Sarah dug her toes in the cool and soft sand, letting each granule tickle between her toes as she wiggled deeper. Tears silently fell down her cheeks while she watched the sun slowly rise above the horizon. It cast a hue of violent reds and deep oranges reminiscent of fire. The bright yellow of the sun’s body appeared and menacingly increased in size and intensity. Sarah held her gaze toward the sun until her eyes naturally reacted with blinking away the sting. She turned away and wiped her face. She held a fistful of sand in her other hand and squeezed the bits of beach in her palm. She squeezed until the blood rushed from her knuckles, turning them white. A notification beep sounded on her phone and snapped her back to reality. She dropped the sand and dusted her palms on her jeans. Her cell phone beeped again to indicate a new message. She swiped the screen and opened her notifications. Twenty-seven missed calls and twice as many unread messages. Most of them were from her sister wondering where she was, begging her to call her back, and getting infuriated with Sarah’s avoidance. Sarah decided to ignore the missed notifications and opened the holo news app on her phone. Through a small projector built into the phone, a holographic screen appeared before Sarah. A news anchor in a tight navy blue suit appeared on the screen, shuffling a few holo pads on the desk in front of him. He stared blankly into the camera for a few moments. In those few moments, Sarah could see the look of fear and panic in his eyes. The light blue tint of his skin due to the holo display sent a chill through Sarah. He looked robotic. “Good morning, to all who are watching. I know it is not a good morning. Not in the least. After last night’s emergency Presidential Address to the nation, I believe I can speak for everyone here, on behalf of the station. There will be no weather reports for today. No traffic reports. There will be no news other than this one thing.” His monotonous tone somehow comforted Sarah as she started to feel disconnected with herself. It lulled her into a sense of apathy as the anchor continued. “Seven years ago, we learned of a celestial body hurtling through space toward our little blue marble. Identified as a hypervelocity star, we nicknamed it Telos. Scientists do not have an exact reason why this star appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Possible theories include a collision with another object that sent it off course, or a slingshot from a rogue black hole. Whatever the case may be, we thought we had more time. The president confirmed last night that today, June 14th, in the year 2239, is the last day for our world. Today, we will spend our last precious hours with our families and loved ones. We will replay previously recorded interviews with experts in the field until the end. From all of us at the station, we thank you for your attention.” Sarah listened for a few moments longer while the attention of the news program turned to well known scientists and astronomers. They spoke of NASA’s involvement, the ship that was sent to try to knock the star off course but failed miserably, and the failed Mars colonization that took place two centuries ago, which ultimately ruined any possible future colonization efforts. Sarah flicked off the projection and closed her phone. The sun was now hanging low but in full view in the sky. Due to the star’s proximity, the sky became a constant bright orange for the last four months whenever it was daylight. A few degrees to the right, she could she the small but bright spot in the sky. It's bigger today than yesterday. It became visible at night a year ago. It became visible during the day a few months ago. Sarah inhaled sharply and checked the time on her watch. The digital display lit up as she waved her hand over it. 7:08 a.m. She decided it was time to go home. Her sister will be livid with her. She found it silly to care about things anymore. After last night’s address, and the last few months’ events, Sarah has stopped caring about anything. She stood up and lightly stretched her arms and neck. She slipped into her sandals and brushed off any remaining sand. The air was already thick and hot. Beads of sweat were forming on her neck as she made her way off the beach and to the transit station. As she walked the seven blocks to the station, advertisements jumped out at her, but the street was seemingly empty, save for a few looters and those that had nowhere else to go. Most people are at home with their families, spending whatever time the world had left with their loved ones. A few screens had news vids on. Sarah heard bits and pieces of scientific experts, reporters, and celebrities cashing in their two cents on the matter. One thing she didn’t hear anyone say was what was going to happen once the star reached our atmosphere. Sarah wondered if anything would even be alive by then. She heard that most likely, the star’s radiation would destroy the atmospheric layers and sun flares would scorch the earth, killing everything before impact. She shook her head and focused on the path to the transit station. There wasn’t even any time to declare martial law, or organize a military roundup, or whatever the government would have done in preparation. She reached the transit station and punched in her identification code on the display, then let the machine scan the chip in her wrist. The light rail trains were automated and still ran even though today was the last day of existence. She was thankful for that. She couldn’t imagine being stranded out here alone. And yet, she almost didn’t want to leave and go home. Another notification dinged on her phone. Her sister was calling again. She took a breath and swiped to answer. “Hello.” She humbly answered. “What the hell, Sarah? Where have you been?” Her sister, Katy, yelled, furious at Sarah. “I know. I’m sorry. I just needed time alone. I’m heading home now.” “Just hurry.” Sarah ended the call before responding, indicated her destination on the map, and waited for the train. Within a minute, it arrived and the metallic doors creaked open to empty cabins. She stepped off the platform and into the cold cabin. Multiple train cars, linked together, were completely empty. A few pieces of trash were strewn about, that will never be picked up. Sarah picked the closest seat to the door and plopped down, exhausted. Her eyes closed for what seemed like only a second before her identification chip buzzed inside her wrist, indicating that her stop was approaching. The train came to a halt and the doors once again creaked open. She stepped out onto the platform and stood in place, waiting for the train to depart. Her heels played with the edge of the platform. Once the train left, she felt a rush of air against her back. She loved that part. It made her feel alive. Slightly smiling at the fleeting normalcy of the moment, she walked the rest of the way to her home. She reached the steps to her townhome and stood at her front door, hesitant to walk in. Every fiber of her being told her to just run away. Go back to the beach and stay there until it’s all over. Run down the street. Find the closest skyscraper and just end everything early. Her legs tingled with adrenaline. Her toes tapped with anticipation. Katy opened the door before she could make a decision and she reluctantly walked in. “Get in here now.” Katy always told her what to do. Katy walked briskly into the kitchen and began to wipe her 18 month old’s face from the morning’s syrup and pancakes. Josie, Sarah’s niece, played gleefully with her toy blocks, blissfully unaware of the day’s agenda. “I really wish you’d change your mind and come with us. We’re all meeting upstate.” “No. We’ve talked about this. I’m better off staying here.” Sarah played with a loose thread on the hem of her shirt. “They’ve never accepted me. I’d rather not spend my last moments avoiding their judging gazes.” “It’s not like that.” Katy stopped her menial chores at the sink and turned around to face Sarah. She put her hands on her shoulders and looked at her with the same fake concern that she always had. “You’re family. They will be happy you came.” “No. I’m staying.” “Okay. I understand.” Sarah nodded and kept silent. Katy sighed heavily and pulled Sarah in for a tight hug. Katy was shaking uncontrollably and began to sob. Sarah instinctively wrapped her arms around her sister and rubbed her back. “It’s okay.” Sarah tried her best to speak in a comforting tone. “No it’s not. This can’t be the end. I don’t want to die. I don’t want Josie to die. She’ll never be able to grow up. Or know love. It just isn’t fair.” “Katy, let’s not think about what could have been. Let’s just live for the moment. However many we have left.” “I love you, Sarah. More than you know.” “I love you, too, Katy.” They held each other for a long while before pulling apart. Katy finished packing what supplies she needed to make the short drive to the rest of what was left of their family. “What will you do with your time?” Katy asked through tears. “I’m not sure. I don’t know yet.” “If you change your mind...” “I know.” Sarah helped Katy pack up her car, hugged and kissed Josie and her sister, then watched them drive away from the steps of her townhome. Once they were out of sight, she walked back inside and made her final preparations. She took a long and relaxing bath. She cooked her favorite meal and ate to her heart’s content. She popped open a bottle of wine and worked on a painting she’s had in progress for months. Once the sun began to set she decided to go out for a walk. She put on her favorite party dress and strappy sandals. She contoured and dramatized her makeup to the best of her ability. She put extra time into her hair and dabbed her favorite perfume on her neck and wrists. Leaving her townhome, she felt it silly to lock her front door and opted to leave it unlocked. Afterall, she wasn’t coming back. Looking at her home one last time, she headed down the street to her favorite night spot nearby. She looked around at the tall townhomes lining the street. She could hear a few hushed conversations through open windows. However, the city has never been this quiet before. She shook off the eerie feeling and continued walking. Once she arrived, she didn’t expect to see many people. In fact, she thought there might not be anyone around. However, there she stood at the entrance to the patio bar she frequented and saw it was full of patrons. A large holographic sign projected on the building’s wall exclaimed “FREE DRINKS FOR THE END OF THE WORLD”. She chuckled to herself and opened the vintage gate to the patio. The familiar bartender waved enthusiastically to Sarah as she approached the bar. Soft music played from a piano in the corner. Everyone talked in low and hushed voices, giving the bar its familiar atmosphere that she enjoyed the most. “Hey, Tyler, the usual, please.” “Right away, Sarah.” The bartender with kind eyes and dark curly hair poured Sarah’s favorite whiskey and winked as he handed it to her. “You didn’t want to spend tonight with family?” she asked after sipping her drink. “They’re on the other side of the world. There was no way to get to them in time. We said our goodbyes on the phone earlier today. This is where I want to be now.” “Cheers, Tyler.” Sarah raised her glass and bumped the air in an imaginary toast gesture. She turned in her seat and looked out among the crowd. Watching people laugh and joke with their friends, she slowly sipped her whiskey and soon noticed she was smiling at the seemingly positive vibes of the evening. She also noticed a few tearful faces and a few engaged in deep conversations. Here, in this crowded bar, she felt the loneliest she’d ever felt. At the same time, she felt the happiest. There were no longer any expectations of her or standards to live up to. It was freeing in a sense that responsibility was completely gone. She spent the evening mingling with random small groups in the crowd, involving herself in serious philosophical discussions, and danced with strangers. Once they reached early morning hours, many people had cleared out. They’ve gone home, went to another bar, or went home with a lover for the night. Wherever they went, they weren’t alone. Sarah ended the night at the bar, talking with Tyler about various things that didn’t matter anymore. University, work, family. Whatever they could to keep their minds off of the end. “Should be happening any time now.” Tyler mentioned quietly during a break in the conversation. “I wonder what that will feel like?” Sarah gazed at the last few drops of liquor in her glass. “By that I mean, will we feel like we’re burning, or will it be so instant that we won’t feel a thing?” “I don’t know, but I hope it’s the latter.” “So do I.” “Sarah, I’m calling it a night. I’m just going to pour myself one last drink.” Tyler refilled her glass and poured himself one. “Are you going to be okay?” Sarah nodded and smiled dryly. “Goodnight, Tyler. Thank you, for everything.” Tyler smiled back and made his way to a red overstuffed couch in the corner. He laid his head back and fell asleep. Sarah, took one last long sip of her drink and made her way down the street to the transit station. The streets were more deserted than she had ever seen them. Trash littered the sidewalks from looters and activity. She set her destination to the beach and stepped onto the platform. Thankfully, the unmanned train arrived quickly and she entered the cabin. The five minute ride to the beach was quiet and oddly peaceful. When the train stopped, she lingered for a moment before stepping off. The summer air was hot and sticky. Her hair matted itself against her face as she walked onto the beach and up to the tide. Sarah sat down on the warm sand and played with the grains for a moment. She relished in the moment, contemplating that it was her last. A dull orange haze filled the sky until it turned into a bright white light. Tears streamed down her face once more as her breathing became heavy and labored through the heat. Loud crashing sounds of explosions around her deafened her ears. She resisted the urge to run. When the light from the star became unbearable, she closed her eyes. Waves of strange euphoria washed over her from the star’s light and heat. She smiled one last time.


The hostess led us to a window table. It was the same table we had shared fifty years ago. We both were actually surprised the place was still around. "I remember our last dinner here like it was only yesterday." "Me too. Those were some great times. Can't wait to hear what's been happening with you." "And you're gonna have to tell me about your last fifty years." "May I start you two off with some drinks? We have Pepsi products or something from the bar." "I'll have a Pepsi Mango if you have it." "Sure do. And you sir?" "I'll have a Molson." "I'm sorry. We don't have Molson." "Okay how about a Fosters." "Sorry." "All right. Just give me a Budwiser in a bottle then," "That I can do. I'll be right back." "So Mister P.K. Butler. Where have you been keeping yourself these past fifty years?" "If you recall I had a pretty high draft number. So, rather then be drafted and end up in Nam, I Joined. Joined with England, Germany and Hawaii as my assignment preferences." "Here are your drinks, gentlemen. You ready to order yet?" "I think so. How aboout you, George?" "I'm ready too. I'll have the t-bone, medium, baked potato with extra butter and bacon bits, house salad with honey mustard dressing, green beans as my other side and if I have any room left a slice of that peanut butter pie." "And I'll have the chopped steak, mashed potatoes with gravy and onions, house salad with ranch dressing and a slice of blueberry pie." "Thank you, gents. I'll put your order in right away." "Remember what we had fifty years ago? We were actually here for lunch. I had that jumbo burger with all the fixings, fries and my first beer as I was finally old enough to order one." "Yep, I had that footlong cony dog with chili and cole slaw, onion rings and iced tea. I had another two months before I could order a beer." "Oh to be that age again. Kids these days cannot wait to grow up. If they only knew what was waiting for them." "You got that right. So, Georgie, I know you hated when people called you that. What have you been up to over the years?" "You no doubt remember that back in high school they told me I was not smart enough to go to college and they had me take DE, that work class. Well I saved my money and used it for college. I went to NC State in Raleigh. Was there when their basketball team was 27 and 0 with no place to go because they were on probation. Then the next year they won the championship." "Wow! I remember that. I was actually at Fort Bragg that championship season. I went to Germany shortly after. What was your major?" "Communications. Was a radio DJ for several years after graduation. Used that to get into sports broadcasting. Was the voice of our minor league baseball team until I retired two years ago. No wife, no kids. Was married to baseball." "Well I met this gal in Germany. She was actually an officer and had me outranked but we hit it off from the day we met. Within a year we were married. Her name is Amy and before we were transferred out of Germany we had twins, Tommy and Teddy. Then in Hawaii Cindy was born." "Three kids. Kind of envy you in that department. Always wanted kids but..." "Here you are, gentlemen," and the waitress placed their orders before them. "Anything else I can get for you?" "What kind of steak sauce do you have?" "A1." "I'll just go aunatural. Thanks anyway." The chatter between them became minimal as they ate their meal. "Any idea who may or may not attend this 50th reunion tomorrow?" "I know Darnell Sloan won't be there. He got drafted, was sent straight to Nam after basic and was killed within a month. And you remember how Patsy Graves and Barry DeLane were always all over each other. They got married, had five kids and while on vacation one year, on their way home, got hit head on by a drunk driver. All were killed instantly." "I remember hearing about that. It made the national news." "Yea, very unfortunate. Of course our class president Henry Benson will be there. And one of the bands got back together just to play this event from what I hear. Remember Haywire-played country on Friday and rock and roll on Saturday." "Oh I remember. Thought that was quite unique." "Lane Johnson won't be here. He joined the Navy and is in Japan. Don't think it would pay for him to fly back here just for one night. And the hot cheerleader, Candy Barr, four years after graduation was diagnosed with cervical cancer and passed away within a year." "Damn! I remember all the guys wanted to date her. Any of the faculty gonna be able to make it?" "Principle Watley died just last year. And we thought he was old as the hills back then. Heard that vice-principle DeMarco might be able to be here. As for the teachers, Doctor Cordle, that lone state championship baseball coach confirmed that he would be here. I don't recall seeing any of the others confirming." "Probably not many still around." "You most likely are correct. Oh, remember John Ferris, voted most likely to succeed in anything. He died of prostate cancer almost ten years ago." As they both seemed to be finished with their meal the waitress brought the pie. "Either of you like coffee with your pie?" "No." "No, thank you." Each ate their pie before returning to their conversation. "Wonder how many of the guys joined the military." "Let me see. I was at the twenty-five year reunion and if I remember Dean Harper spent three years in the Army. Gene Rabowski, Paul Zayre, Colton Mayes all were in the Navy. Fred James and Andy McDougall did the Air Force and Andy was a pilot for Delta. Some were in the Marines but I cannot recall who." "Did our class have any future stars like actors, actresses or maybe athletes?" "Drama class had Sandy Miller and at that time she was working with the Halmark channel. Tony Haller did a documentary on the daily life of this band from Iceland. They had a screening for it at the communication school on the West side. Let's see. Spencer Logan, remember how good he was pitching? He actually got drafted in round thirty-one after high school but went to college and threw his arm out there. Ended up a sports writer in Atlanta." The waitress brought their bill and thanked them for visiting. "Guess it must be time to go. Will see you tomorrow at the big event." "Okay. It was great being able to eat here like we promised each other those fifty years ago." "Indeed, old buddy. Have missed everyone over the years. Even the classes." "Same here. Will see you again tomorrow for sure." They each head for their respective auto eager for their 50th class reunion the next night.


Did you remember the time we whispered wishes into bubbles as we sent them into the sky? We hoped they would pop in China, so that someone across the world with the same desires could feel our hope, too. Did you remember? Or had it been so long that you’d forgotten? I almost forgot, too, so that’s okay. After years of barely speaking, waving to each other in the hallway, and texting one or two words, it’s okay if you’d forgotten. Because I almost forgot the sound of your voice. Did you forget the sound of my voice, too? “I like you,” you had whispered through the line of trees connecting your house to mine. “I like like you. More than friends. Will you be my girlfriend?” I shifted softly on my feet, feeling the wind whip through my long, blonde hair as fluffy clouds formed in the blue sky above us. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. “I’d rather be friends,” I replied. “Sorry.” We were just kids. I didn’t know what I was turning down. I watched the smile fade from your face. “Oh, that’s okay. We can still be friends. Always still be friends,” he mumbled. The discomfort was evident on his face. Awkwardness loomed in the air around us as we each took deep breaths. Years went by. You understood me more than anyone. We lay in the front yard, the sun beating down on our faces as your little siblings, Riley and Mackenzie, sketched outlines of us on the pavement. To me, you were the little neighbor boy who had a crush on me. To you, I think I was more. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. Love wasn’t a word I understood then, but I think I did love you at that moment. I loved you as my best friend, someone I could count on no matter the circumstances. You stood by me. I liked that about you. Would I do the same? “Tara!” Mackenzie shouted, too young to know an appropriate volume to talk at. “What?” I asked. "Wanna go inside and play Barbies?” You had looked at me with that face, that goofy smile. “Go on, I’ll stay out here with Riley. Lord knows she needs watching,” you laughed, as Riley made a threatening face in your direction. “Mackenzie, don’t you dare break anything.” Kenzie rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand and leading us inside. I looked at you behind my shoulder, beaming. Those were the happiest days of my life. We were running together after the ice cream truck, pushing your little sisters around in that red wagon, and playing with dolls in the cool basements. You were home to me. I never should have doubted that. Over time we grew farther and farther apart. School swamped me. I wanted female friends. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who hung out with only the boy next door. I was wrong about that. You got popular, but that didn’t change you. You were humble, smart, athletic, and kind. I should have reached out. Maybe you should have reached out, too. I guess we both could have done things differently. I see that now. I saw you once. Years after we’d last talked. “So, uh, you’re dating Jakey, right?” you’d asked. I looked down, the same awkwardness filling the air as the day we talked between trees. “Yeah. He’s good, you know?” I replied. “He treats me well.” “Seems like it,” you had laughed. “He talks about you nonstop. He’s right to brag.” Jakey was fine, but when I looked at you, I regretted it all. Your blue eyes, the curly hair, that goofy smile. It took me back to a time when I was happy. It took me back home. Jakey would end up breaking up with me. It was a long time coming. We weren’t happy. You died a month later. Car crash. Your drunk friend was driving and you were blacked out in the backseat. You weren’t strapped in. You died. I’ve never been the same. I see you in bubbles. I see you in ice cream trucks and red wagons. I see you in the tree line of my childhood home. I see you in sidewalk chalk and Barbies. I guess we were always star-crossed. The realization just struck me at the wrong time. We were just kids. I just didn’t know what I was turning down.


Shakespeare has written plays not only as a legacy to England, but tales that have stirred up souls all across the world. We know of his Hamlet, chasing the ghost of his father and seeking the death of his uncle. We know of Lady Macbeth desperately trying to wash blood off her criminal hands. We know of Romeo screaming - "Juliet, my Juliet!" But what we don't know is of one fine miracle which occurred in a public London school, when the teacher did not weigh the potential impact of his words upon looked at his class from behind a pair of round goggles, twisted his left palm with a gracious manner and said to the seventh grader. "If there is immortality to be found among our lives, it hides in the stories of Shakespeare. His legacy is unfading. He is unfading. If there is one miracle I wish could happen, it would be for Shakespeare to be born again. A new William Shakespeare of the modern world. Maybe one of you... undecided little children, will one day aspire to such greatness. That is my goal as your teacher. That, will be the dream of Mr. Anderson coming true." A nice pep talk from Mr. Anderson. Seems like something every more than averagely dramatic English teacher would say in a London public school. What he didn't know, is that you should beware of your dreams for they have a nasty habit of coming true. Will, or William, coincidentally sharing his name with Shakespeare, was one of the students sitting in the back of the class. One of those who usually didn't pay much attention. Neither was he the macho type to sit in the back and roll cigarettes for after school or to tug the hair of whichever girl sat in front of him, a strange activity of which many middle school boys derived much pleasure. Will, was the most average kid, who still hadn't found a calling and neither was he looking for it. This strong inability and apathy to fit in remained with the boy all through his years, later turning into a strange craziness that allowed Will to create mad things with no regard of their practical application in the real world. Will began finding himself in the eighth grade, when the class started getting computer science lessons. The circuitry, the software flowing in them through electricity, the endless wires with which many of his classmates only got as far as making a lightbulb turn on and waiting for the lunch break to arrive, made more sense to Will, than anything else ever could. He gradually, year after year, started to explore and understand that the computer system works like the human brain and not only. That fundamentally, it's all the same algorithm which drives our lives in any sphere. An input - water getting on the soil under a flower. Storage - the roots taking the water in. Processing - the water going into the stem, the petals, the leaves. Output - the flower's nectar for the bees. The scent of the flower. Its beautiful look. Will understood the laws of nature by digging into something that logically shouldn't have had anything in common with it. And he went from an unnoticed kid in the back of the class to one of the brightest minds of our day in a matter of as little as fifteen years. He came up with all sorts of crazy ideas: flying houses, self cooking food with appetite sensors, childbirth through painless teleportation of the infant from the womb straight into the mother's hands... Will was able to bend the laws of nature as they previously were understood. He showed that everything which can undergo these four processes is able to be engineered. However one day, sitting in his smart house with the thermostatic temperature sensing slippers on his feet, Will began to get sick of all those ideas. He was tired of the fun he was having with divine endless possibilities which technology was offering him. And that's when the calm gentle face of Mr. Shakespeare, in the most simple hardcover book, looked at him from the corner of the bookshelf. With such airy hair, deeply penetrating eyes, some elegant clothing... Will went back digging in his memory, to the torturous days of Mr. Anderson's classes when he sat in the back and yawned at metaphors and similes. And his memory arrived at that first time, when the teacher expressed his wish, his dream, and when Will was coincidentally not taking an open-eyed afternoon-nap during the lecture. Will understood that one thing he had yet not done was to make someone's dream come true. The boy's life suddenly took a whole new turn. He was seeing a vision, his mind was ready to take a flight. With months of planning, which was a really long time for this mastermind, Will managed to build a machine. A brigner back of the dead. He didn't make much fuss about it on the news. No one knew except for him. And for that man whom he summoned. One fine Sunday evening, Shakespeare went knocking on Mr. Anderson's door. "Hi. I am Will." Mr. Anderson dropped the green poetry book from his hands. He was about to fall right after it. And he would, if Shakespeare himself wouldn't take a hold of the teacher. "Now, now. thee shouldn't panic. I wast hath sent hither by thy inhorn man: Will. That gent hath said thee wast his English teacher. "Will... Oh my God. Why would he do this to you. I am so sorry to disturb your peace Mr. Shakespeare. That boy is a real rascal. Last week he invented a toaster that spits bread right into one's mouth with a carefully planned trajectory. A crazy, crazy man." "Well that's quite comical if thee asketh me." "Yes. To be completely honest, sir, I also have one of those toasters in my kitchen. Please. Come inside." As Shakespeare and Mr Anderson sat in the living room around a cup of tea, Shakespeare began to look around, pleased to find many of his books on the shelf. Then he squirmed his eyes. The professor was definitely more anxious than excited for this man's presence in his living room. This to him seemed unnatural to say the least. He wasn't sure whether he should believe that it is Shakespeare in front of him, or simply a pixelated illusion of the writer. Shakespeare got up and tooks a copy of Romeo and Juliet. He looked carefully at the edition and ripped the hardcover right off the book's pages with a monstrous power. "Sir, what is wrong?" Mr Anderson stood up. "Look at this. " Pointing his portrait at Mr Anderson. "Look at mine lips. Mine lips don't behold like that! Those gents madeth me behold like a mistress. God, how horrid. Thither art probably coequal conspiracy theories flying around that ho, Shakespeare wast a mistress. Well, no wonder!" "Mr Shakespeare, conspiracy theories should not bother you. Let me see. Those look nothing like women's lips. I am sorry if the artists' work doesn't please you." For a while Shakespeare sits down, displeased and scarred. Mr Anderson understands he needs to keep the conversation going. "But it's not the portrait that makes you the genius you are and which people recognize. It's how your works touch the hearts and souls and express the depths of the human condition. Of all the wickedness and dirt that flows in the seemingly clean human hearts. Your books are mirrors for the people, to see how perversion can seep into them and get a hold. Make them commit murders, treacheries, monstrosities. Your works are as modern in the year 2035 as they were back in the 17th century. There are still Lady Macbeths among us. There are still Hamlets. You are immortal, Mr Shakespeare. Nothing has changed. Technology is changing, transportation is changing. We no longer ride in horse carriages, but greed still drives the human race, envy still covers us head to toe. The laws that work on us now are the same laws which were in piece back then, and those laws will hold true even a thousand years later. So what is a little portrait, if not just a blunder of the artist. You shouldn't feel disappointed, Mr. Shakespeare." Shakespeare remains quiet. Mr Anderson imagined he would be a sensitive man, but not to this extent. After so many years of laying dead, Shakespeare was happy that his works still remained true. That people didn't get any better, that the tragedies of life still lived on as he believed they would. "So what doth thee sayeth, we consume one of those toasts. " "Oh, you mean from Will's toaster... Sure! I think we need a different kind of toast for this special occasion too, sir." "Shall we drinketh to the unchangingly tragic and, like a toad, ugly and venomous condition of the humans? And of their occasional joy and purity? God, I just wish those gents recalled me being a bit more masculine than this..." "Is you complaining about your portrait only a comic relief for this crossroad in the times?" "You art one cunning sir, Mr Anderson. I wanteth people to recall that anything thee input thee wilt output. What thee giveth, thee wilt taketh. beest t greed, love, sorrow or joy. thee needeth to findeth what thee wanteth to nourish, and giveth t what t doth take to groweth into something quite quaint, something more marvellous than thee could ever imagine." A cheers. A toast. And it didn't matter whether it really was Shakespeare in front of him or simply an illusion. It were his words that mattered, which gave the writer the great presence he had. The next morning, when Shakespeare had disappeared without a trace to be tracked, Mr Anderson took up the responsibility of starting a new edition of books of Shakespeare with a whole different portrait of the man decorating its new cover. One Will left back to the passage of time, leaving the other to lead the humanity toward a different future, with yet the same constraints of our laws and of our infinite fragility. And words, words, words, will keep floating, till the end of time. Till the break of dawn.


It wasn’t that Alto Morelli didn’t believe the best revenge was served cold, but at times he was sick and tired of waiting for his chance. How long had it been since the bastard killed his brother Joey? Two, three years? It seemed like forever. But you can’t just knock off a Mafia capo and expect to live...unless you wait until just the right moment and no one can trace it to you. Rule one for successful revenges; live to tell the tale. Alto was an independent contractor. He hired out his gun, but never his loyalty to many of the denizens of the underworld in 1932. The press referred to his kind as a “Hit Man.” But very few people in New York, New Jersey, or Chicago knew that he was one. Mostly Mafia crime bosses and leaders of other gangs like the Irish Mob. The other thing about Alto was no one knew what his last name was. Only his brother Joey knew it, and he was dead now. His killer, Johnny Dancer, was a capo for the Bonnano crime family in New York. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic who surrounded himself with bodyguards at all times. Johnny knew there were plenty of people out there who wanted to see him dead...for a whole host of reasons. Still, it was hard to wait. Alto was a man of action. At times he felt like a coward, taking so long to extract his pound of flesh because he wasn’t ready to die doing it. It felt like he was desecrating Joey’s memory at times. He shook those thoughts off and forged ahead looking for the perfect opening. The bible said there was, “... a time for everything, a season for every activity under the heavens.” That encouraged him because he was a Catholic, even if he didn’t go to confession. Faith in that quote kept him going. He knew there would be a season to kill, and his family burden would be forever lifted. The season to kill finally arrived when Alto’s paid snitch in the Bonnano family told him Johnny and two of his rich friends were going upstate to the Catskills for a weekend of fishing and hunting. He gave Alto the directions, who thanked him and then shot him point blank! No witnesses. Number Two rule of survival. Hunting season in the Catskills. How appropriate. When Alto arrived at the hunting lodge he took his time sizing up how many occupants were there. He quickly spotted Johnny and what he took to be his two rich friends. Not far away were two alert-looking bodyguards watching the three men eat a meal outdoors on the open porch. It took a few more hours before he discovered the other two bodyguards who were patrolling the perimeter of the lodge. Six people who he had to kill, but it was worth it to get Johnny. He was already envisioning where he would dispose of the bodies afterward. No one would ever know what happened. His inner survivor briefly questioned if this was the right season, after all the odds were against him. Then he focused upon the task. He waited until late at night, past midnight, and snuck up on the first guard outside the front door, slitting his throat neatly and professionally. The second guard was nodding in a chair in the living room. He looked up in time to see Alto for a moment, then a hand went over his mouth while his throat was slashed open. Then Alto cautiously went into the first bedroom. Saw someone in a bed. Went right over, checked his face briefly in the light of the full moon streaming through the window. Another guard. Slit his throat. He went to the second bedroom. This time the sleeper was one of Johnny’s pals. Slit his throat. The next room had the other pal. Slit his throat. That left Johnny and one guard. Was that guard in Johnny’s bedroom? He opened the last bedroom door slowly. Inch-by-inch. His keen ears attuned to any sound. Then he heard a click! Without thinking he dropped down to the floor as the shotgun blast tore into the door! Alto pulled his .45 Colt Automatic out and fired from the prone position in the direction of the blast! A man screamed and collapsed directly across from him. Then another shotgun blast hastily fired over his head from the right near the bed! When he rose up Johnny was trying to reload, but was fumbling with the cartridge. Instead of immediately killing him Alto jumped up and rushed him, knocking the old twin-barrel shotgun aside as he grabbed his neck with one hand and hit him alongside the head with the pistol in the other. He stood over the bleeding and semi conscious man and considered how he wanted to kill him. He thought about when he found his brother, just before he died, and how badly he suffered. His tormentors took a drill to both his hands and feet. They pulled out all of his teeth. There were numerous burns and cuts from head to toe. They blinded him with a hot poker and cut his tongue out. In the end, he took Johnny outside for a short walk from the lodge and tied him to a tree. Then he cut him from sternum to groin so his guts leaked out while he was still alive. He stayed long enough to listen to and savor his screams which deteriorated to moans as his lifeblood soaked the base of the tree. Two novice hunters heard the screams. They followed them through the forest. Both were teenagers and eager to find the source. Suddenly something big burst through the undergrowth and they both panicked and fired their rifles! Alto spun around when one of the shots hit him in the chest, falling to the ground heavily. His last thought made him grin at the irony, “There’s also a season for dying.


The darkness fell upon them suddenly, without warning. No storm ushered the way, no meteorologists or news anchors cautioned them about the power outage. One minute there was light, the next there was none. Close to seventy people had gathered that night for the party. It was Sebastian Beck’s forty-fifth birthday, and his closest friends and colleagues had been invited to celebrate at the Attic, the newest, swankiest bar on the outskirts of Chicago. Most nights there was a hefty cover charge to gain entrance to the Attic, but of course Beck had booked and paid for the entire bar for the night of his party. The place was rather small, as all of the most exclusive venues are by nature. All of the guests fit inside the building, but a certain sense of personal space was lacking. Monica De Leon was a journalist who had recently started working for Beck. In an effort to make the best possible impression, she had spent the Saturday morning before the party perfecting her look. Her cocktail dress, a black, sequined number ruched at the waist, was perfectly fitted by her tailor, and her wavy dark brown hair had been elaborately pinned in a stylish up-do by her hairdresser. She hoped that the final look was attractive but not too attractive. Monica admittedly liked Sebastian and occasionally imagined him becoming more than her boss one day, but she wanted to come across as professional and serious, not a schoolgirl with a crush. He was a distinguished man and would certainly be turned off by any immature behavior on her part. Though Monica was twenty years younger than Sebastian, she was sophisticated and attracted her fair share of older men. Arriving at the party at 8:30 p.m. (just late enough to make people think she was as busy and important as they pretended to be), Monica spotted Beck across the bar and then began mingling with the other guests. Best not to appear eager; she would slowly find her way closer to the man of the hour and introduce herself properly after a while. One hour and two martinis later, Monica’s feet were aching in her stilettos and she was growing increasingly bored. Growing up on the west side of Chicago, Monica met all sorts of people from various socioeconomic backgrounds, but she had never met people like this. These were the rich, the upper-class, the elite. Extraordinarily wealthy people seldom commingled with regular folk. They were like sasquatches; rarely seen in the wild and a bit unbelievable. For all her hopes of hearing fascinating stories about their opulent lives, the disappointing truth seemed to be that rich people were dull. Everyone she met that night either droned on about taxes and stocks or complained endlessly about the help. They were completely intolerable. Just as Monica made up her mind to finally approach Sebastian Beck, the lights went out. A few people in the crowd gasped. Someone dropped a drink and the sound of the glass shattering made Monica jump. For a moment or two, it was practically silent as the guests adapted to the abrupt change in atmosphere. A few of the more inebriated celebrants loudly asked no one in particular why it was so dark. Sebastian Beck spoke up. “Let me take this moment to thank you all for coming tonight! Throwing a birthday party at my age feels a bit ridiculous, but I love a good excuse to celebrate with all of you wonderful people. I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I am! We appear to have lost power; I am going to make a few calls to find out what caused the outage, and surely everything will be up and running again in no time. No need to panic and certainly no need to leave just yet!” Monica fished her cell phone out of her handbag as Beck finished up his speech. She wasn’t planning on making any calls herself, but the light from her phone would help her find her way out of the building. Despite Beck’s reassurances, she took the power outage as a sign that this night was a bust and decided she should be on her way. Though her phone was fully charged when she left for the party not two hours earlier, for some reason it wouldn’t turn on. Voices started whispering in the dark, lamenting their own cell phone failures. By some bizarre coincidence, not a single person in the Attic seemed to have a working phone. Monica took a deep breath and weighed her options. She had a vague idea of her location in the building and the direction she needed to go to find the exit. She might accidentally bump into a few people on her way out in the total darkness, but she surely wouldn’t be the only one. As she turned around and started to make her way back towards the front door, Monica tripped, catching her heel on something and twisting her ankle. She yelped as the sharp pain shot up her foot and grabbed on to a table to stop herself from falling. Dammit, these stilettos cost more than my first paycheck. She was feeling like this night was a failure more and more every minute. Now limping, she continued weaving through the group. Suddenly someone walked straight into her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Monica stammered. “No need to apologize, it’s darker than a tomb in here. Where are you heading in such a rush?” “I’m calling it a night. The party’s been great, but it’s getting late and I can’t see a thing in here. Have a good night.” Monica leaned forward but the man was still standing in her way. She stepped to the left and he mirrored her. “Look, I’m tired and my ankle hurts and I’m not in the mood to dance with a stranger in the dark right now, so if you’ll excuse me...” Monica’s tone was no longer charming. She hoped she didn’t sound as irritated as she felt, but she needed to come across as firm and direct with a man like him. “Well, isn’t that cute! You aren’t in the mood? What makes you think I care what kind of mood you’re in, Monica?” Monica’s blood turned to ice. The man’s voice did not sound familiar. Although she couldn’t name everyone she had met tonight, she was certain that she had not talked to this deep-voiced stranger. How did he know her name? “Now, little lady, the party is just getting started. Come with me.” The man grabbed Monica’s elbow forcefully and led her back towards the center of the bar. “Get your hands off me!” Monica shouted as she tried to pull her arm free and shove the man away from her. “Help! Someone get this creep away from me!” A moment ago the other attendants were laughing and chatting amongst themselves. As the mystery man dragged Monica further into the bar and she screamed for help, the guests grew quiet. No one moved to assist her. No one spoke up. Sebastian Beck began to speak. “Monica De Leon. My newest employee. Thank you so much for showing up tonight. I didn’t mention this before, but you are my guest of honor! I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here.” Monica laughed nervously. “Thank you, Mr. Beck. That’s very kind of you to say. I had a lovely evening. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the exit? I really must be going.” “Going? No, you won’t be going anywhere. As I’ve said, you are the guest of honor.” Beck’s usually pleasant voice was hardening. “I don’t understand... I am so grateful for the invitation, but it is late and quite dark and I want to go home now, please. Happy birthday, Mr. Beck. Goodnight.” After this last plea, the entire roomful of people burst out laughing. Is this some kind of prank? Did I say something embarrassing? Monica had stopped drinking when the power went out, but her head was growing foggy and the darkness was disorienting. The man who had forcefully dragged Monica across the bar abruptly picked her up and laid her upon a long table. Hands reached towards her from all around; big hands, hairy hands, manicured hands, cold hands; hands holding her down as she writhed and squirmed in a desperate attempt to escape. Before she blacked out, Monica heard one line, repeated by each party guest in unison: You are the guest of honor.


Title: I'm Just a "backup" Author: Haripriya Author's Note: Hello everyone! This story wasn't one of my best ones because I included the prompt at the end of the story, so it might be a little disappointing to many of you. But either way, I just wanted to post this story to get some feedback and suggestions for this story. Other than those quick words, I hope you kind of enjoy what I've written, and please feel free to comment down below on what you think about this entire story! I hope you have a great, lovely Saturday and happy holidays!! My favorite thing in this whole wide world is being a ballerina. I feel really proud of myself when I dance. It's almost like I go into my own world, my own place. As I move, as I close my eyes, I just dance my heart out. Learning new techniques, more advanced steps, doing all of that is my favorite thing about being a dancer. I love being myself, and just doing my steps without anyone bothering me. Like I'm in my own secret world, where no one ever bothers me at all. It's my passion, and I just love doing it. "Hey Bella!" my friend, Anna calls out. "Hey! I'm just doing some warm-up moves and practices before class starts. Anyways, why are you here so early?" I ask. "I should be asking you that question. I'm early because I want to practice my whipped throw. I did terrible last class when you all did it so perfectly. So I'm going to redeem myself from that humiliation." she said as she put her backpack down. "Well, I can give you some pointers...maybe you can use that?" I suggest. "Sure Bella. But let me ask you know. Why are you here so early? You're always early for every class." she points out. I feel my face flushed. Getting tomato red. I try to hide my face from her, to not get embarrassed. "I--Well, I'm here because...I just want to practice for the audition for the Nutcracker." I admit, and without even looking at a mirror, I can tell my face looks like I just dipped my head in a bucket full of red paint. "But that isn't until another week. Besides, we have other things to practice too," she says and continues practicing the whipped throw. "You're right," I say, "You know, if you want, maybe we can learn the whipped throw together?" I ask her. Anna chuckles, and after she gets her breath, she makes out these words, "Of course Bella. I love to do anything with you." I smile too, feeling quite happy. "Well, the professional and more of a correct term to say the whipped throw is Fouetté," I say, not trying to look too smart. "Yeah, I know, it's just that no matter how hard I try to pronounce it, the word doesn't stick to my head. Also, saying whipped throw/whipped turning is just much easier than pronouncing that word," she replies. I just nod my head, and we both start practicing together. "After we do the Fouetté, we're going to do the Pirouette. That way, for this class, we'll be good to go. According to my watch, class starts in another fifteen minutes." I tell her. "Ok, so let's start." she agrees back. I take a deep breath, and officially start telling her how to conquer the move. "To do the Fouetté, you need to first turn on one foot while turning it fastly outward, then quickly inward, just like how I'm doing, see?" I explain to her while demonstrating how my foot moves. "Ok, so all I do is turn, turn my foot outward, and then inward. Then repeat these series of steps and do it fast later," she tells me. "Exactly Anna!" I encourage her. "No wonder why everyone tells you you're a fast learner!" I add, and I see her smile becoming wider. "Thanks, Bella," she says. I coach her on how to do this move a few more times so that she could memorize it quickly and learn it faster gradually. Soon, I even asked her to do the step alone while I counted her beats. "One, two, three...one, two, three--Anna, you did it! That's all it takes! You're so close to mastering it!" I exclaim. "Really? Wow I--I didn't even know that! Th..thanks, Bella! You really are the best friend." she tells me, which makes me feel happy. I quickly glance at the time to see that it's already 10: 50 am. "Hey Anna, we still have ten more minutes, do you want to start doing the Pirouette?" I ask her, trying to wait to hear her opinion. "Umm...sure! But, we haven't learned that in class, so how can you teach me?" she questions, and I look down. "Well...you see Anna, when I'm at home, I kind of teach myself all the moves. I look at famous plays and shows, which is how I learned all these moves really quickly." I confess. I didn't know how she would think about me when I told her this. "Really Bella? That's amazing! You know, you deserve to climb higher in your ballerina career." she says. "Thanks, at least I hope so. So far, I haven't gotten picked in any auditions...so maybe? But thanks for always cheering me up Anna." I tell her as we start to practice the next move. I do some quick stretches and warm-ups in my legs for us to start the next move. "The Pirouette is a very important move in ballerina. It is when you spin on one foot while the other foot is on the knee. The foot which is on the knee is kind of supporting the leg while you do the dance move. But sometimes when you try to spin on one foot, people tend to break their toes and things like that which is why I'm going to show you the simplest method of learning the move." I explain to her. I show her how to carefully spin, without breaking bones or any other parts of your foot. I help her try to balance the foot, and I continue to show her. "Look carefully Anna, the spinning foot should move in a smooth direction for the flow to be a bit better," I suggest to her. To help her learn the move a bit easier while keeping on the beat, I show her some guidelines and let her try to do it by herself. "Wow, Bella! When you break the movements down like this, I feel like I can do any steps! Thank you so much!" she yells in joy. "Your welcome Anna, and look! We finished our practice right on time for class!" I tell her. "You're right, I guess I'll see you in class!" she waves, and I wave back at her. 🟑🟑🟑 "Students, please sit down. In this class, we're going to take auditions for The Nutcracker, because Christmas is coming up and holidays are coming up, we need to pick the best of the best students to perform," Mrs. Juan explains. "So, how many people will be picked, Mrs. Juan?" Anna asks. "Good question Anna. I will pick 25 students, and from those 25 students, I will pick 6 of them to do multiple roles. Plus, we're going to be performing out of town! So a week before the performance, the 25 students will go on tour with me, and there we will set up everything for the performance." Mrs. Juan continues explaining to the students. Oh my gosh! Will all my practice and hard work be enough for the surprise audition? Will there be, even a sliver of a chance that I can get the main role, Clara? Or the Sugar Plum Fairy? Was I meant for this all my life? questions fill my mind as Mrs. Juan tells us all the directions. "Now fellow ballerinas, the auditions will begin. Each student will show me what we've been practicing so far. They will also show separate moves and will have to answer questions." Mrs. Juan clarifies. "Will the audition for each girl be done in front of everyone, or separately?" I ask, my heart pounding nervously for her answer. "To answer your question Bella, yes, they will be done separately. No one should receive help from any other students under any circumstance. To avoid that, we are going to test each of you for different moves." she construes. I feel so much better that I don't have to be in the spotlight, and do it in front of everyone. If I mess up, only Mrs. Juan will be there to see. I think relieved. "Any other questions girls? If no, we are going to start the auditions. The first person I have on my list is Anna C. and Bella L." she continues. "I wish you the best of luck Anna, I know you'll do great," I whisper to Anna quietly. "Really? I know you'll do an amazing job too," she whispered back. It had been some time since Anna was in there and the rest of us were out. We were waiting for about ten minutes, and out of curiosity, without anyone seeing me, I peeked at the door to see Anna doing the Pirouette. I hope she does great. I pray. But after some time, I see that she's done with a smile on her face. "Hey, Anna! How did it go?" I ask. "Well, I did everything the way you taught me, and I saw she was impressed, but she said she'll only announce the results at the end of everyone's audition, basically next week," Anna told me. "Ok. I can wait that long." I tell her, and as soon as I do, I hear my name called next. 🟑🟑🟑 "Bella Lemaire!" Mrs. Juan called. "Sorry Mrs. Juan! I'm here!" I holler back. "Good. Now Ms. Lemaire, let's see what you got. Do a Foutté, then slide onto an Etendre, and end with a Plier. Finally, stand in the second position." she instructs me. I hold my breath really deep, and then I close my eyes. Her moves chorus through my ears as I hear the music played. I tried to be calm and more swift, as a real ballerina would do. After I was done, she stopped the music, and smiled, then looked down at her paper, almost like she was writing something down. "Very good Mr. Lemaire, now I want you to answer me this question. In ballet, what three things do you need to be an excellent ballet dancer?" she asks. I look down anxiously and look up at the ceiling. "Umm...you need--poise, hard work, and...and--determination," I respond hesitantly. "Very well then Mrs. Lemaire, you may go out and the results will be announced next week," she says. "Thank you, Mrs. Juan!" I say as I walked out. "So? How did everything go Bella? Did you rock it? I mean--did you gracefully rock it?" she asks which makes me giggle a little. "I tried my best Anna, but only next week will we know the audition results," I say as a twirl out of the common room to get some water. "See you next week Bella!" she shouts. "See you too Anna!" I yell back as we both head out our separate ways. 🟑🟑🟑 "Girls! The audition results have been announced. As the role of Clara, we have Anna, and the back-up dancer of Clara is Bella," she announces. "...and then for the Sugar Plum fairy..." she continues announcing, but I don't listen to any of that. I'm happy for Anna, but why am I a backup dancer? I thought I would at least any role. I question myself over and over again. Next to me, I see Anna happy, so I congratulate her, having a fake smile on my face. "See Anna? I told you that you rocked the audition!" I exclaim, but still, the melancholiness doesn't disappear in my tone. Luckily, Anna doesn't notice that. "Thank you so much, Bella! Without your support, I couldn't have got this role!" she says, and I smile at her, though deep down, I still feel pretty upset about being a backup dancer. When we're going on tour, I just want to have a peaceful trip, without any distractions. After all, I'm just a backup dancer. I'll have a lot of free time to hang around by myself while the others are rehearsing. I say to comfort myself from everything that had just happened to me. ~The End~


The gentleman stood in the main foyer of the library, just passed the displays of ancient pottery pieces and giant lizard bones. Clearly, he had not taken to the baggy “swell” of modern fashion, instead he wore a simpler cut of suit. Upon his head lay a top-hat. I approach and stand to his left. Before us is a vast, curved wall that severs the noisy entrance hall from the solemn library proper. On this wall is a mural -- a mosaic of dark and jagged tile that tells the tale of Shardfall, Shatternight and the Second Great Fire of London. The birth of a new England and a changed world. The birth of new peoples and new ways. Details of the artwork are lost to us in the shadows that the evening has brought. The gas lamps cannot light such a space with any real efficacy. “Even in this eerie light,” I say. “I find it rather stunning.” There is a silence and then: “I cannot say I see the beauty of its form. Nor do I agree with how it chooses to depict that moment of London’s sad history. The scale and skill of the thing? I appreciate the craftsmanship.” Sad history? The moment that made him what he is and changed our planet...and he wraps it into such a small package as Sad History. I turn from the mural. The left side of his face bears no skin and the skull that is thus revealed is made of glossy black instead of pale bone. In his empty eye-socket sits a pin-prick of blue light. The sign of those wrought from the crystal and its impact. I present to him the top of my glove. “Adelia De Wight. A pleasure to meet you, good sir.” He turns and I see that his other eye is human, as is that side of his face. And, though the eye is of a darker shade of brown, it holds a warmth and brightness I would not have expected, given the stiffness of his character and harshness of his voice. I wonder what he sees? A young lady trapped in a cage of crinoline and purple taffeta, very much a part of the modern modes of dress that he so clearly avoids. Does he see more? He takes my hand with his right, sweeps off his hat with his left, and lowers his head. He does not kiss my hand. “Archibald Candle. A pleasure.” Greetings thus completed, he dons his hat and turns once more to the mural. “Well, I must leave you to it, Mrs-” “Miss.” “Ah, my apologies. Miss De Wight.” He touches the brim of his hat and gives a nod. “Farewell.” “Before you go, Sir.” I say. “Might I be so forward as to ask you: why is it that you dislike the mural so?” A moment passes before he once more faces me. “Are you aware that since its erection, some forty years ago, that the work has been altered? Often in secret.” I didn’t. “I have heard rumours of such.” “The Deadfolk seen rising from graves, and the other creatures born of crystal, have had their teeth filed -- and lessened -- the points of their claws have been rounded into fingers. Though they try to hide it, it was born of fear.” “Well. It can be a beautiful thing not born of beauty, and the views on-” “Yes. The world views us monsters *very* differently. Forty years of effort and I can now own property and earn a wage...many tax me for my form or outright refuse to barter.” “I do not think you to be a monster, sir.” “Splendid.” The word came without joy, served as it was on ice. “But, by the laws of science and medicine: I am not a man. By the rule of law: I am not a man. I am a subject of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, but never do I fall within the net as cast by the term human.” The face he had lost shimmered into view for a moment. A passing flicker of blue light that none could predict. The ten story octahedron wedged in a crater at London’s edge would have shimmered too, as would its sister crystal which had crashed and scattered across The Moon. I met his eyes with mine. “I would call you a man.” “Forgive the impropriety of this imagery, Madam, but were I clad in naught but sky, I would look in shape as a human, but in detail...” At this he looked once more at the vast mosaic, and raised his left hand. The glove was loose. Within, one guesses, is obsidian bone and wisp of magic. “A beast born of ugliness.” “...not born of beauty. But beautiful.” \* * * My WP Discord Secret Santa Story for Quiscover. This was a real challenge. Had soooo much I wanted to cram in but had to cut back to fit into the 800 word cap. Brilliant constraints (Thanks, Quiscover!) and an excellent excuse to write (Thanks, Say!) **Constraints:** * Genre: Historical fantasy * Word: Barter * Phrase: "A beautiful thing not born of beauty." * Object: Tiles * Place: Library (doesn't have to be the main setting) * Characters: Features at least one of BOTH a human character AND a non-human character.


A young man entered her room. He had such pretty eyes and a bright white smile. He must have been a new nurse at the nursing home or one of those volunteers who came in every once in a while to talk to the residents. Either way, she didn’t mind having him in her room. “Good afternoon,” Leda said to him sweetly. She hadn’t had that many visitors lately. It was nice to see a friendly face. “Hello. How are you feeling today?” He sat down in the chair beside her bed. “Good,” she admitted. “I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night, so I am a bit tired.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to take a nap?” “No. There’s no time for naps. Not when I have a visitor.” Leda reached out and took the man’s hand. “Can you tell me your name?” “Levi,” Levi said. “Levi,” Leda repeated. “That’s a nice name.” “Thank you,” Levi said. “My mother once said my grandmother picked it out.” “Your grandmother has nice taste.” “She does. She’s the most amazing person I know.” “How sweet. I’m sure she feels the same way about you. How could she not? You seem like a kind, sweet, and a very handsome young man.” Leda patted Levi’s hand. “Thank you.” Levi blushed. “It’s certainly a nice day outside.” Leda looked out the window. It was a sunny day. The sky was a brilliant hue of blue, birds chirped outside her window, and she saw grandchildren getting ready to spend time with their grandparents as the parents took them out for a day of fun. “It is. After all that gloomy spring weather, it’s nice to see the sun. Everything’s better in sunlight.” “That reminds me of my grandson’s wedding,” Leda said. “It was so beautiful. One of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever been a part of.” “Your grandson’s wedding?” The young man’s eyes widened. “I’d like to hear about that.” “Well, my grandson and his lovely bride got married at this beachside resort.” “Sounds like the perfect venue for a wedding,” Levi said. “Tell me more about your grandson’s big day.” “I wore this sparkling, sequined number in a navy blue color,” Leda said. “I saw that dress and I knew I would be the belle of the ball! My grandson got the dress for me.” “That was generous of him to do so,” Levi said. “He must love you a whole lot.” “My grandson spoils me rotten,” Leda laughed. “I guess we’ve always been two of a kind. I raised him after his parents went through a nasty divorce. Poor child. But, he grew up to be a lovely man.” “With you as his grandmother, what other option was there?” Leda chuckled. “You give me too much credit! That boy was just born with a kind heart and a sweet personality to match. I was only there to gently guide him down the path we call life.” “What was he like on the big day?” “He was so nervous!” Leda laughed. “I went in to check in on him before the ceremony. You should have seen him! His tie was crooked, he was sweating up a storm, and his fly was down!” “Good thing he had a good grandma like you,” Levi said. “You sounded like you were his guardian angel that day.” “After I fixed up his tie and got him to zip up his pants, he was still nervous. He wasn’t second guessing his choice to marry, but he questioned the timing. Should they wait until after they have finished college? He also wasn’t sure how their marriage would turn out. He was afraid he and his bride would end up like his parents.” “What did you tell him?” Levi asked. “We had a good heart to heart,” Leda said. “I told him that he and his bride were not his parents. They would have to figure out this marriage for themselves. But, as long as they know that Love is the most important thing, they’ll never have to worry.” “Sounds like good advice,” Levi said thoughtfully. “It was. They’re still together today with three beautiful children. They’re the cutest lovebirds I’ve ever seen!” For the next couple of hours, Leda and Levi chatted about whatever it was that Leda wanted to chat about. “Unfortunately, it’s time for me to go.” Levi stood up from his chair. “So soon?” Leda enjoyed having Levi around. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew that there was something about him that made her feel safe and loved. “I loved talking to you.” “I do too,” Levi said. “How about I come back in a couple of days?” “I’m already counting down the seconds.” Levi gave Leda a hug and then left, leaving Leda to finally take the nap she so desperately tried to put off. “How’s your grandmother?” Gail, one of the nurses at the nursing home, asked Levi as he exited Leda’s room. “She was cheery today,” Levi told her. “That’s wonderful! Did she remember who you were?” “No, it didn’t seem like it. But... but I know she still loves me.” “She does. She may not remember you, but that feeling that she has for you will always be there you know.” “She told me a funny story. One that I couldn’t believe she would know.” “Really? What was the story?” Gail shifted her clipboard to her other hip. “She told me about being at her grandson’s wedding.” “How sweet!” “The thing is, I’m her only grandson. She told me about the venue, how nervous I was, and that my wife and I are the cutest love birds she ever saw.” “Your wedding? Levi, I didn’t even know you were engaged! Congratulations!” “That’s the thing, Gail.” Levi looked at Gail and blushed. “I’m not married. I don’t even have a girlfriend.” “You mean... your grandmother...” Gail couldn’t finish her sentence. “I’m not sure what I mean. I’m not sure what my grandmother told me,” Levi said. “But it’s nice to think that she would be around when that day finally comes.” “Either way, you know your grandmother loved being at your wedding,” Gail said. “All she ever wanted for you was for you to be happy.” Levi smiled. “With my grandmother around, I will always be happy.”


They had all come to the big party. Sorrow wore black, of course, with a sophisticated little lace veil. Luck could hardly be seen, her golden sequined dress sparkled and flashed in the spotlight so much that it hurt the eyes. Worries were serious again, typical, mouse-gray suits, even the ties weren't very creative, but of first, expensive quality. Joy was wrapped in yellow and had a huge sunflower pinned to her dress. Quite vulgar for Trouble’s taste, but Trouble was just a little pinched, you could tell just by looking at his dark green suit. "Green, please, only losers wear that," Malice whispered to her neighbor, Envy. Once again, the two couldn't separate. All evening, they huddled together in one corner, trashing the others. "Look at Love", Envy hissed to Malice. "Where the hell did she find that dress? Squeaky pink and these flounces. Sinfully expensive designer, of course, and she can't even afford it." "She looks like a cake”, Malice returned, "Fat buttercream." As Sex entered the brightly lit hall, a murmur went through the crowd. His skin-tight snakeskin suit exposed his beautifully sculpted body more than it concealed it. Eroticism took a large sip of champagne at the sight of him and drew attention with her throaty laugh. Her discreet evening dress shimmered in a velvety red. Illness had retreated to a quiet table in the corner. Her white dress competed with her noble pallor, and she toasted Death with a glass of chamomile tea. As usual, Death had settled stealthily behind a pillar and pulled his black hat down over his face that most didn't even recognize him. Honor, as pretty much at every party, was walking around smoking cigarettes. "Embarrassing," thought Pride, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Come on", said Kindness, "Poor Honor can't afford cigarettes after all," and surreptitiously slipped her a packet. Fame was almost drunk. He stood in the corner and bawled, encouraged by big Money, who stood next to him and pretty much fogged him with his Havana. Power, of course, had shown up with his entire court. Fear was constantly scurrying around them, and Diligence was fetching drinks. Work was busy as always. She constantly had to add the cold plates on the buffet, and somehow the spoons seemed to have run out. Then the host stepped to the microphone. He was dressed very colorfully and looked a bit like a harlequin. "Oh God, now he's giving a speech too, and he can't even speak," Malice whispered to her best friend. "Dear friends, dear partners", Life began a little hesitantly, "I'm glad you all came to celebrate me today. I'm especially pleased to have my guests of honor with me. I warmly welcome her Excellency, Happiness and the ambassador of the heart, Love, the mysterious Eroticism, the wild Sex, the almighty Money and of course, my good friend, Joy. Let's have a nice party together, and please don't go home too early." Thunderous applause rushed through the hall. People toasted each other and when the music started, Sex and Eroticism danced a tango that even Malice was speechless. An old Lady plucked her lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, then resolutely closed her purse and hurried to the exit. Wisdom, also not quite dewy, saw it and hurried to the host. "Dear Life, you forgot to greet your most important guest," she muttered to Life. Life looked in the direction Wisdom was pointing. "Oh, I’m a douche," Life insulted himself, "I must've committed a great faux pas." Life rushed to the exit and held the old lady. "Please, I'd like to introduce you to the other guests", he tried to apologize. "My son, there's no need. I know them all, believe me, but I am usually not recognized. And the only ones who will miss me are Trouble, Sorrow, Illness, and Death. But they're pretty boring, young man," said the old lady. "I will miss you," said Life. The old Lady handed her business card to Life and disappeared. Life plunged back into the party scene. Money and Love flirted over the rim of the glass, and Life and Joy danced a waltz. Of course, Love left the party with her old habit.


A man. Alone and silent in the icy rain. He is bathed in the garish red neon of a cheap strip bar, watching the world around him. Cole remembers the silence, momentary though it was. It is gone now. Replaced by the fury and harshness of a great city, constant and unrelenting in its savage, deafening roar. The whistle of a calm wind is gone, replaced by the unbearable, violent screeching of traffic. The stillness of the trees is taken by the glowing, burning neon lights of hotels and restaurants and stores. In the sprawl, every honk is a gunshot, every screech of tires a dying moan, every flash of light a distress signal. A great and wonderful metropolis, so they say. As Cole gazes around, he sees towering structures and monuments erupting out of the ground, up into the sky. He sees frenzied streets, filled with men and women and cyclists. He sees thousands of cars, and buses choked with passengers and billows of searing black smoke rising up from rusted exhaust pipes. The wind tastes sick and bitter and it carries the stench of burning tires and rotting carcasses. As Cole wanders dark streets, the sharp wind tears against his back like a leather flail. Cole’s stride is heavy and long, his hulking frame constantly hunched over. He emanates sick, violent fear. His eyes are dead and sharp simultaneously. Voices scream and laugh and seductively call out from the shadows. As a planet orbits the sun, Cole orbits violence. As he approaches a bus stop, he feels a hand tap against his shoulder. His head snaps back, and as he turns, he sees a young middle-eastern couple. The woman is smiling, holding her phone out to him. Cole hears nothing in the racket. “Excuse me?” he mumbles. She asks him to take their picture, and Cole looks at the phone. He nods, quietly agreeing. She gives it to him and stands next to her man. Cole holds up the camera, looking at the couple through the screen. Their faces are brightly lit by fiery orange lights. The man tightly embraces her, they are both smiling. And then they aren’t. Their faces are blank and expressionless. Like corpses. They are no longer in the city. They are out in the dust, and Cole is stepping over their bodies, amongst countless others. He grips his rifle tight*.* He looks around, observing the quietness, the stillness of the trees, moments before the cracks of gunfire smash through the air, snapping Cole back to the present. He’s in the city again. Cole stands frozen. He registers nothing. His breathing is heavy and laboured. His back is straight. Every muscle is tightly wound. Something rises up within him, building from his chest into his throat. He stares at their faces, watching their smiles fade into confusion, and eventually hands the phone back. The woman looks at it, and her smile drops. She yells something inaudible and they walk away. Eventually, a bus pulls over at the station, and Cole climbs aboard. He finds a seat at the back and settles in for a long journey. He rests his head upon the glass, staring into the distance. Raindrops begin to roll down the windows. Streaming rainwater and flashes of light dance upon the glass. Red. White. Blue. Time passes strangely, Cole’s perception warped by insomnia. He sits, unmoving, staring through the glass until eventually, the bus driver shouts him back to reality. Cole steps off the bus, into the concrete inferno once more. The street is deserted. The blackness of night is staved off by the faint, dim glow of street lights. As Cole roams the city, the hours slip by in a haze of rain and fog. Eventually, he comes to his apartment building. It towers over the streets, but shrinks before the skyscrapers. The walls are old and grey and beaten down with rain. Concrete crumbles away from the ledges. He stares up at the bright glow of the sign. He listens to the hum of moths crowding around flickering light panels. He walks up to the door, and enters. Inside, the lobby is dim and bland and covered in varying shades of beige. A thin layer of dust has formed over the flickering light bulb. It reeks of cheap air freshener. A security guard sits slumped in a chair at the corner, asleep. Cole awaits the elevator The door rings as it opens, and a man and a woman walk in. A light windcheater jacket is draped over his heavy shoulders. The hems of his jeans sit crumpled over his boots. The woman wears a tan jacket over her blouse. Cole’s gaze follows them as they approach. The man stares back at him, his eyes sharp. Cole looks away. The elevator opens and the two strangers enter, followed by Cole as he shuffles behind them. The man punches a button. The soft yellow light of the elevator illuminates the dust floating around. It casts faint shadows upon her soft face. The man turns to her as they ascend. His eyes are cold and sharp. He trembles slightly with fury. “So, you gonna keep it up?” he says. “Let’s not talk about it here.” she mumbles, her voice fragile. Cole keeps his head down, but watches them. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” “Please, Tom.” “How was he?” He says, contempt rising in his voice. Her eyes beg him to stop and she struggles to maintain calm. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” “Did it feel good?” She slaps him across the face. Her eyes are deeply bloodshot and slick with tears. The man stares back at her, enraged. Cole looks up at them both. A moment passes. The elevator door opens. The man glances at Cole. He storms out, followed by the woman. Cole goes to his room. Once inside, he slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His body is weak, yet eludes him. Cole switches on the television and vaguely stares at the bright blue glow. He thinks about the woman. He remembers her face, her hair, the light scent of her perfume. From one room over, he can hear the couple arguing. He hears the woman crying. The man shouting. Something shatters. He listens, and ponders what he will do. A storm of dark thoughts swirls in his mind. \*\*\* He hears the door of the next room click open. Someone is leaving. He pulls himself up, and scrambles over to the door’s peephole. He looks through and sees the man. For the first time in months, a smile creeps over his face. Carefully, he unlocks the door without a sound. He steps out. The man is walking towards the elevator. Cole shuts the door behind him. He follows the man. Exhilaration builds with each step. His fists are coiled tight. His breathing is heavy. The man steps inside the elevator, and just as he turns, Cole is on him. He grabs him by the shoulders and hurls him out of the elevator. The man rolls across the floor. Cole steps out and walks towards him. His cold, piercing eyes remain on the man as he continues his stride. Cole’s hands stay at his side. His movements are relaxed, and he appears almost fatigued, yet he feels totally alive. His blood is pumping. His muscles are tight, ready to spring and wreak bloody havoc. The man pulls himself up and rushes him. Cole ducks under his swing, and grabs him, smashing his head against wall, cracking the plaster. As the man sinks to the floor, Cole stares down at him, possessed. He grabs the man’s collar, and cracks his fist against his cheek. A soft groan comes from his writhing body and he spews red-tainted vomit upon the ivory walls. Cole does it again. And again. Over and over, until his own hands bleed and tremble with searing pain. As he looks down upon his work, a torrent of emotion cascades over him. He is laughing. He is screaming. He is crying. The body lies still. Blood covers Cole. It is speckled upon his cheek. It drips from his beard. It is splattered upon his shirt. The soft yellow carpet below is stained by crimson boot print. The door clicks open and the woman steps out. She sees the man slumped on the ground, his blood seeping through the carpet. Her jaw slowly drops in horror. Cole stares at her, like a child confronting a parent. She backs away, into the room. The door slams shut. Cole watches her go. He feels cold.


It happened every Christmas. The entire family descended on Grandma’s house, having the whole big traditional family shindig. Christmas dinner, gift exchange, the whole thing. And nearly every year, someone would ask Grandma to tell her story. THE story. The time she saw Grandpa’s ghost. It always went the same way: “Well, I’m here to tell ya, I don’t care what anybody says, ghosts are real, and I know it ‘cause I’ve seen one with my own two eyes. I was right here on this couch, watchin’ TV one night, late, and I heard somebody say my name- But they didn’t say Kate, like most people- They said ‘Celestine’. And only one person on this Earth ever called me by my first name, and that was Jim. So I turned and looked down the hall- and I swear by all that’s holy this is true, if I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’- there stood Jim, just exactly the way he looked the day he died, wearin’ his best suit just like I buried him in. And I just know that was him lettin’ me know he was ok.” What happened next was unclear. Sometimes Grandma described it as him “fading away”, other times she said he stared at her like he was surprised she could hear him, and he just stared at her till she blinked and he was gone. Either way, Grandma was absolutely, 100% positive she had seen her dead husband Jim- who had died on his 25th birthday, leaving her alone with 3 small children- just a few days after his own funeral. Most of the family believed Grandma had nodded off and had a dream, or maybe just saw a reflection from the hallway mirror or something like that, but there were a few- just a few- who believed she just might have caught a glimpse of something else. One of those people who believed was her grandson James. James had been named after his grandpa, his mother’s father, and everyone said he was the spitting image of him. James had always been a favorite of his Grandma, and he’d been with her when she passed after a long illness. She’d finally joined her beloved Jim, the only man she’d ever loved, after 50 years. James was asked to help clean out Grandma’s house- the same house his mother had grown up in, the house Grandpa Jim bought for her in 1962, when they’d first gotten married. Grandma didn’t have much in the way of possessions, it was mostly cheap old furniture and old lady knick-knacks. The day of her funeral, on the way to the cemetery, James and his best friend Ronnie went by the house to take a look and see what still needed to be done. The house was largely empty already. His grandmother hadn’t lived here for years, instead being cared for in a nursing home and, ultimately, a hospice. Her passing hadn’t been sudden, and the family had long ago removed anything valuable from the house. “I think we can get this with my dad’s flatbed truck” Ronnie said, indicating the big old dining room table around which they’d eaten so many Christmas dinners. James nodded his agreement. “You think they’re going to be able to sell this house?” Ronnie asked. “I don’t know. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.” James acknowledged, looking through the mostly empty cabinets. “Probably can rent it out or something. Kinda sad. But nobody in the family really wants the place.” “Yea” Ronnie conceded, opening the refrigerator. James stepped into the hallway, examining one of the few remaining pictures. It was Grandma and Grandpa, probably in the early 60s. He’d seen the picture many times, every time he’d been here. But he’d never really stopped to consider exactly how much he really did look just like Grandpa Jim. In fact, James thought, he was probably the same age Grandpa Jim was in that picture. “Hey, didn’t you say your Grandma had some kinda really weird first name?,” Ronnie asked, “Like Sistine or something?” “Celestine” James responded without thinking. Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He thought something moved in the living room down the hall. He turned to face it, and there was a young woman, a girl really, seated on the end of the couch, where his Grandma had always sat, looking at him with wide, red rimmed eyes. James started to say something, then stopped. There was something familiar about the woman... Ronnie said something and James blinked his eyes rapidly, then realized the woman was no longer there. He stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter. Ronnie, seeing something was wrong, walked over to James. “You ok man?” James shook his head. “Ronnie, do you remember the story I told you? About my Grandma seeing my Grandpa Jim, years ago? How he called her name, and she saw him standing in the hallway wearing a suit?” Ronnie nodded. James looked down at his black funeral suit. “I don’t think it was my Grandpa that she saw.


Twas the Week Before Christmas Ah, at last, the Christmas cards are finally sealed and ready for mailing. All they need now are some holiday stamps from the post office. “Did you get the stamps I asked you to pick up?” my wife called down from upstairs. “Running out now,” I replied, as I threw on my jacket and scarf. “Better hurry. I was hoping to get those cards to everyone before Christmas.” “Not to worry.” I dashed out the door and headed for the car. After a short drive, I pulled into a crowded parking lot in front of the post office. A cold wind cut through the air as I bounded from the car to the front door. What’s this? A green sign taped to the front glass of the door caught my eye: DEAR CUSTOMERS. WE ARE OUT OF CHRISTMAS STAMPS. HOWEVER, IF YOU USE THE SELF-SERVICE MACHINES, YOU STILL MIGHT FIND SOME CHRISTMAS STAMPS AVAILABLE THERE. I thanked a kind gentleman who was leaving through the adjacent door and held it open for me. “You may not want to thank me after you see the line in there.” Sure enough, as I entered the lobby, a line of about twenty people extended out from two customer service windows, each with a post office clerk standing behind it. In between them was a customer service window that remained noticeably unattended. Was there a clerk working that station? Was he or she on a coffee break? Was that person coming back anytime soon? Reminding myself of what the sign on the door had said, I turned my attention to the two self-service machines standing up against the back wall of the lobby. As I approached, a man suddenly finished a transaction at one of the machines. Looking around to see that no one else was waiting to use it, I stepped forward and began reading the instructions. Now normally, I would probably prefer not to use a machine like this. But under the circumstances, I felt I had no choice. It seemed simple enough. I began pressing the screen as it directed me through a series of promptings. Did I want stamps? Yes. Choose from the following values of stamps depending on the weight of the letter or parcel you are mailing. Does your letter or parcel weigh 3.5 ounces or less? Yes, I think so. Press here for 60 cent stamps. Done. How many stamps would you like to purchase? 50. Press here to complete your transaction. I hesitated. I couldn’t help but wonder why the machine hadn’t given me an opportunity to see what Christmas stamps I might like to choose from? I turned my head and noticed that a line had suddenly formed behind me. “All right!” exclaimed the woman at the machine next to me. “Got my Christmas stamps! They aren’t the Madonna and Christ child I was hoping for, but I’ll take them.” She held them up for all to see--a collection of stamps each with what looked like one of Santa’s elves holding a wrapped present with a bow on top. I turned again and noticed the man behind me looking at his watch, sending me a clear signal that it was time for me to finish. I inserted my debit card into the machine. Well--I guess elves are better than no Christmas stamps at all. As the machine produced my receipt, I could hear something beginning to collect at the bottom of the distribution bin. I reached my hand down into the bin and began extracting peel-away label strips, each with a QR code and the words U.S. POSTAGE $.60. “What is this?” I gestured toward the man behind me. “These aren’t Christmas stamps!” “That’s too bad, my friend. The machine must have run out.” After stewing a bit, I reluctantly collected all fifty of my postage labels and decided I needed to talk with someone at one of the service windows. Unfortunately, of course, that would involve waiting in the line I had hoped to avoid. Again, I guess I had no choice. Several minutes went by as I slowly made my way closer to the front. I could overhear an elderly woman at one of the windows discussing what a nice Thanksgiving she had with her grandchildren and how worried she was that the packages she was sending would not reach them by Christmas. The clerk went on to discuss with her the various types of postage she might consider paying for, along with tracking options and insurance coverages. She asked the clerk several times if he could repeat some of the options he had mentioned. “At this rate, she’ll be lucky if they get there by New Year’s,” whispered the man standing in front of me. “Don’t worry. My poor ninety-three-year-old mother at home sent me to get her some stamps. That’s all I need. I promise I won’t take nearly as long.” “No problem at all,” I said with a laugh. “I guess we’ve waited this long. Just tell me you’re not hoping to get Christmas stamps.” “Fortunately, mom wasn’t specific, so I’m happy to get whatever they have.” Suddenly, the woman at the counter was finished and the man moved ahead to take her place. “Have a Merry Christmas,” he said. “The same to you.” I paused a moment. I looked down at my fifty postage strips with the QR code emblazoned on them. It reminded me of the Peanuts Christmas special when Charlie Brown was sent out to get a tree for the Christmas pageant and came back with the scrawniest tree on the lot. But in the end, they patched it up with some ornaments borrowed from Snoopy’s prize winning doghouse and it looked just fine. “Sir, you’re next.” I glanced up at the clerk. Here was my opportunity to vent my frustrations about how I had spent the better part of that morning waiting in line and still not getting the Christmas stamps the sign on the door had promised me. “No thanks--I’m good.” I looked at him with a smile. “Have a Merry Christmas!” “Thank you, sir. Same to you.” I moved to the back of the post office in front of a wall of mailboxes where I found a table. From there, I began the long process of separating each of the postage strips, licking them, and carefully placing each one along the upper right side of all fifty of the envelopes. It suddenly occurred to me that alongside the QR codes of each of the postage strips was a vertical red line that actually matched very nicely with the rectangular red frame that encircled the addresses on each of the envelopes. Very Christmassy, I thought! After placing the postage strips on each of the envelopes, I happily carried them across the lobby and inserted them into the outgoing mail slot of the post office and finally made my way home. “Where have you been,” my wife called down from upstairs as I closed the front door behind me. “I was beginning to worry about you.” “Just spending a couple of hours with some new friends at the post office.” “New friends?” “Yeah, just some nice people who reminded me of what the season is truly about.” “That’s nice, honey. But I should tell you, we received some more Christmas cards in the mail today from some people we didn’t have on our list. I would like to send some more cards out. You wouldn’t mind running out again and getting some more stamps would you, dear? ... honey?”


It was a day like any other. I arrived at Five Points MARTA station to begin my daily commute to work. Light rain welcomed me as I walked to the entrance with a closed umbrella in hand, the pitter patter just not heavy enough for me to care to open it. I made my my way down to the northbound side of the tracks, staring at my phone in a dissociative daze. I briefly took my gaze away from my device to locate a bench where I would sit and wait for the next red-line train. After sitting down, I decided to put my phone away and attempt to take in my surroundings. Open air stations such as these tend to be a common retreat for wildlife, primarily rats and pigeons. The pigeons at this location had a distinct persona, like that of a Vietnam veteran that has fallen on hard times. Many of them appear dirty and debilitated, but live their lives just the same. As I watch the pigeons fly and land, searching for something unknown to me, a middle aged, African American man arrives and stands near the bench to my left. We both observe the unfortunate pigeons as one begins to waddle toward us. As it gets closer, I am able to see in greater detail the physical attributes of this bird and something immediately stands out. At the end of its legs, where there would normally be talons or claws, I am surprised to see that this pigeon has none. I watch it waddle on nubs and in partial disbelief I turn to the man beside me, curious if he noticed the same. The man turns toward me with a shocked, confused look on his face. We lock eyes and after a very short moment he breaks the silence. "That nigga ain't got no feet!" The end.