#What’s New This Week Please see the ‘Ranking System’ section of this post for the new point system! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Darkness! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘darkness’. What hides just beyond the eye, in the shadows? Are your characters aware of this lurking danger? Does it affect how they interact or behave? Maybe the ‘darkness’ is living within a character. At one time or another, we all struggle to balance the light and dark, the good and the evil, within ourselves. These could be thoughts, ideas, temptations, desires, or something entirely different. Things like this drive our characters and bring them to life on the page. What dark clouds hang over your characters? What darkness lies within them? Will they be able to overcome it? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * September 5 - Darkness (this week) * September 12 - Release * September 19 - Journey   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/gurgilewis   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/wordsmith89   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/WorldOrphan   - - u/Kissie818   - - u/Bavarianlageryeast   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown, going into effect this week: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points.* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


In the days and weeks leading up to taking my fifteen-year-old son to boarding school, I found myself becoming overly sentimental at times. I liken those moments to the feeling one gets when hugging a family member or close friend goodbye. One whom you don’t know when you will see again. The embrace is loving and warm but also bittersweet because no matter how hard or how long either of you holds on, you know that it is going to end and you both will go your separate ways. The irony is not lost on me that I was glimpsing the future in each of those moments when I would say goodbye to my son. One day I was in the supermarket. It was exactly one week before the drive to Idyllwild and my son wanted as many home cooked meals before leaving as possible. Family dinners have always been a priority in our home and it warmed my heart that there was a part of him that wanted to fill up on those before leaving the nest. So, I planned out each night’s meal, being sure to include his top favorites. As I made my way through the store with my detailed shopping list in hand, I found myself becoming emotional. I was choosing potatoes. Potatoes were the objects of my sentimental haze in that moment. You see, I have made homemade mashed potatoes a million times and I have learned exactly how many potatoes I need to make mashed potatoes for me and my two kids. The thought washed over me that I will have to adjust and learn how many potatoes I need to make just the right amount for only me and my daughter from now on. There I was in the produce section with tears in my eyes and potatoes in my cart. As I slowly walked through the aisles, I lingered on products that were not on my list but those that evoked some memory or connection to my son. Like Taki’s. He could not get enough of Taki’s in the 7th grade. And salad. That boy has loved salad since the high chair. Or bananas. Oh how he loves to tease me because I find bananas to be too sweet for my taste. Not to worry, I did finally make it out of the store without drawing attention to myself. As the week went by, we spent our days shopping for his dorm needs and packing. In the evenings, I and both of my kiddos shared glorious moments and memories at our dinner table. The morning it was time to go, we packed the car with little to no room to spare but the good news was that we got everything in and still had room for the three of us. I had been worried about it a bit because my son wanted to take two guitars, two amps, a peddle board, a microphone and a mic stand. For all you non-musical folks, these things take up a considerable amount of space. I felt peaceful that morning. I think it was because I knew I still had two days with him. The orientation and welcome celebration was a two-day event at the school and we were leaving the day before the festivities so we could all stay together in the village the night before checking in to his dorm. We had an easy, traffic free drive and checked in at a lovely and charming Inn with a cabin just a few yards from a small creek. Idyllwild was absolutely beautiful. The three of us strolled through the sleepy streets of the village and checked out the local vendors. Then we had another lovely dinner together at a cute little Italian restaurant with some of the best focaccia bread any of us had ever encountered. This was a part of the journey that I had most looked forward to for weeks. A quiet dinner al fresco with my two favorite people in the world, in a beautiful setting, away from distractions. We talked for hours over our meal. The next morning, we headed to the school which was only five minutes away from our cabin. I could feel my son’s excitement emanating from him. Excitement to see his dorm, to meet his roommate, to get on with his journey. Upon arriving, we found the room to be fairly spacious, especially for a high school dorm. His roommate was from China so he had checked in the day prior with all the other international students. He was a sweet kid, a bit shy and very easy going. My son was happy to learn that he was a music major so he will, hopefully, not mind the jam sessions my son was determined to have with other musicians. All of the students were lovely, kind and inclusive. With just about 300 students total, it was large enough to be diverse and also small enough to feel like a tight knit community. There were several events planned over the course of the two-day goodbye. Some events were for students only, some for parents only and some for both. During the parent reception, the head of school offered a short welcome and overview. She was fun and full of spirit and spunk. I liked her immediately. She impressed upon us that one of her most important goals was to keep all lines of communication open with the parents. She told us that just because we were sending our young ones off to boarding school, she didn’t think we should miss out on the rest of their adolescence. I felt my chest swell and my eyes burn when I heard her say that. My son continued to impress me over these two days. When he found out that he had not been placed in honors classes that he had been in his last four years of school, he sought out the chair of the humanities department who agreed to email him the essay prompts he would need to complete to be considered and to change his schedule. And, even though he was a film major, he desperately wanted a music class as well. So, without a word he spoke to the music department chair and asked to be considered for a songwriting class. He went back and forth between the music teacher and his film department chair to discuss his level of skill and scheduling. By the end of the two days, he was accepted into the honors level classes and the songwriting class had been added to his arts classes. Yep, he was ready. The final event was a delicious catered dinner and a performance at the Holmes Amphitheater. It was a tradition for a number of the seniors to perform a Welcome Back performance to start the school year off. This was usually just for the students but, that year, they chose to include the parents. Lucky me (and my daughter). The space was incredible. A soft, rolling hill that looks onto a simple yet beautiful stage with incredible acoustics and behind it is a backdrop of trees and mountainside. You feel as though you are sitting in the most beautiful tree house .The first student stunned us with Beethoven on the violin. Then dancers, then one of the creative writing students recited her work and on and on. As I watched each performance, I felt that swell in my chest and that burning in my eyes again. When the show ended, it was time to go. Time for my son to go to his dorm and for me and my daughter to drive down the mountain and go home. I went to his room to pick up my purse and my head started spinning. Wait! Have I done enough? Have I checked off enough boxes in the parenting column to warrant driving away? I’m not ready and if I’m not ready, maybe he isn’t either! And then my son, my used to be sweet boy and my now sweet, kind, smart young man gave me a big hug, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you. I love you, Mom.” Yep. He was ready. Needless to say, I cried all the way down the mountain and then again sporadically all the way home. I was so very proud of my boy and so incredibly excited for the opportunities that lay before him. My tears were shed within the appropriate level of grief over the loss of his spirit no longer in our home every day. I think back on those many moments when my heart swelled and my eyes burned and recognize that those moments were born out of the reaffirmation that letting him go was the absolute right choice. I wasn’t ready but my boy was ready. A few days have come and gone since we returned home without him. I am only just now discovering how quiet our home is now that he is not here. I think I miss the sounds of hearing him play his guitar and write songs in his room the most. Yesterday, I found myself in the supermarket again feeling melancholy, indecisive and a tad bit weepy. There are many items on my lists to come that will continue to be the same as always but there are some that are removed because they were items specifically chosen for my son. I made my way around the produce section and found myself looking at the potatoes. I wasn’t planning on making mashed potatoes again so soon but why not? We are part Irish, ya know. So, I started to calculate the weight in my head about how much less I should get but then I stopped. Wait a second. My son will be home on sporadic weekends and for holidays and summer vacations. And the school is only a few hours away. We can go visit every now and then. Some of those kids are thousands of miles away from their families. Sure, I thought I would have my son with me non-stop for another three years and cry in the supermarket when he goes to college but this is not the end of the world! He is getting educated in one of the highest ranked arts high schools in the country! In my cart go the potatoes. I will make mashed potatoes just as I always have. And if my son is not home to share in the meal, then we’ll have leftovers. My son loves leftovers.


‘That’s the thing about this city,’ Carla looked over the balcony, taking a sip of the vodka spritzer that Perry brought her. The hustle and bustle beneath her, cars tooting their horns, people rushing about, heading home from work, the busyness she just couldn’t deal with anymore. ‘I used to know it like the back of my hand. Now I can’t even see beyond this stupid hunk of concrete right across the road.’ ‘I love it,’ Perry replied, leaning over the glass barrier. He took a deep breath. ‘Yum.’ Carla was irritated and the music in rooftop bar was not helping matters. ‘When I was...’ ‘When you were what?’ Perry turned to look at her, a half-smile on his face. ‘Please don’t say, “in my day”.’ Now he laughed. ‘You’re barely forty.’ Carla was pleased with that. She was, in fact, nearly fifty and probably should have enlightened him, but she didn’t. He was still smiling, this young man, barely forty himself, and she wondered what he was doing here with her. She leaned forward as he did, trying to see, hear and feel what he was and he pointed to the left to an array of dazzling buildings, the sun’s ray so brilliantly bouncing off them, she shielded her eyes. A woman bumped into her and Carla almost spilled her drink on Perry, who put a protective arm around her. Even through her irritation, Carla felt a jolt of exhilaration, but she knew better than to get excited about these dates. She had been on many and they always ended in utter disappointment, but the scent of his cologne seemed to be having an unexpected effect. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Carla didn’t want to go anywhere, except home, her little cottage, more than an hour away from here in a quiet suburb with her large green backyard and her two German Shepherds. She couldn’t stand this place anymore, the crowd, the noise, it was like this everywhere in the city. ‘We just got here,’ she protested, wanting to stay close to him, but he grabbed her hand. ‘I want to show you my town.’ Perry lifted his chin, a smile of pride spreading across his face. Carla had seen more of this town than he thought. Melbourne, one of the most liveable cities in the world, according to some random surveys, taken once a year. Yes, she could see how it was, how it used to be once upon a very long time ago, at least for her. As a teenager and in her twenties, it was inviting, sitting at a café, sipping on lattes, a cigarette perched in one hand, and gasbagging to a friend about the latest exhibition at The National Gallery of Victoria. Watching the sights, the spring of new love, the river boats on the Yarra, the green trams emblazoned with The Met, that one could jump onto and out of, that went right from one side of the city to the other. She was reluctant, but she plastered a smile on her face and followed him. It would be over soon. The sun was still piercing through the clouds, the heat of the summer afternoon was stifling, but she knew it wouldn’t last. This was Melbourne. ‘I used to go to that one,’ she said pointing to a closed club across the road. Her eyes lit up. She used to love the nightlife. Oh yes, Carla did enjoy that. From the ritzy Hilton, to the R&B hotspots, even the drug riddled venues, where overdoses were reported on occasionally. But in those days, it was just fun! People were out to have a good time and the feeling was contagious, especially on a Saturday night, not these days, if what she heard was anything to go by, where trouble seemed to be an expectation. They had been walking down Russell Street and even though she liked the idea of Perry’s footsteps walking in sync with hers, she was still deflated. ‘I remember when I used my sister’s ID to get in,’ she giggled. ‘The bouncer asked if it was me. I was a good actress then.’ ‘It’s still open,’ Perry replied. ‘Just on Thursdays and Fridays. I used to go there too.’ ‘Well, now it will be filled with young eggheads!’ Carla retorted. ‘Probably most of my students,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t go anywhere now without bumping into one of them.’ She sniffed. ‘Do you know I met my first husband there?’ ‘How did that work out?’ She could hear the humour in his voice. ‘Well, hmmm...’ Carla didn’t want to talk about David, the father of her children, and luckily for her, a pair of drunk middle-aged men landed right in front of them. A barman was dusting his hands, clearly the one who had thrown them out. Carla sidestepped them and tried not to laugh. She could hear them yell obscenities behind her at the barman and now she did laugh. Perry was chuckling too. It seemed to relieve the tension she felt, a tension she didn’t even realise she was feeling. They were at Federation Square now and every time Carla saw that monstrosity, she balked. A towering piece of ‘art’ was what they called it. She remembered when it was being built, when she worked in the city, watching that thing go up. ‘It will destroy Melbourne,’ said her colleague as they lunched at the MacDonald’s across the road and Carla had nodded sagely. Well, Melbourne is still here, still thriving, she though to herself. I guess they knew what they were doing. It may be ugly, but the controversy was enough to give it legs. ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’ Perry was leaning into her. Embarrassed that she had voiced some of her thoughts, she said quickly. ‘Just checking out this...thing.’ Perry stopped to survey it. ‘Yeah, I always thought it was ugly too. But at least it got itself in a song.’ Carla rolled her eyes and gazed at it for a moment. It was something one could get used to, if you stared long enough. ‘Want to stop for a coffee?’ Perry offered, motioning to the brightly lit bars and cafes that surrounded the structure. It did look inviting, but Carla didn’t want to stop now. She was beginning to feel something tug at her. She labelled it nostalgia, but it was a warm kernel of longing, for what she couldn’t work out. ‘Can we walk a little more?’ It was cooling now, and Carla was sure she felt a spatter of a raindrop hit her lip. She pulled the hand that was attached to hers through her walk. She liked the feel of it, the softness inside, but slightly rough when she stroked the knuckles. She realised she had just done this and blushed. She hurried forward, Perry’s grip tightening on hers. Across the road, Flinders Street Station loomed, large and orange, a crazy colour for a landmark as big as this, but it was that way as long as she had been here. It seemed like home, even the clock below the tower appeared to welcome her back. ‘My dad worked there,’ she said. She remembered visiting her father at work, when she was in the city with her friends and he would always give her a little extra spending money for her trip. She missed her father and felt a jolt of sorrow. This place always did that. Perry seemed to sense her despondency and pointed to the pub on the corner, the Young and Jackson Hotel. ‘I used to go there a bit, something was always happening there.’ ‘Yes! Same here.’ She stopped herself from mentioning that it was probably in a time when Perry was still in grade school. By the time they crossed the road, the drops of rain had turned into a shower and they made a dash under the eaves of the station. Little kiosks littered the front of the station and the smell of the different foods assaulted Carla’s senses. Her tummy rumbled and she sniffed the air. ‘Hungry?’ Parry asked. ‘You?’ ‘A bit. C’mon, what do you feel like?’ He waved his arm about. ‘There’s a smorgasbord at our fingertips.’ ‘Hmmm,’ Carla closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Chorizo sausage!’ she declared. ‘Yes, with you on that.’ The rain was pelting down now and Carla wished she had been a bit more prepared. Her car was littered with jackets and cardigans. She was always prepared for the weather in Melbourne. There was even a saying; if you don’t like the weather in Melbourne, just wait a minute. But no, Carla was too busy trying to look like someone half her age and had deliberately left her jacket in the car. ‘Oh well,’ she said out loud, and ran out into the rain. She turned to see Perry, a wide smile on his face, and a moment later, he was by her side. Strolling down Southbank under the awnings, Carla remembered the bursts of fire that blew from the posts along the river every couple of hours; she loved watching them. The river gleamed beside them on the right, the rain now hitting the water more gently. It was the picture of serenity and Carla again felt that hit of longing for something of the past. On the left of them, it seemed like they were in a different universe. More cafes and bars and young people also sitting and watching the world go by, just as Carla once did. Buskers sang and juggled and children gaped and shyly offered coins, while their parents told them of their own adventures in the city. It was a long walk and Perry chatted about the sights and sounds, Carla not wanting to tell him she had been there and done all that. He pointed to a tall building, once the tallest in Melbourne, Eureka Tower. ‘I used to work there,’ he said. ‘On the Skydeck too. Went out on it so many times. You been?’ ‘Yeah, once, I nearly cacked myself.’ Carla recalled how she nearly backed out, but David had laughed so hard, she did it to prove a point. She knew better that to give them what they wanted now, but she did admit it was worth it, watching from so high above, what floor she couldn’t remember, but it was high, so high, she could see most of the city from there. ‘Want to place a bet?’ Carla felt impulsive. They had just come upon the casino, another creation she had watched being built from the ground up. Her eyes were alight and she saw a look in Perry’s that she couldn’t quite fathom. ‘No, not really, he said. ‘I just want to keep walking with you.’ Carla wasn’t disappointed at all and she felt herself blush again. They walked in silence to the bridge and Carla looked for the iconic locks. ‘No, they’re gone,’ Perry said, understanding. ‘Love locks they were called.’ ‘Yes, they were so strange and so interesting.’ Carla leaned over the bridge and looked into the water, which reflected the now clear sky, even a misty star. She saw herself in the reflection, the image of a young girl, a teenager, a young woman, a light in her eyes, and her reflection smiled back to her. Another head appeared, another smiling eyed face. Carla felt his arm around her waist and turned to face Perry. ‘Thank you for tonight.’ ‘I should thank you.’ He said taking her in his arms. ‘The best tour guide ever and in my own town!’ ‘Yes,’ she said looking into his eyes as he leaned toward her. ‘That’s the thing about...’


Florida wouldn't exactly be the place you would think of for a Russian to live in the US. Washington D.C. Alaska, New York, perhaps California. Back in the late 1980's and into the early 1990's a group of Russians who came to the US decided to settle in Florida. As a group they were professional people who got out of Russian at the right time. The town that they settled into Tranquility was small (probably about 500 or so resident. ). I met Sergi in 1985 and we got married in 1986. I lived in Daytona Beach, so I moved to the town with him. We lived in a modest home. Tasha was born in 1988 and then in 1990 Dimitri was born. By the end of the 1990's, the part of town where we lived was known as Little Moscow as most of the Russians who had immigrated to the US came from Moscow. People of Russian ancestry consisted of about 50% of the town's population. Many in the Russian community wanted to have their own town, so in 1998 the town Little Moscow Florida was formed. In 1998 about 800 people lived in Little Moscow nearly all of them of Russian ancestry with the exception of me and 4 other people (Three were American men married to Russian women and I was an American woman married to a Russian man). Many people in the town of Tranquility didn't really know what to make of so many Russians living in one community. Many were very suspicious and basically kept their distance. Thankfully no acts of violence were committed against anyone. There were a couple of acts of vandalism though. One incident I remember is that someone knocked over the mailbox after hitting it with a baseball bat and yelled stuff. Sergi's mother Tanya was at home taking care of our daughter Tasha who was about a year old. I was sick with a stomach ache and was at home recovering. I was glad that she was caring for Tasha as I could sleep. She saw what happened. Tanya was the Russian grandmother or babushka. She saw the pick-up truck leaving. She ran outside with a rolling pin shaking it and yelling at them. They stopped the truck nearby. From a distance, they laughed and mocked her as she continued shaking the rolling pin and yelling at them. They had no idea what she was saying as it was in Russian. I knew what she was saying and basically she was telling them that they were rude and disrespectful to her and to our house. You ought to be ashamed of yourself was the only thing that she yelled to them in English. They laughed and taunted her, calling her stupid ugly old woman. This made her angrier and she continued yelling at them. I woke up and went outside to see what was going on. When they saw me, they took off but I had managed to get their license and she called the police. They were teen-agers who were bored. The parents of the teens apologized and the teens who did this as punishment had to put a new mailbox in. Sergi and I agreed this was the proper punishment for what they did. Putting them in jail would serve no purpose unless they did this again. When they came over with their probation officer, Tanya was sitting outside watching their every move. They basically ignored her as you didn't want to get into an argument or fight with Tanya. I remember it was a Saturday morning and Sergi and I started to laugh even though what happened really wasn't funny. Thankfully his mother didn't go up to the truck shaking her rolling pin. I know she was tempted to do so (she wouldn't have hit them with it) but seeing that there was a gun rack on the pick up truck, she decided not to. After a couple of years, I could speak the Russian language rather well and could read it but I already had to have a Russian/English book, even years later. I converted to the Eastern Orthodox religion and 10 years after we were married, we renewed our vows in the church. Beautiful ceremony. Sergi seemed to be a jack of all trade. He could do mechanical or construction work and could also play a musical instrument. He was book smart as well as mechanically inclined (something that is a rarity). He could fix just about anything and he loved a challenge. He did free lance work and I imagine some of it was under the table. He hinted at this but told me, 'There are some things that it's best you don't know about. I'm not doing anything illegal or immoral." he would say as I was concerned. We had a checking account and saving accounts, and then he had his own account and I had mine. He would not look at my account and I would not look at his. The joint checking and savings was a different story. After we had children, Tanya had quit smoking but Sergi didn't stop smoking. He was okay with me telling him to smoke on the car port but Tanya would come out and make such a fuss that he would smoke out in the yard. Finally he just smoked in the back yard. He didn't argue with his mother very often. 2001 was a terrible year. In January of 2001 (a week into the new year), Sergi collapsed outside while walking to get the mail. Tanya screamed and I went running outside. The fire station was right down the street and they were there less than 2 minutes but Sergi was gone. He had been sick since December and refused to go to the doctor thinking it was just a bad cold. He had downplayed how sick he was. He always did. Massive heart attack due to very clogged arteries. Sergi had smoked since he was 12 years old. He died at the age of 43. The next morning I went into Tanya's room when I woke up. She had died in her sleep. The stress of his death was too much for her. Usually she was the first one up and I noticed that she wasn't up and about. She was 66 years old. At age 39 I was a widow with two children. Thankfully Sergi had insurance policies, so we were okay financially. There was another grandmother who lived next door who looked in on my two children. I felt better about it. This grandmother had a granddaughter named Sabrina who was younger than my daughters. As she got older, the granddaughter would confide in me about school, her grades, etc. Some stuff she told me she couldn't tell her grandmother who wouldn't really understand. 2016 Sabrina went to Hollywood to try to make it as an actress. By this time her grandmother had passed. She had met and was now dating actor Markus Wellson (well it was supposed to be secret, both denied it but I knew). I wasn't too thrilled about it. This guy had been married 4 times and had 8 children with 3 different women. This man was in his early 60's. A lot older than she. I wasn't judging him on this but there were things that I heard about this guy that I didn't like. I carefully expressed my concerns to her but she thought that all these things were lies that the tabloids said about him. I wasn't so sure. The day before Thanksgiving, I had come home from a party very late (almost midnight). I knew that Sabrina was there (she told me). She didn't say that Markus Wellson was going to be there but I knew he would be. I didn't see him but knew he was there. A couple of hours later I woke up not being able to sleep. The window was open and there was a breeze. The moon was also full. Sabrina was out in her back yard with Markus kissing him. He looked around and she said that I wasn't home as I had gone to Lakeland to be with my children for Thanksgiving. This was true but I was waiting till morning. A friend would be picking me up and then bringing me home. I left my car. There were only 3 homes on the cul de sac. One of them was unoccupied as the house had been put up for sale. I kept a eye on the Sabrina's house (she kept the house after her grandmother died and came around a couple of times a year). I had to go into another room to sleep as the lovebirds couldn't keep their hands off of each other. When I woke up early the next morning, the two lovebirds were sleeping in a hammock in the back yard. At 8:00 am I saw them leave. Shortly thereafter, I left to go to Lakeland to have thanksgiving dinner with my son and daughter, their spouses and my new grandchild. I don't know why but I felt compelled to leave at that time and called my friend who came immediately. When I came back the following Sunday afternoon, I saw Sabrina. She was very upset and told me what was upsetting her. All I knew is that this Markus Wellson wasn't going to be happy with her news. She told me that she thought he was going to kill her when she told him the news. I told her she could wait on the news. I went back to my house and then retired early as I would have to go to work the next morning. Around 2 in the morning. I awoke to see a figure walking around in Sabrina's back yard. I could see Sabrina lying there not moving. It looked like a tall man with a large hat and a trench coat. This man walked around my property and banged on the door. He tried the lock and then I heard glass break. I managed to get out the back door and ran outside into a wooded area. I knew Sabrina was dead. I still had the key to the unoccupied house and slipped in the back way. He was in my house for a long time. Thankfully my luggage was still with my friend. I had taken my purse and phone I was so tired when I got home that I didn't feel like getting it out of her vehicle. Probably saved my life. I heard the man on the phone. "Looks like none's here. That lady is on vacation, so we don't have to worry about witnesses. I ransacked her home. She wasn't there. I tore the place apart. Wanted to be sure she wasn't hiding in the closet or something. No purse or phone around. Okay, I'll burned the house down then. No evidence. Don't need to burn the 3rd house down as no one is there. I already checked. I watched in horror as this man set Sabrina's home on fire and then attempted to set mine on fire. He didn't succeed. Out of nowhere a old woman with a rolling pin hit this man in the back of the head and his head hid the trunk of my car. He didn't move. I knew he was dead. I also knew who killed him. Sergi's mother who was in ghost form killed the man and preventing him from setting my house on fire. I then woke up at the home of my friend. It was about 6 am and she had woken me up to tell me that a body had been found in Sabrina's back yard and that a man was dead in my car port. When I saw my friend watching the news reports, I know it had actually happened. She told me I had been at her house Sunday afternoon and evening and had gone to bed early. I wondered how I could be in two places. Had I dreamed this or had I actually witnessed this? My friend said she never took me to my house. Her neighbor said the same thing. What had happened to me. I had dreamed all of this. What a weird experience.


What did I think of her? Well, she was just sort of there. Our sisters introduced us and we were both too shy to speak. I think we were six. I didn’t even know they were our neighbors. They lived a couple houses down, next to my gramma’s house. Actually, her house was more like an apartment attached to the back of a beauty shop. When I started going over there I thought it was so cool, like a maze. I would enter through the garage into her living room and kitchen. From there I went straight down a back hallway and turned left then right for the bathroom, or just turned right and went through one bedroom to get to her bedroom. But then, the first bedroom had another door that led to a “play area,” which was really a walkway where the washer and dryer sat. But if I turned right and then left, there was a storage area that led to the beauty shop, and even though her aunt worked there, we were prohibited. Her bedroom was cool too. It seemed the same size as mine only cooler. Her bed was just a mattress on the floor and we could fall into it. She burned incense and candles and had a lot of it. She probably had twenty long candles on top of her dresser and with the mirror behind them it looked like a scene from a vampire movie. The candles were pressed into bottles of all shapes and sizes and when lit, she let the wax melt to the base of the candle, drip over the lip of the glass, and run down the neck and body of the bottle where it congealed. She had wine bottles with wax of blue and white, pop bottles with green and purple, and my favorite was the Jack Daniel’s bottle. There was something about the square bottle, black label, and red wax spewing over it. The wick was always lit and she only used red candles for this one. I could just sit there mesmerized forever. Watching it melt was intriguing, like watching blood coagulate. I picked up a lot from her. Her shirts were tightly crammed into her closet and some were inside out but hung up nonetheless. It made sense. Why waste time turning the clothes the right way when you can do it when you wear it? She had a lot of clothes compared to me. I remember the first time I went with her to the thrift store. Looking back, I think it’s funny I was in shock she was buying other people’s clothes. Apparently my face betrayed me because she asked, “Are you okay? We can leave if you want.” But like anyone hiding embarrassment, I denied my own feelings. Now I only go to thrift stores. You can buy more when you don’t buy name brand. She never really seemed to care. But I guess it’s different when you shop there because you want to verses you have to. What was she like? Well...I just told you. She was what she was. She was a maze like her house, yet simple. Real. She was like her clothes- inside out but still cool. She was second hand. An off-brand that if you give it a chance you love it, like blue jeans that are already broken in, or a shirt washed so many times that the cotton is soft and faded. What do I mean by tightly pressed? Hmmm. There was this one time that we were chilling in her room. Her mom was always asleep on the couch but we still blasted music and it didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, I was looking at all the candles and slowly moved down the dresser. There was a picture of a man in a cheap plastic frame that I hadn’t noticed before- a clipping from the newspaper. I was about to read it when she silently swept in and put it in her drawer. That let me know there was much more to her than I realized. We never spoke about it. Yes. I did notice changes after that. She asked to go over to my house instead of hers. We had more freedom at her house, but her mom must have gotten a new job because she wasn’t sleeping all the time anymore. She had a new boyfriend too. He looked kind of trashy. He had this blondish, scraggly, long hair just past his shoulders that looked like it had never been brushed. He was missing a couple teeth you could see when he smiled really big, and he always wore the same cut-off, white, jean shorts that must’ve been washed in rusty water- and no shirt. If he went somewhere he threw on an eighty’s looking tank top and flip flops. He always seemed nice though. Anyway, we began hanging out at my house every day after school. I don’t know if it was because of that picture I saw, but I started to notice her more. She never really seemed happy. Well, she was never mad or sad either. I liked being around her because she was just there. It sounds horrible but she was like an old dog. Trusty. Would do whatever I wanted to. Followed me around almost anywhere. Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t a dog and I didn’t treat her that way. She was just chill. The only thing she asked me to do was go to church on Sundays. I had my own church but her church was neat. They had a separate sanctuary for the teenagers with our own sermon. We felt like adults. I would be trying to stay awake, but she was focused on the message. Once I even saw her hold back tears. My favorite thing to do with her? That’s easy. Play in the rain. I ran in the rain many times. You know, run to the tree and back. Do a lap of the house. Little dares. But I never played in the rain until she showed me. I remember the first time we did. We started with little dares. Then she dared us to run to the barn and back, which by the time I reached the porch half of my body was soaked. I ran under the awning but she didn’t follow me. I turned and saw her just standing in the yard. With her hands spread wide she wistfully waved her arms side to side as if wishing the wind would sweep her away. She spun and twirled while the leaves swirled and I saw something magical, celestial, transcend upon her. As the rain fell she held up her hands like a cup until it was full and running over. When she let go the water fell upon her head and whatever it touched that part of her disappeared. She looked at me and laughed, “Come on!” I just stood there in a daze watching the scene unfold. I shook my head to clear my mind, rubbed my eyes, blinked a few times, and looked again. There she was, the crown of her head gone and lines where streams of water flowed down her face left her looking shattered, fragmented. My face must have been horrified because she stopped suddenly and analyzed my expression. She lowered her hands reluctantly. As she did she noticed her fingers-missing- and now her hands were fading away from the reality surrounding her. She observed one hand then the other, and judging by the movement of her forearms she turned her hands around to see the back. But she saw what I saw. Nothing. With every drop of rain she became more transparent. I stood there scared for both of us. That’s when I saw her for the first time. How did she react? Her look of apathy grew into excitement. She began laughing and yawping throwing her arms higher into the air in praise. “Come, on!” she shouted again, and I smirked at her craziness. I took a deep breath and ran out to her. Twisting and dancing and running and laughing we giggled until we were so exhausted we fell to our hands and knees. I remember the mud squishing between my fingers. The wet blades of grass tickled my wrists. My hair was so wet, thin stands hid my face. I remember suddenly hearing my own laugh as well as silence in the background. I pushed my hair aside and realized I was alone there in the backyard. The wind then blew and I felt her presence dance around my soul- blowing chills up my arms and legs as if listening to a song that sang its message beyond the notes. She was there, but somewhere in the rain, with each drop, she disappeared into a world where she could truly be. I closed my eyes, interlocked my muddied fingers, and thanked God for that moment- it was the happiest she had ever been. I prayed that the light would always shine on her spirit. As the rain became a drizzle, I felt the sun approaching through the clouds. One at a time I cautiously opened my eyes. Water dripped from the leaves while the warm breeze tumbled them dry, and the sunlight streamed through the window of the Maple. Soon just as she faded away in the rain, she reappeared as the sun sparkled around her. No, the new happiness didn’t last. It was strange. It was as if nothing had happened. I mean in spirit. Clearly we both were in awe of the “magic” that seemed to descend on her, but as the sun began to dry our skin, it seemed to dry her spirit up too- like a sponge. So no. My answer is that the rain didn’t really change her. I think the rain just washed it away. You know, washed it away. Like the mud on my hands. The dirt. What dirt? Dirt. You know, anything that made her feel dirty. Anything that tarnished her, or darkened who she was. Dirt. I have no idea. Her house? Her mom? The picture she hid? The thrift store? Her mom’s boyfriend? I don’t know. All I do know is that I saw the real her that day in the rainfall, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Yes, that is all we seemed to do that summer. Or at least the only thing of substance I remember doing. It rained a lot that year. We would race from tree to tree so that even though she would disappear in the rain, she wouldn’t fade away enough I could lose her. That way we could still laugh together. You know, she really opened me up in a lot of ways. I realize now that there is always more to a person than the outside. I know that it doesn’t matter where your clothes come from, where you live, who raises you, what you experience, it’s all trivial. The body is just a shell to house our spirits. I learned that sinking for some is swimming for others. I learned that wearing a raincoat keeps us from feeling the rain. Not a storm in my life goes by that I don’t think about that day. The last time? Yes. I think of that too. It’s not something I talk about often...or ever, but if you think it could help... I just came back from college for the summer. She was a year behind me in school even though we were the same age. She was held back in middle school, I think. I can’t really remember. Anyway, I just got back about a week prior to seeing her. She had put on some weight and was very chatty. Atypical for sure. We bumped into each other and decided to get together, which was nice because we sort of lost touch when I went to high school. Why? Well let’s just say when three girls start hanging around together one always gets left out. In this case, it was me. Her mom accused me of telling her to lie, but it was really my cousin. She was grounded from me for a month. She could’ve easily told the truth but I guess she just rather hang around my cousin instead. That changed things for me. I started doing my own thing in high school and she got a group of friends in the middle school. By the time the year passed we were just different. I didn’t like the friends she had and was too busy preparing for college. Okay where was I? We decided to get together. A friend of mine and his good looking younger brother were throwing a party. I asked her to ride with me. That hour drive, I sat there listening to her talk non- stop. It was as if she needed to pour the last four years of her life out to me, but did so in a manner that mocked happiness. I heard about her boyfriend, her losing her virginity, her friend - the cutter - the time her boyfriend and her held knives to each other during a fight. The weed. The cocaine. Molly. I sat there in disbelief, confused on what to do or say. She spoke of things that in my life, in my family, would never be accepted. A way of life I always viewed as dangerous if not evil. My mind was thrown into overload and I wanted to scream “STOP! What are you doing? This isn’t you?” But then again maybe it was. It had been four years. She seemed so happy, laughing and joking as if it was no big deal. She was so excited telling how her new boyfriend got her a hit of acid this past Christmas. I was truly perplexed. She seemed so happy and yet how could she be? She was chatty, and open, and excited, and free to do what she wanted. The ride home was awkward and quiet. She had too much to drink and I didn’t drink at all. Never did. We got about ten minutes from my parent’s house and it started to sprinkle. The monotony from the wipers painfully slowed time, like listening to a ticking clock. I contemplated many times talking to her, begging her to stop, asking her why she was doing this. I knew in my heart the road she was on I couldn’t follow. I knew if I said nothing I would regret it, but if I said anything I may never see her again. How was I to choose? I spent the entire ride thinking about the pain I would feel when our roads diverged, that I failed to see in that moment we were traveling the same road together. Did we say anything to each other? “Do you remember that time we swam in the pond?” she asked. “It was a retaining pond, “I replied.” “We skinny dipped.” “Yeah it was all fun and games until the guy came out from the building.” “No one was supposed to be there! They were closed!” she retorted. “I just remember being mortified!” “Oh I didn’t care.” “Oh yeah, that’s why we both were under the water up to our necks” I quipped. “See, no harm done. He had no clue we were naked.” “Later on when I learned what a retaining pond was I felt sick.” “I just figured if it was good enough for that muskrat it was good enough for us” she said with a chuckle. No. We didn’t. As I turned down our street, she told me she would walk home from my house. I pulled into the drive and parked the car. The headlights reflected off the garage and blackened the world around us. Thunder roared and lightning struck my heart. She jerked her grey hoodie over her hair and pulled the door handle. “Wait!” She turned toward me, lost and found in the same moment. I hesitated. “It’s raining outside!”Her eyes searched mine back and forth. When she found what she was looking for, she smiled. “I know,” she said with certainty and pushed open the door. The interior light came on and jolted me from my intensity. The bang from the door closing was like a nail through a coffin. I wanted to make sure she made it home, so I quickly jogged to the center of the driveway. She was walking on the road. The street light cast her shadow over the cold, hard asphalt. As the rain fell, I watched her slowly start to disappear, drip by drip, drop by drop. She twirled. I smiled. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I watched her fade away into herself. Into the rain. Into the night. That was the last time I ever saw her. Do I have regrets? Of course. Who doesn’t. Would I do things differently? Maybe. Maybe not. There was something magical, something beautiful in her at the time. Watching the rain fall over her head, gently drip down her face, and then run over her neck and body--watching her circumstance wash away--I just couldn’t. It was like watching the one red candle in the reflection of the mirror. I just didn’t want it to end.


Blank. That is how you would have described the whole world in the beginning. There was nothing but darkness and a spirit splashing about in a vast bottomless ocean. The figure, a child with a round face and big eyes was young, only two thousand nine hundred and twenty days old. The child’s name was Nimij and he is the divine. The story goes that in the empty space, Nimij floated about in the water. His small, pudgy hands splashing excitedly, causing ripples to appear in the water. The circles forming one, two, three at a time. The high pitch giggles that racked the small child’s body caused the water to quiver. Sometimes it was lonely in the water. When he was lonely, he would pull off some of his skin and place it in the water. His mind imagining features that he desired to see on a different person. Nimij ended up making five friends in total, four older and one younger than him. Each one eventually shriveled up and died. Their corpses formed uninhabited land. After each one’s short-lived era, Nimij’s heart started to grow still. There was no reason for it to sing or beat. When the child made it to eight thousand seven hundred and sixty days, he attempted to make another friend. His flesh had finally mended back to its soft olive complexion after the last attempt of making his last friend Koesoh. Nimij placed his arm to his lips and let his teeth remove the skin, leaving an oval with a crooked outline. The copper flooded his mouth as he took the skin from his mouth and laid it on top of the water next to him. His brain pictured a male, the same age as him with dark curls, big brown almond eyes, a big nose, and thin lips that were rosier than his own. His forearm sunk into the dark pool, blood forcing bubbles and foam to come to the surface. Nimij watched as the familiar ritual took place. The skin stretched and retracted as it tried to wipe up the spill. As Nimij watched the body form its limbs and hair, he couldn’t help but feel the energy that came off of the new form. It was nothing he had ever felt before when he created a friend. It felt...felt happy, innocent, bright. When the new mold sat up in the water, he gasped sharply. Nimij took note of how the white of his new friend’s eyes played peek-a-boo with him. He also took in a small feature his subconscious had added to his new friend. A spot tattooed the tip of his long nose giving him a little more definition. Nimij would lie if he said he didn’t find it endearing. He would be a liar if he said that he wasn’t fascinated or proud of the new friend his brain came up with. He would be a liar... “Hello,” the man spoke in a deep, intoxicating voice. It took Nimij by surprise, his subconscious had never created a friend that sounded this way. All of the other friends had soft and high voices. The man’s voice made Nimij feel something. Something that wasn’t there for the others. Something that made Nimij feel the beat of his heart. The organ was practically useless due to never showing off its perfect soft melody. “Hi,” Nimij whispered, biting his bottom lip. The beautiful friend in front of him makes him hesitate. The words in his head do not make sense. He stared at his new creation for a minute longer. Names circled around in his head, but none of them seemed to fit. Then the letters formed, the sound formed, and before he knew it, the name left his lips. “Gnuyheat,” the word makes his tongue bounce, “your name is Gnuyheat.” “And what is your name,” Gnuyheat asked him. “Nimij.” “Ni-mij,” the newborn pronounced each syllable carefully. He let the name absorb into his new brain. The younger male even took in Nimij’s appearance. Gnuyheat took in everything about him from the way his eyes moved slowly and how he played with the water with rising anxiety. “I...like your name,” Gnuyheat added after the silence dragged for too long. “Thank you.” For days and weeks, they talked. They talked about many things from Nimij to the abyss to the land in the water. The two males smiled, laughed, and stared at one another soaking in their presence as best as they could. They understood each other well. Gnuyheat knew how to make Nimij smile to the point of his eyes closing and his crooked smile broaden. Nimij knew how to get a hardy laugh and the most beautiful ideas Gnuyheat’s brain could come up with. One idea struck Nimij with curiosity. Gnuyheat had raised the question of what if there were more spirits that looked like them, but they lived on the islands in front of them. Then with a smile, he said, “What if it was no longer dark on the islands?” Nimij of course just stared at him with a smile. “We could watch over them and help them build their own place.” “If,” Nimij had said, “if there were more of them, I would run out of flesh.” “What if we use some of mine,” Gnuyheat had offered. “Before I wither away.” “I do not want you to do that. I want you for as long as I can have you with me. Now, let’s drop the idea and move on, alright?” Gnuyheat only nodded before he changed the subject to how he didn’t like the shape that the combined bodies made. Unfortunately, Gnuyheat’s soft skin soon began to wrinkle just like everyone else had. Nimij was watching his best friend wither away just like his other friends had. His handsome face was slowly deteriorating as well, but to Nimij, Gnuyheat was still the most beautiful creature he had ever made. It was eighty-seven days later when Gnuyheat died. His skin was leathery and his eyes were opaque. Nimij had pulled Gnuyheat over to him, tears in his eyes. The two sat in the silent vacuum. Nimij listened to the shaky breaths that left his friend and Gnuyheat listened to the harsh beating of his best friend’s heart. “I don’t want you to go,” Nimij had said as he caressed the black curls of his friend. “You are my friend.” “Y-you are mine too,” Gnuyheat had gasped. He was terrified of dying at that moment. He loved Nimij and loved being able to touch him and speak with him. Now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that. He would join the bodies and be one of the empty, lonely, cold bodies. For hours they stayed close together. For hours Gnuyheat struggled to breathe. For hours, Nimij held in the tears he was trying not to shed in front of the only thing he’s ever loved. Two more hours passed before Gnuyheat died. The water dragged him in and pulled him to the bodies. Nimij tried to stop him as best as he could but Gnuyheat connected quickly to the bodies. Nimij couldn’t help the green feeling he felt at that moment. The corpses touching his beloved Gnuyheat sent him in a fit of rage. His shaky legs held him up as he walked through the ocean to the land. Staring at the limbs that connected together he grabbed onto Gnuyheat’s wrinkled arm that floated outstretched. With a firm yank, and a few aggressive stomps he pulled Gnuyheat far away from the collection. He pulled him to the farthest corner in the abyss. As he mourned, his tears fell on the exposed, dry skin of his beloved friend. His tears decorating the man’s body with different bodies of water. He traced the cold skin to make a pathway across the dry skin to represent the ground we walk on. Nimij even took some of his own hair to make grass, shrubs, and trees. With a kiss, he made flowers and insects. With a tap, the divine made mountains and valleys. And finally, with the statement from over eighty days ago, he pictured the land to be filled with people. He took every piece of his skin apart to mold a small village of people. Their faces and personalities were all different from each other. As he stared down at his new creations he took his thumb to his third finger and snapped. A light appeared and shined bright against the pale forms. With a smile, Nimij knew his work was finished and he laid down. He grabbed Gnuyheat’s covered hand with a bony hand. He kissed his temple with a smile before drowning himself in the abyss, connected to the only friend he had ever loved.


Thirty seconds until the bell rings. Just one more period. I can do this. I give myself the once-over in the bathroom mirror and head back down the hall. All around me, students are rushing to beat the bell. I walk slowly, enjoying the last few seconds of solitude before I enter my room. Once I cross this threshold, I am Miss. Ka'eo. And like my namesake suggests, I am strong. At least, I pretend to be in front of my students. I can hear the soft murmur of my tenth-graders in the classroom. They know at any moment, I will pop through the doorway with a big smile and chalk-covered slacks. And once I’m in the room, all eyes remain on me. It may be an introvert’s worst nightmare, but it’s my daily routine. I take one last steadying breath and stroll confidently into the classroom. I quickly scan the students while being careful to avoid eye contact. I greet them, instruct them to turn to page 103 of their textbooks and click on the projector. Ah, the projector. I use it frequently, not just for its technology, but because it gives me an excuse to turn down the lights. A little less light shining on me makes presentations more comfortable. Must be an introvert thing. As we move through the lesson, I repeat the words I practiced the night before. Every night, I run through my lectures for the following day. Being prepared gives me confidence and allows me to feel comfortable spending hours in the spotlight. The thought of presenting without the words already running through my mind or visual materials to divert attention makes my heart flutter. Each time I run through my lessons, I sound and appear more confident. Not only am I practicing my public speaking, but I am practicing my extroversion. Or, rather, the extroverted facade I display while on school property. After forty minutes of my voice echoing through the classroom, the lesson comes to an end, and I am right on schedule. I pause, taking another look at my pupils. They are fading, and I’m not surprised. It’s Friday afternoon, and the last thing on their minds is structural functionalism in a society. I lock eyes with one girl, Sama, sitting in the back row. She keeps to herself and doesn’t participate in class discussions. But based on her essays and test scores, I know she is following along. Sama is like me, and while other teachers may demand her to be more vocal, I let her remain comfortable. I know that going to school and spending hours with her peers exhausts her, and I know not to confuse her silence with carelessness. But when Sama does raise her hand and contribute, every ear listens. When she chooses to speak, she picks her words carefully, and she brings up excellent points. And because of that, I let her be. If there is anyone who understands the difficulties of an introvert living in an extroverted world, it is me. I glance at my watch to see there is less than one minute of class remaining. The students are getting restless, and they want to start their weekend. I don’t blame them, as I’m looking forward to a solo kayak venture myself. I ask for questions just as the sound of the dismissal bell emerges from the intercom. The students jump up, even Sama. Before she leaves, she waves softly, and I nod back. Within moments, I am alone in the classroom. Finally. I sit down at my desk, lean my elbows on the worn-down wood, and gently rub my temples. It was a long week filled with volunteer events, assemblies, and lectures. Physically, I’m fine; mentally, I am drained. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my classroom phone blinking red. I have a voicemail from Mrs. Saetang, the mother of one of my below-average students. She wants to come in around four o’clock to discuss her son’s academic performance. It’s already quarter to four, which means it’s too late to cancel. I scurry out of the classroom and down the hallway to the teacher’s lounge. It’s empty, and I release a soft sigh of relief. I quickly fill a cup with hot water and gently drop a green tea bag into it. I cradle the cup in my hands to not spill a drop as I briskly walk back to my desk. Two minutes of solitude remain, and I settle into my desk to sip my tea. The steam feels good against my lips and the hot liquid makes me feel warm. I hear authoritative footsteps moving towards my door and brace myself for Mrs. Saetang. She’s a nice woman, but she’s the opposite of me in every way. Mrs. Saetang does not knock; she lets herself straight into the classroom and plops down at the desk closest to mine. I smile warmly and she immediately launches into a story about a woman cutting her off on the drive over. She uses explicative language and talks with her hands. I nod and shake my head appropriately, letting her go on. She continues for nearly three minutes, and I can’t help but wonder if she notices that I have not spoken one word since she arrived. Finally, after nearly five minutes of storytelling, she pauses long enough for me to get a word in. I point out some of my concerns for her son’s academic scores and areas he needs to start working hard to improve. But I can tell she is not listening; Mrs. Saetang is nodding along, just waiting to interject. As soon as I stop speaking, she chimes in with more unnecessary chatter. The minutes drag on as I listen to Mrs. Saetang overshare the personal details of her life. I offer a few words of advice, but I know she won’t hear them. Mrs. Saetang scheduled this meeting to talk, not listen. So I let her. As our time dwindles, I hand her a learning guide and tell her to look it over when she has the opportunity. She asks if she should come back next week to review the information, but I quickly tell her my schedule is full. Instead, I jot down my email address and tell her to contact me that way. She nods, then exclaims she is late for dinner with her girlfriends. I wave as she hustles out the door, gently closing it behind her. By this time, it’s nearly five o’clock and time for me to head home. I gather my belongings and pull out my AirPods. Wearing earbuds tells the world you don’t want to talk, and after an hour with Mrs. Saetang, I need the AirPods to be my shields. Whoever invented earphones was definitely an introvert , I think to myself as I wiggle the devices deep into my ears. I walk briskly down the hallway, listening to Coldplay’s tender harmonies flood through my ears. I fly down the stairs and rip open the door leading to the back lot. I am just about to reach my car when I hear, over my music, someone shouting my name. I whip around, and my heart sinks. It’s Aran, president of the teacher’s association and chairman of catching me at the worst possible moment. I already know he’s going to ask for a favor, as that’s the only time he seeks me out. I was right: they want to recruit me into helping put on the school’s upcoming spring dance. According to Aran, they could really benefit from my creative eye in coming up with this year’s theme for the school dance. And, of course, they are always looking for more chaperones for the dance floor. They thought I would make the perfect fit since I get along so well with my students. I’m smiling politely at Aran as he babbles on, feeling tempted to agree just so I can escape. Finally, he pauses and I let him know I’ll have to peek at my calendar before committing. He nods excitedly and says he’ll track me down on Monday. By then I’ll have decided to suck it up and help or have come up with a valid reason to decline. Satisfied with my answer, Aran waves goodbye and shuffles away, saying something about needing to find another teacher for the fine arts committee. The moment his back turns away, I slip into my car and lock the doors. I drive in silence, feeling overwhelmed by the day’s unexpected activity. I need moments of solitude, even if they are brief, to collect my thoughts and recharge. But today, the silence was scarce, and I’m feeling depleted. My apartment feels cool and dark, and I immediately flop down on the couch. I lay there peacefully, thinking about the day’s events. As my mind wanders, I decide to treat myself to dinner-and-a-movie night. And by dinner, I mean ordering Gaeng Daeng online from my favorite restaurant. And by movie, I mean finishing the true-crime novel I’ve been working through for the past three weeks. To others, this type of Friday might be called “lame” or “low-key”. But to me, it is perfect. I sit up and grab my phone just as my stomach starts to grumble. As I glance down, I see a row of text messages. It’s a group chat with the teachers from the school, and they are all at a local pub celebrating Katina’s birthday. Katina wants to know when I’m arriving, and she’s saving me a stool at the bar. My heart sinks, and I let out a soft groan. Katina is a good friend, and I don’t want to be rude or disappoint her. So I stand up from the couch and decide to reschedule my introverted Friday night. Instead, I run a brush through my hair, slip into a leather jacket, and pop on a fresh coat of lipstick. I can do this.


Thirty six minutes late for the debriefing when she casually strolled in and laid down on my sofa. She hadn’t bothered to take off her costume. I say costume, it was simply military tactical gear. Function over form was always her way. Straightforward, to the point, no messing around. I was hoping that in a less formal environment - such as my house - she would be more relaxed. It would make things easier. “Want a drink?” I asked, starting to head for the kitchen. She held up a full tumbler in response. If her position on the couch hadn’t changed, I wouldn’t have noticed she moved. Sara was extremely fast, and her superhero persona always made me forget that she uses her powers more playfully when off duty. She sipped at a gin and tonic, her favorite. Throughout our six year partnership, Sara would come over on her days off and we’d get drunk and forget our responsibilities. She was probably hoping tonight would be such a night. Days off are a thing for superheroes, once you come to terms with the fact that it’s impossible for one person - no matter how powerful - to save everybody, it just makes sense. The termination rate has dropped significantly ever since the Agency started its five day work week policy for heroes. Sometimes though, it was a necessity. “You know why you’re here today?” I asked. You had to be gentle when the person in front of you could tear you to pieces in the blink of an eye. “Yeah,” she said, taking a long sip. “Bad day.” “Bad day?” I almost started yelling, but caught myself before losing control. “He was a college kid. Innocent. How did it happen?” “Come on, man. How do you think it happened? The only people in that room were five gunmen and some dumbass kid that, what, stumbled in there? You tell me.” Sara looked at me defiantly, as if waiting for an explanation. In reality, there was no way she could have known that kid was in there, some idiot from the local university too stoned to realize what he just walked into. The chances she could have recognized the situation and stopped herself were slim to none. That wasn’t the point. The point was her reaction. This kind of thing, an innocent getting killed, used to be unacceptable for her. She would plan for hours, sometimes days for an operation like today’s, and would do her best to ensure nobody got hurt who didn’t deserve it. Sometimes, she would nearly get killed herself pulling it off. When it finally - inevitably - happened, it shook her to her core. That attitude is why everyone at the Agency loved her so much. But then - about a year ago I think - her husband found out who she was. Called her a murderer, an assassin - which technically was all true - and left her. I know he loved her, always would. Poor guy would’ve come crawling back in a day or two after he cooled off, but the Agency couldn’t allow for the breach. He was terminated that night, without my knowledge. This fact may be the only reason she never killed me. They made it look like an accident, nobody that mattered was fooled. Something clicked off in her after that. At first, I thought she’d just start drinking or maybe do something crazy like outright attacking the Agency headquarters. Instead, she just threw herself into the job, and not in a good way. She became cold and reckless. Civilian bodies started to pile up. As of tonight, she has racked up nine non combatant casualties. In our five years before her husband was terminated, her count was one. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the Agency’s reaction to my suggestion to terminate. It was quickly accepted, as always, but Sara was so loved in her time as a hero, more than most, maybe I just think she deserved better. “Are you going to say anything?” She was being aggressive now, my silence gnawed at her. “Do you even know what happened?” She sighed and finished her drink. “Can I go now?” “No,” I said bluntly. “We need to talk about this.” *I need confirmation of the kill*. “Please,” she spat, and got up to leave. “You going to have *me* terminated too?” Not responding was the worst thing I could’ve done. For all her newfound recklessness, Sara never became stupid. Her reaction wasn’t one of fear - it never is with any hero - but mockery. “What do you plan on doing, little guy?” she spat. “There’s no Agency goons here, I checked. I always check after James... So you think you can kill me? Try.” In the blink of an eye, she was right in front of me, but crumpled to the floor upon arrival. I breathed a sigh of relief. The poison was quick, and I was pretty sure that using her speed would accelerate it even further. Glad that worked out. Sara looked up at me with bulging eyes, deep red from bursting blood vessels. She heaved and clawed at her throat, tearing it open. It looked like she was trying to dig the poison out. “It was the gin, if that’s what you want to know.” I said. “I hate that garbage. Only kept it here for you.” When the spasms finally stopped, I packed my bag and left. I had to report in and be assigned a new apartment before I could meet my new partner.


His pale, cold fingers were wrapped aimlessly around the steaming hot cup, despite the absurdity of the thought that it could warm his dead hands. The scarlet, viscous liquid frothed ferociously in the Styrofoam cup as steam poured out like noxious gas. Orville inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet scent of human blood. AB+, he thought to himself. Maybe AB-? He took another whiff. Definitely positive. He took a sip of the scalding liquid. As he lifted it to his lips, he could feel his gums stretch and move as a pair of perfectly white fangs forced their way into his mouth. After a huge gulp, Orville placed the cup back on the table, glancing up just in time to see Herk stomping across the room toward him. Herk smashed his rocky fist down onto the table, in what was probably a gentle pat for him, and placed his drink. He squeezed his gargantuan frame into the booth across from Orville. He shifted to the left, trying desperately to find a comfortable sitting position, despite being the embodiment of a humanoid boulder. “This seat hard as rock,” Herk grumbled with broken English. One can't truly make fun of Herk for his lacking language skills. He’s quite literally got rocks for brains. “I don’t think it’s the seat, buddy. That might just be you,” Orville said snidely. Herk glowered at him but said nothing. Orville and Herk always had a very difficult time discussing... well, pretty much anything. Orville cherished humans, contrary to most others in their group. He found them a lesser version of himself. They were an infinite source of nourishment, and if he played his cards right, Orville could even make them into one of his own: a creature of the night, a vampire. “Strange how humans come to places like these, buy their drinks, and just continue about their day. No one even bothers to sit and talk anymore,” Orville noted. Herk nodded and downed a gallon of hot magma from his cup in one swig. Having lived so many years, Orville found the only thing that broke up monotony was a good conversation. The thrill of hunting a human and draining them wore off after the first century. But when people like Orville tried to talk to people like Herk, it never amounted to much more than a grumpy silence. Within that grumpy silence and distaste for poor discussions, Orville found himself admiring the room. The walls were each a different material it seemed. Some were a dark brown wood paneling, and the wall opposite them was black bricks. A wall of windows was to their right, and outside was the constant comfort of nighttime accompanied by streets alive with foot traffic, tentacle traffic, and hoof traffic alike. Dark black leaves crunched underneath them as Fall was upon everyone in town. Much like the weather outside, an eerie fog hung over the coffee shop, but this was where most monsters felt comfortable. Orville smiled as he pondered the word ‘monster’. Most modern creatures despised the word, calling it ‘demeaning’ and desired that no one use such language to describe them. Orville, however, felt quite the opposite. When Orville was still in his formative vampiric years, he would hear the word ‘monster’ screamed in the streets as he swooped down into a dark alley, chasing a helpless woman and feasting on her blood. Orville became hungry thinking about it and took another sip. Orville heard an indistinguishable grunt: Breanna the Biter. She came staggering over to their booth, and wedged herself in next to Orville without hesitation. “What’s up, boys?” she gurgled excitedly, her voice raspy and disgusting as ever. Orville cleared his throat, an action only done around Breanna in an attempt to inadvertently get her to do the same. As brain-dead as any other of her kind, she did not pick up. She dipped her finger into her pink brain smoothie and swirled it around, then sucked her finger clean once she had pulled it out. Orville nearly gagged. Zombies are disgusting creatures , he thought. Cautiously drifting over came Howard, but everyone that knew him called him Ghostie. Ghostie was the most tolerable of the group in Orville’s opinion, but everyone else seemed to dislike him. Ghostie drifted into his seat and smiled at everyone. Breanna stared at him. “Ghostie?” she grunted. “Yeah?” he asked meekly, expecting a round of insults to be flung his way. “Why are you drinking a hot chocolate with whipped cream?” Ghostie looked at Breanna fearfully. “Well... it’s technically an order of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream... and I ordered it because it’s on theme!” he said, raising his voice slightly in the final part of his sentence, hoping to shift some heat to other people at the table. “My hot chocolate is orange! It’s Fall themed!” “My smoothie is cinnamon flavored,” Breanna told him with a mucousy throat. “I prefer original, though.” “Magma is spicy, like cinnamon,” Herk chimed in intelligently. “Orville’s drink is 0% Autumn themed, look at him!” Breanna gestured to Orville. “He gets the same drink every time!” “Who cares about ‘theme’, seasons happen every year. Nothing to get excited about,” Orville griped. “And besides, it’s not the same drink every time. I ordered a mystery flavor today. I live life on the edge, okay?” Everyone groaned as he said it, and Orville only smiled, having predicted such a reaction. “Anyway, it’s not like I would have expected your kind to be able to tell the difference between blood types,” Orville told Breanna. “Woah, woah!” she called, slamming her drink down on the table. “I know you didn't just say ‘you people’ to me!” “You’re right, actually. Technically, I didn't,” Orville said flatly. “Just because I’m not some pompous blood connoisseur like you,” Breanna began. “It doesn't mean I’m dumb or stupid!” “No, it doesn't,” Orville said. “But if you can spell either ‘pompous’ or ‘connoisseur’, I’ll stop talking.” “Ghostie, how’s the people problem?” Breanna asked with the sound of phlegm still in her throat, turning her attention to the meek transparent figure. “Nice subject change...” Orville mumbled slyly. “Not good,” Ghostie moaned. “They’re so scary! And they keep coming into my house! I’ve been living there for decades, and people keep bursting through the front door to invade my personal space! I will go downstairs, rattle picture frames, slam window shutters and knock on walls, and they’ll run away. And for one, tranquil night... I’ll feel powerful. But then, the next night, they’ll come back with their friends, as if it’s some sick game to break into a man’s house! The humans have laws against this kind of stuff, and yet no one ever stops them! No no, not when it has to do with lame old Ghostie!” “I’m sorry babe,” Breanna growled mindlessly while taking another sip of her brain smoothie. Orville watched as Ghostie became flustered and stumbled over his words. No one ever called him babe. The saddest part, however, was that Breanna didn't even do it intentionally. She called everyone flirty names, she was just too full of herself to care. “Look what you’re doing to the poor boy,” Orville scolded. “You can’t go around calling people ‘babe’, you’re sending mixed signals.” “And you can't go around telling people what to do!” Breanna accused. “Just because you’re the oldest, doesn't mean you are the wisest.” “I’m actually a few millennia older than Orv-” Herk started to say, before he was cut off. “You’re so high and mighty, Bre, just because they made a bunch of stupid movies about you. You’re a fad, and just like your melty, decomposing body, it’s dying fast.” “I would rather die with dignity than die as a teenage girl’s fantasy,” Breanna insulted, punctuating her statement with a sip of her drink. Orville, known for rarely losing his temper, banged the table with a fist. “I had no part in that!” Orville shouted, but it was too late. The whole table was giggling. “Shut up, all of you!” Orville demanded. To protect his ego, Orville began demeaning his table-mates. “Bre! You and I both need humans to live, but you’re so self-centered you can't even be bothered to respect them! Ghostie! People are supposed to be afraid of you, but you’re afraid of them! And Herk! I don't even know what type of creature you are! No one cares about you!” The booth was silent after that. Orville stared blankly into his cup of blood, rethinking what he had done. “Hey,” someone began to say, but Orville interjected. “I’m sorry, guys. I overstepped the line there. I don't get mad a lot, but I just... I just really hate those teen vampires. I took it out on you, I’m sorry.” “That’s nice and all,” Breanna said, a smile sneaking onto her lips. “We were just gonna say that we each get one free insult to throw at you now.” Orville fidgeted uncomfortably, disliking the idea. “Fine,” he said, finally caving. “Orville! You claim to be this invulnerable being, but you die if someone pokes you in the heart with a toothpick!” Breanna cheered in her raspy voice. “Orville!” Herk chimed in. “You have control issue,” Herk said firmly. “Orville!” Ghostie said, laughing as he did. “Is this insult redeemable at any time?” “Yeah, sure,” Breanna told him. “I’m gonna save it,” Ghostie said with a friendly grin. “Oh, shoot. You know what, guys?” Breanna announced, looking at her watch. “I’ve actually gotta go. Super famous zombie business and stuff.” “Yeah, yeah, of course. We all believe you,” Orville remarked. “I have to go, too. It’s nighttime in the Earthworld, and I’m really hankering for some O- tonight.” “I have planet to destroy,” Herk said solemnly. Everyone laughed, unsure if he was joking or not. “I have to go stop some idiots from breaking into my house!” Ghostie squeaked. “Well, this has been as entertaining as ever,” Orville said to the group. “I’ll see you guys next week?” Everyone nodded their agreement and waltzed to the trash can to discard their variously sized cups and exited the coffee shop, the cool, crisp Autumn air hitting them. “God, I hate the smell of Autumn,” Breanna complained. “Because rotting corpses smell so much better,” Orville jived. They all exchanged hugs, said their goodbyes, and parted ways. Orville couldn't wait until they next saw each other.


The star assigned to Naija at birth wasn’t a particularly special star. It wasn’t one of the brightest, or attached to a fancy constellation. Her life would’ve been so much easier if she had an in with the Orion or Andromeda crowds, of course. But still, she couldn’t help but love the distant dim light of Hypellaen, the star that granted her a gentle spirit and positive attitude. She did feel lucky she had a star she could see all year, and every night she made sure to take time to look out her window and thank that sweet, faint light as it cycled across the sky. The year she turned 25, everything changed. She’d had a fun night, dinner at her favourite restaurant, and then drinks with her friends at their usual pub. Nothing fancy, but she wasn’t a fancy person. She was everything her star made her: kind, compassionate, caring, always willing to help another person out. Maybe a bit of a pushover, but she’d rather make everyone happy, and that was usually the best way. How could she be anything but grateful, as she tipped her head up to say good night to the star that had blessed her for so many years. As she looked up at Hypellaen, reciting her familiar manta of thanks, the star... brightened. It brightened so much it made the nearby Polaris look dim. She could almost feel the golden light, the rays stroking her skin, caressing her hair. It was only after several minutes, when she got out her phone, that she realized her face was wet with tears. She didn’t want to go inside, but she had to know, were other people seeing this? Opening her news app, she saw the top headline had already been updated. As she watched, another article popped up, discussing what may have happened to create such a bright flash. The forum she was on for her star-group was already popping, a new post every minute with pictures of Hypellaen for people not fortunate enough to see the beautiful phenomenon. “That’ll teach those Polaris pricks!” someone posted in reply to an amateur telescope photo of the gleaming golden light. Naija frowned and flagged the comment. You could always tell when someone was visiting from another section of the forum. No Hypellaen-lit talked like that. Sure, the Polaris-lit were proud of themselves, but they did have a lot going for them. You could hardly fault them. She skimmed the news article about nova events, explaining how sometimes stars expelled hydrogen and other molecules to create gaseous clouds in space, but she quickly closed it. She didn’t care how it happened. It happened. It happened while she was watching, on her birthday; it happened for her. She dragged her armchair to the balcony, and wrapped herself up in a thin blanket, determined to follow the star until it was blocked from view. -- Naija woke slowly, a crick in her neck. She shivered, but the cool air woke her quickly. She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but she’d stayed up for hours, moving her chair to follow the Hypellaen’s path. Part of why she’d rented this place was the excellent view it had of the path Hypellaen was on, especially in the spring months. She stretched, still feeling the glow of her star, like her pores had soaked in the warm light. For the next few months, she spent most days like this, unable to become jaded to the glow. She also had new status at work, and was a bit uncomfortable with the extra attention. It was nice to be recognized, but she didn’t like feeling like everyone was staring at her. Her co-worker Ryan, a Regulus-lit who was on the fast track with the Leo clan, made a few comments about enjoying the (subtext: undeserved) perks before the glow faded, but she was used to his comments. And nothing could pop the bubble of her joy, knowing the she saw and was seen . Of course, the bright glow was temporary. As summer dragged on, astronomers reported the expected dimming had begun. It was hard to tell, since it was gradual, but she couldn’t help being a bit relieved. She had felt the grace of Hypellaen, and she could’ve lived in that moment forever, but the expectations of those around her were a bit exhausting. It kept dimming, and on her next birthday, and her next, it continued, and eventually returned to its normal state. But then it continued to darken. Naija had resolutely ignored the doom-singers, the astronomers who had claimed it was possible this was not a nova but a supernova. The death of a star. The odds were against it, after all. Stars lived to like a billion of years old, and she was supposed to believe this one happened to snuff out the moment she looked at it? But Hypellaen continued to dim, and the chair she’d returned to the living room was dragged out once more. She knew it was silly, but she felt like if she paid attention, it couldn’t possibly disappear. She just had to keep looking. Her girlfriend, Myra, tried pulling her away from her vigil. She’d met Myra during those first few months, when everything had been so bright. It was serious, really serious, but it was hard to humour Myra with date nights, or staying over at her place. There were too many trees around her window, and it was hard to get an eye-line to Naija’s star. It made her feel like a traitor. No amount of Myra’s chastising or astronomer’s preaching was enough to convince her. Until, one day, she could no longer convince herself she could see Hypellaen all. A long time ago, she’d looked into becoming one of the astrogenetists that could determine a person’s assigned star. It was a complicated mix of math and biology, and the massive amount of formulae to memorize had intimidated her. Hypellaen-lit weren’t great with numbers. But knowing how complicated and precise the field was made this whole incident seem all the more ludicrous. How could one of these astrogenetists who were so educated, so knowledgeable, assign someone a dying star? Maybe this was a different step of the process of making a galaxy? Maybe there was dark matter in the way? She didn’t know what dark matter was, but apparently there was a lot of it, so surely it must block the view sometimes. Right? Naija fell down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, potential scientific explanations, and just plain nonsense as she desperately searched for any answer that lead back to the conclusion that Hypellaen was still there. She couldn’t... not have a star. Everyone had a star. Her search for answers was complicated by the fact that everyone around her had also become, for no apparent reason, quite difficult to deal with. Her energy was drained by the people in her life, who seemed to expect they could just do what they wanted and she would go along with it. Ryan had long been promoted, but his replacement, another from the Leo clan, was driving her to distraction with his smug attitude. Finally, she had enough, and snapped at him the fortieth time he tried to shove his work onto her, expecting that she would just do it and be happy to help. Did he think she was his personal assistant? She had her own work to do. He looked shocked, but learned fast enough to drop that habit. Myra was also frustrating her. Why did they always eat what Myra liked? Why did they always go to the movies Myra wanted to see? Naija couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something just for her. When she vetoed Myra’s movie choice, and asked to see something else, Myra looked even more surprised than her coworker had. She and Myra broke up a few weeks later, both confused about why they had been dating so long in the first place. Naija knew she should feel bad, and she did, a little. But she didn’t know how she had never noticed what a bully Myra was, completely incapable of compromise. Naija was laughing at a particularly sarcastic reply to a Polaris-lit, when she suddenly remembered that comment she’d flagged a few years ago, and her thought at the time. No Hypellaen-lit talked like that . But paging through the forum now, she could see a lot of them did now. She did. Not everyone did, but there were many different voices in the forum now. It used to be a calm place, a little online sanctuary she retreated to. Now it was filled with a multitude of voices a multitude of opinions. It was still a community she treasured, but it wasn’t the place of serenity it had been. She had been avoiding any article or forum post that discussed Hypellaen like it was dead. They seemed rude and dismissive, talking about a tearing of the soul in scientific terms. But what if it really was gone? What if she saw Hypellaen’s last gasp before it exploded and curled away into a black hole or whatever? Did that mean she had no star? Everyone had a star. First, she learned if Hypellean had gone supernova, it wasn’t a black hole, it was a white dwarf. Because of the reduced size, it would be very hard to see from earth. As of yet they couldn’t tell for sure if this had happened, due to debris in the system, but soon they would confirm. No one credible seemed debating the issue, and discussed Hypellaen as a white dwarf as fact. Because Hypellaen was now so small and dim, the light from it no longer reached Earth in any meaningful way. Of course there were billions and trillions of stars, but they don’t all influence people; only the ones whose rays are strong enough to be easily visible with the naked eye. So without the light, the energy and influence Hypellaen gave was gone. Naija leaned back from her laptop, an emptiness in her chest. Her light, her constant companion... gone. Obliterated. She almost felt as if her heart had ceased to beat, that her star was her heart, it was her. A person could no more live without a star than without a heart, surely. At first, this thought was overwhelming. It was too much. She closed her eyes, and tried to go back to her daily life, tried to make herself fit into the edges of who she once was. But it was useless, it was like wearing skin that was too tight. Eventually she went back to her research. She had to know the truth. It seemed the last time a star had gone supernova was hundreds of years ago, but back then the study of stars was so primitive: most people considered the idea that stars could influence a person to be superstition. The articles about this event in history noted an increase in unrest over the next decade or so, but things fell back to normal. No one was ever assigned that dead star anymore, the astrogenetists didn’t even consider it. What did that mean? Did she have a new star? Did she want a new star? The thought startled her. It wasn’t just loyalty keeping her from wanting a new star. She did still love Hypellaen, the kind and gentle soul of that old star. But she thought of standing up for herself at work, and with Myra. She thought of the multitude of voices on the Hypellaen-lit forum, chaotic but also energetic. Exciting. She had something new. She had something almost no one else had. She had freedom. Naija, and all the other Hypellaen-lit, could choose who they wanted to be. Hypellaen-lit didn’t even make sense anymore, they weren’t lit. The children of Hypellaen were in the dark, but it was a wonderful, mysterious dark. Terrifying, but full of potential. They didn’t have destinies paved out in front of them. She didn’t have to be gentle, she didn’t have to accept others walking over her. She’d learned she actually hated that. She did still want to help people, and something in her warmed at that. She wanted to help people, not because she was led, constrained, to be someway by distant energy and light. It was what she wanted. It was what she wanted . She could finally be who she chose to be. That night, she again walked out to her balcony to star at the familiar patch of sky she’d watched for so many years. The darkness still looked empty, like a lacking in the universe. But she felt gratitude, so much gratitude with all her heart, for the greatest gift Hypellaen had ever given her.