My son, Richie, was almost 3 years old with beautifully thick and curly brown hair that seemed to hang in place flawlessly without any serious effort. He was a growing, healthy, and happy child, with a rapidly developing vocabulary, as any parent would hope for. That, however, was before Frank seeped into our lives. Before Frank, the boy loved talking anyone's ear off, running around like a maniac, and putting on super hero masks while pretending to fight bad guys. That’s why when he first started talking about “The Monster,” I never thought much of it as it’s expected for children his age to start developing an overactive imagination. “Daddy do you see the Monster?” Richie said for what must be the 7th time in the past couple weeks. “Yeah Buddy,” I replied, with that encouraging, yet slightly sarcastic voice that parents make when talking to young children, “I can see him.” “What’s his name, daddy?” “Uh.... Frank,” I told him, lazily spouting out the first generic name that popped into my mind. Richie then rambled off to the next subject, and talked about something like Spider-Man or Ninja turtles beating up bad guys. You know, typical little boy stuff. The Frank sightings seemed to escalate from there. Richie would ask me or his mother if we could see Frank over there standing in the corner, or mention that Frank was in his room last night. It was at this point that I started to feel a bit of concern, it didn’t seem to be a huge deal, but it was starting to get a bit, well off putting. Frank was never playing, he was just, there. I decided to ask Richie some questions about what I believed to be his imaginary friend he called Frank, but I’d wait until the next time he brought it up on his own. That opportunity arose one day as I picked him up from daycare and we were driving home. He had mentioned that Frank was at the sandbox that day. “Is Frank your friend?” I asked him. “No,” He responded, “Frank is a monster. “A Monster?” “Yeah, Frank is a monster. He’s a nice monster though. He looks funnnny” Deciding to dig a little deeper I asked, “Does Frank play with you?” “No.” “Well then what does he do?” “Frank watches us.” He said it with a matter of fact demeanor that left me even more unsure of this weird situation. I’m a young first time parent in my mid 20’s, and I had no idea how to handle the Imaginary Friend situation. Should a parent play along, or be more realistic? I really didn’t want to hinder the development of his imagination, but I also wasn’t sure how far I felt comfortable with this going. “Sometimes he talks.” Richie continued after a short pause. “At night when everyone is asleep.” Oh great, he’s dreaming about Frank too. “Well uh, what does Frank like to talk about?” “He said we shouldn’t move to a new house.” What did he just say? That last shocking sentence made me feel unsettled at best. We were getting ready to put our townhouse on the market, as we were ready to upgrade to a larger home. The weird thing is, my wife and I hadn’t spoken to our son about this. We were waiting to tell him until we had found the house that we would purchase, to make the situation easier for a toddler to grasp. Feeling creeped out and somewhat awkward, I immediately changed the subject by asking Richie if he wanted a cookie. It may be a cheap trick, but any child will immediately forget about anything of the moment you bring up the possibility of a cookie. Although the subject had been changed, my mind began to wonder. Was my son speaking with some sort of ghost? I believed that ghosts might exist, but had never seen any sort of significant proof. How did he know that we were moving? Later that night, after Richie was in bed, I explained to my wife the conversation that had taken place in the car. She, however, seemed unfazed and somewhat skeptical. She blew it off by saying, “Oh I’m sure he just overheard us. That kid never goes to bed and is more attentive than you think.” I suddenly realized how insane I must have sounded to think that some sort of ghost was speaking with our child. It almost seemed funny, to look back and realize that I was actually worried. Perhaps my belief in the paranormal had caused me to jump to conclusions too easily without any real rationality. I was a first time parent after all, with almost no previous experience dealing with small developing children. I reminded myself to calm down and stay rational. Things carried along, business as usual, for the next several weeks. Richie's mentions of Frank varied from 1 to 3 times a day. I simply played along with the boy and his stories of his imaginary friend. We packed our things and moved to our new house, which came with a wonderful swing set for which Richie was ecstatic. In this house, I felt certain that it could be our forever home. I believed that we would be happy here. It had been 3 weeks since we had moved in, and we had just celebrated Richie's 3rd Birthday. The boy was flourishing, increasing his outstanding vocabulary and easily identifying all of his shapes and colors. He could even count to 50 now. The best thing was, I hadn’t heard the name, “Frank.” Mentioned since we moved it. Not once. Not once, that is, until a mid-Saturday morning in the early onset of fall. The leaves were starting to rest on our new backyard lawn, and I once again found myself pushing Richie on his swing set. Back and forth, back and forth, with the rhythmic squeak of the swing set. This is when everything took a turn for the worst. “Daddy Look!” Richie exclaimed. “There’s Frank, he’s here now!” Richie pointed to the far back corner of the yard, right next to the shed. As I turned my head to look, I thought I actually saw something, something that appeared to be a large silhouette. Before I had time to fully comprehend what I had seen, I heard the thud of Richie hitting the ground, followed by the cries of pain A few hours later the doctor entered the room with the X-rays in hand, confirming his suspicions of a broken arm. Luckily it was one clean break, no setting of the bones would be needed. Although my son was going to be okay, I was livid with myself for allowing this to happen. How could I have been so stupid as to look away from my child while he was on the swing set, right after he let go of the chain to point at His imaginary friend. This whole situation could have been avoided had I not been so superstitious about this damned imaginary friend. But wait, I HAD seen something, hadn’t I? It was only for a split second, but it was there. A tall, large shadow of a man with deformed head. Ugh, my eyes must really have been playing tricks on me. I brushed it off and eventually managed to fall asleep, pushing the parental guilt off to deal with the following day. Sleep proved to be just as unsettling as the day’s events had been though. My dreams brought me memories of the recent past. The swing set, Richie playing in our old house, having family over for holiday celebrations, even the day we brought baby Richie home for the first time. Except that hideous monstrous silhouette was there, in every single memory. Watching from the corner, standing behind our guests, leaning over the crib. Always there, always watching. I awoke suddenly, bolt upright in my bed. I rarely remembered even having dreams, but this dream was so vivid, so clear, that every detail now haunted my thoughts. Needless to say, falling back asleep was not an option. I had to go do something to set my mind at ease. Disturbed, I went over to check on my little Richie, who was supposed to be asleep. Partially to comfort myself from that horrendous nightmare. To my surprise, I found the boy wide awake. When he saw me peeking through the doorway, he asked, “Daddy, where is Hell?” “What?” I asked in disbelief, sure that I must have misheard. “Hell,” he said, “where is Hell?” I was not prepared to answer these kinds of questions to my child yet, he was so young. I myself have never really been sure what I believe about this heaven and hell stuff, having never been religious. But I gave him the best, simple explanation I could muster “Well, bud, nobody really knows where Hell is, but some people believe that Hell is a place where bad people go after they die.” “So was your daddy a bad guy?” “Excuse me?” This last question caught me off guard. “Frank told me that your daddy is in Hell because he hurt those kids.” My heart instantly plummeted, providing a sensation as if it had collided with my stomach. After skipping a beat, or three, my heartbeat resurged with the powerful thump worthy of a bass drum. How the HELL could he have known about that? It was true that my father had hurt children. Killed them, actually. When I was young, about 12 years old, my dad had stormed out of the house in a drunken stupor. The police came knocking at about 5:00 AM the next morning to inform us that he had been identified as involved in a multiple fatality car accident, and they needed my mother to identify the body. I remember that morning vividly. My mother was not aware that I had woken, as I hid around the corner listening to the police tell my mother of my father's demise. Needless to say, It was him. As details emerged, it became apparent that my father had drunkenly caused a car accident, slamming into a family's minivan as they were coming home from a fishing trip. My father, along with the two children in the backseat of the other car, were killed instantly. As much as my mother tried to shield me of the events, it was all over the news. I was 12 after all, and I knew how to use the internet. It didn’t take long for me to know what my dad had done. That being said, there is absolutely NO WAY that my son would have known this story. My mother remarried YEARS before Richie was born. My stepfather is the only person my son has ever known as grandpa, and I never discussed the situation, at all. At this point I realized, without a doubt, that Frank was more than just an imaginary friend, and it angered me. Furiously, I told my son, “No more talking to Frank, he’s not welcome here.” “But Frank is nice.” Richie pleaded “No, Frank is not nice, Frank is bad and if you see him again you need to tell him to leave!” “NOOOOO!” Richie roared. Only the voice that came out did not belong to Richie. It was a sound that no toddler could be capable of making. It was a deep, dark, horrendous, malicious, and rocky voice that would be fitting of a ware-wolf, or a monster, or, or, a demon.... What's worse is the fiery, despicable, evil look of pure hatred that was in my sons eyes, although only for a moment, it was there. The expression on his face disappeared, as quickly as it arrived, and Richie was Richie again. It was as if he had no idea what had just happened. He seemed totally fine, but I was terrified. Terrified of my only son, or whatever had just taken ahold of him “Can I watch a movie?” He asked, completely unfazed by the event. It was as if he didn’t even realize what had happened. “Uh.... of course, buddy,” I managed to respond with a shaky voice. I carried him to the living room, and put on Lion King for him. After he fell asleep in the next 30 minutes, I went into the shower, and simply fell apart as I broke into tears. What the hell had just happened? What was this, this monstrous thing who grabbed a hold of my son? As I tried to explain the events to my wife the ensuing morning, she simply didn’t believe me. I can’t even blame her, I realized that it sounded crazy but I KNEW that it had indeed happened. If only she had believed me. However, we had very little time to talk about it, as Richie awoke that morning with a heavy fever. Originally at 101 degrees Fahrenheit, his temperature rapidly rose to 103 within just a couple short hours. As I picked my son up to take him to the ER, I saw him, Frank, out of the corner of my eye. Watching. Richie was admitted immediately. The doctors scrambled to explain his condition of rapid deterioration. I sat by, watching as my son became pale, and his energy was fading. Fast. Yes, my son was fading. He was... Dying. As the doctors ran tests on top of tests, I took matters into my own hands. I had 3 different priests arrive, all of them simply offered my son a simple blessing, but I could tell that they too were skeptical of me. I tried desperately to get my wife and the doctors to listen to me. For 2 days I pleaded with them to understand that I knew what was wrong, that there was a malicious, if not demonic, entity feeding on my boy, sucking away his life energy. Why or how, were questions in which the answer far past my understanding, but it WAS happening. I could even see him regularly now, that evil thing, standing in the shadows. But alas, I was met with skepticism, and my wife along with the doctors ended up bringing in a psychologist to have some sort of intervention for ME. They tried to tell me that I was having some sort of mental break from the stress of a sick, possibly dying, child. I stormed out that room desperately furious. I realized in this moment that trying to explain the truth to people would be of no avail. I had only one last idea of what could be done, what HAD to be done to save my Richie. I stayed awake in the hospital room that night. It had been almost 3 days now since we arrived at the hospital. Richie has been moved to the ICU, with the doctors still baffled. All their tests had only shown what wasn’t wrong with Richie. They didn’t understand, but I knew. I knew what was wrong with my son. I sat there, waiting, for the demon called Frank to appear. I stayed awake until about 2:00 AM, and suddenly there he was. I could see the shadow standing over Richie's bed. He stood Calmly, but with an evil lust for the last little bit of energy that was keeping my son alive. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said with a stern and confident done. The entity slowly turned his head until he was facing me. I could see him now, more clearly than ever. Richie was right, Frank truly was a monster. A large one, standing at some 8 feet tall, with skin the color of ash. He had the same overall shape of a Human, but with hideous, pointy features. His Long, narrow arms hung down to his knees, ending with fingers 6 inches or more in length. And his face, his ungodly face was the most hideous of all. Frank had no mouth in his ashen, peeling face. That's when I noticed his eyes. His eyes were the most terrorizing feature about him. There was no white in his eyes, just darkness. A darkness darker than any black color that one can comprehend. “I’ll make you a deal.” I said again, forcing myself to stay steady in the presence of this creature. “Leave the boy alone, forever, and you can have me.” The Demon tilted his head as if perplexed, contemplating my offer. After a minute that seemed like hours, He straightened up and spoke. Not with his mouth, as he didn’t have one. No, he put the sound directly into my skull. In That deep, evil voice that had previously come from my son just the other night. “It’s a deal.” And In an instant, he was gone. The next morning, Richie's fever had subsided, just like that. The color had returned to his skin and he was eating solid food and laughing like a toddler should for the first time in days. The Doctors admitted that they were baffled, but happily discharged Richie later that day. My wife calls it a miracle, but only I understand the dismal truth. I can feel it starting, the Illness, or whatever you call it. My fever is spiking, and I can’t stop sweating. My energy is leaving me, I barely managed to walk up the stairs into the office. Even now, I feel as if I might pass out. I cannot hide my condition from my wife for too much longer. It is only a matter of time until I am the one in the hospital bed, as the doctors try tirelessly to explain what is happening. Only I won’t make a miraculous recovery as Richie had. No, I’m certain that I will die. That was the deal I had made after all. I gave up my own life to save my son. But, before I do perish, I’m putting this story on every parenting and paranormal form I can find on the web. I KNOW how this sounds, I realize it seems crazy. But I’m reaching out to all parents who might be seeing the signs. I PLEAD with you, please do NOT play along if your child has some sort of imaginary friend. Stop it BEFORE it’s too late. Find someone who can expel that evil from your home and your child. But PLEASE, for the sake of you children, I beg for you to not allow this creature to take ahold of your child.


Edith Palfrey stares at the human wreckage that had once been her father. He is sleeping fitfully; with his gaunt frame, he looks like a skeleton covered in bedsheets. A thin rivulet of spit runs down one cheek, and she reaches out to wipe it with a tissue, tossing it into the trashcan near the bed. She lifts an overhanging bit of sheet to check the collection bag for the catheter and sees that it is only a quarter full. The catheter is the type they call a Texas catheter, which some people also call a condom catheter, which gives you a better idea of how it works. Needless to say, it took her quite a while to get used to putting it on and taking it off of her father--though if she were completely honest, she would tell you she had never really gotten used to it. Edith reaches over and brushes the hair away from her father’s face with her hand; his hair is as white as snow, with thin patches where she can see glimpses of his scalp. It is hard to believe how thick and dark that hair had once been, in another lifetime. She steps out of the room as quietly as she can and goes into the small kitchen, where her tea is finished steeping. She removes the Lipton bag from the cup and tosses it into the trash, then tears the end off of a packet of equal, measuring half the packet out into a spoon. She stirs it in and adds a dash of milk, then drops in a single ice cube to cool it down just a little. Taking a tentative sip, she nods her head in satisfaction before taking her cup of tea to the living room, where the TV is still on with the volume turned down. Edith takes a seat in the chair that has always reminded her of the one Archie Bunker always sat in on All in the Family. She leaves the volume turned down as she watches some crappy sitcom she doesn’t really like play itself out on the screen while taking small, satisfying sips of tea. After a while she starts imagining what is going on in the show, making up a storyline to go with the wordless images she is seeing. A tall, older gentleman steps out from behind a curtain he’s been hiding behind, and Edith decides that this man must be the Blonde’s father, and that he has been hiding because he doesn’t want her to know that he is secretly seeing the Brunette. She can almost hear the reaction from the studio audience, one of those cheesy ooohs that always accompany a scene were something racy is hinted at. Just then a younger man comes bursting onto the screen, and the camera cuts back to the Blonde, the Brunette, and the Dad/Secret Lover. They all look a bit sheepish, and when the camera cuts back to Young Guy, he looks perplexed. As the camera hangs on him, Edith imagines the Brunette saying something off-camera: “This isn’t what it looks like.” And the audience laughs. Finishing the last sip of tea, Edith picks up the remote and hits the power button, and the TV goes blank. She goes to the kitchen and slowly washes and rinses the cup before leaving it upside down in the dish rack to dry. She shuts off the kitchen light and makes her way down the hall to the back bedroom to check on her father. She cracks the door just a bit and peers inside; there’s not enough light to see anything, so she opens the door just a little more to let in some of the light from the hall. A gasp escapes her and she rushes into the room, flipping on the light as she goes. Her father is lying on his side on the floor, wedged between the bed and the bedside table. It takes some time (especially with him fighting her the whole way) but she gets him back up onto the bed. Some noises escape his throat, noises that might have been words if he could still talk. “It’s all right, Daddy. You’re okay; you just had a little accident.” Then the stench hits her, and she realizes just how right she is. She lets out an exasperated sigh, then immediately feels guilty for having done so. She knows that none of this is his fault. He had once been a happy, outgoing, man--a man’s man, her mother had called him. It all started when he began having trouble remembering things, and eventually, the road had led right here, to this room, to this night, and all the nights to come. The dark secret that lay in her heart, the nasty thing that she would never admit to anyone, that she could barely admit to herself, is that she often hopes that there won’t be many more nights to come. “We need to get you changed,” she says. She gets a pad and fresh pair of protective underwear from the linen closet (she can’t think of it as a diaper, never that) and sets it on the bedside table. Then she lifts her father and slips the pad under him to catch any spillage. She then works on getting his soiled protective underwear off of him, mindful of the catheter tube snaking out of one side. The soiled pair gets rolled up and thrown in the trash. She uses some wet wipes to clean him and then gets the fresh pair of underwear on him. She lifts him up on his side again to slip the pad out, rolls that up, and tosses it into the trash. As she works, she pretends that she does not see the tears in his eyes, or see the trembling of his too-moist lips. She can’t bear to see those things, and so she just doesn’t. She covers him with his sheets and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before taking the bag out of the trashcan and tying it in a knot. She shuts off the light and shuts the door, then takes the bag of soiled things to the kitchen, where she stuffs it into the kitchen trashcan. For a moment she stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Then she walks slowly to the study where her father used to while away the hours once upon a time, reading, writing correspondence, or just napping (though he always denied that last one). She turns on a lamp and soft light bathes the room in a warm glow. She touches a few of the books lined up on the shelf: Gulliver’s Travels, Don Quixote, The Collected Works of Poe. She moves over to the desk in the corner where her father used to sit happily writing letters, and not-so-happily looking over the latest electric or heating bill. Mounted on the wall over the desk is one of the scale model ships he used to build as a hobby. He had built at least a couple dozen of them over the years; the others were carefully packed away God knows where, but this one has always been his favorite, and so it was set on a shelf mounted on the wall of his study. It is a 1/50 scale model of the HMS Bounty. It had been up here on this wall ever since Edith could remember. She had often seen her father take it down and set in on the desk to just look at it, almost as if he were surprised that he had actually made such a thing. A few times she even dared to take it down herself, but never while her father was home. As she looks at it now up there on the wall she can see that time has taken its toll on the ship. A few of the sails sag where they should be taut, a few scuff marks mar the hull, and the mizzenmast is bent slightly out of shape. She thinks that the ship must have taken a tumble from the wall at some time in the past; it must have happened when she was away, living her own life away from the house where she had lived as a child. For just a moment she considers taking it into a hobby shop to see if it can be repaired, put back in its original condition. Then she decides against it; why spend money just to fix something that will just stay hidden here in the study, where nobody will see it, anyway? She moves to the doorway and takes another look at the study, inhaling deeply the smell of the room, still retained, that smell that is so distinctly her father. Then she turns off the light and closes the door, leaving the room and its ghosts in darkness. Edith leaves the house and slowly descends the porch steps. She walks to the street, turns right, and starts walking. At the stop sign she stops and turns back to look at the house that had been her home, then was her parent’s home, and now was her home again since her mother died and left Edith as the only one to take care of her father. There were a few lights on, and she couldn’t help thinking that the house looked like a big ship, lost and adrift on a dark sea. She turns and starts walking again, thinking that she will turn around at the place where Oak intersects Ridge. The big night sky envelops the world like a velvet glove, and a cool breeze blows gently in her face, blowing wisps of hair around her head. When she gets to the intersection of Oak and Ridge, she thinks that she will walk to the next intersection, and then she will turn back. But when she gets to the next intersection, she keeps going, thinking that it will be nice to walk just a little farther.


Martin’s phone chimed with an email notification. He blinked, confused. He had set up the email a couple years back by request, but had never received one email- not even spam. He shuffled the several feet across the yellow linoleum of his tiny Manhattan kitchen and picked up the phone. Opening the email app for the second time ever, he read the subject line: *THE CALM AFTER THE STORM*. He stared numbly for a moment, taking in the message’s meeting. As his thoughts coalesced, he turned on the TV to make certain his fears: the world was ending, and nothing would ever be the same again. The creature that filled the television screen was one that fed on sadness and despair. It incited emotions within the vulnerable, and fed back on those in a vicious cycle, killing its hosts at range within hours. Its mind control powers were lesser known, but used to compel others to inflict atrocities or pain to jump start the cycle for others. And it had landed in one of the largest cities in the country. Martin went to his closet, pushing gently past the faded khakis and sweaters. Hanging in the back of the closet was a simple gray cloak, free of any logo or design. It was a light gray, the kind of departing stormclouds. He donned it over his existing khakis and sweater. No mask. He was told when he was given the cloak that he wouldn’t need it. He locked up his small, dingy apartment, and took to the street. He was the Calm once more. \*\*\* The Romanian neighborhood in Manhattan was normally relatively loud in the morning. The honking of traffic mixed with the day-to-day sounds of millions of New Yorkers going about their business. Today, it was eerily silent. Everyone shuffled along the sidewalks and through the streets, vagrant, confused looks in their eyes. The traffic was unpleasantly polite, and not a single horn or curse could be heard on the streets. It was peaceful, but it was a false pretense of peace. The creature had taken the vibrancy of the city and replaced it with numbing despair. A gentle sound of shoe scuffing on brick caught the Calm’s ear, up and behind him. Glancing up, he saw a young man standing on the lip of an old apartment building, teetering on its edge. A few bottles scattered the sidewalk at his feet. With a nod, the Calm took to the sky, lifting slowly on the breeze, rising calmly toward the man. The man hardly seemed to notice the flying man in a sweater and cape before him. He began to take a step forward. The Calm gently placed a hand on his chest. “I know you’re in pain, but this isn’t your fault. It’s not your fault. This too will pass. Sadness and despair are part of life, but they aren’t all of it. I can’t make the decision for you, and I’ll respect your choice. But you deserve to know there’s more than this, and you deserve the chance to find out. And I can help you, if you’d like.” He released his hand. The man’s eyes became less clouded, and they watered. With a sob, he stepped backwards, away from the ledge. The Calm landed and held him tight, assuring him it was okay. They talked for a moment, until the Calm heard another sound. Smiling, he handed the young man a card, and took off, heading north. \*\*\* Leiber Metro Hospital was plagued by the same eerie quietness as the streets nearby had been. The Calm walked through the sliding doors, surveying the situation. Fortunately, the staff were working. However, they all had the same hopeless look in their eyes- the one you saw from forty years of losing patients. He offered soft smiles on his way to the room where he’d heard the sound. He knocked on a door. After a moment, a small girl answered. Her eyes were red and blotchy, and she looked confused. “Who... who are you?” The Calm knelt. “I’m Martin. Can I help you?” Eyes still welling, the girl nodded, and took him in the room by the hand. An elderly woman was in a hospital bed, not stirring. A monitor by the bed emitted a blaring, continuous sound, rather than its optimistic, periodic blip. The Calm reached over and flicked off the monitor. “I’m Susie. Mom and Dad are talking to the doctors, and Grandma Joan won’t wake up.” The Calm nodded, thoughtfully. “How old are you?” “Six.” “I see. Well Susie, do you know what happens when you get very old?” “You go to sleep and you don’t wake up. My grandpa went to sleep only a few days ago.” “Yes, you go to sleep. Grandma Joan is sleeping now too. But that’s not a reason to be sad.” Susie looked up, confused. “It’s not?” “No, it’s not. Everyone has a time to wake, and a time to sleep. Your Grandma Joan lived a long and happy life, and got to meet you for six whole years. Was she a happy grandma?” Susie nodded, smiling a little. “Then that’s a good, happy life. You get the chance to live a long and happy life too, like Grandma Joan. Keep moving forward, and if it’s time to go, it’s time to go. I’m sure your Grandma Joan is in a better place. I’m sure she’s happy there too.” The room’s door opened, and a middle-aged couple walked in. Mom and Dad, the Calm presumed. They looked confused at the Calm’s presence, but walked past him and gently hugged Susie. The Calm wordlessly left the room. He had many more rooms to visit. That was, until he hear the roar that shook the building. Perhaps there was other work to do first. \*\*\* Times Square was dominated by the creature. It took up a good third of the space, black ichor dripping over its carapace, yellow eyes like headlights. Police officers stood in a semicircle around the creature, firearms drawn and pointed at a captive crowd. The crowd screamed, and the creature roared in ecstasy. The fear and despair here was palpable, and the Calm was forced to ground, landing awkwardly between the crowd and peacekeepers, rolling his ankle. The guns all snapped to him. The Calm began walking forward. “Stop, or we’ll shoot!” He ignored the command, but slowed his steps until he stopped short by five feet. The gun barrels wavered gently. “You’re better than this. You’re better than this fear of your neighbors, your citizens. You protect and serve, and this is in no way that. The creature behind you has its hooks in you. Don’t let it! You are held to a high standard! With great pow-” A gun barked, and the Calm jerked, forced to one knee. Blood trickled through the sweater, near his left elbow. He coughed, and cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose you already knew the rest.” The officers stirred, as if from a daze. A look of shame spread across the squad. One by one, they lowered their guns, and parted. No one stood between him and the creature now. It roared in challenge, and fear and despair lashed out at Martin. He staggered to his feet, and removed the cloak, using it as an impromptu tourniquet. Blearily, he could see a film crew, which had been documenting the standoff, now had their focus on him. “There’s a lot of things to be afraid of these days. War, famine, disease, crime. But not the emotions themselves. Not despair itself, not fear itself, not emptiness itself.” He began to walk forward, limping slightly from this awkward land. The creature lashed out with its tentacles, but they stopped inches from the Calm’s body. “The world doesn’t need the Avengers, or the X-Men, or the Fantastic Four for the little stuff. The Galaxy doesn’t need its Guardians every day. For most of us, there’s no Doctor Doom or Mad Titan coming to ruin our Mondays. It’s the little things every day, and a different kind of hero is needed for those fights.” He touched the creature, and it roared in surprise and confusion. Looking back at the crowd, Martin suddenly smiled brightly. “Be that kind of hero. Another definition of a hero is someone who is concerned about other people's well-being, and will go out of his or her way to help them -- even if there is no chance of a reward. That person who helps others simply because it should or must be done, and because it is the right thing to do, is indeed without a doubt, a real superhero.” He gripped the creature’s mass, focused his will against the well of despair inside of him, the crowd, everyone, and said a single word. “Excelsior.” Martin and the creature took flight, rising slowly, in spite of the creature’s roar of protest. They rose, picking up speed once they cleared the cloud cover. Two minutes later, and they were in space. Another five, and they began nearing the warm light of the nearest star. The creature’s roar turned to squawks, and its motions flailed even more rapidly. Martin had no words for now, at the end. All that mattered was the everyday folk, with their everyday lives, and their everyday problems. They could do with a little less despair, and he would gladly make this sacrifice for them. Everyone needed a little push, a little assistance now and then. His smile widening into a grin, he dove with the creature, taking them both into the bright, shining sun.


It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications... Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping It in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up. “Holy sh- what the heck happened; it looks worse than that time we decided to have an indoor snowball fight.” I have never been happier to hear another voice in my life. I get up from my weird perch on the edge of my bathtub and crack open the door, trying as hard as I can to smile without breaking down, “I’m in here, and at least the snowball fight aftermath had a logical explanation.” Tilly just raises her eyebrows and hands me a bottle of Pink Gin, I don’t even need to say anything before, “Yes, I put in a bunch of lemonade because you can’t handle it straight, now put these on and talk to me.” She hands me my trainers and then saunters over to the toilet, sitting on it as if it were a desk chair in a psychiatrists office and then motioning to the bathtub as if it were a couch. “Maybe relax for a bit and have a drink first, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” I take a long swig and set it down, thankful for the company. “I thought I was going crazy Tilly, just feeling It staring at me whenever I walked into the room, it started slowly you know, not turning on when I wanted It to and then hearing It start up in the middle of the night. Its face kept changing, one minute smiling, then frowning, sometimes it had no eyebrows or no face at all. Then It started breaking things, picking things up that I needed and then not letting me get them back, or dumping everything all at once, even chasing Merlin around like It was going to hurt him. Then today It attacked me,” I hold out my hands to her and show her the bruises, and around my ankles where my jeans don’t reach far enough to protect me, “I don’t know how but It just destroyed all of the models we built and started spitting Lego back out at me, I know I sound absolutely bonkers, but I need to get rid of It, I want It out, It’s slowly killing me.” I take another long swig of the Gin, noticing my hand is shaking as I set it back down again, balling it into a fist to keep it steady, then I look up at Tilly who is staring at me intently with a puzzled look on her face, “What did?” I furrow my brow, confused, “Huh?” She taps her long pink fingernails against the shower curtain, “You kept saying ‘It’ but not what it is, what’s doing all of this to you” “Henry is. The Hoover.” She lets her mouth slowly fall open, then smiles, then sees me not smiling and it twists into a frown, “So, uh, your Hoover is hyper intelligent and trying to kill you? Well then let’s just chuck it out.” Now it’s my turn to let my mouth fall open, “We could never get near It Tilly, It’s dangerous, what happened earlier- It could have been a lot worse.” “Well, you can’t hide in here forever, especially now you’ve almost ran out of gin, and honestly the whole Hoover thing sounds absolutely crazy, but if it means you’ll stop hiding in your room, or your bathroom, or your house and actually come outside and see your friends for once,” She looks at me pointedly, “Then I’ll get rid of It myself, heck my Mum could do with a new Hoover, she can take it, I’m not afraid of some out date... thing.” And then she stands up, heading off to the kitchen, I take the now empty bottle of gin with me for protection and hold it up like a weapon, standing behind her and gingerly looking over her shoulder. She opens the door and there It is, tucked away neatly in the corner as if It hadn’t just been pelting me with Lego pellets trying to batter the door down just a few hours ago. I almost believe that I had been imagining it until Tilly turns to look at me and It’s face turns into a snarl, “What did I tell you huh? Just a normal Hoover, but to set your mind at rest.” Then she picks It up, just like that, I back away from her as she comes near the door, not wanting that thing near me. She puts It in the boot of her car and gives me a smug look, “I honestly don’t know what’s up with you, but sort it out, if I come back next week for an evil toaster, I will seriously start to question your sanity.” Just like that. I nod at her, let her take the empty Gin bottle and watch her drive off. After a few seconds of standing there absolutely dumbfounded, I go back inside and start to pick up the Lego, one piece at a time, then my Phone turns on and I hear the voice of Sivi, my online assistant. “Wasn’t that a fun adventure, let’s see what we can play with next.” I hear my electric whisk turn on, then the sound of the toaster pinging, my Bluetooth doorbell, the Microwave starts spinning and I just about catch the maniacal robotic laugh from my phone before I pass out.


“Is he alive?” “I don’t know. He looks pretty dead to me.” I’m alive. I can hear you! Please help me! “You should check him. Take his pulse.” “No way, man! I don’t want to touch him if he’s dead. You do it.” I’m not dead! Check my pulse, please! “I don’t really know how. I’ve only seen it in the movies. Maybe we should just call an ambulance. They’ll have to come here anyway, whether he’s dead or alive.” “Good point. I’ll call them, you stick your fingers on his neck and see if you can find his pulse. I’m sure you can figure it out if you’ve seen it in the movies. How did you find this guy, anyway?” Yeah, how did you find me? I ended up on this rooftop in the first place because nobody ever comes here. Nobody was supposed to see me. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to end up nearly dead, either. Tell you what, if I survive this, I’ll never trust Stuart again! “He’s just lucky. I got lost trying to find the ferry terminal and climbed up here to try and figure out where I had to go. Found him instead. Guess I’ve missed the ferry now. I’m glad I saw you walking by down there, though. I wouldn’t want to handle this by myself.” “Gee, thanks. Just what I wanted for my Saturday afternoon. Find a dead guy. Or nearly dead, anyway. You know I’m supposed to be meeting Sarah at the movies right about now. We were going to see that new Avengers movie.” Lucky? You call this lucky? And you, you think meeting some girl at the movies is more important than saving my life? I’m in masses of pain here, you think I’m dead, and if you don’t call that ambulance soon, I will be! Stop talking and start acting! Oh good, you finally got around to checking my pulse. Please tell me you found it! “Hey, Chris! I think I found his pulse! Did you call that ambulance yet? Tell them to hurry. I don’t think he’s got too much time left.” “Keep your shirt on, mate. I’m calling them now. Figured it was better for them to know if there was a pulse or not. You should check if he’s breathing too.” “I think so. Hang on. I think I remember something about watching a person breathe by putting your head on their chest.” Ooff! I’m pretty sure if that technique was found in a training manual, it would say something like gently put your head on my chest. You don’t want to make me any worse, do you? I am breathing, aren’t I? Please, tell me I’m still breathing! I’d be gone if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I? “Yeah, hi. We’ve got some guy pretty badly beaten here. Yeah, he’s got a pulse. Wait a second. Is he breathing? The ambos want to know.” “Yeah, I think so. Not much, but he’s breathing. Are they coming? Do they know where we are?” “I have to tell them first. Where are we exactly, anyway? I wasn’t paying attention when I came up here.” “Just tell them the corner of Wildmer and Eddison. We can wave them up from here. Are they far away?” “Yeah, we’re at the corner of Wildmer and Eddison streets in Harrison Park. Do you know how long its going to be? This guy looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if he’ll hold on too much longer.” Please, come quickly! I don’t want to die! It was just a stupid mistake to come here. I thought I could trust Stuart to do the right thing. I had no idea he’d steal my money and try to kill me. Please! It hurts so much but I want to live! “They say they’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You reckon this guy can hang on that long? I really don’t want to have to be around a dead guy. Nearly dead is creepy enough.” “Shh, you idiot. What if this guy can hear you? At least pretend you care, won’t you? I hope he can last that long. You hear me, kid? Hold on. Help is coming.” I hear you. Kid? I know I can’t open my eyes right now, but you don’t sound that much older than me. You’re right though. Nobody wants to be described as creepy. Fifteen minutes sounds like such a long time right now. Am I going to hold on that long? I don’t know... “Come on, come on. Keep breathing, mate. They’ve gotta be almost here by now. Hey Chris, can you see them yet?” “Nah, Josh. Not yet. Oh wait. There’s the ambulance now. Hey! HEY! Up here! Josh, they can’t see me. I’m going down.” “You hear that, mate? The ambos are here. They’ll fix you up. You’ll be good as new in a day or two.” A day or two? You’re an optimist, aren’t you? I’ll be surprised if I’m ever as good as new again. I’m grateful, though. If you hadn’t found me, I would definitely not have survived this. At least you gave me a chance. “Is he going to be okay?” “Hard to tell, kids. Look, here’s my card. I’ll get the hospital to give me updates when they know how he’s doing. Send me a message, and if he pulls through, I’ll try and get him to get in touch with you. Sorry I won’t be able to tell you directly, not without his permission and he’s not exactly talking right now. Now, out of the way. We need to get this guy to hospital.” Thanks. Please, get in contact. If I manage to survive this, I want to thank you properly. Do something for you. I might not have much money, but there’s gotta be something I can do for you, right? “Hey, we got some ID here. Ernest Schrӧdinger. Like the cat, huh? Well, hopefully you’ve got as many lives as one. Let’s get him downstairs.”


The thought of you makes me nervous and excited at the same time. It's like that feeling that you get right before you know something amazing is about to happen. I think about you and I've never even met you, I visualize you and I've never even seen you. In my mind and in my dreams I hold you and I don't even know if you exist. I feel like you're a non obtainable goal, like you may be out there but then again maybe you're not real. Maybe I have put something imaginary onto a pedestal that I can never achieve or maybe you're 10 feet away for me right now. As time goes on I continue to look for you. I question my sanity. I question why I am doing this, why risk it, why risk being destroyed and hurt again. yet I still look. I try to find you in random people. I think maybe that's you or maybe that's you but more and more I am starting to think that you don't exist. So I wont look, wont hope, wont want for what may not exist. This way there wont be a longing for you. Then I can feel safe from what you may bring: happiness, pain, hope, confusion, and an uncertain future. I know you must be beautifully broken, possibly also looking, you should stop too. You aren't looking for me, trust me. Im not good enough and wont ever be. Look if we both stop then no one gets hurt. Then again I'm guessing you cant read this. Simply because you don't exist.


The dining room of the restaurant was crowded, despite the fact that it was New Years Eve. At every table there were the usual date night couples along with small parties of friends, and in the corner there was a single table, with a single man, waiting. This was the table. The table he would meet her. The girl. He looked again at his watch. They hadn’t said how long it would be before she arrived, they had just been clear on two things, the table, and the girl. A blond. He had always liked blondes, but of course they knew that. The fates knew everything. Either way, it didn’t change anything. Why they chose to reveal their plans to him, a nobody from nowhere, was a mystery.all he knew is that he wouldn’t miss this for the world. So there he sat, the corner booth, when suddenly a cold wave splashed over him. He looked down in surprise at his soaked shirt sleeve. “I am so sorry!” said the waitress, blond hair spilling over her shoulder and green eyes wide with surprise. Her hands were holding tightly to the glass that just recently had its contents spilled over the tall man sitting on his own. The man smiled good natured. “That’s all right.” He took his napkin and dabbed at his shirt, trying to soak up some of the water. The girl on front of him blushed and starting fumbling with a rag from her apron. “I tripped, there’s a hole in the carpet, I’ve told them to get it fixed.” She bent down and began to pick up ice cubes with her rag. He took the opportunity to examine her roots. Brown. A dye job. Not his blond then. “That’s perfectly alright, probably would have made the same mistake myself.” She smiled. “Can I get you anything?” She gave him a flirty little smile. He appreciated the attention, but he wasn’t interested. Not anymore. She moved on, apologizing again. Things were starting to get awkward. He had already had dinner, but she hadn’t showed. The fake blond waitress had given him a glance here and there, checking on him once, but left him alone after that. Another hour and a desert later, he decided to turn in for the night. He would contact the fates and tell them something must have gone wrong. It was close enough to midnight that if he left now, he would make it to the apartment in time to watch the ball drop. Besides, the manager was giving him those searching glances the management gives when they will be needing a table and someone stubbornly refuses to leave. He grabbed his jacket when he heard the voice of the young hostess out front. “Sorry miss, I’m afraid the restaurant is full, you will have to wait.” He looked up across his table, across the room, and across from the hostess, there stood a young, blond woman, glaring at the hostess. “Are you sure?” She asked. “I’m sure I made a reservation... check again.” The hostess’s eyes scanned over the computer screen again. “I’m sorry, but all the reservations we have are already here.” It was clear from the glare in the woman’s face that she was about to make a scene. “Ma’am.” The hostess turned at the eager voice at her elbow, and recognized the tall man from the corner booth. He was looking at the woman across from her, who all at once looked up at him sharply. “If you don’t mind the company, I would be honored if you would join me at my table.” The blond woman looked him up and down, taking in his lean muscular frame and his cornflower blue eyes. He didn’t look half bad, really. Besides, she was starving. Usually she was a little more cautious around strangers, but one night of adventure wouldn’t kill her, would it? “Thanks,” she smiled at him as they slid into his booth. His waiter came by for her order. She didn’t even need to look at a menu. She had been coming to this restaurant for years now, always getting the same order. “So,” he said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “Can I ask what your name is?” She smiled at him. “Sandy.” Sandy. His pulse quickened at the very sound of the name. He smiled back at her. “Hi Sandy, I’m Bill.” “Nice to meet you Bill. Thank you so much for letting me share your table, I would have hated missing my dinner plans.” He shrugged. “That’s alright. Honestly I’m surprised it’s so crowded. You would think that on New Year’s Eve people would be out at parties.” Sandy shrugged. “I guess not everyone is out celebrating. Some of us,” She hesitated, and then continued on. “Well, I know I didn’t have anyone special to celebrate with this year.” The question hung in the air. A small glimpse of sadness crossed the tall man’s face, and his smile slipped into a grimace for a moment. “Neither did I, and yet, here we are.” After an hour of soup and conversation, Bill had learned a lot about his dinner companion. She had grown up in Arizona, moved all over with her family, and was on town on business. She loved yoga, beach houses, and chocolate. “I should probably cut back on the chocolate though, I’m watching my figure.” He grinned as she looked down in false modesty. He reached across the table ad took her hand. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you are beautiful. May I have the pleasure of buying you a slice of chocolate cake?” She smiled. “You are the sweetest! Thank you so much I’d love one.” He grinned, leaning back in his seat. When the waitress came back, he asked for the two largest slices of cake they had to offer. As Sandy finished her dinner, two pieces of cake around the corner. Her eyes went wide with delight. Bill almost laughed. Everything was going perfectly. After they had had their desert, they were reluctant to let the night end. “It’s almost midnight,” Bill said. “If we go now, we might make it to the bridge in time to see some fireworks.” Sandy agreed and they strolled out into the night air. The dyed blond waitress watched disappointedly as the tall handsome man left with the blond woman on his arm. She watched as they tuned the corner. And then turned to walk back to her table, which appeared to be leaving- along with every other table in the restaurant. She stood there, confused, as the bustling restaurant emptied onto the street in less than two minutes. She stopped the last customer as he headed towards the door. “Excuse me, sir. Is everything alright? Did something happen?” With a single word, the gentleman left, closing the door behind him. The hostess walked up to her, looking puzzled. “What did he say?” The waitress frowned, turning to her. “Fate.” They walked in the moonlight, down the sidewalks and onto the bridge. As cars went by, his hands started to shake and his mind went racing. The moment was coming, and the timing had to be perfect. “So, what about you?” Sandy laughed, “I feel like I’ve been talking myself all this time, and I don’t know a thing about you.” They stopped in the middle of the bridge, and leaned over the edge. “Well, there’s not much to tell about me really,” Confidently, he sat on the edge of the bridge rail, letting us legs dangle over the edge. Sandy leaned forward, clearly wanting to join him. “Be careful!” She warned. He chuckled. “Oh, its safe enough. Besides, we aren’t that high up.” He gave her a hand and helped her swing her leges over to sit beside him. They watched the water ripple below, waiting for the fireworks to start. “I’m not as exciting as you, Sandra Phelps.” Her smiled faltered, and she grabbed onto the rail. Her stomach, which had preach felt a bit queasy after overindulging in that giant slice of cake, had begun to do flips. She had never given him her full name. He continued. “I’ve never embezzled millions of dollars from my family’s company, or killed my assistant after she found out.” Something was wrong. Very very wrong. With every word, pain grew and grew inside her stomach. Suddenly she realized she had made a grave mistake. “Missy. That’s what her name was, your assistant. At least, that’s what i called her.” He looked at her then, all kindness leaving his face, his cornflower blue eyes now seemed more like ice. “She was my wife.” It was in that moment that the poison took its full affect. Sandra’s body went limp. A car drove by, and their headlights caught her blond hair as she fell into the water. The man on the bridge yelled after her. The couple in the car pulled over, running to help the distraught man. “That woman, she, she jumped into the river!” He began to take off his jacket, leaning forward. The couple pulled him back. “Go call 911,” They said, but they knew it was already too late. The woman was floating in the water, lifeless. The distraught man walked away hurriedly, pulling out a phone. A burner phone, with a single number in it’s contacts, that was not 911. The phone rang once, and a voice on the other end answered. “Fate.” “The target has been terminated.” “Body?” “River. Probably a suicide.” The man smiled a grim smile. The voice on the other side did not smile. “Probably. And the poison?” “Untraceable.” “In the water?” The man hesitated. “No. In the soup. She would have suspected the water. I had to flatter her just to distract her long enough.” There was a pause on the other end. “That may be a problem.” The tall man frowned. “How big of a problem?” The voice on the other end of the line sighed. “We will be in touch. Until then lie low.” There was a click, and the call ended. The man put his phone back in his pocket. After waiting five years to avenge his wife, he could lie low for a while. Until then, he would wait. Wait, for the call of Fate.


My great uncle peed on a cat whose tail was on fire. In this town, that’s what having the last name Holland reminds people of. I see it in the new bank teller’s face when I swipe my card to make a deposit. “Ava Holland? You wouldn’t perchance be related to-” I cut off the chipper box dyed blonde with the Maybelline Scarlet Flame lipstick smudged on her front teeth. “Henry Holland. HH. Yep, he was a great uncle.” I wait for the onslaught of weird secondhand hero worship to engulf me, and I’m not disappointed. Or, I mean, I am kind of disappointed. Just once, I’d love to not have to hear about this story while I’m just trying to run errands. Thinking about my great uncle HH peeing in general, when I’m trying to check out at the Pig is just a little unsettling, you know? You see, HH didn’t just pee on any cat’s tail. This cat was Ollie, basically the town of Magnolia Ridge, Alabama’s mascot. Ollie was beloved by all, even dog lovers. The hero worship that the people of this town have for my great uncle is nothing compared to the undying love they have for Ollie. And, of course, he’s long gone now; but people still remember him fondly. Almost every home in Magnolia Ridge has a photo somewhere of their great great grandmother or great second cousin twice removed, posing with Ollie back in the day. Ollie was cute, I’ll give him that. He was huge, but still lithe on his feet, or so I’m told. He was black all over with a little white patch over his left eye and ear, and he had huge, bright green eyes. Ollie didn’t have a home, unless you counted all of Magnolia Ridge. He stalked the nights from front porch to front porch, chowing down on the canned tuna and milk left out for him. Why was a fat cat named Ollie so famous in our town, you ask? Well, depends on who you ask. If you ask me, I think people in this town are just a little bit bored. But, I’d get boos and hisses if I ever said that to a resident here. If you ask just about anyone else, they’d immediately start out, “this one time...” “This one time, I was sleepin’ in my crib, and ol’ Ollie came stalking up to my screened in window,” Gertie Johnson would say conspiratorially. “Somethin’ wasn’t right, and that cat knew it. He went around to the side of the house to my parents’ window screen and started yowling something fierce. And scratchin the screen. At first, they thought Ollie was the one who was hurt. My daddy went outside to go check on ‘im and Ollie went back to my window, quick as lightning, yowling all the way. That’s when my daddy saw it - my blanket was suffocatin’ me! I owe that cat my life,” and then Gertie would get misty-eyed. Jason Plick had a similar story that he’d always tell his fishing buddies. He was little Jacey when he was a kid. And little Jacey happened to wander off into the woods behind his house one day when he was four years old. He sent the entire town into a panic. His mother, wringing her hands over and over saying, “I just looked away for one second while he was playing in the backyard! I looked away for one doggone second to answer the phone,” with a wail. Of course, a volunteer search party was immediately drawn up. Everyone and their brother joined in, determined to bring Jacey home. Jason had fallen asleep in a big, hollowed out rock in the woods not too far from his house. His little outfit blended in with the browns of the October leaves, but Ollie the cat sniffed him out just fine. He started pacing back and forth in front of the rock and little Jacey, yowling his peculiar loud meow, over and over until some from the search party found them. “If it wasn't for that cat, who knows,” Jason Plick would say ominously during the 100th retelling of the tale. And when one of his buddies would point out that they had almost the entire town looking for him, and that he was only about a little ways from his backyard, he’d whack them across the back of the head. Carol Musgrove had a less daunting tale to tell, but if you asked her, the fate that Ollie saved her from was the most vicious of all. When Carol was in high school, freshman year at Magnolia Ridge public high school (go Magpies!) she wanted more than anything to date Wyatt Michaels. Every girl in school wanted Wyatt, even the seniors - when he was a junior. His mama was the best baker in town, his daddy worked in the steel mills, and Wyatt was quarterback for the football team. Carol became a cheerleader just to be closer to him during football games. Most of the cheerleaders did. During one of those games, Carol decided to be sweet and take Wyatt a paper cup of water at halftime. And she decided she was going to kiss Wyatt Michaels, right there for everyone to see. She got up real close to him, tapped him on his beefy shoulder and when he turned around and accepted the water with a goofy grin, Carol made her move. Or, she tried. Once she was an inch from his face, Ollie sprang up out of nowhere and jumped right in between the two would-be lovers. He knocked the water out of Wyatt’s hand as he bounded off, not a backward glance toward his bottlebrush tail. Well by then, halftime was over. Everyone had seen Carol Musgrove attempt to plant one on Wyatt Michaels, and fail because of a cat. A week later, Wyatt and Hattie Somers started publicly going steady. How is this a story of how Ollie saved yet another Magnolia Ridge resident? Because Wyatt and Hattie got married right out of highschool and started having kids right away. Wyatt lost his looks, his hair, his job (which he never tried to get back) and most of his hearing at a really young age, and Hattie was always in a constant state of harried frenzy, trying to care for their five kids and clean houses to provide for their family somehow. “It coulda been me,” Carol would say somberly. Nobody knows how ol’ Ollie’s tail caught fire that night. Most say that he was likely out doing some good deed, saving a child from a fire in a neighboring town or something. Between you and me, ol’ Uncle HH was blitzed out of his mind when he peed on that cat. He didn’t realize he was saving a life by relieving himself while walking home from O’Toole’s Tavern that night. He just really, really had to go.


TW: Suicidal thoughts We were coming back from a day trip to Fallingwater and stopped to swim in a river that cut through the low-slung hills. After an hour of driving, our stepdad, Mark, a native to the general area, pointed out the windscreen. “Here! We can picnic just on the side.” Mom dropped her feet, from where they'd been sunning on the dashboard. She offered one of her signature, premeditated smiles. “How nice.” Beth, my sister, drab and dreary, huffed. Lately, she spent her mornings expertly patting her face ghostly with pale creams and taking over half an hour detailing her eyeliner. She often matched an assortment of striped, fingerless gloves to her Converse high-tops and JNCO jeans. Today, however, she'd been forced to subject herself to khakis and a blue sleeve capped shirt with sunflowers stitched on one side. This was because mom started the morning off wrong by tossing the 'dreadful Gothic trash' out the bedroom window. With nothing else but a cotton nightgown packed in the suitcase, my sister rolled curled into her knees, refusing to cry or leave the room. When I told her that she could wear anything of mine, she spit. A massive, green loogie landed in my stringy pigtail braids. I was saved from another flying gob by our Step-brother, Penn. He tossed his blue corduroy bear at her face, shouted, “GANGWAY!” and yanked me out by the wrist. He and I waited outside of the apartment, the summer morning was fusty and damp. Penn gave me a tissue for my hair and laughed at me, but I didn't mind so much. We both knew his bear was now at risk in Beth's hands. We made tiny fairy huts in the neighbor's flower box, waiting for retaliation or for the day to proceed according to Mom's meticulous itinerary. In the end, Mark and his mother silently went up to the attic to find clothes that had once fit his sister, back in 1977. With that, the issue was declared settled. Mom was the first to appear at the threshold. She clutched her new grass woven handbag, and stared at us, but spoke to me. “Look at you. Nasty and getting dirty when you knew we had plans today. I expected better from you.” Her spiky eyelashes fluttered so wide, they left pockmarks of mascara in her orange skin. Her long, pink nails plucked a bit of tissue that had stuck to my braid. “What have you done with yourself?” She didn't wait for an answer but marched toward the rental van with a huff and became agitated when Penn and I didn't immediately follow. After that, much of the morning passed by in stilted silence. Occasionally, Mom attempted to force games on us. “I spy with my little eye -” Penn spent the journey to and from Fallingwater, with his face pressed against the window. The ends of his bright red hair stood damp from the failed attempts to brush it into place. He wanted to see an Amish person. Mom kept snapping, “It's inappropriate to sit in your seat like that! You look like a gorilla-ape! Sit proper!” He would, but, inevitably like a puppy too wound up with expectations of the day, Penn's nose would find itself smudging the window once more. During the Frank Lloyd Wright tour, we managed to behave. Penn and I both taking interest in the architecture and the story of how the house was built. I was enamored with the iron gray water as it ran through the floors and how the windows opened into the hills. I wanted to point out that the trees claimed every inch of the sky and rooted deep into the slopes and curved over exposed stone like lazy snakes. But I didn't know the words. Instead, I tugged on mom's silk sleeves. She was preoccupied by Beth's movements, how she swanned like an anemic Victorian, around the house. For some reason, I'd thought if I could grab Mom's attention, Beth would have some breathing room and might actually start to like me. Or, at least, she would appreciate my sacrifice. “Mom, look at the robin!” Again. “Hey! Mom!” “Shhh,” she shook her arm free and moved away, closer to the attractive tour guide. “Don't interrupt. You're too loud.” I imagined myself with a considerable amount of wealth to afford such a place, so far up that a draw bridge would be needed to get to the front door. I decided I would close the bridge to everyone but Penn. Maybe Mark could visit, too, but he'd have to learn to get a spine around Mom. Otherwise, it'd be as good as inviting an enemy to dinner. Mark's decision to picnic by the river must have been inspired by the house, with its dining room hanging off the cliff and seamless windows to give the appearance of living in the canopy. “Like Robinson Crusoe!” he'd said. “But with the modern conveniences.” Either that or he wanted to free himself of the static prickling around all of us. Penn kept moaning about the lack of horse drawn carriages. Beth only responded to direct questions by quoting ICP lyrics. Anytime I tried to say something, I was far too loud and causing Mom to develop one of her headaches. We found a decent parking spot, nosed in toward an overlook, where we could see a handful of other families wading into the mossy green water. Beth and I were instructed to use the far back of the van to change into our swimsuits. Three times she angled her knee or elbow into my floating ribs, all the while announcing it was an accident. Then, it was Penn's turn and Beth pushed me out, declaring that I was always in the way. I spread my arms out for Mark to spray me down with sunscreen and he made sure to get the wide part in my hair. I was all fat and gangling legs and arms that struck at awkward angles from my swimsuit. Beth, in her spotted bikini, looked like Jhonen Vasquez's interpretation of Twiggy, and she made a point to walk ahead of us. She stared at the group of teenage boys but when they looked back, she rolled her shoulders in catly disinterest. “Want to look for frogs?” Penn asked, grabbing my hand. “Or a tide pool?” “I think that's just for salt water,” I said. He shrugged. “We can still look.” Mom flicked open a thin, cotton blanket and stationed herself on it with her coltish legs gently curved. Her large brown sunhat concealed the better parts of her face so that she was only a demure smile. She knew people liked to look at her and posed herself to be featured, however briefly, in strangers' thoughts. Mark had his camera out and his attention turned to a fraction of sunlight gathered in a dipping part of the stream. He smiled and waved at us, lifting his camera. Penn and I wrapped ourselves together and stood for pictures, before growing restless and darting off to explore. Our plastic sandals slapped against the shards of honey-brown rock, rising above the bubbling river like the scales of fish darting between the sunspots. We picked up flat stones, attempted to skip them, but didn't talk to each other. Sometimes, I didn't know what to say to Penn. He was half my age, but I felt so dumb and incapable of keeping up with his interests. I liked him and I figured he must have known that, even though there were times when he found himself tangled in a stiff sadness that I carried around. A sadness I was unable to name until well into my adulthood. I followed him, nodding as he pointed out different plants and types of rock, naming them with authority. I wished the water was strong enough to carry me away. I didn't want to die, or drown, or maim myself unrecognizable. I just wanted to be gone. We found a patch of river that was knee deep and sat in it. The current meandered like the southern heat we aimed to escape. Penn spread his fingers, watching the green water bounce and cap white ahead of us. “Am I red?” “No,” I squinted and cupped a hand around my eyes. “Not anywhere. Me?” “On your shoulders but just pink.” I shrugged. It didn't matter. I was always getting burned, despite the layers of sunscreen sprayed on me, and somehow, I survived. I lifted my hips, pushing my hands down into the silt, just to see how far I could go before the lip of rock trapped me. I wished I wasn't fat, then maybe I could swim or be carried. And then. I was floating down river, unshackled from the rocks and the slow turn of the waves. The current became faster and the bright red plastic balls the marked the drop off were framed by my legs. My mind cleared and the sun was warm on my already burnt skin. Oh bliss! Oh God in heaven wrap me into your arms! Take me from this unnamed pain! My plastic sandals disappeared over the edge, and I waited patiently for my turn. I nearly made it, too, but the rocks came up again, smooth and mossy, shredding the water into separate trunks before it dipped below the plastic barrier. Now, no more than a speck upstream, Mom let loose a horned owl screech and flung her arms into the sky. “SOMEBODY HELP MY BABY!” “Mom!” I shouted back and rolled my eyes. “There's a path right here.” To make a point I stood and began to shuffle forward, mindful of the tender points that were slick and precarious. “DON'T MOVE! YOU STAY RIGHT THERE!” I did not imagine the knife edge of danger in her tone. I looked at Penn, twelve feet away from me, and shrugged. He offered half a smile and began walking parallel to me, reaching the shore, where Mark stood, peeling off his socks. “Dad!” I pointed down. “it's a clear walkway!” “Okay!” he called back, unhooking his camera and setting it in the pebbled shore. “HELP MY BABY!” Mom shouted again and I watched, in horror, as she flung herself around one of the teenagers Beth was pretending to ignore. “Deb, it's fine - ” Mark began. He was already in the water, coming to meet me halfway, but Mom shoved him aside. His bad knee buckled and he fell backward, water and mud splashing around him. “GO SAVE MY BABY!” Mom kept screaming and the boy she'd abducted, took several startling steps out to me. I began to walk toward him but Mom let out a demonic bellow, “DON'T YOU DARE MOVE!” It rooted me to the spot. The boy, too, seemed unsure about the safest course of action. What was more deadly? My mom, or the edge of a cliff? I waited and eventually, he splashed toward me. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, then kept repeating it when he put his back to me to lead me to the shore. My sunburned legs chaffed. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” For the inconvenience. For wanting him to tell me that it was okay. For not being cute enough that he'd want to brag to his friends. For walking so slow. For Mom's dramatics. For wanting to die. The boy escaped from us at the first opportunity. Mom had the decency to wait until all our things had been gathered, and we were in the shadow of the rental van, before she removed her sneaker and slapped it around my backside. “You ruined a perfectly good afternoon! How could you be so stupid?” “I don't know,” I lied. “It was an accident, Barb,” Mark grumbled, folding a towel in the driver's seat. His right knee was swollen. “She's safe. That's what matters.” Mom huffed and flung herself into the van. “Well, it's the last time we listen to you about going for a swim anywhere that isn't a pool!” On the drive back, I sat in the third row by myself, not permitted to change out of my swimsuit. Beth plugged in her yellow Walkman and pretended to sleep. Penn stared out the window. Silence, anger, disappointment, all bundled into the van as it made its way down the twisting back roads. Eventually, we came to the point in the river where the drop off had been. Fifteen feet, or a little less, where the green, glassy water turned into a tumble of white foam and mist. Mark whistled low and I wondered if hitting the base would have hurt. At the next, sloping turn, Penn burst the tension I had unwittingly created. “Look!” Ahead of us was a black, two wheeled wagon. The horse that pulled it was broad and dark. “Don't stare,” Mom warned. Penn ignored her and rolled down the window. Mom tapped her knuckle against Mark's forearm. “Speed up. Let's get around him.” “I like your horse!” Penn shouted, his words getting lost in the loud hum of our tires. Mom rolled up his window and put on the parental locks. Penn, ever resourceful, unbuckled his seat belt and spider crawled into the backseat with me. We pushed our faces against the rear window, eyes wide. The bearded driver was weather-worn. He dressed for church: black pants and suspenders, shirt so crisp and white that it glowed in the sunset. His buggy whip snapped in the air and the horse's head bobbed, clopping its hooves in a dance along the shoulder of the uneven road. The man laughed and tilted his wide brimmed hat to us as we waved goodbye. A calm passed through me. I felt soothed like a damp cloth had been placed on my fevered forehead. Then, the man and his horse were gone, hidden behind the trees, as the van slipped downstream.


See the pinned comment for links to the full serial \ As I lay on the ground exhausted, sleep came and went. The need to move wrestled with fatigue and relief at dry land, until I woke up trembling. Icy spasms ran down my spine, spots where the cold gripped the muscles and tried to burrow into the bone, my body fighting back in shivers. It was a battle I was quickly losing. The island didn’t guarantee survival. Water, heat, food. Without those three I wouldn’t make it. I pulled myself up, and stripped down to my underwear. A westerly breeze, cooled by the night seas, ran across the beach. It scratched at my nipples, nose, elbows - stabbing anything remotely exposed, as though it intended to sand me down like a piece of wood. Still, I was better off exposed to the air than being surrounded by the sea in my clothes. Next, water. Looking around me, the island was small. It was maybe only a kilometre across by a few hundred metres wide. Too small for any chance of finding a freshwater source. However, the good news was last night’s storm had left the island drenched. I headed towards the thicket that covered the centre of the island. The web of trunks and bushes cut off the breeze, and my skin gave thanks for the protection. Inside, water covered the ground. Large puddles filled every dip in the woodland floor, and my trek meant keeping to thin inlets of land between the ponds. The water was plentiful. It was also brown. Clumps of dirt floated along its surface, and the borders of each pond had turned to a dun clay as insects hovered above the surface. Thye water was plentiful, it would also kill me. Further into the forest, trees and bushes competed for the most protected space. Soon, every step meant pushing past various branches and fronds that tickled or scratched at my skin, until I reached a clearing where a large bush took advantage of a gap in the canopy. Its huge leaves were each the size of my torso and grew out from the stem in a frilled circle, the end rising in a curve. My lips were sticking with hope and hypotheses as I walked towards the plant. I was in luck. Each leaf had acted like a basin, capturing the night’s downpour. Any that had been able to hold the weight were filled with perfect clear water, the shimmering green below the surface made all the brighter by the sun’s refracted light. I closed my eyes as a dry gasp of relief left my chest. I bent down, and, clasping the ends of the leaf, sipped at the water. I gulped the thin pool, sucking until all I could taste was a rough waxy surface. Leaf by leaf, I worked my way around the plant, quenching my thirst. As I bent down at the last one I looked up. Fifty or so metres away, sunlight broke through the trees, and in the halo of light, I could see another one of the plants. No doubt it too would be full of clean rain water. Water was found. I was rehydrating as my core burnt off the damp seas from my skin. Till now, my walk through the forest had been a haze, but now my synapses were beginning to lubricate and thaw, as the minutiae of my surroundings became clear. The sound of seagulls floating in the sky above, the way the light pierced through gaps between the leaves, and the strange smell of smoke. Smoke. On an uninhabited island in the middle of a forest. I turned to the sensation, and began tracing it like a hunting dog. The smell grew stronger, till I could hear crackling and the sound of wood popping. There was no mistaking it. Fire. Warmth. Heat. An old tree, one of the tallest in the forest but long dead, stood alone. Its leaves had fallen years ago, and the great trunk had been hollowed out, rotten and emptied through wind, rain and animals. But now, at its core, was fire. Somewhere in the storm lightning must have struck the former chestnut, and despite the rain, the strike had been enough for the centre of the trunk to catch light. I watched in awe as the holes in the trunk bled yellows and red. Gases swirled inside the bark, the wood crackling as it withered from fever. I was alone, surrounded by damp woodland, and yet here I was staring at humanity’s most important technology. It was as though Prometheus himself had taken pity on my plight. I moved closer to the heat and bathed in it, sitting down on the forest floor, as my torso and arms soak up the glow. Closing my eyes, I let the warmth cleanse me of the remaining slick seas from my skin. A blast singed the hairs on my chest, and embers floated down to land on my skin, leaving a momentary sting. I didn’t flinch. Each one felt like an anointment. Half an hour or so passed with me kneeling before the flames, until, with my body re-hydrated and dry, I could move on to more long-term survival. Who knows how long this old tree would survive. I needed to save the fire and control it. Besides, I wanted the fire near the water’s edge so Alessia - a stray \**if Alessia*\* crossed my mind, I buried it... - or another ship might more easily see me. I needed a campfire. I wrestled back through the woods towards the coast. At the edge of the treeline I began looking for kindling. I picked up what the evergreen forest offered me: damp pine needles, or waterlogged sticks. They wouldn’t light easily, but they would have to do. I built a small pile of leaves and arranged a small cone of twigs over the top. Loose and wet bark peeled away as I worked, and soon my hands were covered in sap and flecks. Still, after adding another layer of larger twigs on top, I had what felt like a good base. Back in the forest, I tried to recall the route back to the burning tree, following my nose and ears. Upon arrival I noticed the fire was already beginning to diminish. The top of the trunk was charred black as the tree peeled away one lick of flame at a time. Settled among the dirt, I found a good branch. Long enough to last the walk through the forest, thick enough not to break. I brushed off as much of the caked-on mud and dirt as I could, then thrust the end into the fire, watching the yellow flames flicker around the makeshift torch. I waited for the branch to catch alight. Seconds ticked by, the tree slowly withering. I thought I saw a flame and withdrew, but it was merely an illusion. Still, the wet flakes of wood at the end had peeled away, exposing the porous, and hopefully more flammable, parts beneath. The branch returned to the fire. I stood as close as I could as the flames continued to lick at my skin. The sensation that had felt like heaven was now beginning to burn, my skin telling me to step away rather than towards the heat. But I ignored the instruction. My eyes remained fixed on the branch, waiting, pleading. I gritted my teeth and poured my mental energy into the stick, demanding it light. A flame. I pulled out my torch. A grin grew across my face as I watched the small candle dance. This delicate flame would save me. Treading carefully, I trekked back past the trees and out into the open. A gust blew along the beach, and the flame waivered. My chest seized, as the flame struggled, before glowing once more. I reached up a hand and tried to cup my fingers around it. The beat of the fire steady once more, I walked over to my campfire, gently lowered myself to the ground and leaned the flame towards the kindling. I watched as leaves curled to the heat, the moisture escaping from the surface with each lick of the torch. Then, finally, one leaf burned yellow. I gasped with joy, as the leaf crisped and folded, its atoms transformed into warmth. It rolled over to the leaf next to it, and it too caught fire. I waited for the chain reaction to continue but instead the two leaves burned bright, flickered to ash, and then extinguished. Muttering protestations and denial at the kindling, I turned back to my stick, then let out a louder curse. In the moment of elation I had completely forgotten about the torch and now it too was out. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its tip. My fists bound up into balls and I let out a long shuddered sigh. I gritted my teeth, and let all the self-pity slip from my body through the tensed muscles. Then, I picked up the torch, and returned to the forest, just like I had to. I had no matches, no oil, no flint, no lighters. I knew vague concepts about how to make fire with just wood, something about rubbing two branches together, but the mechanics were a mystery, and I would be long dead before I fathomed them out. This fire, the tree, had to work. As I stood next to the tree, waiting for the branch to be relit, I thought about how little I knew. People could make salt water drinkable, but I had no idea how. I couldn’t create a drinking flask or cup to carry any drinkable water anyhow. I didn’t know how to hunt, or how to fashion tools to hunt with. I didn’t know how to make bricks for a home or how to use wood to build a shelter. I was alone, and all the information, all the knowledge that comes from others was lost to me. The branch caught light again. This time I tilted the stick down, allowing the flame to creep up the wood, giving it more fuel. I pushed my way out of the forest as fast as I dared, returned to the campfire and placed the torch by the pyre again. This time I didn’t relent, I kept the branch close to the kindling forcing every pine needle and every leaf to be overcome by the rising temperature. The fire spread. Leaves passed on the heat to twigs, who in turn passed it onto sticks. The campfire was beginning. I stretched out my arms in triumph, and tilted my head to the sky. My thirst quenched and a steady fire going, I would survive my first day here. Then I remembered I was still completely alone. Out to sea, on the horizon I could see some of the other Anmanion isles, thin lines of land poking up from the flat waters. But there were no boats and no rescuers. I wondered how long it would take for Alessia to find me. Would she find me? I remembered how I watched her be pushed into the ocean from a falling mast. I didn’t see her resurface. She had to be alive. She had to be okay. She \*had\* to be. I wouldn’t accept any other option. I realised then that my desperation for Alessia had nothing to do with her coming to rescue me. I would live as long as I could until I was rescued or I perished. But I didn’t want to be part of an Archipelago without her. The emotion ran so much deeper than my own safety. With a good rhythm of crackling wood; smoke and embers drifting up into the sky, I could relax at least until the fire needed more fuel. This would be my spot. This patch of stony beach where I would wait for rescue. “I’m here, Alessia,” I muttered to the sea. “Wherever you are, I will wait for you.” \ See the pinned comment for links to the full serial Publishes every Wednesday.


"THAT'S IT! THERE'S NO WAY YOU CAN STOP US NOW!" - said Beans, laughing - our Goddess will now come to your world and once again the cats will reign! I looked around in absolute terror. The last star. A bacon of hope. Now taken down by my little Beanie. The cat I found at the market. Now the bringer of doom and darkness upon mankind. God, charity does suck after all. Had I left him there to die, I'd be home right now, choking on a delicious turkey. But no, I'm in this goddamn mall, once again. After a whole week spent shopping for Christmas gifts, the End of the World will start, and I'm once again in this twice goddamned mall. "Beanie, stop it! I thought you loved me! I love you! But instead of retributing my love, you chose this crazy cult! You betrayed m..." "SHUT UP, YOU!" - impaciently meowed the cultists, in unison. As they said these words, the earth started to shake. Much like when you want to drink juice from a box and you start shaking it furiosly trying to blend everything into a nice mixture. Turns out I was the orange in the box. While the cats laughed in supreme joy. "Finally! The Great Ball Returns!" And from the sky it came... . . . . . It looked like my grandma had restarted doing croche. There was thread everywhere, mixed up like guts, with a huge red ball on the otherside of the hall. Except, you know, unlike guts, the strings were moving on it's own, controlled by the ball of thread, like puppets obeying to a master. The cats gathered around the ball, and started chanting praises: "Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu", echoes filling the hall. And the ball responded, in its own terrible language. Meanwhile I, terrified, tried to keep hidden as long as possible. The adrenaline rush I felt back then was so strong I could barely feel fear, only the need to solve this. Looking around, I tried finding anything that could help me. Guitar store, some expensive designer clothing store, cotton candy machine, a Starbucks, and lots of Christmas decoration. That's what I had against the huge wooly thing. I went to the guitar store and broke the glass searching for anything I could use to cut some loose strings. However, as soon as I entered the store, Ygharhtu moved his wooly tentacles in my direction, finding my legs, taking me down and dragging me towards him. Terrified, I grabbed whatever I could to stop his deadly pull. That whatever was the cotton candy machine. Kicking the tentacles against each other, I was able to get my legs free. And, after some effort, I could get up. Ygharhtu, however, wasn't happy to see me free. It started to attack me with its tentacles. Having no other choice, I focused on dodging them. Until an idea hit me. Pressing a button, I turned on the machine. And, when the next thread of that thing approached, I grabbed it and smashed against the spinning candy, and Ygharhtu released an otherworldy roar of pain. The cultists passed out, their magical link taking the pain felt by Ygharhtu to terrifying levels and redirecting it to their minds. Now, knowing the thing could get hurt, I took another of its tentacles and tied it to a cotton candy stick I found on the surface of the machine and put it inside the machine. Ygharhtu once again raged, and I took the opportunity to do this to another of his tentacles. Now he began to slowly pulled. And the machine started to crank, 3450 rotations per minute doing their best to sweeten the moment. Meanwhile, I kept dodging and tying tentacles to each other and sticks and putting them inside the rotating bowl. Now little sparks came out of the machine, that would probably not be able to hold much longer against such power. I needed something to distract Ygharhtu. And then it hit me... What I needed was music. I ran inside the guitar store once again, looking for a guitar, an amplifier and some pedals as fast as I could. Turning on everything the store had, plugging my guitar in and doing the setup took some time, and it was enough for Ygharhtu to find a iron grid to hold onto. But it would be worth it when my plan unfolded. It was time for some vibration. For pulling some strings. Quite literally. While I played, Ygharhtu commanded its remaining strings to hit me. But they failed, as they were thrown to the ground by my music. And Ygharhtu met its demise when, using the wool that held it to the grid, he went kamikaze trying to take me with him to the bowl. However, I was able to get out of their range, and Ygharhtu howled as he got closer and closer to the machine. Whose potency couldn't handle such colossal weight anymore, and so it caught on fire. Fire that burns wool. Epilogue: -No, officer. I don’t want to take them with me. - I sighed, his insistence quickly putting an end to whatever patience I still had in my mind after this night. -Look, kid. If you don’t adopt these cats, they’re heading straight to the animal control truck. And, explain it to me once again, where is this burnt sugar smell coming from? -Just come with me to the Northern Mall, and you’ll see. And keep these cats away from us. As I entered the police car, I noticed Beanie held something on his paw. He waved to me as the car got away from him, and I could see his fur was slowly becoming red. Ygharhtu red. Author's notes: * First post here yay * Please please please give me constructive criticism. There's only one way to improve, and that's getting other people to criticize whatever you're doing * My main language isn't English. If you find any grammar errors that could be easily corrected by an edit, please let me know so I can fix it ASAP * Thanks for the read.


Lex Luthor IV comes to in an old , dark, and cobweb covered chemistry classroom. He can’t see anything but he can tell he’s tied up. Suddenly the lights go on throughout the building. (???) “It’s totally not suspicious right?” He turns his head to find a redheaded woman in overalls, a t-shirt, and combat boots standing in the doorway. (Luthor) “You’re one of the women that brought me here correct?” (???) “Correct! My names Chrys Isley-Quinn and I’ll be your lovely tour and exposition guide!” She grabs the back of the office chair he’s tied to and starts pushing him through the school. She explains everything that she knows and rolls him into the teachers lounge where another black haired woman is sitting behind an old desk. (Chrys) “And that concludes our tour. My partnah here will explain the rest. (Luthor) “Shes certainly got a lot of energy.” (Kelly) “If you only knew. My names Kelly by the way Alex. I trust my partner has explained everything sufficiently up to this point.” (Luthor) “Sure, except for why you needed to abduct me?” Kelly smiles and leans forward, folding her hands. (Kelly) “Let’s talk about Red X...or better yet the man behind the mask.” *Back at the apartment building* Teagan slowly comes to. She immediately notices the bomb and wraps it in an energy ball. She brings it closer and inspects it. (Adrian) “I’d be careful with that, they’re sensitive. I had to use one of those platter lids to take care of the one in the hallway.” (Teagan) “Adrian, you’re ok....” (Adrian) “Eh, a little beat up but nothing I can’t handle.” Teagan smiles briefly before returning to her natural stone face. She explodes the bomb inside the shield and lets the gas dissipate. (Teagan) “What was that?” (Adrian) “Not sure, judging from what I saw of my assailant it’s some kind of Scarecrow gas. The one she hit me with was order less, colorless, and it sent me into a blind rage that her friend took advantage of. “ (Teagan) “Scarecrow...I knew that mask looked familiar but...she wasn’t built like Dr. Crane nor did she sound like him which means-“ (Dexter) “I’m not bleeding! Teagan you’re not bleeding! Kim you’re not bleeding! Adrian-“ He dry heaves and reaches back into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper. He holds it out towards Adrian. (Dexter) “Please fix your nose...” They take the roll as Teagen stands up, and Kim enters the room. (Kim) “Did I hear someone say Scarecrow?” (Adrian) “Yep, pretty sure we’re dealing with another great granddaughter. This is starting to get absurd.” (Teagan) “There’s a tear in the fabric of space and time just be thankful we aren’t dealing with dinosaurs...yet.” (Dexter) “Bigger issue, Dr. Cranes long deceased in 2090 and wasn’t his research sealed off in a maximum security vault?” (Teagan) “That was the official sorry but there’s rumors that they never actually found his research or at least not all the copies of it.” (Adrian) “So then that’s how she knows what she’s doing. She can’t be as bad as him though, Dex didn’t need an antidote to come out of his fear spiral.” (Kim) “It’s possible she could only do so much with what was readily available to her.” (Teagan) “Which might explain why it sent you into a rage instead of activating your worst fear.” (Adrian) “I just want to go home...” They sit down next to Teagan and lean their head on her shoulder. (Kim) “About the person you sensed in here today, they were a Luthor right? I thought I heard the name before I passed out.” (Teagan) “Yes, Lex Luthor IV. He’s not the genius or villain his namesake was however.” (Dexter) “So what do they want with him? How did they know he was here? Are they physic too? And who away their accomplice?” (Teagan) “I can’t answer all of that but I think I know why they want him...his best friend is Aleister Drake.” (Dexter) “Red X...” (Kim) “Why is he so important anyway?” (Teagan) “Aside from being highly skilled, he’s also the only one of us to take any kind of action towards getting home. Me and Adrian have been here as long as he has and we’ve just been focused on getting everyone that comes through the rift together.” (Adrian) “He’s also engaged to Wonder Girls granddaughter and family to multiple descendants of the Batfamily, you know people you kind of want on your side instead of the other.