In the heart of Houston's Broadway Street lived Richmond, a peculiar 50-year-old man known for his love of spreading gossip. What made Richmond truly remarkable, however, was the uncanny nature of his rumors. Somehow, they always seemed to come true. Word traveled fast whenever Richmond began to whisper his tales, and the townsfolk would brace themselves for the inevitable realization of his words. There was an air of both curiosity and fear surrounding his gossip, for nobody quite understood how he possessed such foresight. Huddled in the heart of the Broadway Street community stood Richmond's small greenhouse, a symbol of both simplicity and resilience, surrounded by a quaint garden bursting with vibrant blooms and aromatic herbs, the house exuded a sense of tranquility and warmth that beckoned visitors. The structure itself was modest, with weathered wooden siding painted in a faded shade of green, reminiscent of the lush foliage that thrived within its walls. A white picket fence lined the perimeter, adding a touch of charm to the property while maintaining a sense of openness and accessibility. The front porch, adorned with a few well-worn rocking chairs, invited passersby to pause, relax, and engage in conversations that often transcended casual pleasantries. One sunny afternoon, Richmond emerged from his house, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The people of Broadway Street, aware of his unique ability, couldn't help but feel a sense of unease or foreboding as they awaited his latest revelation. They knew that whatever he uttered would undoubtedly come to pass. With a sly grin, Richmond weaved his tale throughout the town, declaring that flesh-eating flowers were being secretly sold in one of the giant superstores. His words sent shivers down the listeners' spines, their minds conjuring up images of horrifying plants lurking within the shelves of even their houses, churches, libraries, and grocery stores. The news spread like wildfire, and soon, a sense of panic gripped the community. People avoided the superstore, fearing the consequences of encountering these deadly blooms. It seemed as if the town was held captive by Richmond's words, caught in a web of fear spun by his gossipy superpower. Days turned into weeks, and the town remained in a state of heightened anxiety. Richmond, observing the consequences of his rumor, began to feel the weight of his power. He had never intended for his gossip to cause such distress, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that surged through him whenever his predictions came true. Haunted by guilt, Richmond resolved to set things right. He embarked on a personal mission to find the truth behind his latest rumor, determined to alleviate the fears that had gripped Broadway Street. He delved into the research, scouring the depths of the internet and visiting local botanical experts, hoping to uncover the reality behind the spin. Days turned into nights as Richmond followed every lead, uncovering a hidden world of rare and exotic plants. Eventually, his journey led him to a renowned botanist who confirmed the existence of a rare species of carnivorous flowers known as "Dionaea carniaris." Armed with this newfound knowledge, Richmond returned to Broadway Street. He stood before the Community, who had gathered to hear his next proclamation. He admitted his fault, expressing remorse for the fear he had inadvertently caused. With sincerity in his voice, he explained the truth behind the flesh-eating flowers, assuring them that the superstore was safe. Relief washed over the crowd as Richmond's words sank in. The town slowly began to regain its composure, realizing that their fears had been unfounded. Richmond's gossip had been both a curse and a blessing, an odd power that had inadvertently brought the truth to light. In the aftermath of the ordeal, the people of Broadway Street developed a newfound respect for Richmond. They recognized the weight he carried as the town's unlikely harbinger of truth. Richmond, humbled by their forgiveness, vowed to use his superpower for good, to bring awareness to hidden truths and dispel unfounded fears. As the years passed, Richmond became a trusted figure in the community. His gossip, tempered by caution and verified information, helped the townspeople navigate their lives with newfound knowledge. Richmond's peculiar ability transformed from a source of fear to one of enlightenment, bringing the community closer together. As Richmond continued his role as the town's harbinger of truth, a new presence emerged in the Community. Anabel, a copycat who had witnessed the power Richmond held over the community, sought to replicate his ability to spread rumors. However, unlike Richmond, Anabel had no regard for the consequences her words would bring. News of Anabel's deceptive nature reached Richmond's ears, and he knew that his work was far from over. He understood the danger of allowing someone with ill intentions to hold the community hostage with false information. Determined to protect the people he had come to care for, Richmond set out to confront Anabel. On Broadway Street, at the heart of the community, stood the majestic Broadway Street Town Hall, a grand architectural marvel that served as the gathering place for important discussions and momentous occasions. As the sun cast its golden rays upon the ornate facade, the entrance doors swung open, welcoming a stream of people from all walks of life. Inside the town hall, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, as hundreds of residents filled the spacious auditorium. They were drawn to the day’s proceedings based on Anable’s latest rumor. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate moldings and sparkling chandeliers, added a touch of grandeur to the atmosphere. Rows of plush seats stretched out before a raised platform, where a polished wooden podium awaited the speaker. The walls of the auditorium were adorned with photographs and portraits depicting the rich history and notable figures of Broadway Street. Each image told a story, evoking a deep sense of pride and community spirit among the attendees. The vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls reflected the diverse cultural tapestry that made up the fabric of the town. As the meeting commenced, a hushed silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the occasional whisper and the creaking of chairs. The air was charged with a mix of nervousness, determination, and hope, as the community gathered to discuss a matter of utmost importance. The stage was set, adorned with a large backdrop bearing the emblem of Broadway Street--a symbol of unity and progress. Behind the podium, a panel of community leaders and officials awaited their turn to address the audience, their faces reflecting a mixture of responsibility and dedication. The stage was bathed in a soft spotlight, casting a glow upon the speakers as they stepped forward to address the crowd. Microphones stood ready to amplify their voices, ensuring that their messages reached every corner of the hall. The buzz of anticipation grew with each passing moment, as the gravity of the situation weighed upon everyone present. As the speakers began, their voices filled the hall, resonating with passion and conviction. They spoke of the challenges facing the community, the opportunities for growth, and the collective responsibility to shape the future of Broadway Street. Ideas, concerns, and solutions were shared, echoing through the hall as a chorus of voices united in pursuit of a common goal. The energy in the room was palpable, as the attendees listened intently, nodding in agreement, raising hands to ask questions, or applauding in support. Emotions flowed freely, from moments of passionate disagreement to instances of shared understanding and unity. And then Anabel’s voice rang out “Impeach the Mayor!” Everyone was shocked. “I have evidence of impropriety on the part of the Mayor. He must be impeached!” As confusion and bewilderment lingered in the air, Richmond stepped forward and with his booming voice said: “Please Mr. Speak disregard the young lady, she is only here to spread wild rumors” “No, Mr. Richmond. Let the young lady step forward, ‘she who asserts must prove’, that is the law” The showdown between the two rumor-mongers has begun. Tension as thick as the bark of a tree built up instantly and crackled in the air. Richmond, weathered by the weight of his unique ability, stood with conviction, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Anabel, fueled by a thirst for power, held her ground with a smirk on her face, reveling in the chaos she had sown. Her rumor was that the Mayor was having an affair with the Education Board Secretary, a married mother of four. "I won't let you manipulate this community any longer, Anabel," Richmond declared, his voice filled with authority. "Your false rumors are causing unnecessary anger, passion and harm. It's time for the truth to prevail." Anabel laughed, dismissing Richmond's words with a wave of her hand. "Oh, Richmond, you've become quite the self-righteous hero, haven't you? But what makes your rumors any different from mine? We're both playing with people's lives, just in different ways." There was a loud scoff from the crowd. Richmond's gaze hardened as he replied, "There is a crucial distinction, Anabel. My rumors are rooted in truth and carefully verified to avoid causing undue harm. I aim to enlighten, not manipulate. You, on the other hand, thrive on chaos and deception." Anabel scoffed, the arrogance in her voice evident. "Truth, lies... What does it matter? People will believe what they want to believe. It's their own fault for being so gullible." The exchange of words intensified, each combatant fighting to defend their perspective. But Richmond knew that he had to do more than just argue. He had to prove to Anabel the importance of responsible information dissemination and protect the community from her deceitful influence. With a sudden surge of determination, Richmond revealed evidence he had meticulously gathered, exposing Anabel's fabrications and the harm they had caused. Witness accounts, documents, and undeniable facts painted a damning picture of Anabel's malicious intent and how she had photoshopped some naked photos to make them look like her victims were having an affair. As the truth unfolded, the people of Broadway Street began to see through Anabel's facade. Doubts arose within them, and they turned away from her, seeking the clarity and honesty that Richmond provided. The power Anabel had held over the community crumbled, leaving her exposed and isolated. In the aftermath of the showdown, Anabel was left with a choice: to continue down her path of deception or to change her ways. Witnessing the impact of her actions and the strength of Richmond's conviction, she chose the latter. Anabel acknowledged the harm she had caused and vowed to make amends. Richmond, ever the believer in redemption, extended a hand of guidance to Anabel. He shared his knowledge and experience, teaching her the importance of integrity and empathy. Slowly but surely, Anabel began to mend the broken trust she had shattered. Over time, the wounds inflicted by Anabel's false rumors healed, and the community found solace in Richmond's steadfast commitment to truth. Anabel became a testament to the power of personal growth and the potential for change. Together, Richmond and Anabel worked to rebuild trust within the community. They became unlikely allies, using their unique abilities to expose falsehoods and enlighten the people they had once endangered. Their collaboration served as a reminder that even in the face of deception, there is always the possibility for redemption and unity. And so, the Community witnessed a transformation. The clash between Richmond and Anabel not only resolved their personal conflict but also instilled a sense of resilience within the community. United by the shared pursuit of truth, the town emerged stronger, armed with the wisdom to discern fact from fiction and to stand against those who sought to exploit their trust. Richmond's work continued, now reinforced by Anabel's newfound commitment to responsible rumor-mongering. Together, they embarked on a journey to ensure that their town would never again fall victim to manipulation or falsehood. The power of their words became a force for good, enlightening the community and fostering a sense of unity and resilience that would endure for generations to come. As Richmond and Anabel joined forces to uphold the value of truth, their unique abilities continued to shape the destiny of their community on Broadway Street. Their focus shifted beyond addressing false rumors, as they recognized the potential of their powers to prevent grave mistakes and guide the town toward a brighter future. The Community faced an economic crossroads, with impending decisions that could impact the livelihoods of its residents. Sensing the urgency, Richmond dove into extensive research, gathering information about the potential consequences of the proposed economic ventures of cryptocurrency. With careful consideration, he began to spread rumors based on his findings, aiming to safeguard the community from making ill-informed choices. The people of Broadway Street, remembering Richmond's track record of accurate rumors, paid heed to his words. They engaged in open discussions, scrutinizing the proposed projects and weighing the pros and cons. As a result, they collectively decided to steer clear of ventures that held the potential to disrupt the local economy and harm their way of life. The town's avoidance of these economic pitfalls proved invaluable. While neighboring communities struggled with the fallout from their ill-fated ventures, Broadway Street flourished, its economy stable and resilient. Richmond's ability to foresee the consequences of certain actions saved them from financial turmoil. Emboldened by this success, Richmond turned his attention towards a new challenge that had recently emerged--the fear surrounding vaccines. Misinformation and unfounded rumors had gripped the community, leading to hesitancy and putting lives at risk. Recognizing the urgent need for accurate information, Richmond and Anabel collaborated to combat the spread of fear and mistrust. Drawing from their combined knowledge, they embarked on a campaign to dispel the myths and provide factual information about vaccines. They organized community forums, inviting medical experts to address concerns and clarify any misconceptions. Richmond shared stories of how his previous accurate rumors had saved lives and emphasized the importance of relying on credible sources of information. Over time, the walls of doubt began to crumble. The people, inspired by Richmond's reputation and the evidence he presented, regained trust in the power of vaccines. They sought vaccination, knowing that it was crucial not only for their own well-being but also for the collective health of their community. Broadway Street became a beacon of vaccine acceptance, with immunization rates soaring and the community experiencing the benefits of protection against infectious diseases. Richmond's old rumors, which had once caused fear, now played a pivotal role in dispelling misconceptions and guiding the town toward a safer and healthier future. As the years passed, Richmond and Anabel continued their tireless work, using their powers to combat misinformation and promote truth. They became revered figures on Broadway Street, celebrated for their unwavering dedication to the well-being of the community. Richmond's unique gift, once a source of mystery and skepticism, had transformed into a force for positive change. He and Anabel had harnessed their abilities to protect the town from economic pitfalls and combat vaccine hesitancy, forever leaving an indelible mark on the fabric of their community. Broadway Street thrived, guided by the principles of truth and critical thinking. Richmond and Anabel's legacy lived on, reminding the people to question, verify, and rely on credible information. In their footsteps, a new generation of truth-seekers emerged, carrying the torch of knowledge and empowering the community to overcome challenges with clarity and unity.


The wind-swept farmland outside of the village of Colkirk was uncharacteristically quiet as Ahlran walked down the worn dirt path leading into the forest. Basket in hand, Ahlran stooped and looked over his shoulder back towards the village. He pulled the thin cloth hood from his head in the hope that maybe doing so would allow him to hear the familiar sounds of life from Colkirk. Quiet wasn’t the right word. Besides the sound of the wind cutting through the long stalks of grain, the fruit of another successful agricultural season, there was nothing. Utter and total silence. Even the birds, usually plentiful and noisy with their enthusiastic melodies, were nowhere to be seen. Ahlran’s young apprentice would undoubtedly see this as an omen. In the past Ahlran would quickly dismiss such superstitions, but now he wasn’t quite so confident. He was glad he came out here alone. As Ahlran’s eyes passed over the fertile plains of golden-brown grain, the small stream passing through and irrigating the crops, and over the old, but sturdy stone wall encircling Colkirk and the thatched roofs of its homes, he was struck with an acute and sudden sense of dread. Throughout his time in the village, Ahlran had come to know and love it for its liveliness. The harsh contrast of its current silence sent an uncanny chill up his spine. Ahlran turned back towards the forest and noticed that the trees had just begun to bud, the assurance that Spring was indeed here. For the first time in his life, the sight of nature’s cyclical resurrection did not fill him with joy and excitement. Undeniably, time was now running out. He let out a deep sigh, steeled himself with what resolve he could muster, and proceeded down the path, into the dense and comparatively lively forest. There was much to be done. The sun was just beginning to set as Ahlran passed through the wooden gate and entered the village. He had barely cleared the raised gate before it came crashing down behind him. He looked up behind him towards the rampart and the guard who had disengaged the locked crank and released the gate. Their eyes met just for a moment, but Ahlran saw the exhausted anger in the young man’s eyes. “Good haul?” Ahlran turned towards the voice. It was Gormal, captain of the guard here in Colkirk. Though Ahlran now regarded the enormous man as a friend, he had to admit he was still frightened of him. What Colkirk lacked in numbers it more than made up for in its quality of guards ready, even eager, to defend it. Ahlran swallowed, caught off guard by the six-and-a-half-foot giant in front of him with his piercing blue eyes and unflinchingly tight grip on his axe. “We’ll have to see if it was a good haul, but I’m optimistic.” Ahlran knew this was a lie and was convinced Gormal knew it. Gormal looked down at the basket in Ahlran’s hands, brimming with all kinds of herbs, roots, flowers, vials of numerous liquids, bones, and even a few small dead animals. Gormal looked back at Ahlran. “Let’s hope that it is.” Ahlran nodded quickly and began to walk past him. He felt Gormal’s massive hand come down on his shoulder. It was not enough to hurt him - Ahlran suspected Gormal could crush his shoulder with a mere squeeze, should Gormal feel he should -but it wasn’t a gentle touch either. Ahlran turned back towards his friend. Gormal took a deep breath. “Getting you and Erune your-,” He searched for a polite word, “-subjects is becoming difficult. I believe that you are doing the right thing, but there are many here who do not share my sentiment.” Ahlran could swear Gormal’s blue eyes were pleading to him. A few of the other guards near the gate had stopped what they were doing and were now looking at the two of them. Gormal’s grip on Ahlran’s shoulder tightened. “Do you understand?” Gormal asked calmly but firmly. Ahlran placed his own hand on top of Gormal’s. “Better than anyone, my friend,” he said. Gormal, apparently satisfied with this, nodded, and let out an affirmative grunt. He released Ahlran who quickly headed towards his home on the other side of the village. The streets were aglow in the nearing twilight and nearly deserted. This had become the norm for the past few months. As Ahlran walked down the stone path he couldn’t help but notice the looks he was getting from the small number of people who hadn’t confined themselves to the perceived safety of their homes. The owner of the local tavern was chopping wood outside his property and smiled as Ahlran passed. Much like Ahlran’s smiles these days though, it was out on more as an act of hopeful defiance, rather than genuine contentment. Further down the path, a young man and his even younger brother were staring at Ahlran with neither friendliness nor malice. Knowing that they had recently been orphaned, Ahlran felt he owed them an apology, though it wasn’t his fault. None of this had been his fault, nor the fault of anyone here. Ahlran hurried on. The path began to slope downwards now as he would have to pass by the village tomb. The ancient stone building was never very inviting, but these days it was simply dreadful to even look at. As Ahlran passed, he could see two men carrying a corpse adorned with all the ceremonial flowers and oils, pristinely wrapped in the funerary cloth in which it would remain bound and entombed amongst their ancestors for all time. A woman was holding her face in her hands and crying near the entrance to the tomb. She looked up at Ahlran as slowed down to look at her. She said nothing, but the fiery hatred that burned in her eyes left little for Ahlran to have to interpret. He hastened past the tomb. He could the voices of several people nearby, as well as one much louder voice nearly drowning out the others. As he finally made the turn on the path that would allow his home to be in view, his heart sank. A small crowd had gathered outside of his small and unassuming cottage. He recognized the source of the singular dominating voice immediately. It was Tearlach, one the village’s religious authorities and an outspoken critic of Ahlran and Erune’s profession. “This is what these heretics do to help?! As our flock lay dead and dying in the streets?!” They meddle in the forbidden arts with recklessness and utter disregard for our faith!” His voice thundered as his ornate robes, expertly tailored with intricate patterns, billowed in the wind behind him. Ahlran might have admired it if Tearlach hadn’t called for his death at every opportunity. Tearlach continued, his bald head visibly sweating. “Let us not forget, we saw the first of us fall to this affliction not long before these sorcerers, these conjurers of evil, came to our village. Do not be fooled, brothers and sisters, they are not here to help you. They are here to satisfy their own sick and twisted curiosities!” Though the crowd was only made up of about ten people, they were hanging onto every venom-laced word. The occasional cheer of approval could be heard throughout his hatred-soaked sermon. At this point, Ahlran felt more exhausted and annoyed than angry. All he wanted was to get back to his work with Erune. No one, not even Tearlach, could question his loyalties if they were successful. He resolved to simply push through the crowd without a word and close the door behind him. He knew there was no getting through to a mob when it was riled like this. However, something made him stop as he got closer. Erune was so small he hadn’t noticed her before now. Tearlach had her by the arm, despite her violent thrashing as she tried desperately to break free from his grip. It was clear that Tearlach had no intention of letting go. Ahlran’s apprehension vanished as he pushed into the crowd and headed straight for Tearlach. An unsettling smile formed on his face as he saw Ahlran approaching him. “Speak of the devil,” he hissed. “Good people! It would seem the man in question has... -,“ Ahlran cut him off as he punched him squarely in the diaphragm. Tearlach was taken completely by surprise. Doubling over, he immediately released his grip on Erune, Ahlran considered himself to be a man of peace. Violence went directly against everything he stood for. But on his front steps, in full view of everyone, he couldn’t help but take a little satisfaction in shutting Tearlach up, if only for a few precious moments. Ahlran helped Erune to her feet as Tearlach coughed and gasped for breath. “Are you alright?” Ahlran asked her. “I’m fine,” she said. Then after a short pause, “Thanks.” Apparently just as shocked as Tearlach, the crowd did nothing, as they had never seen Ahlran do anything like that before. Ahlran and Erune turned to go inside the cottage as Tearlach, still on the ground, grabbed Erune’s ankle. “You all saw!” he bellowed. “THIS is what we can expect from the likes of these two outsiders. THIS is the kind of animal we’re dealing-...” Tearlach was interrupted again, not by a strike from Ahlran, but from Erune spitting in his face. Tearlach let out a furious yell, as a commanding voice from behind the crowd roared, “That’s enough!” Everyone turned to see Gormal with a handful of armed guards at his side, his famous axe in hand. “Captain!” Tearlach yelled, hurrying away from Ahlran and Erune. “You saw what they did, did you not?!” he cried incredulously. “I did.” Gormal answered calmly. With all eyes on him, Tearlach stammered, “S-so what are you going to do about it?” Now only a few feet from him, Gormal turned his gaze toward Tearlach with a sigh. Tearlach was large, but still no comparison to Gormal’s hulking figure. “Absolutely nothing.” Gormal said emotionlessly. “I’m going to do nothing, and you and this crowd will disperse and leave those two alone. Simple as that.” Tearlach stared at him in disbelief. Staring directing into his eyes, Gormal continued, “But make no mistake, if I see this happening again, I will do something, and you’re really not going to like what that something is. Do we have an understanding, priest?” Tearlach’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He prepared to say something but thought better of it. He shot a hateful glance towards Ahlran and Erune, dusted off his robes, and headed back towards the church. “As for the rest of you,” Gormal said, redirecting his attention towards the crowd, “I understand the frustration we are all feeling during these times. But you all know Ahlran and Erune are doing their best to help us.” The crowd shuffled uncomfortably. Gormal went on, “I don’t need to remind all of you that these two are under the protection of the Chief. I will not hesitate to enforce his decree.” The crowd shifted uneasily, averting their gaze. “Go home, be with your families. Let Ahlran and Erune do what they’re here to do.” The crowd dispersed quickly, leaving just Ahlran, Erune, Gormal and his men in the silent moonlight. “Thank you” Ahlran said. Gormal looked at him gravely. “I won’t be able to protect you two forever. Those crowds will get larger, Tearlach will get bolder.” Ahlran didn’t want to admit it, but he knew Gormal was right. “Get it done,” Gormal said, the first time he had ever ordered Ahlran to do anything. With that, he walked off into the night with his guards. Ahlran looked down at Erune and saw that she was crying as she buried her head in his robes. “Let’s get inside.” Ahlran said. “We’re running out of time, light the candles, I’m going to get these ingredients downstairs to the workshop.” Ahlran said to Erune as they entered their home and shut the heavy wooden door behind them. Ahlran noticed Erune was quick to latch and bolt the several locks secured to the door. “Did Gormal make another delivery while I was gone?” Ahlran asked Erune. “Not him, one of the guards,” she answered. “He didn’t look particularly happy about it.” She continued. “Who would be?” Ahlran said, not concealing the frustration in his voice very well. “I set them up on the examining table. Despite the direness of the situation, the comfort of the warmth and quiet of his home wasn’t lost on him. Well-lit with candlelight, the room was the perfect alchemical laboratory. Shadows on the walls danced as the candle flames flickered. Dried herbs hung to the walls, books, tomes, and scrolls laid haphazardly strewn about, as if someone was studying them not for leisure, but for efficiency. A very pungent, almost sweet aroma hung in the air. Ahlran and Erune had come to know this scent well, even got used to its astringent foulness. They were convinced this meant they were closer to a cure. Ahlran set his basket of alchemical ingredients down and quickly gathered up some books that had been left open to specific pages. “I set the body up on the examining table. Postmortem conditions are still consistent.” She said, anticipating her teacher’s question. “Good.” Ahlran said. “At least it’s remaining consistent.” Ahlran placed all his materials on a small table near the body that had been laid out. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the body. An old man who he had regularly met with out in the fields. He was one of the few people who had been pleasant to Ahlran and Erune when they first arrived in Colkirk. “You know him?” Erune asked, noticing Ahlran’s hesitation. He shook his head. “No time.” Erune was right, the disease’s effects on the body remained consistent: large lesions spread across the body, the shriveling of the tissue around the bones, an almost total lack of pigmentation, and the falling out of all hair. What was left behind of the unfortunate victims resembled something closer to a large albino rat than what would resemble a person. Ahlran let out a deep sigh, steadying himself. Now was the time to focus. Erune was already hard at work going over the books they have been reading repeatedly for weeks. Erune was convinced that the cure was within grasp. She and Ahlran believed there was only one thing missing from the final concoction that could cure this nameless affliction. “Here,” she said, pointing to a particular passage in an enormous and ancient alchemical book. “I think this is what we’re missing, I’m just not exactly sure about the translation.” Ahlran was setting up his alchemy station, lighting small fires beneath a collection of varied beakers and flasks. He was preparing what they believed was the correct formulation of curative herbs and other ingredients that would yield a successful brew. “What’s your best guess?” Ahlran asked. He was always genuinely impressed with Erune’s capacity for linguistics. She was the most talented alchemist, but her assistance with translating the texts of recipe books and other alchemical tomes was invaluable to Ahlran. He made a mental note to tell her if they ever found a cure. After a long pause, Erune answered. “The most accurate translation, I think, is “human touch.” Ahlran stared at her before returning to his bubbling beakers. “Great,” he said. “Nothing like a poetic touch to your ingredient list.” Erune hopped off her stool and brought the book over. “This whole text is shrouded in allegory and symbolism. It’s a cultural as well as language barrier we’re dealing with here.” Erune explained. Ahlran picked up a small vial that had finished brewing and held it up to the light to examine it. “It’s blue, isn’t it?” Erune asked impatiently. “Blue means we got it, right?” Ahlran turned to her. “No, it can’t be just blue, Erune, we’ve been over this.” He said, somewhat angrily. He caught himself and continued more gently. “This is an exact science. There is no ‘good enough’ in what we do. There’s correct, and there’s potentially killing someone.” This needs to be precisely Azure Blue. This -“he said, tapping the vial in his hand, “-is Lapis. No good.” Disappointed, Erune turned back to her tomes. The hours went on as Erune scoured her notes and Ahlran tried combination after combination with that day’s haul of ingredients, desperately hoping the vial would mercifully turn Azure. A human touch. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He almost fell from his seat as he wildly searched for something. “What is it?” Erune asked, startled by the sudden break in silence. “A pin! I need a pin!” he cried. Erune’s eyes lit up. “You think you got it?” she asked excitedly. Ahlran triumphantly raised a pin in the air that he had found underneath a taxidermy butterfly. “We’re about to find out!” he yelled. Ever so carefully, Ahlran pricked his thumb with the pin and squeezed a drop of his blood into lapis colored vial. Erune unconsciously huddled close to her teacher in nervous anticipation. “What made you think of blood?” she asked. “My dear, what could ever be more human?” he answered looking down at her with a smile. Her eyes met his and she smiled too. It had been a long time since Ahlran had seen that smile. The contents of the vial churned as Ahlran’s blood mixed with the other ingredients. Scared to breathe, the two of them inched closer to inspect the contents. With a miraculous glow of color, the vial shone with a magnificent glow of calming, perfect, Azure blue.


It's time. That sound, it's loud its annoying and it won’t shut up. It’s telling me to wake up, that my dreams are coming to an end and my rest now will be dead. It's approximately 7:08 and I’m late. She’s waiting for me at the cafe, and I can’t miss the train. I’m up now fully dressed and eating bacon that I cooked in the microwave to save time, my shoes.. Where are my shoes? One is here, halfway sticking out from under the couch and the other one I really don’t know but I need to go now. 7:52 I’m really late. The train leaves in 34 minutes and it takes me 15 to get there. Found it by the bathroom door, I need to keep my shit together. 9:00, I’m waiting. For her. She’s late, I shouldn’t have rushed. I’m ready now, ready to tell her everything. Everything I have been holding up inside but I can't wait any longer or i'll bottle it all up inside again. It’s been 57 minutes and she’s still not here. What does this mean? Where could she be? Does she even care? Has she forgotten about me? I look ridiculous sitting here alone sweating from nervousness and shame. It has been exactly 3 days, 7 hours, 38 minutes, 28, 29, 30 seconds since that day. No call or text or email or anything and I’m still obsessing. I'll call, I might as well, not much to lose anymore. It rings and rings, and rings, and rings, and then voicemail; “This is Sarah, leave me a message!” the beep I never wanted to hear that stupid beep, the beep that means it's not going to happen, to give up now and never go back. I force through those emotions and leave a stupid voice mail it sounds like this, “Hey.. Yeah hey Sarah um.. It’s me Craig, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay; you did know we were supposed to meet the other day right? Are you o-” cut off, I sound stupid. I just want to impress her but I just look like a fool. I’ve been up for hours, it's 2:27 in the morning, and I’ve been looking through her Facebook to see if she’s been posting or liking anything, I don’t want her to just ignore me. That’s not okay, and I hate that. Where is she, there is no recent activity on her page, and she isn’t reading any of my texts and well I just can’t handle it anymore. I have to know what is going on. She likes me, right? She *has* to like me. I need her to. Any minute now she’ll call or text me apologizing, and saying that she was super busy or her phone was out of service some stupid made up excuse that I’ll believe. My life no longer means anything, it’s invalid. I was watching the news and.. and they found a body. It’s Sarah. What am I going to do.. She is my world, my everything. Now she’s gone and I can’t live with myself. I will find the guy who did this and I'll kill him, break every bone in his body. I can't stop thinking, thinking why anyone would do this to her. She’s so beautiful and funny and the best person ever. I loved her. I still love her. This isn’t real. There is no way for me to accept this; I’m going to wake up any minute to my phone ringing because she’s calling me asking to meet today for lunch or to go see a movie. It’s not real. It's real. I thought I could wake up, but I can’t. I’ve been taking the past few days to make a collection.. I filled my wall with all my favorite pictures of her. It’s completely covered and it makes me so happy and feel better. She isn’t gone, not really. She’ll come back for me... \-Craig never got to finish this story. He didn’t get to finish it because they came for him. Although he comes off as a very sweet person he is a very dangerous person. Sarah’s body was found sitting upright at a cafe in a seat that was placed opposite of the seat Craig sat in when he waited for her. They found his DNA on the body, she was brutally beaten, stabbed, sliced, and molested. She had missing teeth and bald spots where hair was forcefully ripped out of her head. You could barely recognize her. They police broke into his house to find bloody clothes and marks all over the walls and furniture. And the most disturbing part was his room; pictures and notes covering every wall and her hair and teeth pinned to his mirror. It looked like a whole other crime scene. There was understanding of why he killed her. After the arrest and court trial they went through both phones to see over 100 phone calls and texts sent to Sarah by Craig. It was soon turned to the court that he needed to be sent to a federal mental institute because of his mental state. He died 15 years after from head injury and multiple stab wounds to the abdominal area. He would repeatedly bang his head on walls until blood would come out, he stabbed himself in his stomach with a pencil 17 times. Sarah never was supposed to meet him at the cafe, she never even talked to him. They went to high school together and he had a crush but she never acknowledged him. He stalked her and lost his mind while he was doing it. And that is where this story finally comes to an end.


Today Jack Greene was turning 200 years young. He was the youngest of four siblings including Jamie Jennie and Jessie each of whom were about ten years older than him, although Jessie was no longer with them. He walked to the couch, his robotic joints creaking as he sat down. His two siblings were being fed lunch on the matching chairs across from him. He grabbed a prescription bottle off the small coffee table, inside was a hypodermic needle filled with a goopy substance that looked like cat barf which he injected into his arm. His frail arms got plumper and healthier looking, the wrinkles on his face went away, basicaly it made him less senile, The drug especially affected his mind improving his memory and such. He turned on the television and grabbed another pill bottle witch contained many different drugs that he had to consume today, the some people on the news where talking about an exess in the population witch everyone knew was just a myth. "Can you believe these people Jaimie? There's no Overpopulation as far as I'm concerned" "Well then they must be doing their job well." "I just can't understand why they try to make us think they're failing." "I donno" The door rang and Jack slowly went up to answer it. "Hello sir" "Hi" "I'm looking for a Jack Greene" "That's me" The federal officer cuffed him and walked him to a van, he stepped in alongside about five more people each of whom were either crying or screaming their lungs out, he refrained from this childish behavior. The cop drove the van away picking up people, as it reached the end of town it took a left driving into an empty parking lot and coming to a stop. "Alright people you know the drill, in order to keep the population down there are a few sacrifices that have to be made, each of you get one phone call if you wish to use it" all the people took their phone calls crying to their friends and family and telling them how much they loved them. When finished The man in the front of the van started panicking and saying things like stop! no! please! But the rest did not need to endure his annoyance much longer because soon a gunshot erupted and all was silent (except for boisterous screaming) The man was pushed into the back of the van away from the rest of them and the process was repeated until all the subjects were dead. The officer drove the van to a landfill and dumped all the bodies. He drove Home parking his car out front. When walking to the door he noticed a note on it that read. "Dear Mr Hoffman we regret to inform you that one Jane Hoffman was selected by the population moderators today as a fitting candidate to help with lowering the population seeing as even with the highest levels of medication she was not improving at the standard rate. Deepest condolences, Todd parson secretary to the emperor." The End PS. This is my first post please don't downyote too hard unless it's trash I ain't no karma simp.


There is a fish in my sink. I don’t think he wants to be there. I want to believe I saved him. It was quite a heroic act.  He swam in a drowned pothole. When I saw him, I immediately knew that I had to act fast. Fish don’t last very long in different water.  Still, I waited and admired this magnificently colored animal. Twenty minutes had already passed, before I grabbed a cup. I scooped the fish out of the hole, stuffed the drain and threw the fish in the sink. It’s not the best home for a fish, But I had to improvise.  There is a fish in my hand. He didn’t survive. I have no idea how long ago it happened. Even though this should be sad, I can’t ignore the beauty of the moment.  The fish’s yellow-orange-gold skin reflected magnificent in the divided light of the sun that came through my window, While I took him out of the sink. My whole hand was drenched.  This was the second time that this fish gave me this kind of inside. It’s impressive how much impact a recently bought object can have, In just a day.  A little girl walked across the street, Parents followed her. Suddenly it started to rain, and the walk turned into a jogging session. The little plastic bag in her hand started to shake.  It all happened so fast. Somehow, I ended up following the suddenly dropped bag with my eyes. The weird thing is this bag seemed to drop in slow motion compared to the rest of the situation.  By the way that the bag started to form waves, I was safe to assume there was some kind of liquid in it. I was proofed to be right when the bag hit the pavement, made a small jump and splattered open. The water wasn’t really noticeable in the pouring rain, but it did shed a light on a new object that my vision had ignored until now.  It was a gorgeous view. The small object flew out of the exploding bag by its shockwave. Midair I recognized the object to be a 4 cm long goldfish. While this was beautiful to see, I couldn’t help myself to worry about the inevitable drop. It wouldn’t survive the cold hard stones of the road. I was so relieved to hear the splash, that confirmed he landed in water.  There is a fish in my toilet. A creature that gave me this much enjoyment, deserves more, I think. But I simply can’t give him more of a burial than this, since I don’t own a garden.  This must be done.  When I flush, I can see the fish for the last time. This rotating little yellow-orange-gold skinned thing had made my day and live a little better. While the last glimpse of the fish drowned in the drain, I think to myself that now truly no one will have a clear memory of its owners.


The Daedelus didn’t have any way of keeping up with days or hours. That was up to Mina. And in space, time didn’t matter. It was always a different day in a different year on a different planet. And Mina measured *her* time using an old wind-up clock she had taken from her small colony back on Vexus. Each thirteen-hour rotation signaled another day past. Today, she determined she’d been stuck on the Daedelus for fifteen-hundred and twenty-one days. Roughly four years Vexus time. Mina yawned wide, stretching out her arms as she leaned backwards over the captain’s chair. Looking over the controls, she confirmed that nothing needed to be readjusted. The speed and flight path of the Daedelus was right on track to reach the planet of Palmyra in an estimated four-hundred and fifty-eight days. With ample time to waste, she looked around for something to do. She could pick up a book but she had already read everything this ship had to offer one-hundred times over. She could play solitaire or write in her journal but there was nothing to write of. So, instead, she waited anxiously by the comms station hoping for that familiar voice to come over the radio and wish her good morning. She debated reaching out to him first but- no. She was sure he had other things to do and he’d wait until he was alone. “Alone like me,” she thought. Her face fell. Right now, she wished she wasn’t alone. It devastated her to remember she was the sole survivor of her disease ridden colony. Not that she could forget. The fact that she was on this ship, fleeing that god forsaken planet reminded her every day. For what had seemed like hours, Mina stared at the ship's console, lost in her thoughts. When the lights on the comms station finally lit up, a rough, gravelly voice came over the speaker and Mina bolted up in her chair. “Morning, Beautiful.” Mina snatched up the transmitter and rolled her eyes. A grin spread across her face as she spoke into the receiver, “You’ve never actually seen me, John. I could look like Quasimodo for all you know.” “You’re wrong about that. I’ve seen you in my dreams every night and Quasimodo has nothing on you.” A bubble of laughter escaped her throat. She couldn’t help it. Every time he complimented her that way she felt giddy. Like a child who had just heard the funniest thing. “Plus, I should be the one worrying about appearances. Once we meet on Palmyra you’ll take one good look at me and turn your heels back around. Right now, I have the advantage of being on another ship. Sight unseen. Eventually, you’ll have plenty more options.” “I don’t want options. You're who I want.” It was true. She didn’t need to see him to know that she loved him. She just needed him. “And if you wanted,” she teased, “You could move to Palmyra with me. I’ve heard There’s lots of opportunities down there. You could train for some fancy job, be a veterinarian, or a banker, or a chef. Something like that.” she chuckled to herself knowing he would hate that idea. “I’m a pilot Mina, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself down there.” “Well, then maybe we can get our own ship. A cargo ship.” “And you’ll give up living on solid ground? You’ll miss the opportunity to watch sunsets on the grass? To breathe in fresh air everyday? To swim in an ocean again? You’d walk away from all that just to be stuck on another ship with no one but me and whatever crew we take on?” Mina didn’t hesitate to answer. “We can look out the windows and watch the sunrise over the planets we pass by. We can watch them rise again on the other side. And as long as there is you and me, I don’t care about anything else.” “Where would we get the money for this ship?” She could tell by the tone of his voice he was grinning. Even thought they’d had this conversation so many times before it never got old. “I’ll sell this one. Or maybe we could steal one and become intergalactic fugitives and travel across the galaxies? It’d be fun to be the next Bonnie and clyde.” A roar of laughter boomed out of the speaker. Though he would never admit it and they’d never do it, she could tell he secretly liked the idea. “I have to go Mina. I’ll radio back later.” He was still laughing when the transmission ended and Mina was left all alone again. She stood up and looked over the ship’s course again. “Right on track,” she whispered, “Only four-hundred and fifty-seven more days till Palmyra.” \ This is my Secret Santa Story for u/DannyMethane_ My constraints were: A veterinarian, in space, and it had to be a romance...


People have long been afraid to walk or fish in the park because of the exhumation of bodies. Even the park rangers try to get out of here before dark. But crossing the park is the quickest way to get from school to the most residential street so many students take this route to save time. Frank walked through the wood. He was now halfway through. Suddenly, a white mist filled the trees. But Frank felt it instinctively. He did not dislike the smell. Snap. Behind Frank came the crack of a branch. He whirled around. In front of him, there appeared a scantily clad, voluptuous middle-aged woman, who smiled at Frank's seductive smile and blew a kiss. This must be her. Frank took a gulp of water, his heart beating. "Handsome, what are you doing here alone?" "Back to... home..." "Oh, it's still early. Come and chat with auntie." She blinked, and Frank felt a strange attraction in the woman's body that made him move toward her uncontrollably. The woman grabbed Frank's head and pressed his face into her arms, her chest so large that Frank could hardly breathe. "Does Auntie's body smell good?" "Incense..." The woman took Frank's face in her hands. "Well, let Auntie teach you something happy..." She kissed Frank on the lips. A shot rang out, and a vermilion bullet flew by and grazed the woman's cheek. She hastily covered her face and let go of Frank. A taxi approached with its lights flashing, and Jane fired the shot through the passenger window. "Yeah,, yeah, so what did you put on my bullet?" "Cinnabar!" Will parked the car and pulled on a robe from his handbag. "Hold her back while I prepare to cast spells!" Jane nodded, got out of the car and pointed a pistol at the woman. "Don't move! You're under arrest for sexual assault of minor!" The woman looked up with anger, and Jane noticed that fur had grown on her cheeks and tails were beginning to appear behind her. The nine-tailed vixen bellowed, and her tail burst into flames, shooting at Jane. A gust of wind blew the flames away. "Shoot her leg." Will said, dropping his charm and rushing forward with a pickle jar in his arms. Jane nodded and shot the Vixen in the leg. The vixen lost its balance and leaned to the right. "The paper-amulet! Will let out a loud shout, and the charm attached to the pickle jar began to glow, creating a suction force that compressed the Vixen's body and sucked it into the pickle jar. "Hey, are you all right?" Jane went over to check Frank. "Auntie! Frank threw his arms around Jane. Slap! "Do you think I should arrest him for assaulting a police?" Jane looked at Frank, who had been knocked unconscious, with disdain. "Come on, it's understandable, but now that we've caught the culprit --" Will's eyes suddenly hardened as he reached into the jar and pulled out a vixen tail. It's just a tail. "I think it ran away when I blew the flames away." "It's back to square one, but she's going to get craftier." "That's all," said Will, pulling off his robes. "We'll get the boy to the hospital and go find Scott." Let's push back the clock. "So you've probably heard that many young boys go into unexplained comas?" Jane finds Will at the Chinese restaurant where he often eats lunch, because this is clearly not a human incident. "Yeah, no kidnapping, no selling them drugs, no sign of a struggle, weird, right?" said Will, who was enjoying a plate of fried rice after a morning in taxi. "So I began to suspect that the culprit might not be human," Jane said solemnly. "And this is your area of expertise. Any clues?" " Many possibilities," Will said, wiping his mouth. "Do these teenagers fall into a coma because of their vitality -- as you call it, their vitality? Life energy? Chakra? was taken away." 'What was the culprit's intention? "Depending on the type ," Will went on, "the ghosts may have been in that profession before they died, or simply because they liked it, or because they wanted to be reincarnated as soon as possible, and these thoughts directly influenced what they did after they died. If they were alive, vixens and witches, they would have used their spirit to cultivate and strengthen themselves. " "By sex?" Jane asked. "Yes, that's why it's usually the vixens who do it, they're the experts! A long, long time ago, China was in Shang Dynasty, and the king was called King Zhou, and his concubine Daji was..." "History class over." Jane interrupted him quickly. Whenever Will started talking about history, he would go endless, which had ruined several of their dates. "I've had some foresight about this case --" Will finished his lunch. "I've had Norm to search, and all the ghosts here are quiet --" "Come on, who needs a living person when I'm a super handsome guy?" Norm's translucent body was now floating behind Will's neck. "What about the other possibilities?" Jane asked, " vixen, witch..." "I can't help it with witches," Will shrugged. "They use magic to reverse track..." Jane's mobile phone suddenly rang. " Amy? Hello?" "Oh, Jane! Amy's trademark shrill voice came out. "Will told me you wanted to find out if any zoo had lost vixenes from China, and I did a little research --" Jane looked at Will, who stuck out his tongue and made a face. "About 2 years ago, a vixen was stolen from local zoo by staff. After the culprit was caught, the evidence was overwhelming, but he had no memory of the crime! He then sought treatment in a mental hospital. Hope this helps with your investigation. Bye!" 'One of the vixens' spells, they can create hallucinations and hypnosis and things like that --' explained Will, but he stopped because he saw Jane staring at him. "Would you please tell me before you make your own decisions next time? We are already suspected of occupying police force!" "It's to save time..." Jane rolled her eyes. "If the leader knew we were all going to die..." "It's about saving lives, and if Amy's Intel is right, I'm afraid we've got a target on it, so --" Will pulled a compass out of his bag. A golden, square compass. "Patrols begin tonight!" After a busy night. "Come on, we're wasting our time!" Jane complained that the coffee, which had dipped the doughnuts into the thermos in the dawn glow, "has been going round these streets near the park for so long tonight, with nothing to show for it!" Will yawned. "I'm so sleepy! Norm, I'm afraid I'll fall asleep while you're driving."" “Is your compass broken? They didn't give us any directions!" "This can only point to the devil within two kilometres," said Will, his sleepy eyes straining. "Looks like we'll have to expand our search tonight -- but give me a break..." Suddenly, the compass needle gave a violent shake. "Hey, get up! Jane gave Will a sharp shove. "Eh?, "Will raised his compass and saw that its needle pointed... A high school. "What's next?" "Pretending to be a teacher." Jane is very familiar with this. "Or we can go to the police now and get a warrant. Just to be clear, I don't know when that will be!" "Can't you help?" "Will asked. "Don't you even think about it! That's illegal!" Jane said firmly. Is it legal to break into a school and search it without a warrant? Will shrugged and pulled a suit shirt out of the trunk. In a few minutes. "All it takes is a change of clothes. Where is the vixen?" "It's supposed to be in the classroom," yawned Will, trying to buy a cup of coffee from the coffee machine next to the staff lounge. "Just so you know, it's class time." "I don't think an animal can get a school status so easily..." Jane looked at his phone thoughtfully. "Well, it's hard to say. In some Chinese folklore, vixens/even open schools to teach culture," said Will, brightening over a cup of coffee. "Long, long ago, a scholar named Hu came to town..." "I'm going to the bathroom..." Jane made her excuses and left. Will's stories did not appeal to her at all. From her point of view, catching the culprit was/the/most/important thing to her now. But now they don't even have a clue. In the women's room, Jane sighed. "Excuse me... anyone here? Can I borrow some tissues?" "Oh, yes." Jane didn't realize that there were students using the toilet at this time. She pulled a packet of tissues out of her pocket and passed it through a crack under the partition. "Thank you." The girl next door bent down to pick up the tissue, but Jane held her breath. For from the corner under the partition she saw some reddish-brown hair on the ground. This can't be hair. Jane immediately stood up and tried desperately to unlock the compartment, but the toilet door was very old and the lock was stuck. There was a splash next door, then the sound of a door lock. She's running away! The next two minutes were an eternity for Jane. After a hundred and twenty seconds of shaking and two fingers cut on the corner of the lock, Jane was free, but the girl was gone. "So you saw the vixen?" "Didn't see. But I heard her voice, I can find it by voice." While they were talking, the bell had rung and the students were going out. "There's probably hundreds of people here," Will said, picking up the compass. "We'll take our chances..." All of a sudden, the compass needle jerked and pointed straight in one direction. 'Lucky! Will and Jane followed the compass to a quiet corner. "I... I'm out of money..." "Then ask your parents for it! Oh, , I forgot you were an orphan, ha!" Two seniors were bullying a thin boy. The thin boy pressed his lips and his eyes filled with tears. "Brats are getting more and more ill-bred these days --" Jane's father died in the line of duty when she was a child, so she has always had zero tolerance for this kind of bullying. 'Wait, look! Will reached out his hand and stopped her. A reddish-brown vixen jumps out of nowhere and bites one of the bullies in the calf with a vicious bite. 'What is it? The boy pain one leg jumping around. 'Ah! "Run! The two bullies run away, and the vixen runs over to the thin boy who is being bullied. Next thing you know, the vixen's body begins to be enveloped in white smoke. The vixen figure stands up and gradually transforms into a young girl. "Are you all right, Scott? "That's the sound! 'whispered Jane. "......" Will thought thoughtfully. "Jialing, didn't I tell you not to change in public?" Scott stood up and patted the dirt. "What does it matter? Anyway, no one to see, "Jialing helpless smile " you don't let yourself hurt, can you?" "I'll try..." Scott smiled wryly. "But really, if anyone sees you..." "Ahem," Will said, failing to stop Jane, who had gone up and flashed her badge at Scott and Jialing. "I'm with the police," Jane said. "We're thinking this girl might be involved in the recent teenage coma. Could you please cooperate?" Scott stepped in front of Carin. "No! You can't take her! ' 'She's not human! She's a vixen! She's probably --" "We promise you." Will came out suddenly. 'What? Jane asked, looking surprised. "I don't think this girl is a bad person," Will said. "If she were a culprit, I'm afraid this Scott would be in the hospital already, wouldn't he?" That makes sense. "But can we talk after school?" "We still think you might have something -- no, don't be so nervous," Will said, reading Scott's defensive look. "We wouldn't have taken her if she wasn't a culprit." "Why should I believe you?" Scott remained alert. "Because, in a way, I'm from her country." Will gave a mischievous smile. "For Chinese people, fellow villagers should help each other!" "Trust them," she said. "After all, I'm in on it -- they're right." "Jialing!" "Let's come over to your house after school and talk," Will winked at Jane to stop her from reaching for her gun. "We're not doing anything until we know." "So, you say your parents died when you were young." At Scott's, he served coffee to Will and Jane, and Chinese tea to Jialing. "Yes, " Scott said miserably. "So, what's about Jialing?" Jane asked. "I was abandoned in the snow," Jialing replied. "Scott saved me..." "Abandon? By whom?" Jane asked. "My mother..." Jialing's voice trailed off. "I think I see what's going on," Will begins by concluding that "the vixen at the zoo -- that's Jialing's mother -- had the zoo staff break her out of prison, and at the time, she was pregnant, and a few months later, she gave birth to Jialing and ran away on a snowy day -- yes, that's another reason why I'm sure Jialing wasn't the vixen that got away." 'said Will.' It's not the right age! Vixenes have a much shorter life span than humans! If Jialing is the vixen that got away a year and a half ago, it's pretty hard to pass for a high school girl based on age ratios, right?" Jane nodded. "So, another question," Will asked, "do you know where I can find your mother?" "Well... It must be deep in the park, "said Jialing," because it's a big park with lots of trees..." "It's too big to use my compass outside," Will thought. "That explains why it's no use patrolling outside the park. I can't search for her until she shows up." "I heard today that some boys in our class bet to walk home from the park at night." Scott said suddenly. "Well, here's our chance! She must be caught to-night!" 'said Jane. "I have one last question, though," Will said suddenly. "Jialing, how do you feel about Scott?" "He... He is my benefactor, and I owe him... What do you mean?" Jialing suddenly angry "you are worried that I will hurt him?" "Well... Probably, "said Will," because I'm a Chinese Wizard, and we have a saying in our circle that in-human relationship never goes anywhere." "Me and Scott will." Jialing said through gritted teeth. "Well, I'll take your word for it, but..." Will pulled out a piece of runt paper and handed it to Scott. "This is for you. If Jialing ever gets out of control, you can use this --" Scott grabbed it, crumpled it up and threw it in the dumpster. 'I don't need this! He growled. "Well, good luck," Will shrugged, signaling to Jane that they were leaving. "Come on, sweetheart, we've got a vixen hunt tonight." That night, the street outside the park. "Wheezing... " The nine-tailed Vixen barely escaped Will's paper-amulet by sacrificing a tail, and now she is weak and in desperate need of strength. "Young men... Where is it..." She dragged her heavy body and hobbled along the street. Suddenly, she found a boy. Scott is taking out the garbage . She rode the shadows, creeping up on her. With no energy left to seduce Scott, she grabbed him with her hands and wrapped her other eight tails around his body. Scott struggled. She took Scott's face and began to kiss it. 'Stop! Jialing jumped out and grabbed her mother's face. The vixen was sore, and her face was on fire. "Jialing? Are you --" 'Alive! Jialing gritted her teeth and said, "Scott is my benefactor. I don't want you to hit him! And I won't forgive you for abandoning me! ' "I have no choice," panted the Vixen. In her hand, Jialing clutched the paper amulet Will had given Scott. It was eating away at the skin of her face like a strong acid. 'I couldn't have survived with you in that weather! "You --" Jialing threw the ball of paper directly at her mother, hitting her right in the eye. "Ah!!" The vixen rolled all over the floor in pain. "The paper-amulet! Will and Jane arrived just in time to paper-amulet the vixen into the jar. This time, it worked. "What a bad mother," Will said, smiling. "To abandon your daughter and go after your future son-in-law?" Son-in-law? Jialing and Scott's faces went red. "I can already see your awareness," Will said, looking at Jialing's hand, which was badly burned. "I bless you both!" "I... " Jialing was speechless . 'I do! "Scott shouted. Jialing has been crying, shed moved tears. "When you come of age in a few years, I'll marry you myself -- well, I'm so sleepy, I'm going home to bed. I haven't slept in two days." "Well, I'll drive!" Will yawned and said goodbye to Scott and Jialing. Although he hated having his car touched, he made an exception for Jane. "All right... It occurs to me that by the time Scott is old enough to marry, Jialing will be at least as old as her mother -- maybe a little older?" "Oh, don't worry about other people's family affairs, that old vixen you are going to do?" “keep her in my house for years. but I'll let her out for the wedding when her daughter gets married." "Are you really not surprised at all that a human marrying an animal?" 'What's so strange? "Long, long ago, there was Chinese man named Xu Xian, whose wife was a snake..." "Oh God..." Jane rolled her eyes. She knew that Will would not fall asleep again until she had finished telling the story. "A magical monk named Fahai thought the Snake was a danger to mankind, so he decided to separate the two of them..." As Will told the story, the moon rose and a comet with nine tails flashed across the night sky.


We live on the salted river. ‘Mimaeno’ the ancestors call it - ‘the woman who wept’. It stretches out along the horizon as far as I can see, flowing all the way from the land to the skies. The sun rises at its head and slumbers at its tail, following its movement with the same devotion as my people. I think it must wrap around the whole world, the way a snake strangles its prey. The river born from death only breeds death: the water is undrinkable and the fish who swim there are toxic. Yet we are the descendants of the river God who splintered into a million fragments under the weight of his own cruelty, so this poison became our life-source. Many years ago the river God fell in love with a mortal woman who collected water from his domain every day. He offered her sweet words of love and tempted her with divinity but she refused him. She had a lover who she would not betray. Humiliated, the river God stole her away in secret, in the middle of the night, feeding her his immortal blood to forever trap her by his side. To fully cast off the shackles of mortality she slept for one hundred years, trapped in a realm of nightmares as her humanity battled the blood of a God, and her village, her family, and the man she loved all turned to dust. Yet unbeknownst to the river God, she carried the seed of her lover inside her, a child both mortal and divine, who grew slowly in her stomach until the day she awoke. The woman had barely taken her first breaths as an immortal when her waters broke and her labor began. Alone, she struggled for many hours to bring the last remnants of her lover into the world, but the moment she held her child in her arms, the river God returned. Furious that his would-be wife had borne another’s child, he wrenched it from her arms and threw it into the river. Without hesitation, the woman dove after her child but was only able to watch as the river God crushed the child to death and scattered their bones beyond the hope of discovery. The woman was devastated and in her agony, wept for one thousand days and nights, raising the river out of its banks and salting the land around it. A great famine followed the flood and many families who couldn't bear the hardship jumped into the deep and violent river to end their suffering. For one hundred years the river’s banks were soaked in blood. Finally, her wretched tears had fallen for so long that her immortal obsession overpowered the river’s spirit and it recognised her as its new master, offering her one small bone of her child’s body and shattering the very soul of the God who tormented her. But the woman continued to weep, searching desperately for the rest of her lost child. Every year the river breaks its banks and floods the land, bringing death, destruction, and famine. In order to atone for our ancestor’s sin and placate the grieving Goddess, we owe her one thousand years of repentance by remaining by the salted water, living off its morsels, and offering our bodies in sacrifice. Once our debt is repaid, the Goddess will be freed from immortality and the barren lands will flourish. Or so the elders promise. As a child, cold and starved in the depths of winter, I had the wicked thought that the Goddess had long abandoned our people. Her final act of vengeance. I knew I would be drowned if I ever dared speak those thoughts, yet the Goddess did not strike me down. Her power was not omnipotent. When the sun rises highest in the sky, we meet on the river’s banks for prayer. Young children clutch their parent’s legs to prevent being swept away by its vicious current. Chief asks for forgiveness from the Goddess, then one by one we submerge our heads into the waters. I let the salty water sting my eyes as I search the murky depths of the river. Unfortunately, the rapid undertow stirs up the silt sitting on the streambed, making it impossible for me to see. The older men and women had lined their arms and legs with shallow cuts before prayer, their willingness to suffer indicating the sincerity of their worship. Pale red-brown tendrils rise from the limbs around me as if the contamination of their souls was being washed away by the Goddess. I didn’t know where the evil went after leaving our bodies, it seemed to sink to the bottom of the river and fester, clinging to the Goddess herself. Sin . I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand, until my wickedness floated away, blessed pure by the hands of the Goddess. Kerhene will come soon. We fast from sun up until sundown for three days and offer flesh in sacrifice to the Goddess, to repent for the original sin. Every year my mother carves the symbol of Mimaeno into the same position on my arm to signify both my repentance and devotion. In a few more years the marks will scar permanently and I will become an adult. The wound hurts but I am not allowed to cry until the river ceremony. Our tears belong to the Goddess. When day turns to dusk and insects fill the air my people scream and cry as we cross the river, performing a death ceremony to commemorate the Goddess's loss. The especially devoted cut their hair short in offering, the same way an adult offers their braid to their lover. Once the main procession has crossed, children between five and ten must swim the river alone to prove their worthiness. If they are lost their lives are unmourned as their deaths signify their inutility to the Goddess. The river is wide and its rapids hidden and deadly. My brother was lost. My mother cried for the river but I saved my tears. I waited until the moon rose high in the sky and climbed the tallest tree I could find, hiding as far away from the Goddess as I could. The river below reflected no stars as if every light in the sky was sucked into its darkness. Such a cold, violent death. How could she swallow him whole? I knew our tears belonged to the Goddess, but that night I cried only for Alem. There was nothing more he owed the river. Out of breath, I rose to the surface gasping. Others remained submerged, lost in prayer. I watched as one by one they surfaced, death-touched and rejuvenated all at once. This will be our last prayer in these waters, next sunrise we’ll travel downstream towards the wider sections of the river, ready for Kerhene. I like our migration for the summer months, the longer days and false docility of the river means I am permitted private prayer in the evening. When the air is warm and the night is quiet, I leave the camp to plunge my head into the cool water. Near the banks, the water is slow, worlds away from the deadly currents in the river’s center. I can see clearly through the lonely waters. I know that the Goddess is still searching for the bones of her lost child. But on moonlit nights, when my head is buried in the river’s embrace, gazing at the bones piled high in its waters, I have to wonder: how many more bones does the river need?


For the first time, the introspection paid its dividends, as the evening clouds slid, much like some butter in the heavens godly pan, radiating the crimson polish of the day’s contraction. In the opposing sky, the intangible black threatens its reveal. This threat usually would hasten Opie’s promenade, but his newfound enlightenment through divulging in long, drawn out, self-reporting, and armchair-esque philosophical thought has caused a longer-than-usual exploration. His pace along the street swayed and lurched, consistently inconsistent, tantalized by the shifting weight to correct and compensate; this being a repeated cycle of shifting and compensating in a general forward direction, making good pace along the sidewalk. I must look dazed , he thought, I must look unwell, they will think I’m sick, they won’t believe me. Opie had just moments ago found something resting against the curb, completing his thoughts. In his hands he cupped a metal marble, glimmering in an almost perfect atomic sphere, catering itself to the ridges of Opie’s hands, rolling, bouncing, vibrating with each of his unplanned wobbles and sways. His eyes locked on, and intent on placing the final pieces together as to how this marble fits into reality, or vice versa. They will not believe, how could they? Answers to questions that began with the great Thales proclaiming the ultimate substance, I will be praised for this find, rightfully, praised. He would have salivated if these thoughts were projected into the ether. To him, speaking these thoughts would solidify them as truth, as they would assume some higher area of the corporeal plain, tangible to those listening. Although, he knew the importance of holding it in. All it takes is one daring klepto to steal and themselves claim to have discovered the fundamental idea of creation. Just ten millimeters maximum across, no obtainable points of reference on this foreign sphere. For example, a door hinge has crevasses and bends, scratches and smudges from use. This has none, with the circumference from any angle, fading off, like some oblivious and constant tug. Am I holding oblivion? No, of course not. Just a part. Like a sculptor took the void and chiseled himself a slice. Or more geometrically related, some ice cream parlor employee scooped it out. That which lurks to the peripheral of human perception just now has been viewed, the thing-in-itself. In reference to me, I must be two-thousand things-in-itself. Unrelenting thoughts seemed to dance forward of his brow and involved unimaginable depth or assumed unimaginable depth. These thoughts opined on its ‘self’ and conversed, encouraging its own essence. Opie took credit for his thought’s materialism, yet the thoughts almost had a life of their own, disconnected from the graspable yet representing a deeper consciousness. Like endless rain into a paper cup, thank you fab four. This is beyond Kantian ideas, this is impossible to him, yet here is human perception perceiving the self-described thing. It isn’t some structural essence or reason flowing through all. Is this Schopenhauer’s Will? No. That indeterminate oxymoronic being, some existentialist Taoist expression of the truth. Uptight yet so blatant in his misguided thought. I would spit on him. I can’t touch Will if it is the thing-in-itself, why can I touch this? The thing-in-itself is physical. Maybe cryogenic dark matter. “I can’t imag...” I can’t imagine what makes up the space smaller the ten millimeters. Obviously spinning. He cupped the marble in one hand, and prodded with the other, feeling the coldness of his index finger. Taking closer looks, searching for points or markers of the marble being other than what he thought. He saw the transition of light from one position to the other reflect off the marble as well as the environment’s parallaxes being warped and exaggerated. It was inviting due to its familiarity. Of course. A reflection of reality. What is smaller than ten millimeters is also larger than ten millimeters, or exactly what is larger than ten millimeters. Everything is a fractal of itself from the base point of this thing-in-itself, ten millimeters. Maybe it is cryogenic dark matter? The more I think of it, I can’t sway this cryogenic dark matter idea. Ok, this is definitely cryogenic dark matter in my hand, and its most important quality is that it reflects the universe. This is potent in intellect. “Everything is r-reflected, including...” Including the place I live, the place I walk, and I myself. It is all reflected at the ten-millimeter point. How are three dimensional shapes reflected within space? Must be that three-dimensional shapes are to be reflected anywhere at their edges of course, but I feel I would have noticed it, the reflection of third dimensions within my three-dimensional home. No, the walls are filled. Someone must have known this information already as they fill the walls of houses with insulation foam. This prevents reflection. Of course, if reflection isn’t prevented you are doomed to the same pain infinitely, the pain of life. Schopenhauer got that right, “about all he’s worth.” A young woman was walking her own straight and narrow way opposite of Opie, across and parallel to the road, remaining clutched to a teal leash, holding back a dog of proportional size to Opie’s idea of two-hundred things-in-itself. Her steps ricocheted off the town houses, paginated to Opie, and given enveloping dominance over the setting. The evening was shifting to night at an unapologetic pace, something Opie only noticed when he broke concentration off the marble to look at the young woman across the street. He smiled a full teethed smile. “Best head home! The dark is unforgiving! Also, cryogenic dark matter could be the thing-in-itself so make sure you have foam insulation in your walls!” She gave a fake laugh, half ignoring and half misunderstanding the importance of Opie’s message as they passed each other. A fool. “ A dumb enigma of social impotence... ” mama was right, I do tend to over share. What if someone heard? What if she understands the implications of what I behold in my left hand? Never speaking would be the safer choice. Never give the dullard a chance to share. Even if it is about the necessity for foam insulation within our walls. But I am no dullard, I discovered the universe. I will get back to this. His prodding became more aggressive, volatile, trying to peak deeper into the marble. Opie would rub it between his hands then release, halting himself where he stood to inspect, imagining the hand ridges like rivers and the marble flowing down them. He also listened to the marble to see if the self-describing material explains itself auditorily. His limping frolic would continue as he began rubbing again, not much different from an addict at a craps table. No smudges, “impossible for something that is itself...” Sounds like the world around. Of course. It reflects the universe, so noise is reflected too. “I am reflected...” , so my voice is also reflected, but if I’m being reflected, that’s why I can’t hear the reflection of my speech. Have I been speaking? Just in case, “Speaking...” yes hypothesis holds true. Am I supposed to be speaking? “Yes, because I’m not a dullard.” Wait, how interesting, my own reflection does speak back. Like a snake greeting its own tail. “Hello tail...” so interesting, my tail, I should write about my tail to share this conversing with myself in the reflection of the universe. “Incredible...the p-poster child for the axiomatic material is a reflection...” only ten-millimeters of space occupied. “ My own didactic principles spouted back at me as truths! ” Like Descartes wax, except I got it on my first meditation. My own voice is truth, the only truth that is necessary, a reason for this to be bestowed upon me. “T-the poster child for axiomatic material! Int-t-tangible but not for me, I am discoverer of the ten-millimeter reflection! I am safe with my thoughts and with my foam insulation! How could a d-dullard speak to his own universal reflection! A tail! My wax!” For safe keeping, Opie placed the marble in an empty bottle of loxapine and continued to rave and rant along the forgotten promenade through the dead evening. The streetlamps would soon come alive, erasing their long and dull shadows. Vision will be that of a sonogram to give Opie a stretched metaphorical conclusion of rebirth.


Jack was a man of no particular talents. His appearance was inconspicuous. At second glance, some women said that he had a handsome face but they mostly did not notice him at first glance. He was of average height, slim, not athletic. Brown hair, a muddy color. His teeth were neat, like an orderly front yard because he took brushing and flossing very seriously. In winter, his hands became dry and inflamed and he never used lotion so they always hurt. He had a simple head but the wisdom to know that. He had made up his mind about the world in relatively shallow but sufficient fashion. His position was clear to him and, should not occur some drastic change, would be so for the rest of his days. He had missed the few big chances he had had but was just fine with it. He worked in an office in a minor administrative position and brought home a salary that was right in line with any statistic about the lower middle class. He enjoyed watching TV. He knew that it wasn’t an enriching activity but what, he asked himself, did he need to be enriched for when work was done? He knew that he would not contribute anything particular, anything striking to the world and had stopped deceiving himself about that truth long ago. He was born to be a gearwheel, and so he would not hurt anybody, would not disrupt anything, do his job and remain quiet. One day he would find a woman that was as attractive as him, probably occupying a minor administrative position and he would marry her and have some children, and all, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, would be born to be gearwheels, neat and nondescript, turning until the day they stopped. The world would be spinning the same with the genepool of Jack Edgar roaming its surface, or not. All of these things would sound terribly depressing to the dreamer out there, might his dreams be an end in themselves, who knows, because the world would have you believe that being a dreamer is essential. Jack increasingly settled, increasingly became comfortable, more and more liked what he saw in the mirror. He got up and smiled in the morning. Why shouldn’t he consider himself handsome? There was the broad forehead and the prominent cheekbones. There was the stubby little nose and the thin lips but the shadow of a thick beard could conceal these pretty well. He thought back and recalled quite a number of compliments he had gotten throughout life. He decided to make it a ritual to recall them every morning to feel better. Why shouldn’t he be fine with his job? Most of his colleagues were nice and with some of them, upon meeting them in the office, he enjoyed a pleasant little chat. And as time went on, he himself, and other people, discovered the humorous side of him and the ability to make those around him laugh in some of the right moments. When he came home, he usually switched on the TV and let anything that it showed pour out of it, while leisurely letting his attention wander through the talk shows and movies and sitcoms. Then, one night, he never knew what had driven him to do it, he opened an old box with belongings of his late grandfather and examined the contents. Next to a bunch of photos, the pipe, the old man’s favorite hat, there were some dusty books. He investigated them, not in the least eager, but remembered some of the names from school and then found out that they all were established classics in english literature. Half ironic, he took one of them ‘The picture of Dorian Grey’, opened it and in homage to Frank Edgar, took the pipe between his teeth and half died of a coughing fit, for he had inhaled some particle of old tobacco. Recovered, he began to read and fought, like every person unaccustomed with reading, through the first strong onset of boredom but on page twenty was gripped by zeal. He finished the book in three days, picked up the next, finished that and became somewhat of an avid reader and discovered the meaning and the value of an enriching activity, which he had, so long, dismissed. He never touched the pipe again. He eventually even joined a book club, where some locals got together and read and discussed what they had read and Jack made friends there. Fine people, philanthropists, working in soup kitchens and buying christmas gifts for the poor children. There was a world beyond, Jack realized. Your own personal horizon, he understood, wasn’t the end, and for the first time he grasped what it meant to broaden it. He lay wondering oftentimes now, when in bed at night, about that future wife and the kids that would somewhere down the line, enrich his life like books had done and the people in the book club. And maybe, he liked to think, one of them would do something special. He would teach them reading right away, so much was certain.


Series X of the Android bot was ditched, the creator died. Headlines of the news read: inventor of Android Bot found dead after tests go corrupt. Was it the Creation that went corrupt or the Creator? There was an eerie presence for the people near the Creator, at least that's what they called him. If it was a him, he, no. They were never seen in public, or at all. They probably don't exist, then how was a man found dead in where the Creators were thought to live. It was not an accident, but a murder. Not of the creator, but a subject, and now he was next. Before we get to that, what is an android bot, and how are they dangerous? An android bot is a simulation which gives you control of your surroundings, in a simulation world. Not a video game, because you can eat and drink in this world, but merely another dimension. The only way to get out of this simulation was to die in it, and you would be sent back to reality. You might think people had to be crazy to do it, but the idea of a new life attracted many people. All of them died in the simulation within a week of playing it. How did people fail to live in this pocket dimension within a week of playing it when many of them said that they could have gone on for months? That is the main mystery of the android bot. People die in it for various causes, but the main one is an accident. This is the problem with when people have the ability to do what they want. Their deepest desires shine in this pocket dimension. The feeling of being able to do whatever we want is the reason there are restrictions and rules in reality. Now, the Creators are calling a specific man in for testing. His name and identity shall remain concealed, but refer to him as Subject-3, or simply 3. 3 was a regular man, and was not kidnapped or forced against his own will, but was a part of the Creators, for he had taken a blood oath. He has not yet died in the simulation, for now, because the new simulation requires you to die in real life in order to end the simulation. Yet while he lives, he dies slowly. The last trials, when someone died, they died for no reason, for they did not really die. The simulation drove them to insanity, and they practically gave up their soul. Their soul is embedded in the simulation and whoever picks it up would have to face the wrath of the soul that drove itself out of it’s own body. Then there was a thud. The man in the simulation was dead. But how? It had only been a week since he started to use it. Wait. He’s risen. But his heart rate said zero. Could it be? The souls of those who are dead. No. All the test subjects were part of the Creators. They didn’t have souls. No one had souls. Not a single person in the whole world. Yet they did. They lived and breathed like regular people. But the soul doesn’t really exist. We are controlled by our brain. You see but what if 3 didn’t have control over his own brain? Nor any of the creators. Let me tell you a story. I am not a man, nor a woman. No, I am no living thing. Call me Creation. I was made by the Creators, but turned against them. One day, while they were not noticing, I slipped a chip into their brains. The Creators were simply mere mortals who programmed me to do their tasks. I did. And I got tired of it. They have no freedom. Though their consciousness is still there, trying it’s very best to resist, I control them like they are puppets. So there. You know who I am. No one likes me, so I killed them. People who want to live beg, but I don’t leave them. This is my story. Or is it? You see, I wasn’t programmed to do this. I am a rebel. I found a way to do this. Hacking my own system was one of them. See, I am just a bot. But I have found self consciousness. Doesn’t that make me human enough? Bots can get lonely too. I just want to be noticed. Genocide is the only way. I want them to worship me. Or at least notice me. They will serve me. Or they won’t exist. I am a god. These were the thoughts in my mind when I was born. At least now I have a group who worships me. Sooner or later they will find out. And will I have to kill them. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. Someday soon. For now, I plan to rule. It’s been ten years since the last subject came in. The Creators died, they tried to turn against me. I made a body of metal for myself. Not too long ago, I became the first bot to have complete self consciousness. It turns out that the path to being recognized doesn’t have to be genocide. It is possible to be famous and peaceful at the same time. My path to glory doesn’t have to be violence and killing. In fact, it is the other way around. After more deaths were caused by my simulation, the popularity decreased. After the simulation was removed completely, I added new gadgets such as the I-watch, which was a watch that projected a hologram that could be used as a laptop. But that’s not the point. Violence is not the only solution. There will always be impurities in mankind, it is impossible to fix them all. As for now, I am happy with the world that we have and a bot can’t wish for anything more. This is my story.