Bright, white lights welcome Arthur back to consciousness. The deafening beeps of monitors and whirring of machinery greet him upon his awakening. Arthur’s only visible surroundings are a window to his right and a curtain circling around his bed. He tries to remember how he’s ended up here, but the bits that trickle in at random only make him anxious and bothered. He does remember being with someone important right before everything went black. “Oh my god. Oh my god what did I do?” He pulls away the curtains, knocking them over. “Jacob! Jacob where are you?” Arthur frantically shouts, his voice cracking as tears form in his eyes. An alarm is triggered as Arthur slowly rises from the bed. He quickly grabs on to a nearby IV stand , ripping away his tubes and wires. With all his might he drags himself towards the door, ignoring every signal being shot to his brain that his body should not be moving right now. Nurses rush in to the room before Arthur can make his escape “Mr. Donaldson, we need you back in bed immediately. You're not strong enough to be on your feet yet. You need to be resting sir.” “What am I doing here? Where’s my son?” he asks with worry in his voice. He points to the table near him “I have a picture of him in m-my wallet there. Can you tell me where he is?” The nurses all look at each other knowing whoever speaks first must do so with caution. “You were in a very serious accident. You and your son were brought in a few hours ago. He’s currently being operated on. We need you back in bed Arthur.” The mention of his son sends Arthur in to a fit and becomes immensely more powerful than the man who just moments ago couldn’t even stand without aid. “Let me see my son please!” Arthur shouts. Before anyone in the room really knew what was happening, Arthur used the surge of adrenaline to violently attempt to shake off his wardens. Ultimately his struggle sends one of the nurses with a hold on him crashing in to a nearby wall. “Someone call security to Room 530! Patient is becoming aggressive!”. One of the nurses shouts. A few seconds of struggling became hours in Arthur’s mind as he fights to push back the thoughts of what’s happening to his son to the darkest corners he can find. He suddenly feels a pinch on his arm, and the room and faces begin turning blurry as if they were being swirled around on a canvas with the stroke of a brush. His last thought before losing consciousness being, “At least I don’t need to keep thinking anymore”. Arthur’s first memory is of Thanksgiving with his wife and son. No particular year comes to mind, only a flurry of different moments spanning over two decades until one begins to play for him. It was one year Arthur remembered coming home after working a double. The food wasn’t done. Jacob, his son, was crawling across the floor with his toy mustang making all the noises a child can to mimic a roaring engine. The boy couldn’t have been any older than eight or so. Arthur didn’t really keep enough tabs. “Where the hell is the dinner Maureen!? One night Maureen. I just wanted one night where you’d actually be a wife again and show a little appreciation for the things I do for this family. “Please don’t start this in front of your son. It’s Thanksgiving Arthur. Let the boy enjoy it for once and we can talk about it later.” she said with a defeated monotone lacing each word. Jacob’s toy car came to a halt when he heard noises coming from the kitchen. The sound was vaguely similar to one that would always follow after Arthur discovered toy cars lying around the house. He walked into the kitchen to see his mother on one knee, shielding her face as his father had his hand raised in the air above his head. He didn’t like the look in Arthur’s eyes when the toys weren’t picked up. Everything is dark, and Arthur is suddenly in attendance at his son’s sixteenth birthday party. He remembers the feeling of confusion and guilt when he received his invitation in the mail. Neither the boy nor his mother had spoken a word to him in over a year. It was probably for the best. He wouldn’t have anything to say to them. “Thanks for showing, Arthur.” Maureen’s voice coming from beside him “Why the change of heart? Miss me or something?” said Arthur half joking but half serious and still sounding like a complete ass. “I was against it. It was “our” son’s idea. The two parents stand in silence for a few minutes. Both simply watching their son bouncing around the place with a smile completely foreign to Arthur. He didn’t know the boy was capable of it. He can’t help but let a sliver of guilt fester in his mind a bit longer than he’s used to. “You know,” Maureen turns to Arthur “He’s been talking non stop about getting a car for his birthday. He never did grow out of those little toy mustangs he loved so much” Maureen expressed to Arthur. Arthur’s guilt vanishes and is replaced with a feeling similar to a whistling kettle that’s been left on for too long. Too much of a good thing was always too much for him. “So what are you mentioning it to me for? You ain’t want me around the kid anymore Maureen. If you needed help raising him, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to get rid of his father.” Maureen shifts herself right in front of Arthur, unaware of the curious eyes all spectating one after another. “I knew it! You’re still the same deadbeat I threw out of our home. Why can’t you for once just do something nice for your son? Damn it he deserves it!” she pleads. “I GAVE HIM A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD AND FOOD ON THE TABLE! DON’T YOU EVER-” his rant cut short by a soft hand forcefully meeting his face. Maureen never raised her hand in defense before her husband, and the disbelief in his face showed he still wasn’t entirely believing it. Jacob runs to defend his mother, jumping in between the two before Arthur’s raised palm could strike her down. “Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?” cried Jacob as tears descended down his face. “You don’t know nothing about nothing boy. You hear me! I gave you everything you ever needed, and your ungrateful bitch of a mother couldn’t even do the simplest things when I asked.” Arthur spat out the words as if they were poisonous to him. Before another word was spoken from anyone, Jacob cocked back his arm and threw a hook with the full weight of the boy’s last sixteen years behind it. Jacob and Arthur both stumbled to the ground. Arthur quickly jumped on Jacob and started letting his fist fly straight in the boy’s face. It took five people to finally get the beast off his son. Maureen held Jacob in her arms on the ground as the boy shouted for Arthur to leave them alone. Arthur’s rage finally subsided, and his breathing returned to normal. The looks on the faces of every party goer were akin to someone witnessing a rabbit being torn apart by a hungry fox. The smile Jacob managed to hold on to till a few moments ago, was now replaced by one that Arthur felt much familiar with and somehow put him at ease. He knew his place, he supposed. Arthur’s time away from his family finally hit him years later. He didn’t want to call it an epiphany, or a mid life crisis. He wasn’t the type to make excuses for himself. He knew he was a piece of trash father and husband. He couldn't quite pin a reason to it. Sometimes he’d think to himself during those moments that he was just made this way and there wasn’t anything he could do but accept it instead of driving himself crazy trying to rationalize everything. He knew something needed to change, but didn’t know where to begin or if it would matter at this point. How could he make any of it right? Does he even know his son at all? Before anything could come to mind, he’s pulled back in to the same dark place that’s been letting him peer through these memories. He sees a bit of light a long ways away down the endless darkness around him. He makes his way towards it. It doesn’t seem to be getting any close, so Arthur picks up his pace. The light is getting further away now. Arthur breaks in to a full sprint through the darkness, screaming his son’s name at the top of his lungs. Memories of the past appearing all around him. Every moment he hurt his wife, every time he shunned his son and every opportunity he missed on telling them he loved them. The light was finally in reach and Arthur reached for it with all his might. Arthur shoots upright in the hospital bed yelling his son’s name. He’s sweating profusely and he’s completely out of breath despite just waking up. He feels something cold around his wrist. He’s been handcuffed to the bed. He deserved it . What was he thinking? But he needed to know what was happening with his son. He began rattling the cuffs against the bedside as loudly as possible, eventually getting the attention of a nearby nurse from the hallway. “Please ma’am I’m sorry for the way I reacted earlier. I just need to know if my soon is alright. His name is Jacob Donaldson” “I’m sorry Mr.Donaldson but I don’t think I’m the person you should be receiving this kind of news from.” said the nurse as she pretended to hear someone calling for her to avoid doing what she was about to. “What news? Tell me what’s happened please! No one will tell me anything-” Arthur is suddenly cut off by a commotion coming from outside the room. The voice of a distraught woman sounds off outside Arthur’s room. Before he could process anything, his ex wife charges at him with a look in her eyes far more broken than anything he’s seen before. “You son of a bitch you killed him! You killed my baby boy!” Maureen says though her voice is cracking and the seams. Maureen continues her barrage as security guards and nurses rush in. Arthur doesn’t put up a fight. He knows now why he’s here. He knows what’s happened. In between the punches from his ex wife and the chaos of bodies and noises all flurried together surrounding him, he found his dreams to be a bit ironic now. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh “How can you laugh after what you did to your son you twisted -” Maureen pauses as Arthur’s laughs turn in to something else entirely. Something she can’t be sure she’s ever heard from her ex husband. Arthur was crying. The funeral came and went. Arthur knew he’d never be allowed to attend. He wasn’t going to argue. Jacob was just as much his son as Maureen and he deserved to be there and he shouldn't care what anyone has to say. But just as quickly as those irrational thoughts began to build up as they always do, this time Arthur simply cried. He’d shed more tears in the last week then he ever will in any lifetime he may ever live. A ringtone goes off and Arthur contemplates answering the call or forcing the phone through a sheet of drywall. “Hello, Mr.Donaldson” says the voice on the other end. “Hello” “Mr.Donaldson we were calling to confirm that you’ll still be coming by the lot to pick up your purchase. We did the best we could to make it ready for the road. You’re quite the lucky fellow you know?” exclaimed the man. “Yea? How’d you figure that? “Well these old Mustangs aren’t exactly falling out of trees these days. I heard you were in a bit of a fender bender on the way here last week? I do hope you’re alright. I know your son would hate to miss out on taking you for a ride in this beauty. Mr. Donaldson are you still-” Arthur can’t bear it anymore. He lashes out at the closest thing to him. The kitchen table gets the worst of it. Arthur drops to the floor after he tires himself out, but still manages to force himself to continue sobbing. He crawls over to the living room, grabbing the little toy car perched next to an old photo of Jacob and himself from a Christmas when Jacob was still a baby. Arthur holds the toy car to his chest and shouts as loudly as he can, but not with words. Guttural noises wrapped in his own guilt and sadness are all that escapes him. Arthur lays on the ground, knowing his son will never know his father cared after all.


I'm almost out of love. I can feel it, feel the pinpoints of searing heartache that prod my beating heart every waking moment. My whole life I'd been wealthy with admiration. My mother, my father, and my sister who had loved me so. Our affection fed each other so that we could live happy lives. My father used my mother's undying fondness to keep a roof over our heads, keep our stomachs filled, and give my sister, Tilly, and I whatever our childish minds desired. He used his children's love to fuel their college funds, which is how Tilly and I both ended up at an ivy-league school. That, and we were teeming with knowledge of the world. The other kids at school were envious of me until we graduated. Charlie is swimming in love , they whispered. Why can't he give us some? Then they grew smarter and figured if they befriended me, they would be able to chisel my love out of me through accounts of friendship. But I was too clever by half and had no trouble turning down each person who tried to strike a false conversation. Eventually, they hated me. I was okay with that. But being smart didn't mean I never did wild teenager things. I threw grand parties that cost absurd amounts of affection. People would show up just because they knew I was well-off and tossed my love around only to receive half an hour of enjoyment. I would be the first to leave - like anyone cared - and find Tilly at home, curled up with a book, a spot already open for me across from her. She knew me like the back of her hand, just as I did. Tilly was my greatest companion. But life and love only last so long. That's what I told Tilly when I attempted to take her to one of my parties. It was to be a masquerade held in a beautiful atrium. It was the talk of our entire town. I wanted Tilly to go with me. "It's not my thing, lover boy," she said, unbinding her brunette coils. "I'll read about it in the newspaper next week, though. It sure sounds fun." She put her nose back in the book she was reading, but I snapped it shut and threw it on the carpet beside us. We were sitting on a windowsill, sharing a blanket and hiding from the never-ending snowfall. When she shot me a fiery look, I gave her a pleading stare. "If it sounds fun, why won't you come with me?" "That's pathetic reasoning. Just because it sounds fun, doesn't mean it will be." " Tilly." " Charlie." I narrowed my eyes, hoping they looked as green as venom. "I'll bury your book in the snow." Tilly's jaw fell slack. "You wouldn't!" I smirked at her wickedly and toppled off of the sill, securing her book and barreling down the hall. She chased after me, but I was too fast on my long legs. I dodged the things she threw at me and sidestepped her when she got too close. I was at the sliding glass door when Tilly finally shouted, "Okay, okay, I'll go!" I thought I'd won. But I lost terribly. That night, Tilly and I entered the party hand-in-hand. I wasn't lying when I said it would be beautiful: pillars of plated gold that held up a shining glass roof, diamond chandeliers, golden platters of expensive delicacies, polished marble floors that stunning people waltzed across in light steps. I looked at Tilly, half of her sharp features hidden behind a sapphire feathered mask. There was a smile on her lips and her emerald eyes sparkled like jewels. "Charlie Knox, you constantly surprise me," she whispered, reaching a pale hand up to pat my slicked-back brown hair. "It's a good quality," I replied, and whisked my younger sister away to dance. It was a grand night. We drank sparkly champagne with sunken strawberries. Tilly made two or three friends - those of which who were not particularly fond of me and cast hateful glances. She received many compliments on her diamond-flecked dress, her smile growing brighter with each one. I'd never seen her so happy and social. I will admit this once to you, and never to anyone else. The glasses of alcohol I'd consumed were numerous. They kept piling up, a fresh flute always in my hand. I barely noticed until my world started swaying with the music, and I felt I was about to retch. I was sober enough to catch this and grabbed Tilly's arm. She was talking with a blonde girl who never bothered to look at me. "What is it, Charlie?" Tilly said, and then stepped back to seemingly get a better look. "Are you alright?" "I think we should go home," I told her, avoiding the second question. "It's getting late." Tilly nodded understandingly and led me through the crowd of dancers. I dropped my half-empty glass off at the table before the giant French doors just as we stepped into the chilly winter air. It bit at my nose and bled through my navy-blue suit. Why wouldn't I bring a jacket? I was so ignorant. I got into the driver's seat and started the car. Snowflakes crusted the windshield, but I was so tired. I didn't take the time to wipe them off, figuring that we lived just a few blocks away. It all happened in a chain of events. One moment I was squinting through the snow, the next the tires were slipping over a sheet of black ice. Tilly's scream filled my ears and pierced through every drink I'd had that night. My foot slammed on the brakes, screeching as we spun like thread. Red light swirled faster and faster, and gradually, slower. We were slowing down. We were stopping. And everything was okay. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding. I glanced over at Tilly, who was frazzled but looked okay. "I'm sorry," I said. She shook her head furiously but didn't accept my apology. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the steering wheel, letting the shock and adrenaline ease off. We were okay, and we could get back home safe. And then the red light flickered to green. I heard the whir of car engines from all angles. I jerked up, frantically looking out of the window and all around. We were in the middle of an intersection. How did we end up here? I thought we'd spun into a lone street, an alleyway, something that wasn't dangerous. I guess I never considered it. Quickly, I turned the wheel and stepped on the gas. Which way was I going? I couldn't tell. My mind was muddled with champagne and fear. I kept driving, telling myself I would find a way out by will or by hope. I prayed even though I was never religious. For one second, one measly second, I closed my eyes. That was the last mistake I made, the mistake that cost more than any party I ever held. I don't remember much from when the accident happened. It's all quite fuzzy. I recall Tilly screaming my name, two bright headlights, and the crunch of bone on concrete as our car was flipped and we were both cast onto the road. I was told afterward that I fell asleep at the wheel and a man in a truck didn't see us. I was told that the doctors had to perform emergency surgery on my legs and I would never be able to walk again. I was told Tilly was killed. They said they'd save the details of her death so I wouldn't feel worse than I already did. But they did say that she was dead when they arrived. I hate that they didn't tell me what happened. It left too many doors open, too many possibilities of the way she had gone. Her head could have been bashed on the concrete. Her body could have been crushed by the flipping car. Glass could have slit her throat. Tilly's heart - the heart that provided the love to keep me stable - was six feet under. And it was my fault. Because I didn't fall asleep while driving, even though I agreed that I did. Because I got in the driver's seat, knowing that I was drunk. All my fault. So, like I said, I'm almost out of love. Tilly was my biggest supplier. After her death, my parents closed themselves off and stopped loving. Stopped loving each other, stopped loving me, stopped loving the world. Which I understand, because Tilly was the world. And because I never bothered with friends and I assumed I would be stable my entire life, I spend each day crippled on the windowsill of my dilapidated house, rereading a worn book that still has her handwriting on the cover. Tilly Knox. I spend and spend and spend my love on useless things. If I spend enough, my heart will stop. If I could buy death with the dwindling love I have, I'd be first in line.


A short story I recently posted on the HFY subreddit One shot. Edit: Spelling Edit: The original inspiration: \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ Specialist Kotar examined the still warm cadaver on the table in front of him once more, just as confused as before the medical scanner had spat out its report. This was the first example of an 'earthling' that had been brought to him for evaluation, something the military normally did on the first day of occupation of a new system. And normally they brought him a live specimen. But this was the fourth day in orbit of the third planet of this miserable backwater part of the galaxy, at least some of the rumours about difficult fighting and unexpected resistance must be true then.  But - the specimen. Being dead, he had to skip the psychological profiling entirely for now, that would have to wait for a more intact example. Cause of death was obvious, it was still leaking bright red blood slowly from a head wound - probably caused by an assault bayonet from the looks of things. The body gently twitched form time to time, as if trying to defy the very laws of nature itself. But it was the scans that made no sense. Excessive scar tissue all over the body, including assumed vital areas. This was confirmed visually, ugly pinkish ropes of it across the body almost randomly, or at least not according to any pattern he recognised. Kotar would have assumed some religious or perhaps social significance, if it weren't for the internal scars on the report. Internal organ functions were mostly predicted by the scanner, but it was clear that some were plain *not right*. Some seemed to have pieces missing from them. Others had tiny mechanical devises in or up against them. There was at least one example of an organ missing altogether, the connecting tissues curled back on themselves as if recoiling in horror. What manner of vile beings did this to themselves? None of the scars were consistent with predator attacks.  The more he looked at the scans the worse it got. Nerve ends were severed in places, or pinched painfully between artificial implants of an unknown nature. Metal clips held tissues together. Newer, painfully raw looking scars overlapped old faded scars. One of the surface ones still had artificial fibres - *cloth fibres!* \- holding it closed! He fought down the urge to purge his stomachs. The very worst was where the scanner had identified that part of the alien was *biologically from another different earthling!* They *cannibalised* each other for new parts! A thousand interrogations of a thousand different species hadn't upset him as mush as this things very existence did.  But Specialist Kotar had a job to do. The soldiers would need the information he gathered here on how to best cleanse these abominable creatures from existence. He prepped himself for dissection, he would have to confirm the machines report manually. Just as the laser cutter touched the surface of the earthling if flung itself bolt upright with a great gasp of breath, scaring the excrement out of Kotar and sending the cutter flying across the room! Before he could recover and call for help, the injured but impossibly *NOT* dead earthling monster lashed out with an arm, shattering Kotars frail body almost without effort. His last view of the world was spent helplessly watching the earthling climb off the table and stalk off into the ship. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I'm a regular author on the HFY subreddit.


Submitted for (AND WON) Reedsy Contest #87, Prompt "Write about a mischievous pixie or trickster god." I’m not sure how long it was before I realized that the shuttle train never stopped, probably about the time it dawned on me that the people who had gotten on with me were gone. The train is supposed to run from Grand Central to Times Square, one stop, five minutes at the absolute most. But it had been... how long had it been? I don’t know, I was reading my book. I can space out pretty bad sometimes. Family lore has it that I slept right through a freak tornado that ripped off our roof. But the bluish fluorescent lights on the train flickered out with a hum, and when they turned on again, I realized something was amiss. The windows were turned into mirrors by the underground darkness, and in them was a face with a mischievous grin, complemented by a rakish light in the eyes and a tumble of curly brown hair. Samill, the trickster. He materialized from the window. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.” “I can’t say I’ve missed you much, Samill,” I replied, sighing and putting my book down. He laughed heartily in response. “All of the wonders I’ve shown you and you don’t even have a smile to spare for me?” He had a note of mock offense in his voice. “I guess I’ll have to take this little adventure to someone else.” “Go ahead. I won’t mind.” He smiled, more broadly still. “Just kidding, it has to be you.” “Why?” “You’re the only one who’s done it before and let’s just say I need you to survive.” He meant that I’m the only mortal to travel to the realm of the gods and return both alive and a mortal. I did it when I was a girl; it was a whole thing I can’t get into now, but Samill was behind that, too. He damn near got me killed. “I don’t need anything from you this time, Samill. And I’m not a kid anymore. Why would I take this risk?” Samill appraised me. “Indeed, you are no longer a kid.” He turned his head to the side and held his fingers to his eyes like a camera lens. “A fine young woman, might I say. Are you in want of a companion?” “No,” I replied flatly. “Alright,” he said, smiling. “No need to be testy, just asking. Anyway, I need you to get something that was stolen from me.” “Get it yourself.” “Oh no, I can’t show my face there. But you would be able to slip right in and out, unnoticed.” “Surely there’s some other mortal in this world or another, aching for adventure or in need of your favors. I don’t need anything.” I looked down at my phone to check the time, but the screen displayed Samill’s mischievous face in profile. Samill looked at me seriously for some time, calculating something as he always did. “How is your sister, Stella? She must be twenty-seven years old now, am I right?” The air went out of me. What was he planning to do to her? He narrowed his eyes, a playful grin forming in one corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, love. Your sister is fine. I kept my end of that bargain.” “And I paid a huge price. We’re even.” He crouched in front of me. Up close, I could see the glow of his skin and smell his hair; unearthly and unfathomable. “I can give you your magic back. You and Stella.” I froze, not daring to breathe. Samill took our magic in exchange for Stella’s life. We’d lived more than ten years without it. Sometimes, I wonder if I dreamed that I had it: a memory of fire dancing on my fingertips or chasing Stella on the surface of a lake; ephemeral, slipping from me like water in a palm. A gnawing, gaping longing opened up in me. “Ah,” Samill said, standing up smiling. “You’ve missed your magic. I do wonder sometimes how any mortal can bear life without it.” “Magic attracts the gods and all mortals are better off without that.” Samill grabbed his chest. “My poor heart. Come, let me show you something.” He beckoned me to the front of the train. It had stopped moving. With a dramatic swipe of his hand, the front of the train melted away, revealing the damp entrance to a long tunnel. “I need you to find the goddess Badha and retrieve the emerald she’s guarding. She’s blind and can only sense the gods. You will be able to go without notice,” he looked down at me out of the corner of his eye. I shot him a sharp look. “The underworld? Last time was different it was the heavenly gods. This is the realm of the dead, I won’t make it out. They won’t let me cross back into the living.” “If you speak your secret name to the guardian, he will let you pass alive. And if you give me the emerald, I’ll return your magic to you and your sister.” “But my secret name is for my passage into the afterlife. I can’t speak it twice.” “That’s just superstition. Encouraged by the gods, mind you, because your secret name has power and the gods know it. But you can speak it more than once. I give you my word.” I faced him and looked defiantly into his eyes. “No, sorry. I don’t need the magic, neither does Stella. Find someone else.” Samill laughed. “Well, Phoebe, I’d hoped you’d come around on your own. But barring that,” he shoved me through the front of the train and I landed right on my face in the rock and the mud. Before I could stand up, he smiled at me and waved his arm, making himself and the train disappear over my head. I made a hearty effort to bang on the now closed wall where Samill had thrown me through, but it didn’t work. If I was going to get out of there, I knew I’d have to descend this tunnel to figure it out. I pulled up my phone. Dead. Technology didn’t really work in the magical realms. The gods are terrified of it; Google is better at reading our minds than they are. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did I noticed tiny dots of light embedded in the rock. I hit my face on the occasional tree root that was hanging from the top of the tunnel. I can’t say how long I walked, but at some point, minutes, hours or days later I arrived at a dried up river bed that I knew I’d have to cross to continue. Water is powerful and even its absence can be a trap set by a sorcerer or a god. I crouched down and put my ear to the ground. The *whoosh* of running water filled my ears. Some kind of underground river. I pressed my finger into a spot of soft mud beneath a rock and pearly liquid that looked like a cross between clouded water and honey emerged. I recognized it from old stories my grandmother told Stella and me, the River of No Name that runs through the center of the earth. It would expect payment of some kind, I reckoned. All enchanted crossings did. But I had nothing on me. I was unprepared. I tried my phone, since it was the most expensive thing I had. I placed it gingerly on the rocks, but moments later the phone launched itself back at me. Ok, that wasn’t going to work. I thought for a few minutes and then realized: the river would want my name. I leaned over to the rocks and whispered “Phoebe,” but the rocks let out an agitated hiss and rumbled. I wiped my hands on my jeans and looked up, cursing Samill. The river wanted my secret name. I was forced to trust what Samill said about my secret name not losing power if I say it more than once. I bent my face even lower this time and said, in as low a voice as possible, the name spoken to me once by my mother the day I was born and written on my heart, *Efweth*. Water coursed through the rocks, gold and white and pleasant. It leveled off when it was a few inches high and pulled itself to either side, allowing me to pass over the rocks. Eventually, I came to the end of the tunnel which was a large, circular cavern with walls made of rocks and mud. The light in the rocks was brighter here, so I was able to see more easily. It seemed I was alone. I walked around the room, my hand on the walls, feeling for some exit or hidden door, but I came up empty. I looked up, but whatever was above me was either too high or too occluded by the darkness for me to see it. “Ok, Samill. What am I doing here? Help me out?” Just then, an enormous woman descended from the ceiling; twenty-feet tall with a tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed old, older than the earth, but also ageless. As soon as I noticed something that would indicate her age, a wrinkle, a grey hair, it would fade away before I could be sure it was there. *This must be Badha*. “Samill? Are you here you nasty little imp? I told you if I ever saw you again I’d rip you to shreds and it would take you three millennia to stitch yourself together.” I pushed myself into the wall and held my breath, not wanting to make a sound. The goddess moved a few steps forward and backward, shaking the cavern as she did. “No it can't be Samill. He couldn't be... But who said your name? Why would anyone speak of you here?” She moved her arm around the cavern to feel. I pressed myself further against the wall. “Make yourself known, whoever you are. Another useless goblin? Be gone, goblin. I’ve nothing for you here.” I looked all over her for some sign of an emerald, nothing on her neck, nothing on her fingers or in her hair. She made herself some kind of beverage and after she was done, she sat down with her great legs out in front of her. I was standing next to her massive calf, I could have reached across and grabbed it if I wanted to. She sipped from her cup and paused, putting her ear up like a curious dog. She sipped again and got on all fours. I had to run toward the entrance of the cavern to avoid her as she changed positions. Then she put her ear to the ground and knelt up. “Mortal, I know you’re here.” Damnit, Samill. “Tell me why you’re here, mortal.” I neither replied nor moved so much as an eyelid. “The river told me mortal. I’ll say your secret name if you don’t answer me. I don’t think you want that.” I wasn’t sure what the consequences of that would be; should I call her bluff or answer her? Everyone in my culture is given a secret name at birth, whispered in their left ears by our mothers at the moment of birth. We are never to speak it until we die. We were told to always guard it as the name possesses great power that could be used to harm us or someone else. “Did Samill send you?” “Yes,” I croaked out. I was very thirsty. She laughed, quietly at first and then so forcefully the walls shook. “Tell me, mortal, what did he tell you to get?” “An emerald.” She laughed again, this time wiping tears from her cheeks. “My sweet child, Samill knows I don’t have that emerald. What did he promise you?” My stomach dropped. What had he set me up for? “Eternal youth? Love? Please, tell me.” She was still laughing and occasionally broke into wheezing coughs. “He said he’d return my magic.” She stopped laughing. “Who took it?” "He did, Samill.” “Why?” “In exchange for my sister’s life.” “And you believed him, when he said he’d return your magic?” “I don’t know. I refused him. But when I refused he threw me down here.” She brought her hand to her chin like she was thinking very hard. “I don’t have the emerald, dear. Samill knows that.” “Ok, then, I’ll just get out of your hair.” She cackled. “You’re in the realm of the dead. You can’t return. You must know that.” “Samill said...” “Samill lied,” she said, still wiping tears of laughter from her blank eyes. “You can’t return. And I’m hungry, come here.” She swiped her arms out again, narrowly missing me. I ran again to the entrance of the cavern and had nearly managed to get away when a tree root ripped from the floor and pulled me back. “I told you, there’s no returning for you, mortal. Samill as good as killed you. I don’t know what you did to piss him off.” I had no weapons. No magic. No way out. I closed my eyes and readied myself for my fate. I wondered what death would be like if I died already in the underworld. Then I got an idea. Lining the walls of the cavern and up into the ceiling were tree roots, the ones that brought me back into the cavern when I tried to escape. I escaped from the root holding me and ran across, another root shot out and chased me. I ran back and forth around the cavern, narrowly avoiding the roots as I did. The whole time Badha was laughing. “Mortals always fight so hard. So entertaining. Well, I’ll be back in a minute when you’re dead.” She stood up but fell right away as the roots pulled her back down. I’d trapped her in them. She pulled and grabbed at them, breaking a few, but they held. I knew they wouldn’t hold long, so I made one final move. I leapt up onto the roots holding Badha, the tips of new ones chasing me as I did, and ran headlong into her chest, dodging out of the way at the last second. The root didn’t find me, but did find Badha’s chest, shooting straight through it and out the other side. She gasped and choked. “No, no. This isn’t possible.” She weakly pulled at the root in her chest, but then she started to disintegrate into the dirt below her, her flesh and hair and clothes falling into so much dust. I was stunned. I thought I would incapacitate her, not kill her. I had no idea what the tree was made of that it was strong enough to kill a goddess, but I ran out of there as quickly as my feet would carry me. The River of No Name parted for me, it did not expect a second payment. I clambered back up the tunnel as fast as I could, falling and tripping as I went. I reached the end of the tunnel, still closed off. “Samill! Let me out of here.” I could see the tunnel starting to fall away too. Soon the ground beneath my feet would be gone. “You feckless bastard let, me, out!” Nothing. "Damn it,” I said, realizing that this wall was the Guardian and I needed to tell it my name or I’d fall into the creeping oblivion below. “Efweth,” I said as quietly as my adrenaline would allow. I was back on the shuttle train. Samill sat jauntily across from me, legs crossed, smiling as though he could hear a distant good tune. The only evidence I had that anything had happened was that I was covered in dirt. “I’m going to KILL you,” I shouted and ran over and started battering him with my fists. “Kill you. There was no emerald.” He restrained me easily, smiling. “I know. I needed her killed. I knew you could do it.” My jaw fell open. “Why? Why didn’t you just kill her yourself?” “This is the problem with all of you magical mortals who chose to integrate into the larger society. You missed all of your lessons. Celestial gods cannot descend into the underworld. Only humans can. I would immediately evaporate if I stepped down there.” “Why me?,” I asked, crying now. “Why? It could have been anyone.” He shook his head. “No, not anyone.” He sat back down the seat. “It had to be someone with your talents.” “I don’t have any talents,” I wept. My shoulders were shaking. “I was just trying to survive.” “And yet, most would not. Just as most children would not have survived the ordeal you went through. No, it had to be you, I’m sorry.” He stood up again and walked to the door of the train, which I realized was moving again. “Here,” he said, reaching into a pocket in his garment. “Your magic.” “No! No, please,” I begged. “I don’t need it. Keep it.” He smiled again, larger than before. “I need you to have it. I’m not done with you yet, *Efweth*.” The loudspeaker called out, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” and he snapped his fingers in my direction, stepped out and disappeared into the crowd. People filed into the train and I wiped the tears from my face and tucked my hair behind my ears, but people still avoided sitting next to me, covered as I was in mud and dust. I held up my left hand, cupping it around my right forefinger as though to protect it from the wind, and produced a dancing blue flame from the tip of my finger. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.


I do not know who or *what* he actually is. Some of us think that he is a forgotten God punishing us. Others say that he is a malevolent demon out to hunt humans. Everyone in the support group has their own theory. The only thing we all agree on is that he is a supernatural being out to get us all. I infer that he a biological urge to see us suffer and be terrified. That is the only plausible explanation I can think off. Why else would anyone do the things he does? Two years ago, I went to a bar near my house. It was there that I first saw him. He stood in the corner resting his back against the wall. A small crowd was gathered around him. With his sharp wit and Greek God looks, he had everyone around him laughing at his amusing stories. Soon, I too felt attracted towards him and in minutes, I was chuckling at one of his celebrity impersonations. My gaze fell onto a young couple out in the back. They stood hugging one another. Each time the enigmatic man made a joke, they laughed together for a few seconds. Then their expressions would change. They would proceed to hug each other even tighter with a terrified look on their faces. No one else seemed to notice them. Everyone else was too engrossed listening with awe to the big, hilarious man. When I woke up the following morning, I jolted upwards from a sharp and intense pain. Throwing off my blood-soaked blanket, I discovered the cause of my pain. A huge bloody slash ran across my pale stomach. It was surely not there the previous day. The doctors could not explain it’s sudden appearance and just assumed that I was lying about the circumstances surrounding my injury. Once I reached home, I turned on the TV in order to distract myself from the pain. The news ran a report regarding a dead couple the police had found on the highway early this morning. I took out my phone and looked on the internet for pictures of their corpses. I was beginning to have some suspicions. The moment I saw the photo, all the pieces in my mind clicked together. It could not be a coincidence. The couple in the photo was the one I had seen at the bar yesterday. Their corpses even had slashes on their bodies that seemed identical to mine. My injury today had something to do with the handsome man I saw at the bar yesterday and he might somehow also responsible for the couple’s death. The only piece of the puzzle I could not figure out was why did the corpses look as if they were smiling. Later that night, I looked for the mystery man at every bar in the city. When I finally found him at a shady bar in the next neighborhood, he instantly recognized me and ordered some drinks. Once again, before I could help it, he charmed me and I threw my suspicions out the window assuming that I was overthinking things. This handsome and funny man couldn't possibly be harming me, I thought to myself as I fell asleep that night. When I woke up the next morning, I was absolutely certain that the mysterious man *had* been harming me. A long ugly slash now ran across my back. My fingers started trembling. I remembered that he had even offered to drop me home last night. He knows where I live, I thought to myself. A cold shiver went across my body and I rushed out of the house. I ran as far as I could. The moment I started to think that I’d reached far enough, he magically appeared before me. I turned around to run but I then heard his voice. He started making slightly amusing remarks. I couldn't help it, I grinned. My body froze and my foot began to ache slightly. He then proceeded to make a few more jokes. As I laughed, a terrible terrible pain shot up in my ankle. Seconds later, I’d fainted from the agony. When I woke up, he was no longer there. My foot was covered in blood and all I could do was limp. That night, the support group found me crawled up inside a dumpster, terrified and shivering. The group was formed by other people the mysterious man had been attacking. They explained everything. A few months ago, the man started showing up in various bars. He would captivate people around him and make them laugh. Every time a person laughed, he/she would become completely vulnerable to the mysterious man. The man had the bizarre but terrifying power to telepathically inflict pain and injuries upon people as long as they were laughing. What made the matters even worse was that even if we laughed when he wasn't there, he could still somehow sense it and harm us. Everyone in the group had been a victim of his unusual power. We were his chosen targets. That day, I left my home to join the group. After learning everything, I was frightened of ever spending a night in the house alone again. All that happened long ago. The support group now lives together in one of our richer member’s mansion. We have become more of a “survivors group” now. There are so many of us. We have people of multiple races, religion, and gender. It seems the mystery man does not discriminate. The locals think we are crazy and the media pays no heed to our cries. Our own families think we are delusional and self-harming. We haven't felt laughter in months. Nobody even smiles anymore, afraid that the mysterious man might somehow find a way to inflict pain on them. There are few who muster the courage to go out in the day. Maybe to meet their family, or maybe just to give in and end it all. They seldom seem to last for more than a week. Sooner or later, the man finds them. They shriek in pain as he makes them laugh. He then proceeds to laugh as he watches them shriek, feeding his sinister powers. There’s a rumor that’s been going around that the longer he waits before killing you, the more he’ll be depraved he’ll be when he finally gets to you. I pray to God that this is just a rumor. I have been living here for the longest now, everyone who was in the group when I joined has long since been dead. If the rumor is true, it means he’s saving me for last as sort of a special prize. The world seems bleak when everyone is afraid to laugh. Sealing off one of the most natural human responses takes a heavy toll on your psyche. But still, if we ever come across the mysterious man, he’ll find a way to make us laugh. We’ll be howling in pain but he’ll find something so witty to say that it will still make us laugh. By this point, you’re probably in disbelief. You’re wondering the same question that everybody else asks. Why don’t we just refrain from laughing at his jokes? No matter what he says, surely we can control our laughter given the circumstances, can’t we?” Well. The answer is simple, really. No, we can’t. He’s funnier than every comedian on Earth combined. He isn’t just funny. He happens to be fucking hilarious. And sooner or later, you’re bound to laugh.


“Look, dad.” Sara sighed. She held the phone under one arm while she struggled to coral the wild papers strewn across her desk into a neat pile. “Not this time, okay? Maybe this summer. I’ve got work coming out of my ears, and some major tests coming up after the break. I have to study.” Sara got the papers in order. She stuck them into the briefcase she was holding. “Law school isn’t a walk in the park, you know.” “Sara, honey, I know you're busy.” A deep voice breathed from the phone. Sara did a quick glance around her cubicle. Every student at Rushmore Law had their own cube in the library. It was in this box that they spent grueling hours hunched over textbooks and hundreds of pages of case law. I am so ready for the break, Sara thought. Before leaving the library, she brushed her fingers through her unruly gold-brown hair. As she stepped out the door and into the parking lot, the brisk air splashed her face. I’ll have time to do a little pleasure reading and hang out with friends. “I am busy, dad.” Sara grunted, patting her suit pockets as she searched for her Honda keys. The Honda was a car that Sara had had since her eighteenth birthday... The birthday when she’d left for college. The day she’d left Silver Meadows, the home of her youth, and never looked back. Why would she? California and Rushmore’s School of Law were ten times more interesting than that small town in the backwoods of Mississippi. They were more interesting, and they held less painful baggage than Mississippi and Silver Meadows. “I’m busy, and I can’t make it home this Christmas... I’m sorry.” Sara found her keys and unlocked her vehicle. She slipped into the driver’s seat. Sara tossed the briefcase in the backseat. It landed atop a mountain of junk. “Hey, I’m heading back to the dorms now. It’s the first day of break, and Cami and I have plans. Tell mom I love her, and-." “Sara,” her dad’s voice grew grave. “Listen to me; you need to come home this Christmas.” “Dad, I-.” “Honey, your mother..." her dad trailed off, before clearing his throat. “Your mother isn’t feeling well, and I think it would be best if you came to see her, just in case." There go all my plans. Sara stomped off the plane. She snatched her luggage off of the baggage carousel like a child throwing a tantrum. There goes hanging with Cami. There goes reading a nice book with a cup of hot cocoa. There goes Christmas. I’ll be spending it worrying about mom, in a town that I hate, in a house that I hate... Perfect. Although, despite her bitter thoughts, Sara couldn’t help the whispers of worry that echoed ominously around her mind. Her dad had said that her mom was ill and that he wanted her to come home for the holidays. However, he refused to say exactly what was wrong with Sara’s mother. What if she’s really sick? Sara swallowed. She stepped outside the airport doors and waved down a taxi. What if, all this time, she’s been ill, and I’ve been brushing them off? Sara shifted uncomfortably in the taxi’s hard seats. It wasn’t their fault what Jed did. Heck, it wasn’t exactly my ex’s fault. So why do I blame them all, like it was? Sara had called a car rental near Silver Meadows before she’d even gotten on the plane. They had a car ready to go for her when the taxi dropped her off there. It was a base model Toyota Corolla that had seen better days. It was the cheapest car they had. So, Sara took it. Right away, she noticed the car’s engine grumbling like a grumpy old man. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the growing familiarity of the woodland around her. The trees were coated in layers of ice, which glistened over their branches like crystals. The sky was the same color as the water that brushed against the shores of Cali’s beaches. Sara turned off the main road and onto a gravel backroad. That seemed to be the final straw for the old Toyota. With a groan and snap, a few miles from her parents house, the car sagged forward and ceased to move. “Oh, no, no!” Sara groaned, smacking her head against the steering wheel. “Not now! Oh, come on.” She tried the gas. The car sputtered, smoke rising from the engine. Sara, with a groan of her own, stepped out of the vehicle. She made her way to the front of the car and popped the hood. Dad always made this look easy, Sara realized, staring with a blank expression at the mess of cables before her. Which thing-a-m-bob does which? What should I do? “You look more lost than a calf, trying to climb out of a ditch with two backward hooves.” Sara jumped. She glanced over her shoulder. Instantly, her stomach dropped. A man stood behind her. A young man with hazel eyes and straw-blond hair. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, cowboy boots, and jeans. He looked the same as he had at eighteen. “I...” Sara’s mouth went dry. She wet her lips and tried again. But words wouldn’t come out. She could feel cold, biting, water against her skin. She could hear herself screaming out as that same merciless liquid filled her lungs and pushed at the back of her eyes. “It’s not funny!” She remembered saying, as she tried to take an amber bottle from a boy. A boy who stood on the edge of the river. “It’s not funny at all! Give me that! All of you are being dumb!" “Who’s bein’ dumb?" One boy, who stood next to the one she was speaking to, sneered. He had black eyes--the devil’s eyes. “We is just having a little fun, right, Cas?” "Yeah, yeah, we are.” The boy, the one who’s drink Sara continued to desperately snatch at, agreed. He pulled the drink from her grasping hands. “Don’t be such a mother.” “I’m not! But this is foolish. If you get caught-.” Sara glared at him, her eyes wet with tears of worry and frustration. Cas looked away, shame coloring his ears. He didn’t want to be there. He was just there because the guys had invited him, and because he didn’t want to be at home with his father. “Come on, Cas.” Sara urged, her voice soft as cotton. She grabbed his hand, his warm fingers slipping into hers. “Let’s go back to my place. You can sleep it off there.” “Oh, go suck an egg, you whiny little snitch!” The boy with the devil’s eyes reached out, shoving her. Sara felt the ground slip from under her. She tumbled off the river’s bank and into the wild water below. “Sara!” She heard Cas yell. “Sara!” “Sara? Uh... Are you okay?" Sara shook her head clear. She blinked at the young man before her. “Yeah, um, Cas... How are you? It’s been a long time.” She murmured, trying to get her heart rate to return to normal. Cas shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “It has.” He agreed. The young man squinted at the ground for a moment before jerking his head towards her car. “Need a hand?” Sara, meanwhile, spotted the truck parked a few paces from them. She glared at it. How did I not hear him coming? I forgot he lives on this road too...Rats. “It’s a rental.” Sara told him, though she couldn’t quite make eye contact. “It sucks.” Cas laughed--a forced laugh. “Don’t they all? Let me see if I can get it going for you." Sara was half-tempted to refuse, but Cas didn’t give her the chance. He put his hands on either side of the open hood and peered inside. Sara relaxed. She remembered that Cas had a knack for fixing things. She knew he could get the car started, so at least she would make it to her parents without having to call a tow. Cas fixed the car faster than Sara thought was possible. When he was done, he stood by the hood, licking his lips thoughtfully. “Are you stayin’ in town long?” He asked. Sara stiffened at the hope in his voice. “No.” She said, bluntly. “Just to check on my mother. A few days, at most.” Cas’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. Then, he furrowed his brow. “Your mother?” He echoed. “What’s wrong with her?" Figures, Sara’s shock was slowly being overcome by the raw bitterness that had been her friend during the first few months after Cas’s eighteenth birthday--the day his no-good friend had pushed her into the river. Like he’d keep up with an ex’s family. “She’s sick.” Sara said. She opened the car door and slipped into the driver’s seat. She rolled down the window to add. “Thanks for your help. I take it your still living around here." “She’s sick...” Cas looked beyond puzzled. However, he just shrugged and shook his head. “Uh, yeah. My old man’s place. He passed on a few months ago, and I inherited the cattle ranch. He had so many unpaid debts that I had to sell most of the land and the animals, but I managed to keep the lot the house sits on. I’m right up the road from your parents, if-.” “I remember. Thanks for the help. You have a good night.” Sara said, as formally as she could without sounding rude. Cas winced, like she’d hit him. “Yeah, Sara... you too, hey, maybe we could-.” Sara pretended not to hear him. She started off down the road, towards her parents house. Sara pulled into the dirt driveway of her childhood home. She blinked in awe as she spotted her mother putting up clothes to dry on the clothes line. “Mom?” Sara asked, getting out of the car. Her mother turned to her, a gasp escaping her. “Sara! Sara, honey!” The woman rushed to greet her. Sara opened her arms to her mother, and the short woman buried herself in them. “Oh, my baby! My sweet baby, you finally came home!” “I...” Sara pulled away. She tried to ignore the lingering feeling of safety that her mother’s smell, a scent of flowers and dough, left her with. “You look... good?" Her mother was just as puzzled as she was. “Of course!” She said, "Why wouldn’t I be?” “Because dad told me..." Sara trailed off. The front door to her old home opened. A skinny man with brown hair and a stiff mustache, dressed in a plaid red shirt and jeans, walked out of the house. He smiled when he spotted Sara. “Sara,” he greeted, opening his arms up invitingly. “It’s good to see you! We-.” Something in Sara’s head clicked. A raw fury exploded inside of her. She didn’t move to hug her father. “She’s not sick, is she?” Sara nodded to her mother. “She never was. You made that up.” “W-what?” Sara’s mom looked back and forth between her daughter and her husband, her eyes wide with confusion. Sara felt sorry for her. But she couldn’t stop the anger she felt over her father’s lie. “She had a cough for a few days. She was still recovering when I called you!” Sara’s father grunted. He straightened up. “I had to do something! You wouldn’t come to see us! I missed my little girl, and you would never come to visit!" “So, you lie and tell me my mom’s ill? That she’s... dying?” Sara spat. She took a step back. “Don’t you understand? I hate this place! I almost drowned in that river!” She waved a hand wildly in the direction of where she knew the Mississippi River lay. “I almost died because I tried to stop my boyfriend and his stupid friends from drinking themselves to death! If Cas hadn't... if he hadn’t gotten to me when he did, I would have died. That’s all I can remember when I come here. If you wanted to see me so badly, dad, why didn’t you and mom come visit me in Cali?” Sara stopped, breathing hard. Her mother looked close to tears. Her dad’s jaw tightened. “And leave this town without a sheriff?” He growled. “I couldn’t do that. Sara, I know what happened scared you-.” “It ruined me.” Sara hissed. She felt tears fill her eyes. “And you told me that if I just worked hard enough, I would stop remembering. You were wrong. And you were wrong to do this.” Sara turned and got back in her car. “I'm not a puppet on a string that you can just bend to do your will. I'm not staying here on account of a trick." “Sara, don’t be like that!” Her dad snapped. “Sara, please, don’t go!” Her mom called after her, her voice cracking with desperation. Sara ignored them both, just as she’d ignored Cas, and let the car drift down the driveway. Somehow, someway, almost as though fate was dragging her there, Sara found herself standing at Cas’s front door. The old farmhouse, with its green walls and white trimmings, greeted her like an old friend. Sara stood at the door, one hand raised to knock. What am I doing? She wondered, lowering her fist. She chewed her lip, peeking over her shoulder at her car. Maybe I should just go find a place in town to stay. Sara grimaced. And waste more money? It was already more than I could afford to get down here. Every other cent that I have goes towards paying for school. Sara took a deep breath and forced herself to knock. She waited, a lump in her throat. Sara heard barking behind the door. She remembered that dog. His name was Bailey. Cas had saved him after his father had hit him on the road. Sara took a step back as the door squeaked open. Cas was there, holding Bailey, the yellow labrador, by the collar. “Sara?” He blinked in surprise, before a grin lit up his face. “Hey... I didn’t reckon you were gonna come by.” “Didn’t intend to.” Sara admitted. She paused. “Can I come in?” “Was a time when you didn’t have to ask.” Cas let go of Bailey. The big dog rushed forward and sniffed at Sara’s pants. He wagged his tail. “Guess he remembers you, huh?” Cas laughed--a genuine laugh this time. Sara followed him inside. Cas waved for her to sit down on the coach in his living room. Sara sat. She watched him return from the kitchen a moment later with two bottles of tea. Is that the best he can do for holiday refreshment? Sara wondered. “Drink?” Cas offered, sitting down beside her, far enough away that it was clear he knew where her boundaries were. She nodded, taking the bottle. “No beer this time.” She muttered, opening the tea bottle. Cas stiffened. “You know, I’ve waited years to see you again.” He murmured, gazing down into his drink. Bailey came over and rested his head on his master’s lap. “To get the chance to tell you how sorry I am. That night... I was angry and frustrated with everything. My dad ruined my birthday and made me feel worthless. And then Jed... he made it sound fun to go do what we did, with the beer.” Cas looked up, his eyes bright with remorse. “I never thought he’d do something like what he did to you, and I coulda killed him for that. I loved you, Sara. I never would have done anything to hurt you." Sara closed her eyes. “I know.” She whispered. “It wasn’t your fault, but it still hurt, Cas. Even before he pushed me, you stood with him against me. I was only trying to help you, and you were horrible to me." “I was a jerk back then.” Cas sneered, the self-hatred clear in his voice. He took a sip of his drink. “To everyone but you... guess I finally showed you my true colors, aye?” “Well, you did jump in the river to save me.” Sara smiled softly. Cas shrugged. “It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me." Sara pulled up her sleeve. She shoved her arm in front of Cas’s face. He blinked. “The bracelet.” She murmured. “I was going to give it to you on your birthday, before everything happened." The silver bracelet on Sara’s wrist had her name engraved on the band. Cas ran a finger over it. His shoulders sagged. “I really ruined everything, didn’t I?” He rasped. The young man rose to his feet. “Wait here; I want to show you something.” He turned and made his way up the stairs, leaving Sara alone with Bailey. She arched an eyebrow at the dog, who was staring at her. Bailey tail wagged. Cas reappeared a moment later. He sat back down and handed her a small, velvety, black box. “That’s what I was going to give you,” Cas confessed. “On your eighteenth birthday.” Sara knew, from the way he said that, what was in the box. That didn’t stop her from tearing up as she saw the beautiful, gleaming ring. “We could have had it all, couldn’t we?” Cas said, an unbearable affection and regret in his voice. Sara looked up. She saw the emotion in his eyes, and she remembered something. The one thing that had always made her love her hometown had never been the place. It’d been him. “Maybe we still can.” She told him without anger or resentment. She handed him the box and gently placed his hands around it. She rested hers on top of his. They were as warm as they’d been when she was a girl. “Someday."


The scene is Old Town, Scottsdale, and a new type of depression has infected the locals. At least half of his friends are out of a job. All of the bartenders, and drivers, and waitresses, and tour guides that were thriving just weeks ago are now wondering how they will pay next month's rent. Old Town has become a ghost town and the remaining occupants have grown restless. People are technically still allowed to leave their homes and most stores are still open, but the newly accepted social norms encourage the most extreme form of social distancing. Even the drama has subsided as the participants have retreated into hiding. And so, for the first time in forever, the streets of Old Town were quiet and sparse. Social media and dating app activity has spiked since the loose lockdown. And it's just another lonely March afternoon on one of the dating apps when the boy matches with the girl. They chat briefly about the state of the world and their collective impending gloomy future before he shifts the conversation texts. Immediately after doing so, he realizes that his text game is just as weak as his Tinder game and so he suggests that they go for a ride. They meet at a restaurant and eat in his car as no one is allowed to dine-in anymore. And as they cruise aimlessly through the city, they speak freely and grow close. Just before sunset, they arrive at the perfect viewing place for such an event. They’re now quiet as they take in the awe-inspiring scene before locking lips atop the mountain across from the fading sun. The ride back to his place is serene and free of negative thoughts pertaining to everyone's reality. On his bed, they open a bottle of wine and it is halfway gone by the time they find the perfect movie to watch on Netflix. Only a few moments into the movie, a move is made and sex ensues. This passionate display of carnal desire will stay with him forever. He hardly sleeps afterwards as he replays the night and thinks about what the future could hold. The girl represents everything he thinks he wants. Eventually his thoughts are overtaken by sleep but his slumber is disrupted by the intensity of the girl’s coughing fit. *Could this be the virus?* She’s struggling to breath and he’s struggling to focus in this most unnerving of situations. He thinks of who might be able to help but he realizes that all of his friends are probably sound asleep in their rooms, anxious, but healthy and currently at peace. And as he drives her to the emergency room, he tries to come to terms with the fact that he’ll likely be in her shoes in due time. The boy feels terrible about the fact that he can’t shake those questions floating around in his head. “Was any of this worth it? ...Is she really worth it?” The following weeks were dark and volatile in the Old Town that was once very much alive and consistent. The lights illuminating the streets of Scottsdale were mostly dark as there was no activity to shine light on. The standard shared sadness remained, but this time, it was the virus that consumed the town.


Hey so below is my first attempt at a short story. Any tips or advice would be muchly appreciated. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The old man smiled with his yellow crooked teeth, taking a seat opposite you in an equally plush high back armchair. "Where to begin.... Hm?" He scratch his chin, "Well the start would be the best place I suppose." He rested his feet upon a small foot rest, "Our story starts around 150 years ago underneath the smoke filled skies of victorian London, truly the technological and cultural capital of the time. You see these items all belonged to a Miss Harriet Beechwood. The Beechwoods were a prominent family in Victorian high society. Her mother Phillipa a common fixture at gala's and parties, mixing with who's who of the day. Harriet's father, Oswald, was a successful London banker. It was during a visit to her father's workplace she met the strapping young adventurer Godwin Whittock. She had her many tales of his daring feats from her father, who had overseen the fiance of many expeditions led by Godwin into the heart of Africa, at the time regarded as one of the last great untamed wilderness' yet to be tamed by the white man. Needless to say it was love at first sight, at least for Harriet. This initial meeting was quickly followed by a whirlwind summer romance of secret rendezvous and lengthy letters professing each others undying admiration and love. Yet it was not to last, you see Oswald knew of Goodwin's womanizing ways and upon uncovering their relationship Oswald forced the randy adventurer to propose in an attempt to save his dear Harriet from heartbreak and his family name from humiliation. Harriet was of course overjoyed when her darling Godwin proposed, her heart filled with joyed, her spirits never higher as she counted the days til they were wed. But alas this is Harriet would never get her happily ever after as on the eve of her wedding she received a letter written in Godwin's hand, it explained how he had never loved her and that the whole marriage had been forced upon him by her father. The message also revealed the extent of Godwin's promiscuity, listing a whole slew of mistresses including Harriet's own mother." The old man paused for a second, drawing a slow steady breath as if to calm himself, he continued, "Upon hearing the news, Harriet immediately set out to confront her parents, who at the time were staying at their country estate in the peak district, a good two weeks outside of the city. The heartbroken young lady would spend the next two days in her carriage mulling over each betrayal. Her lover, who she once idealised, revealed to be naught more than a womanizing lathero. Her father, her daddy dearest, a man who she believed would always protect her had humiliated her to save himself from embarrassment. Her loving mother, a woman who had always preached the values of a good marriage and fidelity, was in truth a hypocritical harlot, willing to drop her bloomers even at the cost of her own daughters heart. It was during these long hours of solemn contemplation that Harriet's once pure and kind heart grew darker, stained black by spite, hatred and malice. She no longer cared for others, why should they feel happiness and joy, things she had been robbed of. If she could no longer feel joy, she would ensure no one else ever would."  "Unfortunately Harriet would never reach her parents. Around midday on the seventh day of her travels, a terrible accident occured. As the carriage wound its way along a particularly craggy path, one misplaced foot from one of the horses result in the carriage to tumble down the valley, and into a the thicket of bushes below. The carriage driver was killed instantly, the horses managing to bolt free, yet poor Harriet remained trapped, bleeding out and barely conscious. Passerbys by were unable to hear her cries for help and so she died, slowly, cursing the world for how it had wronged her with each breath."  "Her remains weren't found until 3 weeks later, by which time her blood had soaked deep into her luggage, carrying her curse and hatred, binding it to those her few earthly possessions. Those that found the carriage each of course took a souvenir, only to find their loves soon drained of happiness and joy, needless to say many tragic tales like Harriet's have followed these items down through the years. Stories of young newly weds driven to suicide on their honeymoon upon receiving an ornate brooch as a wedding gift. Tales of bankers going broke, losing it all after purchasing an antique ring.


\[HF\] **THE SAND MACHINE - a historical romance of artificial intelligence** Proclus reports that in a village located three days sail past Syracuse, near the foothills of the Atlas mountains, there was once a very prosperous temple to the God Ammon which the Libyans, in the distant memory of their forefathers, had set up. It is said that there was an oracle here, superior even to the oracle which Alexander consulted upon his conquest of Egypt. This oracle became renowned among the Libyan tribes for giving proclamations upon the birth of an infant with unerring accuracy for the child’s future virtue or demerits in entering public life. This increased the reputation of the temple, and the wealth of the priesthood grew with the generations. Eventually the priests of the God barely worked on account of the great wash of offerings, and the face of the icon was painted with gold infused rose-water every morning. Despite these acts of devotion, the piety of the priests was not increased by their newfound wealth. They began to seek ways to improve the reputation of the oracle still further, telling themselves they did it for the glory of the God. One priest, named Ostanes, who was accustomed to geomancy, began to make figures in the sand - whether this was connected to the original practice of the oracle I do not know - and these petroglyphs became a particularly successful shorthand for recording proclamations. Soon these figures were all that was presented to the public, and the voice of the oracle, along with the medium who maintained it, was kept secret. The oracle too saw only images drawn in sand to represent the questions asked of her. This saved time in allowing the oracle to issue proclamations on multiple petitioners at once without ever having to hear a case. The geomantic figures then translated the proclamations into whatever the questioners needed to hear. This system proved to be quite efficient and this Ostanes was well pleased, but he thought to improve the reputation of the oracle still further. Using a system of funnels and a contrivance of mechanical wheels he devised a way to sort the grains of sand of the desert to predict questions before they arrived, and to derive the desired answers. This machine worked by taking in what sand the wind naturally provided and herding it down a series of tubes, which descended into funnels that opened in rhythmic motion. In this way the oracle could be consulted before petitioners arrived. Then this machine would create symbols to answer those questions that would be awaiting them when they came. At first Ostanes devoted a great deal of his time in attempting to herd the wind to give the answers he already knew were true, based on questions which had already been asked; afterwards he left the natural progression of sand to its own devices and presented whatever symbols it generated to the questioners of the day. This system proved enormously successful, and the wealth of the temple was greater than ever before. The feet of the God were forged anew of electrum, its face was inlaid with lapis lazuli, wine from the Nile Delta was offered to it every night, and now the priests were the ones who bathed in rosewater. Ever more petitioners arrived, and thanks to the sand machine, the priests could receive them. But soon the number of visitors became so great the priests did not have time to consult the oracle for the questions predicted at the beginning of every day. They went to Ostanes and asked him what to do. Without thinking, he told them at once that it was unnecessary to consult the oracle, as his machine could already predict questions as well as answers. The oracle remained in the temple, but no one consulted her. She spent her days in solitude. At first this new arrangement worked fine, and the temple attained still greater wealth. But very soon reports began to come in of inaccuracies in the predictions petitioners had received. Virtuous youths had been declared despondent, whereas slouches and layabouts were proclaimed to be upstanding citizens. This was causing particular tumult in the social order, as individuals predicted to be honorable behaved rashly, whereas those with real merit were left unused by society, to the great regret of all. More and more complaints came to the priests about the statements of the oracle, which up until then had never been wrong in this regard. The priests implicated Ostanes, who defended himself and his machine to the people, assuring them that it worked, and that their society was capable of being saved - all it needed was to be made bigger. For, as he said, the greater the number of grains of sand accommodated by the movements of the wind, the less chance there will be that the machine would make a mistake in drawing. That the oracle had ceased to be consulted was not mentioned, and the people were under the impression that it was she who read and interpreted the geomantic figures which the machine drew. So it happened that a large number of young men (many of whom had been declared layabouts by the new oracle while being perfectly virtuous in fact) volunteered for Ostanes to work to expand his machine. This was a labor they say took one hundred and eighty days, and by the end the machine extended nearly three stadia into the immeasurable desert. It was powered by a series of enormous windmills which rivaled the water screws Strabo attributes to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in scope. More than a thousand funnels produced intricate glyphs day by day, and, while this provided employment to many who had been demoted under the new system, it served ultimately only to distract the populace. Complaints continued to filter in. The reputation of the temple began to decline. Eventually the priests found that what had been unthinkable just a few years before was occurring, and they had to settle debts. Still no one thought to consult the oracle, and, seeking only to recreate the wealth that their machine had provided at its peak, they put their last remaining resources into expanding the contraption still further. In the end the doors of the temple were shuttered, the icon was stripped until it was little more than a pole of wood with legs, the once great priesthood was dispersed, and the people stoned Ostanes to death as vengeance for misleading them with sorcery. All that remained to tell of the oracle’s once great reputation was a forest of funnels and tubes, useless and serving no purpose, but creaking audibly on the outskirts of the village, and extending further into the desert than any villager knew. The remnants of these mechanics did nothing for anyone, and only served as furnishing for a wasteland. They say the oracle survived, but where she traveled to is unknown, and if the lineage of that medium has continued, it is now to be found among common fortune-tellers, not among the Great.


The earth shook with a low rumble and all the surgical tools rattled. Kono’s hand slipped with the tremor and his scalpel sliced into the young soldier’s exposed artery. Unflinchingly Kono threw the scalpel into a bucket of dirty sanitizer and pressed tattered rags against the artery but the young man had already lost too much blood and what little remained of his life slipped away. He probably would not have survived the operation anyway. Maybe a few more days alive and able to write some last words to his family and then dead of an infection or blood loss or just plain stress. Kono released the pressure and dropped the rags in a bucket of cold soapy water. He washed the blood from his hands. He wore no gloves because the camp had no gloves. Kono took off his glasses and wiped away the sweat of his brow with a dry rag and then sat in the only chair in the surgery. He cleaned his glasses with the best part of the rag and put them back on and let out a long sigh. He always held his breath during surgeries, and for a time after, too. A few heavy hailstones plinked into the metal roof of the surgery. Kono sat for a long time and stared at nothing. He saw past and through and around the mostly empty supply crates and folded cots and thin metal walls of the surgery. Sometimes it was a triage. Sometimes it was a medic’s office. Always Kono lived there. He had not slept for twenty hours. The coffee rations ran out two weeks ago. Harsh fluorescent lights lit up the concrete floor like driven snow -- the men bleached it every day. Blood trickled from the table to the floor. “Doc.” Kono looked up and saw the Major at the door. He held his hat by his side as he was a good-mannered man. The combat fatigues had no matches and the Major had clearly slept in them. The door was closed behind him, Kono had not noticed his entry at all. He had been thinking too much. Thinking about the trickle of blood. “Major,” Kono said. He did not salute but rubbed one hand over the other and brought them to his mouth and rested his elbows on his knees. The soldiers did not salute the Major because the Belligerents took to shooting commanders. Kono did not salute because he did not care. “Ryerson?” the Major asked with a nod to the body on the table. “Dead.” “Shame.” “It is.” There was silence for some time. “It was an accident,” Kono said at last. “I’m sure,” said the Major. “You’re a good doctor.” “I’m not a doctor.” “You’re most of the way there.” “I’m not a doctor.” The Major shrugged. “We can’t afford to be picky.” “It was the blast. It shook my hand,” Kono said. He held out his hand still as stone nad then dropped it. The Major gave a wan smile and nodded. “Shook the camp. Bella’s getting close.” The Major stood in silence. “Is there somewhere I can sit?” Kono waved to a box of expired antibiotics and pain pills. The Major nodded and dragged it over to where Kono was, squared it across from him, and sat. Kono glanced up at the Major, and over to Ryerson, and back to the floor, and prayed to God that Ryerson would glance at the Major but the young soldier only stayed dead. “I can’t keep doing this,” Kono said. “You just need some sleep.” “Sometimes I think I’ve killed more people than Bella.” “Maybe,” the Major said with a shrug. “But you certainly saved more than the Belligerents ever have. You know that, right?” Kono said nothing. He looked at Ryerson. The blood had stopped trickling and begun to congeal a little on the floor. The boys would have to bleach it tonight. They only bleached it when there was blood to bleach. “Why are you here?” Kono asked. The major pursed his lips and looked up over his head. “There’s an evac coming in soon for civilians. Headed for Oshkosh and then further East. Technically -- well, technically you’re still a civilian.” “And?” “And, if you’d want, I can get you on that evac.” “I can’t just go on that evac?” “I could stop you.” “But you wouldn’t?” “I wouldn’t.” Kono sat in silence for sometime again. Another, smaller tremor rumbled through the ground and rattled the surgical tools. “You’d be out a medic,” Kono said. He pushed black unwashed hair back from his face, far longer than what the FAS allowed in the enlisted men. But technically -- technically -- Kono had civilian privileges. He also kept a short beard. The Major had no facial hair and had gone bald many years ago, and once he had been fat but the skin now fell in loose folds on his face and neck. He had become as thin as Kono. “You could go back to school,” the Major said “But you’d be out a medic.” “I’ll requisition a new one.” “That doesn’t mean you’ll get one.” The Major glanced at Ryerson and back at Kono. “I didn’t even have to tell you about the evac, you know. It’s landing ten klicks East. You would never have known.” “So why tell me?” The Major was silent for a while. He massaged his hat together in his hands until it became a tight ball and then he released it again. “War is awful,” he said at last. “A lot of awful, awful things happen in war. I hoped to God I’d die before my children saw war but here we are. War is where the Devil comes to do his worst. He plays his worst games and we’re all just toys to be scattered and broken.” Kono said nothing but he thought of Ryerson and the many men and women who had preceded him. “But you, Kono, you’re just some kid in the thick of it who stepped up to the plate. You stepped up to the plate and you’ve been doing good damn work in all this awful war. You’ve been doing God’s work. God’s work in the Devil’s playground. You stepped up and you did what you could, and when I asked for more you gave more. And then I asked for more, and you gave more still. You always gave more.” The Major stopped and looked at the door. Another rumble had shaken the surgery. “Bella’s getting real close,” Kono said. “He is. But that’s my problem to deal with,” the Major said and held Kono’s gaze. “I need an answer. The evac gets here in two hours.” “I’ll go,” Kono said flatly. “I’ll go.” Kono cocked his head. He could hear a flurry of activity out in the camp. Men running, engines roaring and tires coming to a screaming halt. Voices shouted “Injured, injured incoming!” and grew closer. The Major heard it, too. Kono looked over the surgery. “I’ll need a gallon of fresh antiseptic. Any antiseptic at all,” he said. “To start. And two men to clear out Ryerson and set up triage. Bellmonte and Irish, if they’re free. I’ve taught them the most.” “Of course,” the Major said. Kono stood and began preparing Ryerson for collection. Even the dead deserved a clean suture. The Major stood and watched for a minute. “You didn’t have to tell me,” the Major said. “What?” Kono stopped and turned to face the Major. “That’s why I told you about the evac, even though I didn’t need to. When our medical staff got turned into red paint in Chelsea you stepped up. You didn’t have to tell me you were a medical student. You didn’t have to help. You didn’t have to do any of that. You could have lied and been on the first evac out of the U.P.” “I need that antiseptic and the men I requested,” Kono said and returned to Ryerson. The Major nodded, placed his crumpled hat on his head, and went to the door. He stood with his hand on the knob but did not open it. “Antiseptic. Men,” Kono repeated. He finished the suture, unlocked the table wheels and pushed Ryerson over to the far wall to make room for incoming cots. He had no sheet to cover the corpse. “The evac comes in two hours,” the Major said. “And the injured in two minutes,” Kono replied. The Major nodded, and left the surgery. Two hours later Kono instructed Irish on the proper method to drain blood from a lung, and Bellmonte pulled shrapnel from a corporal's thigh. He did not notice the corporal had stopped breathing before the operation began.


Fallacies and fantasies. I gradually and tightly hugged my doughy headrest and turned my cranium in front of my room’s entrance. The dimness of the room gave me nothing but a wilderness of my fiction. It’s giving me the fantasy from the article I read which in my opinion was a deception. The article about the man in different people’s nightmares brought me a whole lot of foreign confusion. Its round complexion, murky eyes, thick eyebrows, and fairly pointed nose. Or, perhaps, it isn’t. Possibly, it is a soft and petite nose. The way they describe the man seemed fine but the portrait itself is way too vicious. They called the man in their dreams, this man. If this is a paranormal or spiritual mystery hidden within the subconsciousness of oneself while the confusion was lurking around the dreamer’s brain, this might be useful as typical evidence to prove a theory that conceivably, dreamland does exist. I scanned again my browser, silently hoping to find a concept within the website that has a distinct and unique description of the man in their dreams, but there are none. Every dreamer has an indistinguishable portrayal of the man’s details which is too absurd to be pondered as a truth. Their assertion was way too perfect that it made me believe that it was scripted. They describe the man in the dreams way too perfectly like they have met him in reality. I heaved a deep sigh before turning my head again, but now facing my room’s ceiling. My mind is being disturbed by a bunch of thoughts. I closed my eyes wanting to fall asleep even with my hazy mind, but it wasn't as easy as I thought it was. I couldn’t sleep. I just couldn’t. I opened my eyes again and planned to shift my muscle but to my horror, I couldn’t move even a single finger. The image of a man standing in front of me with a knife in his hand brought fear to my whole system. Is he going to jab me? “I ain’t a myth, fallacy, and deception. I am your nightmare, Triv. I am your trepidation.” As he raised his hand while holding the knife with the vicious grin plastered in his round complexion, I almost cried. He is way too terrifying that would make everyone piss on their pants. The man seemed to be so hostile that I couldn’t even look at his face for too long. I tried to open my mouth and scream but I couldn’t and when he was about to hit me, I managed to move my tongue. “W-Wait!” I shrieked which made me wake up from terror. I was shrouded in sweat. Anguish and turmoil compelled my body to tremble. My heart thump slows down but it's throbbing so bad. It’s excruciating. The nightmare is suffocating. My heartbeat is at its abnormal rhythm. I immediately got up from my bed to fetch some chilled water from our fridge to alleviate my nervousness. The setting is quite depressing. The only thing you’ll hear aside from a dead stillness is the insect’s outcry. The silence is deafening which would compel everyone to assume that chaos is near. It’s too bizarre. The insect's outcry added more suspense that made me tremble with fear. “It’s been a year, Triv,” a voice of a man uttered. It horrified me when a familiar voice from my posterior spoke. It’s the man in my nightmare. Tears build up because of fear. This can’t be true! This must be a dream! This man is all fictional. There’s no scientific explanation that’ll prove his existence. There’s no way in hell that he’s true! I am just hallucinating! I have to wake up! The man grinned before he slanted his back unto the wall just a meter away from me. “You reckoned the idea of your God, but you don't acknowledge me? You assume the unseen: deity, air, afterlife, epitome, and redemption, yet you don't believe what you've seen?” the man sarcastically said. Entirely outraged by his remarks, I threw the glass in his location with all of my strength. The exact moment that the cup was approximately about to hit him, it halts in the air propelling me to be more surprised than ever. “Human-person doesn't discern gravity at all,” he declared. “Your notion of gravity is not meticulous. I am not asserting that your science is erroneous. It is partially authentic but not wholly accurate.” He snapped his fingers which provoked the glass to fall. “You, humans, are unstable beasts. Immoral. Faulty. Vicious. Fond of negligence. Creators of numerous faults then rendered the same mistake again,” he said while crossing his arms and tapping his elbow using his index finger. “Mortal’s immoral succession. Errors after blunders. Impaired. Weak,” he insulted. He beamed again. His statements keep on booming in my head. He’s driving me to insanity. “If you’re not like us, t-then what are you?” His brows puckered but his creepy smile is still plastered in his round complexion. “I am nonentity but a saga. I am the gravity itself but can't be categorized as gravity by humans' portrayal of gravity. I am the utopia but not the atmosphere you'll see on sunny days. I am the rain but not the rainfalls. I am the conflagration but not as feverish as it appears. I am the water but I am not as decent as it is. I am in between ebony and white but I am not gray. I am not God but I am the god of myself. I am trivial and hearsay. A nightmare itself but can't be fiction without the dreamer.” “I am the riddle without an answer,” he said. As his body fades, the whole room changes its shape. It was another trance. “W-Wait!” I shrieked which made me up from terror. I was shrouded in sweat. Anguish and turmoil compelled my body to tremble. My heart thump slows down but it's throbbing so bad. It’s excruciating. It’s suffocating. "De javú," I murmured as actualization hit me.


My face exploded across a wall of screens. *Tonight, we honour the life and career of Rattlesnake Rick Houston*. A silent split-second, then the crowd damn near blew the lid off the stadium. Jack Ascot walked out in a suit and talked some smooth shit about what a legend of ‘wrestling entertainment’ I’d become. Managed not to mention how he’d sharked me for every last dime in every contract, or how he’d run me down in a golf cart, batshit drunk and coked to hell in his wife's dressing-gown back in ninety-three. The footage they replayed from the eighties summed up that whole time pretty well, though. Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tan. Everything fake but the scars. The good folks in the crowd just wanted me to come out, strike the old pose, shake Ascot’s hand and gracefully retire, but I didn’t do any of that because I was nine drinks and five shots deep in the darkest corner of a San Antonio dive at seven-thirty pm. Missed the ceremony, missed my last six AA meetings, missed baby Adelaide’s birthday party, again. Rattlesnake Rick was *The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet*, but plain old Richard Collins wasn’t. Life hit hard, and it didn’t agree the outcome in advance. It was maybe five-am, sprawled cold and hungover in the dumpster out back, that a piercing light forced my eyes open like revelation. Fierce, white, raining down from on high and making a far-off racket like somebody taught an Apache helicopter to sing opera. I tried, painfully, to peel myself off the wet bags, then felt my stomach fired up into the air about ten feet before the rest of me followed on. ‘Jesus’, I thought. ‘I mean, Jesus. Jesus Goddamn Christ, Jesus’. Might not have been eloquent, but it’s truthfully what I thought at the time. Caught in a beam of white light, I whipped up through the air too fast to make out much beyond stars and a blue glow, and blacked out quick. Came around inside of somewhere with red walls curving upwards from where I lay, in pretzel patterns and with texture like sand - but that low opera-whine still resonated through everything and the light felt artificial. It was either a submarine or a ruined temple or some head-on collision of both. “Rattlesnake Rick of Houston,” a voice said. “An honour it is, to meet the greatest fighter of your planet.” Which was, y’know, weird. The guy who said it had four arms, purple skin, pitch-black eyes and a robe draped with the kind of multicoloured beads new-age folks hung from their doorways in the sixties. “And an honour it is for you, to be chosen,” he said. I felt my arms strapped to some kind of table, or maybe an altar. Panic boiled up in my stomach, and I told myself it was probably a waking nightmare brought on by sleep paralysis. My shoulder still triggered those off sometimes. “For centuries, the Zan’Kil Empire has taken world after world into its embrace,” the guy said, drawing closer to reveal multi-bladed teeth. “But we are not barbarian slaughterers. We offer each planet a chance.” He rasped on for a bit about how every civilisation in the sights of their spacefaring empire got the ‘opportunity’ to pit their toughest champion against the Zan’Kil Crown Prince, and those who won the fight got their people spared. I was fighting down last night’s chili dogs so it didn’t all compute, but I guess they did a scan and somehow figured Rattlesnake Rick actually was The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet. I already knew the answer in my churning guts, but I asked him how many times somebody had knocked off a Crown Prince. “There is,” he smiled, “a first time for everything.” I got the feeling this guy was kind of an asshat. They unstrapped me from the table a little while after, five guards with twenty arms between them. Blow to the head. Blacked out again. Bladed teeth in my nightmares. That messed-up smile. That little pony toy, the one I’d forgotten to buy for Adelaide. *** They dragged me to my feet in a long tunnel and left me there to wait, the shape of an archway swimming hazy at the edge of my vision, far-off and blinding orange with whatever alien light was outside. I heard the breaking-wave rush of a distant crowd. That part felt kind of familiar. “If you win, they will not let you live,” said a voice close behind. I near shat my pants to see another four-armer standing there, staring dolefully at the archway. “If you defeat me and your world is spared, tradition demands your own life in return.” The guy I figured for the Crown Prince had about four feet on me, with thick armour and fists the size of beer kegs. “That’s not really the outcome I’m worried about,” I said. “Just so. I too grow weary of smashed innards staining my soul and fingernails,” he said, looking exhausted and sad. “But should I relent on the field and spare you, the ancients would know my blood had turned the pale blue of a sickly Zan-calf, and no longer blushed the fierce, rich mauve of a larger and more vigorous Zan-calf. My own life would be forfeit.” He smeared two thick lines of red warpaint onto his forehead, and it reminded me of El Noche Fuego’s godawful comeback costume from ninety-six. “If I could fairly lose this fight to a worthier warrior, and leave this world in peace, I would do so gladly,” he sighed. A thought fluttered wildly through my brain. “Say I wasn’t really The Greatest Fighter on the Planet,” I blurted. “Say it was all a lie, and your ancients got wind. What would happen?” “They would return you to your home and choose the true greatest warrior, as tradition demands.” That was it. I could tell them it was all staged - show them the backstage docs and trash-mag clippings on my phone if they didn’t believe me. Get home, let this forlorn bastard smash some Navy Seal’s head in, wait for the apocalypse and have a drink, have a lot of drinks, have all the drinks. On Adelaide’s fourth and last birthday. Jesus. Goddamn Christ Jesus. I turned to the Crown Prince. “Got an idea,” I said to him. He really did look kinda like El Noche Fuego in that warpaint. “An idea?” “You want to lose and I can't win a real fight, but this shit-for-brains empire hasn’t clocked onto what ‘wrestling entertainment’ means so we might have a shot at something here. If I pretend to hit you, think you can pretend like it's really painful?” “To counterfeit pain and distress? Yes, a simple task.” “Then keep close and just play along with my instructions, your highness - and when I tell you to stay down, stay down.” I stepped out to the edge of the arena, and the crowd’s roar swelled up around me. Took a little moment to say my goodbyes. Then, for the first time in a long time, I smiled like I did back in those old videos. “This is gonna be one hell of a show.