Mail hadn’t existed for many years. Yet there before him lay a small box with a letter resting on the top. Sonder would never know who put it there or when, but he would soon know the importance of it. And why it was on his doorstep. Training. He knew it was safe. No heavy components for a bomb or anything out of the ordinary that would represent a threat. “Its just a package” he thought. Safe. The smell of fresh coffee caught in the cool air made its way to Sonder and he followed that smell back to the kitchen after shutting the front door behind him. Walking down the hallway, he opened the envelope and revealed a small piece of paper with numbers on in. \+1 617 3874020 Sonder, thinking of what the numbers could mean, walked into his kitchen. They reminded him of a system criminal gangs used in the underground. An old technology that required numbers to contact people. Through phones. Phones. Small enough for a package. He began to put two and two together and figured this might be a threat after all. A system used by criminals, to get in contact with a high-ranking officer in the World Centre Policing Agency, just showed up on his doorstep. He lifted the lid of the package and a phone rested at the bottom with a note saying: **We need to talk about project Cypher** Project Cypher was his life work. Before being an officer, a dream he had since he was a kid, he graduated from MIT with a degree in Algorithmic Principles of Security. His work in security jumpstarted his career and he was quickly hired to protect government secrets. Including Project Cypher. The project was a virtual vault for any type of information, and it was almost impossible to hack. The information that Sonder protected was nothing he could have ever imagine. The phone didn’t require a password. It must have been old. Security was a major part of Sonders life and work. The phone only had one application on it. He froze for a second after realising that it wouldn’t open on command, a very basic task for modern electronics. He held his finger down on the icon. A keyboard popped up right away. He slowly typed in the numbers. Sonder held the phone to his ear and listened to the light humming sound it made. Then the sound stopped. “Hello...Sonder.” The person on the other end was unnoticeable. No definite accent. Could be anybody. “I know you’re there Sonder, and I know who you are, what you do and why - “ “Who are you?” His training taught him to talk as little as possible, but he couldn’t help it. “This isn’t about me it’s about you...and the work you do. I have a question...where are you right now?” “At home.” “Well it that case will you please look under the sink in your kitchen.” Sonder slowly walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet. He didn’t speak. The air in the room seemed to drop through the floor, suffocating him, stopping him from speaking. He was in danger. A bomb. It was large and it was strapped to the pipe along with large detonators on each side. “Sonder, leave the house; we blow it up. Try to get help; we blow-“ Sonder began to speak again. “Who’s ‘we’?. What do you people want?” “We want to know the truth” Sonder started to yell into the phone. “I don’t know anything! I don’t know...” “That’s ok” said the man, “I’ll tell you what I know and maybe you can help uncover the rest.” The man talked about some of the most horrific thing he could imagine. He told Sonder about terrorist attacks that were planned by his own government to create fear, and about targeted outbreaks of disease to affect weak economies to make profit the rich on Wall Street. It was a scheme on a global scale and his job was to make sure nobody knew. He felt responsible but tried to ignore it. “But what evidence to you have?” said Sonder, now calm. “That’s were you come in. We need you give us everything on project Cypher. Send it all to this address before 12:00, or the bombs goes off.” The line went dead. After that whole thing he realised a tear was rolling down his face. But that wasn’t the problem. He rolled up his sleeve and peered at his watch. **11:43** The phone vibrated and an email address popped up on the screen. Sonder opened his laptop, taking a deep breath. He sifted through files he was told never to see. Sonders hands start shaking, his watch read 11:54. He used passwords and access codes that would get him fired. 11:57. And he saw things that could cripple the world. Billions of dollars funding secret government projects and large international bidding for war secrets. He had helped uncover the greatest form of greed the world will ever see. His hand hovered over the send button knowing that he was about to shatter the world. His work on project Cypher assisted the rich and hurt and poor. He hit send. 11:59. He looked back under the sink in the kitchen to look at the bomb. He stared at it, wondering if I would have really gone off one minute later. The world shook like the terrible truth that held it up for so long. Then the peace returned. It flowed back like the light that Sonder was forced to bring over the shadows. He would sit back and watch society rebuild around the knowledge that greed would always serve as a crutch. He never knew the darkness until now. Sonder held the phone in his hand and turned it off.


You’ve been an absolute mess since you discovered the shimmering doorway after years of searching, and read the word “Sinemagicae” on the other side. There are four other doors, labeled Absquaqua, Sineigne, Anbsqueterra, and Sineaere, each hiding its own secrets. You go back, day after day, sitting in the room with its crystal walls and onyx doors, staring at the letters marking the door you came through; the letters confirming what you always knew about your world. The world you had hoped to escape from when you found the door that lead you here. You had been forced to take Latin in high school, so it didn’t take you long to puzzle it out. Five doors, five worlds, each lacking one of the five elements. The words on the other four doors could be translated to mean Without Water, Without Fire, Without Earth, and Without Air. And you sit on the gleaming floor, bound to the only world without magic. Of course, you try the other doors, but none of them ever open. At least once per day, you make a slow circle around the room, turning each knob hopefully, only to be met with firm resistance when you desperately attempt to push the door open, the magic calling to you, needing you to get there even if it kills you. But every day, you drag your feet back to Sinemagicae and a world that no longer holds any enchantment. Until that day, when you went to brood in the liminal space of crystal and onyx, and for the first time you aren't alone among the mocking doors. At the threshold of your door, you stop when across the room you see what could be a ghost of you: a fellow traveler, slumped on the floor, eyes glued to the door marked “Absquaqua.” It takes you a long time to move again, but when you do, softly closing the door behind you, she jumps up from the floor and turns to face you. She stares at you, mouth agape, before a whisper escapes her lips. “You come from another world?” she asks, familiar tears streaming down her cheeks. You nod, and she wipes her eyes with her fingertips, leaving behind a smear of blue-green makeup below her left eye. “Show me *water*?” Tentatively, you nod again, and push the door open behind you. It would be easy enough to fill a sink or grab some bottled water, but you want her first time to be special. You take her to a small, quiet beach just as the sun is setting. You watch her wide, brown eyes take in the last of the sunlight glistening on the waves, the water painted with every color of the sunset. The tears dripping from her face mingle with the salt of the ocean as she drops to her knees in the surf, gently running her fingers over the tops of the waves. A wide smile takes over her face as she looks up at you in awe and whispers a single word. “Magical.


Nothing irked Marianne more than a subway ride late at night. It was practically impossible to find a wagon that wasn’t taken over by party goers who reeked of drunkenness and sweat. The seats were all covered in filth from a day’s worth of spilled fast food and coffee, so sitting was simply not an option. Standing wasn’t glorious either: the steel poles must also have been contaminated by a thousand germs and unknown substances, and she would rather have died than be forced to come into any form of contact with them. She therefore stood in a triangular position, steady as a bridge with nothing to hang on to, while the club crowd grew increasingly rowdy around her. The train came to a sudden stop, and the laws of physics were no longer in her favor. She found herself catapulted down the wagon and would have landed on the dirt-ridden subway floor if it wasn’t for her powers. Her lips uttered the incantation in a whisper. Wind of yore I summon thee, from this plight come and save me. For a split second, Marianne levitated without anybody noticing, just enough time for her to find her footing again. It wasn’t without a price however: an intoxicated college student who couldn’t hold his booze anymore barfed on her expensive scarlet jacket as she got back up. A monumental cleaning spell would be needed to get rid of the stain. She got off at the next stop, unable to stand this prison of steel and bodies any longer. This was the last time she agreed to do overtime past nine. Demopolis was too much of a ruckus at night - not that it was any better during the day. No matter the time or place, a never-ending stream of humans filled every inch of every street (except for the space taken by the occasional rat), and not one person in the infinite crowd cared about the wellbeing of another in the slightest. “Hey girl,” blurted out an ogler smoking a cigarette by a sketchy pub entrance to the delight of his toxic group of friends. “Looking for someone to spend the night with? Plenty of choice here! You can even take all of us if you want.” My bed is not the one you seek, in the arms of Morpheus you shall sleep. The ogler instantly collapsed, falling into a deep slumber on the sidewalk. His crew of followers gathered around him with puzzled looks, too drunk to be alarmed at the state of their leader. They couldn’t understand what had just happened, but they probably would never harass a woman in a scarlet coat again. No wonder a warlock had cursed her to spend the rest of her life in this concrete jungle. It was just like being cursed to rot in Hell. The fumes emanating from the sewers were infernal flames. The sea of people was the Styx, overflowing with wretched souls. The bouncers at the entrance of every nightclub were Cerberuses in shades. The demons of the Ars Goetia stood still around the blissfully ignorant mortals in the form of skyscrapers. The city was no place for a witch. Her link with nature had been broken. The stars in the sky were no longer visible amongst the light pollution. Most of her rituals simply could not be practiced. There was no space in her one-room apartment for an altar, and even if there was, her roommate would have been suspicious. Practitioners of the Craft had always been outsiders, but in Demopolis, the single outsider was trapped in the heart of the inside. If only there was another one just like her, someone she could confide into. The suffocation kept her awake at night, made her dread the following day. So far as Marianne knew, she was the only witch in town. How she longed for the lush meadows in which her former Coven lived, for the inebriating sensation brought by the casting of enchantments in the silver moonlight by the pristine lake. The young woman reached her apartment complex at the same time as Joel. He was the one person she did enjoy crossing paths with around here. Her twenty-something neighbor might not have been very talkative, but she felt a strong spirit in hiding behind his brooding eyes, underneath his raven hair. “Good evening,” she said timidly. “Good evening.” This was the extent of their conversations. The introverted programmer was shy and rebuffed any kind of social interaction, yet she couldn’t help but smile in his presence. They walked together in awkwardness into the long entrance hall and Joel ran for his room. Marianne, alone again, entered her apartment with a glimmer of happiness from the brief exchange. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Her roommate was already fast asleep. There was not much Marianne knew about the puzzling stranger in the bed next to hers. Her rent had gone up beyond her threshold of affordability a couple of years back, so the obvious solution had been to put out an ad for a roommate. Who knows, it might be someone I can talk to , she thought. Turns out, Vanessa was mute. They communicated only in writing. There was an inherent sadness to her, as if she wished to voice many stories of trauma and pain but could not. These secrets were locked deep inside her chest, never to be spoken of. She left early in the morning, came back early in the evening, and went to bed right after dinner, to the point where Marianne barely ever noticed her presence. Somehow, that night, there was something intriguing about the speechless woman. She seemed at peace. As for Marianne, she had never felt so empty. In this small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, the walls seemed to draw in closer to her, ready to crush her bones. A wave of claustrophobia flooded the witch from head to toe. She knew; it was time. Time to do what her mother had done fifteen years ago. She had to break free from the earthly chains that bound her to this cruel reality, and this could only be achieved through Astral Projection. Tonight, she was going to Project out of her body and Ascend towards the Spirit Realm, leaving behind her Demopolis cage forever. It was a simple ritual, one of the few she was capable of performing without direct contact with nature. Twisted into the lotus position on her bedsheets, she first aligned her chakras. The Crown was always difficult to line up, so she concentrated all of her spiritual energy towards thoughts of freedom. The meadows materialized before her eyes. The surface of the pristine lake glistened in the silver moonlight. The leaves fluttered left and right, guided into an airy waltz by the call of the Nymphs. Winds of change carried the scent of eternal renewal as the Coven danced with nomadic steps, free from routine, free from shackles, free from the weight of soul-crushing depression. All of these things were of course only taking place in her mind, but they felt more real than anything she had experienced in the five years since the curse had begun. All chakras were now aligned. She did as the Coven’s Great Book prescribed, taking the feather of a dove in her left hand, and the feather of a crow in her right. Her feet sinking deeply into the sheets as if they were dipping into rich and vibrant soil, she spoke the words: Bird of light and bird of night, Make my soul fly with might. Her body collapsed onto the squeaky mattress. Marianne found herself hovering over it in her spirit form, translucid, ethereal. All she had to do now was ascend. Light as a feather, she felt herself drift towards the ceiling, but something caught her attention, stopping the ascension midway: a cloud. There was a cloud suspended over Vanessa’s head, tied to her hair by a golden thread. Of course, how did she not think of it? In the Spirit Plane, dreams were visible. Dreams were nothing but condensation of spirit energy above a person’s body. What could her mysterious roommate be dreaming of? Marianne came back down and peered into the depths of the cloud. Beneath its fluffy whiteness, there were meadows. Lakes. Waterfalls. Constellations. Vanessa dreamed of escaping the City too. Had she been able to speak, the two women might have been able to share their pain, their isolation. Alas, it was never meant to be. Another thought came to her. Joel must also be dreaming by now. She absent-mindedly drifted towards her apartment door, passing right through it. A minute later, she found herself into Joel’s bedroom. There he was, a cloud tied to his hair by a silver string. Inside the cumulus, she saw herself walking up to a door. He was dreaming of her . Her dream-self knocked, and Joel opened. They stared at each other for a moment, then began to passionately kiss. He liked her too. The two neighbors remained intertwined, bound together by love, a love Marianne had no clue to be reciprocal. Suddenly, the scene dissipated. Dream-Joel found himself back at his computer, cornered into a desk. The cumulus turned to a nimbus. Spirit rain fell over his face to the terrifying sound of thunder. Marianne’s spirit stepped away. They shared the exact same desires, the exact same fears. The Spirit Realm now seemed much less tempting, but she had been out of her body for too long already. She lifted her head and saw through the ceiling the dancing auroras of the world waiting for her. It pulled her soul with an irrepressible force, dragging her away from a place she no longer wanted to leave. She wanted to stay, to tell Joel how she felt, to physically experience the embrace from the dream. With the last drop of strength left in her, she tried to fight it off, but to no avail. Her destiny was sealed. Bird of light and bird of night, Time has come to stop the flight. The pull vanished; so did the auroras. Marianne drifted back down. Someone had spoken these words, but it wasn’t her. She turned. Vanessa’s spirit stood before her, translucid, ethereal. “Every witch has a voice in the Spirit Plane,” she said with a beaming smile. “Even me.” Her voice echoed mystically in a tone filled with power. “You’re... You’re a witch?” Marianne muttered in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Why did you never...” Before another word could be said, Vanessa snapped her fingers. Marianne found herself back in her body and woke up in cold sweat. She looked around. Her roommate still appeared to be sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. Had this all been a product of her imagination? Thankfully, two feathers swirled over Vanessa’s head, carried into their dance by a crafty wind, and Marianne understood that it was not. She sunk her head into her pillow. Her roommate was a witch. How had she lost her voice? Why was she trapped in the City? By what coincidence did they end up sharing the same apartment? The questions would remain unanswered that night, but that was okay. For the first time in five years, Marianne knew there was someone she could confide in. There was also someone she could love. For the first time, she looked forward to tomorrow. And so that night, inside the small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, on that squeaky mattress in the heart of Demopolis, she slept soundly.


In The Service of Father Brain A Telling Place Short Story Solemnly I trudge through the winding streets of Estersa. I am pressed into a sea of Conscripted, all of us draped in white wool robes lacquered with Wax tithed from the denizens of our home Ward. Burning ceaselessly atop its cyclopean Wax pillar at the center of the city, the MindFlame radiates its amber glow and warms our backs as we march, pressing us in our thousands towards the pervasive blackness manifesting in District 13. My standard-issue MindTorch hangs from a cord tied around my waist. Its basic form is a metal rod no longer than my forearm with a small brass crucible affixed to one end. A depression on the MindTorch’s pitted surface containing a small thorn allows me to prick my finger and become one with the weapon, effectively binding my consciousness with the TorchSpirit that resides within its core. While bound to the weapon, I’m able to extend the length of the MindTorch as well as channel my will into its crucible to manifest a minor gout of MindFlame potent enough to return a minor Darkling to the Ink. A Conscripted’s MindTorch, our thin, Wax-laquered armor, and the holy charms affixed to us are our only protection against what lurks in the shadows at the fringes of the city, and in its dark crevices. The ground rumbles as Battle Organs crusted with scores of dripping candles sail through the sea of conscripts on overlarge carriage wheels, creating furrows in the powdery WaxSlag that coats the ground. Crews scurry about on the decks of the wood and brass behemoths, pulling levers and turning cranks to manipulate the mechanical limbs affixed to the side of each contraption. They’re orchestrated by an Organ Grinder, a misshapen creature draped in formless black robes with a torso elongated to fit as many arms as possible, which sprout from it at various angles and always seem to be at work doing something or other. The strange creature gesticulates this way and that, droning orders at Conscripted in its sonorous language while one of its appendages rhythmically turns a heavy crank connected to an ornately carved box housing a series of studded tubes and small metal tines that plonk ponderously with an eerie melody. A massive stack of conical tubes welded together at the aft of the vessel broadcasts the noise out over us in heavy waves and the force of it causes my diaphragm to vibrate. Gargoyles, monstrous winged machines of leather and brass patrol walkways and flit between the tightly packed spires above us. Their powerful claws find easy footholds in the soft BuildingWax of the sprawling metropolis, and where there are none, they soar on leathery wings courtesy of the updraft created by our procession. We are flanked on either side by a long row of holy TorchBearers. They steady themselves with hand-over-hand grips clasped to MindTorches resembling long poles topped with a crucible from which their MindFlame burns. They’re hunched over from the weight of the heavy chain bound tomes they bear on their backs. The large books are splayed open, displaying wax-sealed pages covered in artistic renderings detailing the history of Estersa and scripture espousing the holy deeds of Father Brain. With faces obscured by gauze coated in holy Wax, they’re blind in the conventional sense; guided only by the soft glow of the MindFlame they’ve pledged their life in service to. Pressing on, we begin to see signs of Darkling infestation as we move closer to our destination. These manifest first as shadows cast by our passing that begin to take on an oily viscosity which tugs at our footwraps. Soon, we see the dreaded sludge coating the walls of structures and dripping from Torch fixtures along the street that have long since gone out. Trailing incense from censers hung about their necks, TorchBearers raise their MindTorches in reverence, driving back the foul ichor, and relighting the extinguished fixtures. Bathed in the gentle sepia glow of the flames around us, our resolve is strengthened and our pace quickens in anticipation of the coming purge we’re soon to be embroiled in. This feeling of protection abates however, as we cross a bridge under which we can see a river flowing with fathomless darkness. Anguished faces peer out from the murky sludge, and then are stretched and twisted as rows of desiccated hands reach out for us, disturbing the mire in the process. Overhead, a honeycomb of sinewy obsidian lattice stretches tautly between structures and threatens to blot out the life-giving glow of the MindFlame like a hastily constructed shroud. I grip my humble MindTorch and shudder at my surroundings, withdrawing inwardly to prepare myself for the coming battle. I focus on the soul-thumping melody generated by the droning of the Battle Grinders mixed with the holy chanting of my brethren and slip into a meditative state to steel myself for the coming battle. I am not long in my trance before the sounds of war bring me to my senses. The world I open my eyes to is a vast black abyss, crawling with creatures from nightmare. Darklings rush forth like a wave from the seemingly endless blackness. A tide of chopping teeth and wailing mouths, they crawl and trudge forward with various forms of locomotion, gibbering and screeching. The sound alone threatens to corrupt our very HeartWicks and drive us mad. And corrupt us it would, were it not for the righteous blare of our war implements keeping the auditory assault at bay. The outside ranks of our dirge respond to the onrushing tide of horror by channeling their willpower into their MindTorches. Great walls of flame erupt on all sides of us, and the first waves of Darklings caught attempting to pass through them are immolated. The larger ones fall to the ground flaking to black ash as they come undone. The heat we generate is immense, and I begin to feel it permeate the layers of my protective robes. Nevertheless, we press forward in our advance like a great flame-wreathed serpent slithering blindly through a dark cavern. Despite this show of force, the more clever Darklings are able to slip through the cracks in our defense and begin wreaking havoc in our ranks. Dread builds in my chest as a severed hand trailing mangled sinew skitters across the ground. I extend my mind torch and strike out with the pointed end, skewering the foul creature to the ground just as it is about to leap for me. Its mottled skin flakes and begins to turn to ash as I shake its remains from my weapon and scramble to assume a defensive position. Our tightly pressed ranks undulate from the persistent Darkling assault like an organism being swarmed by small insects and finding itself powerless to shake them off. Battle Grinders belch flames into the endless darkness, while crews of Conscripted battle to hold their broad decks now teeming with monstrosities. At one point I’m pressed so tightly amongst my comrades that my feet are unable to touch the ground, and I drift along helplessly until the pressure subsides, and I fall to the ground, finally able to stand on my own and rise to my feet. Looking around I see Conscripts begin to scatter and I catch dark shapes sailing through the din above us. I’m showered with something wet and look down with surprise to see that my robes are spattered with warm blood. A mangled arm propelled through the air lands with a wet smack on the gore slicked ground. I watch in revulsion as it is quickly snatched up by the dexterous mechanical appendage of a nearby Battle Grinder, ensuring that no Wax goes to waste. Gargoyles dive like falling meteors into the fray all around us, some never to rise again, others victoriously snatching up large Darklings before shredding and torching them in the void above. The remains of these unfortunate creatures drift down to us as soft black ash before being swept away in the churning chaos. Shuffling Conscripts scramble to mount themselves into a defensive position, and it isn't long before I see why. A hulking figure stalks toward us. Its ugly porcine features twisted in a rictus of glee as it hews down Concripts by the handful with powerful arms ending in jagged metal fragments. Its forearms rotate in bursts, pulping any unfortunate souls standing in their destructive path and showering the surrounding area with hot viscera. The crowd bucks and sways in an effort to create distance from the remorseless killing machine and I’m pressed into bodies so snugly that the air escapes my lungs. Agonizing seconds tick past until once again the crowd heaves and I’m pushed forward with such force that instinct alone throws out my arms and saves me from meeting the ground face first. I lose my grip on my MindTorch and it drops into the muck with a sucking sound. I frantically reach to retrieve it when a cloven foot descends on my hand with enough force to smash it free of my wrist. I scream and the world goes black for a second, stars dancing across my vision. My breathing quickens, and I clutch my shattered stump. I look up and am face to face with my executioner. Its beady eyes shine with malicious glee and it squeals triumphantly in my face before rearing back to deliver the killing blow. Its powerful blending arms begin to whirr and before they are plunged into me, pulverizing my abdomen and splitting me in two, I glimpse the creature in its full glory. It stands and I see that it is an arm’s length taller than me and at least three times as broad. Chains hooked through weeping flesh spread from one point to another across its ash gray skin, the trophies hanging from them forming a macabre latticework of grotesque oddities. Its engorged sex organs drag the ground, leaking fetid purple fluid that wafts over me as the creature shifts position. Then comes the pain. I am quickly torn asunder as the beast plunges both of its hellish arms into me. Briefly, I feel my flesh being churned apart before I realize with horror that my legs are now separated from my body. Reality takes on a dreamlike quality, and I watch with waning lucidity as the beast steps forward to claim its piece of me when a strange weightlessness takes hold. The ground begins to recede and I am pulled out of reach of the monster, now petulantly squealing at being denied its prize. A second later, the world lurches and gravity returns. A sense of weightlessness and the churning gears of the Battle grinder are the last things I recall before the end.


So, once upon a time, there was a dirty word, an abhorrent marriage and a soiled soul and Drake Fabian. Everyone knows a Drake Fabian. He is the guy who would step on your head and kick your dog to ascend that ladder. He was his mother's Christ. On any rung he placed his foot, a sacred ground from beneath him, grew. The child she shouldn't have had, or never should have kept, was Drake Fabian. Her hair was always greasy, and she was beaten on the daily by her alcoholic husband. Not pretty enough for her tiny man, and too Catholic to divorce, she took her frustration out on Drake, her dirty boy. He was dirty because he was a boy. He was dirty because his soiled his diaper, like clockwork, every three hours and a minute. Her cross eyed spouse, her tiny man, would not, could not, stand the smell and for that, he would hurt her; hurt her for the stench of crap. She made sure to tell him that, her son, whom she called out by his full name, Drake Fabian. Simultaneously, she would chastise her baby, and lick his ego, like a sore, or as a cow laps up placenta from a newborn calf. She couldn't get him clean, because he couldn't ever be clean, enough. Not in the area that he messed, every three hours and a minute, nor in her eyes, for he was a make, like her cheating man. Filling his diaper with green bile, he listened as she vomited verbs and nouns that no child should ever hear, but he listened too closely and he heard and he learned. He knew when he soiled, he was going to get beat on, and he grew frightened. But his unformed mind, unconsciously kept a tally of every blow that struck him and every verb or adjective of abuse thrown at him. Over weeks, he knew it was wrong and bad to fill his pamper with green bile. He came to hate that mess and smell that happened every three hours and a minute, he recognized it soon, as the smell angered his mother. She beat his ass red and bloody, and wiped and scraped it clean, because it was bad, filthy bad. He hated his soiled drawers, and his mother for hating him, for being a dirty boy. He remembered how it hurt to be dirty. As he grew up, his mother doted on him as a golden child. He was a perfect child now, and getting more ideal every year, because he was directly to thank, fornhwr beatings only happened at night, and not every three hours and a minute. Drake Fabian considered only his needs, and bullied anyone who tried to tweak with his power play. There was the time, I got sucker punched for not signing up for selective service on my 18th birthday. The moment my life flashed before my eyes, when he told an Italian fisherman, that it was me, and not him, that stole his beer in Europe. He routinely took more than he needed, and spent as close to nothing on anyone other than what was necessary to win friends and influence people. His favorite hobby was watching his reflection, as a child predator would. He made it a daily challenge to miserly pinch every penny: telling St. Jude’s hospital to fuck off on the phone. After years of listening to him bitch, and moan, and his daily rants of self serving propaganda, it was time to kill Drake Fabian. Should I kill thee for the fourth grade misgivings and all the hype you put upon the rest of us, while you created a cult around Farrah, and made everyone else a pariah near thee? Should I slaughter thee for the minutes you stole in highschool, taking my books or swiping your backhand against my face? Perhaps I should slice your throat for the years of drug abuse you deny to your wife and children? There are so many ways. Should I perhaps, take your skull and smash it with the hammer you threw at me, when we played near your mother’s pool, but you weren’t the center of attention? Or maybe when you started throwing scissors at me when I interrupted your beating of your girlfriend? I could take out your knees, because you couldn't actually win on the football field, but had to find a way to make sure your privileged ass shined bright against the sun. I remember the year in college, when we both chose Western Civ as a sure pass, and I aced the same test you failed. The night before studying your stolen test, while I skated through to the same C. How you plotted against me, because I had learned in high school what you blew the TA for. When you were busy sticking your little wicket into some 13 year old, as I excused your bad behavior. Or the same year, when I interuppted your rape, that you used marijuana and cocaine to ply through; her tight Jordache jeans had her sucking your fat fingers, until I pulled her out by her dignity. Why did you suck the peanut butter off a goat's goathood bought, to ensure friends at the biggest frat, while I drank and smoke my way into the same Dean's list? Your mother bought you edible underwear, because she thought it was sexy, meanwhile we all drank to forget the thought of it. Your father asked you what that girl meant, when she asked to buy weed from you, albeit on parent’s weekend. When your girlfriend, the only one you ever loved, called you out on your hypocrisy with the one word you couldn’t digest. The one word that interrupted your little world, and made you feel like the little babyyou were, a full diaper of crap. Did you tell your wife, Drake? Did you tell her you married her only to breed? Does your wife know the word that makes you shrink into a little red, white baby? Can she sense your soft, white under belly? Because it’s dirty. Because you can’t clean it up, like you clean up your life, at least in a whipped up rationalization. You know your deepest fear. It frightens you as hell shakes a minor, puny demon to IRA core. You know, and no one else knows, that dark, black, evacuation, if your nightmares. It’s not the job you lied to get. It’s not the car you wrecked and got fixed by filing a false claim. It's not the exact measurement of your hair, ir the number of bug bites per summer and the weight of the pile of coals at the bottom of your grill, you can meet out. In fact, even the weight of the pennies you throw at the homeless in your town, isn't within your domain. But that dirty little back end of yours, you bad, dirty boy. That, you cannot control. You know that. And only you, and I, know that. Do you tell your coworkers about how you would purposely kill anyone who fucked up your career, even your wife, the woman who bore you two children? Did you announce to the world, as you would announce any bowel movement to the nearest drunkard, the beer you stole throughout your youth, or the bat you kept in your pathetic B210, to pummel anyone who didn’t agree with your self serving ding a ling? The blackened eye you gave as a gift to any non worshipping lackey. Can you recall the rituals you went through, day in and day out? Of walking a certain number of minutes per day, or eating a particular number of calories, or fucking every girl who entered your beer red pubic hair? The way you showered for exactly 4 minutes each day and then took 13 steps back into the dormroom, to pull your towel off, left to right every time. Then, taking your right hand and putting exactly two poofs of talcum powder in your left hand, to rim your asshole three times, never four, to make sure you “powdered up,” and then announce it to the whole floor. Or when you got wet by accident and proceeded to attack poor, large Harvey; much larger than you, and someone you could not harm, put you down like a baby for a nap. I wonder if you can see why I must kill you? Why everything you stand for and everyone you’ve harmed, call to my soul, begging for vengeance. People you don’t remember, times you’ve put behind you, like a fat drunkard puts a handful of tainted, browned single-ply toilet paper into his ass, and wipes, and wipes, and sandpapers and pulls out the hairs of his ass covered in boils. Now that you have attained this American dream, you created, nay, infested on everyone else. All of us who dared stood near you, not even in your way. The mother that blew little kisses on your naked behind. So white, so privileged, your cheese droopy ass is, and soon, was. I hated every word you uttered, Every little lisp you tried to make sexy, every sneaker you stole from the Footlockers you worked at. I despised every drop of every beer of every case you snuck out the back door of the IGA. You made friendship a game. Where love should have prevailed, you placed contempt and competition. You tried so hard to be number one, and we all bowed in front of you, so as not to be beaten when we weren’t looking. But you were last, always last, never to win, fairly. You stole the right to win, when you refused to play by the rules humanity wrote. So on this day, this your fiftieth birthday, I must end you. I will not tell you about it. I will ambush you, when all is right and blissful and calm in your world. While you sip a Scotch, you don’t deserve, or smoke a fat black cigar, you never bought, I will walk up to you, as I have a hundred times before. I will shake your hand, while pulling you into a hearty hug, and squeeze you, as the prodigal son greets his lost brother. You will smile, because you will think you have a moment of safety. And another unearned victory. As I pull away from that embrace, and your eyes lock mine, as a comrade’s should, I will look down at my feet. Your gaze will slowly turn to a blink, as you automatically follow my head down to where I want you to be staring. Your wife will smile like the horse faced ass she is, your children, whom I have never met will be texting their boyfriends or BFFs, nearby, and someone else you’ve fucked over in the past, will be stealing one more beer from your ill gotten cooler gains, and then....just then. “Drake.” “What up, Fatness?” “Happy birthday.” “You're still smoking crack? “You still an ass hole?” “Uh. I hate that word.” “I know.” “Why do you use that word, when you know I hate it?” “Ah, Drake. Ah, fucking, Drake. May all your fears face you when you die."


I vividly saw hell and truly believed if I stopped breathing, I’d be there. Forever. I had two days off work and a friend, Joe, asked me if I would be interested in buying a four-finger bag of pure PCP from the chemist who made it, for one hundred dollars. This is a horse tranquilizer. Sure, why not? I had no idea. After what occurred over the next several days, I could say this. Comparing LSD to PCP, LSD is a shot of beer, and PCP is a fifth of whiskey. PCP is one of the most absolutely horrible drugs on the face of the planet. I'm driving back to my apartment, and Joe is sitting next to me. He snorted a big line. Instantly, he said, “Hallsey'', my nickname, “Where are we going ?” “Back to my apartment.” “Where?” “Back to my apartment.” “Hallsey, where are we going?” “ Back to my apartment.” “Where is my dad?” “I don't know, Joe”. He went quiet. Wow! I was dating a lady named JoJo. I went into the apartment and told her this stuff was very powerful. We both snorted a very small line. We were listening to the rock band Boston. Don't know why I mentioned that, except it was important at the time. Instantly, everything went euphoric. Surrounded by white light. After a half hour, I wondered where Joe was. I went out to the car, he was drenched in sweat. He hadn't been able to open the door. He said he had been out in the universe. He crawled across the street, on all fours, like a dog. He had urinated himself. He came into the apartment and straight armed my oak coffee table straight over his head. Unbelievable strength. Then both JoJo and Joe were gone. What? Over the next two days, I'm snorting a little every four hours or so. I can handle this. Didn't sleep. I was very wrong. I went to work Friday morning, so high, I didn't know I was high. I worked at corporate headquarters, which also had a sales floor. I found out, after the fact, that I was going to be promoted to store manager. I was fired. Here is exactly what happened. My first customers were two big men from a company called Stuart Sandwiches, looking to buy a used sixty-nine-dollar freezer. We had an open-to-buy list, where customers with a good buying history could take the product and pay later. I had looked at the wrong list and naturally didn't see the name. I walked upstairs into the vice president's office, which I had never done before. He was in the middle of a meeting and explained the situation. I told him there was a man named Stuart Sandwiches. It's a company. He told me to not let them take it. I went back down, told them, and they went ballistic. I just stood there, looking at the floor. A fellow salesman came over and peacefully resolved the situation. I went and sat at my desk. I opened a King James Bible my mother had given me. The words became extremely “pornographic”, vial, threatening, and menacing. I closed the Bible. A couple of minutes later, there was a man behind me, looking at a stereo. It turns out he was a semi-driver taking a load of appliances back to Bellaire, which was five minutes from my hometown, Martins Ferry. We were also a distribution center. I went back to my desk, tore the front page out of the Bible, and wrote, “Mom, just thinking of you, have a nice day. Love, Bob”. She had, what turned out to be, terminal breast cancer. I went back to the warehouse, found the driver, and asked if he would mind taking this to my mother in Martins Ferry. He said sure and asked if the semi could maneuver in the backstreets. I looked at the truck, it was miles long. I proceeded to walk back to the sales floor, the driver following me. We were in a darker area of the warehouse when he stopped me, grabbed my hand explained he was gay, and asked if he could give me oral sex. Now, I have no issues with gay men. However, in my mind, at that moment, I had just given him a “Holy Mission''. Taking my note to my mother with cancer. I had a 280-pound bench press and on PCP strength is magnified and you feel no pain. If I had torn into him I probably would have killed. I looked at him, turned around, and went completely insane. I went to the sales floor and started switching all the price tags. I had an expensive Amana ice and water refrigerator, priced at seventy-nine dollars. A basic washer was over two thousand, and an inexpensive microwave was over a thousand. There were numerous customers on the sales floor. I then picked up a can of Coca-Cola, went upstairs, and poured it into an industrial laser printer. I squirted some mustard on my suit and went down and sat at my desk. The V.P. came down a few minutes later and asked, “Bob, What's going on?” Quiet. “Are you drinking anything?” “No.” “Are you smoking anything?” “No,” “Fred, I’m scared.” “Why are you scared?” “I think I’ve overdosed on PCP.” Several minutes later, the police arrived and took me to an emergency room. They observed me for quite some time. I have no idea how long because I was lost in the madness of my mind. I was perfectly quiet, the doctor gave me a card to a mental institution, explaining that because I was not violent, I could leave. Somebody drove me back over to work, where I was told to take the weekend off. I was fired on Monday. A good friend said the printer would randomly print, “Things go better with Coke.” I had a 1969 Chevelle SS. and started driving, I swear I remember hitting one hundred mph. And I was not on the interstate. I had no idea where I was. Became lost several times. I'm on the interstate, then side roads. Back on the interstate. I'm dripping wet from sweat. I ran many red lights and stop signs, all at a very high speed. Somehow, I made it home. Arriving safely without even a ticket qualifies as a miracle. I was blown out of my mind. At this moment, I thought I should call my mother and explain that a gay man might be pulling up in a semi-truck with the front page of the Bible she had given me. Today this seems hilarious. She asked what on earth was wrong with me. I told her the truth, that I was overdosing on PCP, and that I thought I had just lost my job. “You son of a b_itch” and slammed the phone. I had just lost my best friend. I went to hell. I'm sitting on the front porch drinking a little King beer. At this moment, my next-door neighbor, who I had never talked with for the year I had lived there, came over, sat down, and introduced himself. He was a gay man in a gay relationship. I looked at him and he transformed. His eyes became black, he became over ten feet tall, and he grew wings and hooves. I said I was sick and had to go inside. I went inside, locked the door, took off all my clothes, and went to bed. All this occurred on a Friday, and I came to sanity on Sunday morning. All I can explain about those lost twenty-four hours is this. There was no concept of time. I'm visualizing spiders, snakes, bats with human heads, smelling sulfur, seeing humans on fire in agony, lakes of fire, hearing intense screaming, at times in utter blackness. For every good thought, there was an immediate bad thought. My mind was in a continuous loop. Good, bad, good, bad, good, bad. Fast, very fast. I remember looking at the clock, it was 9:01. I thought hours and hours had gone by, looked again, 9:02. One minute, I was beyond terrified. I explained this to a doctor several years later. He told me he was writing a book about the effects of natural hallucinogens on the human psyche. Many plants are known to have hallucinogenic properties. Some of these include Common Reed, Datura, Fly Agaric Mushrooms, Hawaiian Baby Wood Rose Seeds, Magic Mushrooms, Morning Glory Seeds, and Nutmeg. These plants contain chemical compounds that can react with the human body in specific ways, affecting the brain and mental state of those who ingest them. He asked if it was pure PCP. I said yes. For some reason, he asked if I was spiritual, and I told him I was Christian. He explained that I had gone catatonic. He had patients who were in mental institutions. Put their hand up, it stays up until you put it down. Their mind is in a good/bad loop. Most came out of it, but a few hadn't. PCP “short circuits” the synapse in the brain. I remember during those lost twenty-four hours, focusing on a small constant light and breathing, while all this hell was going on around me. I truly believed, if I stopped breathing, I would be in hell. Forever. I woke up on Sunday morning, and the first sound I heard was birds singing. I took the PCP and flushed it. I didn't even smoke weed over the next year or so. The doctor said I had experienced a miracle. Yes, I had. Before continuing, I should explain what I know is true. Eternal Source did not put me through this experience. I did. The Source was the light I concentrated on with my right mind and spirit. What I experienced was an extreme attack by my insane wrong ego mind. God does not send us trials, each mind has the Holy Spirit within. All works out for the good of all parties concerned, always. You may not think so at the time. Looking back at my own life, for me, this is very true. “You may not get what you asked for, but you will get what you need”. The Rolling Stones. I had been attending church regularly. Believing strongly in the existence of Heaven and Hell. Up until I became a student of A Course in Miracles, I still believed in hell because I had seen and experienced it. My mind made the whole experience up. I now understand the power of our minds. As an example, have you ever tried to remember someone's name and couldn't? Several days later, the name “pops'' into conscious thought. Everything you have seen, heard, and experienced since birth is stored in your subconscious database. You consciously put into your database the question, and answer found and given to your conscious thought. This is why it is important to dwell and look upon what is good. Put positive in, not negative. I didn’t stop breathing, and the light I concentrated on brought me through the worst experience of my life to date. -Bob


‘Are you, inside?’ I ask, letting the bars drop from my hands to thud solidly onto the wooden floor. ‘Inside, outside, all fucking sides, mate. But no, I’m not wearing your body if that’s what you’re thinking. I am your body, same matter, simple as,’ me says. ‘Where are you, mate?’ ‘I’m, I’m on a train,’ I say, vaguely, staring at him. He’s me but there are differences, lines in his face, a light greying of stubble on his chin, sharp blue eyes where there should be green. ‘You need to wake up, mate, you need to wake up now,’ me says, then he darts forwards and stabs something into my right bicep. ‘I need to what?’ I say. My brain won’t work. ‘Where are you? I can help you, we need to go, you’ve got an infection,’ he says. ‘Infection,’ I say, without comprehension. ‘I think I’m on the train to Manchester.’ ‘Get off at the next stop,’ me says. ‘Now, wake up,’ me says, and I do. My eyes open and I’m leant against the shoulder of an awkwardly polite middle-eastern man, who meets my gaze and smiles, somehow apologetically, as I right myself. I’m on the train, I’m me. Ticket inspector at the end of the carriage, no ticket. I hop to my feet, gingerly testing the ground beneath me, all normal. I wander as far up the train as I can and sit in a corner of the first-class carriage until we pull into a little village station. The doors ding and slide open and I trot up the carriage and outside. Me is waiting for me on the platform. ‘Come on,’ he says, and hurries away. I follow. Over a bridge across the tracks, through an empty ticket office, to a car parked outside. ‘Get in,’ me says. I get in. The engine sputters and sparks into life and we rumble up the street and around the corner. ‘What is this? Where are we going?’ I say. ‘Nowhere,’ me says, exasperatedly. ‘Look at this.’ He fishes in the glovebox, swerving dangerously as he does so, ‘it’s simpler if you just read,’ he says, showering me with A5 sheets. I pick one up and start reading. *INTERDIFECTION: A GUIDE* *Hi Paul,* *I’m Paul 357375486-045372-5-1, your immune response.* I look up, me catches my gaze and grimaces. *You are experiencing an out of body infection, I will assist you with the removal process. Do as I say. Everything will be OK. No questions. All of your lives depend on it.* *Also, no questions.* I look up at me. ‘Not much of a guide.’ ‘It’s simple,’ me says. ‘Shut up and do what I’m told, basically,’ I say. ‘Correct.’ ‘Interdifection?’ ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘But.’ ‘No fucking questions, you don’t know how many times I’ve had this talk,’ me says, ‘Who are you? What am I? What’s wrong with me? Is this real? Christ, is this real? Look at it, touch it, does it feel real?’ ‘OK, so?’ I say. ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘Right.’ We continue on in silence down winding country roads until we reach a small blue bungalow at the edge of a forest. ‘Out,’ me says. I obey. Inside the bungalow is cosy. Tartan tablecloths and doilies cosy. ‘Is this?’ I begin. ‘This is not my house, no,’ me says. ‘I’m borrowing it.’ He trots upstairs and I follow up two flights to the locked door of an attic bedroom. He clicks a key in the lock and we enter. Lights flick on and computer screens blink into life all around us. Each screen appears to show a different image of me in various states of unconsciousness. Every so often a screen warps and shifts to another image of another me, asleep, or passed out, or pissed or whatever. I’m so transfixed I barely notice the two people on the bed in the centre of the room. A man and a woman. They’re restrained, with wires inserted into either side of their necks, snaking down to a machine at the foot of the bed, pumping dark fluid beneath their skin. ‘And these are?’ I point towards the unconscious pair. ‘The owners of the house, yes. Please stand here,’ me says. ‘Right,’ I say, must continue to just go along with this or I will completely lose my shit.


The train’s sharp whistle startled her out of a restless sleep. Though the benches were upholstered in plush velvet, being squeezed between Mr. X’s boney frame and Mrs. Y’s overflowing one, Caro was trapped. Across the narrow space were the sleeping figures of the young girl, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Z and, near the door, a young man. Caro had tried all afternoon not to ogle him, but her eyes had a mind of their own. Using the half-light from the exit sign over the door, she stole another glance. He smiled at her. Tipping his head toward the door and the hallway beyond, he whispered. “Fancy a walk?” Hoping that the lack of proper light was hiding her blush, Caro nodded. Twisting and turning, she slipped out from underneath Mrs. Y’s crushing weight. Her short fur cape in one hand, he held out his other to help her to her feet. The soft sigh when the door slid open did not seem to disturb anyone. They stepped into the hallway. A porter, smoking a cigarette at the end of the hall, nodded and turned his back to them. “The bar car is still open, I believe,” he mumbled. “Come let’s get a drink and ...” Not finishing his sentence but, still holding her hand, he led her toward the dining room and bar car. As if expecting the rendezvous, the sleepy looking waiter nodded toward a table at a window and brought an unopened bottle of slivovitz and two short glasses. “Now, Caroline, let’s talk.” The young man poured a generous shot in each glass. He raised his glass as if making a toast, savored the taste before swallowing. “My name is, ...” he paused. “No, let me tell you what I know about you.” He drained the rest of his drink, put the glass on the table and leaned forward. “You, Caroline van Buuren, are the last of your family who, for generations were prosperous beyond belief. Your ancestors, bankers every one of them, made under-the-table bargains with their friends and charged usury fees to lend money, never losing sleep over what happened to the wretches who were ruined when they couldn’t ante up.” He paused and refilled his glass, held the bottle out to her. “Drink up, my dear. Enjoy it while you can.” Topping up her glass after her modest sip. “Now that the bottom has fallen out of the stock market” he continued, “and wiped away your family’s fortune, you are on a hunting trip, are you not? You, having lost your fortune, I would say ill-gotten gains, but that would be so dramatic, wouldn’t it, are traveling to your maternal homestead, in the hopes of finding peace, or riches. Have I missed anything?” Eyes on the table, fingers gripping the sturdy short glass, Caro shook her head. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Her voice, tight with fear, was low, barely audible over the relentless clack-clack of train rushing on. He reached across the small table, one finger under her chin, he lifted her head, made her look at him. His smile was benign, but did not reach his eyes. “I have a proposition for you. It so happens that someone, a noble, shall we say, needs a new bride. Of course, any chit would do, but he happens to be particular. He wants a beautiful wife. One who is educated, knows her way around the dining room and leads the conversation that ensues. One who knows her way around a Pound, a Frank, a Dollar. One who will do as he says and never question him.” “You want a pretty, smart, pet. A monkey, a slave.” She shuddered. He smiled and shrugged. “As you wish. However, this monkey would be well taken care of, lack for nothing,” he stared out of the window into the black night. When he continued, his voice was low, distracted. “She would be dressed in silk, adorned with jewels and live in palaces.” He turned back to her, is voice sharp again. “In other words, Caroline, you would continue your life as you were meant to.” He drained his glass and leaned back. “Who are you?” “My name does not matter. I am merely a messenger. Say yes and we go on toward untold riches and unbelievable power. Say no and you will travel alone into poverty.” “Then who? Who?” Frowning, she searched his eyes but found no answer in their black depth. Caro finally lifted her glass, let the sharp liquor touch her lips, roll over her tongue and let it burn as it slid down her throat. Another swallow while she thought. She had spent the last of her money and several pieces of heirloom jewelry to come here and still had to travel second class. If her mother’s family in these remote mountains of Hungary would not welcome her, she’d be on the proverbial street, cobble stoned streets, most likely. If the man were speaking the truth, she’d be on easy street. He was right, she had been raised to preside over a dining room table, be charming at all times, to marry for wealth. Caro drained her glass, barely aware of the bite of the liquor and held it out to the man, wordlessly demanding a refill. It was her turn to stare out into the black night, the window a mirror to the bar car. There, on the other side of the car sat a man, older, yet virile, black hair smoothed back showing a widow’s peak, dark, deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones. Was he watching her? His evening clothes spoke of wealth, the large diamond tie pin alone would feed a family of five for a year and have money left over for the rent. The sapphire in his pinky ring would pay for any lavish wedding and an extensive honeymoon. Was he studying her? The ice bucket at the side of his table held an unopened bottle of champagne. Was he waiting for her? She blinked and looked back to the man across from her. “Why? Why me?” He smiled. “Maybe because you were meant to have everything you had been promised. Maybe because your desperation and inability to negotiate through the real world will make you more grateful, maybe because he ... No, I doubt that would be it.” He smiled secretively. “What’s your answer, Caroline?” She tossed the drink back, shuddered at the sharp, intoxicating liquid, put the glass back on the table and nodded. “Yes. I’ll take the offer." The handsome young man turned and pointed to the man Caro had seen mirrored in the window. “Go and meet your groom. Count Vladimir.”


The hangover stank. It was the worst one in a culmination of bad ones, one so impossibly foul and rotten that there was no way to drink it off. Green to the gills and as a dry as a badger’s chuff. Unreasonably dehydrated, yet unable to keep down any liquids. It was in this sorry state I got onto the bus. You’d think the marathon of cigarettes would’ve taken away my sense of taste and smell, but all they’d done was dry around the taste bud, leaving it intact and ready to analyse the putrid, acrid rank that passed for my breath. I could smell myself, smell my fingers, each one yellowed, stained and honking so thoroughly of tar I imagined they were emitting cartoon stink lines. Cold sweat dripped down my back as my paranoid heart thundered off key to the march of some inhuman drum. I could smell these people. I could taste them. The stale body odour, the cheap aftershave, the violent perfume. It lingered and rolled into a triumvirate which also added cheap greasy food and fresh farts to the roster. I took my seat, as the sunlight blasted through the thick reinforced windows and dust burst from within the faded seat padding in a cascade of dead skin cells and anonymous fibres. I sucked it in through my flaring nostrils to stem the wave of terror that had gripped my scalp and muttered, ‘still alive.’ An aging female wart with an array of skintags sat across from me, berating and scolding what I took to be her fat grandson who had chocolate all over his hands, shirt and face. She was smacking and nipping the boy and seeming to get a kick out’ve his feeble and sticky protests to stop. I swallowed down some vomit which if spat out would’ve eaten away the upholstery on the chair in front. Two teenagers sat in the two seats in front, one in each and talked loudly of half forgotten football games and girls in their year they’d give it to. One of the pair, covered in what seemed to be a mosaic of acne and third degree burns craned his neck to see if anyone else was listening to him talking about sniffing his cousin’s knickers, when, as he twisted his neck, an evil looking spot burst from the tension and flecked his collar in residue of puss and blood. I could swear I heard it explode. My chances of recovery from this nightmare were now painfully slim. I put my sweating head into my stinking hands and ran my fingers through my hair. I felt like an ashtray, and spasms began to violently grip me around the spine as I shivered and quaked in this cesspit of anxiety and loathing. I promised God I would get my head together and sort myself out if He would only deliver me from this wretched place. I swore I’d change, as I watched clear fluids run from the little pervert’s neck and stain his shirt collar a translucent colour of orange. Suddenly, the bus driver stopped. The engine had failed and smoke was cascading from the front of the bus as he bade us wretches off the bus and onto the street. As I got off, I looked up and saw an off-license, it’s neon lights emitting a lonely but enchanting buzz, echoing me inside with all the warmth of a mother’s embrace. It was then, I concluded, that the Lord does certainly move in mysterious ways, as walked inside and stared into the fluorescent light.


Hello, my name is Jenna, and when I got married in 2017, I was 120 pounds, my ideal BMI weight, confident in myself, and ready to take on the world. I married Mark Taylor, you probably already hear it, but I didn't until my wedding day. "Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mark and Jenna Taylor!" My husband sounded like he was marrying his private parts. It was then I decided to take my old name and go by Jenna Small. Anyway, I gained a little weight, about 90 pounds, during the next four years. At the start of 2022, I made it my goal to get back to my infant weight; just kidding, but seriously, I was so heavy I started to develop a gravitational pull. Over the course of this infomercial, I will share the secret diet that helped me get confident again and more! Don't get me wrong; it wasn't easy; you have to kiss a lot of frogs until you find the diet that works for you. I was on the STARVE Diet, which stands for "Strength Training and Rigorus Vegan Eating." It was great until I discovered I was missing meat so badly that my husband had to tie a steak to a string to get me to run on the treadmill. I tried blue plates, small plates, no plates, and all I got was a full dishwasher. I tried, and brace yourself for this one; it's a little gross, the Chew and Spit Diet. This is where every other bite, you chew and spit. I had only been on it for two days when I realized I was making others sick in the break room. I tried Colonblast, Colonblow, and the now-illegal, Colonplow. They were all OK until your work uses a community bathroom. I experimented with Keto, Atkins, Paleo, Whole-30, and the lesser-known Whole-19.5, for those who try for 30 days but fail. It worked until I found myself floating to a pie sitting on the windowsill like I was in Tom and Jerry cartoon. I was low-fat, high-fat, no-fat, good-fat, unsat-fat, and all I had to show for it was, yes, you guessed it, fat. My husband even attempted to help. We investigated it and discovered that I ate a lot of my snacks while watching television and movies. So we limited our munching to when we watched sports, which was only a few times a week. This worked until one day; I found myself watching Finland versus Parguary exhibition curling at 3 in the morning. I was on the South Beach Diet until I went to South Beach and gorged myself on Pina Coladas and Empanadas till I required a new pair of jeans. I considered lap band, lap sleeve, and actual laps around a track. All of these were swiftly eliminated when I discovered how costly they were; financially for the first two and physically for the last. Then there was intermittent fasting, twice a week fasting, 24-hour fasting, and the lesser-known 15-minute fast, in which you are supposed to fast for 24 hours but eat something after 15 minutes. I experimented with frequency diets, eating 6 meals a day, 3 meals a day, and 1 meal a day until I was eating 10 meals a day and hiding my face in the McDonald's parking lot. I joined a gym, which quickly became a monthly reminder of my failure; I purchased a treadmill, which stores more clothes than my closet; and a Total Gym, which conveniently sits in a box in my bedroom. Every day when I get up, Chuck Norris is taunting me on a dusty box. I drank protein shakes, nothing but water, fruit smoothies, vegetable smoothies, and all I lost were several tumblers and bottles that cost $8.99 each. I tried the skip breakfast, skip lunch, skip dinner; no matter which meals I skipped, it always resulted in me crouched over the kitchen sink, eating chocolate cake in shame. I reached rock bottom when I found myself in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, sipping a Dunkin Donuts coffee, eating Doritos, and entering my calories into my fitness tracker. I made the decision to stop. For a few days, I just wanted to be normal. After a few more days, I began to notice my body's natural hunger and fullness cues. I also made a conscious effort to eat foods that I enjoyed, and that nourished my body, rather than trying to restrict certain foods or food groups. After a month, I decided to become more active. I began going for walks, practicing yoga (badly), and even joining a local kickboxing club. I found that I was losing weight, and my heel hook kick to the groin was coming along nicely. Slow but steady, the weight began to drop. I concentrated on how I felt rather than the numbers on the scale. My clothes began to feel more comfortable, and I had more energy throughout the day. Now, at the beginning of 2023, I've learned to love and embrace my body for what it is, to be happy and healthy rather than to fit into a specific dress size. Self-love is derived from within, not from a number on a scale. If I'm crouched over the sink eating chocolate cake now, it's because I want to, and I do it confidently. This has been Jenna Taylor-Small... yes, I hear it; and I hope my story might inspire others battling with their weight. Remember that there is no one-size-fits-all diet, so figure out what works best for you and your body. And most importantly, be kind to yourself and trust the journey.


Rai was an old time politician. He was known for his probity in politics but had retired. His first and second sons were in paying government jobs and shunned politics. The third known as Pete was a high school dropout. Early on he had joined the political party which had the elephant as its symbol. As elections were now due, Pete got busy since the political bigwig Bala-G was standing for election on symbol elephant. Bala-G called for a meeting with his party members. When they met he said “We’ve to work against 3 candidates. One of them is a female named Ruth. Ruth has women behind her and we should be wary.” Pete said “She is no problem. I can create discontent.” Bala-G said “I want more people like you. The other candidate I’ve to be careful about is Margo. He has labour unions with him besides migrant labour. In fact he presents a real danger to my candidature.” Pete said “I’ve noted it.” Bala-G continued “The other candidature has no following at all and can be easily beaten.” The meeting ended. Pete then called a meeting of his henchmen. He said “We’ve Margo who has to be taken care of first.” One worker said “He is a liquor addict. He in turn has distributed free liquor to voters. His party has fallen on bad days. There’re said to be no contributions of money. So he can’t sustain distribution of free liquor.” Pete said “We can’t be complacent on that one count. We’ve to devise a fool-proof plan so that his voters desert him.” He thought a bit and said “Margo is old and his liver is failing. I’m sure he is looking forward to retirement. Still his party relies on his name and past records.” Another one said “If he has to be stopped we must make him curtail his oratory.” Another worker said “I’ve a suggestion. We should tackle Margo’s son. He is only a graduate and isn’t known to be bright. His dad is on the lookout for a job for the fellow.” Pete said “Margo was a farmer who quit to enter politics. I know he has a kitchen garden and the son is taking great care of it. There’re 2 computer companies and one drug manufacturing unit in the vicinity of Margo’s residence. All three companies are making big profits. They can afford to have a landscape designer on their payroll. I’ve influence with the drug maker but the computer companies have to be tackled.” One worker said “We could say that expenditure towards landscape improvement won’t be taxed. Or perhaps say.....” Pete said “That is a good suggestion. After all we’re promising people that we would hit the stars. At least let us hope we hit the moon. I’ll meet the computer company heads. What will I say?” “Take Margo’s son on contract as landscape consultant on a substantial salary. The 3 companies should share in it.” Pete now said “We’ve now to tackle candidature of Ruth. She is popular with female voters.” “I suggest that a woman is used to create problems for Ruth who’s now in charge of women’s welfare.” Pete said “Thanks. Let me think up strategy to tackle Ruth.” The meeting ended. Soon one day a woman went to Ruth and said “My name is Radha. I work in the school for the deaf and dumb. I’m married and have 2 children. My husband works in a private nursing home.” Ruth asked “What work do you do in the school?” “I take care of the cleanliness of the place and toilets and keep the area dust free.” “Okay. Tell me further.” “Two days ago I was taking a small girl who was ill to the toilet in the rear, when the security man suddenly came and hugged me from behind and put his arms around me and tried to fondle me. I fought him off by biting one of his fingers. I complained to the police but they merely said they would advise the man that he should discontinue such practices. If I don’t complain people will say I’m unchaste. This matter has to be investigated and the security man must be punished.” Ruth asked “What’s the name of the man who molested you?” “His name is Pi.” Ruth said “I’ve all the details. I’ll investigate it. You can go.’” Ruth summoned Pi and questioned him. He said “I was going fast in that narrow passage when I tripped on the floor where there is a crack. To avoid a fall I shouted and blindly caught hold of the woman. I was in the army and I’ve a wife and two children. I didn’t need to molest that fat woman who has wrongly complained.” Ruth said “Don’t insult women about their size. Remember you men alter their shapes with your doings. I’m in charge of welfare of women and I’ve to investigate further. I’ll call Radha again and get to the root of the problem.” Ruth again summoned Radha and questioned her. She however stuck to her point. She said “Madam, Pi clasped me from the rear and his palms were free and he was excited. Shall I say.....”: “I don’t want to hear such things. I know what you mean. Exposing all this will demean you. If your husband comes to know.....” “I’ve kept my husband informed.” “Good. You see we women have to be patient and not publicise matters like sexual exploitation. You must think it over. Your complaint will also cause a problem in Pi’s family as he’s also married and has 2 children.” “Could be. Let his wife know what sort of husband she has.” “You shouldn’t go to extremes. You can go now. We’ll meet again next week.” A video channel got wind of the story and reported it in the vernacular: ‘Radha a poor woman works for a deaf and dumb school. A colleague groped her. The complaint went to Madam Ruth of women’s welfare who is expected to stand for election soon, but it seems she practically ignored the complaint. She has advised the woman complainant not to go public with such matters which are degrading to women. Ruth has however, bowing to public pressure, booked a case which is under investigation. As a sequel to this story, our channel will telecast a one hour program next Friday on the way women’s issues are suppressed,” Of course the public were not aware that the case had been engineered by Pete who paid off the complaining woman and husband, besides Pi and the video channel. Bala-G said “Well done Pete. I greatly appreciate your moves.” Pursuant on Pi’s case Ruth announced she was retiring from public life and would not stand for election. The party went in search of another candidate. Margo’s son was made landscape consultant to 3 firms. In the long run, Bala-G was elected by a big margin. Pi was found not guilty. Pete was appointed as head of a government corporate body. His brothers and family had decided they would have nothing to do with him as they had heard of his nebulous dealings. However they reconciled when family members needed government demarcated plots for house building, improvement to their roads, and better water supply! END


‘Now this is the kind of place I want’ she said to herself eyeing the modern two story house like a green eyed monster. ‘Look at the finish on it - it’s perfect. I love the shutters on the front windows. The immaculate garden with those large ornate pots on the wide veranda - just to die for! I could sit here all day’. Then she looked at her watch and realised that she couldn’t sit here for a minute longer or she would be late back to work, and an important meeting. “Where did you go to eat your lunch?” Jessie was asked by her friend - one of the directors of the company. Fiona was such a down to earth woman and acted no differently towards executives or juniors. “Oh I just drove through the new estate looking at the houses and drooling”. “They are well out of your reach, you know that don’t you?’ Fiona reminded her. “Not necessarily. Remember that movie the other night, what was it called? Oh yes, ‘The Salesman’, well that woman in it thought lots of things were out of her reach but it didn’t stop her, did it?” “No it didn’t but she wasn’t happy and I didn’t like that movie anyway”. Fiona had been Jessie’s friend for a long time and knew everything about her, including the fact that with her, the grass was always greener on the other side, but she had found out a few times that it isn’t always. “Hello I’m home” she called to her partner Ben when she had shut the front door behind her. “How was your day? “He asked giving her a hug from behind. “Yeah good, long but alright” she replied “I went looking at the new estate in my lunch break. You know all those lovely houses” she told him turning around to face him and thinking how short he seemed when she had high heels on. She hadn’t really noticed before so maybe it was the new shoes she was wearing. “And?” he asked, already knowing what she would say, and that this perhaps was the start of another ‘discussion’ about where they lived. “Oh I don’t know Ben but it’s just that I’m sick of living in a tiny flat. You said we would only be here for a couple of years and it’s already nearly three” she said twiddling his hair as the ‘touchy feely’ approach would get a positive response from him. “We’ve been through this Jessie. If I hadn’t of been injured in that car accident and unable to work for so long we wouldn’t have eaten into our savings but we did. There’s nothing we can do about it in the short term. And before realising he shouldn’t have said it, out of his mouth came “and if you didn’t actually spend so much of your wages it would be helpful”! She dropped her hand off of his head straight away; angry at what he just said and letting her annoyance get the better of her yelled “Well other people can live in lovely homes, have nice cars and actually enjoy their lives, but not us. The house needs painting, we’ve still only got one bathroom, and my car is well passed its use date! What if I do spend my money? I care what I look like, unlike some! Well I’ve had enough. I’m going out”. With that she grabbed her bag and headed into town. “I’m going to the movies” she told herself as she was driving. It was another modern love story. She’d only just seen one like this at the weekend and loved it. Jessie even loved the ads that came on before the movie! When Ben ever came to the movies with her he was always disgruntled at how much advertising they had to ‘put up with’ before the film and he usually went through his phone while they were on. ‘Oh look at the outfit she has on...how gorgeous’ played over in Jessie’s mind each time a new outfit appeared on the screen. I wonder if I can get that anywhere.’ The loved up couple of the big screen seemed to have a never ending supply of money. They left their state of the art home to go out to dinner at ‘The Gentry” a five star restaurant where the tanned, beautiful staff served scallops with spring salad followed by native lobster, and all the while the stars of the movie talked about their next holiday which by the way they would be jetting away to in a friends private jet. And while eating a chocolate mousse and sipping a dessert wine laughed at the antics they got up to on the tennis court earlier. ‘Oh he is so handsome and so much taller than she is’ thought Jessie remembering how short Ben seemed today. ‘And he’s so in love with her. Imagine receiving a diamond bracelet and matching earrings for your birthday’ she sighed remembering the heat pack, sports socks and movie tickets she got for hers. When Jessie got home after the movies Ben was sitting in the lounge listening to music but as soon as she walked in he stood up and went over to give her a hug. “Let’s not argue honey, it’s not worth it. We’ll have enough money to move somewhere else one day, I promise” and he kissed her on the cheek. “Yeah I suppose so” she acquiesced while thinking “But not to buy the kind of house I want to live in”. Every time Jessica went off to the movies it seemed to pique her desire to have something better in life. She had been brought up in a humble family - mum and dad and four kids. Her parents were quite content with nine to five jobs for both of them, a holiday each year camping in the forest and meat and three veg. for most dinners. Jessie was happy with her life too while growing up, but not now. When Ben came home one evening from work informing an already irritated Jessie that he had taken an extra job to help with the savings, instead of showing him that she appreciated the extra work he would be doing, she was annoyed. “You’ll be doing what? Packing shelves at night? Is that the best you can do?” she asked in her ‘whatever next?’ voice. “What does it matter what I’m doing as long as it’s bringing in the money?” Ben asked her, once again disappointed at what she thought was important. “Well someone might see you?” “The store is closed at that time of night, and so what if someone sees me?” “Actually Jessie I’ve been meaning to ask you about all the money that comes out of the account each fortnight - you just take it out so I’m not sure what it’s for?” “I knew you wouldn’t notice but I’ve been having botox around my eyes for a while now and my teeth have been whitened AND in case you’re interested I’ve been putting money away in a different account to have a tummy tuck!” “What?” said Ben asked hardly believing what he was hearing? What do you want Botox for? You’re twenty seven years of age, not fifty seven and you’re beautiful as you are. You had lovely teeth anyway and what tummy?” “Oh you wouldn’t understand. You don’t care what you look like do you?’ “I care but I don’t need to look perfect. That’s not the real world”. She didn’t care what Ben thought. Jessie knew he wouldn’t approve of any of it. “Of course he wouldn’t be happy when he found out” Fiona told Jessie the next morning in the office. “Ben’s was out of work, and in pain for ages and not through any fault of his own, and here you are squandering the money. No wonder he yelled at you”. “Oh well he won’t stop me from enhancing my looks, if he doesn’t like it too bad!” “Do you want to come and see the new movie out with ‘what’s his name’ in it...that gorgeous guy who was in ‘love has no bounds’? I think he’s just amazing with those bright blue eyes of his and being that tall and slim” “Sure. I’m not going anywhere else, so why not” said Fiona secretly thinking that her friend spent too much time at the movies and was beginning to live in a fantasy world. “Where is Ben tonight?” “Oh I’m embarrassed to tell you that he’s stacking shelves at the supermarket - to make a bit more money”. “I tell you Jessie, you have a good guy there. One of these days you’ll realise that all that stuff up on the screen is fake. Those actors are just like us, you and me. They don’t look like that when they get up in the morning - they’d have bad breath, hair all over the place, dribble marks on the pillow from sleeping with their mouth open and if they had slept badly would be rude and miserable. Of course Jessie was taken far away into the land of make believe while watching the movie. “I would love to be able to live the way those two did in that movie. They were always going on holidays and I mean ‘holidays’ and not a weekend away in an air b&b!!” she said to her friend as they sat eating pizza. “You know Jessie; I’m going to have to tell you a few home truths. You know that guy in the movie we saw tonight? Well he’s actually shorter than Ben - all of his scenes in the movie are of him standing on a box or shot at different angles so he looks taller”. “I don’t believe you Fiona. How do you know?” “You know how I lived in America before I came here - I didn’t like to say what my job entailed so I said I was a PA. Well I was a personal assistant, but to Gena Russel, the movie star. And later on when Gena Russel ‘retired’ I got a job with someone else. Have you ever heard of Reanna Jones?” she asked her friend, who by now was really paying attention. “Are you joking? You mixed with all those movie types, really? Oh of course I’ve heard of Reanna - who hasn’t? I love her. She is apparently a lovely person. And she is so beautiful”. “Well let me inform you that she is a horrible, rude, self-indulgent madame. She has been married three times because she chews men up and spits them out! I’m not sure if one part of her body hasn’t been under the knife and, sadly she is an alcoholic. “Well she’s maybe like that, but they all aren’t...are they?” “Well ask me about someone?” Fiona invited, knowing that this would be an eye opener for her friend. “How about the main actor in the movie tonight, the female lead - I’ve read that she is lovely and generous with her money” “Generous with her money...she went through a court case with her siblings because she didn’t think they should have been entitled to anything from their mother’s will, even though they had been her step children since they were four and two years of age. And guess what, she won and they only got a fraction of what she received. Two years ago she was the highest grossing female actor in Hollywood too”. “Oh well let me see” said Jessie trying to think of someone who could be genuine and to prove her point! “Fern Jackson is not a fake, she is totally natural in looks and personality, and I can tell that from all of her movies and the interviews she gives on television. But you would know Fiona”. “Fern Jackson cannot have any more operations on her pert little nose or it will cave in! She has had more boob jobs than anyone else I knew over there and her ‘naturally svelte’ figure is because she exists on no more than a lettuce leaf and thirty cigarettes a day, oh yes and about twenty cups of black coffee!” “Mmmm, are most of them like that Fiona? There must be some real people among them” she almost begged. “Yes of course there are but they are mostly the ones who are short, chubby, wrinkled, and don’t care because they rely on their acting skills. I’m not saying that all the attractive people are fake but a lot are....they count on others to make them look beautiful and to make them sound generous, interested and real. If I hadn’t of worked with them I would still be like you Jessie, sucked in!” “But honestly I was like you before I worked over there - it’s easy to be. We all get taken in by the lies and falseness”. Jessie sat still, trying to absorb what her friend had just said. “But they do live in massive houses and go away on wonderful holidays a lot....that must be true?” “They live in houses that’s for certain, they aren’t ‘homes’ like we have. There’s nothing warm and inviting walking into one of their mansions - they don’t flop on the couch in front of the tv with a dog on their lap...like you do Fiona. And their so called ‘vacations’ are not relaxing, believe me I’ve been on a few. They spend hours getting dressed, make up on, hair done...and once they are out in public view they don’t let their guard down because they are always on show.” “You’re painting a very negative picture Fiona!” Jessie laughed. “Well it’s the truth. Remember when the four of us went on that trip together - we had saved up for such a long time for it, gone somewhere extra nice, and very pricey, we could still relax, wear what we wanted, slouch around, eat whatever and put a few kilos on....but they can’t. There is always someone watching them and they have to put on an act no matter what”. “Oh I couldn’t stand that” said Jessie “I am sorry if I put you off the movies or any of those actors but I had to set you straight!” “Oh I’ll still go to the movies and enjoy them but instead of wanting to be like them, I’ll try and appreciate not being like them, if that makes sense”. “I probably needed it, to be honest. I was getting rather carried away. And just think how happy Ben will be knowing I’m not spending all my money on ‘enhancements’ - in fact I’ll drop in and see him at the supermarket and tell him” “What a great idea” Fiona called out as Jessie got into her car, and one other thing, the actor with the bright blue eyes, they are just coloured contact lenses, and his eyes are really a dull grey colour”. And they both laughed.


You'd think they'd give me an award or something, but nah it's just my "dumb luck" they say. When I started working the busy shift up here in Colorado Springs, most of the more experienced men and women aboard complained that I didn't have the guts. They were sure as shit right when I first joined the EMT at 18. However, I came onto the squad tougher than most, stomaching my fair share of injuries growing up, playing contact sports. One time during a football game, I got my fingers caught in the helmet of another player's facemask, which instantly broke my index and pointer finger. Somehow though with some tape, I finished that game and caught every single pass slung my way. These weren't easy passed either, those things were flying full speed. Still, it is strange that I didn't experience even a flinch of pain, and more surprisingly, after the game, my fingers were back to normal. My varsity Head Coach used to say I was the toughest kid he'd ever seen, so it only made sense for me to become a Navy Seal, Cop, or Firefighter. I ended up going with EMT because, well, before my Mom disappeared, she'd always pressed that I never put myself in too much danger. She used to say it wasn't for my sake, but for the "sake of everyone else." Anyway, this whole "dumb luck" thing has been sort of the ring around our squadron and I don't take it personally. I understand that gambling on yourself is a risky business, especially if your playing with other people's lives. I just happen to be on decade long hot streak, so I think it is better to keep to myself than make it a thing like everyone else. I mean, it hasn't failed me yet. (Later that night during Randy's shift) We arrived at the burning building in the slums of town. The firefighters were on the scene first and already dragging people out. The situation was critical, we couldn't waste any time. Four stories high the building was a project and built in the '60s. The type of place where a drive-by shooting wouldn't just got through one room but two. We'd seen a number of bloody situations here over the years. Thinking of all the gang shootings, and people I'd saved over the years, I couldn't imagine what would happen now that their homes would be destroyed. It was unfortunate to think about how the city hadn't even attempted to renovate the area. Possibly the economics didn't make sense to them. "Why invest in a building filled with families connected to a majority of the crime in the city?" In the moment, I knew it wasn't smart to think about the aftermath of what this would mean. Hundreds of people crowded the streets, all marveling at the rising fire climbing up through the first three floors, casting a dark red and orange cloud-like mushroom. Lined up with front row seats to the destruction of their homes, the tenants watched as more soot and ash spewed into the sky crackling embers in the cold of the night. "Back up! Back up!" The debris could just as easily kill someone. "Please help my mother is not breathing!" In the middle of the street lay an unconscious obese Hispanic woman. Her face black, with first and second degree burns over her arms and charred nightgown. It took all of Jack and mines strength to pick her up and take her to our wagon. Her name was Patricia Despodido. She had escaped the fire, and then succumb to the smoke, a primary reason being her poor health and asthma. At the back of our truck, her daughter pleaded Patricia, her mother, left her inhaler in their room. When we couldn't get oxygen through to her lungs, we pulled out the defibrillator and shocked her to jumpstart her heart, however, I knew it was too late. "Give her CPR Randy!" Jack stood behind me, fearful, yet confident in his words. He had been one who developed this superstition that whenever I did CPR it was more powerful than any device we could use. I couldn't fathom losing Patricia in front of her daughter. Losing my Mom only a few years back, I knew the pain and suffering that would come. Pulling off the oxygen mask, I placed my hands on her chest and began the compressions. "One, two, three, four." With each transfer of breath, I could feel myself taking in the smoke from her lungs, and slowly senses the blood begin to course through her veins. Three more cycles and then I got a heartbeat, her first breath. Opening her eyes suddenly, I saw they were a beautiful golden brown with a milky white lining. She had a twinkle, the kind you see in a babies eye after waking up from a long nap. Suddenly, she came back to full consciousness, fear in her eyes. "Mi Hermano, where is Fernando.?' Patricia pointed up to the top of the roof. Jack and I turned to see a man on the brink of hell. Standing on the ledge of the building now fully engulfed in flames, Fernando's black shadow cast against the white smoke in the pale moonlight. Beneath him a fireteam of 6 stood prepared with a net, however, it was clear Fernando couldn't see it, and so he disappeared for a few moments before we hard to screams of men and women. Tumbling 15 yards away, Fernando had drifted, and I felt myself surge with what felt like a deep and cooling shiver. "To the right!" I yelled at the top of my lungs so loud that it seemed the ground began to shake. People watched and screamed as Fernando tumbled five stories when his body somersaulted onto its back as if somebody had scooped him mid-air. All the while, the firefighters drifted swiftly almost off their feet, waiting moments before he landed perfectly underneath the net. Running to his aid, I pulled his body off the net and resuscitated him. Arriving home that next morning after my shift, I turned on the local news. They interviewed the Fire Chief and all the brave firefighters that went into the burning building. The reporter spoke of how incredible and quick-witted they had been, in particular when it came to Fernando Dispodio. I turned off the TV, exhausted from the long shift, feeling somewhat underappreciated, which was out of character for me. Saving lives wasn't about the ego boost, it was about doing the right thing. To hell with it, the firefighters can take the limelight. When I entered my room after a nice hot shower. I thought maybe it'd be best to just go to bed and forget the troubling thoughts. In time they would go away. For now, I had saved every one I had a chance to and that was enough for me. Then I received a text from my phone. Jack sent me a video filmed on a citizen's camera phone. In the video they show Fernando shaking and praying at the to of the roof, then he disappears, and faints. The ground shakes, and suddenly a brush of purple wind comes into the shot and picks up the firefighters who were yards off their mark, and it seems Fernando is guided perfectly into the net. "An act of god man, crazy" is Jack's next response. Walking into the small bathroom connected my one-bedroom apartment, I wondered if this was what the rest of my life would look like. I wished my mother was here and wondered what she would think of this, now looking at her 28-year-old son, still an EMT. I could hear her voice. "Remember Randy the less power you have, the more good you'll do." Beneath my hazel eyes, I'd always had this streak of purple which would show in moments of danger. Never had I ever tried to harness its power unless for useful purposes. "I knew I had a gift of some sort, but only for serious matters." Reaching for my electric toothbrush, I accidentally knocked it off its charger, sending it off the counter to the ground. As the device toppled towards the floor near my toilet, I felt it again, a cool shiver" "STOP!" Looking down I saw my toothbrush levitating a foot from the ground. As it floated into my hand, I used that same force to open up my toothpaste cap mid-air, applying a small amount onto the brush head. Realizing I could use these powers freely was the first step in me taking control of my life and the world around me. As I cleaned all of my teeth with my hands behind my back, I stared into now deep purple eyes of the mage in front of me. I had been special all along.


. That's all she could think about. That's all she thought about all day. Even with the world gone. Even with her kids gone. Even with the threat of starvation, wild animals, and... those... **Things**, the most common thought was, *God, out of everyone on this fucked up planet, why do I have to be stuck with the only fuckwit I’ve ever wanted to kill?* *God, I love her.* That's all he could think about. That's all he thought about all day. *Jesus, out of everyone I could be stuck with, you sent my soulmate. Thank you*. “JESUS CHRIST, FRANK! WAKE THE HELL UP!” That's how Frank spent most of his mornings, being yelled at by Avery. Avery spent most of her mornings, nay, her days, yelling at Frank, berating him, insulting him, ordering him around. Avery hated a lot of things about Frank, but Frank was good for one thing; tasks she didn’t want to do. She assumed he was ex-military, judging from his physique and the way he took orders so well. Frank was not, in fact, ex-military. But he loved her. God, he would’ve died for her. He would’ve faced the **Things** for her. But, whilst star-struck, Frank was not an idiot. He knew she didn’t love him. In fact, Frank knew she hated him. But God, what would be the point of this, of everything that's happened, if he didn’t come out with something? Surely, God would have a plan, right? Avery determined a long time ago that God wasn’t real. How could he be? Those **Things** would spit in God’s eye, right before they would tear him limb from limb, and leave his corpse hung from their nests. But more importantly, she knew God wasn’t real because out of everyone on earth, of course she was stuck with Frank. They came at night. They knew that. They planned for that. But they could never plan for this. The **Things** were inside the farm. They had already destroyed all the livestock that they had spent years meticulously building up. They both realized it was over. Even if they managed to kill the **Things**, they would starve. It took all night. It took all her ammo. It took everything. But she survived. But she didn’t feel like she survived. Frank was gone. The **Things** took him. The worst part? She never got to say goodbye. Sometime during the night, Avery looked to her left and Frank was just... gone. The **Things** snached him away sometime during the fight, and Avery was so focused on herself, on just living, that she didn’t even notice. God wasn’t real. Avery determined this a long time ago. I mean, after all, how could God be real if he took Frank away from her? There was some good news though. Turns out, some of the cattle had survived. And she found a box of ammo scavenging. But what was the point? Frank was gone. As Avery slowly put a single bullet in her revolver, her hands shaking, she spun the cylinder. *God, I miss him so much.* \*click\* *I never said goodbye.* \*click\* *Oh my god... he thought... he thought...* \*click\* *He thought I fucking hated him*.