u/Keyboard_Adventure.   ## The Krin Guul The one thing Geroya didn’t expect when she moved above decks was a bitter chill, and yet she received a face full of it nevertheless. Strange weather for the Middle Seas. Having left the frigid wastes of the Northland and spending a week bunked with Tank, her goblin companion, snow was an unwelcome sight. “Captain, are we on course? I thought we were making landfall by morning.” The crusty captain looked like he’d been frozen at the helm and tiny icicles broke off his beard as he nodded. He’d been awkward towards her ever since they set sail. “Aye, we be- sorry. We *are* on course. I checked the stars and charts...*myself*.” The captain’s eye twitched as he spoke. “See? Thar...there be... *there is* the lighthouse. We’re here.” A sailor shouted *Land Ho!* and within seconds, Tank burst out from the lower decks wearing a loose tunic and sharp-toothed smile. “Finally, Pineapple Bay! Nothing to do but bask in the sun and--what?!” The goblin raced on the main deck checking port and starboard but all he saw were churning ice flows as the boat broke them apart. Something was wrong in town. Tank grimaced. “Not fair! You promised warm beaches! Rest! Flagons of ale with tiny umbrellas!” Geroya patted his shoulder but the goblin shrugged it off. “The sooner we fix whatever *this is*, the sooner we can get back to that. And besides; think of the hidden treasures just waiting to be found.” The mention of treasure made Tank grin. “*Fine*. But it better be the good stuff! No more charity cases, alright?” “That’s the spirit! Now bring up the winter gear and unpack the bag of looting.” The L-word sent Tank skipping down below. The port of Pineapple Bay should have been teeming with fishermen and merchants trading in the open air market. Instead, the docks were covered in a foot of snow. Footprints told the story of a people, unused to winter, trudging and more often, slipping through the slushy mess. Geroya noted a haphazard pair of skid marks that ended abruptly at the water’s edge. “We could make a killing selling our boots.” Tank tightened his overcoat and snickered. “So long as we get paid for killing something,” “Look where they came from,” Geroya pointed. The wipeout footprints had come out of a tavern. A painted sign above it read, *The Slimy Hagfish*. “Let’s find out what the locals know.” Inside, a handful of grumbling, shivering fishermen huddled around a large hearth, leaving the bar empty. Geroya flagged down the barkeep, a stout woman who, despite the storm, wore unseasonably revealing garb. Tank was smitten. “Hello travelers. What can I get for you? Drink? If it’s food I’m afraid it’s just turtle stew. This blasted storm has scared off catch and fisherman alike.” “Two ales. Aren’t you cold, like them?” Geroya asked, thumbing back toward the fireplace. The barkeep shook her head as she pulled the beer cask’s tap. “I’m used to drafts.” It took several rounds of ale before they heard the whole story. A year ago a mage had arrived in search of Krin Guul, a mythical well containing powerful magic, long since lost to time, somewhere in the aptly named Jungle of Unlikely Return. After his disappearance, the sun hid behind a cover of snow-laden clouds and the cursed winter took its place. The elders offered a reward to anyone who could stop the mad wizard, but no one stepped forward. “Until now,” the goblin said. He rolled his eyes and waited for his partner to finish their introduction. “Have no fear!” Geroya shouted. The barkeep looked confused. “I, I never said I was afraid. I-” “No wizard is a match for Geroya Beslayin and Cantankerous Grift!” When no one in the tavern replied, she repeated it a little louder. Tank stopped her from saying it a third time and nudged her towards the door. He laid a coin on the counter and winked at the barkeep. “See you around.” “Unlikely, but good hunting nonetheless.”  The snow drifts piled higher as the pair left the edges of Pineapple Bay. As it turned out, palm fronds and rattan made perfect snowshoes. Where others had sunk into oblivion, Geroya and Tank sashayed through like pallas cats. Using a compass attuned to ley lines, they pressed deeper into the frozen jungle. The beasts that made the jungle so deadly--silver snakes and deadly bright toads-- hung lifeless in the cold trees like tinsel and baubles. Tank heard a voice echoing from inside a cave nearby. Inside, they found a path that led to a hidden crater. At its center stood the mage, dressed in a voluminous red robe and fat black belt. He threw fist fulls of spells at smooth volcanic rock embedded in the ground but they merely bounced off the surface and accumulated in the sky. “It’s here, it *has* to be here, I know it!” he shouted. Time had robbed him of his sanity. Geroya snuck closer then shouted, “Stop, wizard!” “Who’s there? Ah, that’s what I need. A fresh sacrifice, blood for the Krin Guul!” The wizard’s hands glowed white. As he spun up a spell to throw at Geroya, Tank snuck behind him and slid his enchanted dagger, Silent Night, into the wizard’s back. An arc of unfocused magic mushroomed above them and exploded in a shower of harmless sparkles. Geroya looked up and saw stars. The gray clouds began to roll away. “Another victory for the mighty duo!” As Tank searched the body for items she stabbed her sword into the cold crater. “Do you think he was right? That he’d found the Krin Guul?” “Does it matter? He’s dead anyway.” “But the ley lines. And doesn’t this place just feel-” Tank cut her off. “Geroya! No. Well.”  *** Constraints requested: 1. A 'mad' character that sees a truth nobody else can. 2. A mystery 3. Include a pun 4. Part of the story includes a pub, tavern, or similar. 5. A genre-aware character trying to avoid their cliches. 6. A useful goblin.


Anna flipped the laundry basket over, dumping the newly-cleaned clothes onto her bed, before hurrying back outside to retrieve the rest off the clothesline. She had noticed that certain pieces of clothing had gone missing over the past few weeks, and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again today. Hurridly, she grabbed the remaining garments and stuffed them into the basket, until the line hung empty. Her friends, when told about the missing clothes, had all critisized her on her use of a clothesline in lieu of a modern drying machine. Anna had replied that she didn’t have the money to buy a dryer, and honestly didn’t want one, as the clothesline did the job just fine for free. However, the missing clothes were beginning to make her think about changing her mind. Tossing the laundry on the bed, she busied herself with sorting and folding the various shirts, pants, and undergarments. Sure enough, something new was missing. A pair of jeans that she had just recently bought, and was quite fond of. Exasperation set in as she shoved the clothes into their drawers. Of all the things I have around here to steal, why my clothes? Back outside, Anna carefully approached where the clothesline was. Perhaps, she figured, there might be a few footprings, or other incriminating clues, as to the culprit responsible. Unfortunately, grass grew under and all around the wash area. Her entire property, for that matter, was green. Anna turned to walk back inside, nearly tripping over a sleeping dog. She glared. “Tony, you really could bark every once in a while, you know, if you see anything. Those were my favorite jeans.” The dog lifted his head, blinking slowly, then smiled with his tongue hanging out. Anna rolled her eyes, then made her way back inside the house. Tony could hear her opening and closing drawers and cubboards, on the off-chance she had misplaced her missing garments. He put his head back in his paws, and licked his chops. "Yeah, they were my favorite so far, too.


The first time I heard her voice, I was about to die. Faint and distant, it sounded like someone shouting into the wind. The monstrosities in the storm were tearing at my flesh, flaying my arms to the bone, and my lungs were filling with black rainwater. That's when I heard the voice, fluttering over the mayhem below like a stray bird. I knew that it was my language she was speaking, but by the time the voice reached me, it was shredded into something inhuman that filled the spaces in my ears. And then I woke up. Yeah, yeah. I know. That was the first of many. Most nights I was fighting for my life in one way or another, and whatever was trying to kill me would have been sure to win eventually. There was no escaping it. But whatever it took the form of each night, it never quite got the chance. She would wait for my final moments, just before I was shocked out of sleep by my own almost-death, to send me her muddled messages. I assumed she meant me harm. A pretty safe assumption; most entities did in my dreams, but I didn't know for sure. What I did know is that each encounter left me cold to the bone. In my defence, the temperature was not an entirely spiritual matter. The apartment block next to mine had been pulled down almost a year ago for one reason or another. My landlord owned that place too, and he had kept quiet on the details. I know now that he had had good reason to. That is to say, where there was once laughter, and light, and...*heat*...well apparently I had gotten a lot of my warmth from next door. Very generous of them. The Eastern Wind was my new neighbour. As for my days, the story was not much better. I had nothing. I did nothing. It's not really important. I whiled away my days as people do. Not to mention I feared for my life. I feared for my life in that fucking place. I realised pretty quickly that the voice was a woman, but her words still came in broken pieces, ripped apart and tossed around on my own personal tide of horrors. Most of the time the dreams felt liquid, sliding past my eyes, and formless evils would strangle me all in darkness. Every now and then though, I would be transported back to Hell with clear sight. Hell was hearing the conversations from that morning. The bartering and the taunting, crying, hysterics, and then the way the air turned sour before they ripped it all away from me. My eldest, almost a man, screamed at me like only a son could scream at his father, and I knew there was nothing I could do. I'd kept the weapon one of them had used under my bed after that, a large framing hammer with a blue grip. A small part of me actually believed I would be able to use it. I'd get the chance, I was sure of it. They would be coming back for *me* if I didn't do my job this time, and I hadn't. I'd lost everything already. Why the fuck would I? But they never came back. Those dreams were the ones where I truly died, in soul if not in body. The was no waking up from those in time, I suffered to the end. The woman sounded closer to me as well, I could almost understand her. Honestly, the more I heard her, the more I wanted to. It was a nice voice, even if it was scattered and senseless. But one night, it made sense. Just as I felt the familiar evils closing in on me for another night, they crumbled and died and the storm abated. And I heard the voice. “*Pick up the hammer.”* I woke up. My breath wasn't jagged, and I didn't feel scared. The air was warm on my face. “Well fantastic. Company*.*” My eyes snapped open and I searched around my field of vision for a source. The voice was sharp. Crystal clear. It was the same voice, I knew it was. It followed me out. “Why didn't you help me?*”* I leapt up and whirled around, and stared. The voice had spoken like it was coming from right above the headboard. But before I could get any closer I noticed my peripheral vision screaming at me to look *down*. I looked down and saw the hammer. The hammer I kept under my bed was now up on the pillow. Wet blood coated the metal, soaked into the covers. There was a man lying face up, with his skull split in half on my bed. A woman's hands came through the wall, then her face, and the rest of her, slipping through the brick like water. She had wild chestnut hair and olive skin, and icy eyes that glowed green under yellow tinted glasses. She was quite out of place in my little grey apartment. She moved like she was walking through water, and left a trail of shadow behind her. She looked angry. “Why didn't you help?” she repeated. “Are you the woman from my nightmares?” I asked her. “I was in them”, she told me, “But not from them.” She even looked a little offended. I don't think I totally heard what she was saying at the time. I was a little slow to process what was happening. “You're...good looking.” I decided to say. She laughed at me. There was no humour in it. And she told me that I hadn't seen her yet, not really. Her eyes were growing fierce again. “They put me in there.” She motioned to the spot above my headboard. “Buried me in there.” I looked above my bed to the wall. She told me that they'd buried her standing up, so she would never rest, and rest she hadn't. It was hard to fathom. With my eyes, I stripped back the wallpaper, plaster, and the stone that had stood between me and the wind that seemed like it never stopped. I told myself that there were eyes staring back at me through the layers. I believed it. The freshly dead man was lying right where I had been sleeping, so I figured it out in good time who it was. In my defence, it's hard to recognise yourself from the outside, especially with a messed up face. Yes, I had been right to keep that hammer, but it had done sweet fuck all to help me. I'd made it as easy to kill me as it was my kids. I wonder if they'd recognised that it was the same weapon. I hope they appreciated the poetry as much as I would have, had I been the victor. Honestly though, even if I had woken up in time to see them standing in my room, I had always been total shit at fighting. Like a lot of people I imagine, I wasn't a great fit for the life I'd chosen. “You can't leave?” I asked her. She shook her head. “Not while I'm in there.” I started to wonder what kind of life this woman must have chosen *herself*, to wind up being entombed like this. Set into the rock, becoming part of it, even. Killing her hadn't been enough. She was looking down at my body. “You were quite handsome before, you know.” she said. I suddenly felt embarrassed that this woman had been watching me sleep this whole time. I even remember blushing, or feeling like I was blushing, and I remember thinking that even dead I was shit with women. “Kind of a shame," I said, "You're the type of woman I would have liked to take home with me...” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe you still can.” she said. The closer to death you are, the easier it is for spirits to speak to you, whether it's real or in a dream. Spirits can't tell the difference, because there barely is one. You realise the arbitrary nature of physical life only in death. That's how she explained it to me. She'd just wanted me to get the stupid hammer and break her out of that horrible wall. I did try one more time to pick it up, but my fingers moved through it. It wasn't my world any more, as it wasn't hers. I didn't want it to be. “We can make them notice. When they come to take me away” I told her. But of course we couldn't. It took a month for the landlord to find me, and when he did, he was a bit preoccupied with the poor dead bastard lying on the bed. He was a good guy, I'm sorry he had to be the one to find me, but there was nobody else. They buried me last week, and I'm with my kids again. We all visited her the other day, and she told us the apartment building was now up for demolition, just like next door. Looks like the best thing I could have possibly done for her is be bludgeoned to death. I suppose my landlord drew the line at finding me with half a face in my room and cut his losses in the property business. Can't say I blame him really. I hope he's a long way away when they find her, he's too old for any more of that shit. But I'll be there. Maybe I can finally take her home with me.


Jonesy paused outside Sinclair’s Antiques shop and double-checked the address on the business card. It was an elegantly embossed business card that only bore the name Sinclair’s and the street address; apparently the owner didn’t bother with anything as modern as a phone number or website. The young man hoped he was not on a wild goose chase. Taking a Sunday off work was a luxury he rarely indulged in - but since he had found the business card lodged under the windscreen wiper of his work truck, he’d been consumed with curiosity. Jonesy hoped to find answers beyond the stained glass door. Sinclair's Antiques was a treasure trove of beautiful works of art, and furniture which had been made in an age when people took pride in their work. Such a contrast to the sad, modern, disposable mindset of the world. Jonesy had been taught to always take pride in his work, whether it was in the rush of modern home-building or his side-hustle of bespoke carpentry. He walked slowly through the displays, taking time to appreciate the skills of the long-dead craftsmen, until he arrived at the back corner of the store, and a set of shelves which held smaller items. A box caught his eye. It was of a simple design, but nevertheless beautifully made by a talented carpenter. The dovetail joints were perfect, as was the fit of the lid. In fact the craftsmanship showed a level of skill that the man dreamed of someday mastering. Someday , when his daily focus was on more than just trying to pay the rent and put food on the table. As he turned the box around in his hands, he noticed the burgandy tone of the varnished wood, and smelled the faint tang of lemon and beeswax polish. And yet, the closer he looked, the more he was convinced that the box was newly made, despite the old-school techniques. Front and centre of the box was a keyhole, which was positioned directly below a small, plain brass plate engraved with the name: Erasmus Jones. It was his name. A few days earlier, when he had shown his best mate the Sinclair's business card, Erasmus "Jonesy" Jones had assumed it was an elaborate joke. His mate was infamous for his practical jokes - but this one was at a whole new level. And yet, what other explanation could there be? Why on earth would there be a faux-antique wooden box with his name on it? It had to be an elaborate, and obviously expensive, joke. Jonesy was still deep in thought when the proprietor of the store materialised beside him. The gentleman obviously relished his role, dressed as he was in a perfectly tailored suit that created the impression the wearer belonged in an earlier century. "The box is exquisite in its simplicity - don't you agree?" "It certainly is," the younger man replied. "May I see some form of photographic identification please?" Jonesy was surprised by the request, even though he knew his clothes clearly announced his financial status to the gentleman. Still, he was determined to leave with his dignity intact. As he gently placed the box back on the shelf and turned to leave, the proprietor touched his arm. "I apologise if I offended you. The box was entrusted to me - on a consignment of sorts - by a very important client. If you are - as I suspect - Mr Erasmus Jones , then the box is for you." Jonesy had already seen a couple of very discreet, handwritten price tags on what he guessed were the least expensive antiques in the store. So he knew he wouldn't be able to afford the key to the box, never mind the box itself. "May I see your driver's license? Please? " Deciding to play along with what was obviously an elaborate joke planned by his mate, Jonesy produced his licence. The proprietor carefully checked the identification, and then broke into a genuine smile. "Excellent." He carried the box over to a large table, which was beautifully decorated with inlaid wood; Jonesy guessed that if the table was for sale, the asking price would be more than he had paid for his truck. The shopkeeper unrolled a length of black velvet fabric and put the box upon it. He then wrapped the box in tissue paper, before sliding it into a cloth bag which had the store name elegantly embossed upon it. "Ah ... how much do I owe you?" Jonesy asked. "Nothing, Mr Jones," the shopkeeper replied, sounding slightly taken aback by the question. "As I said, the box was a special consignment. It was entrusted to me to keep for you," the man said as if that explained everything. "And many happy returns for your thirtieth birthday next week." Jonsey reached over and picked up the fancy carry bag. The proprietor had vanished. Jonsey glanced around the shop, but the older man was nowhere to be seen, so he shrugged the strange encounter off and hurried home. Jonesy put the bag containing the mysterious box down on the two person dining table. With one step he was standing in the tiny excuse for a kitchen, and made himself a coffee. Mug in hand, he sat down and reached into the bag. Although there was no receipt, his fingers found a small velvet bag. Inside was a key. Amused - if slightly confused - by the elaborate joke, Jonsey unlocked the box and raised the lid. He half expected to see a plastic turd from a joke shop, but instead, the thing on top of what appeared to be a pile of papers, was a photo of himself leaning over a birthday cake adorned with four candles. There were three more birthday photos, recording his seventh, tenth, and twelfth birthdays. Each one evoked warm memories. His parents and grandparents smiling and proud. The simple birthday cakes his mother made. The small gifts his loving family saved all year to buy for him. Beneath the photos there was a mix of documents: a few school reports; his first driver's license; and the passport he applied for when he was eighteen years old, when he still had hopes of overseas travel. But the pages he had dreamed would be filled with visas had remained stubbornly empty. Abruptly, Jonesy's intrigue and amusement over the box gave way to bitterness and annoyance. He cooked and ate dinner, even though every bite tasted of regret. After he washed the dishes, curiosity forced him back to the box. He uncovered a few bank statements and tax returns which only served to remind him that he'd been working two jobs for half his life but still had nothing to show for it. However, his income had never been wasted, but rather used to support his family. Even though his parents were hard-working, salt of the earth type people, they had never bothered with insurance. Like most people, they had never considered the possibility of a life-changing car accident... The young man rubbed his temples. Although Jonesy had never regretted his choice to help his family financially, as he occasionally joked to his best friend, he wouldn't have minded being born into a wealthy - or even middle-class - family. At that moment a lotto ticket slipped from the papers he was holding, and landed on the table. The paper was rather crisp to touch, and the date on the lotto ticket around was six weeks into the future. Jonesy had never wasted money gambling, so he had no experience to draw on, still, he assumed that the advance ticket could only have been purchased sometime in recent weeks. And even more bizarrely, one line had all the numbers circled, as if someone had already checked off the winning numbers... Jonesy was ready to put the strange box in the cupboard and forget it, at least until he could get his best friend to confess to the complex, if annoying, practical joke. Then he noticed a large envelope which had been folded in half and wedged into the bottom of the box. He pried the envelope loose and opened it. There was a folded sheet of paper taped to a second, sealed envelope... He unfolded the letter. Greetings Erasmus, Congratulations on finding the box. I'm very pleased. I know you have countless questions; unfortunately you will have to wait for the answers. Simply put, if I told you what you so desperately want to know, it would change your future, and I cannot risk that. However, there is one warning I need you to believe without question. Keep the lottery ticket safe, as if your very future depends upon it. Warmest regards, A friend. He tossed the letter on the table. The only people in the world who called him Erasmus were his parents; everyone else knew him as Jonesy. Although the box was beautiful and definitely worth keeping, the contents were a massive invasion of his privacy. To say he was angry was an understatement. He reached for his phone with one hand as he turned over the sealed envelope with the other hand. The command: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE LOTTO DRAW which was handwritten across the large envelope, was the last straw. Jonesy dropped his phone and tore open the envelope. He pulled out a bundle of A4 pages. The first page bore the words: How to Build a Time Machine. Copyright ©2057 Erasmus Jones Jonesy rubbed his eyes, then picked up all the photographs and documents and the crazy 'time machine' blueprints, put them back in the box and turned the key. The lotto ticket, however, he tucked into his wallet, as he murmured, "Just in case..." Six weeks later, he became am instant multimillionaire.


There was blood on O’Connell Street; I saw it walking home. I didn’t notice it at first. You don’t notice these things all at once when you live in the city and you’re just focused on keeping your head down and not looking anyone in the eye. But all it took was looking up for just half a moment, and there it was. Even in the swarm of the early evening, when tourists nervously wander along in bunched-up groups of three or more and gaggles of college students gather in ragged crowds outside of nightclubs and local pubs, the trail stood out on the pavement: thick boot tracks of browning red which shimmered like dead stars in the dull lamplight of an empty Burger King. In the bitter cold of a January evening, they were already quickly drying into shiny, clumpy shapes of crust on the filthy concrete. There was no puddle, no splatter - no point of origin to be seen whatsoever. They were just suddenly there, like the owner had fallen out of the sky, the soles of their boots already caked in fresh crimson, and proceeded, unbidden, down the street. Not a drip out of alignment, not a drop to be found - just fat globs of red outlining each crease, each crevice and curve, of the scarlet-soaked shoes. I remember it clearly - we’d just past the Spire in the center of town, past the Pennys and the GPO and Abbey Street. I noticed it in the middle of a conversation I was having with a friend - she was prattling on about some make-or-break assignment she was procrastinating on for class. Or something to that degree; all I can remember is suddenly turning my head sharply to the right - like I’d been yanked that way by an invisible line - and spotting an unexpected glimmer of red keeping almost perfect pace with my stride. Only, they weren’t so casually arranged: the tracks aligned themselves at an unsteady gait, the left foot dragging itself in scuffed-up smears behind the right. They blurred and blurred each detail with every step, so it was almost an effort to study them like I did - an effort like an echo of the effort it must have taken to haul each shattered limb, to drag the body down past the shops and the theatres and the bisecting streets while carefully avoiding a downward-facing crowd which would rather succumb to its own fears of confrontation than look you in the eye. I tried to measure each step as well as I could - the feet were bigger than my own, much bigger, and much heavier to heave when every movement was a shot of agony, scorching up the legs like thorns sprouting from the skin. And in my mind, I suddenly felt the weight like I’d been the body - like I’d been the one to drag myself down a crowded street, head bowed, sweat dripping from my nose and my lips as every movement sent a shock through my bones and my joints. I felt the weight of ages, of time and misfortune, settling into my bloodstream and curdling like sour milk in my gut. It was a weight I could only see - could only ponder - only echoes of the one who left their bloodstained footprints on the sidewalk, but I felt it all the same. Beside me, my friend rambled on, her hands waving excitedly as she recanted the entertainment of the day to me, unaware that I was only listening with half a mind; the other half could only search the evening crowd for a stumbling shadow and wonder, wonder, wonder what I would do if I found it. As I wandered down the road, it began to fade. We were almost to the corner store when I realized that the footprints had started to dissolve into the concrete like phantoms, blurring their forms as the finer details of the spectral shoes smudged into dried-up shuffles. It was like the effort to move had grown too great, the exhaustion sinking in as the body broke down bit by bit and cried, “Enough.” Still, I studied them as I walked, tracing each remaining crease in the soles with my eyes and trying to commit them to an unreliable memory. The effort felt like trying to reattach a leaf to its branch after it had fallen: fruitless, inane, and incomprehensively exhausting. With each step, something was lost: a canyon here, a square peg there, the outline of the heel - everything strewn together into a shapeless, formless mass. Blurred lines became smudges of red that dried into only faint streaks of brown and copper. And then, just before we reached the little café a block away from the tram stop at Parnell, they were gone. The urban earth had soaked them up like water to desperate roots and stripped them of their lost identity, reducing blood of man to just the faintest traces of decay. Whatever might have been left was scuffed over and ignored by the passers-by, whose ground-trained eyes were never so aware as to realize what they had seen. Shaken from my fixation, I turned away; and when we came to our crossroads - my friend to the right, myself to the left - she turned to me with a curious frown and asked, “What were you looking at back there?” “There was blood on O’Connell Street,” I said. My hands fluttered nervously, and I bounced a few times on the balls of my feet. “Where?” “Back behind us.” She turned to crane her neck over her shoulder, but there was only trash and pavement under the muted glow of the corner shop. I could tell by the way her eyes shifted that she didn’t believe me, but still, she looked back at the road we’d left behind and searched amidst the drifting crowds for a sign of what I’d seen - a flash of red, a smear of brown. There was nothing. “Goodnight,” she said, finally. “Goodnight.” From there, I wandered home, quietly aware of how the balls of my feet burned like I’d taken a stroll through a bed of nails and the hot trickle of blood was soaking through my socks with every step. Behind me, there was nothing - still nothing but shadows in doorways and vacant bus stops and gray, muck-covered stone. That night, I sat at my desk and scoured the news for something I had missed: a brawl, a mugging, a drug deal gone wrong. But like the late evening, the news was quiet, keeping its secrets locked up in desk drawers under piles of papers to never be published for the public eye. Blood on O’Connell Street? Who’d ever heard of such a thing? Not here, not on our O’Connell Street, not in the clear view of hundreds of people who’d surely have done something , said something if it was there, which it wasn’t. As I laid down to sleep that night, what I’d seen - what only I had seen, what only I had caught in the crowd of hundreds milling about between the shops and the streets and the lamplight glow - was stained in my memory, alongside one last, ruminating worry: So much blood, and no body around.


Isabella heaved a sigh as she slammed her car door closed. She clicked on the lock and sashayed into a five-star restaurant. The glimmer of lights had nearly blinded her eyes when the usher opened the glass door for her. As expected of Barnes Hale, he would’ve chosen the most ostentatious restaurant for their meet-up --or what her mom called a ‘date’. Anyhow, she refused to acknowledge this meet-up with Barnes Hale as a date. She didn’t understand what in the world her parents had seen in the stupidly privileged man in his mid 30s. Sure, he had the money and the business, but there were other men with such things, so why the Horrendous Hale? As the usher had chauffeured her to the table where the bastard resided, Isabella thanked him and sat across the bearded man. The first thing he did was tapping his index finger on his gold watch, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head. “Late for five minutes, Isa, where’s your manner? Is this supposed to be my future wife?” Oh, how much did Isabella want to smash his gold watch--or better yet, his face. “Well, pardon me, Sir. I have some important business to take care of,” Isa replied, not without stressing the word important. He chuckled and sighed. “How’s your business?” “Good, thank you,” Isa answered. He smirked and opened the menu book. “Heard from your mother that it isn’t well. Are you lying to your future husband, Isa? How am I gonna take over if you’re not honest with me? Are we gonna base our marriage and business on lies?” Isabella wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. She could feel her anger and her common sense boiling. How dare he say it as if she was just a temporary nuisance in her own company? She had been attacked by a case of insecurity because some people really did think that she was not worthy as her father’s successor, but in spite of that she was not going to let some dull boastful man belittle her. “Mr. Hale, even if my mother said that, it’s not something that I couldn’t handle. Even if my business hits rock bottom, trust me when I say that I can handle it myself without needing your involvement. I’ve managed to survive for years after all,” she said and smiled. Obviously, the smile didn’t reach her eyes because why would she? “Oh, please. As a good beau, I shall remind you that the world won’t be too kind to the likes of you. Women are too easily swayed, after all. Yes, too simple-minded.” He sneered as he clicked the button to call the waiter. Isabella wished she could flip the table, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t succumb to what Mr. Hale had assumed--that women are simple-minded and easily triggered by their weak spot. “You shall see, then, Mr. Hale, whether or not I’ll keep my word,” Isabella said, a challenging smile plastered on her lips. Due to the typical arrogant privileged jerk he was, Isabella could only sneak a peek at the menu book once the waiter had arrived and taken Mr. Hale’s order. Isabella quickly ordered one sirloin steak and a glass of orange juice. She would much prefer to have champagne or wine, but she didn’t want to be drunk in his presence. She needed to keep her honor intact if she were to be with him. After ordering, they sat in silence, wholly wrapped in their own rectangle world called smartphone. As much as Isabella hated it when some people were tinkering with their phone during hangouts, she couldn’t help but thank the existence of the small rectangle world at this moment. It was much better than needing to talk with a venomous being such as Mr. Hale. “Hey, El, where are you?” Isabella creased her brows, wondering what the hell was the cuckoo man talking about, but she realized he’s talking on a phone. “Just bring the files to me here, I’m in the restaurant I told you about yesterday.” A pause, then, “No, no. Just bring it here, this shit takes so long.” He finished his call and noticed Isabella’s raised eyebrows. “Business thing, Isa. Maybe you can learn one or two things from me while I’m dealing with it here.” Isabella scoffed. “Maybe I’ll learn how to be an ass.” He glared. “Watch your mouth, bitch.” Isabella phew-ed. “Guess who should watch his mouth too.” When their orders arrived, Isabella didn’t wait and just quickly shoved the juicy steak into her mouth. The sooner everything’s done, the better. No matter how good the steak was, she couldn’t enjoy it because the one sitting in front of her was too disgusting a being. So Isabella kept shoving and shoving food into her mouth, with an occasional sip of orange juice, until another person came to their table. “I’m here.” Judging from his voice, it was a he. And so, Isabella looked up from her food and found a man, closer to her age than not, standing there with a stack of files. He put the thick files with a bang beside Mr. Hale. The sound rattled the table and Isabella’s heart--and seemed like Mr. Hale too because he was wheezing. The man showcased a smile toward Isabella. “Hi, I’m Elliot, Mr. Hale’s secretary. Pleasure to meet you.” “Pleasure, I’m Isabella,” Isabella returned. Mr. Hale had just finished his cough when he raised his voice and bunched up Elliot’s collar. “Fuck El! Who the hell told you to throw it down, eh? Wanna die?” Isabella had never wanted to punch someone so much. If anything, Isabella despised those who treat their employees, especially ones who were loyal, like trash the most. She had stood from her seat to push Horrendous Hale away from his poor secretary when Elliot said, “Would you mind your manner, Sir? I could sue you for assault if you touch me.” “Well, I got the money. I could pay any damage. Who’ll win now, shithead?” Isabella’s temper rose. “Hey--” “Surely, your reputation won’t, Sir,” Elliot replied. With that, Mr. Hale stared at him with a killing glare before he let go and pushed him aside. “I’ll find some fresh air untainted by a bitch and a shithead.” “Are you alright, Sir Elliot?” Isabella asked as he smoothed his crumpled collar. “Please, just call me Elliot, Miss. And, yes, I’m alright. How are you?” Isabella knitted her eyebrows and snorted a laugh. “Me?” “Yes, are you alright being with such an awful man? He’s a ticking time bomb, say anything that hurts his pride and he’ll fight tooth and nail with you,” Elliot said and sat on the unoccupied seat. “It’s worrisome, especially for a woman as wonderful as you. I could never thank you enough for trying to stand up for a mere secretary like me.” Anything that hurts his pride, Isabella thought and nearly laughed. He always stabs at others’ weakness, and yet, for some reasons his shall not be touched? She continued gobbling down her food while she asked, “It’s no problem, but will you be okay? Seems like he’s not done.” Elliot fixed his glasses. “No, it’s fine. We’ll be fine if we’re smart at handling his outburst. It’s probably one of the requirements to live in the same space as Mr. Hale.” Isabella chuckled. “Agree. I will not let his jabs get to me if I can help it, and normally I can.” Elliot smiled, flashing his dimples--she just noticed. “Mr. Hale talks a lot about you... well, bad stuff mostly.” Isabella rolled her eyes, of course. “I used to think that Ms. Isabella is a superficial person--” “Oh gosh, what did he even say?” Isabella cut as she sliced the last of her steak and put it inside her mouth. “Something untrue, I believe, because Ms. Isabella here seems far more wonderful than how he makes you,” he said. “Pardon my impudence, but I don’t understand why a woman as amazing as Ms. Isabella would be with Mr. Hale.” Isabella sipped her orange juice then said, “Arranged marriage, most definitely.” “But you deserve so much more.” Isabella sipped her juice again as she sneaked a glance to Elliot. He’s staring at her deeply with his hazel eyes. He’s serious, she realized. Of course, I deserve more, but what should I do with my mother... “No one should tie a knot to such a disrespectful person like him. He needs to learn first to respect others. If you’re about to tell me that I’m also tying myself to him through work, at the very least work isn’t forever. Marriage, however, is forever,” he said. True, and true. Maybe it’s already time for her to put aside her mother’s wish for once and let her see for herself the reality of it. Surely, she wouldn’t force her daughter to marry a violent man, would she? If her mother thought she’s lying to avoid marriage, well, didn’t she have the proof right here? “Will you help me, then, Elliot, if I say I would talk to my mother about this? Will you be as helpful as giving a testimony about Mr. Hale’s true nature? My mother never believes me because he’s been acting sweet and gentle in front of her,” Isabella said while dabbing her lips with a tissue. Elliot replied, “Certainly I would, but how...” Isabella rose from her seat and took a name card from her purse, she handed it to Elliot. “Contact me. Your help would mean the world to me. Oh, and I will help you too if you want to resign from that tyrant.” Elliot gazed at the name card and quickly hid it inside his pocket when he saw from afar that Mr. Hale had come back. “I will, Miss.” When Mr. Hale came back, the deal was sealed and Isabella had left the dinner. It’s quite normal for her to leave early while Horrendous Hale was finding some sort of ‘fresh air’. She just hoped that Elliot would be okay while they worked together to wriggle out of the tyrant’s hand.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Road Trip** As things begin to warm up, I thought it would be the perfect week to do a little literary traveling. This week’s challenge is to use the theme of **’road trip’** in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week Spotlights are postponed for this week. They will be included in next week’s post. I am sorry for any inconvenience. Thank you all for being patient.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Those sirens never get old. They never stop and probably won't. They haven't stopped since my earliest memory. The only constant thing in this life we share. No one knows what happened before but that doesn't matter. They left us with this ground. Desolate and infertile. Nothing grows. The sky filled with grey and white tones. While there are night and day, we never see where the light comes from. The clerics' talk of stories of this bright entity in blue colored skies covering fields of green. Structures that put what we have to shame. Spires that broke the sky. Machines that made machines. And then conflict. One not ever seen before. The cause of all this despair. But we have thrived and discovered our past before the great desolation. Tools, materials, knowledge, and worst of all, weapons. We have little but we live on. We suffer loss but we can't stop. That would be the end of the last precious thing we have. Our lives." The man downed the last gulp of his drink. Continuing spitting the bullshit the barkeep has heard before. The past this, the past that. That couldn't be changed and he knew that. They both did however one was sober and the other drunk of the alchest from the past. How ironic the barkeep thought. He asked if the man needed anything else before he left to clean the tables. The man couldn't even speak. He left and began to clean the few tables he crafted. Crude yet sturdy, like the barkeep. The creator does so in his own image. He gets caught up listening to another patrons' conversation before he realizes the man at the bar was reaching over the counter. The barkeep speaks up, "Can I help you with that?" The man looks over and pulls a bone shiv from his sleeve while rummaging his other. It's a common tool for most people so it wasn't surprising. As he pulled the shiv out, the man shouted to stay away. The few others that were in there looked on. Being threatened by a drunk wasn't new. And it will happen again. They tried to talk him down but he wasn't listening. He said he needed it to pay a debt. The barkeep didn't care but he kept quiet. The others keep talking. Finally, the barkeep spoke up. "Let me help so you don't make a mess." The man fell off his seat and threatened the barkeep, barely keeping his words together, "Stay away, you don't need to get hurt over this." The barkeep didn't care. He slowly stepped to the back of the bar and went to where he kept the payments for his services. He bent over to open the container. The barkeep began to stand and realized the man had moved almost on top of him behind the bar. He hadn't realized how tall this man was till now. He looked down on the barkeep, "Where is it?!" The keeper didn't answer. Again the man said, "Where is it!!" He lunged forward. The barkeep was ready. He stood as he came close. In the blink of an eye, the man's hand was gone. It landed on the bar counter. The man screamed in agony, collapsed, and crawled away from the barkeep clutching his now handless arm. The barkeep spoke in a thunderous tone, "Leave or I'll take an ear so you'll listen!" The man, who must have sobered up, stood and fled into the night. "Everybody out," the barkeep shouted. They listened and left as he asked. No one would disrespect one of the few people who can make alchest. When they left, he stood there, thinking. He hadn't used it in almost 30 years. The glow of his Ion blade caused a slight purple hue to bounce around the room. He stared at the blade that sat on the counter. It was about a meter in length, had an ornate metal handguard, and a matte grey metal blade. It was edged with an unknown material that allowed the weapon to produce the ionized edge. No ordinary man could obtain such a weapon, however. A tear fell from the barkeep's face as he poured himself a drink. He looked to the bottom of the glass. Looked out through the space in front of him and drank. Another vow broken. Survived through triumph, broken by experience. It all flooded back. The men who died next to him, the men who caused this. The men he killed. He broke down. It was all so close to being forgotten. He threw his glass against the wall. He could barely live with himself let alone in this fucked up place we have to call home. He sobbed for a good time. He finally composed himself, realizing he has to live on for those he lost, just long enough to walk to his room in the back of the bar and find the bed. He began the next day like any other; by picking up the mess from last night. Lucky for him the blade didn't cause any blood to drop from the man's stub. Blood is hard to remove from wood. So like most days, he finishes quickly. Swept the floor, straightened the counter, organized tables, and the like. And again, like most of those days, he's alone. Thinking. "What's the point?" he says to himself, almost remorseful. Like he betrayed his friend. But nevermind that, today's another day, and he must move on. He soon found himself alone again. Frozen. Like that day. He never liked that day. The commander kept reminding everyone. “They want your homes, they want your wives, and they want your land. They will take it if we don't stop them”. The things he did to protect what was his. He remembers the screams he heard. Almost Like a symphony when it's mixed with the slashing of weapons and the ripping of flesh as the raid occurred. He remembers watching his fellow soldier strike down a family with nothing but a blank stare. He became an empty husk of a man. Then, it was his ceremonious turn to spill blood and he saw his offering. A man, trying to escape. He chased him through the house, but he was too slow for a trained soldier. He grabbed the man. The man was speaking a different language. He ignited his ion blade... they never did bleed when he used that. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, falling over a table and knocking it over. There was a surprise underneath. A boy, maybe 7. The soldier the barkeep was did not know what he just did. He looked at his hands, not knowing he had this dangerous potential. He became a man he didn't want to. He looked at the boy and lit his blade one more time. The barkeep is knocked out of his trance. “Shit”, he said to himself. It's almost dusk and the bar was ready to be open. “How long had past?” He kept muttering obscenities to himself, cursing he let his day go away again. This happened often to him. Losing time. Nevermind that, there was something more pressing: the patrons. He opened the bar and not long after the place began to fill. More than usual. It was nice not to be alone. Drinks were being poured, conversations being made. Of course like any night, someone ruined the night and he was a familiar man. This time he wasn’t alone. The handless man from the other night had come back looking for revenge and thought he could do so through his friends. Some patrons left. The strong ones stayed and gave them no mind. He waited at the bar counter. The handless man came up and started to heckle the barkeep. What an arrogant man he was. The other men that were with him lined the counter next to the handless man. The 3 of them stayed quiet, just like the barkeep. Finally, after a few minutes of annoyance, the barkeep answered him, “Back again?” The handless man was back for what he was the first time he was here. This time he also wanted his hand. Well, the barkeep was not going to let that happen. He laughed slightly. The man was annoyed with that answer and grabbed the barkeep but the neck, demanding that he surrender the vault. The barkeep could barely get words out. The other patrons noticed and one had stepped up. This one sat in the corner all night and kept to himself. Interesting. The lonely man grabbed the handless man's shoulder, “I think it's best you let him go.” The handless man looked back and threw his hand away and nodded to his friends. The handless man let go. “Well, this is great,” the barkeep said to himself. The handless man let the barkeep go only because the lonely man had used his own blade against his friends. “Are you fucking kidding me,” the man shouted as he watched his friend catch the blade with his chest. The first man fell. The barkeep smashed a glass over the head of the handless man knocking him down. The others ran after they saw the barkeep ignite his ion blade from behind the counter. He followed them with curses as they returned to their holes. Everyone looked on as if they never saw him before. At least not like this. The lonely man grabbed the handless man, “I’ve been looking for this one for a while now.” He’s a bounty hunter apparently. The bounty hunter apologized for what he did and offered money or help to pick up the mess but the barkeep declined. The bounty hunter left without a noise after that. And that was it. Like any other night. All this action and it was over along with the night. This was not the chaos he was used to. Like other nights, he was off to bed. The next morning was different. He was woken by a knock at his door. It was the bounty hunter. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “What do you want” “I was hoping to ask a few questions as a follow up for what happened last night” “I thought your type wasn’t interested in details?” “I'm no ordinary bounty hunter, I guess.” The barkeep let him in. They took a table. The barkeep offered a drink. The hunter nodded and accepted it. “What is it you want to know?” “When did you first see him here?” “3 days ago. He came in by himself. He tried to steal from me so i defended himself.” “I'm assuming you took his hand?” The barkeep nodded. “And you let him go?” the hunter said “Yes. I had no idea he was a bounty or that hunters even came this way. The local gangs have had a hold out here for a while now” “Not anymore,” he said plainly. There was silence for a moment as the hunter wrote. “Now I have a few more questions for you and then we’ll be done” He flipped his notebook. “Where did you get the blade?” “Why does that matter?” “I’m curious,” said the hunter almost demanding “Do I have to ask you to leave?” “No. We all saw what happened that night. I'm the only one brave enough to ask about it.” The barkeep kept quiet for a moment. The hunter was a patient man. As if he waited his whole life for something. “I'm a soldier, or at least was one” the barkeep finally said. “The Unification?” The barkeep hung his head, “Yes.” “Any good stories?” The barkeep paused, “None that anyone should hear.” Another long moment passes with both of them silent. The barkeep spoke first for once. Maybe because he believed the hunter was someone who finally understood, “How about you?” What do you mean?” the hunter said almost surprised “What's your story? You're a bounty hunter with an impressive weapon, and you don’t hide it as I do. You were in a righteous war or something?” “No...,” he said softly, “I made this one myself actually. But my profession has a story.” The barkeep sat ready to listen like he had his other patrons. “It was a long time ago. I'll never forget. It was my birthday. My mother had passed before I wasn't even old enough to know her. It was just me and my father. He had gotten me a device that I could use to discover and listen to these random signals that exist invisibly in the air. It helped me find tools and equipment to make my weapon...” The barkeep kept listening and offered to get the hunter another drink. The hunter, again, nodded. The hunter took a long sip and continued, “... He tried his best and that's all that mattered. But that day is one I won't forget. We heard a loud bang nearby and my dad told me to hide. He was a soldier so he was always cautious since he had his war, he knew how to handle himself. I hid and as soon as I did he came running through the door. Soon after another set of legs entered. They were armored. He was screaming saying to leave us alone and not to hurt anyone.” The barkeep got up and went for his own drink. His first in years. He felt like it for once in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he *wanted* to do something. He poured himself a tall glass while the hunter talked. He sat and pondered and let the words of the hunter go through his head. Not hearing anything. Finally, he took his sip. The hunter continued, “Then a faint glow appeared and a hissing noise. That man killed my father in cold blood. He fell out of the man's hands and knocked the table I was under over. The man looked down at me. He was frozen. Like he didn’t know what he just did.” The barkeep nodded not listening to what was being said. “You. You killed him” The barkeep stopped mid-sip. “What did you say?” “You remember, don’t you? That day. I remember your face. Do you remember mine?” The barkeep was frozen “Frozen again? How can you feel when you act like a monster?” The barkeep put his glass down, wiped his face, and looked at the boy. He remembered alright. Every bit of his face. “You look like your father.” “You shut the fuck up!!” he screamed as a tear ran down his face. “I'm sorry but...” “No...” The boy shouted, “...you don’t get to say that. Not after what you did. With no remorse” The barkeep was calm. Almost like he was in this position before. The barkeep said sternly, “Well what are you going to do, boy? You're the man now. You found your last bounty and you're going to cry? Yes I killed him and I gave up the blade after that day but I will do what I must to defend myself.” The barkeep ignited his blade. It was more red this time, from the overheating of the blade. “The same color as I remember,” the boy said, pulling his blade out. It was black. As dark as a moonless sky. A never-ending blackness that was the boy's heart. The barkeep walked around the counter and the boy stood up. They faced each other and prepared themselves. The boy is a vengeful mess. The soldier, ready for whatever fate was planning. They raised their weapons ready to end the years of pain for whoever won and lost. They stepped forward and swung. A slash, ripped flesh, and a dropped weapon. “I'm sorry.” the man said.


The year was 2020, and the earth was ridden with war, famine, sickness and hate. Josh was 21, sitting in his apartment thinking about what his life had become. He grew up in the north of england, but had moved a lot, never settling down in one place. His mother, the last - and the only person he held dear to him, was gone. He reminisced sorrowfully about the trips he'd take on his walk with his mother on his way to school. Josh found it hard to make friends, most likely at this time due to his ineptitude to socialise properly. Everyone thought he was strange and queer, but his mum thought he was perfect. At the age of 15 his mother passed away in a car accident whilst her and Josh were having an argument. Six weeks later at her funeral Josh stood wistfully afore her tombstone. Written on her tombstone was: "RIP Nicola, loving mother and respected artist" right above "greed is the quickest road to perdition". Josh didn't quite know how to feel in the years to come, but at 18 a gentleman in a bar made an offhanded comment on his mother, causing Josh to lash out and break the guy's nose. Josh lost 2 years of his life for this, paired with dropping out of school without any grades after his mother's funeral, he had robbed himself of his own life by 20 years of age. As Josh sat in his room, an epiphany came into his head. He would go back in time and save his mother! Josh had a small obsession with demons, and supposed dark practices, as he spent much time alone trying to distract himself with something interesting to draw attention away from his pain. He drew out an empty book, snagged out a couple of sheets of blank, he then proceeded to aquire a razor from an old disposable shaver. He hurried as he chanted the summoning rhyme he required and plunged the razor deep into his palm... nothing, silence, Josh was dissatisfied with what happened and ultimately felt stupid for even trying. Later that night, Josh went to bed. It was the middle of the night, just passed one in the morning as Josh woke up to a seeminhly almighty glow. Josh was starstruck with fear, having been in prison he thought he had seen it all, but this was something different entirely, otherworldly, even. "Josh, I have come to grant you any 7 wishes you desire!". Josh couldn't believe it! It actually worked! Josh scurried to the end of his bed in absolute awe of what was present. He knew exactly what he wanted. His first wish was to be the smartest person, ever, smart enough to build a time machine, so he could go back to his own mind as he was when he was 15, but with his own current cognitive abilities and thoughts. His second wish; to have his mother's art career really kick off, as good as she was, it's the least Josh thought could do for her. Third wish was to solve world hunger once he had arrived back in 2016 and subsequently the fourth wish was for world peace and the fifth and sixth, complete equality and eradication of sickness. Josh figured he'd get a kick from that, knowing he erased famine, war and hate. Before his seventh wish, Joshua asked the being a question, he asked for it's advice. The being only said that his wishes would change many things for not only the past timeline Josh wanted to enter, but also the present one he would leave behind. Josh took a moment to think upon this. He imagined for what his mother would want. He thought of how if famine, war and sickness wasn't pertinent then that would only create new problems, possibly with accommodation and the world's economy. He tried ever so hard, for once in his life to not think of what he wants, but what is needed for the greater good. He then made a decision... Joshua wished that his previous wishes become retrogressed, for the world to be reverted back to it's initial state. As the being dispersed in a puff of light, Joshua remained on his bed, with cold tea by his bedside, sitting with a strong sense of saudade whilst looking at the scar on his hand think about what could have been, Joshua knew that to rob fate of it's own destiny for the sake of his own would be to rob everyone on earth of theirs. He realised everything happens for a reason, be it good or evil, but ultimately those things need to happen, lest for the perversion of fate by one lead to evil's entry upon another's soul. Joshua knew, by pursuing his own greed he'd be leading others into further turmoil. And Joshua knew, after all - greed is the quickest road to perdition.


Rupert looked through the file in his hands before getting out of his car. New ID, check. Real estate listing, check. Keys for a 2008 Honda Accord, check. Directions for everything his client has to do for the next eight months while she waits for trial, check. Rupert opened his car door and stepped out onto the drizzle glazed street and headed toward the cozy diner. Mable’s was his favorite place to conduct this type of business. He even had his own booth in the back where he had a good view of the door. Plus, Mable had the best apple pie. Her coffee was mediocre because she made it so hot that it tasted burnt, but the pie made up for it. The bell over the door tinkled as he entered, and Mable herself nodded at him from behind the yellow Formica counter where she was clearing some dishes from the last customers. Rupert nodded back and held up his finger to show he wanted his usual order. He then proceeded to his favorite red vinyl booth and settled in to wait. His client should be there in fifteen minutes. Rupert himself always arrived fifteen minutes early so that he could settle in and be prepared for whatever may happen. In the eight years he had been doing this, he thought he had run into all of the possible situations. A guy who decided to run, a woman who wanted to bring her boyfriend, a guy who was followed and got stuck in a standoff. Rupert was prepared. Mable brought his pie, coffee, and a small bowl filled with an assortment of creamers. “How are you doing today, sweetie?” she asked genially. “Oh, same old, same old. You know how it goes.” Rupert grabbed a sugar packet to dump in his coffee, and Mable returned to her work. Rupert glanced at his watch, and the hand ticked closer to twelve. He generously added hazelnut creamer to his coffee and stirred before sipping. The sweetness almost overrode the burnt flavor... almost. He was preparing for his first bite of pie when his client entered. Rupert stood as the blond swiveled her head searching the room for him. She saw him and nodded with a frown. As she approached, he took in her hair tied back in a ponytail and her relaxed attire of a baggy red t-shirt synched at the bottom to accentuate her curves and black yoga pants. “Please take a seat,” he invited, motioning to the bench seat across from his. “So how is this going to go?” she asked, setting her designer handbag on the seat before sliding in after it. She was straight to the point, which Rupert hadn’t expected. His client was an Instagram model with thousands of followers who had gotten entangled in some nasty mob business. Who would have thought that notorious mobster Big Nose Tony would have a thing for Instagram? “You’re going to send out one last pic to throw them off your scent. It has to be something completely unrelated to where you’re going or what you’re doing.” “How am I supposed to do that? You wouldn’t tell me where I’m going.” “Pick something from your collection that includes a beach,” Rupert said simply. He looked over to Mable and caught her eye. She was there in two seconds to take the young woman’s order. “Just a water,” the blond said. When Mable left, Rupert slid the folder over the table. “Your new name is Ingrid Moore. You’re from Iowa but are moving to Michigan. This is your new ID,” he said pointing to the ID with a less than flattering picture of his client, “and this is your apartment.” He pointed to the listing. “It’s only one bedroom and doesn’t mention a dishwasher,” she noted. “Right. It’s basic and unnoticeable like you are going to be for the next eight months.” “How am I going to keep up with my Instagram?” she asked. “Part of my routine is my cooking pictures.” “That brings me to the next thing. Let me see your phone.” Rupert held out his hand. The blond now known as Ingrid reached into her bag and pulled out an iPhone in a sparkly purple case and posted one last pic to Instagram. Rupert took the phone from her and handed her a gray, utilitarian flip phone. “This is your phone now. Only I have the number, and my number is programmed. You are to call no one. You understand?” “How would I call anyone? You have my phone with all of my contacts.” “There will be absolutely no social media. No Tweets. No pictures on your Instagram. Not even a Facebook message to your grandma for her birthday.” He was stern. He had had clients break this rule before. Sometimes people were so addicted that they couldn’t resist the siren’s call of spying on an old flame or connecting with family. Ingrid pouted. “This is going to kill my brand. I am going to lose so many followers. You just don’t understand.” “Don’t worry. In eight months, you’ll stage a comeback and explain that you had something huge that kept you from your fans like a Buddhist yoga retreat that has made you a more aware influencer. You will post about the plight of the Tibetans, and everything will be all better.” Rupert neglected to mention that many people that go into Witness Protection need to stay there beyond the trial to prevent retribution for their testimonies. “The keys there are for your new apartment and a gray Accord you’ll find parked out front. Your car will be towed to a safe place for storage. In the Accord, you will find a box of supplies: some clothes, some food to get you started, and a box of brown hair dye.” Ingrid lifted the tip of her ponytail. “I haven’t had brown hair since I was fourteen.” “Well, Ingrid, you have brown hair now, and you are expected to maintain it through the trial. It is part of your disguise. You are too recognizable as you are. How many followers do you have?” “Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty-five as of this morning,” she answered without missing a beat. “What am I supposed to do for the next eight months if I can’t post?” “Watch some TV, read a book, practice some new recipes,” Rupert suggested. “Just stay incognito.” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll start writing a book,” she said. “No one would believe all this anyway.” “As long as the jury believes it,” he said and took the last bite of his pie. “No getting in touch with agents to discuss book deals until this is all over. Your mantra for the next eight months is ‘I am incognito.’” She stared at him. “Repeat after me,” he said. “I am incognito.” “I am incognito,” she said mockingly. “Say it again like your life depends on it, which it kind of does.” “I am incognito,” she said with less attitude. “Good. Now, I have one last thing for you.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a prepaid debit card wrapped in a piece of paper. “This has some funds loaded to it and a website login for the local grocery delivery service where you will be staying. Use it. Have your groceries delivered as much as possible to avoid time in public. Tip fifteen percent. Don’t be stingy, and don’t be too generous to call attention to yourself. You have a budget, so don’t be too extravagant. None of those caviar omelets you like to fix.” “You’ve seen my work,” Ingrid observed with a smile. “I do my research,” Rupert replied. “I also included a copy of Harry Potter in your supplies since you said it was one of your favorite book series. “Your GPS is programmed to take you to your new home with a few pre-approved rest-stops along the way. Don’t wander off the path. Give me a call if you have any questions or run into any issues. She looked down at the table as if pondering how she had gotten here or what she was going to do now, and then she looked up. “Is this really it?” “This is it for now. I’ll be in touch to check in on you when you arrive and when we get closer to the trial date. Remember your mantra,” he said, standing from his seat. “I am incognito,” she said with feeling this time and shook his hand. He watched her head out the door with a tinkle of the bell, and he placed a ten-dollar bill on the table for Mable. He’d be back next week with his next client. He really needed to hit the gym to make up for all of this pie.


It was 1983, but not quite the version you remember. In third grade gifted class, we made these little terrariums. I thought they were the coolest. Mrs. Manchester lined us up in front of a formica table covered with newspaper, a bag of potting soil, and a box of gravel. We each got our own fishbowl and filled it up, added a lonely jade plant, spritzed water on top, and behold, we were gods. My fishbowl was green and tumbled like sea-glass, not smooth and transparent like everyone else’s. “The pet store didn’t have enough new bowls,” Mrs. Manchester said. “Sorry, Eileen. I found this one in Mr. Reed’s storage closet.” Mr. Reed was our janitor, and he could fix anything. I didn’t mind getting an old bowl. It was beautiful. “Take them home tonight and make them your own,” Mrs. Manchester said. The next day, we shared our creations. Laura Jane Katz had stolen three plastic GI Joe soldiers from her brother Jim’s stash and put them in her terrarium. Her big brother, Tom, had rented War Games on VHS when their parents were at the dinner theater, and she’d been fixated on war ever since. “The Russians blew up a plane in Korea,” she said ominously. “Tom says they can blow us up, too.” Ben Sibely had found a baby bullfrog in his basement window well and held him prisoner in his fishbowl. We’d all just seen the movie about Adam Walsh’s kidnapping on primetime and felt sorry for the frog. Becca France had poured tiny square glitter all over her world. We just shook our heads. Most of our parents worked for Jensen Chemical. Didn’t she know she was poisoning the soil? Me, Eileen Luo, I loved the containment of the sphere, the elegance, the sense of purpose it gave me. I was responsible for my domain, and I would not abandon it. I’d added a pink Polka Dot plant from Mama’s garden, because lo, Let There Be Some Color . Hot lunch was spaghetti and meatballs, which made the cafeteria smell like tomatoes and vomit. Afterwards, we lined up for recess along the concrete block wall outside the cafeteria, under the black and yellow Fallout Shelter sign. We did drills now and then, and I never understood how standing under the sign would protect us from a nuclear bomb. Our school was nice and all, but I had doubts it had the money for being bomb-proof. If Clark Elementary were that rich, our lunch wouldn’t reek like barf every third Monday of the month. Outside, the sun had stopped rising in the sky. We didn’t notice at the time. It was cold for the middle of October in Harrisburg and we pulled our hoods over our heads. On the playground, I stood at the top of the metal slide, behind Becca. She did a flip effortlessly on the crossbar before gliding gracefully down. I envied her bravery and attempted to summon the gumption to follow. But down near the big gingko tree in the middle of the park, a gaggle of kids squatted, white Nikes and Tretorns in a circumference. Zip! The metal slide was cold on my legs, and I ran over to my classmates. Ben Sibely hid his fishbowl under his jacket. Cupped in his palms, he held a katydid the color of sour apple. Her antennae quivered between his fingers. “No, Ben,” Becca said firmly. “They sell crickets at the pet store for that.” “What’s the difference?” Ben said. “Those get eaten alive too. But this one’s free .” “That’s not fair to the katydid,” I protested. “She’s part of the park. She’s not part of the terrarium.” “Mr. T was part of my backyard,” Ben said, pointing to his frog. “And he’s hungry.” I was about to witness an animal sacrifice. A large bug to be chewed alive before our eyes. I could feel the spaghetti becoming real vomit, creeping up my esophagus. “You’re not God,” I said, sweat dripping down my armpits. What was God, anyway? My parents never talked about God much. Baba claimed Buddhist affiliations when people invited him to church potlucks. And Mama said when we died, it was like turning off a lamp. Ben stood firm and crossed his arms. “I’m his God. He’s my frog, and I have to feed him.” Becca picked up a twig and tapped the glass. “Poor guy. He looks lonely.” Mr. T’s eyes were closed, like he’d resigned himself to his glass matrix. Ben dropped the katydid next to him, but Mr. T ignored it. “It’s not a real world. You shouldn’t butt in,” I said. “Why’d Mrs. Manchester give us a terrarium if we’re not gonna take care of it?” Ben said. “You should build a hole for your frog,” Laura Jane advised. “For when the nukes come.” Our bodies cast abbreviated shadows onto the cracked sidewalk. Unsure of what was to come, purple late-blooming asters tilted their faces away from the sky. Canadian geese tottered along the creek across the street, unsettled by the immobile sun. The pale blue sky yawned above, and for the rest of the day, nothing momentous happened at Clark Elementary. But an hour previously, three events had crystallized, causing the sun to stop in its tracks. Number One. Halfway around the world, above the Black Sea, a low-orbit satellite for the US Strategic Defense Initiative malfunctioned. Like a thief dropping his crowbar onto a tile floor, the atmosphere released the satellite into Soviet airspace. Number Two. At the Soviet Air Defense Force command center in Moscow, a computer chip glitched, resulting in the lone US satellite appearing as four-hundred high-speed missiles on radar, headed straight for the USSR. Number Three. A solar storm flared, releasing electromagnetic radiation and disrupting the radar system. It resembled a massive jam of the Soviet defense operation. Calls to General Secretary Andropov were made. He had no choice. There was no question what had to be done. This meant war, and certain nuclear winter. At that point, the invisible hand intervened, stopped the Earth from turning, and interrupted the sun in its worn path across the Heavens. See, Earth had been at it for almost five billion years. If you’d been watching animals evolve into brilliant flashing cuttlefish, only to have them sicken and die in a nuclear Armageddon, wouldn’t you feel a bit gypped? Back in class, Mrs. Manchester read us a chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows and we ate Jiffy Pop for a snack. When school let out, the sun had not shifted in the sky. Our great yellow school bus stopped before the railroad tracks, creaked its front door open, peered across, and lurched us home, all under the mid-morning sun. At eight in the evening, I sat with my terrarium on my bed, cardinals still chirping in the dogwood in front of my bedroom. A Lone Star Tick crept up the leaves of the Polka Dot plant. I reached in the bowl, plucked the tick out and squashed it in a Kleenex. I breathed a sigh of relief. And then, I saw it. All of us gods saving our little worlds, our dear creatures, our terraformed dioramas. I saw Ben feeding Mr. T. brown crickets from Concord Pet Supply, Laura Jane sheltering her GI Joes into a cut-up chocolate milk carton, Becca adding green slime to the glitter coating her dirt. As I held the green fishbowl, I saw the invisible hand hold our planet, sweep away errant satellites out past Earth’s orbit, shield us from the sun’s wrathful outbursts, reset computers, turn back anxieties, rewind incalculable misunderstandings, stall omnipresent fears, and postpone inevitable death. You don’t remember that 1983, because the gods were looking out for you.


The four legs of the aged, wooden chair screeched across the tiled floor as I pushed back from the kitchen table. I lazily lifted myself from my seat using the palms of my hands on the worn-down arm rests. "Tea?" I asked, offering a shallow yet reassuring smile to the stranger sitting on the opposite end of the table. He was decades younger than me, possibly late twenties, yet the look of fear on his cleanly shaven face exuded the naivety of a child in trouble. The poor lad was shivering, just recently enduring the brunt of the thunderstorm that continued to rage outside. Clearly, he wasn't prepared for any such rain, his gray pullover sweatshirt drenched all the way through to his skin, black hair painted to his forehead and sides of his face. His pale hands were as pruney as mine, yet mine were from age and not water. He was soaked to the bone. Didn’t take much to soak him though, his slender frame and lanky extremities were comical compared to my rather rotund build. I needn’t impress anyone and decades worth of heavy stouts decorated me heavy. "Umm, no...no," he responded, rubbing his hands feverishly together before cupping them in front of his mouth. After a pause, he spoke again. "Thank you, though." "A warm mug and even warmer liquid serve a better purpose than your breath," I insisted. "Are you sure?" The boy trembled and although his body language insisted being persistent in his initial answer, he wound up nodding. "Good choice. I'll grab you a cup." I walked toward the stove where my tea kettle sat, hearing the agitated water boiling from within. I knew it was just the right temperature for tea, but I still waited for the hiss before pulling it from the fluorescent orange coils. The kettle shrieked, my ears unprepared for the piercing screech despite the anticipation. I pulled it from the stove, the whistle settling down enough for me to hear the water bubbling inside. I placed it down gently on the blue-clothed placeholder my wife had knitted, then opened the cupboard above the sink. I paused for a moment, staring at the floral-patterned mugs. A fleeting thought of my wife passed. It was odd for her not to be home yet. I begged my mind not to run rampant, refocusing it on hosting. I looked over my shoulder toward the stranger, his eyes pinballing between myself and the front door in the room adjacent to us. I quickly looked back toward the cupboard as his eyes met mine. I hoped he didn't perceive my gaze as judging, but his demeanor began to worry me. I grabbed the box of tea and three cups, and brought them toward the table. "Are...are you expecting someone else?" The boy asked timidly, shifting uncomfortably toward the edge of his seat. “I expect my wife home at any moment,” I answered unconvincingly. I sat back down across from him and pulled my chair in. “I hope you like chamomile, we seem to be running low on our tea supplies.” I chuckled but he remained disinterested, staying on high alert. “Chamomile sounds fine,” he responded. His gaze was glued to the third mug, one in which I set at the third empty seat with a tea bag hanging over the side. “You said she’s coming home soon?” “In due time, I’d like to believe.” I started pouring the hot liquid into his cup, the smoky sweet aroma filling the air. It beckoned sleep, but I wasn’t ready. “I’d imagine you’d like to steep yourself, yes?” I asked, handing him the cup. He seemed hesitant to grab it at first, for some odd reason, but the second his damp hands gripped themselves around the heated ceramic, he showed the first signs of comfort since arriving at my doorstep. His forehead relaxed, the wrinkles dissipating like smoothing the comforter of a freshly made bed. His shoulders rolled back, and he melted in his chair as he let the steam engulf his nose. The rain continued pelting the asphalt roof of my one-floor house; a clash of thunder mixed in to add to the dreariness of the often occurring New England Winter storms. We sat in silence as we continued drinking our tea. Every so often, I’d run my hand over the spout of the kettle to sense the temperature from within. I needed it to be ready for her once she got home. “I’m John, by the way,” I announced. “And you? I think it’s a better time than ever to introduce ourselves, don’t you think?” “I suppose,” the stranger answered timidly, then took the last sip of his tea. “I...I’m Harry.” There was still a bit of a shutter to his voice, an uneasiness about him that I was still trying to make sense of. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t one to pry much. I figured the less I talked, the more he’d be willing; I was the gracious host. As anticipated, he broke the silence after allowing me to finish my tea. “May I use your phone?” He pointed toward the beige, corded antique that was mounted on the wall behind me. “It’s of no use,” I laughed. “That thing hasn’t worked in years. Never had personal calls, I’ll tell you that, only pesky telemarketers. I much enjoy the silence from it.” Harry’s eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in displeasure. “Then a cellphone?” “Those are about as useless as my landline in these parts.” “But do you have one? Can I at least try?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Even if one worked, I don’t have one.” “Well, is there something you could do to help me? A car, something?” He began to rise in his chair, seemingly infuriated, but quickly sat back and settled himself. It was as almost if he had realized he lost his manners - I was certainly glad he found them. “No,” I urged, gripping the arm rest of my chair until my knuckles turned white. “I’ve already offered you all that I have. The wife has the car, we can discuss once she’s back. You can wait out the storm and be on your way.” “Sor...sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He was cautious with his tone. “I just, well...” “I’m concerned that you’re even here, boy.” At that point, I grabbed the kettle and poured the hot water into the mug I left out for my wife. I began steeping the bag, my eyes locked onto Harry’s stare. “These woods are deep. I’m rightfully concerned for those who find themselves here. You ain’t fleeing from the Canadian border are you? You a criminal?” “No, no, no, no,” he answered anxiously. “Do I look like one?” He held his arms out to his side and gazed at his body. It appeared he wanted to play into his rather unthreatening build to make his case. “I’m part of a hiking group. We set a check point a few miles back, I assume a few miles. I ventured off before the storm hit and, well, lost my way.” My eyes narrowed as I focused on his rapidly blinking ones. I was tempted to continue toying with the boy but my better half prevailed. He seemed to be telling the truth. “Oh relax, I didn’t peg you f...” The phone rang, the sudden surprise swallowing my words. “I...I thought that didn’t work?!” He yelped. He was panicking, shifting left to right in his seat, slightly flinching with every ring. The phone finally settled. The two of us remained silent in our seat, anticipating our next move. The tension grew strong to the point where I felt the weight settle deep in my chest. Harry sprung up from his seat and without hesitation, I reached across and forced him back down by the shoulders. “Sit!” I screamed, reaching into the depths of my belly to incite a commanding tone. I went to yell again but decided against it. I began rubbing the tips of my index finger and thumb together to calm myself. I felt as though I needed to start explaining myself. I wasn’t the one to be afraid of but sometimes my anger bested me. Harry was as still as a statue, the color drained from his face. “Cou...could I... I mean... I,” he began saying, most likely attempting to bargain for his departure. It didn’t surprise me that the words could not escape his mouth. The muscles of his neck were tense, almost strangling him. He was skinny enough for me to notice the rapid pulsation of his carotid just under his chin. “Could you leave?” I suggested soothingly. He attempted to speak again but words failed him. He frantically nodded instead, a sliver of hope gracing his face. “In this storm? In this cold? Doubt you make it a mile.” I took in a deep breath, my belly expanding into the rounded edge of the table, and then released a dragged out sigh. “She’s too persistent.” I pushed my glasses up over my scraggy, grey hair atop my head and began rubbing my face. Harry’s chair crashed to the tiled floor and his clunky footsteps receded toward the living room door. He yelped as he must’ve realized the bolted lock at the top of the door. I reset my glasses and stood slowly from the table. Harry had picked up one of my wife’s plug-in candlesticks from the windowsill and waved it in front of him like a sword. “Stay back!” He yelled. “Let me go!” His back was pressed against the door, feverishly jiggling the handle to try and loosen it. I knew it wasn’t budging. “The other hikers, they’ll come looking for me!” “Please, Harry, just relax,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Why don’t you just sit back down and we can talk.” “She? You said She!” He began to whimper, tears welling up in his eyes. “A woman... she’s trying to kill me!” He let out a deep sob, knees crashing to the hardwood floor. “She’s hunting me like...like a boar!” I stood over Harry, offering my hand to lift him off the ground. My shadow consumed him and he appeared no more than a helpless child just beaten in the school yard. He didn’t reach to take my hand, he had no intention. “I’m sorry she’s doing this. I thought those days were behind her.” I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. I stared at the pictures she hung on our soft green, living room walls. They were her most recent paintings: one’s of seashore landscapes, shells, and crashing waves. They were direct representations of how peaceful she could be, a side that no one saw but myself. I tried hanging onto those feelings but my slivering moment of peace turned to anger. We distanced ourselves from society for this purpose - she couldn’t control herself. “You should have never ventured up to these parts!” I hollered, ripping Harry up from the shoulder of his sweatshirt. I tossed him on our linen sofa with ease. He weighed as much as he looked. If he minded his own and stayed wherever he came from, she wouldn’t have had to do it. This was his fault. I moved angrily toward him. He pursed his lips and grunted as he lunged from the sofa, fist flying at my face. He missed. I barely needed to step aside as he stumbled to the floor, yelping as his knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall. He was a blubbering idiot, face buried in his arms as he curled up at my feet. Harry craned his neck to look up. “Please, I’m begging. I...I...,” he began to plead, his words still hard to come by. Such a gangly runt, lying there with snot running down his face and eyes swollen like a puffer fish. It was almost if my wife didn’t want much of a challenge. I felt for Harry, I really did. In that moment, I contemplated letting him face the storm, but I had no doubt he’d fail. It came time for me to realize whether I should help this sad sack or give into her like I had all these years. “Did you get a good look at her?” I asked. “Did you?” “No, not really," He answered, then repeated to sob. Once he could catch his breath, he spoke again. “It was too dark to tell. When the lightning flashed, all I could see was long hair, not sure of the color. Her clothes were drenched under her raincoat. I think it was yellow. She was a bit, well, bigger. Sorry. She kept calling me...” He paused and let out a whimper. “She kept calling me Dearie.” “Get up,” I urged impatiently. I noted the frustration in my tone, quickly trying to undermine it with an apology. No doubt it was my wife, Dearie was a term of endearment for her. “I’m sorry, boy. I let my frustration out on you. It ain’t about you. Will you take my hand now?” Harry wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You can go to hell,” he muttered, rising to his feet under his own strength. “Is it your wife? You’re expecting her, no?” He struggled to keep eye contact with me, his neck lazily supporting the head. “I’ll take my chances with the storm. You’re gonna end me right here, I know it.” I huffed and walked toward the front door. From the pocket of my jean overalls, I pulled out a key, unlocking the bolt at the top. The wind forced the door open quicker than I anticipated, freeing my grip and slamming against the stopper. The storm howled outside, freezing rain spraying in onto my bare forearms, sending chills down my spine. Lightning lit up the sky, the silhouettes of the surrounding oaks hauntingly creeping over the house. Thunder crashed only moments after the strike; the storm was just above us. “Here’s your chance, boy,” I said, gesturing toward the woods. “You got a good fifteen or so miles to, well, anywhere that can help you. Maybe get back to your hiking checkpoint? Follow the dirt road, it’ll get you somewhere.” Harry was confused, or so it seemed. I could almost feel his eagerness to sprint out the door but he didn’t move. “Please tell me, is it your wife?” He gulped. “Yes,” I answered reluctantly. “Now, go on.” I expected some sort of retort but he chose silence instead. Cautiously, he walked toward me and the door. He began to say something but car lights appeared through the dense forest and flooded the house. I slammed the door shut. “There, right there, get in!” I pointed toward the closet on the other side of the living room. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in. Now!” Harry rushed toward the door and opened it. As he looked in, his body stiffened, hand beginning to tremble on the knob. I leaned a bit to get a better look. On the floor sat a drenched blonde wig, crumpled clothes piled above the puddle they formed. Hanging on the back of the door was a yellow raincoat, water dripping steadily from the tail of it to the ground. It fit Harry’s description from earlier but the wig, the placement of the soaked clothes and how they got there didn’t add up. My mind became foggy, my memory from earlier that day beginning to escape me. “Wha...What is this?” He faced me, fists clenched and ready to charge. “Where is she?!” He backed up without taking his eyes off me, then peered down the hallway that separated the kitchen and the living room. It felt as though the wind from the storm pushed me back toward the wall, but no wind was present. I was suddenly confused. I forgot why I was standing at the door. Flashes of running through the woods flooded my mind. The smell of wet leaves, the crunching of twigs beneath my boots felt present. My prey sat in front of me, how unexpected. The white light that luminated the living room became a flashing blue and red. A smile overtook his face, a frown overtaking mine. I looked out the window at the cop cars filling up the front yard, then turned back toward the one I hunted. There was time before they entered. “Why are you leaving so soon, Dearie?” I asked, heightening the pitch of my voice. I faintly smiled as I stared upon the kitchen table, a cup laid out by my husband. “Was it the tea?”