She had done it a thousand times, a thousand for sure. she did it every time her parents were very busy at work, every time she missed her, every time at celebrations and festivals. She had always loved to go there and cried a lot of times too, to stay there for more time. Here was she sitting in the back seat of the car, her mother on driver's and father next to her mum, doing the same thing, going to her maternal grandparent's home once again. "When will we reach there?" She asked her face gloomy and voice shaky with the tears she was holding back. "and for how long to we will have to stay there?" It was not often that this girl cried, for she was too bold to cry she thought... but today was different, a lot different. "I think it'll be three or four hours at least" said her father whom she called daddy. Soon they reached the house. She met her grandpa who lived on the ground floor, talked to him for a while not even once smiling unlike she'd done on all other trips she remembered from eternity. She climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Checking all the rooms, she couldn't hold her tears back so she ran to the restroom. looking in the mirror began to sob like a poor little baby starved for a thousand days. It was true, her grandma was gone for sure. She rested in peace everyone had told her in the recent days that had gone by, although fifteen she hadn't believed then a bit. No she wasn't mentally unfit but losing someone she had loved like her own life, known since she was born, for she was the first one to hold her, was gone now forever never to meet again. All of it on her birthday. It was true, she had lost her grandma on the day she got her and this burned down a hole in her heart. the restroom was miserable, with all her grandma's things still intact, the shampoo she used lay there on the shelf, still there but she was gone. She knows she would meet her again but what pains her the most is that she doesn't know when and that that her sixty year old grandma far from any illness died in a pandemic the COVID 19 pandemic and though she caught the infection from her grandma when they last met, she couldn't go to see her in her last days. She was still crying when suddenly came a knock at the door "Hey love what are you doing in the restroom since so long?" It was her mother. "come out we need to tell you something important." "Coming." Said her while wiping her face. She reached the lobby where all were sitting and silently sat on a chair with her face down in order to hide her bloodshot eyes. "Love, you're gonna be a sister" said her mum "what??" reflexed the poor girl looking straight up to her mum. "Its a girl due on 18 Feb.." Declared her father proudly. And yes, that was very straight nine months from when her grandma had died and very much on grandma's birthday indeed. The months passed with a lot of cries for the poor girl for she loved her grandma too much to be happy for a still unknown girl and the day came at last when the nurse at last gave a happy cry, "It's a beautiful girl". The newborn girl had the same blonde hair the poor girl's grandma had unlike her and her mother's and all family to take account of she took hold of the girl, her very own sister who was born on the exact same date that the woman she loved the most, her grandma had been born, promising to God that she would make the little girl as generous and lovely and loving as her grandma was. And so the tale continues but with a little change, the poor girl is no more poor and miserable but as happy as her grandma had loved to see her. G.H. Dumont


...the small town murders that never took place Karaoke Killings The scene opens with a mist over the harbour in the early hours of the morning. A homeless man, hoping to find refuge, lifts his head as he hears the sound of a ‘plop’ in the water, and says, “Man, I hate cops”. There was much commotion earlier, and the police had already been by. There is no jail in this small town, and the cops do their own thing, primarily putting drunk and disorderly, the homeless, or even mental patients in nearby hotels. It makes the innkeepers the jailers, and they are paid by the City for their room as there is no other alternative. That is for the first few offences; the next once are far more macabre option for justice. The homeless man knows that there will be a very distinct, foul odor at the rendering plant. These crimes are covered well, and no one ever wonders what happens to the transient people that are dumped here from neighboring towns. No, he is better off not questioning and remaining hidden in the make-shift camp he has in the bushes by the sea... Henry is an amiable sort. He and his wife Evelyn came to live in the small town, with only childhood memories of its charm. Beautiful Victorian mansions, a thriving art and maritime community and the sea makes it ideal for retirees or transplant people that want a change of scenery. Henry works in one of the local inns as a front desk manager, although his education could afford him much better. He is used to such temporary tenants in his hotel; the young woman Melissa with the Harry Potter scar who steals and screams obscenities as the drums in her head drive her schizophrenic brain; the homeless that have no place to go, the non-locals that commit small crimes...yes, they are booked in, not booked, at one of the fort less expensive hotels. That is a loose term; the whole town is expensive, but these would be budget hotels anywhere else. It just so happens that Henry had this particular rabble-rouser in his hotel the night before. This having nowhere to go theme runs rampant, and Henry has to accommodate those paying top-dollar, along with the Melissa’s of the world; stealing sandwiches and trinkets from local shops that she hoards in her room. Her number will come up eventually...but right now it is this chap that started a fight locally that was taken to his inn. The guy started yelling in the middle of the night, upsetting the paid customers, so Henry called the cops again. One older cop got out of his vehicle, and for some reason, tripped and fell straight down in the parking lot; you would think by now he would know it as well as his own backyard. Bleeding and in pain, he was screaming as loud as the noise complaint, so that night the cop was not in a mood to negotiate. The young man, who went by Talbot, although we don’t know if that was a first, last or pseudonym, was causing a ruckus. Henry was on night duty, as usual, that his wife begrudgingly was used to by now but hated going to bed alone and leaving the light on. So, on this night, the commotion started again, and Talbot was removed, saying he knew someone in a boat, and would the cops take him to the harbor. They did, it seemed reasonable...although he was to be left there, and never seen again... The town was small, with not that much to do in the off-season. A few bars and restaurants stayed open, but not much to do for entertainment. Evelyn, a Southern belle-type beauty, loved to sing, so she and Henry went to karaoke as often as his schedule would allow. What they didn’t know is the seedy underbelly of the town, how money was made, and why there was that terrific stench at the rendering plant which inevitably got worse on Sundays after the weekends out. A strange character known only as the Professor liked to hang out there. Skinny and wily, he was always surrounded by a team of mooks; muscle men that appeared to be hangers on but clearly where bodyguards of some type. The professor wasn’t like the other patrons; he didn’t sing, he didn’t like beer or honky-tonk music but considered himself an English gentleman. Ironic, because he looked more like Mr Burns of The Simpsons fame. No, he had a special seat always reserved, his favorite muscleman Rick made sure it was available, so he sipped his whiskey and water and simply took in, with great disdain, the audience. He thought them all too far beneath him. But, there was a more cynical reason he liked to people watch, particularly the young transient people who came to the town to busk...no one would miss them if they were gone, right? A rare exception was Evelyn; he found her charms and talents exceptional. She dressed like a Lady, sang like a bird, and had polished manners for this hick town. No, she was a rare bird indeed. If it weren’t for that husband of hers, he would have her as a bride. Now, if only he could get Henry drunk enough and have Rick ‘accidentally’ trip him down the three flights of stairs it took to find entertainment in this town...oh well, another day. The town itself had a history of booms and busts over the past hundred-odd years. There was no real viable industry, and the rendering plant, which made paper products, was often closed. No, this was a place hippies young and old went to do their art and music and old wealthy baby boomers went to retire. It wasn’t the kind of place you went and found a job! That’s why Henry was happy to find the one for minimum wage at the dive motel. Heck, he got it carrying a mannequin to help his wife set up a fancy shop, so that didn’t deter the owners; they were so glad to get good help. No, the real economy was something else...something illegal. Neighboring village-like towns didn’t allow transients. They didn’t want buskers, had signs that if you had a backpack to just keep on passing by. They even took busloads of homeless people and dumped them off here, in the beautiful town by the sea. The tourists didn’t mind, they liked the music on street corners, so it seemed a win-win. A lot of these people, mostly kids that had a falling out at home, didn’t have any more ties than the ones on their shoelaces, if they even had those. No, it was urban legend to come here and make enough money for pot and beer, so come they did. What they didn’t know is how truly dangerous this idyllic setting was... The Professor was at the head of it. The police were in on it, neighboring towns got a cut of it for bringing transient people there, and the town commissioners knew all about it. What sinister way to make money was that the Professor, from his perch in the bar, was scouting illegal organ donors. The younger, the more organic food-fed, the more talented, the better. The bar was in on it as well, once given the signal, doctoring the drinks of the homeless musicians after they did their karaoke renditions of House of the Rising Sun. There is no evidence as it is all covered up by these townsfolk who really don’t care how the town gets revenue, as long as they can do their own thing. Just like Talbot, who got drunk and loud, they too would be sent to check in at the inn, but never really check out....A discovery that Henry and Evelyn would find out the hard way as the Professors ardor for her would let his guard down as he tried to make her his Queen of the small town.


I am writing this in a state of fear, the kind that comes with the express knowledge that something is coming for you, and the only thing standing between you and the end was your own obsessive curiosity. My phone was lost in the abyss of unknown horrors that could've been avoided had I just shown up during office hours. Professor Liam Lasky was an English Professor at Dunsmuir University. He was perfect. I know that this will initially come off as a school girl with a crush, and maybe there is some truth to that, but my mind races with what I know which stands directly against what I knew, and my head is having trouble coming to an appropriate conclusion. Professor Lasky was handsome, middle aged, confident, smart, oozing with charisma, appreciative of those who participated, and constantly pushed all of his students to be better versions of themselves, whether English was at the forefront of conversation of lecture or not. He made me feel like the best version of myself. I never fashioned myself one of those clichés where the school girl would lean forward on her desk and become captivated and inebriated on every word that would escape a professor's lips. However, my mind would run, and I would imagine going into his office at night, and having a thorough conversation about the degeneration of the modern English language, and maybe I would feel my cheeks flush more intensely than they do at the the mere idea of that concept. One night, tonight, on November 2 nd of two thousand and twenty three, I decided to act on that concept, make it a reality. I came to his office after hours, like some kind of lustful harlot wanting to seduce the professor in a scenario that the boys playing college football masturbate to every night before bed. Yes, I dolled myself up, and made myself presentable, straightening out my black hair, blushing up my cheeks, wearing a skirt, and a simple but ample top. In my self reasoning it was not to come off as some creature of the night coming to frighten Professor Lasky. I came to his door and knocked, I could see through the obscured glass window there was a lamp on inside. After no answer, I proceeded to let myself in, continuing the aforementioned football player analogy. And just like that scenario I called out, “Professor Lasky, are you here?” as if I would see him behind his desk, touching himself to some lewd video playing from the University's computer. Instead I saw the cold blue glow from the computer monitor, and one lone lamp on. I walked around to see if there were any clues as to his whereabouts, for all I knew at the time he could have just gone to the bathroom. My own inquisitive nature got the best of me, and I saw that the computer did have a document open. I looked around and sat in the chair, the same chair I am sitting in now, furiously typing away in an empty document. Before me was a Student roster that had links to previous assignments and comments for each student. Of course I looked for my own, and even now I find myself pulling up that tab reassuring myself that this is some kind of ill-conceived nightmare, but the sound of sludge dilutes my mind. I fear what I saw makes my mind grow and stew in it's own paranoia. Looking at my dear Professor's notes on me hardly seemed to make any reasonable sense, the letters blend and blur into nothing. However at the time, the comments sent my heart a flutter. “Top Student” and “Need to keep my eye on her to cultivate and help her advancement.” Those words alone were an aphrodisiac to all of my senses. My hands ached and traced his desk in excitement, and my fingers grazed by a button that seemed so easy to push into place. It was loose, begging to be touched, and so I put more pressure onto it, and I felt a slight wind behind me, as a stone wall opened inward. My excitement could not have been more palpable. It felt like an invitation, something for his top student to find, like he set this whole thing up. I immediately sprang to my feet, and pulled my cell phone out, using it's built in flash light to shoo away the darkness. I looked for a light switch only to find nothing but cold stone. Thinking perhaps I was to surprise him in return, I just lead myself by the light of modern society. Every step down, the echo of my shoe clicked louder and louder. I tried to slow my descent, but my excitement kept pulling me forward. The same elation made me ignore the sharp clenching of my gut, telling me the logical truth which was “something is wrong.” I finally came to the bottom, and still, there were no lights. I found that odd as I was sure Professor Lasky had to be down here. My phone's torch glided a blue glow across the stonework. University of Dunsmuir already had an old Victorian architecture to it, but down here the architecture became more Gothic as before me lay a ribbed vault. To the left was a short hallway that ended in a simple door. Clearly that must lead to a simple maintenance shed that would be as inconsequential as the ribbed vault before me. I walked forward, taking only a few momentary steps before I heard something drop and clamber throughout the hall. It sounded like a metal utensil bouncing across a stone ground. Finally I felt I had some confirmation that Professor Lasky was down here. I pushed my legs forward to match the fervor in my mind. I got to the wood door that was laden with iron bands, and without thinking I pushed it open. Stupid, dumb, Olivia. I heard gnashing in the dark room, and the sound of sludge. Instantly I felt my breath become lighter on my own volition, and cold by whatever was in this room. I instantly thought Mold, so I turned my lantern around the room to see evidence of the fungal growth, but the divination of my light showed me something I am afraid I can never forget. There was the jolt of electricity up my spine, that reverberated through my body and it made it hard to move any appendage or even have the mental fortitude to command my body to do anything other than stare in fear. My phone dropped onto the ground, the light shining upwards and giving a general illumination to a creature I wish I did not see. It slowly grubbed across the ground with a massive slimy mound not propelled by legs, its body arching up with harsh ridges where one would reason ribs and a spine. Hanging low beneath shoulder blades was an enlarged head with black, sunken eyes, a withered mouth, and long greasy white hair. It's head turned to me, revealing no eyes, just the sunken abysses, and no nose but slits that were large with hairy filaments coming from within. The creature lifted it's head with great weight above it's shoulders to sniff the air, and coo out what sounded like a bird call mixed with the purring of a cat. Two completely innocent noises that combined into a horrific etching into my mind. I could smell rotted meat mixed with a pungent damp odor coming from the creature's mouth, as it's head dipped closer to the light I could see large pieces of flesh in it's teeth, rotting away inside. I backed away, horrified, and with every step, the creature slugged forward, using its long skeletal arms to help propel it forward, it's nose constantly sniffing to keep a bead on me. It dropped a human arm that had long been stripped of any decent flesh next to my phone. I let out an audible yelp which I thought for sure would doom me. “Olivia?” I heard from my right, as a light came through another doorway I previously did not see. Professor Lasky came out of the darkness with an actual lantern. Electric or gas I can't recall for the ghastly image slowly positioning itself in front of me was all my mind and eyes could focus on after a quick glance to see the man I so admired and respected coming to my rescue. “Help. Me.” I tried to quietly, and confidently assert. “How did you get down here? Why are you here?” “I just wanted to talk about my advancement.” I gave a half truth. Maybe if I had given him and myself the full truth the situation would have played out differently. Professor Lasky stepped towards me, concern covering his every feature. His head tilted as he looked off to the side, and then his eyes traced up towards the creature. “Just my luck.” he said, as hope rose in my chest. “I couldn't find anything to feed you, but seems like it just wandered in, blessing us.” Just as quickly as my hope rose, my heart sank deep into my chest. “Feast.” Professor Lasky uttered under his breath. Without hesitation I heard the creaking of bones as the creature, who was poised to strike, leapt towards me, wailing an inhuman scream that was meant to paralyze me with fear. It reverberated through the room and the very core of my bones with a deep baseline, with what sounded like a high pitched wail being inhaled. Thankfully instinct was on my side as I ducked off to the side, slamming into Professor Lasky. He fell with me, his lantern bouncing and breaking on the ground. With only my phone's light laid bare on the ground to guide me, I used Professor Lasky's body to launch myself to my feet and charge for the door. I immediately got out and pulled the door shut, falling onto my rear as the door shuddered under the massive weight of the creature in the room. For a moment, I prayed it would eat Professor Lasky instead. Not wanting to waste any more time, I leapt to my feet and ran through the Ribbed Vault, turning right into the simple door that I had previously seen and left unexplored. I wish I had left it that way, as I opened the door to more horrors. Bodies were stacked upon bodies, flesh stripped from the face and limbs, the torsos of people torn completely open and surgically sucked of their insides. I screamed, and when I did I heard that inhuman wail again. Returning to the intersection I saw the creature had burst through the doors. It's eyeless form searched the vault. Overwhelmed by the horrific sights of the room behind me, the terror of the creature that did this, and nauseated by the creature that I once knew that stood behind the creeping terror, I screamed. It's head swung like a mighty pendulum towards my direction, as it's skeletal arms began hoisting it's arthropod-like body forward. All my mind could process was the sludge like noise scraping across the ground. Thankfully, in the last few moments I was able to compose myself and run towards the steep staircase that lead back to the University. My feet pounded up every step, the darkness shrouding my vision, and the sludge assailing my auditory senses. I eventually saw the warm blue glow of the computer monitor. I leapt forward, and reached under the desk, slamming the button, the mysterious stone door sliding shut. For a few moments I sat, crying, waiting to hear the creature slam itself into the wall to remind me of it's very real presence. Eventually I forced myself up, and sat in the chair, opened a blank document, and began writing my experience. Why didn't I, or haven't I left? Because part of me feels like going back down to find Professor Lasky. There is now a pounding at the door. I can feel the tears pouring from my face as I try to type out my final words, fear guiding every key stroke. The sludge hasn't left my mind. It pounds again. Perhaps Professor Lasky is under this creature's control. The wail! That horrible, gut wrenching wail! Any person with logic would've left, but my mind is weighed by guilt that if I don't muster up the courage, then Professor Lasky will be lost! I can still hear the loud sludge scraping against ground. Maybe I can save him. Grammar is a bit frazzled, and odd details were added that took away from the whole experience. Interesting blurb about your attraction to me.


As the TV at the bar flickered everyone looked at it in shock. “This horrendous” the lady in the TV sayed. “How can a man, who was described by his family as loving and thoughtful, be made to do something like that?” I took the last sip of my beer and made myself with a smile on my face towards the door. “Another win for me” I thought as Something in the corner of my eye took my attention. I would almost call it a super power, but for the time being I am only a human. It was a young man, at most twenty years old. He was alone and mumbling to himself. I made my way through the crowd to come out right behind him. “Hello young man” He was startled. “H-Hello” “How are you on this fine day?” “I don't think I should talk to someone I just met.” Then let's change that. I am Selcuk. Damian Selcuk, but you can just call me Damian.” "It's nice to meet you Damian. I'm Sam. " I could see the change in his eyes. That is a good sign, at least for me. For everyone else? Worthy of discussion. “So, Sam." I clicked my tongue. “Is there something that distresses you?” Ahhh my catchphrase, every time I say it a cold chill runs down my spine. I could see how his gloominess started to appear above him. "It's just... today 11 years ago my dad died and my Mother just does not care. She only cares for her new husband and they're twins. It's like she completely forgot about my dad.” Glorious success. A big smirk appeared on my face. We talked for a long time. It was a back and forth until I got him to the point I wanted. Then I heard him say it. “I really loved my dad, I just can't understand how she can replace him and, and me too.” He started to cry “I just cant I hate them, those two, no all of them. They should suffer as I have.” I could hear his teeth grinding and muscles stiffening. Yes, Sam embraces the anger and use it. “They should perish for what they've done to you. Don't you think? “Yes they should. But how?” His eyes lit up. “The twins” Ah he is so far i don't even need to help. Perfect. “Thank you so much Damian.” I smiled. “No, I have to thank you. I think you know what you have to do?” “Yes I do. I hope to see you again soon.” As he was walking away I whispered to myself. “I doubt It” In the door Sam bumped into a police officer. "Oh, sorry Officer.” “don't mind it.” She was searching the room as her eyes matched mine, her expression became more serious. She took the place Sam was sitting in just a moment ago. “Hello Mister...” she was looking at her notes. “Selcuk” “Please call me Damian.” “Alright Damian we are investigating the recent spike in crimes Involving Intense violence and deaths. To our surprise every suspect had talked to you at least a week before the act. Do you know something about it?” I put down my Jug of beer. “Listen Officer, I am no monster. I just talk to a lot of people. I just talked for hours to the boy that bumped into you at the door. Also do I really look like someone who is a criminal mastermind?” Her intensity subsided. “I'm sorry I guess you're right. I will take my leave now " "I grabbed her arm “Officer is there something that distresses you?” A frown on her face appeared. “It's just, my wife” I smudged and thought “Jackpot.” A few days later I found myself at the same spot. The TV flickered again “The young man was arrested. But the twins are still in critical condition. But the real question is how could a man do this to his own family” Good job Sam, really good job. A hand appeared on my shoulder “excuse me Mister.” I turned around and there was a police officer. “I'm not trying to pronounce that. I have a few questions for you.” He looked annoyed and seemed to have no desire to be here. “Of course officer, take a seat.” “I just need to finish the investigation from an officer who recently went on a rampage. It won't take long.” I smiled on the inside. "Of course but at first. Is there something that distresses you? I love this life.


When it snows in the desert, time ceases. A landscape always so stark with lonely cacti and red dirt becomes bleak with a thin coat of white paint. The desolation of the desert is restless. Towering rock formations--nearby but somehow always out of reach--inspire dreams of mystery and nomads and the incessant journey for shelter. The barrenness of the desert in the snow is silent. Evidence that nothing ever moves here becomes worrisome, and painful. Delilah hates the snow the way she hates curling iron burns and the cold, silky feeling of her grandmother’s wrinkled hands. It’s tolerable, but barely; frustrating, nervous, and the source of a unique sense of in-betweenness. The curling iron hits her forehead between getting ready and being ready, her grandmother’s hands between vivacious youth and the cold unknown. Liminal spaces where sameness rules but everything feels so uncomfortable. Deserts are liminal too, but in a way that makes Delilah calm. She can control her life here; it’s hot and dry, but everything else is whatever she makes of it. Now, Delilah is trying to make gingerbread cookies out of her busy, antsy snow anxiety. Katherine down the street--Dale’s second wife, fixated on her perfect family and her nuclear happy ending--is throwing a holiday cookie exchange. Delilah doesn’t care much for Katherine, but she does care for a distraction. Though her late RSVP will rile up the neighborhood, she hopes her cookies will make up for it. Thus far, success in that department is doubtful. Delilah runs her finger down the list of ingredients again. Egg, butter, flour, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, molasses, ginger-- what could she possibly be missing? She lets out a bitter laugh when it hits her--the sugar. Such a simple oversight of the most important part of any cookie, its sweetness. Delilah reckons a metaphor could be drawn between her sugarless cookies and her sour mood, but she pulls the pink sugar bag down from the top shelf of the cabinet before she can dwell on the comparison. Before long, she’s done it. Delilah shakes her head as she pulls the pan out of the oven. Funny how remembering all the ingredients makes cooking so much easier. Delilah pulls her hand out of a red oven mitt and reaches to inspect one of the gingerbread men but cries out and shrinks back from the heat. She brings her burnt finger to her mouth and sucks on it a moment, a habit she’s never been able to break, even after she discovered aloe. Looking from afar, Delilah’s gingerbread cookies are perfect. Crisp, warm brown, cleans edges. Once they’ve had a few minutes to cool she makes quick work of decorating, squeezing red, white, and green frosting from bags and making a mess of sprinkles on the counter. Despite the debris, the gingerbread men turn out just as well as she hoped. Sprinkle buttons and frosting smiley faces stare up at her as if they’re grateful for her handiwork. Delilah looks out the window at the white scenery. She shivers, more from a strange sense of sickness than from a chill, and tucks a russet curl behind her ear. The air on Katherine’s front step feels colder than the air that berated Delilah when the left the warmth of her car. Her home is the most well-lit on the street, with ice sickle lights hanging from every eve and a rainbow of bulbs covering every piece of trim. Even every tree on the property is wrapped in tinsel Christmas lights, even though most of them are small and shrub-like. Delilah rings the doorbell. She shifts on her feet as she waits, trying to shake the feeling of being watched from behind. A minute passes. Then five. When Katherine finally opens the door, Delilah is shaking. Katherine smiles, a show of friendliness that feels oversized and plastic. Her blue gaze analyzes Delilah up and down, pausing on her skirt, but finally settling for direct eye contact. “Oh, Delilah, you look darling! Like a desert rose, brightening up this storm.” Delilah starts. Surely this is only and turn of phrase? The gleam Katherine’s her eye makes Delilah shiver. “Thank you,” Delilah manages, “You know I got this skirt on sale.” Katherine laughs, hollow and a little too loud. “I know a fellow bargain hunter when I see one! It’s just darling.” Delilah pauses, uncertain before crossing the threshold. Katherine stands directly between the Delilah and the party, like pearl-clad gatekeeper. She lifts her plate a tad higher, emphasizing the cookies in her hands. “Oh, I’ll take those!” Katherine snatches the plate of cookies from Delilah’s hands. She inspects them for a moment. “Gingerbread men! How quaint.” Delilah holds back a grimace. She follows Katherine inside, shrugging off her jacket and hitching it on the coat hanger--also wrapped in Christmas lights. Mingling isn’t Delilah’s forte, and she knows it. She wanders the room, standing between points of warm conversation, laughter, and mirth as if she is an asteroid stuck in orbit between stars. Liminal and in between again. She moves around, to avoid feeling stuck, but worries her unsettled pace draws too much attention. Delilah jumps when Katherine’s voice whispers in her ear. “I know your secret.” Delilah swallows hard. She turns around. The shimmer in Katherine’s eyes seems brighter somehow. Delilah’s palms begin to sweat. No one here knew about what had happened in Minneapolis. There was a reason she’d chosen a tiny New Mexico suburb when she’d been displaced. Delilah plays it cool. “Oh, do you?” she teases Katherine. “I hoped no one could tell I almost forgot the sugar in those cookies, but you have an eye for everything, don’t you Katherine?” Katherine narrows her eyes, vengeful and suspicious. “You’re a liar!” she shrieks. Delilah’s heart pounds and the floor bends. The deluge of panic and terror is sudden, piling over her like an avalanche. Dale, tall, lean, and clean shaven, drops a plate of sugar cookies, and after the shatter the parlor is motionless and silent. It reminds Delilah of the snow outside, and she knows she is on the precipice of “in between” and “arrived.” Delilah clenches her teeth. “You don’t know what happened in Minneapolis, you don’t understand what I had to do--,” Katherine interrupts her, tears welling in her eyes. The vein in her neck bulges. The ball of mistletoe hanging above them swings languidly back and forth. “You’re sleeping with my Dale! You’re probably sleeping around with all these men! Ruining the good ones and hurting innocent women.” Delilah blinks. She isn’t fooling around with Dale, and she’d never try. She prefers the limits of friendly conversation with her neighbors, hesitant to get involved in any of their dramatic lives. Her heart drops into a pool of pity. She doesn’t doubt Dale is cheating with someone, and Katherine is lashing out at the only person on the block who isn’t married. “Katherine, I’m not sleeping with your husband!” she exclaims. “Then who is?” Katherine demands, eyes wild, “Then what’s this about Minneapolis? Did you sleep around with someone there, too?” Dale clears his throat. “Katherine, sweetheart...” “Don’t sweetheart me! You know full well the entire reason we’re throwing this goddamn cookie exchange is so that I can get my justice! So that I can save this marriage!” Delilah shifts on her feet, unsure of how to placate Katherine. The last time she had to prove her innocence, she moved across the country. “It’s not Delilah, Katherine,” Dale rumbles. Katherine whips around, focusing her attention on the tall buzzcut that has dared to cross her. “You said it was Delilah!” “I lied,” Dale retorts. “It’s...it’s Cindy.” Katherine screams, guttural and agonized. Cindy, Katherine’s best friend. The godmother to her children. Delilah wants to act on her sympathy, but the confrontation has left her dizzy, shaky, and unstable. The panic is stronger. She needs to leave. Now. As Katherine sobs and beats her closed fists on the cookie table, sending crumbs and chunks of frosting flying, Delilah bolts for the door. Cindy calls after her. “Delilah, wait, this is all my fault!” But Delilah is already outside, the door slammed behind her. She runs until she reaches her car, then leans against the passenger side. Her breathing is heavy. The cold of the snowy air is refreshing. She shakes her head, rubs her eyes, and tries not to think of her old life--when she was Rose, from Minneapolis. When her husband was a little too controlling and a little too violent. When, the day of the biggest snowstorm of the year, she shot him. It had been self-defense. She knew it. The judge knew it. The jury knew it. The neighbors knew it. But a fresh start had seemed like the only option. A little town just outside of Santa Fe? Where it’s quiet, the neighbors are friendly, and it never snows? Perfect. Now, under the oppressive glow of the Christmas lights, with ice crunching under her feet, Delilah realizes that no matter how far she runs or how warm it gets, she will never escape the snow or the past.


Every night is dull, but this night is particularly bleak for Teo. Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers, a day for friends, a day on which he has neither. He sits alone in his quiet apartment, the pipes rattling as somewhere, someone takes a shower before going on a date. Teo imagines it; there would be candles, roses, smiles, and warm hearts. There would be a joy he hasn’t known for years, and a connection that aches to his soul. It is 7pm and Teo finishes a measly dinner which has gone cold as he laments his isolation. Lying in bed, he fantasises about the warm touch of another man, strong hands gripping his waist, soft lips brushing his face. He blushes in the dark at such a ridiculous thought, skin tingling and a heat between his legs. He rolls over to face the mirror reflecting the bed frame and the darkness that lies below it; the monster who resides there shifts slightly, uncomfortable at being perceived. Teo laughs to himself, a ridiculous idea forming in his head. “Monster under the bed,” he murmurs, “will you... be my valentine?”. The darkness shifts again, nervously. Silence. It was a silly idea anyway, Teo thinks. He rolls onto his back and sighs. A faint sound reaches his ears. “Really?” the darkness whispers. Now he sits up, Teo was not expecting a response. “Well... yes, I guess”, fumbling for words, “we could... have dinner?”. Teo feels a rush of excitement, a strange excitement, but excitement nonetheless. Teo sets the table, this time for two. He has only two chairs but that will be enough. He wonders if the monster likes wine. He may as well pour two glasses. Then Teo gathers the odd socks from atop the dryer and arranges them on a plate as delicately as he can muster. He rips out a few pages of his dream diary and sets them aside the plate. Will the darkness need a knife and fork? Teo is unsure so lays cutlery for the monster anyway. He only has one candle, but it will do. “Dinner is ready,” Teo says, speaking as confidently as he can, “please, have a seat”. Ever so slowly, the monster seeps out from beneath the bed, across the floor, and glides into the chair. Teo cannot see a face on the monster, just a swirling mass of darkness, but also, something else. There is an electric energy in the room. Teo and the darkness sit across from one another, alone together in the small apartment. Teo makes a toast to Valentine’s Day and they both sip the rich red wine from cheap plastic glasses. With full bellies of socks and steak alike, the two wobble with wine-laced steps to the bedroom. “Thank you,” whispers the darkness, “no one has ever asked me to dinner before”. The monster’s lonely existence has been brightened, if only for a night. “Thank you for being my Valentine,” Teo smiles, “I had a really nice time”. The darkness slides back under the bed, vibrating with an energy it has never felt. Happiness? Similarly, Teo climbs into his sheets, feeling full and relaxed. Another idea. “Would you like to sleep up here tonight?”, emboldened by the wine, “there’s quite enough room”. Hesitant at first, the darkness isn’t forthcoming. It can sense that Teo’s question is genuine, though, and slowly climbs up onto the bed and tucks beneath the sheets. Together they lie like teenagers at a sleep over, talking much about nothing and enjoying every moment. There is a warmth surrounding Teo and the darkness and they both feel at peace. “Goodnight”, says Teo. “Sleep tight”, whispers the darkness.


Hi R/shortstories this is my first post on this sub and really my first endeavor on showing anyone my writing. I hope you all like it - attempting to put my creativity into something more concrete. Raucous laughter filled the tavern where oil lamps illuminated the musky inside. Folks from all across the township were lounging and talking - a palpable excitement filled the space and the smell of beer and roasting pork wafted through the air as hoarse voices collided in a cacophony of sound. “They're disgusting is what they are.” “Ray!” Ben’s voice hissed, “Shhh! Don't say things like that! They might hear you!” “I don’t care, he’s the worst.” Ray pulled away from Ben's grasp at her elbow and grabbed their pitcher of dark beer. She refilled her glass and drank deeply out of it, dirty brown eyes flecked with gold peered across the room. It was a good beer, Felwind had brought out an old cask of Grittle Ale for this occasion. She smoothed back down her shirt and tucked it back into her leggings after it had been so unceremoniously groped at. It had been a long time since a Brinkleback Boar of this size was killed in Num’s Bridge township. This one in particular had caused many problems and destroyed crops, maimed horses, killed livestock - and wreaked havoc all through its territory, it’s children populating and destroying the area. Luther, and his men had finally cornered the beast at it’s the den deep in the Brinkle Forest and had burned them out yesterday. The large sow and her ilk had been harried for hours, only to finally erupt, killing two more horses this time before Luther’s long pikes were driven through her. Outside hung the massive sow. It cooked, fat dripping amongst the townsfolk, six dinner plate hooves hung lazily as the beast rolled on a spit - the head had been hung separately already. Tacked up to the make-shift stand someone had fashioned to present the trophy, twelve inch razor like tusks jutted through a slack upper jaw as the beasts tongue lulled out of it’s blood soaked mouth. It's ruddy, wirey hair stood up on the snout between black eyes. Luther's men were in rare form now. Having effectively become heros overnight, slaying the great pig, they were taking any liberty offered to them. Beer and wine had been flowing freely for the hunting party since mid-day. “I can’t take it any more Ben,” She said, pushing back from the table, “ I’m through with it.” “Ray!” Ben breathed, fear washing across his face. In an instant Ray pulled at the cording around wrist, the thin leather zipping free as her eyes focused on the fleshly, drunk man stumbling across the room. He groped out and the woman beside him spun - anger in her eyes as she pushed the drunk hunter away. He stumbled backwards out the door into the night. “Ray no!” But it was too late, Ray had already started to stand, and with a slight snapping sound the oil lamps suddenly went out as crackling energy suffused Ray’s gold flecked eyes - darkness poured into the room as the lights suddenly dropped away and Ray’s spell took effect. The only light now cascading in thin sheets from the bonfires outside. Darkness. A scream rent the air and Ben heard a stiff grunt come from the doorway, then the same tell-tale snapping sound he had grown more and more accustomed to. A crash broke into Ben’s focus as someone yelled out to get the lamps lit. The crowd roared in surprise and confusion. The only evidence of any change in the last few moments was a now wet leather cord tied securely around Ray’s wrist. It felt like only seconds, when the lights returned Ray was back just as she was before, but with a slight shiver and goosebumps on her arms. She looked sidelong at Ben, giving no indication that anything had changed for her - feigning confusion with the rest of tavern. Gad had felt a sort of pulling feeling, like falling and spinning all at once. Then a cold seizing pain was at his throat. A thin red line spread across his neck in a new grisly smile - he lay dumbly feeling his neck. Confused by the wet, hot liquid he felt on his hands. His eyes became cloudy, and he thought he saw stars above him. Had he tripped? Where was the tavern, why was it so quiet? What was that snapping sound he had heard? He had drank too much - he felt sleep now taking him.


Jeffery looked down at the quarter resting on his thumb. It wasn't much money, twenty five cents, yet it held far too much sway over his life. It was an old coin, scuffed and bent. Most of the silver plating had worn off. The copper underneath is clearly visible, not just along the edge like most coins but over almost every raised surface. It had been in his hands or in his pockets for more than fifteen years now. His father had given it to him. When he was young. He had tossed it to him as he walked out the door. He hadn't understood what 'Call someone who cares' meant, but his begging had fallen on deaf ears. He never saw that man again. He had taken a job. The quarter in his pocket. The family needed the money; his mother and sister were hungry. He was now the man of the house it was his job to provide. So he did. He never spent that coin though. Eventually his mother ran off. She had found somebody new, and she didn't want her children anymore. It was just him and his sister. Luckily, he found a second job and was able to keep paying rent. Food was a greater problem, but he made it. He had to skip a meal or two during the week but his sister always had something. That was what mattered. She did well in school, better then he had been doing before he was forced to leave. She still called him Dad even though he told her that he wasn't. It didn't bother him, he just had strong feelings about anything meaning 'Father' anymore. Still it made her happy. That was what mattered. His sister had grown up to be a wonderful young woman, honest and forthright. A bright and promising future lay ahead of her, and she took it. She got herself a better job than he had ever hoped for. She moved far across the country, a long way away from the rundown little apartment he could afford. She had shown him pictures of her new home. It was beautiful and in a nice neighborhood. He couldn't have been prouder. Eventually she found a partner. He had been scared she would run off like their Mother. She didn't, she had wanted him to walk her down the aisle. Her fiance wholeheartedly approved. That wasn't the only surprise though. They wanted him to move; to a home right next to theirs. They said it would be paid for until he found a job out where they were living. He hesitated. It was a difficult choice. He no longer enjoyed relying on others, but his sister wasn't an other; she was family So when his mother had shown up to the old apartment, the one he was moving out of, to ask for money. He had just the right amount for her. A flick of his thumb sent the battered old coin tumbling through the air. As she caught it he closed the door. Locking it as it clicked shut. He had more important things to do.


It had spent a lot of time in this universe. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It is not like a watch was needed, but somehow It *liked* this universe and a constant reminder on its heartbeats on the way to entropy seemed somehow fitting. It had created universes before, but those it had to *refuel.* This one would *never* be refueled, it had *vowed.* A process of *unstoppable decay.* It viewed it as a meditation. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It felt a bit alone. Sometimes, it pondered, *maybe* it hadn't been the best decision to say "I am", *casting* itself into an existence of *watching* and *creating.* So, a meditation on *loneliness* and *decay.* Not that it would *decay* anytime soon. *Tick....* Did it just seem like that to it, or was the clock going *slower?* "Hello? God? Are you there?", a voice said. Startled, the God searched around the universe. What was that? "My mother is sick, God. Please heal her.", the voice said again. Galaxies blurred into stars. It had found the source. Small water planet. It went in closer. *Most curious!* A small, ape-like creature, sitting next to the sleeping site of a *more* ape-like creature. Both still had some fur on them, and the small one wore some sort of leather around its loins. The god was *intrigued.* In all the universes before, none of the life it had created had been capable of ... *communicating* in this way. It turned the wheels of creation. The mother healed. The little one became a shaman. Shamans turned into priests, priests turned into warmongers, warmongers turned into mass murderers. But there was good too. Love, compassion, Sharing. That was the stuff that it liked most. The prayers kept floating up to it. Some attributed an idea to it, some called it a he, a she, an adversary, some were bitter, and some were sweet. Company, at last. And God smiled. Even though it would end someday. *Tick.... Tick.... Tick....* It valued every second of it.


A discussion at a dinner table ten years ago with my then girlfriend Charlotte and her father Jack changed my life. My ability to think on my feet was being tested that night. Luckily, I had ample support from the Greek philosophers in this contest and passed with flying colors. You need to know that I was an assistant professor of ancient philosophy at that time and teaching a course on this topic for undergraduates. I had met Charlotte when she signed up for my course during her senior year, perhaps on a whim. She seated herself in the front row, directly in front of my lectern, on the first day of class. When she spoke in class, it was with a soft, rhapsodic, Texas drawl. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, falling in soft curls. Drop dead gorgeous. She approached me after class from time to time with questions and seemed to linger but I was not sure how to interpret this. She was not exactly the type of woman that an academic nerd like myself would ever hope to gain favor with. I longed to get to get to know her better. However, a major bureaucratic hurdle presented itself as I planned my next moves to gain favor with Charlotte. Personal relationships between students and undergraduates were considered to be verboten by the University and grounds for dismissal. I urgently needed to convey to her that I was interested in a relationship with her after the course ended and when she was no longer an undergraduate. Uncharacteristically for me and during one of her after class visits to my office (and with the door open), I told her that I would be delivering a lecture two months hence after she graduated. I suggested that we might meet at a local wine bar afterwards to discuss some of the finer points of my presentation, keeping my intentions on a high academic plane. She accepted my invitation with a broad smile and said that she would put the date in her calendar. I was truly ecstatic and began counting the days until I would be able to see her again. *** When the day of my lecture arrived, we met in the lecture hall following my talk. It turns out that she had a serious, intellectual, and analytical side. Dare I refer to her as the “complete package” although this seems condescending in the light of today’s social conventions. We shared many common interests and began to see each other much more frequently during the ensuing months. Following our whirlwind courtship (this also sounds dated in today’s vocabulary), we moved in together in a small apartment on campus. As to her future academic plans, she was accepted to the business school at my university in the pursuit of an MBA so our relationship was on solid ground, both geographically and emotionally. At least for the short term. I had not yet met her father who lived in Texas. He was a widower, having lost his wife several years earlier. Charlotte told me one day at breakfast that she thought it was now appropriate for me to meet him and, at her invitation, he was flying to town in one week to dine with us. Curiously, we had had almost no conversations about him before that time which I found unusual but decided not to press the issue. I was also pleased at this new and apparent deepening of our relationship. “Tell me something about your Dad,” I asked, seeking to flesh out my impression of him and prepare myself for a good showing at dinner. “I’ll let you make up your own mind after you meet him,” she responded somewhat evasively but playfully. “What does he do for a living?” I asked. “He owns a large cattle ranch that has been in the family for generations,” she replied. Her response suggested that she did not want to provide more details so I decided not to press the matter farther. I bided my time. ***** The evening of our dinner arrived and we were seated at a table in a restaurant when Jack strode into the room. Some of the diners around us put down their utensils to stare. This was the Midwest after all and he was not dressed like a local. He was sporting pure Texas attire with a cattleman’s hat, tailored deerskin jacket, and tooled leather boots. “Greetings to you, young man, and also to my darlin’ daughter Charlotte,” he said as sat down, beckoning to the waitress. “Bring me a double bourbon with branch. If you deliver it to me in less than five minutes, you will be able to retire on my tip.” He rotated in his seat and gave me the once-over. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man. My daughter seems to have developed special feelings for you despite the fact that you don’t hail from Texas and seem to be eking out only a meager living. However, no one is perfect and I will concede that you may have some redeeming qualities that may become more obvious during the evening.” Charlotte seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly with our little tête-à-tête , sitting back and watching intently. It also occurred to me she may have seen this “show” before but was not sure how it would end. I myself had anticipated some verbal theatrics before the start of the evening but was not exactly sure about the rules of the game. I was reacting viscerally and intellectually and hoping for the best outcome, which was Charlotte. “Well, kids, I think that it’s time perhaps to follow our drinks with some chow,” Jack said as he motioned for the waitress to come over. “Miss, I would like for you to throw onto your grill the largest steak you have in the kitchen. Bring it out to me bloody -- I don’t want to see any part of the plate showing through the beef.” “I believe that my daughter and her friend are vegetarians so please collect any random weeds that you may find in the lot behind the restaurant to serve to them. You might also fry up a few slices of tempeh on the side to add some color and excitement to their meal. After the food was brought, the three of us ate leisurely, pushing away from the table after dessert. By this time, we were all relaxed, waiting for the next chapter of the evening to unfold. Was I going home alone or accompanied by Charlotte? I was on edge. *** Jack pushed away from the table and turned to speak to me directly. “I have a business problem that might interest you. I am curious whether the wisdom of your Greek philosophers can provide some deeper insights about a possible solution. Do you want to give it a shot? If you help me solve my problem, I will be eternally grateful.” “Let’s give it a try, Jack. You have my rapt attention.” My voice was beginning to quiver in what I now understood to be a high stakes poker game with Charlotte as the prize instead of a pile of chips. I know this seems crass but that was my reading of the situation. He had my rapt attention. “OK. I have a very large cattle ranch in central Texas. The operation is only marginally profitable but it’s the only business I know. What’s killing me now is my veterinary bills. What with cattle pregnancies, ultrasounds, semen testing, and carcass ultrasound imaging, most of my profits are being eaten up by the vet bills. The vets are good, hard-working people but they spend half their time just driving to my cattle which are scattered to hell and beyond. What would your Greek philosophers say about how to manage the high cost of semen analysis on a cattle ranch in Texas?” I began to speak spontaneously. “What first comes to my mind, Jack, is a saying of Heraclitus that may provide some insights. Whenever possible, take a solution to a problem and not vice versa. “ I would therefore suggest the following. Buy a half-dozen used steel shipping containers. Retrofit them as veterinary labs, imaging centers, and the offices that you will need for your vets to attend to your livestock in-situ . Lease a couple of heavy-duty helicopters and fly these retrofitted containers and your vets to your cattle when they need care. The travel time for your vets will be reduced to near zero.” There was a slight glint of interest in Jack’s eye as he began to ponder my suggestion. He seemed interested in my plan despite the fact that I had no understanding of its feasibility. “Where exactly do I find the vets to staff these containers retrofitted as mobile offices and labs?” “Theocritus has an answer for this one. Milk the cow that is nearby. Why chase the one that runs away? Purchase several of the large animal veterinary practices in your neck of the woods to provide the expertise that you will need. The vets will be your employees.” “Even if I buy these practices, how am I going to keep the vets satisfied with their remote practice locations and accompanying life disruptions?” Jack responded. “They are an independent lot.” “Simple! Offer them salaries 30% over what they are now earning. Schedule them for four 12-hour shifts per week in the containerized office and labs and fly them back home with your helicopters when their work week is over. They will have much higher salaries and three days off per week which hopefully will be appealing. You are going to get about a 40% increase in productivity from them because there will be nothing else for them to do when they are working remotely. “But will they tolerate this new work lifestyle?” “I think that the higher salary will win them over . I forgot to mention that you will offer all of them equity in the new company that you will be creating.” “What new company?” Jack asked. “The new company that you will be launching that could be called FlyingVets . You are going to need at least $20 million up front to launch it. Venture capital firms in Austin will be lining up at your door waving money as soon as you pitch to them what you are planning. Tell them that your new business will revolutionize, consolidate, and simplify large animal veterinary practice in the state. They will quickly respond to this idea because you will be providing a better and more efficient way to provide such services.” Jack looked somewhat dazed but definitely seemed interested in the plan that I had proposed, inspired by the Greek philosophers. He dropped us off at our apartment and bid us good night. As we were chatting before bedtime that night, Charlotte said to me: “Wow! I think you got his attention. But where did all of this ‘flying vets’ shit come from?” “I have no idea,” I said, “but I think that Jack may now want to throw my idea against the barn door when he gets home to see if it sticks. Oh, do they have barns in Texas? At the very least, the idea may distract him and perhaps he won’t be bothering us for a while. As always, Charlotte, you were my inspiration.” ***** Time marched on. About two uneventful years later, we received an urgent call from Jack. He had big news. He had started a new company called FlyingVets funded by venture capital money from Austin. It was an almost instant success and he now employed about 50 vets. As predicted, his vet bills had been reduced substantially but his cattle business was only breaking even. However, he didn’t care because of the impending IPO for his new company. He was poised to make a lot of money based on the anticipated rising stock price. He said the following: “I have decided to offer you the position of CEO of FlyingVets,” he said. “I know you have never run a company in your whole life but this deal was launched by your suggestions so I would like for you to give the top position a shot.” I considered his proposal for a few seconds and then said: “Sure. I will give it a try.” I had come to understand that I was getting a little bored by the languid pace of my academic life and was willing to try something different and more exciting. That same night, I asked Charlotte to be my wife. As a prelude to my proposal. I quoted Socrates: By all means, get married: if you find a good wife, you'll be happy; if not, you'll become a philosopher. It had then become clear that teaching philosophy would no longer be my main line of work and I had found a good life partner as well as a new job. She replied, “Well, that was dramatic -- a marriage proposal but one that seemed to be somewhat lacking in romantic notes. However, I do accept you as my husband. But, going forward, let’s also try to avoid your shtick of using the aphorisms of philosophers as a cover for your own ideas. This approach has taken us to where we want to be but has also become irritating. Besides, it’s all been Greek to me.”


Do you remember, my love, the first time we saw each other? On the court of Edward VI, with a thousand candles mounted on the walls, casting flickering shadows across our jewels and finery and powdered hair, until we all looked like ghosts? Do you remember how the music floated over our heads like an angel’s serenade, how you took my hand and swept me out onto the floor before I had the chance to say yes? You spun me about until I was dizzy, and then you pressed your hand against my back to keep me steady, while my heart raced against your chest. What do you suppose they thought when they saw us, perfect strangers clutching each other on the dance floor like lovers? It didn’t matter to us what they thought then, when we were young and beautiful and could dance all night without tiring under a hundred crystal chandeliers. You led me out onto the balcony, and do you remember what a beautiful night it was? The sky was filled with endless stars that seemed close enough to touch. I was looking at the stars, and when I turned you were looking at me, as though I was far more beautiful than the night sky. I had never seen you before, and you told me that you were a French marquis who had just come to court, and all I could think as you spoke was that your accent sounded like a river on a spring morning, water gently cascading across smooth stones. Do you remember how we danced on the balcony that night together, the music drifting in from the hall and the stars painting us in silver? If I could have chosen one moment to last forever it would have been that one, when we were still innocent to what would come, to the shadows that were in our path. I would hold that moment in my heart so tightly that it could never end, and you would look at me as though I was made of starlight for a thousand eternities, while I would lose myself again and again in your eyes. ◇◇◇ Do you remember when you came to call on me at my father’s house, how you stood in the courtyard with the sun lighting your auburn hair like fire? I watched you from the window as you spoke with my father, and I could not tear my eyes away from your face, from your easy smile that did nothing to lessen my father’s disdain of your accent and foreign name. I would have gone with you then no matter what my father said, but he let me go with you because you were the first man to stand in that courtyard and ask for me. Do you remember how you took me in your carriage to the countryside, and how we left it on the side of the road and took just your horses? We rode together through meadows filled with honeysuckle whose sweetness filled the air; through stretches of forest where the sunlight filtered in to create lovely mosaics on the leaves below. You told me stories about life in the French courts: beautiful ladies who wore jewels in their hair and seduced men until they told them their secrets, endless green fields of pale purple irises, a king who took and took and never gave. I picture you there, you said to me, standing in that field of irises. You would look like la reine , with the flowers your subjects. That sounds lovely, however this is my home, I had said to you, even though I knew in my heart that I would go anywhere with you. Do you remember how we stopped on the edge of a meadow, by a little brook with banks of ferns and dogwood? You helped me down from my horse, and we sat beneath a weeping willow whose soft white flowers lay on the ground about us. Do you remember what you said to me then, as you brushed the hair away from my face? My lady, you said, you have the face of Helen, to sail a thousand ships to Troy, and I would kiss you now, if you would have me. What was I supposed to say to you, when you were looking at me with those brilliant hazel eyes, when your lips were almost brushing against mine? Was I supposed to know what would happen, was I supposed to see the future in your smile, read an omen in the wind? Should I have pushed you away from me then, climbed onto my horse, and rode away as fast as I could so you could never find me again? Would that have saved me, would it have changed everything? You kissed me under the weeping willow, or maybe it was I that kissed you, and perhaps it didn’t matter who it was at all. After a while you pulled away and looked at me while I tried to remember how to breathe. I feel like a fool, you said, for I believe that I have been waiting for you all my life when I do not even know you. No, I am the fool, I said, because when I am with you I feel I would do anything to never have you leave. Then perhaps we are both fools, you said, taking my hand, and if we are I am regretful of all the years that I have spent a sane man. You kissed me again, and we sat with the sunlight coming in through the branches of the willow like a benediction, and the flowers falling down around us as the tree wept. ◇◇◇ There is no sunlight in your house now, where your halls are empty and dark and the windows are shuttered to the sun. I haunt your hallways and drift lonely across thresholds of rooms filled with dusty paintings. I whisper your name until I can almost believe that you hear me, that you know I am here, waiting. ◇◇◇ Do you remember when you asked my father if you could marry me? It was in the courtyard again, but it was raining this time, and I watched from my window while the droplets fell across the glass until I felt I was watching through a chapel window. When you asked my father he struck you across the face and shouted things that I could not hear through the glass and the rain, but I knew were cruel and unfeeling. He did not believe that you were good enough to marry me, being a Frenchman. I believed that you were a thousand times the man my father was. You came back that night, and I was waiting for you in the courtyard in the rain, my hair wet and loose down my back like a goddess in an ancient sculpture. You appeared out of the misty rain like a ghost, and took my hand. I’m so very sorry, you said, before I could say anything. No, I said, before you could go on, I am sorry. And maybe it was the rain or the way you were holding me, or the deep ache inside of me when I thought of you leaving, but I felt brave suddenly, brave and reckless and beautiful in your arms, like sometime out of a tragedy played in a theatre by overwrought performers. Come away with me, you said, come back to France with me and I’ll give you anything you could ever want. I don’t want anything but you , I said, and do you remember how you kissed me then, like I was a siren, and you a drowning man, clinging to me for breath? I’ll come back for you, you promised, and slipped away into the night like a shadow, leaving me to stand with the gentle rain brushing my cheeks, and my fingers pressed against my lips where you had been, where your touch had left an indelible scar. ◇◇◇ I watch you sometimes, when you are sitting in the chair by the window, looking out with hollow, sad eyes. You do not have any of the light that you used to have, you are shadows and loss and regret. I stand by your shoulder, but you do not notice me. I try to touch you, but my hand slips right through you, like there’s nothing more than smoke holding me together. Once, you turned and faced me, but you did see me, your eyes staring right through me. I wept then, but of course you could not hear me, did not know that I was right there, just beyond what you could see. ◇◇◇ Do you remember the day that we wed? It was not a marriage befitting a marquis and a lady, but that didn’t matter. You had taken me from my father’s house, and we rode far from the court, far from wide eyes and loose lips that would surely see and hear regardless. Do you remember how I wore a white gown with irises sewn into the bodice, and you called me your petite reine des fleurs , your little queen of flowers. We were wed by a priest who did not care that there was no blessing over us, because you had slipped golden promises into his hands. You spoke your vows in French, and it did not matter that I couldn’t understand a word, because your eyes were telling me all that I needed to know. Was it too late then, or could I have still walked away, still saved us both? Or was I already far too lost in you to ever dream of leaving; for how could I have left you then with the light pouring through the stained glass windows of the chapel until you looked like a man in a Nicolas Poussin painting, all light and angels and beauty. Do you remember how you took me to a quiet, nondescript inn, carried me over the threshold of the room, and set me down on the bed like I was made of glass? Do you remember how you touched me like I was something precious and fragile, how you stole my breath away? I gave you all that I had to give, and in return you gave me your promises, your love. And when you filled me, I wondered how I hadn't known how empty I was before you. I wonder, if I could go back, would I change it? If I knew then what would become of it all, would I have left you that first night, slipped out of your arms and stolen off while you slept? I know, however, that I would not have, that I could not have, because that night you became a part of me, and nothing in the world could take me away from you. ◇◇◇ In this empty house I pass the hours, watching you and dreaming about a young woman and man who believed that their love was stronger than the darkness. I wear a white lace gown and press my palms against the windows, hoping that you will see and know that I am here, so you will come looking for me, so I will not have to be alone anymore. ◇◇◇ Do you remember the house that you bought for us, with it’s white stone walls and pale pink curtains and elegant chandeliers? Do you remember the parties that we had in the hall, when all the people of the court would come and drink spiced wine and dance until the dawn came in through the windows? We never danced with anyone but each other, and you never let me out of your sight; you were always holding my hand, or stroking my back with one hand while you talked to someone else. Of course, my father never came, and neither did any of the people who his influence reached, but I was glad that was the case. I did not care what he thought about us, not then, when it didn’t seem to matter at all. We would ride out into the countryside together, and find secret, magical places that were only for us. Sometimes you would take me out to the moor, and we would ride for hours across the empty land where heather sprung up all around us and filled the air with it’s sweet, dusty scent, where the sky seemed endless over our heads. Out on the moor we would talk about our deepest secrets and fears, say the things that we had never before spoken aloud. Do you remember how the last time we went on the moor together, we talked about death? I did not used to be afraid to die, you told me, and yet now I am, because I couldn’t bear to not be with you. I took your hand in mine, and smiled at you, Don’t worry, love, I will not let you die. I need you here with me. You would not be dissuaded that easily, however. What about you? What would I do if something happened to you? Nothing’s going to happen to me, I said, I promise that I will never leave you, I couldn’t, not when my soul is here with you. You promise? You asked me, and I kissed you in reply, trying to tell you all that I couldn’t with my words in my caress. When we finally parted, you traced the lines of my face with your finger, and whispered, When our time does come, we will be together; I will be holding your hand, and neither of us will be left here without the other. ◇◇◇ I do not sleep in your house, but I lay in your bed and imagine that you are with me, that you are touching me, that we are together again. You stand in the doorway of the bedroom in the middle of the night, and I reach out to you, pray that you will see me here in the dark; that you will reach out too, and take my hand, and this time, it will not slip through mine. ◇◇◇ Do you remember the day that it happened? It was a beautiful day, almost six months since we had first met and danced together in the court. It was my father, and all the men who believed the words that my father said, a number that had greatly grown. How could we not have noticed the whispers, the rumors? How could we not have seen the eyes that followed us in court, the voices that rose behind our backs? We did not see, because all we saw were each other, and so we were blinded to those who wanted to pull us apart. They said that you were a French spy, that you had been sent to collect English secrets; that I was giving them to you, whispering them into your ear when we lay in bed. They took us both away so quickly that we could not even say goodbye, but there was one moment where our eyes met, and I heard your frantic I love you , as clearly as if you had spoken aloud. ◇◇◇ I wore the white dress with the irises that I had worn when we were wed, and I was beautiful and tragic and you could not take your eyes off of me. I believe that you thought I looked like a queen then, la reine , even though I was, in that moment, completely powerless. I did not look away from you once. I memorized your eyes and the lines of your face so I would never forget, so I would have something to take with me. I looked at you as they held me, as they cut out my heart that was so full with you it broke easily. I stared into your eyes that whole time, and you were the last thing that I saw when the darkness came, and took me away. ◇◇◇ I walk through these halls of this house that are full of memories of you, and I watch you sit in the chair by the window and stand on the threshold of my chamber. I wait for you to see me, for my footsteps to awaken you, and yet it is like I am the ghost, instead of you. I will wait here forever, for as long as it takes for you to come to me. For as long as it takes for you to remember that I am here, with this heart that has been broken since that day I saw you hanged; with this heart that is yours, and always will be. I wear white, and leave irises strewn across the floor so their scent might reach you, wherever you are, and remind you of me, remind you of us. And I am still here, waiting, waiting for you to keep your promise.


You hate this. You hate living like this where your every mood can be understood by everyone. You hate how your life is predicated based on your behaviors. You hate how every time you try expressing something new, the only reaction you get is something you’d expect. Something you would predict. You just want to be... unpredictable. It all started a few years ago when scientists developed a tool where everyone’s behaviors could be predictable by someone else. Say your friend is talking about something, and they’re trying to hide how they’re really feeling about that topic. The person could tell how they’re really feeling. Now everyone can go walking through the streets and talk to a complete stranger, yet know exactly how they feel. Know exactly what they truly feel... You hate it. People walk up to you, asking why you’re so sad. Why your mind is so clouded that all you can think about is how much you hate that machine. Why your mind is so dark that you can’t think about happiness anymore. Strangers want you to vent your feelings to them, change your behavior to make the world a better place. All you want is to have your emotions, your behaviors are secret again. You don’t want a random person to walk up to you and ask, “Why so blue?” or, “Why so angry?” The thing is, you can’t be happy. Your whole life is an unfortunate event. The rare event that you have a good day is overruled by the unfortunate consequences that you’ve been through. Losing Cora, your house, everything you’ve ever owned. Getting treated like trash as you walk through the long, endless hallways of the school buildings. The hands that reach out to you, only to get pulled away when they realize who you really were. Saying things like, “Oh, I thought you were someone else” and, “Not like I’d reach for you anyway.” Yet they always wonder why you’re so temperamental, so predictable, so... different than all the other people. Everyone is supposed to follow the rules and only use the tool when they were allowed, yet you can always seem to tell when the basic girls use it on you secretly during tests and as you pass by them in the hallway with the hoodie over your head and your head hung low. Being told to stay behind after class, yet being the first one to leave. Refuse to stay, attempt to leave, they follow your behavior. All you wanna do is be unpredictable. It was a long day at school. Tests, tools prodding at your sides, basics giggling and whispering, thinking they're being quiet but they're not. Long endless hallways where you lose your stacks of homework and sometimes lose your phone that you’ve kept in your pocket to avoid the embarrassing texts from your adoptive parents. The skin biting breeze as you're forced to sit by the open window on an overly crowded bus that has no volume control. Mumbling the words to your favorite song as everyone is trying out their new and improved tool on each other. Continue your prayers on the way home as the breeze snaps at your cold, red cheeks. Reaching under the mat that you never wipe your feet on, feeling for the cold, metal key, hoping to make it inside before your fears catch up to you on the front step of the apartment. Wrapping your fingers around the metal key, reaching out to put it in the keyhole of the lock. Whatever you do, don’t turn around. Don’t look the other way as you walk into the house. You close the door behind you, hoping that it wouldn’t slam and awaken the family dog, whose behavior was one you didn't want to mess with. You set your black bag down by the shoe box, slipping off your navy blue and white checkered sneakers, making your way to the kitchen. Whatever you do, don’t make noise as you open the door on the refrigerator and reach for the small box of apple juice. Sitting at the kitchen table only to be greeted by a note placed at your chair. “Went to the store. Don’t wake the dog. Dad will be back soon. Don’t eat all the M&M’s in the bowl” Love, Ashley. Of course. She’s always predictable. She didn’t go to the store. She went on a walk just to get away from her stressful life. God, if you had only just packed your bag and went back to the CPS building. If only you could eat all the M&M’s in the bowl. If only you could just get rid of all the tools in the world. No more poking into your mind and affecting your behavior from calm to pissed in less than 30 seconds. Every muscle in your tenses as you hear the front door of the apartment begin to creak open. Her humming was out of tune, yet she always made it sound good as she came in, earbuds in her pierced ears and her lips mouthing every word of her song. All you could think was, “Has she ever used the tool on me before?” When she looked at you, the circular tool in her hand, all you could see was her face pale and her hand began to shake in a form of fear. She showed the screen of her tool, that's when you understood why she was so afraid. Now, normally, when one uses the tool, it instantly exports a word that would describe the person's behavior. Happy, angry, sad, all the predictable behaviors and words that typically contrast each other. Blank. No words. Nothing but a glitch in the system to display... nothing. It finally happened, everything you’ve wished for. You watch as she shakily points at the door, yet you know what she meant. It hadn’t been the first time she’s done this. You nodded and walked to get your shoes from the shoe box, only for your ears to be greeted by a deep, low growl of the Rottweiler sitting on the couch, flaring its teeth at you. All you can do is just keep your eyes focused on the laces of your shoes, yet your fingers quicken their pace. Grabbing your school bag, you open the apartment door and walk out, listening to the click-clack of the nails of the dog across the floor, it’s menacing growl approaching the other side of the door. In due time, Ashley would call the police, telling them the situation. You’d be found, sent to laboratories to never see the light of the sun again as they experiment on how you're couldn’t be predicted by the tool. The tool that never failed before. The tool with 5 stars internationally. As you walk down the sidewalk through the apartment neighborhood, feet going left, right, left, right, left, stop. Listen. Muscles all freezing in place as you hear the distant sound of the police. That’s all you can do. You can’t run, you can’t hide, you can only freeze in place and hope that they don’t suspect you as you act like you're texting on your phone. Everything inside is dark and twisted, yet all you can hope is that you’re not the only one out there. Not the only one who wishes things were different. Sirens grow closer, prompting yourself to move, walk, speedwalk, run, sprint. Sprint toward the supermarket down the street where an ungodly amount of people would be, making it harder for them to find you. Run faster, they’re going to find you. Listening to the gasps as people look at you, then their tool, only to see that their tool has malfunctioned and only showed a glitched-out screen. How many people have seen you now? 20? 50? Run faster. All you can do is go out the front door of the supermarket and hope that they aren’t waiting for you there. Left, right, left, right, left, right, quickened pace. Stop to wait for the automatic opening door to open, only to proceed sprinting out and into the sunlight and breeze. Down the sidewalk, sliding down the cold concrete into an empty canal, then sprinting under the bridge. Was this all worth it? To live your life running? To live constantly out of breath, yet to live with a new thrill in your body? What would Cora have thought? She would’ve said run... Besides, they took her for being unpredictable, why wouldn’t they take you as well?


Me - AHHHHHHH......... Jia(my stepsister) - you deserve this,. hahahaha Jess(my stepmother) - Now Jia can be my husband's only daughter (creepy laugh). Me - why..?, just why...?, I only wanted to live a life. I just wanted to live (with teary eyes) Flash of memories:---- 15 years back Me(6year old) - mom, will dad like this drawing made by me (a paper with me, mom and dad pencil drawing) Mom - yes, my dear princess. He will. For sure!!(kissed on cheek) Me - mom, why do you always keep blue roses around here. Mom - because, i love blue roses, my Princess. Me - why??!! Mom. (With questioning eyes) Mom - my precious little princess!! (Hugging tightly) These blue roses are symbol of trying to attain something or someone that is impossible for us to have. Even though one person knows that it is impossible and they need to stop but that one person will never stop trying. So these blue roses mean to never stop trying to achieve an impossible means. My 💕 love. Me - wow mom. I too now like these roses. I also will try my best to gain father's love for you, mom!!( With somewhat teary eyes) Same day in the evening___ Me- hii dad. See my drawing here. I made a drawing of you, mother and me(smiling hearfully). Dad - Leah! Go to your room. Dad is tired and needs to rest. Don't disturb daddy. Me - but daddy..... Mom - Leah ushshhh... Go, go to your room. Dad will see the drawing tomorrow. Dad is tired now. ___ 13years back A car crash incident, with Siren and ambulance and whole mess scene Me(8year old) - mom, I beg you to wake up, please...!!!(teary eyes, crying) please!!wake up (rubbing off the blood flowing from her injured arm) -my mom died that day...... Five days after my mom's death:-- Dad - Leah! Come here.. meet your new mother Jess. And this is Jia your sister. Me - (walking away without any words) nod my head. (Tears flowing out of my eyes while I turned my back towards my father) -it only been five days father!!- - mom is not around anymore- -you haven't even asked me if I have eaten anything- - do you not care about me at all- ___ 5years back Me - yayyyy I finally achieved what I dreamd of. -on so happy- - of only mom was here, she would be proud of me.- Jane - yayyyy!!!!! Leah I'm so happy for you. 90% percent scholarship Best University in A city Waahhhh you are so talented my girl. You wanted to get into this university, right?!!! You worked hard for two years straight This calls for a celebrations baby Lets go to a our usual KTV Come on Me - Jane let's do that tomorrow. I wanna go home and show the results to father. I hope he appreciates me. What do you say. Jane - Leah!! I don't think he will appreciate anything about you. It's been several days. He doesn't even call you about how you doing. You know that Jia will also be getting her results today. May be, you shouldn't go. You go to your father later. Me - may be he will see me jane. I hope he sees me or appreciates me. Just a few words I need that's all. May be he will ask for my results after knowing Jia's results. What do you say!¡!? Jane - well !! I know I can't stop you. Leah, if he doesn't see you or anything happens. I'm here and it's a promise we going celebrations tomorrow at KTV. do not forget huhhh!!! I will be waiting ( hugs and releases) Me thinking may be father will talk to me today,... May be he will appreciate,.. after all it's so hard to get a scholarship admission into that top University. At HOME Me - dad!!! Well today I got my results. Dad - Leah , don't you know you need to call home often and tell about your being out there. Your mom said you never called and whenever she took the initiative you wouldn't pick up the call. What is this reckless behaviour of yours Me - dad, I.... Dad - well it's okay, I don't want to know anything. Today your sister's results came out. She got selected to a third tier University in A city with 70% scholarship. You need to congratulate her. We planned to go out for dinner. Me - dad, my results... Jia - dad, shall we go now. Sister Leah will you come with us. Me - my results.... Jess - Leah you might have been tired by your journey here. Rest well. We will be back soon. Honey!! let's leave. Dad - yeah come on. Me - ....... - I thought father would at least ask about my results- - may be I shouldn't have come here- ___ 3years back (My 18th birthday) Jane(my bestfriend) - Leah!!! Why your father doesn't celebrate your 18th birthday but he celebrates your fake stepsister's birthday, she's a very big pretentious bag of shamelessness. (Shouting while drinking a bottle of 🍺 beer) (well she's already drank 4 bottles) Me(18year old) - I'm okay being like this Jane. I don't want father to be kept in a position. It's okay.(thinking in mind while drinking beer- but it hurts alot)(sobbing a little) Jane - don't worry Leah! My girl, you have me. You will always have me. (With love in eyes, though they were half closed because of alcohol) Me - Thank you Jane! ____ 30 mins ago from present -on a building terrace- Jess - Leah! Jia is still a child. You need to be forgiving towards her. Me - but ma'am, I didn't complain about her doing or anything to father at all yet. Jess - I know. But what if you will. I can't keep a ticking timebomb around me and put my Jia's future in danger. Me - but she really did wrong in killing that girl by pushing her into the pond. Jia - what the heck!!!! She fell down on her own, I was just arguing with her. She was in wrong to meddle in my affairs. Me - but I clearly saw you pushing her. Jess - shut up Leah !!! Jia told you, it was just an accident. You should support your sister. Me - ma'am, but she did wrong, and I have yet to give complain... She needs to be taught about what is right and what is wrong. Jess - I will teach her well. You don't need to worry about her things from now on and you won't even get a chance to do so in future(with a creepy smile) -chills run down my spine by seeing her creepy smile- -I don't want to be here anymore- Me - ma'am I need to leave now, I have an appointment later. Jia - no Leah , you are not leaving here alive. (Hard push towards the terrace edge) - I..... lost my balance 😢 .....- Jess - Jia you need be a little more patient. my baby..!! Jia - sorry mom. I couldn't hold back my anger. Jess - let's leave this place quick...!! ____ At present while falling down from that building because of that push - I just wanted to live - -WHY-?? -WHY-?? -from the childhood I couldn't have what I loved and what I yearned for- -i couldn't have father's love and I lost my mother- -i just wanted to live a good life, is it a crime wanting to live....(with tears flowing out of her eyes)......- BAAAMMMMMM......... - A HARD FALL ON A CAR- - BLOOD OOZING OUT OF HER BODY- - losing consciousness (blurry eyes)- - I DIED........_____-


In the darkest tunnel beneath the enormous facility wandered a light-headed woman. She did not remember where she was, who she was, nor why sand how she had gotten there. Her only hint was the ripped lab coat she was wearing, which had the capital letters “BCRI” engraved on it and then a hole beneath it, as if it had been half cut and half ripped out. She went to clear the sweat from her forehead with her hand, and there, she noticed that her forehead was bleeding. “What happened to me?” she asked the empty darkness that engulfed her. She then continued to walk around, holding on to the wall for balance and trying to overcome the fatigue, the hunger, the thirst and the urge to give up. The farther she went, the more she thought that she would die without knowing who she was in a dark, mysterious passageway. And then, just as she was giving up hope, she saw it: A door left ajar with light coming from inside the room. She hurried inside and dragged herself onto the chair that was in front of a computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich and a cup of water had been abandoned at the side of the desk, and she made quick work of eating and drinking them as fast as she could. She did not know when the last time she had eaten was, but one thing was for sure, it had not been recently. After she was done with her meal, she then looked at the computer monitors in front of her, which showed a background with the same letters on the lab coat, “BCRI”. She then looked up on the search engine these letters, trying to understand what they meant. As soon as she clicked enter, most of the first results were news broadcasts, others were articles, but they all had something in common - they all blamed the BioChemical Research Institute for the widespread toxic chemicals that had spread to most of the planet in their cheap and supposedly revolutionary fertilizer. An article by an acclaimed journalist mentioned in part, “Most of the affected become sick, and with the appropriate medications could be saved. If the medications are not available, then they will suffer in great pain until their life drains away. In a few select cases, the people exposed are not harmed and are asymptomatic. On the other side of that coin, although rare, some have been killed for even the smallest exposure. As unfortunate as this may be, the head of the BCRI Dr.Larenson, the person that is to blame for all this, has not been found. She personally created the fertilizer that was to save the world, as she many times claimed. Instead, she destroyed it.” At this point, the woman understood that she was in a place connected to all these horrific events. As disturbing as that was, she wanted to know more about this terrible doctor that had bought so much pain to so many. She simply searched the following: “Dr.Larinson BCRI”. The first search result was a picture from a scientific conference that had taken place less than a year before. The doctor was clearly labeled in it, and when the woman saw it, she remembered. She remembered every project, every idea, her dream of saving the world, and how her pride destroyed it all. As she screamed and sobbed, she wished she’d given up in the dark hallway, where she innocently walked as an empty slate.