seconds it took, she saw his eyes widen, something akin to panic course through them. So, he had suspected, she thought. He had suspected that she would try reaching it to his mind one day- to do what, who knows? But the few seconds passed and she found easy access to his memories, to his knowledge, everything that ever passed through his mind. She could take her time, for he was in limbo and she could go through the contents of his brain leisurely. She paused. Should she? What was she hoping to find? Did she want to confirm that the Magister had had paternal feelings towards her? What if he didn’t? What if he did? Would that mean she would be willing to go ahead with whatever he told her to do? Did she really want to know what was in the mind of someone who not only condoned but encouraged killing? She thought for a while. And then she decided. No. Even if she did find something, was able to look at their conversations and interactions through the Magister’s point of view, it wouldn’t change anything. She didn’t want to be the cause of death of anyone anymore, and she didn’t want an excuse for her past actions. She would accept it as it was. And that was the end of the matter. She reached further with her power, found the connections in his mind with the other mages, his friends who believed with him that she would be their pawn to achieve whatever they wished to. Laughing silently, because she was using her powers to do something, she was sure they would be awed at, she erased their memories. She erased everyone’s memories who had ever seen her, heard of her, used her. And so, she ceased to exist in their lives, a weapon that had decided that it was better off not being used like so. ---- Amari lived on the streets. She didn’t have a home, or a set of clothes. She didn’t have somewhere she could cook or go to find food. She worked hard to conjure up sustenance and homes for everyone else- they were the families, the ones like the people she had killed. This was her way of making peace with them. She never let herself rest, even if it meant looking at the dark black spill from her fingers all the time. It made her sick, yes, but in spite of all of that, she was happy. Because just the other day, she had found just a little bit of the golden slip back into her magic.


It was always so peaceful in the tub. I’m not sure how or why but it was like clockwork - get in the steaming bathtub and suddenly, the mood was perfect. The sun would lay low in the sky and cast long drawn-out shadows along the floor tiles, there were never any sounds from the outside world, just me and the bubbles. Today was no different. As I slowly lowered myself into the water, it was like the surface cleansed my very soul with every inch I submerged. It was glorious. It was exactly what I needed. I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes. It didn’t matter how many times I did it, soaking in warm water was always the answer to everything. I don’t know how long I was there for but the warm summer sun was still up; couldn’t have been long. When I opened my eyes, I saw my bruised and scratched legs. They weren’t bleeding anymore but they were still tender. There were covered in large, angry purple bruises. One look and I started to sob, not from the injuries - I’d been numb to them for a long time - but from the sadness and emptiness I felt. I cried and cried. Hot tears poured from my eyes into the hot water. My whole body heaved with every gasping breath. I wailed and wept until the moon was high in the night sky. It watched as my eyes dried up and I could cry no more. I sniffed and composed myself. I gathered water in my palms and rinsed my puffy face. Crying was never pretty but I could make myself feel better. The water had gone cold but I didn’t want to get out. I felt safe in the water and didn’t want to leave the embrace of the still fragrant liquids. I stirred it with a finger and, for a second, I thought it had started to warm up again, to recapture the energy that had been lost. How stupid of me. How could I think that *anything* would ever come back? Years of coming and going and this was where it all ended. Or where it would all begin. Who knew? I just knew I was going to have to figure out a way to make this work; I was going to be here for a while, after all. I gingerly raised myself out of the water and looked out to the old world with new eyes. Yup, this was my home now and I was going to have to learn to love it. I stepped out of the water and stretched. Aches and pains screamed out all over my back, begging me not to move, but this was just the first of many trials I was going to face, and physical pain would be the least of my problems. I walked into the bedroom and up to the mirror, naked as the day I was born. I stared at my battle-scarred body in the bright light of the full moon. It was impressive. Lithe, long, slim limbs held strong arms and legs that had been shaped by centuries of fighting. It was almost perfect. But one thing stood out, something that I’d lived with my whole life. The emptiness screamed at me. I reached out and traced arches over the shoulders of my reflection. Although they were no longer there, I could still see my wings. It would take some time but I would eventually forget that I no longer had their familiar weight on my back. I stepped back and faced the night sky. I would never soar among the stars again. I would never plummet to the earth and catch the wind beneath me at the very last second just for thrills. But that was the old me. The new me was going to fight a different battle. The new me was going to win. I’d lost and already paid the ultimate price; life as a human for eternity. I made a promise there - if this was what I was going to be, then I was going to do it on my terms.


When the clutter in your basement looks more like rising floodwaters, it's time to go down there and deal with it. Building an ark to escape in would only be a way of avoiding the inevitable. And, besides, God would probably want me to go out into the world and collect all the animals, two by two. No thanks. I'd rather deal with the clutter. I opened the basement door and looked down the stairs. The only clear area was the path from the bottom of the stairs to the washer and dryer. The path was walled-in by piles of clutter almost up to my hips. I sighed and made my way down the stairs. About halfway down, I spotted an old shoe-box on one of the steps. I picked it up. There were words written on the side in magic marker: Box of Memories, 1987, for Quentin Ngoro when I'm grown up. Going through the rest of the basement's clutter was going to have to wait a little longer. Upstairs in my bedroom, I sat on my bed and placed the shoe-box in my lap. After I removed its lid, I saw a small disorganized collection of old photos, baseball cards, playing cards, a small red rubber ball and a set of jacks, and an old baseball. Somehow these all belonged to me, when I was a child, but I had no memory of putting this together. Digging through the collection, I noticed a sheet of 8x11 paper, folded in half. I unfolded it and saw that it was a handwritten letter from the boy I used to be to the adult I would one day become. To the future Quentin, Today is Tuesday, July 21 st , 1987. I'm about to finish my box of memories. Once I'm done with this letter, I'll fold it in half, put it in the box, close the box, and then store it somewhere where it hopefully won't be noticed until I'm older. I didn't want a big box. I wanted something you could put in your lap and rummage through on a rainy day, remembering the boy you used to be. The baseball is one that I caught during a Baltimore Orioles game, when Reggie Jackson hit a home run into the stands where Dad and I sat. After the game, Mr. Jackson kindly autographed it.. The photos are of me at different times in my life. The earliest one is of a baby in a bassinet. I can't believe that the baby was me. How small I used to be! Another one is of when I was six. I'm sitting upright in a hospital bed, with a toy yellow bulldozer in my lap, a bandage wrapped around the top third of my head. That was after a dog bit me in the forehead and a doctor had to stitch the skin on my forehead back together again. The toy bulldozer was a get-well-soon gift. There are some other photos, too. At the bottom of the box is a book that I bought at the school library's book sale last year. The Black Cauldron by Lloyd Alexander. I didn't want to part with it, but I wanted you to have it. I hope you'll like it, too. I didn't want this letter to be as long as the ones I write each December to Santa Claus, so guess this is it for now. I hope everything turned out well. I wish I could look at you and see what I grew up to be. Were you a pilot, astronaut, or doctor? I hope one of them. But if not, I guess that's okay, too. From the past Quentin I smiled to myself. Much had changed in thirty-three years. I didn't become a pilot or astronaut or doctor. I went to law school and became a lawyer instead. Why? Because I was inspired by a book, To Kill a Mockingbird , and a fictional character in it named Atticus Finch, who was himself a lawyer. There was a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I called as I closed the shoe-box. Cat came in. She was almost as tall as I was, with long dark hair and dark eyes. She wore a plaid button-down shirt, jeans, and was barefoot. An echo of her mother, right down to the lack of fingernail and toenail polish and no rings on her fingers. “It's almost lunchtime,” she said. And then she saw the shoe-box in my lap. “Where did that come from?” “It was on the basement stairs,” I said. “I meant to deal with the clutter down there, but I got distracted by this shoe-box instead.” “Maybe I can help with the clutter,” she offered. “That would be very kind of you,” I said. “Mind if I join you?” she asked. I nodded and moved over, so that she could sit down next to me. Cat touched the shoe-box's lid. “So what is this?” “A box of memories,” I explained. “Something that people used to make long before MySpace and Facebook existed.” “Sort of like a scrapbook?” Cat asked. “Sort of,” I said. “Can I see what's inside it?” she asked. I nodded and handed it to her. She carefully opened it and carefully went through the shoe-box's contents. “Seems to be the sorts of things that a young boy would've been interested in. There's even a folded sheet of paper. Probably something he doodled on. Who did all this belong to?” “It belonged to me,” I said. “Apparently I created it when I was ten years old. To be stored away until I was grown up.” Cat glanced at me. “You mean, like a time capsule?” I nodded. “Something to remind myself of who I used to be. I even wrote myself a letter.” She removed the folded piece of paper. “Then you didn't just doodle on this.” “Correct,” I said. “May I read it?” she asked. “Or is it too personal?” “Be my guest,” I said. Cat pushed her hair behind her ears and silently read the letter. When she finished, she said, “That's quite a long letter for a ten-year-old. I'm not sure if even I would've written anything that long when I was his age.” She refolded the letter and put it back inside the shoe-box. “It's kind of like finding a bottle on the beach with a letter from 1987 inside it. An echo from a different time, a different world.” Then she noticed the book and took it out. As she did so, something small slid out of it and fell on the bed. It was a small photo. She picked it up and looked at it. “Is this Ma?” she asked. But then she turned the photo over and looked at its backside. “No, it isn't her. It's someone else. Someone named Sharon Ferguson, or 'Sunny' for short. It's dated 1987. A girlfriend of yours, maybe?” “I didn't have a girlfriend back then,” I said. “May I see it?” She nodded and handed the photo to me. The photo was of a pale-skinned preadolescent girl with freckles, green eyes, and red hair in a ponytail. At first I didn't recognize her. But then, like a recording, I could hear a girl's voice coming from deep within my memories. A voice I hadn't heard in over thirty years. * * * * * * * * * * “Quentin? It's Sunny. Why don't we go outside and play?” “I don't want to,” I heard a boy grumble. He sounded familiar. “Why not?” she asked. “Because I don't want to play House again,” he said. “It's dumb.” “Okay - then what do you want to play?” she asked. The boy's face came into view and I saw my ten-year-old face. Probably not what you'd call good-looking, but nothing too scary. And then I saw her face. She was very pretty. But why wasn't she hanging out with other boys, the popular ones? Or maybe she was bored with them? “What if we went to the park?” I suggested. “It was a new playground. If it gets too hot, we could sit in the shade near the duck pond.” Sunny looked thoughtful, then nodded. The park was about a block or two from our elementary school. You could get there either by the street side, or through the field and woods on the other side of the school. We chose the latter route. As we walked along, she asked, “Do you ever wonder what you'll be when you're a grownup?” “Sometimes,” I said. “Maybe a pilot, because they get to fly to faraway places. Or an astronaut, because they get to travel in space. Or a doctor, because they help people. What about you?” “I think I want to be a scientist or an engineer,” she said. She was definitely smart enough. Compared to her grades, mine were awful. Not as bad as my father's were, but that's not saying much, since he almost flunked out of school. “I wish I could be one of those,” I said. “You could,” she said. “You're pretty smart.” I shook my head. “Not like you are.” “Maybe you just need some help,” Sunny said. “But who would help someone dumb like me?” I asked. “You aren't dumb, Quentin,” she said. “I know you aren't.” “You're just trying to be nice,” I said. She frowned. “No, I'm not. I bet with a little tutoring you could improve your grades.” She grabbed me by the arm, and we stopped, facing each other. “ I could be your tutor, in fact.” “Why would you do that, Sunny?” I asked, puzzled. “Because we're friends,” she said. “And friends help each other.” “If you think it'll do any good,” I said. “I sure do,” she insisted. “I could start helping you today. in fact. After we get back home, I mean.” “All right,” I said. “If it's not too much work for you.” “It isn't.” Then she smiled and tapped me on the arm. “Tag! You're it!” She ran ahead and I ran after her. In the park, parents were seated on benches that were in the shade. They talked with each other while watching children and dogs play. The fountain in the middle of the park was on and some of the kids were running in and around it, getting wet as they cooled off. “Hey!” someone said, giving me a shove from behind. “Lookee here, it's Quentin. The school idiot.” His two best friends stood nearby, snickered and hooted with laughter. I recognized the voice as Dwayne's. One of the school bullies. I kept my back to him and tried to ignore him. Sunny turned around, though, and said, “Don't call him that.” “Why not?” Dwayne asked. “It's his name, ain't it? What else do you expect me to call him? Moron? Mental retard?” “He isn't stupid and you know it,” she said. “Then why are his grades so bad?” Dwayne asked and laughed. “Have you seen 'em? They're even worse than mine are.” “I don't care,” Sunny said angrily. “You just leave him alone. You hear me?” “Isn't it a shame?” Dwayne teased me. “Too weak to defend yourself, so you have to have a girl protect you.” I turned around to face him, fists clenched, arms held against my sides. “Don't give in, Quentin,” Sunny warned me. “It isn't worth it.” “What choice do I have?” I asked. “Yeah, if you're so smart, Sharon, you should tell him what to do,” Dwayne said. “Mama's boy don't know how to stand up for himself, anyway.” His insults and teasing were having the desired effect and he knew it. I stepped past Sunny, my fists raised. She tried to pull me back. “No. Don't do this.” “Maybe I want to,” I said. “You wanna go home with a black eye?” she asked. “Maybe I do,” I said. “It would be worth it just to plant one on his stupid face.” “Hey, Carrots, maybe you should let him be stupid without your help,” Dwayne teased her. Sunny went cold and still. “What did you call me?” “You heard me,” he said. “Carrots, Carrots!” Dwayne's friends parroted. Next thing I knew, Dwayne was flat on his back with a bloody nose, and Sunny was on top of one of his friends, straddling him as she punched him. Dwayne's other friend had backed off, like the coward he was. Dwayne got to his feet and wiped away the blood flowing from his nostrils. He looked at Sunny's unprotected back and smiled to himself. I grabbed him by the arm, yanking hard enough to force him to face me. He didn't like that. “You leave her alone,” I said. “Oh yeah?” he retorted. “And what are you gonna do? Cry on me?” That did it. I punched him in the face with my left fist. It hurt enough that I had to wring it until the pain went away. But the shocked and hurt look on his face was worth it. “Why you little runt,” he said, getting into my face. But he didn't get a chance to do more than that. The adults were on their feet now, forcibly separating Sunny and me from Dwayne and his buddies. The adults were frowning at all of us. I'd never seen them this angry. “Of all the stupid things you could've done,” a white-haired black woman told us, “and you decide to have a fight here at the park. What would your parents think if we told them? Hmm?” She looked at Dwayne first, pointing her forefinger at him. “No surprise that you're involved in it.” He looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. “Kathleen?” the black woman called to another adult, a white woman. The second woman was younger, and maybe a few inches taller. She had short dark hair, and looked strong enough to play football. “Take Dwayne home and tell his parents what happened.” Kathleen grimly nodded. “Gladly, Geraldine.” She came forward, ready to grab him by the arm. “But I didn't start it!” Dwayne complained, trying to pull away from her. “I didn't punch him first. He punched me first!” “You did start it,” Geraldine said. “We were watching. And from what we could tell, they were both minding their own business. But you just couldn't leave them alone, could you?” He looked like he was going to cry. “It's not fair! I'm going to tell my parents how awful you are!” Kathleen narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't threaten me, boy. We're going to talk with your parents. Who knows? They might just ground you again, even if the school doesn't expel you.” As they left, Dwayne kept trying to free himself. He looked back at me once, gave me an angry look, and tried to make a rude gesture with his free hand. Kathleen grabbed that hand and pulled it back down. “Don't think I didn't see that,” she told him. “You are in a world of trouble, boy.” Once they were gone, it was Dwayne's friends' turn next. “You have a choice: act like him, or go home right now,” Geraldine said. They took their heels and never looked back once. Geraldine sighed and finally looked at Sunny and me. “Maybe you two should go home, too,” she said in a much calmer voice. “But it wasn't our fault,” Sunny protested. “I know it wasn't,” Geraldine said firmly. “That wasn't why I suggested it. Maybe you could spend the rest of the day tutoring him. Unless you'd rather end up like Dwayne?” I shook my head. “I didn't think so,” Geraldine said. “Are you going to tell our parents?” I asked her. “About this fight?” “I'll make you a deal,” Geraldine said. “Let Sunny help you improve your grades and I won't tell anyone about this fight.” She held out her hand. “Is it a deal?” I nodded and shook her hand. “Deal.” With Sunny's tutoring, my grades steadily improved. As a reward, Sunny gave me a photo of herself. If only I hadn't lost it before the end of the school year. * * * * * * * * * * But now I'd found it again, with my daughter's help. “I guess sometimes you need to pick up something old,” I said, “dust it off, and look at it with new eyes. I certainly did in this case..” “Did you two ever date?” my daughter asked, handing the shoe-box back to me. I shook my head. “But we did stay really good friends. All the way through high school.” “How did you manage to forget her, then?” she asked. “She sounded really special.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was when we went to different colleges. Or later on, after I finished law school. I was pretty busy for a long time. And then I met your mother, which made my life even busier ... but for a good reason.” “I wonder what happened to Sunny,” Cat mused. “Maybe you should try to find her. Now that you're single again, I mean.” “Hint?” I said. “She might have forgotten about me after all these years.” “Or maybe she hasn't,” she said. “Try using Facebook, Pa. I've found some old friends that way.” She stood up. “See you in the kitchen.” She left my bedroom, gently closing the door behind her. “Thank you, Quentin and Sunny,” I whispered. “For everything.”


Night was beginning to fall. The desert winters brought a cold chill to the earth in the wastelands of Arizona. The reprieve from the scorching heat brought about longer nights and with those longer nights had come a new and unknown terror. The mining community of Prospect, Arizona was smitten with a dark and unspeakable scourge. Recent disappearances could not be attributed to any known source other than a black shadow creeping into the town in the dead of night. The disappearances began with the elderly and helpless of the community, many of which had been found dead on the outskirts of town or in the middle of the desert pale as a ghost with blood covering their nightgowns. Peculiar bite marks appeared on their bodies as though they had been sucked dry by some fiend. Next, young children were whisked from their beds as their parents slept. Many of these bodies were never found. “It’s been a week since the first attack Colonel,” said the town preacher William T. James. “My flock needs protecting. I am a humble shepherd. I am no warrior. I cannot defend my people from this evil that befalls them except for with the might of prayer and faith.” “I’m afraid that prayer and faith won’t be enough this time, Bill,” sighed Colonel Tobias Fredrerick Jones. “Faith and prayer may get your flock to heaven a hell of a lot sooner than they ought to if we don’t figure some defense or change for this here town.” Tobias, old Toby or TF to some of his friends, had fought and served in the War of Northern Aggression against Billy Yank as a young man. The hardship, death, terror and violence of the war had left him a scarred and dangerous man. He was just sixteen when the war began. His father joined the Confederate Army of Kentucky out of an abundance of loyalty to his home, his community and his neighbors. They were but lowly shopkeepers, merchants for the townspeople. They didn’t own any slaves or want any. Defending the soil that they had lived on for so long felt more important than any other idealistic conversation in Washington. His father had not cared for Jeff Davis or slavery for that matter. He did not care for the war at all. He would have preferred to stay home, but duty did not allow this. His father was counted among the many casualties of the battle of Sharpsburg and shortly thereafter Toby was enlisted into the military following his eighteenth birthday and a growing need for soldiers. Following the end of the conflict Toby had returned home for a time to nurse his wounds and recover. After a couple of very uneventful years he re-enlisted in the US Army and wore the blue coat he had fought against. He was shipped off to the west to fight the Indians and spread the glory of America. His experience and strategic prowess proved to be useful as he fought the hostile Indians. The Apache had proven to be a formidable and dangerous foe. He had fought many years and lost many men in the unforgiving desert of the Apache home. As he advanced in rank, he prioritized his men as his community and home having never wed and lived a solitary militant life. He was now aged and gray, retired from the Army and serving as the Marshall of a small and previously quiet mining community. The preacher was a good man with a good heart but not a stout heart. His faith lay in the Bible and in the goodness of men. The goodness of men had failed Toby far too many times to put his trust in them. “I hear what you’re saying Colonel,” said the preacher. “I just don’t know what to do. What can be done against such a thing. We’re not even sure what we’re really up against.” “We know that the attacks only happen at night. Nothing has happened in daylight yet so there must be a reason for their sneaking about,” replied the Colonel. “If it is some form of man or beast that terrorizes us we must take the proper shelter. We’ll hole up in the church tonight. All of us together. Everyone with a weapon. Everyone on the look out.” The townspeople sat nervously in the pews of the church looking over at the preacher and the colonel speaking discreetly in the doorway of the chapel. Murmuring and whispers spread across the room as each townsperson shared their fears. “My little Jimmy was taken two nights ago. I laid him down in his room and I told him to keep his window closed no matter what. I went in the next morning and he was gone. No trace of him,” gasped Mrs. Moira O’Malley as she began to sob into her husband’s shoulder. “It’s a terrible thing,” sighed Mr. Ivan Radovich. “There is still hope. My poor mother was found five days ago in the desert dead and covered in blood. Her body was a wreck when we found it.” “Our pequeno nino Juan Carlos slept in our bed last night terrified of what happened to Jimmy Senora O’Maley. I did not sleep at all if I could help it. I kept the candles burning and watched over mi familia. La cruz de Jesus in the window protecting us. I must have prayed a thousand Rosaries last night.” Senor Pedro Ramirez reached for the crucible around his neck and kissed his wife on the top of the head. “It was very frightening.” Toby stepped into the chapel with the preacher and closed the door. The heavy latch falling behind them. The torches that would generally be lit in the town street were brought inside to provide extra light to the chapel and the townspeople. Candles also littered the building. If anything tried to get in they wanted to get a good long look at it. He approached the pulpit at the front of the chapel and addressed the remaining families. “Evenin’ folks. I know we’re all scared here. It’s something unknown happening round here. But with all this happenin’ quiet like in each of our homes, I figure it’s best if we do this together. We spend a night together here in the chapel. I see you all brought your bedrolls. That’s real good. We’ll keep watch for each other and we’ll see what happens tonight.” “Will we truly be safe here tonight?” asked Ivan. “We don’t know what’s happening or why people are disappearing.” “This place has the biggest, heaviest doors in town so if it’s man or beast causing this terror we stand a better chance behind these walls. We’ve boarded up the windows except for enough room for us to look out at eye level. If something’s going to happen we stand our best chance in here together,” replied Toby. “We will pray for our friends who have left us for Tucson that they will tell of our plight and send help,” said the preacher. “It’s a two day ride to Tucson. If they sent help back for us it should be here tomorrow.” “If they were able to make it through the night Padre. Hay un demonio!” exclaimed Pedro. “There is a demon in the night.” “Best thing we can do is keep our eyes open and stay on our toes, Senor,” Toby said reassuringly. “I’ll take the first watch down here. Father, you’ll want to take the first watch in the bell tower and you call down to us if you see anything.” The preacher nodded. Several hours went by without incident. The silence was eerie but for the sound of a breeze in the night. The preacher had climbed up the ladder into the bell tower, the three remaining families were asleep on the pews or across the floor of the building. As it neared one in the morning, the silence was broken with the sound of footsteps and what sounded like snarling. The preacher came climbing down the ladder. “There’s a group of people out there. They’re walking through the town looking in the houses,” he called over. “I’m not sure what they’re looking for.” “How many of them are there?” responded Toby hurriedly, standing bolt upright. “I’m not sure. It looks like maybe ten or fifteen.” “Get back up there and tell me what they’re doing,” Toby said as quietly as he could, raising over to the ladder. The preacher climbed back up the ladder and he could not see them anymore. “They’re.....they’re gone. No wait, listen.” The silence was broken again by the sound of dirt crunching underfoot and a sort of snarling. Then it suddenly stopped. “Momma? Is that you? Are you in there Momma? Momma come out. Open the doors. It’s me Jimmy.” Mrs. O’Malley became fully alert. Her husband had to pull her back. The sound of her only son calling out to her had her in a panicked frenzy. She fought against her husband's grip as she tried to reach for the door. “Something’s not right,” said Mr. O’Malley. “Why didn’t he come back in the daylight? Who’s he out there with?” Toby looked out the window and saw one of them walking around the church looking for weak points. Then one of them came up to the window and stuck their face up against the window revealing in the candlelight and the moonlight bloodshot eyes and what appeared to be dried blood caked on their face. Their teeth were stained with it. “Stay back. Don’t open that door,” Toby called over to the O’Malley’s. “They’re not right out there.” “Come on Momma. It’s okay. It’s safe. You can come out. We won’t hurt you,” came little Jimmy’s voice again near the front door. Pedro came over to look through the gap in the boarded up windows with Toby. He held his crucifix up to his mouth as he looked out the window and then one of them came to the window. It immediately pulled back. Pedro stepped back with it. “Madre de Dios. It does not look natural. It does not look human,” Pedro cried out jumping back. “The devil is in its eyes.” “How much longer until daylight?” asked Mrs. O’Malley. “When can I go see my son?” “I’m afraid we won’t be able to leave the chapel before daylight. There’s too much risk and too much we just don’t know,” replied Toby. “It looks like it’s getting close to two in the morning. We should start to have light on the horizon in about three hours.” “Old Toby,” called out a voice from the streets. “I hear it’s you that’s holed up in that chapel like a rat.” It could not be. He knew that voice but he hadn’t heard it in thirty-five years. It was the voice of a man he believed to be long dead. “Young Jimmy boy has told me all about your little Sheriff act that you’ve taken up in your retirement. A fine sight that’d be. You serving Billy Yank. Did they give the fancy blues and everything?” He peered through the window and saw El Carter. A man who he hadn’t seen since the bloody days of Gettysburg when they were both young and newly recruited into the Confederate Army. Toby had been forced to leave him as he was caught up in the wave of men retreating from the destruction. He hadn’t aged a day. “You’ve grown old, Old Toby,” he leered through the window. “Oh my God....Eli. What’s happened to you?” Toby said with horror. Eli punched through the glass and the boards ripping the nails from the wall as he did so and sending shattered glass throughout the chapel. “I’ve become more than you could ever hope to be,” he said, pulling his unscathed hand back. Then he punched through several more times, ripping and tearing at the boards. Once he had broken through the boards he poked his head in through the window. In the improved lighting, dried blood was visible on his chin and stained across his coat. He reeked of death, decay and dirt. From the corner of his eye Toby saw movement to his left and the preacher threw holy water on Eli’s face. Eli screamed and snarled, pulling his face back out of the window. “Get back servant of evil!! Get back!” exclaimed the preacher. “This is a house of God! You cannot enter here!” Then all was silent again as shock and fear rose to a new level in the townspeople. “Pedro, keep an eye on that other window. Ivan, watch the door. O’Malleys, you watch this window and keep quiet,” whispered Toby to the group. “With the window broken they’ll hear us that much more clearly.” He stepped aside from the window with the preacher. “What was that? What just happened?” “They are creatures of the night. A manifestation of evil incarnate. I did not believe the stories,” began the preacher gravely. “As a young man in the seminary I had heard other priests discuss the evil that could be found in the world. A lust for blood, violence and death. A waking immortality dependent on the consumption of human blood. An evil known as a vampire.” “So how do we kill it? What did you just do to Eli?” Toby asked, running his hands up and down the barrel of his pistol. “It is wounded by holy water but would not be killed unless it bathed in it. We do not have enough for this. It is also repelled by the cross and by garlic. We do have several crosses around the church but no garlic. A creature such as this,” sighed the preacher heavily, “cannot set foot on hallowed ground. It cannot enter a house of God and it cannot enter a cemetery. It will be repelled. So you were wise to suggest we remain in here for the evening.” “Why had you not made mention of this before?” Toby insisted. “I did not believe the stories. I believed them to be the paranoid and deluded imaginings of old men. I still would not believe it if I had not just seen it with my own eyes.” The preacher began walking towards the back of the chapel looking from side to side. “We must find a cross for each of us to hold out in front of us or wear on our necks. We must all be armed with the power of God.” “Right. That’s fine Preach but how do we kill them? How do we survive this if you say that they are immortal?” Toby said desperate for an answer, for something he could do. “You must drive a stake through their heart or cut off their heads. Either of these will end the vampire. If you shoot them, stab them or otherwise wound them, their bodies may recover in time and with consumption of blood.” The preacher laughed and shrugged. “I’m surprised I still remember all this. I heard the other priests talking about it and one of them gave me this book on it here. He told me that I’d need it if I was going out into the desert by myself.” He pulled a book from the drawer of his desk in the back titled, “The Manifestation of Evil” with a cross on the book cover. Inside the book were drawings, prayers, what appeared to be personal inscriptions and steps to take. It was a copy of a guide of everything that was known about vampires documented in this book. “So what do we do next?” asked Toby. “Do you have any more of that holy water?” “I do have more, yes, but we don’t have a great deal. We could consecrate more but there is a limited amount of salt and water here in the chapel. We’ll have to make due with what we’ve got for the next few hours I’m afraid,” replied the preacher. “We’ve got movement over here Toby” called out Mr. O’Malley. “I can hear 'em coming.” “The preacher has some holy water. Very well,” came the voice of Eli through the broken window. The face of Jimmy became visible through the window. “Mama? Mama?” came the voice of the young boy. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin an ashen gray and dried blood covered his mouth and chin. He still wore the nightshirt he had been wearing in his bed in his parents home. “You want to see the boy again, huh Mama? You can’t hide in your church forever,” taunted Eli. “Come see us out by the old abandoned entrance to the mineshaft. We can all be one happy family. If you don’t, we may just decide that Jimmy isn’t good enough to be a part of our group. We may just decide to kill him yet. Think about it.” With that lingering threat he put the scared boy down on the ground and left. The townspeople looked around at each other, unable to voice what had just happened. The world had turned upside down, swallowed up by this desert darkness.


A pool of blood, a dead body lying on the cold floor, and a man standing confused of what just he had seen. It was something he did not expect upon waking up, and to his mind, he knew he was supposed to be in a library. Yet there he was, looking at the scene that seemed familiar to him. He was just an ordinary man that works as a teacher that decided to visit a usual library near the university. But he was never the type of person that would do such henious crime. Rather than being violent, he was more of a gentle giant, a man that all his students look upon to. He poundered his thought once more, then all the picture became clear. The place which was an old apartment, a combat knife used as the weapon, and a small ring dropped as evidence, all of it was part of the novel he was reading before he lost his conciousness. But how did he got there, the question that bothered him. He could be asleep yet pain could be felt as he pinch his cheek. The footsteps of running people befall outside at the hallway, forcing the sealed door open. But he didn't not bother on waiting and went to leap into the window, for who was at the time being, was the infamous Jack the ripper. His sweat became intense as his heart pounded in fear, and the door broke open. To his luck, he manage to escape, and thus, clearing the vision of the horrific space. He was back at the library but everything was dark and empty. No people were left except for him, and the closed book he was reading had glowing red lights that dimly fades each second. Confusion struck him on how he got into that imaginary world, but discarded the thought to return the book to where it bellongs and finally go home. But as soon as he stopped by the shelves, nausea attacked, and within a snap, he was in a different world. A fresh breeze swayed from the bottom of the mountain and there, a dragon flew passed by, shoving an intense gust of wind that send him to him knees. He was now a knight that wields a sword and shield in his both hands. The plates surrounding him were heavy yet his physic made it possible for him to carry the weight. With a massive roar, the dragon came back and spewed flames that set the forest into flames. His shield became blazing hot to even be carried, and the sword he possesed was dropped in surprise. There was no way to defeat such thing for it had domain on both the land and air, breath that roast every thing it wanted, and scales stronger than iron. He knew the only way he could survive was to run. Yet no matter how he flee, his path was being blocked by an invissible barrier. The barrier of the scene, which only took place on the singe page of the book. He can't ran from it, and the only way he could escape was to find something that could flip the scene. He had to defeat the dragon. He returned to where the had dropped the blade, and faced the foe that traps him in the inescapable place. And as soon as they meet eye to eye, he threw the blade straight to the dragon eye, sending it back to the bottomless chasm. It ended, and now, he was back to the real world. Yet he was too afraid to go into any adventure anymore and rushed to find his way towads the exit. Yet his haste caused him to fall from the mezanine, and down to the floor he was dropping. But not single dent caused him any injures for a floor was not the thing that caught him, but cold water that sent chill all over his body. He was in another new world, filled with penguins and seals, and the clothe he wears were made of fur jacket. It wasn't one of the novels he had stuck in, for his escape lead him back outside, yet as he went across another shelve, his body cross another fate once more. The place was rather normal, if he'd exclude the measure of everything. The height of the building, the roads, and even the movement of every person were followed by lots of numbers. He even spotted a person named Jack who ate apples and kept asking how many he had left. Being a teacher, he knew what type of book where he had gotten into but even him didn't want to stay for too long for it was a book he wasn't quite fond of. It was math. But to escape, he had to solve gasilion of questions, passing every gate keeper that kept asking for how many apples they had left. Good thing it was basic elementary math, or he would have been trapped for eternity, solving problems he once slept off during class. His return only lasted for a second as the imaginary world took him back into another chaotic world. The sound of rapid lead, the cries of men for their comrades, and the explosion that till the ground with large craters. He was in the batteground of a world war. But of all he had faced, it was the one his heart couldn't take. He had histories with guns, and one had taken the life of someone important to him. He cower in fear, hiding beneath the piles of body of same uniform he had, as someone's shadow shades his ground, and from his back, a hand crept that pulled him out. In surprise, he shoved it and found the young librarian staring with a shock face. Then he notice the sun had already meet the surface, and the shop was once more open. Apparently, the owner was a witch in hidden, and the young teacher accidentally found her secret. The secret of the hidden world inside books in her library. She apologizes for what had happened, and even though he was terrified out of his system, he couldn't bare to put an anxious face. For the true reason he comes and go, was to take a glimpse of the owners lovely face.


**Beware of gothic gore! ** Dear Diary, The winter weather arrived more than three weeks early this year with a blizzard that caught us by surprise. We've had to make accommodations to keep the daytime help here in the Château instead of sending them home. The path leading down to Gilberta is too treacherous for travel and will probably remain so for many weeks to come. -Bayle Dear Diary, Monsieur Traver and Mademoiselle Gwendolyn arrived unexpectedly from Paris this morning. From out of a white windy storm, the front door opened, and there they were. I don't know how they made it up the path. Luckily, both Rafe and Saulie were here from the carriage house to see to their cart and the half-frozen horses. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the door that leads to the cellar unlocked and wide open. Odd, but I don't think anyone noticed. I relocked it. -Bayle Dear Diary, The storms keep raging. We may have a bit of cabin fever already. Perhaps that was why Madame Andress was a bit snippy today about not being able to see out the kitchen window again. I don't know what she expects me to do about it. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open again. As I closed and locked it, I noticed the new girl watching me--Henrietta. "Please keep a close eye on that new girl," I asked Madame Andress. "I think she's up to something." I used my most polite voice. You would have thought I'd asked for the moon. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open three times today, so I closed and locked it three times as well. Rafe caught up with me this afternoon and said his key to the chateau was not hanging in its usual place. He has searched everywhere and cannot find where it's got to. I told him I'd get him another, but later when I opened the closet where the spares were kept, they'd all disappeared. I'll have to speak to Madame Andress. I wonder if Henrietta has anything to do with it. -Bayle Dear Diary, Gwendolyn has been especially mischievous this season. Even though she's middle-aged now, I still think of her as the little mademoiselle. Y esterday, she spent the day following her brother, Traver. Today she is following me. I wonder who will be next. I'm still surprised the two of them are here. I thought for sure they'd stay in Paris for the winter. -Bayle Dear Diary, Madame Andress has asked me to do a better job of keeping the cellar door locked. "The staff are starting to think we have ghosts," she said, and she tried to laugh it off. I, too, have heard the talk. The staff are saying some spirit has come back to haunt us. Well, there are worse things than ghosts. At least ghosts don't bite. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found that new girl Henrietta dead in the dungeon last night. Most of her neck had been torn away. She must have gotten too close to the dungeon bars. It's why we've kept the door locked day and night for all these years. At first, I amazed myself for keeping a calm head. I dragged her body into a separate cell and locked it. Then I fetched buckets of soapy water and cleaned the blood off the dungeon floor. By the time I brought down the meal of raw beef I had served faithfully for nearly twenty years, I was crying. That poor girl. How sad for all these young women to end up in this way, and now--where there had been only two such creatures for years and years, we now had the burden of caring for a third. Madame Marie still wore the tiara they'd laid her out in and the same dress, though it was in tatters now. She gnashed her teeth at me and tried to growl. That priest/alchemist Traver brought in from abroad to help them have a child, gave them both a potion, and they'd taken it together, the two of them. Traver and Marie knew the risks, but they took it anyway. Lucas was born because of it, and what a blessing he is. Tall and strapping. Everyone loves Lucas. However, they hadn't expected Marie to die in childbirth. She was laid her out on the bed in all her finery, and it was winter, or they wouldn't have gotten away with it. When the midwife Cerise, came in to pay her respects, Marie attacked her with long sharp teeth. I was there. So was Madame Andress and Traver. We threw something over her head, so she couldn't bite us and smuggled her down to the dungeon. And Cerise. She was added a few days later. I should have told Madame Andress about Henrietta right away, but instead, I went to Traver, who was writing at his desk. Gwendolyn sat quietly nearby with an embroidery hoop in her lap, a picture of normalcy. "Could I speak to you for a moment, monsieur," I asked. He looked up and rose at once on seeing my expression. Something must have been written on my face. We went out to the hallway. Thankfully, Gwendolyn did not follow. "I found a girl dead," I whispered so Gwendolyn would not hear. "She was killed in the dungeons. I don't know what she was doing down there. Her neck was ripped open." I hesitated a moment to let it sink in. Then I continued. "Someone keeps unlocking and opening the cellar door. I suspected it was the dead girl, Henrietta." Monsieur Traver was shaken. "What should I do?" I asked him. "When others notice her absence, what will I tell them? It was quite late. The staff were in their quarters, keeping warm by their fires, and no one was about. Traver wanted to see. By the time we went down the cellar stairs to the dungeon, Henrietta had come back alive. She was the most grotesque yet, with that open gaping neck. I couldn’t hide my shock. "What have you done, Marie, my lovely night creature?" Traver whispered to the snarling thing in the first cell. "Were you lonely?" I interrupted and asked again, "What shall we do?" Traver squared his shoulders. "We must tell the truth, Bayle. The time has come. Perhaps they will understand." He surveyed the three of them and nodded his head, determination in his expression. I don't know what Traver planned to say, but I planned to let Madame Andress know first. She always seems to have a solution. I never got the chance. When we arrived at the top of the cellar stairs, we found the door closed and locked, with us on the wrong side of it. I had left my key in the door. We didn't want anyone to hear us shouting, so we waited silently and hoped whoever locked us in would return to let us out. I was thankful for the light of my lantern and that we were far enough away not to hear the creatures. It was Gwendolyn who opened the door. She danced with a large ring filled with keys, playing a game. I grabbed for them as she danced past me, but she skittered away. It was by now very late, and everyone was asleep. Surprisingly, no one had reported Henrietta missing. I left Monsieur Traver to deal with his sister and took myself to bed. -Bayle ~*~ (Letter addressed to Madame Laurene Renard from Madame Josephine Andress) My Dear Laurene, I had hoped to welcome you back as the new bride of Château Renard with all the joy and celebration your arrival deserves, but it is not to be so. Instead, you will be greeted at the door with the heartbreaking news that Monsieur Traver has been killed in a tragic accident. I had a room done up beautifully for you and Lucas, but now it matters nothing. I think Monsieur Lucas will not want to stay once his father's funeral and the formalities are over. We are a house of sorrow and secrets once again, and I wonder if the chateau has ever been anything else. When you arrive, you will no doubt hear from the staff that it was Gwendolyn who pulled the trigger that shot her brother, but I assure you this was not done out of anger or malice. It was but a horrible accident. We found, too late, what she's been up to; stealing the household keys and adding them to a great ring she found somewhere. She's been unlocking the locked doors of Madame Marie's old room, the cellar to the dungeon, and other places, following people, and spying. I can only speculate that she found a gun with a stolen key and took it. When Traver tried to take it away, it went off. By the time any of us realized what had happened, it was too late. That's not all. Bayle caught me last night, just before he turned in. A girl new to the staff was found dead under dreadful circumstances, something that never should have happened. Two deaths in two days. Perhaps the years so plagued with misfortune and sorrow have changed the Château Renard into a beast with a taste for blood. Perhaps she should be set on fire and left to burn to take her secrets to hell. Anyway, I ask mercy for Gwendolyn. She's an innocent, and I love her like my own daughter; I never had any of my own, you see. I still remember when she was born--a tiny fairy creature with pale white hair. There were times when no one could reach her, so lost she was inside her own head. On other days she would dance and play make-believe with her dolls. Those were the good days. She could also be disruptive, as she's been all this winter, but I've always had a way with her. She listens to me. When you and Lucas come, I'd like to return to Paris with you to care for Gwendolyn. Anxiously waiting for your return, Madame Josephine Andress ~*~ (Letter addressed to Eloise Moreau, from Aubrey Moreau) Dear Eloise, Lucas's father, Monsieur Traver is dead. He was killed two mornings ago, shot by his sister, an accident. No one can grasp it. While I'm happy you are safely away in Paris attending to Madam Laurene and Monsieur Lucas, I miss you terribly. It's been horrible at the chateau without you, and every day gets worse; so much worse. To start things off, a new girl, Henrietta, sneaked away to the carriage house to spend the night with Saulie. Her not-slept-in bed scared everyone into thinking the worst, but her remorseless self arrived during a room-to-room search. Madame Andress gave her the scolding of her life. When we found her bed untouched again, several days later, we paid it no mind. However, when Saulie and Rafe plowed a path from the carriage house to the kitchen door because of yet another heavy snow, Saulie told us he hasn't seen Henrietta, and now he's worried along with the rest of us. Ferguson woke up Bayle to help with the search, and that's when a gunshot blasted out--the gunshot that killed Monsieur Traver. Bayle gave us the rest of the day off to mourn, and it didn't seem appropriate to bring up Henrietta's absence. No one ate the noon meal, and after cleaning up, I went to the common room with everyone else, but instead of mourning Monsieur Traver, I mourned Henrietta. I keep imagining her frozen to death in the storm outside. I regret not being kinder. The next morning when Bayle didn't come to breakfast, Ferguson left to check on him and found his bed empty and unslept in. We broke into groups and began another search. We found the cellar door to the dungeon wide open. Ferguson thought Bayle might have gone down to the cellar, and worried something may have happened to him. "The stairs are very steep. I think we should check," he said. No one said a word. "We should wait for Madame Andress," I warned, but it was as if I'd never spoken. "Is anyone willing to come with me?" Ferguson looked hopeful, but no one replied. His face then got up some courage, and he grabbed a lantern for light then disappeared down the steps. "Come back," I shouted. (Or maybe I only whispered.) "It's too dangerous. There are big rats down there!" I knew Bayle took a domed platter of raw beef to the dungeon each night. I told you about it, remember? Bayle told me it was poisoned meat for the rats. "Dungeon rats are huge. Do stay away," he cautioned. Anyway, Ferguson disappeared. We couldn't see him anymore, and we barely breathed as we waited. Our ears strained to hear something. "Ferguson! Are you alright?" someone shouted. There was no answer at first, but moments later, he cried out from somewhere deep within the cellar. Nothing could persuade anyone of us to venture down that steep dark staircase, so we just stood there, willing Ferguson to come back unharmed. Suddenly he came running up the stairs. He'd lost the lantern but held Bayle's ring of keys. His arm dripped blood. "What happened?" we asked. "Did you find Bayle? Is he alright?" He never got the chance to answer. Madame Andress appeared from out of nowhere, her face white with fury, or maybe it was fear. She reached for the keys and locked the cellar door. "It looks like a rat bite," she said of his wound. "They carry disease and start plagues. You'll need to be isolated for a few days." She took Ferguson away by his good arm. Mademoiselle Gwendolyn followed. When I tried to follow, Jared held me back. (Do you remember Jared? Tall, handsome, brown curly hair?) "Let them go," he said, but Saulie followed them and reported back that they had climbed the tower to the turret room at the top. We stared at the locked cellar door. No one moved. I tried my best not to think, but I was terrified. Was Bayle down there? Henrietta? "Something's not right," Rafe said. "If Bayle is in trouble, we need to check on him. Stay here and watch for Madame Andress while I search her room for another key. Let me know right away if she comes." We waited in silence. I let my imagination search for answers. "What if Rafe doesn't come back?" Natalie asked. "Are we going to disappear one by one?" I wanted to tell her to shut up. Rafe returned about ten minutes later carrying a book. "Bayle kept a diary," he said. "I couldn't find a key." We passed the diary around from person to person, until horror filled every heart. "What shall we do?" someone asked. Ideas from barricading ourselves in the kitchen, to taking our chances in the storm and walking all the way to Gilberta, were tossed about. We were close to panic. Rafe and Jared were the only voices of reason. Together we’ve decided to go to the carriage house for now and when the wind dies, in days or weeks, we'll make our way to Gilberta and enlist the help of the authorities. We're anxious to get there before dark. Jared says to gather quilts and blankets for wrapping the supplies we need and that everyone should pair up. No one should be alone. So, that's how it is. I'm paired up with Jared. I have everything I own in one blanket and food packed in another. We're waiting for the others to finish up. I'm leaving this letter for you to find, next to the one Madame Andress has left for Madame Laurena. I also left Bayle's diary. Read it before you start opening doors and stay out of the dungeons and the turret room. Perhaps when you return, Madame Andress will greet you at the door with a smile and Ferguson and Gwendolyn will be drinking tea. Hopefully, you'll find the rest of us warm and safe in Gilberta. Love to you, my dearest sister, Always and forever, Aubrina ~*~ To: 1022 Willow Place, Paris, France Monsieur Travis and Monsieur Lucas Renard, I regret to inform you that the Chateau Renard caught fire in the night, but with the weather being as it is, there was nothing we could do to save it. A day later, we could still see the smoke and flames. Our prayers are for your staff. We pray they found refuge in one of your outbuildings and will remain together until we can send a rescue party. I assure you that as soon as the weather clears, everything possible will be done to bring them to safety and a full investigation will ensue. With regrets, -Graham Blanchard, Gilberta Village Chief