Trigger warnings: Loss and dementia I got an email this week about submitting to a short story contest. The theme is The Five Stages . What stage am I in, spending my first Father’s Day thinking about the father I have in pieces? Is it selfish to say, “I want more of you”? Is it ungrateful to say, “There just isn’t enough”? I miss the whole. The parts that are left are too small, and the parts I remember are things I want to forget. They’re under my skin like shards of glass, and I need them to rub down into sand alright already, Jesus Christ Almighty, etc. You forgot too much and I forgot too little, and now here we are, your broken bits and my shitty Scotch Tape. If I have to listen to one more white person sing about Kintsugi, I’m going to lose it. Why don’t I like more art made of found materials? Is that the final bastion of you holding out in me? They put a neon light in your home, and you called it ugly, or did I say it first? You could be a collage. You’d hate that. A photo album, then. Prints of Renoir paintings of long-haired women. Rural Ukraine with people you met once 40 years ago and never stopped loving. Track lists from before I was born, Linda Ronstadt again. Black-and-white movies starring Alastair Sim. Your friends Jim -- and John --, who you speak about often and always with their last names, as if there might be another Jim or John you love that much. You covet tradition, and what a blessing that is, since the pieces you’ll be the longest are the ones that were there first. Nice, because I remember your mother dying for both of us. Sad, because you’re losing things that still love you back. My new boss reminds me of you. Can’t say why. He’s an old white guy. Are all old white guys going to remind me of my father? Read up on reddit later. My boss loves candy, and it feels like a gut-punch. You don’t like candy. You’re like me. You like chocolate, mostly the good stuff. Callebaut and Lindt. You travelled with a Snickers bar but hated when we ate junk food. Judged us, so we made girls’ trips to Dairy Queen under the guise of running errands. Now you have a sweet tooth. When I hear you talk about it, I want to cry. All my shame comes up at the same time as I think, “How cute,” because there’s something boyish about this despite your grey hair, you in your old-man slippers and too-big khakis. You wanted me to be a little girl who plays with tools. You wore lipstick on Halloween. You were a hippie and an actor and a teacher. We were flying back from a funeral when I told you I had to medicate to keep myself sane, and you don’t judge me one bit. You were on my couch when you said you were afraid to take medication to keep yourself sane, in case you had to pee a lot. You said “I’ve always been a dog person,” then sang to my cat under the bed. It might have been a Tom Jones’ song, but we watched Looney Toons together on leather couches you loved, so you would sing “Puddy tat” instead. “My daughter and T.S. Eliot.” How lucky was I? How lucky am I? If I went to visit you, would you call me “boop boop”? Would you call me “sweetheart”? When I got my first job, you called me your working girl. I had to tell you to stop. You had no idea. If I went to visit you, maybe you would have no idea again. Maybe you would ask me, so polite again, “Who are you?” Sweetly confused. I won’t know. I can’t go see your pieces this weekend, even though it’s Father’s Day, and parts of you are still my father. You don’t know what day it is. A year ago, I bought you a card. It had a tie on it. You loved ties, maybe still do. I bought you a gift you couldn’t stay awake to open. I kept it “for your birthday,” and your birthday was no better. “So for Christmas,” but Christmas was too late. I regifted it to Mom. I’m so afraid I’m punishing you by trying to keep myself whole. Make note to schedule therapy session after work, before move, between friends, in a time slot where I am supposed to be coping. Your disease is hereditary. I am going to fall to pieces too, and sometimes I can’t wait. I’m ready to lose the things I saw, the things you said. I want to see a meme and laugh. “And then there are the horrors,” it says, and I don’t see the horrors about you. I want both of us in bits. You don’t have a piece of lead stuck in your thumb from when you were a boy. I don’t have the hiccups. You are my dad, whole. We are on the deck you built with two now-dead men. I’m having a birthday, and there’s a magician in the backyard. You listen to birds in the morning in a maroon bathrobe. I cry because I hate piano lessons. You smell the lilac bush in the backyard. I am depressed and angry and you step in. You teach me how to wrestle. Nothing makes you happier than a tickle fight with me. Also YouTube. I wonder if you still love YouTube. I want to remember more, but I have to smash whole parts of me to find this. A thousand words and I’m wrung out of tears. Finding more that I can stomach is like pulling teeth. But I have to keep digging past the things I don’t want to look at anymore. If enough of us breaks away, maybe we’ll both be whole.


Jake had been deputy sheriff for about three weeks when the stranger drove into town. At first, he was puzzled: he’d thought he’d met everyone in this God-forsaken place - hell, he saw most of ‘em in the saloon every night - but this man was unknown to him. And then, as the horse slowed to a halt and long, lean limbs unfolded themselves from the driver’s seat, he realised his mistake. Years of hardship had etched lines on the woman’s face, but he thought she would be beautiful if she ever smiled. “Who’s that?” he asked Hal Murdoch. A sour expression crossed the saloon keeper’s face. “That’s Annie.” Not someone’s wife; not someone’s sister. Just Annie. Jake waited for an explanation that didn’t arrive, then watched as Annie strode into Sam’s mercantile, her long hair snaking down her back in a copper-coloured plait. Her steps were swift and businesslike - as if she didn’t want to waste precious time here. Intrigued by the air of mystery she exuded, he followed her in and pretended to examine the small, neat pistol out on display. “Usual order, Annie?” he heard Sam ask. The woman shrugged her response, her eyes restlessly roving the store as if she were a caged animal. From the corner of his eye, Jake watched Sam weigh out a sack of sugar and another of flour, then nod towards a barrel of beans. Without saying a word, the woman tipped the barrel onto its side and began rolling it out of the building towards her waiting wagon. He stepped after her, intending to help her heave the heavy weight into the vehicle, but she hefted it easily without a sign of exertion. Feeling useless, he grabbed one of the smaller sacks and hurried it out to her. She took it without a word of thanks. “I’m Jake, the new deputy,” he said. She merely nodded, avoiding eye contact, and turned on her heel to re-enter the store. It was only as Sam was adding up her purchases that the woman spoke. “I’ll take a packet of needles too, and some thread.” The husky tone of her voice was strangely alluring. After she’d gone, he wandered back into the mercantile. “What’s her story?” he asked. “How come I ain’t seen her before?” Sam scowled. “Nothin’ to tell. She lives on a homestead a good 8 miles or more from here - her and her kids.” There was a deliberate pause. “Folks say she killed her husband.” That night, his mind kept returning to her as he lay on his narrow cot, unable to sleep. He saw the long copper plait and imagined how she would look if her hair were loose and tumbling about her face. He remembered the leanness of her body - so different to the fleshy curves of the whores in the cathouse - and wondered how it would feel if her limbs were wrapped around his. When morning came, he was still thinking of her: she was an itch that couldn’t be satisfied. Days bled into one another as winter set in. The air was crisper, colder, and daylight disappeared well before its appointed time of departure. Jake kept watch for Annie, but she didn’t reappear. After a few weeks of waiting, he resolved to lay his obsession to rest. * He was unprepared for the flurry of activity that greeted him on All Hallows Eve. Waking to the sound of hammering, he peered out of his doorway, bleary-eyed, to see what all the fuss was about. Heavy planks were being nailed across doors; the saloon and Sam’s mercantile were definitely closed for business. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked Henry Martin, the town doctor. “Jes’ a few precautions.” The older man’s gaze did not meet his own. “It happens every year. People have been known to... disappear.” “Disappear?” Henry’s expression was invisible beneath his big, black, bushy beard. “This used to be a place of nigh on five hundred people,” he said eventually. “These days, we’re lucky if can count more’n a hundred.” “What happened to them?” He was deputy sheriff; why had no one mentioned this to him before? Henry shrugged. “You’d best lock your door tonight - or better still, get out of town. Come tomorrow, there’ll be a pile more empty buildings.” Throughout the rest of the day, Jake watched as the population dwindled. Those who did not climb into carts and drive away simply retreated into the buildings that lined the town’s single street, and he now heard the sound of people hammering their doors shut from the inside to ward off the impending disaster. It was only as dusk began to stretch out tentative fingers that he thought of Annie. Was her homestead far enough away to keep her safe from whatever was coming? He knew she had two children - a girl and a boy - and that she lived due north on an isolated farm with no neighbours. An idea came into his mind. He saw himself arriving at her door, offering protection. She might be sufficiently grateful to smile at him - maybe even take him into her bed. He thought once more of her long limbs and her long hair, and his longing threatened to overwhelm him. Grabbing the pistol he’d bought a few weeks earlier from Sam, he tucked it inside his coat pocket and went off to find a horse. He should have remembered how quickly night fell in winter. Darkness enveloped him as he trotted along, leaving the town behind him and heading in what he hoped was the right direction. A faint sound on the breeze sent a chill down his spine. It sounded like screaming. He thought of Henry’s words and shuddered. He’d been going for perhaps twenty minutes when he caught sight of the dim outline of a building ahead of him. At the same time, he became aware of some sort of disturbance behind him. Something prompted him to turn his head, and what he saw almost made him fall off his horse in fright. A mass of creatures was moving in his direction. What they were, he wasn’t sure; but they looked terrifying. He calculated their distance. If he didn’t urge his horse to a gallop, they could be on him in the next ten minutes. Never a confident rider, he tried to sound braver than he felt. He’d heard horses could sense fear. “C’mon, git!” he urged, kicking the animal’s sides with his feet in an attempt to make it move faster. The sudden spurt of speed startled him. He hung on grimly, willing himself not to fall off, and then an overhanging branch took him by surprise as it whacked into his shoulder. He felt an agonising jolt of pain as the joint dislocated, then his left arm was dangling uselessly, leaving him only one hand to cling onto the reins. Somehow, he managed to reach the homestead, but the creatures were now only five minutes away. He slid off the horse before he could fall off, the pain in his shoulder threatening to make him black out, and hammered on the door with his one good hand. The door opened a crack and Annie’s suspicious face peered out. “What do you want?” Her tone sounded ungracious. “Came to protect you.” He realised as he said it how ridiculous his words sounded accompanied by his useless arm. He was expecting her to invite him in, but she remained on the other side of the door, eying him through the tiny gap as if he were a potential danger. “Did you get bit?” she asked at last. Noting his incomprehension, she added more urgently, “Did one o’ them critters bite your arm?” “It was a tree branch,” he said, feeling foolish. “Ran into it afore I knew it was there.” She nodded at this. “Best come in, then,” she said, opening the door a little wider. He slipped inside and she slammed it shut. “You’ve got one arm that still works, ain’t you?” she said. “Hold this piece of wood for me while I nail us in.” She was as business-like now as she had been at the mercantile. He held the wood as steady as he could while she barricaded the door. Whatever was out there would have a job forcing its way in past that. “What are they?” he asked when she was finally finished. “Dead people,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “They come back every year, always on All Hallows Eve.” “What do they want.” “People they can turn.” Her eyes were hard. “That’s why I asked if you’d been bit. If you’d said yes, I would have put a bullet in you - it’s kinder that way.” Kinder? “That’s what happened to Jed - my husband.” The words were matter of fact but her face was bleak as she remembered. “After he got bit, I put a bullet in his brain.” “You killed your own husband?” “I did what I had to do to protect myself and my babies,” she said fiercely. There was a pause. “And I’ve been dead inside ever since.” For a while, there was silence - the only sounds the soughing of the wind outside and the strange animal moaning of the things that were approaching the farmhouse. Now that the rush of adrenaline had left him, he found his mind returning to the pain in his shoulder, and he struggled not to let it show on his face. “You want me to look at that arm of yours?” When he nodded his assent, she told him to take his shirt off. “It ain’t the best light for doctorin’,” she muttered, “but it’ll have to do.” She had to help him pull the shirt over his head. When her fingers touched his skin, they were rough and calloused. She was a working woman, not a fancy lady with time to sit around rubbing grease into her skin. He tried not to wince when she prodded his shoulder. “Reckon I could pop that back in for you,” she said casually. “You’ll be more help tonight with two working arms.” The firelight cast shadows on her face as she said it, and he was half-afraid and half in love at the same time. “What are your children’s names?” he asked, trying to take his mind off the fiery pain in his shoulder. “John - he’s ten. And Mary - she’s going on twelve. They’re in the storm cellar right now - I reckoned it ‘ud keep ‘em safe.” An agonising flame shot through him as she attempted to realign the dislocated joint. “You were a fool to ride over here,” she said abruptly. “You should have stayed in town - or got yourself clean away.” “I was thinking of your safety,” he protested. “Yours and the kids’.” “What do you want from me, lawman?” She sounded weary. “You’re not much older than they are - and that’s too young to be settin’ your cap at someone like me.” “I’m twenty-three,” he said defensively. “And I’m thirty-four.” He gazed at the taut, muscled body, lean beneath her man’s clothing, and thought once more of what it would be like to feel her moving beneath him. “Don’t you ever feel lonely, Annie?” It was the first time he’d used her name. “Some nights,” she said honestly, “but then I tell myself I don’t deserve to take another husband after killing the first one. I haven’t had a man since Jed died.” “You deserve to be happy,” he said softly. She laughed bitterly. “I don’t think I know what happiness is anymore,” she said. The noises outside were getting louder. Annie looked him squarely in the eye. “I could lie with you tonight,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “but it wouldn’t be loving - it would be need.” He wanted her to need him, but instead, she picked up her rifle. “Keep watch at the window at the back,” she said. “It’s time I blew me some brains outta them critters.” The next few hours passed in a blur. Shoot. Reload. Shoot. Reload. Sometimes, the creatures got as far as the door and he realised why Annie had reinforced it when he heard their claws scratching at the wood. “Have you got a gun of your own?” she gasped the first time she had to reload. By way of answer, he withdrew the pistol from his coat pocket. “Take over,” she ordered. “I just need you to hold them back while I top her up.” She was already fumbling for her powder horn. Jake took her spot by the front window and peeped through the shutters. The creatures did not seem decimated: if anything, there were more now than there had been when he arrived. “Duck!” Annie yelled suddenly. He heeded her warning just in time to see brains splatter the wall in front of him. “Darned varmints,” she muttered, scrambling over him to take back her perch. He watched the back of her, noting how she gave the task her full attention. She was world-weary; but somehow, when she was shooting those things, she became alive once more. Killing them gave her life a purpose. And he knew then that she would never look at him in such an animated way. All night long they kept the creatures at bay. Annie did not tire - even when they began swarming over the outside of the house. Some time before dawn, it was finally over and a pile of corpses littered the ground outside. “You’ll be safe now,” Jake said, almost as if he had been the one protecting her. Her reply chilled him to the bone. “For a time - maybe days; maybe months; maybe even years. But they’ll be back. And one of these days, we won’t be so lucky. One of these days, John or Mary will have to take my gun and shoot me in the head, just like I did their pa.” “Then come with me,” he argued. “You’ll be safer in the town.” She shook her head slowly as if marvelling at his stupidity. “Take a good look at the critters we killed,” she said, dragging him outside. She swung her lantern over the dead bodies and the lamplight picked out clothing, features he recognised. Doc Martin’s black, bushy beard. Sam’s plaid shirt and faded leather breeches. They were his townspeople, every one of them. “Why do you think we live out here on our own?” she said as his face blanched. “It’s because that town’s cursed. Jed had to shoot his own family - mine too. We moved out here, away from the town, so we’d be safe.” “I can take you and your kids somewhere else - somewhere safer,” he began, but she shook her head. “It’s what we know,” she said. “Then let me stay here and protect you,” he said next. “With a busted shoulder?” “My shoulder will heal. But you won’t if you stay here alone.” She gave him an almost maternal look. “You’re young,” she said. “You don’t want someone old and world-weary like me.” She began dousing the corpses with kerosene. “You have to burn ‘em,” she said, “otherwise they just get up again the next day.” Her eyes were hard. “That’s how Jed got bit. We didn’t know then - thought a bullet in the brain was enough to keep ‘em dead.” She put the flame to the bodies. “Sometimes there’s no hope for the future. Sometimes all you can do is burn the past.” The two of them stood in silence, watching the flames against the night sky, and his hope burned to ashes too.


My hand trembled as I gripped my key tighter, hovering a few inches from the keyhole. My mind was racing. How can I face them? What will I say when I see them? They have been dealing with it since I got the call, but I just can’t. They were always stronger than me, Why am I finding this so hard? My heart was pounding, my skin began to heat up. How can I leave them like this? How can I not face this when they can? The key plunges into the door and makes a distinct clunk. Within no time at all I am inside the house racing up the stairs. I pause on the landing. I can hear them from the other side of his bedroom door. The sobbing tears a hole in my heart. I feel my anxiety spiking inside of me. Every inch of my body is overtaken by fear. I can’t go in, I just can’t. Before I can decide the door bursts open, and my sister is standing in the doorway. Her makeup stains her face, obvious tear marks cover her cheeks. Her eyes are overflowing with tears. Her lips are trembling as she plunges into my arms. I can do nothing but stroke her hair and burst into tears myself. I grip her tighter as she leans into me. After a few moments, that feel like a lifetime, she pulls away and walks past me. She’s heading to the bathroom to grab some towels, I rush into the room, having absorbed some of her courage. I freeze when I see him. He is lying so peacefully on the floor, with my parents crying over him. Dad is trying to console Mum, keeping her head pressed tightly to his chest as they both cry waterfalls. Blood is pouring from his head, but it is distinctly calm, his heart having stopped moments prior. The gun lays a few feet away from his hand. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. I’d had nights in my past where I had imagined what I would feel in this exact scenario. Most of the time it was some sort of dread. Other times disbelief. But facing the real feelings here and now I realised I was wrong. The unimaginable pain I felt in that moment resonated into my being. Having entered that room I knew I wouldn’t be leaving it, at least that version of me. I felt all the life drain from within me. How could I keep going after facing this. How could I live without him. How could I think about him without seeing this. I felt pure anger bubbling up inside me. How could they do this to me? Letting me see him like this. How could he do this to me? How could he be so selfish to take the easy way out? The amount of times I thought of doing the same. The times I sat with him, all night, keeping him alive. The late night walks. The patient sitting on the beach. Always being on the other end of the phone no matter what time of night. How had I not been able to stop him from doing this? I had well and truly failed him and myself. How could I go on without him? My anxiety became overwhelming. I had never felt like this. The nothingness became everything. How could there be a tomorrow when the world has ended today? What was my next step? I had been stuck frozen to the spot, my legs became weak. I collapsed and began wailing. By this point my sister had returned after an eternity, she frantically began mopping up the blood, pressing it against his head, trying to save him? Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe he was still alive, his heart had just slowed down and there was still chance. As quickly as my hope began to skyrocket it was quickly crushed. Snap out of it. You know that is not possible. You know he is gone. Comfort her. As her frustration grew I reached out and forced her hands to become still. I cupped them in mine and then pulled her in, as she began to join my parents in trying to fill the room. Maybe drowning us would help make the pain go away? As foolish as it sounded it was comforting. I’m not crazy because we are all feeling the same thing. Or at least we should be. The numbness became too hard to push away. It’s easy. I can’t be devastated if I don’t feel anything. Why don’t more people do this? Oh, people do this all the time. Too many in fact. He did. I know he did. I can’t count the times we were enjoying ourselves, where hope seemed to be growing in him and then it would just wash away as quickly as the ocean’s tide. That numb feeling is powerful. I know the alcohol helped him but only in numbing the pain further. I felt how much harder it was for him the last time we spoke. The suffering dripped off of every sentence. The pain was in every syllable. He couldn’t carry on and now I began to know how hard he felt it. When not wanting to be alive is easier than living your life how messed up is that. How is that fair to him? To us? He didn’t take his own life, he took all of ours. It’s been five years since that day and every day has become a burden since. I feel my life began to mimic his own. The pain. The sorrow. The drinking. My sister’s creativity had died that day. Once a renowned painter, she couldn’t lift another brush. Not just from the pain of losing him but the pain from losing all control in her body from a car accident, after she tried to end her own life about a year after losing him. A year after losing him. How long ago that feels. My parents couldn’t handle their grief and became shut-ins. I know they miss him and what their lives used to be. What all our lives used to be. As I finished off another bottle my mind focused on statistics. He had just become another statistic. So had she. How can they have been reduced to something so simple and inhumane? How can my life feel so inhumane? How can I go on? I felt the pain from that day more so than ever. Well more so than every day other than that day. I thumbed my key again. I hadn’t used it since that day. I could barely look at it, I had only just found it today while digging through a drawer looking for a bottle opener. My hand gripped it hard and I plunged it again, this time into my arm. I dragged it hard and deep all the way up my forearm. I lost sight of it as my arm turned red. After a few moments I felt light headed and my vision faded. I slipped into the darkness. I let it absorb me. I disappeared. Another statistic. At least I was with my brother again. He looked happy. At least, I think he was.


“I’ve never done this before. What do I do?” “Really? It’s just trick-or-treating. It’s so easy.” She wrung her hands together and stared at the ground. “Don’t laugh at me. I didn’t grow up in America like you did.” “Hey,” he took her hands into his and gently kissed her wedding ring, smiling all the while. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make fun of you, it’s just a really simple concept, is all. You just go up to the house, take what you want, move on to the next one, and repeat. Easy, right?” “Yeah. Easy.” She refused to look up at him, refused to replicate his smile. “Minnie, what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Minnie...” She gave no response. He sighed. “Minnie, maybe you shouldn’t go out tonight. I know Dr. Singh said that you’d be better off staying in-” Finally, she looked up at him, but only to shove him away. “Dr. Singh doesn’t know what’s best for me. He’s just paranoid.” “He’s a doctor. I’m sure he knows what you-” “No, Sam. I want to go out tonight. I’m going to. Cheng was so excited for this and I’m not letting him down.” He stared sadly at her for a few long moments. “Okay,” he whispered. She jutted her chin out at him and took a step back. “I’m going to get ready.” She turned around and trudged up the stairs, ignoring the eyes following her up. ~~~ “Mama! Mama! Mama!” She sighed heavily and looked down at the toddler tugging at her pant leg. “What, Cheng?” “What’re they doing?” Cheng pointed out the window. Minnie followed his hand to see hordes of children rushing around outside, all wearing cheap costumes and carrying pails or pillowcases. “Trick-or-treating, bǎobèi.” “What’s that?” “Go ask your father.” The child ran out of the room, calling out for his dad. A soft smile formed on Minnie’s face. Cheng was only two, now, but he already held all of his mother’s heart. Tiny footsteps returned only a minute later. “Mama! I wan’ go trick-treating!” “Oh, not this year, bǎobèi.” Cheng pouted. “Why?” “You’re too young. And it’s very cold outside. And you don’t have a costume.” “But I wanna go!” The toddler stamped his feet. “No, Cheng.” Loud cries suddenly rang out, so shrill that Minnie flinched. She hurried to scoop her child into her arms and shush him. “Next year, bǎobèi. Next year, I promise.” ~~~ Standing in the mirror, she looked like an angel, wearing a white dress and a halo over her head, but she did not see it. She was smiling down at a picture in her wallet. Bright eyes, almond in both shape and color; short, dark brown hair; pale, chubby cheeks; a perfect child. “Mama.” The voice jolted her out of her memory. She looked up to see the child from the picture reflected in the mirror behind her. Cheng looked like a little zombie, complete with blue skin and dirty clothes. “You scared me, Cheng,” Minnie said to his reflection. “Where did you come from?” “I wanna go, Mama.” “I know, bǎobèi. Just give me a few more minutes, alright?” The child was gone in the blink of an eye. A moment later, Sam stood in his place. Minnie’s smile switched to a frown. “What?” “I’m going with you,” Sam said. She spun around to face him. “Why?” “You know why.” He stepped farther into the room to look through their closet. She glared at him the whole time. “No.” “Min.” “No! I don’t need to be watched like a dog.” “That’s not what-” “I am fine, Sam.” “I know that that’s not true.” “Oh, so you think I’m crazy like Dr. Singh does.” “No, I just know that you’re upset about....” “And you aren’t?” He looked at her, offended. “Of course I am. Why would I not be?” “You don’t act like it. And you don’t need everyone following you around and treating you like a baby.” “Why can’t I just want to go out with you?” “Because.” Sam moved over to her and took her hand. “Min-Jun, I love you. You know that. But I know how hard it is for you right now. It’s hard for both of us. But we have to heal, and we can start by spending some more time together. Please.” He was tearing up, but she just stared at him. “You’re just saying what Dr. Singh says.” “And? He knows what he’s talking about.” Her only response was a short huff. “There’s no harm in me coming with you. Just let me go.” “Whatever,” she grumbled. She pulled herself away from him and stormed out of the room. ~~~ “You look confused,” Dr. Singh said, adjusting the cuffs on his suit jacket. “Would you like me to explain it again?” “It’s just...” Sam shook his head. “She’s never had these...episodes before. I thought people with schizophrenia had it all their lives.” “Oftentimes, yes. But traumatic events can just as easily cause psychotic episodes as genetics. Many people have the genes to be schizophrenic, but only begin to have episodes after a particularly stressful event. And I know the beginning of this year hasn’t been very good to you.” “Right.” Sam let out a deep breath and massaged his forehead. “So, what do we do?” “I promise, it won’t be as difficult as you may think. Your main priority is to make sure you are both living your lives as healthy and happy as possible, which shouldn’t be too far off from what you were doing before. You just have to keep a close eye on her. People tend to hurt themselves or others while having a psychotic episode, without having the slightest idea of what they’re doing.” Sam scoffed. “She couldn’t hurt a fly.” “A lot of people think that.” Sam swallowed heavily. “Okay, well, will she need medication?” Dr. Singh nodded. “But she may not need to take it everyday of her life. Many only take medication during and after strong episodes. I will be able to prescribe her a medicine after I know a bit more about her symptoms.” Dr. Singh opened a drawer in his desk, took out a booklet, and handed it to Sam. “This will give you some more information and resources. I advise that you do plenty of research.” “Will do.” “Any other questions for me?” Sam just shrugged. “Min-Jun?” Throughout the entire meeting, Minnie sat silently, her hands flat on her lap, her eyes never moving from a small picture frame on the doctor’s desk. Dr. Singh leaned forward. “Min-Jun?” Very slowly, Minnie reached out and grabbed the picture frame. She whispered, “You have beautiful children.” ~~~ She did not want to, but she waited at the bottom of the stairs for him. When he came down, he wore only a suit as a costume, and a solemn yet hopeful expression on his face. “Are you ready?” He asked, as if their argument had not just happened. She shrugged. “Cheng is ready.” She gestured at the child calmly standing at her side. When she returned her eyes to her husband, she saw that his expression had shifted into pain and fear. “What?” “Min...” He stepped closer, shaking his head, and gently touched her arm. “What?” “I really don’t think you should go out tonight. Especially if you’re seeing-” She pushed him away and shouted, “Stop talking like I’m crazy.” “Minnie, you need to accept-” “And stop acting like that stupid doctor.” She snatched Cheng’s candy pail off of the floor and ripped the door open. “I am fine. We would all be fine if you would stop acting like this.” She left the house and slammed the door behind her. She heard him follow her out and call her name, but she refused to wait up for him. Instead, she broke into a sprint down the driveway and kept running until she was sure she had lost him in the crowd of trick-or-treaters. ~~~ According to the medical examiner, they should find solace in the fact that it happened so fast, that there was no pain. But the parents were always the ones to feel pain in situations like these. The trial had been quick. The driver had pleaded guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter. He had apologized profusely, swearing that it was an accident. Saying that if he could take it all back, if he could bring back their child, he would. Minnie screamed at him nonetheless. The house was so quiet, now. They barely ate or slept. They never spoke. Minnie spent much of her time in Cheng’s room. Three months after the accident, they sat at the kitchen table together, slowly and silently sipping tea. The time of constant tears had passed, leading them to perpetual numbness and grief. Yet, Minnie was unfazed when tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen. “Do you want some cereal?” She asked. “No, thank you,” Sam muttered. She poured a bowl, anyway, and set it at Cheng’s place at the table. “There you go, bǎobèi.” Sam’s head snapped up to look at her. “What?” She casually sat back down and nodded at her son. “I was talking to Cheng.” Sam flinched. “What?” “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Minnie...” He stood and crept towards her. “We can’t be in denial, anymore.” “In denial of what?” “Minnie, he’s gone. He’s gone and we need to come to terms with it.” “Gone?” She glanced at her child. “But he’s right there.” Sam looked at where Cheng always sat, then back at her. “No, he isn’t.” His eyes started to water, and Minnie started to believe that something was actually wrong. “But...But he...” As if a fog cleared, her memories returned, and she began to sob. Sam tried his best to quiet her, but to no avail. She wanted her son back. ~~~ She wandered through the streets for at least an hour, all alone. She lost track of the number of happy families she passed by. They angered her. At every home she went to, people seemed confused as to why she was trick-or-treating without a child, and those who knew of her loss seemed concerned as to why she was out at all. Still, she went on, collecting candy for her baby. Eventually, she found herself on the wealthier side of town. Bigger houses and yards, nicer costumes and cars. As it got later, the younger children began to return to their homes. Minnie kept her eyes on them. There was one boy she noticed, a small one in a zombie costume. She followed him and his mother down the street, getting closer with every step, until she was close enough to grab the child’s shoulder. He and his mother turned to look at her. “Sorry,” Minnie said, slightly dazed. “He just looks so much like my son did. So cute.” “Aw, thank you,” the other woman said. She nudged her son. “Say thank you.” “Thank you,” the boy said. Minnie knelt down to see the boy better. “What’s your name?” “Eddy.” “How old are you, Eddy?” “Four.” Minnie smiled. “You really do look so much like my son.” The boy had nothing to say to that. “I want him back.” Screams rang out, and suddenly she was running back the way she came. She frantically tried to calm the struggling child in her arms. There was no reason for him to be panicking; he was just going back home. At some point, she passed her husband, who called out to her, but she did not stop until she got to her house. She locked the front door behind her, then carried the boy up the stairs to Cheng’s room. “Calm down, bǎobèi,” she said over the child’s screams. “You just need to stay in your room for a while, okay?” She set the child in the room, closed him in, then quickly barricaded the door with the hallway dresser. Someone was pounding on the front door, so Minnie went to see who. She peeked out the window next to the door and saw a man in a suit. The only suit wearing man she knew was Dr. Singh, and she would never let him into her home. She assumed he was sent here because people were calling her crazy, again. How dare he? She would need to defend herself from being taken away in a padded bus. So, she went to her kitchen and grabbed a large knife. Then, she returned to the door and slowly opened it, holding the knife behind her back. The doctor burst in as soon as the door was unlocked, shouting, “Min, what the hell is going on?” “What do you mean?” Minnie asked, innocently. “What do I mean? Seriously? Min, you ran off while you’re clearly in the middle of an episode; I’m an idiot for even letting you go out. And then you come back with a kid and the whole street freaking out behind you-” “All I did was bring my son home.” “Min, you kidnapped a fucking kid! I can hear him upstairs. Are you insane ?” Her eyes widened. “I’m not crazy,” she whispered. “Stop acting like I’m crazy.” “Well, it’s kind of hard to do that when you kidnap someone.” He ran his hands down his face and paced in a circle. “Shit, I need to call the cops.” She screeched “No!” and lunged forward, swinging the knife wildly. The doctor raised his arms in an attempt to defend himself, but she was relentless, and soon the knife got stuck in the side of his throat. He gurgled and gasped for air, crumpling to the ground. She followed him down, letting the knife clatter to the floor. He managed to let out a whisper of her name. She smiled and kissed him as she realized who he really was. She sat there, calm, as the screaming upstairs went on, as sirens blared down the street, and as her husband bled out in her arms.


TW: Substance Abuse, Implied Suicide, and Child Abuse Baby Talk. It’s all I have heard and all I have known for the past 8 months and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The Coos and Waas eventually evolving into Dada and Mama while my son gains soft awareness behind his bright blue eyes. My eyes. Tubbie time is always a surprise with him because instead of tears there is absolute wonder that seems to soak into his skin as he gently touches the bubbles and plays with his bath toys. I say “he plays,” but really; let’s be honest... It is more ME playing with the toys and keeping his baby brain occupied. His favorite tubbie toy being the S.S. DayWel; a small sailboat that belonged to my little brother, Darrell. It was a silly name for a boat, but when asked what he wanted to name it, he simply replied with his own name. Unfortunately, the linguistic skills of a toddler seemed to fail him in his R’s, so we simply painted S.S. DayWel on the side. I often wonder if My son will struggle with his R’s like Darrell, but it is hard to imagine that my son will be anything other than this cooing child with eyes full of wonder in the bathtub while I tell stories of pirates sailing the cerulean foamy ocean. Their search of treasure only interrupted by having to fend fend off the Deep-Sea Quackens and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. His eyes always light up when the DayWel comes out and it truly is quite the sight when he sees the sails rip through waves and suds to finally come to rest on the tub-side where the treasure lies. The same stories and games that Darrell would play. To be frank, I forgot about the S.S. DayWel until I was forced to clear my mother’s pitifully 60’s feeling apartment a few years ago. She passed away from what was likely a mixture of Gin and Tonic with a Lexapro chaser and while we weren’t exactly close, I didn’t have much choice in cleaning her mess since I lived the closest. I never really understood why she disliked me, but this hoarder habit must have been one final, “Fuck You,” to me knowing that I would be the one who would do the Majority . A dumpster rented, industry grade respirator masks purchased, and disinfectant by the barrel - all on standby while I performed Hercules’ final labor of tackling the Beast of the Hoard. My battle was Legendary. Made up of Tchotchkes from shitty midwestern shops being condemned to their final resting place of a landfill as well as the Kitchiest plates; art with native stylized wolves adorning the walls of this dusty tomb. There was no world where someone wanted these artifacts. They are the relics we pass down to our children who in turn toss them aside.. Just as we toss our parents into nursing homes subconsciously thinking thoughts of revenge for the perceived wickedness and generational trauma put forth one tree branch after another - after another - after another. A never-ending tirade of generational trash aged into oblivion. I used to wonder what she was forced to clean when Grandpa died, but once I was forced into her loving garbage heap, I knew that she never actually threw anything away. What perceivable use did she have to keep golf clubs when she could never afford to golf? Why did she keep coffee mugs when she lived off Beefeater sipped out of plastic to-go cups from movie theaters? Her sick sense of humor shown through when I found not one, but four copies of the same book. Why in the world did she need four copies of ‘Iphigenia in Aulis’ that she probably never fucking read? It was always because Everything held some fucking Meaning and every year held the family’s annual denying of her trying to give all of us her trash. It was as if she really thought her collection of thirty-six music boxes that she bought from thrift stores a dime a piece would one day hold value. At the end of the day when the sun finally sets, the only value that they held was based on how many fucking garbage bags I had to go through to make sure they didn’t pierce the sides and rip. A rage filled as I, like Sisyphus, tossed trash bag after trash bag into the dumpster abyss. I did try to find things that held meaning that we could save at first, but you start to black out when you find thirteen VHS tapes labeled ‘Days of Our Lives’ in a milk crate resting on top of what had to be 63 years of magazine subscriptions to everything a haggard widow could ever want. And the fucking Smell. The wings of Baal spread open as the apocalypse happened within your nostrils; a true calamity. Obviously, it was the supernatural side effect of filling a small enough space with so much furniture, knick knacks, and rubble that there were only 3 routes to go: Kitchen, Bathroom, Bedroom; The Depression Grand Prix. Entropy sets in as the dust gathers and cleaning dies in the hellfire of elderly alcoholism and dementia. Mom truly was a bitch in the end. My Backup never came and I was alone on the frontlines of a battle that I was losing. I may have made progress on fighting the trash heap, but my sanity faltered to dangerous levels of hopelessness as I used up a Costco Pallet’s worth of trash bags. Though my determination faltered, the dulcet tones of Bowie would cheer me on until the progress finally became palpable. The Hoard’s mountains transformed into heaps which transformed into piles and eventually hardwood was made free after years of darkness and forgetting its own existence. The more I unsoiled, it became apparent that if one covered their nose and splashed their eyes with acid, they could be fooled into thinking that this apartment had potential at some point. My final labor for the woman who brought me into the world was cemented as “Worth It” only after I found the box labeled “ Darrell’s Stuff ” An unassuming cardboard box filled with stuffed animals, baby blankets, and a photo album heavily featuring him and I together. As I dug through my little brother’s treasured memories without him there, I found the S.S. DayWel. I ran my fingers along the hull of this shoebox- sized plastic and felt my breath catch. 39 years ago A bathtub of sudsy water just like my own boy enjoys. Darrell’s childlike glee as he played “Pi-Wates” and laughter as the water would splash onto the various toys and obstacles the Pi-Wates would navigate. Like all 4-year-olds, bathtubs were a trove of Adventure for me. It was always the high seas calling for exploration and Bubble-Bearded Baddies. Darrell was unfortunately not big on sharing during tubbie time and his terrible 2’s came with the price of never getting along with his older brother. I may have been older, but he was like a miniature Wyrm guarding his gold. His talons were screams that would wake our angry parents when we fought. Subterfuge or speed was required if I was to get him to part with his prize and plans had to be made to occupy him with shinier toys. I looked through our toybox in desperation, hoping to find something to replace the S.S. DayWel, but Hot Wheels, Etch-a-sketches, and purple singing dinosaurs had never cut it before. A gloom began to shudder over my heart as the realization took hold that I would never be able to coax the sailboat away from him. Then I heard him. The splashing toddler glee as he played in the tub reinvigorated me as I was permeated with veridian envy and the urgency of my plight took hold. Creativity was a must. Which toy was the most precious of all? The answer was obvious and I was surprised that it had taken me so long to think of it. The Orange Gun. Bright, loud, and capable of creating all sorts of legendary battles! It's cold plastic was smooth and the buttons were a veritable treasure while a rope that ran for a country mile was attached to the grip. I made my way to the bathroom and spied the gun hanging out of a drawer. Darrell’s eyes drew on me faster than a cowboy at high noon as if he knew that mischief was afoot while he clutched the DayWel like an opera goer clutches her pearls. I needed to put on a performance worthy of a Sesame Street child actor in order to make this trade seem viable. My hands wrapped around the replacement toy as the tapestry of deception wove in my imagination. I pointed the pistol skywards and invisible aliens in their UFOs shot across the ceiling. It was up to me to save the Bathroom. “BANGBANGBANG! TAKE THAT! BANG!” I fired my pistol and kept them at bay, but always - my heart’s true desire was the real prize of the DayWel. My little brother's eyes lost their defensive aura and began to turn a shade of emerald as he wished to play my game and I knew that I had him. I set my pistol on the porcelain bowl and held out my hand towards the boat that he clutched. His gaze darted to my hand and back to the DayWel before they finally rested on the Orange Gun. The sound effects and bright colors were far too tantalizing for him as he handed me the sailboat; the silent trade and interaction. I had my prize and began to walk away, but started to hear protest. I had forgotten to make good on my end of the wordless bargain. I made my way back to the toilet with the orange toy resting on it. I had My Prize of the boat, yet the downright evil thought that flashed across my soul was to take both for myself. My left hand wrapped around the gun and my right hand held the DayWel. I knew that both were precious, but I also knew the tears and the screams from an angry toddler would cause far too much commotion. I looked at the tub and the suds had almost completely dissipated and Darrell’s adventures on the high seas would be done soon. The glee of an imaginative tubbie time would drain.. So I decided to do the right thing and give him the gun rather than keep both toys for myself. I was the older brother and it fell to me to make sure that he was happy. I tossed the hair dryer into the tub.


Hazed he looked at the bottle, unable to comprehend the meaning of his actions. In his heart he saw it for what it was, but in his mind he only saw the orange tinted bottle with the warning label on the side. In the sink he watched the water flowing down the drain and felt a strange familiarity with the water. Both he and the water ebbed and flowed, rushing to somewhere else, yet unguided by their own actions but rather by a superior natural force. The haze grew stronger now, and he felt the heavy hand of reality pushing down on him. Down he fell into darkness, down to its comforting solitude. Down... Up. Up he rose in a sweat and quickly looked around. He could feel the anxiety of the dream left from the adrenaline in his blood, and his heart yet raced from the illusions of the unconscious. His room was as always a mess, and beyond the crumpled sheets he could see his trusty alarm clock, once again waiting to awake him at the hour when the world needed him up. Today it read 6:34, and being as he wasn’t due to awake until 7:00 he considered falling back into a sleep. As he flopped back he realized that his heart was still accelerated, and he felt shaky, as though he had consumed one to many coffees. Slowly he rose from the bed to face the bathroom, which had frightened him so much in the dream. His steps were small and measured, as he felt his way through his apartment to the small room that functioned as his lavatory. Had it been any smaller and the French would not be the only one’s calling a water closet. Waving his arm through the air as though he was conducting an invisible orchestra he found the string that descended from a single bare bulb that was overhead. The soft yellowish glow made him feel as though he was ill, perhaps due to how it made him appear so in the mirror. The harsh lines created on his face showed his fatigue and stress, and he brushed it all away as he turned away from the ghastly image of himself. His thirty-two years of wanderings had left him largely penniless, alone, and in debt to loan companies and creditors alike. He would often reflect on his life and how it was largely unremarkable, and wonder what he would ever do that would matter. His career as a painter had been mediocre at best, with painting sales almost never equaling what he had spent on supplies, and his career as a writer being equally as successful. He looked at his watch, 6:48, time to prepare for another day at the office, another day making sure other peoples lives go according to plan, while his sat on hold in the wings, just waiting for the next act. He trudged through his routine and grumbled as he past his latest project, which now sat dormant upon his desk, no longer igniting a fire within his heart. The manila folder held within it detailed accounts of the people who were buried at Shady Willow Cemetery, which pending approval from the city council were to be exhumed and relocated in order to make way for a strip mall. He had spent nearly 6 months gather old newspaper clippings and interviewing surviving relatives in order to write his article, almost a page and a half per person, which he hoped would raise public awareness and stop the transfer. It was one of the few things he had taken a real interest in, and he truly felt as though he knew the people that were buried there better than any who were still among the world of the living. Perhaps if he could get that printed at his paper he would stop being merely arranging other’s work into an nice page format and writing articles of his own, but that would have to wait, as another days paper needed a layout. He paused before heading out the door after he was ready, checking his appearance in the mirror, he once again felt as though he was looking upon a ghost of himself, a shell of a person that he knew he could be. He let out a long sigh and opened the door, once again facing a world that had forgotten him. As he walked the several blocks to his office, he passed a homeless man, who appeared to have been beaten by life, held down at every turn. It reminded him of Neil Brennen, one of the people buried at Shady Willow. He had been a soldier in the first world war, and survived only to come home and get caught up in the whirlwind of the Roaring twenties, but once the Great Depression had set in, he found himself struggling on the streets to stay alive. As he tried to find work and food, he grew ever sicker from his life on the streets, until he quietly succumbed to hypothermia one winter night in 1932. The thought crossed his mind that he should feel pity upon this man, but then considered his own position. The world treated him with neglect, almost refusing to acknowledge his existence in the first place, and he found him self longing to be beaten back by life just so he knew that someone out there knew that he was alive at all. The bells jingled as he pushed open the door to the North Collins Courier, drawing unwanted attention to him from the editor. The editor was a short middle-aged man, whose inflated ego was eclipsed only by the demands he placed upon his employees. Striding to him folder in hand he began to talk before he had truly come within normal conversational distance. “Here is the articles that need to be arranged for tomorrows paper, and lets try to have them done before I have to send them to the printer this time.” The man’s air of annoyance came across clearly, through both tone and the presence of a slight twitch of the eye, which made one worried about the sanity of the editor. “Have I not been on time, I thought the deadline was 4pm, I always have it in by then,” He struggled to figure out why he was being questioned when he could not remember a time when he was late. “It is, and you have, but some people try to do more than the minimum. Perhaps it is why you are still stuck arranging words that are not your own. I sometimes wonder if you truly grasp how unremarkable you are.” His contempt was felt thoroughly, and his words haunted him all the way through that day. If only he could have the originality of Willard Stevenson, another corpse who found its resting place at Shady Willow. Willard Stevenson had done many things in his life, but what he was most noted for was not what he did while he lived but rather how he had died. While serving with the Union army he found his line breaking and unit in retreat. Unwilling to go down in history as a failure who had run from danger, he had broken rank and ran into the Confederate line. He fired his rifle and proceeded to bayonet confederate soldiers as the approached him. As the line enveloped him many soldiers were wary of getting to close to him as he was drunk with bloodlust, choosing instead to fire with their weapons at the single man flailing several yards away. Unfortunately they had him surrounded and the ensuing crossfire killed many more confederates than he could ever have, but enough rounds found their way to his body to end his fateful one-man charge. Having been honored for bravery, he was buried in his hometown of North Collins, with full military honors. The days work became monotonous as the hours wore on and he pressed to finish with time to spare. As lunch arrived the other employees filed out of the office to eat, while he stood fast to finish his work early. He did stop long enough to take note of the cute field reporter as she passed, and allowed himself to imagine himself for a moment with her as Mr. and Mrs. Avante must have been during their younger years together. They had met while summering at Cape Cod, and found that they fancied one another more than just as a summer fling. He was 21 from the prestigious Avante family from North Collins, and she was an Astor, a legendary family in its day. The two fell in love and wasted no time in getting engaged. Soon after a wedding followed and they were off exploring the world together, traveling upon the substantial fortunes of their families. From Paris, Rome, and Greece they would send home photos they would have done showing their exploits, and how they were becoming a truly worldly couple. As the years went on they found themselves traveling less and spending more quiet hours beneath the willow tree on the Avante estate, enjoying each others company and the solitude of the place. Mrs. Avante had taken ill in 1898 and died within a year, causing Mr. Avante to such grief that he dedicated the land around the Willow tree as a cemetery, and paid to have all the honored people from the town of North Collins Cemetery transferred there so that his late wife may rest among people he deemed “worthy of her greatness”. He died penniless 3 years later after a long depression and drug addiction in an effort to dull the pain of his lost love. The thought quickly dissolved from his head as he shook the ethereal feeling from his head. He knew that he needed to concentrate upon his work if he was ever going to finish by the deadline, let alone before it. He turned his eyes once again to his work and dove into its repetition almost robotically. As the day came to a close he stacked up the final copies that would become tomorrows news and placed them back into the folder, ready to go to the editor for final approval. Upon arriving at the editors door he felt his heart sink as he was met with a cold stare and an impatient tone. “Unremarkable yet again, congratulations,” and with that that editor turned to his work, completely dismissing his existence. He felt worthless as he walked home, wishing for some form of inspiration to bring him from the past to the present, so that he might someday have a future. His gaze searched around him and fell upon a young girl who was conversing with what appeared to be her classmates, and his mind was taken away once again, this time to Sandra Nelson, who had earned her spot in Shady Willow not through her deeds but rather her inability to grasp how mortal she really was at 16. The night air had been hot, and the smell of gasoline had her scrunching up her face, its pungent aroma reminding her all to much of her father. She sat aside the high school football star in his old ford, waiting to race some greasers from a rival school. She felt the thrill of being in the race and couldn’t help but hope that he was as turned on as she was by the situation. She gazed at him deviously as the race started, and continued to do so as they flew down the road. The next thing she knew she felt like she was flying, and before the terror of the situation could fully sink in to her the car landed on the passenger side roof, killing her instantly. She was laid to rest in the only cemetery that her father could afford, the old Avante place where only the poor were buried now, its treasured status having died with Mr. Avante some 50 years prior. He shook the image from his head as he walked along the sidewalk, once again contemplating his own life. As he walked up to his apartment he thought that perhaps he should walk to the cemetery that had dominated his thoughts all day and invigorated him in the past. The buildings quickly faded from thought as he walked down the road which led to the large tract of land that made up Shady Willow. As he approached he saw a peculiar sight, what appeared to be five people standing around a grave as though they were at a burial, only no one had been buried there since the 1950’s. As he approached closer he could make out the tell tale black clothing and decided to approach from behind them as to not be seen. As he came closer he saw that they were staring at a empty plot, with no headstone to speak of, as if they were waiting for something. No sooner had he come within several feet then did the crowd split and form a path for him to walk through. He looked upon the people with disbelief and horror, for he knew every one. His eyes went from the veteran to the couple, the girl and the hobo, and he found himself speechless. “You were the only one who cared for us, so it is fitting that we are likewise the ones who will care for you” The young girl spoke in a voice that was quite angelic to him, and he found himself captivated but the spectre. “How are you...what am I seeing?” he stammered. “Your mind is creating us as a result of those pills you took this morning. Your body has shown to be quite strong that you managed to fight it this long, but your body is failing, and it is almost time to rest.” The lovely wife expressed sweetly, and yet the meaning somehow hurt just the same. “You mean I am dying? You mean I will die here?” he questioned, barely audible. “You already have, brother, you already have.” The veteran said has he peered down at the now still body lying upon the plot. He rendered a smart salute and turned to leave. The other apparitions likewise turned and dissolved with the spirit of the lifeless corpse. The editor and reporter had volunteered to help clean the apartment, since the man had no family to speak of. As she cleaned up the paintings and writings, the reporter came across the folder sitting on the desk. She leafed through it quickly, and then called over the editor. He thumbed through the pages, reading the remarkable stories and the well-written opposition to the impending transfer. He knew that he would have to run this in the man’s honor, and so he hurried out of the apartment and back to his office. The small staff of the Courier stood around the grave, and each bowed their heads in respect. No one knew what they could say that could top what the editor had picked for the headstone, which was in no doubt a reference to his ability to save the cemetery posthumously. They filed away silently, never again to return.


We're almost there. We're really almost there. Purple-fuchsia-brown has told us it's time to decelerate the ship and observe our landing spot from orbit. I know there is still much to do before we land, and it will be even longer before we leave the landing spot and make the journey to Earth. But I'm still excited. We are still closer to Earth than any of us have been for 65 million years. *** "Test complete. All systems working." I let out my breath and straighten up. My back is tired from hours spent hunched over the valves, making sure nothing is amiss. But now, we've done it. We've really done it. I look out over the starship and beyond, to the blue sphere of Neptune just above the horizon. It's a familiar sight by now, but it still can be breathtaking. And soon, I'll leave it behind. I'd expected to be ecstatic when the ship was complete, but now my excitement is tinged with more than a little regret. I've already left one planet behind. I'm not sure how I feel about leaving another. *** "Everyone!" Purple-fuchsia-brown lets out a cry. We all turn to look. "There are beings on the landing spot!" "Beings?" Green-yellow-red asks, hurrying over to look at the computer display in front of Purple-fuchsia-brown. "Yes. What will we do?" "If we stay in the alternate dimension, they can't detect us. We will observe them, and then decide." *** Inside the dormitory, the celebration is in full swing. It seems like everyone in Port Triton is crowded into the main hall. People are laughing, crying, and talking everywhere. A few people are making good use of the low gravity and doing arial shows of excitement. I feel my celebratory mood start to rise. I am happy the ship is done, really. This is what I came here for, after all. And once we leave the force field, we can talk to our families. It's high time. I'm just beginning to join in the fun with a few grandiose backflips when Dr. H.C. comes rushing in to the room. Dr. Henson-Campos is the one who discovered the Henson-Campos field that Port Triton is surrounded by, that allows us access into the alternate dimension. Without her, Port Triton wouldn't be here. She's out of breath as if she's been running. I'm instantly curious. "An alien spaceship just landed a few kilometers from base!" *** After we land it does not take long for the beings to appear. There are five of them, riding in a sort of car. I think they are very funny looking creatures. Then I realize they are certainly wearing suits to protect them from the extreme cold. But for all I know they might also look funny under the suits as well. Green-yellow-blue sends them the message. We hope our computer translated it correctly. It is quite good at learning languages, but still imperfect. We watch the beings closely, but we cannot tell how they react. Even if they weren't wearing suits, we would not know their body language. I hope they react well. And not only because that is best for our safety. I have barely even seen them, and already I want to be friends. *** Our captain and a few others head for the ship in one of the rovers. In the main hall, the excitement of finishing the ship is quickly replaced by anxious waiting for some word back. Some people are afraid. Some are excited. For some, the reality of the situation seems not to have quite sunk in. I'm not sure which of these I count as. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Dr. H.C. opens the door. She has a funny look on her face. "They aren't aliens. They're dinosaurs." *** We have told them, the humans, why we are here. That Earth, their planet, was once ours too. That none of us have been back since the asteroid killed all of us except those who had left the planet. That we come back now only to see what has become of it, and if we can learn anything about our ancestors who lived here. That we will not hurt them or interfere with their lives, and want to learn from them what Earth is like now. They said they must think about it, and be careful. I would like to talk to them now, of course, but I understand. We are a surprise. *** I had hoped we would get more news of the astrosaurs, as people are calling them, but after the initial report, things are mostly quiet. A committee of Port Triton's leaders hold meetings to discuss the best course of action, but for the rest of us, business continues as usual. I try to focus on preparing for departure, but it's hard. I don't want to leave without at least seeing them. But eventually, the captain makes an announcement. The committee is convinced enough of the astrosaurs innocuous intentions to let them visit the base. On the day of the visit, most of us wait outside for the astrosaurs arrival. Some people are still suspicious of them, but not enough to deny their curiosity. They first appear as dots on the horizon. As they get closer, it becomes evident they are in small carts of some sort, made of cabs shaped like the bottom half of a cone sitting atop three odd spherical wheels. They don't get out of their carts when they arrive. The carts are not only their transportation, we learn, but also their spacesuits. I feel oddly shy as they travel around our camp, talking to people through their translators. *** I can hardly believe we are really here, in the humans' camp. I am full of curiosity. I see one human standing alone. If I understand correctly which way their suits face, it is watching Purple-fuchsia-brown and the others intently. I'm intrigued. I move closer. *** "Hey." The sudden voice in my short-range channel startles me. I jump a few yards in the air and turn around. Up close, the suited astrosaur is quite noticeably bigger than me. "Hey," I say back shakily, terrified in spite of myself. "You are a mechanic for your ship, correct?" "Yes. How did you know?" I'm just a little freaked out. "Your suit says so. My translating device told me." "Oh." Duh. "I'm a mechanic too." "Really?" I'm not faking my curiosity. Somehow, I hadn't thought of them having different jobs on their ship, but of course they did. "Yes." I'm not sure what to say, but I don't want to lose my chance to have a conversation. "How... how long are you here on Triton?" "As long as you are. We wish to learn from you as long as possible before you leave." "Oh. I see." I have a million questions, but somehow I can't think of anything to say. "May I ask you something?" "Of course." "Why are you leaving?" The question catches me off guard, before I realize it probably isn't for me personally. "We want to see what's out there. Because we're curious. But also to see if we can find another habitable planet, in case we can no longer live on ours." "Like if there's another asteroid?" Right. This really happened to them. "Yes, maybe. But also if we destroy it." "Why would you destroy it?" I don't know how to answer. "How?" That one is easier. "By overheating it. We're releasing gasses into the air that trap the heat in, and make the weather unpredictable. It won't destroy the planet itself, I guess, but it'll make it hard for us to live there." "But if you know that, why don't you stop?" I sigh. "Because we're stupid. And bad at planning for the future. And agreeing on stuff." "Oh." The astrosaur doesn't seem to know what to say. I don't blame it. I change the subject. "What's your name?" "Blue-orange-teal." "Like the colors? "Yes. We talk in colors. But since you don't, you can call me an abbreviation: BOT. But now I see that spells a name for robot. So perhaps that will be too confusing." I smile. "It wouldn't be confusing. Plenty of humans have names that sound like words." "Alright. What is your name?" "Lira." "I see. That doesn't mean anything to my translator." "Oh. I guess it wouldn't." "We have turned my colors into letters. Could we turn your letters into colors?" " "You mean, make a set of colors that my name is an acronym for?" "Yes." "Alright. How about lavender, indigo, red..." I have to think for a moment. "Aubergine." "You will have to describe your last word to me. The translator doesn't know it." "Kind of a dark purple, a little bit grayish maybe?" "Like this?" Bot changes a light on the side of their cart. "Yes," I say. "That's it." "I like talking to you, Lira. Could we be friends?" I'm surprised by how taken aback and happy I am. "Yes. I'd like that." *** Humans do look funny, even without their spacesuits. But I imagine we may look funny to them as well. We have visited them several times outside. But now, we are inside their dormitory for the first time. I am glad they trust us enough to allow us in. It is loud in here. I was not prepared, even though I knew that the human language was auditory. The humans seem more numerous in here then they did outside. I still like them, but they are overwhelming. I hope Lira can find me. I can't find her. *** The astrosaurs look like giant, iridescent golden chickens. That is, if chickens had heads like turtles, color-changing crowns somewhat reminiscent of peacocks', and odd, vaguely fernlike appendages on their sides. I can't decide if they're gorgeous or hilarious. I look around for Bot. The front three stalks on one astrosaur's crown are blue, orange, and turquoise. I hurry over. "Bot!" "Lira! I'm glad to see you!" The stalks on Bot's crown flicker different colors as the words come through my translator. "I'm glad to see you too!" "Your dormitory is loud." I laugh. "Yes. Not always quite this loud, though. Everyone's exited you're here." "I'm exited we're here too!" I smile. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" "Yes. That would be nice." I take Bot back to my room. They have to bend over to fit through the door. "What are these?" Bot gestures to the wall where I keep my photos. "My family and friends back on Earth. And that one is the Earth itself, taken from space." "It's beautiful." Bot turns to me. "Do you miss Earth? And your friends and family?" "Sometimes..." I say. "I mean, yes. I haven't talked to my family in years now, of course I miss them. But..." I hesitate. I haven't said this to anyone, but somehow I trust Bot. "I sometimes feel like I don't miss it as much as I should. And if I'm being honest, I feel almost as bad leaving Triton as I did Earth." "You do?" "Yes. I don't know why. I lived on Earth for thirty years; I've only lived here for two. On Earth I had my whole family to leave behind; here, no one is staying. It's barren and cold, and no one can live here. And yet..." I am fighting back tears. "I love it anyway, Bot. I love Triton. And no one else seems to care about remembering it. I mean, there'll be a perfunctory ceremony on something, I don't know. But... We don't talk about the fact that it's a whole other world we're leaving behind. And once we leave, we can be in communication with Earth. We'll see pictures and videos. But we may never see or hear anything of Triton again." Bot is silent for a moment. Then they speak. "Is my understanding correct that this would be a good time for a hug?" Surprised, I nod, forgetting about the translator. Then I remember. "Yes." Bot envelopes me in a feathery appendage. I can no longer hold back the tears. After a few minutes, I wipe my tears and straighten up. "I'm sorry, Bot. I must be confusing you. I don't know if you even understand these human emotions." "I think I understand some of them. I like this place too." I smile, but I'm also about to cry again. "I'm going to miss you too, Bot. So I will be leaving someone behind." I wipe my eyes and smile. "Your arm is soft. Is it an arm?" "Yes. But our historic scientists think they were wings on our ancestors." "Really?" "Yes. On Earth, we could fly. When we left Earth and went to other planets, the different gravity and atmosphere made it so that we could not, and we gradually lost the ability." Bot extended an appendage and looked at it. " I have always wished it had not been lost. I would like to fly." "Many humans feel the same way, and we never did have wings." *** I see Lavender-Indigo-Red-Aubergine many times as time goes along. S he tells me more about Earth, good things and bad. Some of the bad things are very bad indeed. But if the good things are true, and Lira is anything like the rest of the humans, I think I will like Earth anyway. *** It's time. The starship is up and running. Our things have been packed. The bustle of final preparations is all around. We are five hours from departure. Every step I take feels weighted with the knowledge, yet I keep on with the preparations. Not, however, without glancing frequently at the horizon. At last, some familiar odd carts appear on it. Bot and I walk a bit away from the base, neither of us talking much. I wonder if the same feelings make us both silent. At last, Bot breaks the quiet. "I have something for you." Bot extends their cart's arm. In it is something small and square. "A selfie. I hope I did it right." I look closer. It is an image of Bot and I, both in our spacesuits, standing on Triton's surface with Neptune in the background. I smile, and feel a lump forming in my throat. "Bot, it's a wonderful selfie. When did you take this?" " When we were last walking here. I don't think you noticed." "I didn't. Bot, it's gorgeous! Thank you!" "It's not the same material as your other pictures. Will that be a problem?" "Not at all. I love it just the way it is!" I look at the picture again. "I wish I had something to give you, too! I didn't think to bring a present." "I don't need a present. I just gave this to you to remember Triton by, and me. I have my own copy." Bot holds out another image. " But I would like it if you would autograph it for me." "Autograph? You make me sound famous." "Perhaps the translator chose an odd word. Would you write your name on it for me?" "Of course. But I don't have a pen." "I do. But it's not like the ones you're used to." "That's alright. Let me give it a try." Bot produces a pointed metal cylinder wrapped in a colorful band. "You use these knobs to adjust the color and brightness." After a bit of fiddling, I figure it out. Carefully, I write a lavender L, an indigo I, a red R, and an aubergine A on the back on Bot's picture. We turn and walk back toward the base. "Take care out there," I say. "Say hi to the rest of humanity for me." "I will. You be careful too, Lira." We stop a few meters from the starship. All around us, the bustle of preparation is in full swing. I look at Bot. "I guess it's time for me to go." "Yes. I must go as well." I can feel the lump in my throat get bigger. "I'll miss you, Bot. Thank you... thank you for being my friend." "I will miss you too, Lira. I hope we will talk over the communication channels sometimes." "I hope so too." "Goodbye, Lira." "Goodbye, Bot." I watch as Bot rolls away toward the horizon, where the sun has just begun to rise in the sky. Then I turn around and head for the universe beyond.


See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **11** “Terry.” “Terry.” “You fucked up, Terry.” Pulling his eyes away from the pool of blood forming under Clarence’s body, Terry, who was still sitting on the floor, the gun clutched in his hands, finally looked at Devon’s face on the monitor. “Mr. Champlain. I didn’t hear you call.” “I didn’t call. I didn’t need to. I was just doing that as a courtesy before. The line’s been open the entire time. You should have known that. You know I’ve always been paranoid as fuck.” “I see.” Terry’s eyes returned to Clarence, or what was left of him. “There’s still a way we can work this out, Terry.” His formerly trusty companion slowly shook his head. “No. There’s not.” “What the fuck, Terry?” There was no hiding Devon’s anger now. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? How many lives you’re going to destroy?” Terry turned back to the display, a look of disbelief on his face. “Of course I do, Mr. Champlain. Why else do you think I’d do it?” “But Terry, surely there must be something--” Terry raised his gun and pointed it at the monitor. “Goodbye, Mr. Champlain.” “Terry, wait!” **12** Devon stared at his phone’s blank screen as he spun slowly in place above the king-size bed in the middle of his luxury suite. A moment later, someone knocked on his door. “It’s open.” The door slid to the slide, revealing Darla’s haggard face. She gripped both sides of his doorframe and propelled herself into his room, stopping herself by pressing her hand against the oversized window, which offered a pristine view of Earth and the space beyond, her handprint marring the otherwise perfectly clear glass. She studied Devon’s face. “You don’t look so good.” He glanced up at her. “To be honest, neither do you.” “Asshole.” “Bitch.” He reached up to the ceiling and spun himself, so he could look out the window. A moment later, she drifted over to join him. “I guess we deserve this, huh?” she said, her voice soft as she stared out into space. Devon shook his head slowly, his eyes on the stars. “No, no one deserves this.” \* \* \* **Author's note:** This story started as a screenplay called *TransJack*. It was going to be a futuristic take on the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, where the beanstalk was a space elevator that led to a wealthy orbital community, and Jack was a lowly space elevator operator who had accepted some disfiguring bio-modifications (hence the “trans” part of his name) in order to do his job. Jack’s position makes him a target for terrorists, who want to use his access to the elevator to sabotage the elite orbital world. Jack is torn, because as much as he resents his overlords, he’s fallen in love with the daughter of one of them, who he gets to know during her frequent trips up and down the elevator. One thing leads to another, including a terrible betrayal, and Jack finally finds himself in a situation where he feels he has no choice but to sever the cable that tethers the space elevator to Earth’s equator, sending the elevator, the terrorist leader, and his lover spinning off into space. I thought it was a good story, but when I saw the film *Elysium*, I knew the project was dead. That film had too many of the same elements, from the elite who live in orbit to the criminal element that wants to access the space habitat to the bio-modifications that protagonist Max Da Costa, played by Matt Damon, must accept to pull off the job. However, even though that approach seemed unlikely to sell, I was still fascinated by the concept of space elevators, so I tried to think of another way to approach the story. Inspiration struck at an unlikely time--as it often does. I was teaching a class on screenwriting when I pitched a what-if scenario about a space elevator being hijacked on its maiden voyage with a number of VIPs trapped inside, with the terrorists threatening to sever the cable unless their demands were met. I liked the idea, so from there it was just a question of who does it and why. For reasons best known only to my subconscious mind, I chose to approach the writing of this story similar to how I might write a high-concept/low-budget film with minimal locations and characters. I also attempted to use a spartan writing style reminiscent of Andy Weir’s excellent novel, *The Martian*. Of course, Arthur C. Clarke was also a major inspiration for this book, not only because of Fountains of Paradise but also because he was the author who originally ignited my love for science-fiction. I can only hope that this story is a fitting tribute to him, Andy Weir, Frank Herbert, Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, and the many other sci-fi authors who inspired me over the years. Hopefully it will inspire others as well. Thanks to everyone who has read this story! If you'd like a hard copy of *GEO*, it is available on Amazon.


We were just about to land when suddenly the plane was forced to the ground. The thud of hitting the ground threw my phone out of my lap and into the air. The entire cabin was in chaos until the plane came to a screeching halt. I looked for my phone and found it just underneath my seat. Luckily the screen wasn't cracked at all. The feeling of relief ended when the pilot came over the intercom and told everyone that we would be getting off the airplane here, on the runway. I swallowed my frustration and followed the river of passengers exiting the airplane. I jumped out of the airplane and realized what had happened. In front of the plane, the ground had caved in a hundred feet, no wonder the pilot put the plane on the ground so quickly. I took some pictures of the hole in the Earth with my phone, thankful I didn't end up in it. As I was staring at the hole, my teacher found me and tapped me on the shoulder, ushering me to leave with the our school group. A few hours later, it was starting to get dark, I was playing games on my phone on the bus ride back. I got a breaking news notification, which was odd since I usually didn't have notifications for news. I realized it was probably an article on what had happened at the airport when I landed, so I tapped on it. It wasn't. The first thing I saw on the web page was the photo. The photo was of something in the sky, something big, not human at all. I tapped on the picture and it turned out to be a video. "We are the Seventh Humanity. Your kind is outdated. You will be replaced soon. Do not resist, you will not succeed." The words seemed to come from the massive heap of metal in the sky, just before it released a monsoon of smaller metal objects from it. It took a few seconds for them to be close enough to the camera for me to realize what they were. They were people. They had an orange light on each of their hands, with a larger one on their forehads. They started running from person to person. As soon as they touched someone they would vaporize, instanly. As this happened, the bus turned off of the highway onto a small road in the woods nearby. Our teacher had seen the headlines. "We're taking shelter! If you don't know what's going on, check your phone and then turn it off. We'll probably be here for a while, so save your battery." Some time later, I tried falling asleep despite how hot the bus was. I had just gotten comfortable before I heard a noise outside. I closed my eyes and told myself it was just a squirrel. Moments later, A girl on the bus screamed bloody murder. I opened my eyes and looked up to see three orange lights outside my window.


The Valley of Panark was a beautiful and desolate landscape, a vast desert with a scattered village where many dangers lurked that people couldn't speak of. There were no chances for warnings; sometimes the encounter alone was too late. Many people have vanished without a trace, and for the strangest reason, their families often feared their return, because whatever came back was not what left. And whatever came back, always took someone else with them. The townsfolk called them "Chaqugos," and they could never describe what they looked like, because anyone who saw them ending up becoming one. Except for me. I saw The Chaqugos, and what they did to my family explains everything, but like I said, there were no chances for warnings. I know what they look like, so I'll know if I ever see them again, which I know I eventually will. They never return to finish the job, because they had no job to finish, only the endless spread of their curse. They looked like men, without hair, eyes, ears, noses, or even bones. Their arms and legs were nothing more than the tails of earthworms, constantly squirming and coiling about almost uncontrollably. They travelled by flopping around on the ground like fishes out of water, slithering like sidewinders to prey on any living being they could catch. A single bite will transform you into one of them quickly, the mutation happening within minutes. When my family turned, they all ate each other, like a plate of living spaghetti. I only survived because of Paloma, the mysterious guardian of nature who showed up almost as if she were waiting for them. My life made absolutely no sense until I met Paloma, but as I got to know her, my life began to somehow make even less sense. I assumed Paloma was the same age as I when we met, but her near-infinite wisdom told me that she might have been the same age as time itself. She never spoke more than one sentence at a time, and she always wore a mask that covered her entire face, and put me in the mind of a clock with no numbers or hands. Her mask was round, white, and featureless with the exception of two shiny black half-moon shapes for her eyes. The mask was always attached to a loose black scarf she wrapped around her head tightly like a hood. She always wore a form-fitting black dress that fell to the ground. She also had long, feathered black wings like those of a vulture, resting on her lower back, folded around her hips like part of her skirt. She wore black gauntlets with retractable seven inch claws that sprang from her fingertips. Paloma was all I had growing up from that point, but I've never once seen her face in all the 12 years I've been in her presence. She would always have her back turned to me whenever she pulled off her scarf and mask, revealing long black hair that reminded me of a horse's mane. As children, it never really bothered me for her to hide her face, though I often imagined it to be equally as beautiful as her voice. I grew up with this masked angelic being after my family was slaughtered by creatures of an unknown origin, much like herself. I'll never forget how she protected me from the Chaqugos that attacked my family, and eventually ate himself. It was indeed a horrifying experience, dampened by Paloma's heroic display of power in her defense. She had the forces of the elements on her side, and she used alchemy and ethereal spells to conjure weapons out of nowhere. At first, I thought that i would learn the things I saw her do, but I ended up becoming her apprentice instead. She explained to me that my body had not yet been conditioned for the basics of magic. I had to return to a state of complete harmony with nature, I had to live off the land and understand the hidden laws of the universe before I could bend said laws to my will. We meditated together, and went out to hunt game in the wilderness, which I prepared and served each night. However, we never ate together. We lived in a 40 foot treehouse, with bridges and towers connected to at least two other trees as large as the oak that held the two story cabin. It was the type of large hollow space big enough for her to hide in the shadowy interiors of the short towers built into the house. It was her way of saying "good night." I looked outside one evening, and soon noticed that the dreaded hour was nigh. We were several minutes from a lunar eclipse, and I already started to hear thumps from beneath the floor. It was them. After 12 long years, the nightmares of my past had finally begun to emerge once more. With all the fishing and hunting I did, I should've been trying to learn about the Chaqugos, and how to stop them. Paloma taught me only one spell, but ordered me never to use it without reason. Sure, one could say I knew my way around a spear or a crossbow, but for what purpose other than hunting? I never practiced the spell. I never fought, or had to fight since I was under Paloma's protection. When I told Paloma how I felt, she said, "You are ready, because you can acknowledge that you are not." Before I could ask what that meant, random parts of the floor busted up, and the carnivorous invertabrates sprang through, bigger and more elongated than I remembered. Perhaps they had grown, too. I last remember them being roughly human size, now they looked big enough to swallow a horse whole. Their growls had gotten deeper, too. They sounded like the rumbles of an empty stomach. Paloma and I stood next to each other as the boneless monsters surrounded us. Paloma formed an orb of white light in her hands, and hurled it at The Chaqugos like a small comet in the room, blasting them into frozen chunks across the den. I grabbed a spear off the wall, and pierced one behind me, the blade poking through the top of the head from inside the mouth. As it died with the gurgling squeal of a drowning pig, I jumped over it on my way to kill another. With a spin and upward swipe, I split the creature's head in half vertically. Suddenly, it regenerated into having two heads as it lunged toward me. I dropped the weapon, and rolled out of the way, reaching for a sword from the nearest wall. Paloma shot another icy blast at the two-headed wormlike monster between us, but it ducked. It slapped her with all its might, and she flew back into a china cabinet, smashing it on impact. Her mask flew off along with her scarf, but her face was hidden by all that long, flowing hair. I held my blade in the fireplace long enough for it to glow with searing heat, then I swung the nearly molten blade wildly, hacking them to pieces as they dared come near my Paloma. After killing three of them, ten more showed up in their place. I grabbed a huge brass shield from over the mantle, and rushed through the horde on the way to Paloma, who was still unconscious. Although I slashed away at every snaky limb that reached for us, my burning sword alone wasn't going to be enough. I was grabbed by the two-headed abomination, who I had just realized hadn't been killed yet. To my left, I saw Paloma stand up, hunched over, hair draped over her face like curtains. "Paloma," I shouted, "Help!" When she realized that she was unmasked, she buried her face in her hands, and ran for the stairs. Before the creature could get me into either of its two mouths, I came up with the quick idea to use the one spell Paloma taught me, with no regard to what that magic would cost. I picked up a frozen chunk of dead Chaqugos flesh, and threw it into the fire as I shouted, "Eniyan Ina Zolosish!" The fire place exploded with a change of color from orange to blue, fire to lightning. The ashes quickly swirled up into a trio of glowing skeletons that ran out in all directions, incinerating the creatures by running past them like oversized fireflies in a jar. Paloma was attacked by a Chaqugos that caught her by surprise by popping up in the middle of the staircase, knocking her down the first flight. Two of the sprinting, burning skeletons grabbed me by the arms, freeing me from the clutches of the two-headed creature, and hurling me at the one on the staircase as if I were a javelin. On impact, I kicked it right back into the hole it emerged from. I almost fell in with it, until the speeding skeletons caught me and rushed us out of there, Paloma in tow. There were too many of them to continue fighting, I just looked at the burning house with giant wormtails flailing about from the windows. I looked up at the cloudy sky, and noticed that the eclipse was almost full. When I looked back down, I finally looked upon Paloma into her own eyes, realizing that she had dealt with a curse of her own all this time. She had the face of a spotted owl, darkened patterns around her large, sparkly purple eyes that resembled runny makeup, and a small, shiny black beak that almost resembled lips from certain angles. She was still beautiful in a strange way. Though I didn't mean to, I jumped back in shock at the very sight of her, with no mental preparation for her sudden reveal. "I know," Paloma sobbed as her wide eyes began to well up with tears, "I'm not pretty!" Before I could say anything, she squatted down with her wings extended, and rocketed straight upward with a powerful flap of her wings. The tremendous force of her takeoff knocked me off my feet, and when looked up, there was no hint of a winged figure seen anywhere on the blackened horizon. I stood up, and called for the Eniyans to report to me. The three skeletons engulfed in flames then surrounded me in a triangle formation in the blink of an eye, standing perfectly still and awaiting my command. They became my only source of light in the woods as the eclipse was now complete, plunging the world into utter darkness. The Eniyan Zolo in front of me stepped forward, and handed me Paloma's mask, which miraculously did not burn. The fire of the Eniyan Zolosish was harmless to the touch, and could only burn and spread by conscious choice. I looked at the mask, remembering all the memories I created with her, cut short only because i saw her face. I felt awful about my subconscious reaction; she appeared so ashamed. No wonder she hid herself from me the way she did. From that moment forward, I decided to start answering the many questions that surrounded the mysteries of Panark. I wanted to know what happened to Paloma, and what made her that way, if she didn't always look like that before. Who knows, maybe it wasn't a curse, maybe that was how she actually looked. It was easier to believe that she was never human to begin a. I held up Paloma's mask, and confidently declared that we were to go find her. They nodded silently, and and we began the search for the wise owl who got lost in the world of endless night, surrounded by thunderous rumbles and moving shadows throughout the woods... This adventure will continue, as I am currently working on part 2. Thank you for reading.