It was early spring in the heart of the Kentucky countryside and the year was 1779. A stone structure had just been finished near the crossroads of two dirt wagon trails. The structure was two stories with the first floor being entirely built from limestone while the second story was a mixture of lighter sandstone and wood. The first floor contained a great hearth and a large open area with two long wooden tables with parallel benches that could seat up to five diners at each side. A few smaller tables were also scattered about the open space. Adjacent to the wall with the large hearth was a wooden bar with a large keg of beer located at one end and a wall of shelved whiskey bottles of various types behind the bar. The bottles were all hand blown and the 10 to 15 bottles present were all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Each of them was filled with a local whiskey that was distilled by families skilled in the art of bourbon making. On the opposite wall from the cooking hearth, was the main entrance and a small cornered-off area with a few store supplies. The supplies were mostly simple, consisting of a few hemp bags of sugar and flour maybe some dried meat or hard bread. The ceiling of the first floor was hand-cut hardwood of ash and elm. Large beams crisscrossed the roof and in the remaining corner, a wooden staircase ascended to the floor above. The second story was composed mostly of a storage area towards the front of the structure but the remaining section was divided into four small rooms that could sleep up to eight guests although rather tightly. The stone building had been built by two hardy adventurers who had explored the new American West. By this time they had been worn by many years of travel and living as trappers. They had decided to try entrepreneurship in the quickly populating Kentucky, which was still a part of the Virginia colony. George Talbott and Jim Breecher had been friends many years and were now on a new venture together as owners of coach stop that was also a tavern, inn, and stable. The increasing traffic at these crossroads meant a continuous stream of customers. A small village had begun to develop nearby during the Inns two years of construction. The newly founded village had become called Salem by the residents. A stage ferrying passengers from the town of Lexington to the East arrived once every couple of days depending on weather, road conditions, and the availability of passengers. The other road was a north/south road with the town of Louisville to the North on the banks of the Ohio River. A stage also arrived sporadically from there. The road to the south meandered for some 20 miles into the wilderness before turning into a trail with a few homesteads scattered along the way. Patrons for the lodge typically came with the stages that came from Lexington or Louisville usually late afternoon or early evening. The stages would stay overnight then continue their travels the next day. George and Jim were always more than accommodating for the guests. The local cuisine of deer, rabbit, squirrel, and vegetables would be cooked for the guests depending on the season. Ale and whiskey would flow along with some live music from local villagers who would often visit when guests were staying. It was a good way for local folk to hear of news from the bigger towns and were often treated to dinner and drink by the guests. The favorite time would be when Jim and George once properly liquored up would sit in front of the large fire in the hearth and tell their stories of their adventures throughout Kentucky, back east, and further west. The owners had traveled as far as the Mississippi and Ohio River confluence in their days as trappers and had got to know much about the Natives that inhabited those wild frontiers. They had also run into many trappers who had been much further west and north that talked of great grasslands that stretched across the landscape like some giant green sea that was filled with buffalo that were in such large number that when they all ran together it roared like thunder and shook the ground. Some took their stories with a grain of salt others had heard rumors and stories themselves of the vastness of the lands further west, but for the moment the time at the inn was for relaxing, enjoying good company, a meal, and good a night’s sleep. One particular stormy evening during George and Jim’s storytelling time a stranger came through the front entrance. People in the room gave him little notice other than looking towards the opened door due to the wind, rain, and flashes of lightning that followed the stranger in. He was dressed in clothing of a highwayman; a long trench coat buttoned and drenched wet with only his boats visible below the coat. Large leather gauntlet-like gloves covered his hands. His face was hidden in shadow from a large-brimmed hat that covered his head with the front pulled down over his forehead covering his eyes while rainwater dripped off of it. Everyone turned back towards George who was in the midst of his story as the stranger stepped in closing the door behind him. He unbuttoned his coat and headed toward an empty chair at the bar. A nearby youth at the end of the long table gaped at the stranger’s waist as he walked by. He could see the handles of two large flintlock pistols sticking out of the sash that was around the stranger’s waist as well as the sheath of a large dagger protruding down his side hip. The stranger leaned into the bar next to a tall stool and ordered a bottle of whiskey from the barkeep, who brought down a bottle from behind him and pulled up a small glass from beneath the bar, wiping it out with a small cloth then setting them both in front of the stranger. George continued his story after the brief disruption of the entrance. “As I was saying, so there were me and Jim in the thickets of the brush next to the river. We were looking in at the Indian camp and we could see ole Lieutenant Bosch tied up to a post in the center of the small encampment. Two warriors were around the Lieutenant. and he was hanging there in all despair with his red coat and uniform all ripped and soiled. His head was hanging low and you could tell the Indians had been putting a club or two to him. Me and Jim were assessing the situation from the brush, we just had on our field regulars see we were militiamen while Bosch was a regular for the British Army, this was during the war with the Frenchies. Anyways me and Jim see’s a way to skirt in a bit closer and maybe be able to take out the warriors quickly without creating too much havoc and alerting anyone else around. See we sneak in all quite like and get to within about 10 yards before the clearing and we’re in a position that the braves aren’t a lookin our way. I look at Jim and point to my bayonet on my rifle and nod and he gives me a nod, understanding to go at em with just our blades. We burst out of the bush and let into the braves before they have time to react and they are down with our thrusts in moments.” “Now we look at ole Bosch hanging there in a drabble and bleeding all about his face and he gives us a weak look through his blackened and puffy eyes. Just as we are about to free him, the post he is tied to burst into splinters above our heads, then we hear the report of a musket off to our sides from the tree line. We turn towards the direction of fire seeing three Frenchies just at the tree line. One of them kneeling had just shot and the other two were raising their muskets to their shoulders. We turned and started to flee, just as I noticed the parchment just sticking out of Bosch’s waistband. I grabbed the parchment and said to Bosh we’d return with reinforcements and took off following Jim for the trees and thickets. I heard the crack of two balls pass just by me and saw Jim take a skimming blow from one of them just in front of me.” Jim sitting down near George stood up and pulled up his right pant leg and showed the audience in the dim light his gnarly-looking calf that was deeply scarred and missing a chunk of meat. The onlookers awed and the squeamish felt grotesque. George continued. “Now I know many of ya are a thinkin we were yella leavin ole Bosch there that away, but ya gotta take into consideration that we were on a mission to recover that parchment with or without Bosch attached as it had some information of military importance. And them injuns couldn’t have cared less about it. They were most likely havin their fun beatin on Bosch and awaiting for the Frenchies to come.” Just then a shout was heard from the bar. The dark stranger let out a loud “Wait!” and he pulled a pistol from his sash pointing it toward the direction of George and Jim and took a big step in their direction. George and Jim had a spooked look on their faces as if they were seeing a ghost. George began uttering, “Bbb..b.bb.bbb.Bosch?” “That’s right you lilly yellow cowards, you had that part right. It’s me. Lieutenant Bosch!” The now revealed stranger growled and he cocked the flintlock aiming directly at George. “I’ve waited a long time for this.” He continued steadily as he aimed. Then two loud reports went off and gun smoke filled the room along with the smell of burning powder and the scream of Bosh and a yelp from George. The barkeep had pulled a pistol just in time from behind the bar and had fired just an instant before Bosch, nailing him square between the shoulder blades. Bosch’s shot went off just as the ball had struck him sending his shot a bit off and clipping George’s ear taking off an upper chunk of it. A new story was added that evening and the audience got a real play of a lifetime. George and Jim operated the Inn for the next 15 years before each died of old age not too far apart. First Jim went. His leg had always been a problem since he had received that wound not to count all the other marks from his adventures and the amount of drink he had consumed through it all. George had mostly gone through the adventures minus any major injuries other than the piece of ear he got shot off that night. Folks would say that since Jim was gone George no longer had the gust for continuing on either and would prefer to join his friend on new expeditions in whatever the life beyond maybe. Whatever that may be, everyone hoped that they would be on some grand adventure again together. Some 250 years later the stone-built inn and tavern are still standing in what is now the 21st-century city of Bardstown. The streets are now paved with asphalt, the small village of Salem grew into a larger town with a central courthouse located across the street from the inn. The courthouse is the center of the later 19th-century town square. The town square on which the now known Talbott tavern and inn is located. Electrical lights now illuminate the streets and buildings as well as Talbott Tavern. Patrons still visit much as they did over 200 years ago only now instead of horses and carriages people arrive in town by motor vehicle and tour the historic buildings and taste the myriad of bourbons that the city is now world renown for. The great hearth still remains from where George and Jim once told stories and local musicians would play, and it still goes on to this day. It’s not George and Jim telling stories but area writers, historians, and whoever has skill will still do a reading or tell a history of the place now on a small stage in the corner near the hearth. Even occasional musicians may play a smooth tune for dinner guests. Many guests and some employees have even claimed a ghostly sighting around the dining area or in the upstairs rooms that have now been renovated for guests to get a taste of centuries past. Times have changed everywhere but in some places, you can still catch glimpses and a feel of years gone by when at the soul the place remains the same.


It happens every year, almost like a ritual, when my family, friends, and ex-colleagues gather together to enjoy the most special day for me--my birthday. But this time it wasn't like my ordinary birthday, instead it was--I think--my last day on Earth. I am laying on my white bed inside a white room where I can hear the beep sounds of the EKG machine, the cotton is very smooth and very comfortable in my skin. My son is sitting on my side and holding my hands and looking at me with sadness. I can see his eyes, his grey eyes, that is telling me that I deserve his pity. Why do I feel like this? Is this what it feels like to be in this situation? To be in your death bed? When I was a kid, my friends always ask me, why do I always use my pencil to color my works? I could not tell them the truth. I always pretend that I know much more, but when I am wrong they always pick on me. I just want to get out of that hell hole. I envy normal people because they are normal, I envy them because they know things. All I ever dreamed about was to go out in the world and see the beauty of everything but it never happened, and time passed by, it just became clear to me that it would never happen. I heard the door crankled and I saw the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, along with my youngest child and a few of my relatives. I can see her tears in her eyes flowing down like a raindrop on a window pane. I can feel her sadness inside her and I want to remove it from her heart because I do not want her to feel that way. She is holding this paper bag that is covered with what it seems to be a "Happy birthday!" design. I can not even smile no more. My wife is smiling even though she is crying inside, all of my relatives are singing the happy birthday song but all I am thinking about is to when am I going to die. I do not want them to suffer anymore. All I am asking God is to take me away and not make it hard for them anymore. As they were done singing the song, I see my wife taking something inside the paper bag, it is a medium-sized box, covered with a white paper. "Are you ready, my dear?" She said, while she is wiping her tears and smiling at the same time. She removed the paper of the box and put it in my bed. I saw the box in it and I think the box is very light as how my wife lifts it. She opens the box very slow, and took something inside it. It was a small elongated rectangle case. It looks like a case for glasses. Why would they give me glasses? I can see all my relatives faces smiling like my favorite 1970's comedy film. My wife is so excited and you can see that the smile on her face is genuine and it really came from her heart. She walks up to me, on my side, opened the case and said, "Come on now my dear, let us try your new glasses. I am very, very sure you will like it." It was a simple glasses, its rim is black and the color of the lenses is--I think--transluscent and I wonder why they are so excited about this. As my wife put it gently in my eyes, I saw a new world. The world that I have been looking for ever since I was a child. I feel so mesmerized and I can not believe what I am seeing right now. I burst into tears and I can feel the excitement inside me. I want to scream and shout but I can not, instead I asked my wife softly, "Honey, can you please open up the curtains?" As my wife nodded, I can see all of the people inside the room crying and wiping their tears with smiles on their faces. The moment my wife look at me in the eyes before opening the curtains, is the moment that I could finally see the color of her eyes and I can see my whole world inside those eyes. I am very lucky to have a woman like her. The time has come, I am near to rest, the moment they opened the curtains, made me burst more into tears and the beauty of the world punched me hard in the face. I can clearly see how beautiful the world is with colors in it. The leaves are green, the sunflowers are yellow and the all-knowing heaven is white and blue. And before I close my eyes, I grabbed and gripped my wife's hands and look at her with gratitude and saw her messy black eye liner because of her bucket of tears while saying "Thank you!" silently, in her red lips. She kissed me in the forehead and I smiled at her when I took my last breath.


Badu was the tenth of his mother’s children. Though the rest of his siblings were average in every way, Badu was born with only one leg. The highest-ranked elder of the town, came to congratulate his mother on Badu’s birth and gifted her with his first cane. Saying, “Until he no longer needs it”. Despite the rumours and his wonky walk, his mother and father thought no less of him. He was their son and that’s what mattered most. But his brothers and sisters did not think like his parents, and they teased him, taking his cane, and running away. There was no way he could ever catch them. When Badu was eight, he went to school, and the boys and girls there teased him too. He wasn’t allowed to join in their games or play with them. All Badu wanted to do was run, like the people at school. Every morning he looked out his window and asked the birds in the trees “You have legs but do not need them, you have wings instead, I wish you would let me borrow them”. There was one boy who Badu was the most envious of. His name was Kofi. “You will never be any good at anything if all you think about is how good other people are” Near the school there was a deep river, it was one of the only places Badu could be himself. During the running games he swam around instead. He would spend all his break in there, usually in the shallows but sometimes diving under to collect pebbles at the bottom. He then used the rocks to pass time skimming them from the bank. Swimming was much easier for Badu; he didn’t need two legs to swim. Kofi, the boy Badu was envious of, was not only fast but also vicious. Badu avoided him as much as possible when they were let out to play. Kofi was training for the big run in the next town over, all the schools from the area were to meet there. Kofi had been picked, as well as nine of the other fastest boys and girls to run in the big race. Everyone was to go with them to support them, and in class they were making banners that had their choice of winner on them. That night he went home to his mother and cried on her lap. His mother laughed and told him, “Just because you are different does not make you a bad person”. Lying in bed that night, he spotted a spider spinning her web in the corner of the room. “Please stop! I must talk to you!” She turned to face him, “What do you want to you talk to me about?” “I need to borrow one of your legs for tomorrow, just for one day. I want to run in the race, to feel the wind rush past my ears, and not to stumble on every step” The sider shook her head, “I cannot do that for you” The boy cried out, “But I have only one leg and you have eight! Why won’t you share?” The spider laughed again, “You do not need legs to achieve greatness”, and with that she scuttled away into the night. The trip to the next town was tiring in the heat of the day, and everyone was thankful to finally be there. The first competitors lined up ready to start the race. The course went around the outside edge of a huge oval shaped lake. Badu and his classmates scattered around to spend the next few hours lazing at the lake. Kofi was in the second round of races. Badu went straight into the lake, it was such a hot day there was no need to stay on the hot dirt, and it was much more comfortable to watch from there. He went to a part halfway through the course, far away from where the crowd was mainly gathered. The runners from the first race had already finished. There was an ear-piercing whistle and they started to run. Kofi quickly fell behind the faster runners. Soon the first runners were passing Badu in the water. They came in sections. So, it was a few minutes before Badu realised, he hadn’t seen Kofi yet. The last time he saw him was at the start of the race. He glanced back at the group of runners. But no, he wasn’t there either. Thinking quickly, Badu swam over to where he last saw Kofi. There was splashing in the water, but he couldn’t see who it was! All the water had brought dirt to the surface and make it hard to see. An arm came out of the water, Badu grabbed it and started pulling the person to the bank, but he was heavy. He pulled as hard as he possibly could. Finally, Kofi’s head bobbed above water. “Paddle your legs Kofi!” Together the two boys managed to get him out of the water. The two boys panted for a minute before catching their breath. “Wow! Thank you, Badu!” Kofi said Badu was too shocked to reply, their teachers came running over after seeing the chaos from the other side of the lake. “What happened? Did Badu pull you in?” They asked. “No! He saved me, I had heatstroke, I fainted and woke up when he was pulling me out, he saved my life!” They started to fuss over them, Badu had never heard so many nice things said about him before. His swimming had saved Kofi’s life. Kofi turned to him “You’re a hero!” Badu’s mother was right - his differences weren’t bad. Instead of being envious of other people’s abilities, he could work on his own, and make his own version of success.


Safety First As I opened the truck door and reached for the hood latch I noticed a meth kit on the bench seat and a rusty hatchet underneath it. I popped the hood and returned to my security partner to inform him of what I saw. We decided to stall instead of jumping her car off and call the police. After I hooked up the battery pack, without turning it on, I had the lady attempt to start her car. Once the truck failed to start I quickly said, “let’s wait a bit and let It charge.” While we were waiting for the cops to arrive her son walked up with a full gas can. He was just as strung out as she was. My partner and I swiftly informed him we were attempting to jump the car off to not freak him out. The cops arrived immediately after that and arrested them for public intoxication and possession, not to mention her 16-year-old son had five warrants out for his arrest. My first job out of high school was a security guard at mall. During my time there I witnessed many bizarre situations; however, these meth addicted drug addicts were the most disturbing. At nine o’clock at night, the parking lot closed and my job was to patrol the area and inform people to leave. When I approached the lady, she insisted on staying to watch the airshow. I was immediately uncomfortable and knew something wasn’t right. I radio my partner and we approached the situation with caution which was the right decision. I think I subconsciously entered the security field due to the trauma I encountered from my earliest memory. My earliest memory takes place in Birmingham AL of 1998 when I was roughly three years old. On a dark summer night, I was walking down a residential street with my older brother and my mom who was pushing a stroller with my baby brother in it. On the way to the gas station at the end of the street, I noticed a white truck drive past us a couple of times. Being young and practically having no thoughts at all I didn’t notice the danger of someone circling us. We finally reached the gas station for my mom to use the payphone to call my grandparents. While she was on the phone my brother and I to ran up and down in a ditch next to the gas station to entertain ourselves. My mom screamed, “Get over here you two.” I listened and returned to my mom standing in front of the store windows. As I was looking into the store at the twin pack of hostess cupcakes I heard a terrifying scream. I turned around to a giant man wearing a ski mask with devil red eyes, black long sleeve shirt, blue jeans, and black boots holding my brother with a gun to his temple. “Give me all your money or I’ll kill this bastard,” he yelled. My mother pleaded with him in tears explaining she had no money. She just used her last quarter in the phone booth to call her parents. The man pointed the gun at us. “Give me your money or I will kill you and all your children, you stupid lying bitch,” he said. I scuffled more behind my mom’s leg as she continued crying and begging for our lives, still repeating she had no money. The man picked my brother up and ran around the back of the building. My mom screamed out his name repeatedly, “Jacob!” Then I saw my brother running as fast as he could to us as we heard a truck start. As my mom grabbed the phone to dial 911 a white truck quickly left from behind the store. I don’t remember anything from this moment until the sea of cops arrived. Cops quickly became my heroes. I idolized them, and my goal for a long time was to become one until society started to criticize their every action making the job more dangerous than it has ever been. Police officers now work with a handicap while trying to make America a better place to live. Society wants revenge for unlawful killings by cops and the government wants a scapegoat resulting in police officers being locked up for years or at the very worst killed. A political issue I am not willing to risk my life for even though many people could benefit from my service. In this time of needing my family and I had no one else to turn to for help. The platoon of police that arrived found the men who robbed us and locked them up for a long time. To this day there is no better solace than knowing they got what they deserved, but it will never change the impression that night made on me in my foreseeable years. Twenty years later I am still always paranoid of everyone around. I trust no one except my family. I subconsciously pursued a security career to learn how to control my surroundings and secure my perimeter. Only years later did I realize why. I take every measure to be in control of me and my wife’s safety: I travel with weapons, I travel without cash, I lock the house at night, I have a guard dog, I watch everyone, I never sit with my back to the door at restaurants, and I avoid dark places. These are just a few examples of how this one man robbed me of being normal. I wash my face everyone morning and pray for a peaceful day.


Created this for a Reedsy prompt of "Write a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again". Any feedback, harsh or otherwise is welcome :) \ Bill stands at the edge of a circle filled with people he has seen every day for almost a year. His hands are shaking, but he does his best to hide that. This never works when you don’t have the confidence. Confidence - who would have thought you needed confidence at an Anonymous meeting on Christmas Eve? “Hi, my name is Bill, and this--” “Hi Bill,” call the others. “Right, you think I’d remember that. Anyways, my name is Bill, and this is my three-hundredth time reliving Christmas Eve 2025.” He looks out at the assembled anonymous, blank stares as always. There are those that are half bored, those that are thinking about getting a drink afterward, and the facilitator, genuinely unsure of what to make of Bill’s assertion. Everyone remains silent, waiting for further explanation. Bill knows he needs to pause for at least ten seconds to add gravity to his words. Less, and they won’t take him seriously, more and the facilitator will suggest they move on. Time loops offer plenty of opportunities for learning. He holds his breath, waits. This time he’s going to get it right. “Ok, so time loops, right? You probably all think I’m nuts, but we’ve seen Groundhog Day, maybe Palm Springs for the younger folks. Anyway, I’ve been through this day for almost a year now, and every time it ends the same way.” “What a load of shit,” calls Dave, a mean drunk who smells like the aftermath of Christmas arson. Bill waits, he always waits. “Dave, what have I told you about interrupting?” asks the facilitator. “Ah screw off then.” Dave stands and tips over his chair. “If I have to listen to this bullshit, I might as well do it on the corner.” Dave weaves his way out of the room, leaning on the walls for support before stumbling out into the frigid evening air. Bill says a silent, ‘thank you.’ Getting rid of Dave is key. If Dave stays, the whole loop is a wash. He hates Dave. “Sorry, Bill, continue, but I’d prefer if you could stick closer to fact than fiction.” There is sympathy in the facilitator’s eyes, but not a single ounce of understanding or believing. To be expected. “Right, well in about,” Bill checks his watch, “two minutes, you’re going to start hearing sirens, a lot of them. That’s how we know the aliens are here, and when that happens, we’ve got about--” “Alright, Bill, thanks for sharing. Why don’t you take a seat until you’re ready to tell us the truth.” Chastisement, check. “Yeah, alright, why don’t you call on Mary, then.” The facilitator always calls on Mary unless Bill calls him out. Then shame re-directs him to Stevie. Flustered, the facilitator shuffles paper on a clipboard, performative, but necessary. “I think I’d rather hear from Stevie. It’s been a while.” And we’re on track. Stevie is an older woman dressed mostly in black and is perpetually five minutes away from putting on a tinfoil hat. With her help, they can steer back to the topic at hand. Stevie stands. “Hi, my name’s Stevie.” “Hi, Stevie,” Bill joins in with the chorus. She gives a small, embarrassed nod. “Did you say something about aliens, Bill?” Bill grins. “So glad you asked.” “No,” says the facilitator. “Well, I did.” “But we’re not here to talk about aliens. We’re here to talk about addiction.” “It’s Christmas Eve, can we at least hear about the aliens a little bit?” asks Allen. He’s normally quiet, but after several loops running into him at a bar, Bill has learned that Allen is a science fiction writer. Allen doesn’t believe a word about aliens, but he’s certainly willing to use what he sees as Bill’s psychotic break as fuel for a new novel. Inspiration doesn’t come cheap when there’s no booze involved. Allen told Bill about fickle muses at length after a drunken evening on loop fifty-seven. “Thank you, Allen.” Bill checks his watch. “Right, now if you’ll all follow me to the window, I believe I’ll have to do a lot less talking.” He ignores the facilitator’s sputtering protestations and makes his way to the window. He watches in the reflection as one by one, the group gets up to follow. Domino effect. So far so good. It’s crucial that everyone follows for the next stage of the plan to work. “Will everyone please sit down?” asks the facilitator. No, they won’t. “It’s Christmas, and if there’s no aliens, at least there’s pretty lights out the window.” Ten seconds. Bill feels his heart racing, despite having seen it all a few hundred times before. A small crowd forms around the window. Outside, the sound of a siren blares as a lone cop car whizzes by at suicidal speed. Bill watches as several people jump, but he does not. Snow falls on the empty street. Most people are at home with their families. They won’t be for long. The single siren is followed first by a few ambulances and then by a chorus of other emergency vehicles, swelling to a crescendo that fills the city. “If you’ll all direct your attention to the top of the Manchester building.” Bill points down the street toward a large building known for housing bankers and insurance lenders. He won’t feel too bad about what happens next. “I’ve had quite enough!” shouts the facilitator. In the same instant, the grey clouds break with glowing red flames as the leading edge of a silver spaceship slices through the top of the Manchester building like butter. Explosions of orange and blue flame illuminate the night sky and there is a collective gasp from the onlookers. Bill steps away from the window as chunks of debris rain down on the pavement. During one loop he had led them to watch from outside, but that dropped their numbers from nine to two, also known as not enough. Live and learn. In a collective moment, the assembled addicts realize that Bill isn’t having a breakdown. Some scream, Allen faints, and Stevie turns toward Bill with rapt attention. “What do we do?” she asks, not screaming, not panicking, but knowing that there is only one person that can help her now. Yes! “Alright, everyone, I’d say stay calm, but we’ve done this a few times and that isn’t going to happen. Maybe we’d all feel better if we let out a nice scream, huh?” The group turns to look at him. “Trust me, it’ll feel better. All together now.” Bill lets out a primal scream, housing all of the frustration, pain, and futility that he has experienced in the last year. It doesn’t get any easier watching your world get vaporized, but he has found the screaming feels good. Unsurprisingly, the others also scream. Their exhalations last longer than Bill’s, but by the time they are finished, they are worn out and ready to listen. “Ok, so we’ve got about ten minutes before things are going to get really bad.” “This isn’t really bad?” asks the facilitator. “No, Terry, this is just plain bad. Trust me, it gets worse.” “My name. You know--” “Almost a year of this, Terry, keep up. So, we’re all going to go up the fire escape on the back of the building. We’re going to try and beat these creeps the old-fashioned way, with a little bit of holiday cheer.” “Holiday cheer?” “Terry, I need you on board, because believe it or not, most of these people look up to you.” “They do?” They did not, but Terry needed to believe they did. Bill continued speaking before anyone else could. “Alright, so we’re all game with heading up the fire escape then?” “I want to call my family,” says Susan. “Your cell phone stopped working ten minutes ago.” Susan still takes her cell phone out to check. This is only the tenth time Bill has made it this far, but so far, there is no way to stop Susan from checking. Then, when it doesn’t work, she-- “IT’S NOT WORKING! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!” Bill pulls a whistle from his pocket and blows. It’s loud and all he could afford with the five bucks in his pocket that morning. The group stands in silent attention. He checks his watch. “Running short on time, everyone. Anyone else have any unhelpful outbursts before we head to the roof and try to stop this yuletide invasion?” There wouldn’t be but asking was important. Bill waits, smiles at the lack of response, and presses on. “Ok, everyone, follow me.” Like a mother duck, Bill leads the group of shellshocked individuals to the fire escape out back. One by one, they climb. “Keep the pace up, if we’re too slow--” A sudden blast of laser fire rips through the back alley. Scorching hot beams of green energy completely obliterate Terry who has once again failed to get up the fire escape in time. “--we lose Terry.” Bill curses. Luckily, losing Terry and the heat from the now molten pavement below is enough to drive people up to the roof with new fervor. They crest the fire escape and Bill looks out with pride at the contraption he has assembled. Seven hundred strands of Christmas lights, all arrayed in concentric circles. Lined up around the lights, there are mirrors, one for everyone, and now one extra without Terry. The sky is chaos. Looking up for too long will stop anyone dead in their tracks. Bill allows himself a quick glance. Hundreds of saucers straight out of an old comic take the place of clouds. Green beams of laser fire arc out from beneath them turning metal into slag, buildings into rubble, and people into dust. He’s seen it from a hundred angles, but it never gets any easier to look at. Some things are just meant to make you shit your pants, and the end of the world is one of them. Bill takes a breath and blows his whistle again. There are eight people on the roof. He really would have preferred nine, but Terry is always a little slow on the uptake. “What is all this junk?” asks Stevie. “A little holiday cheer and a lot of research.” To the untrained eye, it’s a jumble of Christmas lights and old mirrors shoplifted from around the city. To Bill, it is hope that maybe this time, things are going to be different. “Listen, I’ve talked to scientists, I’ve talked to conspiracy theorists, and everyone in between. Something about this shape, the aliens don’t like.” Loops sixty through one-hundred-and-twenty had been a crash course in iconography, the next ten were wasted with a professor of philosophy, and finally an additional fifty with the only person that made sense, the college janitor. “They don’t like Christmas lights?” “Think of it this way. You see a snake, you get the willies, right? Doesn’t matter how big it is, you get that innate chill and back the hell up. Something about this shape is the equivalent of a snake to the aliens.” Bill’s watch beeps. Two-minute warning. “But I don’t have time to explain it more than that. Here’s what you’re going to do. Everyone grab a mirror, and when I blow my whistle, you’re going to point them directly overhead, alright?” People look up as he says it. Realizing his mistake, Bill blows the whistle drawing their focus. “BUT DON’T LOOK UP UNTIL I TELL YOU!” his shout echoes across the roof, his voice hoarse. Why the hell did I decide to do karaoke on December 23rd? It’s a mistake he will spend the rest of his life living with. Every morning he wakes with a hangover, and every evening his voice is not quite as loud as he wants it to be. “We have less than two minutes, people. Pick up a mirror or get out of the way.” In what can only be described as a Christmas miracle, they all move around the circle of Christmas lights and grab a mirror. Bill moves to his spot, right next to a big red switch that will turn all the Christmas lights on. Here goes nothing. He picks up his own mirror and puts a boot on the switch. “Well, friends, we’ve only got one shot at this.” “Are we all going to die?” “Not this time, Stevie. Not this time.” Bill kicks the switch with his foot. The lights switch on in unison and pulse between red, green, and blue, specific colors in a specific order. Research, so much research. The ground rumbles below as a laser hits a gas main. The building holds. It always holds. “Mirrors to the sky, people.” Everyone lifts their mirrors and angles them upward. Overhead, a saucer has come low, attracted by the light, not yet realizing what it is. Bill watches as a dome on the bottom of the craft irises open, revealing the four points of its primary weapon. “Merry Christmas, mother f--” The points flash bright green. A beam shoots down from the sky almost too fast to process. The Christmas decorations melt, the ground beneath his feet buckles, and heat blasts him in a wave. Screams are swallowed by fire. Bill wakes up to blinding bright sunlight reflecting off of snow-covered roofs. His head is pounding with the fury of the previous night’s karaoke. He sits up, vomits into a plant beside the bed, and wipes his lips. “Ok, so it doesn’t work without Terry.


Katie laid in her bed, her light purple comforter pulled all the way up over her head. All that could be seen of her was some blonde curls that rested on top of the lilac comforter. A phone glowed a soft blue aura from under the sheets - the only light in the dark room on that warm June night. An open window brought in hot, stifling south Georgia air but that little vortex also let in a soft breeze and the chirping of the crickets which made Katie feel not so alone. Then she heard the noise Katie dreaded for the past few hours. The faint echoing of footsteps in the outside hallway. Katie snapped her flip phone shut as she rolled to her side and closed her eyes, holding her breath to not make any noise. 8:00 PM was early for a 16 year old to be asleep, she knew this. But while Katie lived in this house that had to be the norm. The alternative was too much to bear. Katie's mom, Linda, worked long hours as a nurse at the hospital and those footsteps meant she was home. And while there was a small chance of her not being in "one of her moods" as Katie and her brother Theo called it, when she came off long day shifts her mom was tired, stressed, and almost certain to be set off merely by the sight of Katie. So being asleep was the best option. The only option. At least the only option she would dare to do. Even if there was a way out of this hell Katie had too much to lose to risk anything besides compliance with her mom. She was on track to be Valedictorian and was talking to schools about a soccer scholarship. Even though it seemed other teenagers thrived off of social lives and were out having fun on summer Saturday nights instead of laying in bed pretending to sleep. Katie knew staying the course was her way out of this hell. Her mom wasn't always in a mood after all. In fact there were times she was loving and pleasant to be around. But even the best of times meant nothing as soon as she snapped and all signs of the loving mom Katie wanted, no needed, left her eyes and some evil being she didn't know filled them instead. The moods always started with yelling. Linda would call Katie fat, worthless, a slob, any word she knew would slice through Katie's heart. There were accusations thrown of Katie sleeping around, doing drugs, plotting against her mother and planning her downfall. There was always the harsh conclusion stated that Katie had ruined her mom's life. Sometimes the words were the end of it but Linda could also turn things physical. Too often her moods lead to hitting, kicking, even pulling out a wooden spoon or breaking items Linda knew Katie cherished. Anything it took to force obedience and dull the spark in Katie's eyes. Yet when Katie looked back on her childhood she had mostly warm, happy memories that even now could pull a smile to her lips. Her dad was never a part of her life so time spent with her mom and brother was all Katie knew as a child. There were trips to the beach, riding on her mom's shoulders with Theo by their side laughing. Big ice cream cones, dancing in the living room, falling over from laughing so hard as Katie and Theo put on little plays for their mom. But Linda hadn't just woken up one day with a mean streak. It had always been there, and Linda could never hide it from her kids; but it's funny how memories work. That wasn't part of the childhood Katie clung to in her mind. That was the hell she still lived in, not the happy place in her head she tried desperately to find on the darkest of nights. The phone buzzed under the covers. Shit thought Katie. Shit shit shit . The footprints stopped in front of the room a few moments before and Katie hoped her mom walked on to her own room without Katie hearing the steps. But she knew it was more probable that her mom was right there on the other side of the door listening for signs Katie was awake. And then it came. A slight knock at the door followed by its opening. Katie knew that unassuming knock too well - not aggressive in force but a sign her mom would want a fight. Katie's mom had taken locks off the doors years ago to deprive Katie from any sort of reprieve from her fits of anger so there was nothing Katie could do except lay there, aware of what was about to come. Katie continued to fake sleep as her mom took steps towards the bed. Even with her own eyes closed Katie could feel her mother's glaring at her. And then her phone buzzed again. "You little brat are you on your phone but not even saying hi to me? After I've been working all day to pay for everything for you? Who are you even texting at this time of night? I bet it's a boy you little whore. Get out of that bed right now and answer me!" The yelling started immediately as Linda flew to the side of Katie's bed in a fury and yanked the sheets off of her as Katie curled up in a ball and started to cry. Linda grabbed the phone off the bed and threw it across the room. The smash as it made contact with the wall mirrored how Katie's heart felt inside. Linda then went for physical force as she slapped Katie across the face. "You deserve this and more you brat." Katie stayed curled up in a ball silent. She knew this game all too well. Her mom wanted a fight. She wanted to release anger from the day and needed someone to argue with and there was nobody here except Katie now that Theo was at school. So Katie stayed quietly rolled with warm tears streaking down her cheeks. She was saved by the home telephone line ringing and Linda sighing dramatically as she turned and stomped toward the living room to answer it. Linda's voice carried down the hallway to Katie's room. She sounded so friendly and nice to whoever she was talking to, nothing like the presence that had just raged in Katie's room. She was probably talking to her best friend Betsy from church.. Probably telling her she will pray for her and maybe even giving her some Godly advice, the hypocrisy of which made Katie roll her eyes. The sing-songy tune in Katie's moms voice was such a stark contrast to the demonic one that was still hovering in Katie's ears. Katie knew she had only a few minutes while her mom talked niceties to Betsy and she tip toed over to where her phone lay on the floor. She flipped it open and breathed a sigh of relief that it seemed to still work. The 2 texts were from Maggie, a friend of hers from school. Perhaps her only friend - the only girl who seemed willing to talk to Katie, who quickly into freshman year secured her spot as the weird girl who never went to anything outside of school and soccer. hey grl, wyd? at a party at Brian's house, down the street from u. come over! The texts caused something in Katie's soul to rejoice. Someone wanted to talk with her. Someone wanted even to hangout with her. Katie was pretty sure she had never been to the type of party Betsy was referencing but she didn't care. She really had only been to church parties, and the birthday parties her mom approved of. Theo had followed all the rules of their mom and now was off at college with all the freedom Katie could ever dream of. So Katie told herself she just needed to stay in line and deal with her mom's moods until she too could be there. But it still felt so far away. As Katie sat reading the text over again wishing she could go she heard her mom on the phone. She was starting to say goodbyes with her friend. Katie's heart pounded again thinking of those footsteps coming back down the hall. She couldn't take it. Katie acted quick, throwing on some flip flops from her closet, shoving the phone in her pocket, and throwing her charger in her purse, just in case. She was too scared to even try to open the window wider in fear of the noise it might make. The screen fell out easily and surprisingly without noise with one push. Then Katie quietly put one leg out the window, contorting her body in weird ways, and next thing she knew she was dashing quietly through her backyard and then through her neighbors, scared to go into the street where the light was. There was fear in her but more than anything there was an excitement from breaking away that gave her such a thrill. Katie knew where Brian's house was from riding the bus together Freshman year of high school, not that someone like him would ever talk to Katie. Heart beating, soul bursting, Katie made it to Brian's house and knocked on the front door, scared even once there of how the porch light illuminated her figure, picturing her mom driving past at any moment looking for her and knowing she wouldn't spare any wrath. The door opened and Katie saw Betsy's smiling face, and she stepped inside.


We don’t call it a rain, not at first. In the purpled night, stowed away behind weatherboard walls, we imagine it's anything else. An incessant pattering against the asphalt: children throwing stones. A shatter that pulls us headfirst from our sleep: a drunk losing grip on his bottle. The scrape of objects sliding over dew-glossed footpaths: roller skates, scabbed knees, feral cats’ claws. Speculations which make sense. In the mornings, we pull lost things from the gutter like hair from a shower drain. Ring Pops which have already begun to blister in the liquid gold sun. A silver teddy bear charm from a bracelet, clasp snapped in two. A half drunk bottle of peach schnapps, faded label peeling. Australia’s finest , the 1970s lettering claims. Australia’s finest . My mother lifts a pair of white panties from the branch of a banksia and spits onto the brittle, summer-bitten lawn. “Ain’t no respect,” she kneads the skimpy cotton into a ball and throws it at her feet, “Thinkin’ it's their goddamn town. Ain’t no respect.” When she turns her back, I tuck the lost panties into my bra. When I ask Bennie what she thinks happens to Killibee girls, she laughs. A mouth lined with crooked pearls, half gums, all bite. “I think the town swallows them on its fat fucking tongue. Don’t you ever feel like that, like this place is sucking you dry?” In the gape of a street light, she seems older than she is. An artificial sun shatters and constellates over her cheek, her birthmark as flat and red as spilt nectar. Torn jacket cuffs, eyeliner like two thumbprints of ash. The town is soft and quiet under the hazy curtain of sundown, sky like a two-day-old bruise. Between her fingers, a cigarette glows a hot, amber dart. “Yeah,” I say, and take it from her, curl the smoke behind my lips, “Yeah, I do.” When the cigarette collapses into a pile of ash, we stand, dust ourselves off, place three mints on each other’s halved-strawberry tongues. We pass the posters tacked to utility poles, corner store windows, each citizen detective’s front veranda. We pass the posters and pretend we never knew the girls smiling up from them, it’s easier that way. The night spits up a prayer card, a damp stick of incense, two glittering sixteenth birthday candles and the crescent tip of a pink-chipped thumbnail. In the morning I swallow three caps of vodka and pull the panties on in front of my mirror. They make me look pretty. They make me look like someone else. There’s the shadow of a stain on their seat, a memory, an idea. I imagine what left it came from me, that I’m the sort of girl brave enough to wear white. I imagine sweaty bush parties, dollar store perfume, someone’s hands on my hips, cigarette smoke. The pastel print of Marie Antoinette tucked into my brass mirror frame looks down on me and I imagine her whispering fabulous . It takes a while to notice the name sharpied on the inner seam, letters bloated. When I do, I throw up three times into the porcelain bowl of my toilet. I’m sick, but not sick enough to take them off. Over dinner my mother talks about lost girls, avoiding their names like tiny blasphemies. “Lucille Miller’s girl was the latest, you know?” she says, more to my father than me, “Hear she was a right little shit too, rumour is she was knocked up.” My mother is a woman of dimpled flesh and acetone. If you peeled her skin back, I’d half expect there to be nothing underneath. Her shapeless floral dress suckers itself to rolls of fat, hangs limp at her knees. She spears a small cut of meat with her fork and dangles it before her open lips. “Ask me,” she says, biting down, “This ain’t nothing more than the trash being taken out. I’d bet you anything these are the kids leaving their shit over our neighbourhood. If I found out whoever was takin’ them, I’d give him a hug.” “Bad girls, huh?” My father says. He is quiet and unassuming, a face half composed of glasses, limbs of twisted twine. “That’s right. Bad girls.” The table clears, the tulip shaped lights dim. I return to my room and splinter my fingers on my windowsill slipping out onto the roof. I pull the wooden needles from my fingertips as I wait for the rain. It trickles in slowly. A tin of clementine-tinged blush, shattered, muddying. A pair of wire headphones. A slip from the inside of a fortune cookie. Three pink-cased tampons. A squat bottle of cerulean nail polish. I let them fall between my blood-pricked fingers, smash into my palmy flesh, trip past my lifeline. The nail polish bottle splits open on the corrugated iron roof, blue varnish as thick as corn syrup catching in the dips. Bad, bad, bad, I think, bad, bad, bad. Bennie walks like a 1920s hooker, hips rocking like a hardwood horse, arms slicing the air. The watery morning light catches onto our bent necks, pearls at the back of my thighs. The streets are as full of lost things as I have ever seen them, and we are looking. “Look,” she says, lifting a cut of hair, fine as a dead citrus peel, from a pothole, “What the fuck.” Her mouth has always been too big for her face, her ears too small for her head. She’s like the long-past idea of a girl, not quite clear, a little too roughly drawn. A pendant shaped like a human heart beats between her breasts, everything she needs, she carries on the outside. In her cupped hands, the hair rests like an injured bird; curled in on itself, empty. Departed. And I think, not for the first time, that I could love her. If I tried. If I wanted to. “It’s probably nothing.” I say. She frowns. “Don’t be like them , man. Don’t give me that shit.” I look down at the piece of hair, blonde as cornsilk. Hair from a photo, hair from a distant P.E class memory. It’s probably nothing. We probe the gutters, the bug-embroidered undersides of mailboxes, the gaps between dead grass where anything might fall and hide. A piece of grape bubblegum, chewed, teeth marks included. A jump rope which looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Lace brasseries marked with lovers’ names. A half-swallowed tray of birth control pills. Bennie slips a tattoo choker around my neck. “Look at you, punk rock.” She says, and then, “Marla Benett used to wear those, I remember.” I rip the plastic choker off so urgently that it snaps. I rip it off before I can think of the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? White cotton burns beneath my skirt. When Julia Miller disappears, my mother locks our tall french doors and folds me into my room. She was a good girl , she says, a good girl . Julia Miller, preacher’s daughter. Child of ruffled dresses and hand-knit sweaters. Child of seashell-tinted rosary beads. Julia Miller, good girl until the end. She’s the tenth, I figure out. I trace the numbers onto my paint-chipped walls, the names. She’s the tenth. Her father goes on TV, our local news shows, eyes flat and glazed. He’s an old man, older than I expect a father to be, varicose veined and with the jowls of a bloodhound. He pours out prayers, pleadings. He brings a priest with him once or twice, lets him loiter in the background of the dreary scene. The priest’s black robe bellies in the afternoon breeze, his clerical collar the brightest garment this side of mourning. She’s the first to get this treatment. The point here, I think, is that no one mourns the wicked. I watch everything on my bedroom floor, nose nearly pressed to my computer screen. Video after video, forum after forum. I drink lemonade straight from the jug, and chew at the plastic cap when it empties. I syphon boxed wine from the top shelf of the kitchen pantry and store it in Powerade bottles beneath my bed. I call Bennie, stomach flattened to my mauve-shag carpet. She calls me. “How’s it feel, Belle?” She asks through the phone screen, “Being all locked up in that castle?” “Well,” I say as lemonade misses the gap between my lips and veins down my throat, “My mother is certainly a beast.” When a string of heart shaped rosary beads smacks down onto my windowsill, I drape them around my neck like a line of pearls. The madonna sits between my collarbones. Good, I think, good, good, good. One lilac ballet flat. A pair of white-gold hoop earrings. A camisole which reads ‘hysteric angel’. A tube of menstrual-red lipstick, sharpened to a point by the feather of a makeup brush. A loose french tip press-on which perfectly fits my ring finger. I pull these things on in front of my mirror, it is patchwork, it is quilting. With each night, I Frankenstein myself. What is left in the mirror is another girl entirely, I lean forward and kiss her glassy lips. When I find the ear, triple pierced and lying in the gutter of my roof, I keep it. Severed by the lobe, skin like ripped rubber sheeting. I hold it to my chest. I let it decay in my pocket until it becomes me. This is Bennie, I’m not at the phone right now, call back later. Or just text like everyone else, man. I call her three times, then seven, then eighteen. Monday sinks into Tuesday, sinks into Wednesday, sinks into Sunday. I want her to see me like this, different, bolder. A clusterfuck of all the best parts of other girls. I watch the preacher’s news segments on replay, rebuild his words in my mouth until I can recite them like a prayer. With the glass beads pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I am so very sorry for him. Hey, just...uh, pick up your phone? Okay? I miss you. A slice of skin, tattooed with a stick-and-poke heart. The colour of a girl’s hair. A university acceptance letter which will never be opened. Three sets of wisdom teeth. A finger, purity ring intact. I press other girls’ skin to the underside of my jaw, I slip colours over myself like holy water. My closet grows and bulges. I am lost, I am found. I am both as empty and full as I’ve ever been. The mailbox of Bennie Rivera is full and cannot accept any messages at this time. When the pendant catches on my windowsill, I know. The size of a peach stone, it glints up at me from weather-chafed wood. I centre it in my palm, cheap faux-gold in the shape of a human heart. The greening chain is knotted and I unpick it with the stick of an earring, hunched over against my bed head. It unfurls and relaxes in my hand like a docile python and I clasp it tight at the nape of my neck. There are streets beyond these four walls that haven’t hidden just because I have. They branch beyond the square of my window, out into mould-tracked corner stores and fields of dying cane. Dimpled asphalt, the cicada like chatter of middle aged rumours. Sunday mass, playground drug deals and houses in the shapes of homes. It buzzes, the steady bloodbeat of a place alive. I imagine the roads splitting open across its ley lines. It breathes and then opens, a diesel-slick tongue unfurling from the earth beneath. And upon it, it swallows her. It swallows all of them. In the mirror that night, my mouth looks a little larger than usual.


“ You gonna stab me with those scissors ?” “ Yes. Yes I am ,” I quipped. “ I’m going to puncture your flesh with dozens of wounds. I’m thinking I’ll fashion a very large and extremely conspicuous pattern on your torso. Maybe a pentagram. Maybe a peace sign. I haven’t decided yet. Then I’m going to cut you up into tiny little pieces with these very same scissors. I’ll do it slowly. One tiny hair or fragment at a time. I’ll really relish the process. Then I’ll dispose of each individual specimen in a solitary and extremely isolated location. A random bear or wolf will pause briefly for a sniff. But they’ll mosey on when they realize there’s nothing notable to snack on. And why will I do this? Simply because I’m bored. And mostly because you’re annoying .” Lars squinted at me suspiciously, like he was fully expecting me to launch my attack imminently. I stared back for ten, maybe fifteen, seconds awaiting a verbal response. But he said nothing. We’ve been together for two years and it’s like this man doesn’t even know me at all. “ Jesus Christ, Lars! Obviously, I’m not going to stab you with these scissors. It couldn’t be more obvious that I’m cleaning up and putting things away. And one of the many things you left out on the counter...for the millionth time...was this pair of scissors.” Lars shrugged and walked away. Presumably, he was off to make a mess in another room that I would have to clean up later. Lars never tidied up after himself. Not the grease he splattered all over the stove when he fried a pound of bacon. Not the towel he dropped on the bathroom floor after his shower when he no longer had any use for it. Not the dozens of pebbles he carried in via the deep treads in his running shoes every single day, several times a day, when he took the dog out. No mess ever seemed to faze him. Lars had clearly picked the wrong girl when he chose me as his girlfriend - a woman who is constantly aggrieved by filth and chaos. Actually, maybe he had chosen exactly the right girl. I started folding the mound of laundry Lars had hastily dumped on the couch three days prior. At this point, he was just using the living room as his dressing room, discarding dirty clothes on one end of the couch, then picking up something from the pile of clean clothes on the other end of the couch to wear each day. He had a system. It worked. For him. “ Are you going to come out here and help me fold your damn laundry?” I yelled, then added, “ Or am I going to have to throw it all in the fire pit, douse it with lighter fluid, and toss in a match?” Under my breath, I continued, “ If I accidentally spill some of that lighter fluid on the deck, the whole house is going up in flames, with you in it. Just thought you might want to be aware of the potential consequences of your actions. ” “Y ou say something ?” Lars asked as he passed through the living room to take the dog out. “ No, I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all. You’re amazing honey. I love cleaning up after you so, so much ,” I responded. “ That’s what I thought you said ,” Lars said distractedly. He raised the pitch of his voice a couple of octaves and squealed, “ Come here girl ,” followed by a whistle and several taps of his hand on a thigh. He was taking our puppy, Clara, out for her afternoon pee. “ By all means, get her so excited she starts tap dancing and peeing all over the floor I just mopped. I live for that ,” I snapped. Lars ignored me and picked up a wiggling and writhing Clara, mid-pee, ensuring that her pee not only got all over the floor, but also on the living room rug, the corner of the couch, and the new door mat on the way out. Back to the kitchen I went to get the broom (for the incoming pebbles), the mop (for the floor pee), the laundry basket (for the wet throw rug and doormat), and a wet rag to wipe down the couch. “ My life is so amazing ,” I muttered, “ I get to clean the house all day long, every single day. What could possibly be better than this?” Abruptly, an out-of-breath Lars ripped open the front door with the puppy squeezed tightly in his folded arms, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. “ That wasn’t at all dramatic ,” I quipped. “ There’s a huge raccoon out there, eyeing little Miss Clara for lunch ,” Lars replied. We live in a rural area, so an occasional wild animal never surprises me. They never fail to surprise the hell out of Lars. He’s a big-city boy, born and raised. I smiled, “ Raccoons. Yes. They are terrifying. Did you know they can actually murder humans? ” Lars looked at me quizzically, but my ensuing laughter gave me away. He put Clara down. Then he hung his coat up on a hook and, without removing his shoes, walked through the living room and into the bedroom to lay down and rest from his exhausting encounter with the wild kingdom. I sighed and got to work on the new round of pebbles scattered all over the floor. Forty-five minutes later, when I was finally relaxing on the couch, remote in hand, and mentally buried in a true-crime mystery show, Lars strolled out of the bedroom. “ I’ve been thinking ...” he started. “ Oh no. How did that go for you?" “ Actually, it went quite well. I think. I think...we should get married ,” he said with a smile as he got down on one knee and produced a ring box from his pocket. “ Of course we should get married ,” I responded. “ I can’t think of anything I’d love more than cleaning up after you for the rest of my life and protecting you from gweat big scawy wild animals .” “ That’s what I thought you’d say ,” Lars replied as he slipped the ring on my finger and kissed me on my forehead.


The night was awash in shades of different colors. Blue, red, white, green and yellow lights illuminate the family compound. Thrown all over the walls of the fence which wrapped itself around the parsonage were shadows of different forms, appearing and disappearing and morphing into one another. The compound was teeming with people. The gate was thrown wide open and from where I sat, perched on a low stool like a bird, I could see people walking in groups into the compound. Little boys were running all over the lawn, while the older ones engaged themselves in shooting fireworks, the type we called Moses Rod, into the sky. Older women sat or stood in groups discussing their preparations for tomorrow’s festivity while the men moved around bellowing greetings to one another while decorating the walls with broad placards which read “HAPPY CHRISTMAS”. The moon was bright and the breeze had a chilling effect. Everybody was in a festive mood. At the other end of the compound, beside the small store which housed father’s aged and damaged motorcycle and other bits and pieces of useless metals, women stood round a huge pot simmering on the fire with and already, I could perceive the aroma of tomorrow’s jollof rice. It was Christmas Eve. Despite the excitement hanging in the atmosphere, my mood was somber and I felt completely joyless like a mother hen whose only chick got carried away by a hawk. I watched Holy Joel (as people called my father) as he strutted into the main house with Minister, his bosom friend. They were chatting and the man seemed to be smiling at something Holy Joel was saying. I looked at them until they disappeared into the interior of the house and for the first time, I doubted whether Holy Joel was really a man of God, as many people believed he was. I doubted whether he truly possessed a wealth of wisdom as members of church believed, almost to a fault. If truly, he was a man of God, if truly, he was sagacious, he would consider my heart desire, he would consider how his decisions might affect other people’s plans. I knew almost every verse in the and I could wager there was no place in it where permission was given to men to marry off their daughters against her own will. But Holy Joel was obdurate. His decision to give my hands in marriage to Jeremiah, Minister’s son, was cast in stone. Unchangeable. Irreversible. Jeremiah was not only detestable, He was pompous and spoilt and he had a bloated sense of his own self-importance, simply because his father was made the most donations to the church. Even now, I could see him standing beside the pen, arms akimbo, his balding head shining under the gleam of a white bulb which flicked on and off on a wooden pole above him, his neck stretched like a giraffe's. I watched as he scanned the compound, clearly looking for something, or someone. Perhaps, me. I shifted my stool closer to the avocado tree under which I was sitting and glanced at the entrance to the compound. No sign of Akeju. My frown deepened and I felt a surge of anger rise up within me. If I was a volcano, I would be spitting up lava. I had waited for many hours, constantly looking out at the entrance, to catch the first glimpse of Akeju when he arrived. I was sure it must be nearing 11 o’clock. However, everything pointed to the fact that I was bound to be disappointed. Why did he heighten my expectations? Why did he allow me to plunge into this river of curiosity? Why did he promise to give me a surprise? Why? When he knew he was not coming. In frustration, I gave up the hope I had been painstakingly nursing and stood up, scanned the environment to see where Jeremiah was. He was nowhere in sight and I marched towards the house. I would sneak into my room, bury my face into the pillow on my bed and cry and cry until my eyes popped out. Perhaps, sleep would come to my rescue and relieve me of this excruciating heart ache. I had barely taken ten steps when I heard my name and turned around. It was Eniitan, my friend. She was rushing towards me and a man followed calmly behind her. It was Odu, the son of a wealthy cocoa merchant, who had just returned from the city. Unlike others, he was dressed in a befitting black suit and trousers. He wore a broad smile as he marched towards me. “Modupe, where have you been all this while? Odu wants to see you”. Enitan said and flew away, leaving me and Odu. “Odu”. I muttered, tongue-tied and looked around to make sure Holy Joel and Minister had not come out. The latter stood before me, stared at me for a while, smiled and then spoke. “I have come to make my final move”. He said. “Modupe, I have made my intention known to you and as you know, I do not have much time to spend here and I have to speed things up. But, you have been silent all this while. So, I am here to tell you once again that I love you and to ask if you will marry me. Modupe, will you?” I watched him in surprise, no, shock, as he gradually went down on his knees and thrust his right hand into his pocket, I didn’t wait to see whatever he was bringing out. I covered my eyes, shook my head vigorously and whirled around. I heard him shout my name multiple times as I rounded corner leading to the backyard. I slipped into the house through the backdoor, sneaked into my room and bolted the door from behind. “My daughter will not marry that he-goat!” I heard Mama’s (my mother) voice. I strained my ears and caught some of Holy Joel’s words; “understand”, “The Lord”, “trust” and so on. His words were spoken in hushed tones and I guessed that must be because Minister was in the sitting room. I knew my Mama's resistance would not last. She would soften as soon as Holy Joel finished preaching and quoting the Bible to her. She always did. In anger, I threw myself on the bed and cried. “ Modupe! Module! Modupe!” My mother was banging on the door so hard I bounced off the bed and hurried to unbolt the door. I must have fallen asleep. “ What is wrong with you? Sleepy-head! Your mates are helping the women with cooking and you are here sleeping. Your father wants you in the sitting room”. She said and skidded away. I knew why Holy Joel was calling me and I stiffened my mind, preparing to be rebellious. I dawdled across the passage into the sitting room and there, on plastics chairs arranged in a semicircle were Holy Joel, Minister and well_ you can imagine, Jeremiah, grinning from ear to ear. I was seething. “ Sit”. Holy Joel said. I obeyed. After his usual introductory speech which often contained proverbs and Bible verses interspersed with prayers, he opened the lid off the pot. “I have decided to honor the agreement between me and Minister”. He gestured towards the beaming Jeremiah stood up, straightened his Danshiki and marched towards me, taking one step at a time. I looked around and Mama was not present. That signified her disapproval of Holy Joel’s stupid arrangement and I felt emboldened. Jeremiah stopped before me and like Odu, he thrust his hand into his pocket but unlike Odu, he did not kneel. That typified his arrogance. “Modupe, I love you and I’d love you to consent to my proposal. Do you agree to be my wife?” He said and brought out a ring, bent over and took my hands. I did not react. All this while, Minister was beaming with smiles. Holy Joel, however, wore a blank and unreadable expression, staring at me. I felt a cold ring slipping into the fourth finger on my left hand and I yanked my hand off. The ring dropped and rolled away. I stood up. Holy Joel stood up too, stunned. I had never defied him before and he seemed overly stupefied. “Touch me again and it will be a chair smashing into your face. You despicable human. I am not going to marry you. Never! Not on anyone’s arrangement!” I blurted out, stared Holy Joel in the face and on my way out, I met Mama at the entrance. She stared at me with pity and shock in her eyes. I ran past her out of the house into the teeming and lively compound, a stark contrast to my state of mind. I was livid and I needed to clear my mind. A song of praise was playing softly from a large speaker. The excitement was at its peak and no one noticed when I ran past, cutting through the crowd, cutting through rows of benches and plastic chairs into the Bible College, a block of classrooms built in a U-shape, situated at the extreme of the compound. The classes were dark and I sat on the corridor behind the bed of flowers which lined the front part of the building and wished Akeju was with me. “ My Belle, my belle”. Wannabe's voice sounded behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around because there was nothing new about him. He would be wearing his worn-out black gown, the one he always told people he wore on his graduation day at Oxford in 1950, fifteen years ago. I was a ten year old girl then . Certainly, he would be with one of his large books which he called “mind nourishments”. He must have been studying in one of the classes with his small torch (that was very typical of him) and having seen me, he must have thought he had found a willing listener to one of his stupid “ I wanna be an academician” talks which earned him his nickname in the Community Grammar School where he taught History. “My belle, my belle”. He said again and sat down shoulder to shoulder with me. I didn’t protest neither did I respond as I would have done on a good day. “ You see ....”, he started. “ ... I’d say that your materialization at this particular place tonight is not by happenstance but by coincidence. That is because I have been cogitating about the modus operandi with which I would bring a very personal and emotional matter to your cognizance. Do you understand me?” I didn’t answer and he went on. “ I believe that we are, by divine ordainment, intertwined. This knowledge, I have kept in the hallway of my esophagus. But because I have had strong perceptions of wolves preying on you, especially Minister’s son, I have decided to strike the iron when it is hot. I am convinced of your love for me and if we must solidify and concretize our relationship, there must be consensus ad idem between us. That is why I am expressing my genuine and undiluted intention to take you as my Juliet. Do you agree to accept me as your Romeo?” He finished and moved closer to me and placed his hand on mine. I grew irate. “ Mr. Julius!” I called him by his real name. “ Stand up, stand up!”, he stood up, taken aback. “ if I’ve been playing a silly husband -and-wife game with you before, it has stopped from today. You hear me? And I don’t want to hear your stupid grammars again, they make me sick! Agbaya! ” I spat out and stormed off. Why was this Christmas Eve full of undesirable happenings. First, Akeju's breach of promise, then Odu's proposal, then Jeremiah and Holy Joel, and now, Wannabe. My Christmas was ruined already. There was no hiding place again, I couldn’t go back to the house, lest, I’ll be harangued by both Mama and Holy Joel. Wannabe was still at the Bible College, probably licking his wounds. Even if I hid somewhere else, he would spot me and I was not sure I could tolerate another sentence from him. I would strangle him to death. As I dilly-dallied amidst the crowd, I glanced at the gate and closed, it was. My heart broke. Akeju was not coming. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned and there was Odu again, looking at me pleadingly. In his hand was a flower. His silly flower. For once, I wondered whether that was what he was going to bring out the other time. No, he must have changed his mind. He was moving closer and people had started staring at us. I felt uncomfortable. “Modupe please, just say something, yes or no, I’ll accept anything you say. Just say something.” He pleaded, held my hand with one hand and offered the red flower with the other. I flustered, felt people’s eyes on me and reddened with embarrassment. “ Odu, not here please. People are watching”. I whispered to him. “ No, I want everyone to witness this. Your father controls this place and I must not be like the legendary hawk which carried a duckling away before it’s mother’s very eyes and ended up regretting its action”. His voice was deep and loud. A woman caught his words and shouted “ O káre, mode yii” and started clapping. Others joined in and within the twinkle of an eye, we were surrounded by a cheering crowd. Seeing an opportunity, Odu leaned in. “ Modupe, be my wife, let’s mark this Christmas with love”. He said. Everybody’s eyes were on me, the Vicar’s daughter and I became tongue-tied. I had never experienced this before and I just didn’t know how to control the situation. Many people, because of my body language, misinterpreted my silence as acquiescence. I looked around and there was Jeremiah, obviously furious. He might have been staring at excrement. He gave me a deadly look and then disappeared, to call his backer, I suppose. Just as I was about to disappoint all of them, there was a loud bang and everyone turned towards the direction it came from, the gate. The person banging the gate must really be an impatient person as the banging continued and the whole compound was filled with the sound. “ Someone, open that gate!”. Holy Joel barked from nowhere and three young men ran to the gate at once. They unbolted the smaller one and in marched the love of my life. He donned an hand-woven red cap and a lovely pair of sandals. His Danshiki looked stiff and pointed sideways. He had his favorite talking drum which he beat at church services draped on his shoulder and he held the drumstick with his free hand. Before anyone could berate him for disrupting an entertaining view, he started beating his drum and everyone listened, He was passing messages across to me. I understood the beats and the messages he was passing. The men understood, some of the women did and of course, Holy Joel too understood. “ Modupe, answer me”. Odu, whose hand was still intertwined with mine prodded me again and I shouted a loud “Nooooo”, loud enough for everyone to hear. I yanked his hand off me and ran towards Akeju. Everyone stared in amazement but I didn’t care. Holy Joel could disown me, Mama may call me a stupid child, as she did all the time. Jeremiah and his dad could demand all their donations to the Church’s purse, Wannabe could throw his worn out graduation gown and books away. I did not care. Everything felt right in the world as I melted into Akeju's arms and shouted “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!! I will marry you!”. The latter had dropped both his talking drum and the stick a second before I jumped on him and he wrapped me up in his arms. The crowd cheered and everyone clapped. I cried as I said “You kept me waiting for too long”. “ I’m sorry my love, I couldn’t find my drum stick on time, that’s why I’m late.” I freed myself, turned around and we both walks towards the crowd. Jeremiah looked irate, Minister was no different, Odu wore a sour look and his flower hung loosely in his hand. Having proposed two times in one night, he seemed not to believe he was defeated by a man who only had to beat a drum. Wannabe’s expression screamed hurt and disappointment. Mama was smiling and Holy Joel was shaking his head gently with a look that said “you silly girl, come and give daddy a hug!”. I smiled and walked towards my parents, Akeju following closely behind me. Holy Joel opened his arms and I wrapped mine around his waist. I felt a gentle pat on my back and there was Mama. “ Father, Mama, I’m sorry it had to be this way”. I muttered. “ You are forgiven my child. I support your choice”. Holy Blue said and I went down on my knees, not believing my ears. “ Thank you father, thank you thank you ....”. Suddenly, as if stung by a scorpion, someone yelled “Happy Christmas”. The crowd erupted into a deafening shout of joy. The time had clocked twelve. It was Christmas day.


The blade missed my nape from a second and it pierced through my back. Its arrowhead couldn’t penetrate deep but it had thrust enough. I clenched my teeth and clutched to my hunting knife, even tighter to swing it back and slice the head of the cowardly back-stabber. I shove my feet into snow and spin my arm to make a far extended swing, but when my burning eyes met the back-stabber - my arm dropped. A thrusting blade never felt so awful then it did on that winder afternoon because my own blood, my own brother, stabbed it into my back. Of course, he was trembling; my quick gaze on his eyes spoke it clear. My arms all on sudden throbbed from exhaustion and my heart began pumping more blood. Gasping for air in the frozen day, I looked at him in all but pity. “Herman...why?” I said. My words were weak. His eyes didn’t match mine, maybe right then, I looked nothing but a monster to him, to my big brother. If that were the reason, I would satisfyingly accept and apologize. My hands were coated red from blood for four tall and sturdy people, whose bodies spread around us. My dear private dagger dripped blood; one leg had an arrow skewered through. Even my face, it probably didn’t look like the kind and gentle Henry of our village. The one he grew up with playing in woods and catching insects. Something more frightening, it would terrify him immediately. Herman drew a knife from his belt and aimed towards me, his hands - quivering. He finally looked at me but that glare; it wasn’t anything of my expectation. His eyes were not of regret but it burned from stimulation. His jaw - clenched tightly. That look was merely an impossible task for him ever since our parent’s gruesome death, I thought. “Speak to me, what’s the meaning of this?” I asked again. “There’s no meaning to this, other than the gold dagger,” he answered within heavy breathes. “What dagger?” I asked as nothing called to mind precisely. “The one that father gave YOU, dammit,” he shouted, thrusting his knife in air. He was certainly provoked but never have I seen him that way. The golden dagger housed in our hunting family for ages, our father said. He and I adoredit, placed at the highest shelf in our wooden house. Lastly, before we knew, it became the only belonging left to us by him. “Is this all for that puny blade?” I said. “It costs thousands you jerk, I could buy this whole village for seven lives, they said they would give me all of it,” he stated. His face held grinning greed and as for he mentioned ‘they’, I all but prayed that, he wouldn’t say that. “You mean those foreigners, did they tell you this?” “Unlike filth like you, they took me in as a soldier and made me recognize my place” he answered. His face held a blind shine those hypnotizers stuffed into him. It suddenly started coming clear to me - his frequent disappearance, his unusual uneasiness towards me for a while, and lastly a sudden ambush by four foreigners during our ordinary hunt. “Tell me, did YOU made these guys attack us here?” I asked. I hoped that the answer shouldn’t come the worst way I was deducting it. May all my insane thoughts prove wrong. “To take down a monster like you, yes” he shouted. His words pierced through the cold air and into my head. “Monster...you say,” I murmured under a breath. I had no idea what my face would look then, if any case, it would be terrifying. I extended my arm backwards and pulled out the arrow from my back followed by a gush of blood.The shoving in snow behind me became louder and louder. The grisly screamed escaped his mouth as I swung back letting my body loose and thrust the arrow into the tall person’s neck. His arms were at air holding a machete. It dropped from his grip as his eyes rolled back and he fell on his knees. I exhaled deeply but my mind was pitch-black and all on a sudden another scream filled the head. I could not respond as I immediately felt a blade piercing through my waist and warmth stretching throughout that area. Herman didn’t shed a tear doing it, or rather - he was scared. I dropped backwards on snow, grabbed his scrawny face and brought him down with me. I clenched my fist after falling and bashed his jaw. It shook his entire skull but I didn’t let go and bashed him repeatedly and again. Blood from his mouth flowed on my hand as he dropped on his face immediately after I let go. A bed of snow surely is soft, I thought while staring up at the flakes dropping from heaven. I moved my hand and found the knife sticking out of my waist. I pulled it out. Clearly that brat didn’t have enough strength to pierce through a heavy layered coat and reach beneath muscles. He is pathetic. I sat up digging my arms into the snow while my body aching, ready to collapse. “Why? Why are you so tough to deal with?” Herman cried out pulling his face together from blood dripping on snow. “Even though those guys killed our parents, you still went to them,” I said. “I do not care what we used to believe anymore, I only want that gold and they will take me in” he replied trying to balance his feet again. “Was it the same when you saw them both burned down with our house?” “Not at all, but time has changed Henry, and this time I am the stronger here” he said, stomping on my shoulder and my back hit to a tree trunk behind, “tell me where is it?” “Stronger huh, don’t make me laugh” I replied lifting my head towards that filthy face of his. His eyes widen as of from a string of shiver. Maybe if my body wasn’t exhausted, maybe if I wasn’t bleeding - I would definitely rip him down for those words he could say. Our father was a privileged hunter but ever since those long-faced wicked cigar-smoking foreigners arrived with sweet words and promise of coalition towards the hunting hills; everything changed. They were ruthless, dominating and depraved to the core. It became clearer when they set eyes over our dagger. Their endeavours to buy it failed drastically so they began trying of pocketing it but the villagers lured by their fancy never stood to believe us. Lastly, before we could realize, our house burnt to ashes with our parents inside. “Tell me where it is,” he asked again. “Do you really think they’ll take you in?” I said, countering his question. “Just tell me where it is”. “Did you forget how much we suffered on our own?” I suddenly heard his footsteps driving away from me. Perhaps, he started questioning himself, his motives. Either way, maybe I could spare him then. Of course I would, at last it was our trust that pulled us together after all the tragedies and sufferings. His dragging footsteps returned to its initial place and immediately a rifle’s muzzle hit my forehead. “Tell me where it is, Henry.” I raised my head aligning to the rifle he pointed at my head. He retrieved it from one of the deceased baldheads. “Did you really forget what happened to mum and dad?” It was the last question I had for him, the very last of our relationship. “Yes.” I revealed the dagger’s location. The rifle slipped from his hands and he stepped backwards, turned his back at me and made his escape from the place. I huffed, sitting miserably against a tree. The wounds wouldn’t definitely kill me but something else did. I lost my only family but I had no tears to spare, maybe the chill on these mountains dried me up that much. I let my brother go, he would probably sell off that dagger to those drunkenforeigner and they would take him in as comrade cum servant. Maybe I became a monster after all because the next time we meet, he wouldn’t see him any lesser than an enemy.


Coulrophobia, fear of clowns. Since her childhood, Pau is scared of the clowns. Her parents didn't notice it but she did. Every time she sees a clown in a carnival, she will cry or worst, faint. Everyone found it strange but didn't mind her since she has a weak body. The last time she saw a clown was when she's nine, her best friend had a party and had a clown to entertain the kids but as her eyes landed on that clown, she fainted. Everyone panicked when they saw Pau on the floor. They thought it was some kind of allergies that caused her to faint but they were wrong. Now, it's been seventeen years since the last time she went to a carnival or a birthday party. She tries to avoid such occasions just to be safe. She never told anyone about her coulrophobia even her mother. "Hi" her cousin greeted her, she smiled "Hey" Sam took a deep breath "Can you come with me this weekend?" Pau looked at her "Where?" she asks "There's a carnival that will be held in our small town this weekend and I want to go with you and Jack" she explains "Oh....." she mumbles, Sam was looking at her, expecting her to say yes. She started to sweat excessively, she wants to say no but, there is something inside of her that wants to go and unconsciously she said "Yes" Sam smiled and happily texted her boyfriend "It's settled then, don't forget. Saturday, six-o-clock, sharp!" and left her dumbfounded. After she realized what happened, it was too late to get back what she had just said. All through the week, she kept searching for a reason not to go, she even practiced her reasons until the day she feared the most (more than her exams) the Saturday came, she didn't even notice the days were already passing. Pau was too focused on her invalid reasons that she forgot what today is. Her phone rang and she saw Sam's message, she immediately opened it, expecting that Sam would just go with her boyfriend, alone. Samanta: Hi, Jack and I are just outside of your house. The disappointment was drawn to her face as she read her cousin's text. It's too late now, Sam's is waiting for her. "But what if I'll say that I have diarrhea? or having my menstrual period? Would that be enough reason?" she thought, she's in her room, already dressed and walking back and forth. A knock on the door made her jump, she felt her soul just left her body behind. "Come in," she said as she tries to calm down, the door opened and Sam peeks at the door "Oh, you're done changing clothes..." Sam said as she looks at Pau "Ah yes, shall we?" Sam nodded while Pau's trying to hide her shaking voice. They bid goodbye to Pau's mom and went to the car. Jack smiled as soon as he saw Sam "Are you both ready? I heard some rumors that the carnival is amazing. They had this title called 'Lost in Awe' and I heard that they will have clowns scattered all around to entertain the people....." Sam just shakes her head at his big mouth meanwhile, Pau's heart skipped a beat when she heard the word 'clown. The three of them went inside the car and left for the carnival. The whole ride was quiet... for Pau. Sam and Jack were singing and giggling in front of her. "We're here!" Sam shriek and that made Pau surprised. She looks outside the window and she saw made her lost in awe. The colorful lights are everywhere, the street dancers are entertaining everyone but her eyes were stuck on something, the clowns. Every kid was hugging those clowns, she felt that her chest is tightening, her vision starts to blur, she almost faint but something---no, not something. She felt that someone had just entered her conscious mind. Everything started to be okay again. The tightening in her chest was gone, her eyes are roaming around as nothing happened, she can breathe like usual. "Let's go," Sam said as she looks at Pau. She immediately went out of the car. Everyone around her is enjoying the carnival, she feels alone even if she's with Sam and Jack. "Let's have some fun tonight!!" Sam shouted and run towards the entrance, she left her boyfriend and cousin. Jack shakes his head and looks at Pau, who is like a rock, just standing and looking at the clowns. He wanted to speak to her but someone pulled him away from Pau---it was Sam. As he looks back, he can't see Pau anymore. Meanwhile, Pau realizes that she's alone, she tries to find Sam and Jack but failed to see them. There were too many people and the darkness was already the ruler of the place and only the colorful lights showed her where to go. As she went inside, she saw a huge table with so many foods on it, every kind of entertainers were in the Carnival. " Welcome to the Carnival, "Lost in Awe" I hope you will entertain yourself tonight, we're glad that you're here tonight, with us," someone said through the speaker. Pau didn't look pleased with what she had heard. Pau roams her eyes but there's still a sign of Sam and Jack. She starts to feel annoyed and scared, she hugs herself, comforting her mind that it will be alright, that Sam and Jack will find her. Pay took a deep breath and closed her eyes, "It will be alright" She mumbles, again and again, and again. Pau kept walking and walking, trying to avoid every clown and street until a stall caught her eyes, it does not have a grand decoration in it like the other stalls she saw. This one was unique and...strange. She felt something is urging her to come inside. She looks around and notices that they are no people coming inside of it, she takes her steps slowly. Little did she know as soon she went inside, she won't be able to step outside again. A dazzling light embraces her as she went in and she felt comforted by it. Everyone in the carnival showed a devilish smile as their eyes went red. THE END.