On the surface of Mars, nested between a dry seabed and a mountain range Corporal Davis scanned the horizon from behind his visor. Nothing. He turned and began entrance procedures into the Habitat Dome. He had just received a transmission from O-Base. Command had prolonged their mission for an extra 30 martian days. “How long will we be here?” he had asked. “Do your duty Corporal, O-Base out” was the reply. Davis was used to that short, curt sentence. Never before as a grunt or an Air Force F-35 pilot or as an Astronaut had he questioned his orders from any command. Davis and his crew had been on The Rock for 168 days, 18 hours and 34 minutes. This was the third extension of the mission and the men wanted to go home. Davis entered the Hab to break the bad news to his men. His two subordinates shook their heads in unison. For both of them, this was their first mission. Usually, astronauts have at least 800 hours in space at the minimum before even being considered for planet exploration. Although inexperienced in space travel, the two men with Davis were both former pilots and had done exceptionally well on the aptitude tests. Sanchez was a battlefield medic during the Second Korean War and flew F-35s shortly after the it ended. The other man, Jung, was from the European Space Agency and flew state of the art research planes that he had designed for the German Intelligence Agency. Davis was a farm boy from Ohio. He had grown up near Wright-Patterson Air Force base. He had also seen action in Korea, but as close air support for troops. “Hopefully O-Base sends us some relief supplies soon,” said Jung, “We are 80% depleted” “We have to wait and trust O-Base,” Davis said. “When will we get off this fucking rock?” said Sanchez, with an edge on his voice. Davis stayed silent. They didn’t understand. Base was never wrong about anything. “Missions get extended all the time,” Davis said with a wave of his hand. “Calm down. That’s an order.” 4 Days Later Davis sipped his quarter cup of coffee. Thanks to the rationing that Jung suggested, he couldn’t have a full cup. *When we get the supplies, I’m going to hoard all the coffee,* he thought to himself, smirking. Sanchez walked into the kitchen area, his face pale white. “Are you ok soldier?” asked Davis “When are our supplies coming?” “Soon. Command never fails us.” “Bullshit! You’re lying!” “Stand down soldier.” Sanchez ran towards Davis, swinging his arms wildly and screaming. Davis threw his coffee at Sanchez and stood to meet him. Davis wrapped Sanchez up in a bear hug. “It’s ok Sanchez, We will go home soon. I promise.” Sanchez stopped resisting and began to sob, shaking. “Take a break today, rest up,” said Davis. Sanchez sniffed and rubbed his eyes. As soon as he left the kitchen, Davis sighed, *never send a greenie.* 8 days later Davis opened his eyes. An alarm blared. Shit! Jung was shaking him awake. “Wake up sir, we have to go. Something pierced the Hab. It’s depressurizing.” Davis rushed to put on his suit. He looked up and noticed a tiny hole in the ceiling. “Where’s Sanchez?” asked Davis. “I’m here.” “Ok. You and Jung need to fix this hole right now from the outside. I will work from the inside.” Davis grabbed the Hab patch kit and headed towards the air pump. No use in pumping air into the Hab if it was just going to leave through the hole. *It was expected, Habs are not built to last his long.* 3 Days later “Where are the supplies, Corporal?” Demanded Sanchez. “We have to wait and trust O-Base,” Davis said. “I know, you said that last time.” “O-Base is never wrong.” “This is ridiculous! We have been here for an extra fifteen days already with no sign from O-Base. I’m starting to think that the bastards have really abandoned us and that YOU are lying to me and Jung.” “We have to w…” “You said that already,” interrupted Sanchez. “Where is the radio?” “Trust O-Base. They have never failed us.” “Hey Jung, where’s the radio?” Jung walked in. “It should be in the Corporal’s office.” Jung and Sanchez made their way to the communications center near where Davis slept. “Use it, Jung.” “You do it.” Sanchez picked up the radio. “Hab dome one requesting a status report on supplies. Over.” Static. Sanchez repeated his request. Just more static. Sanchez swore. “They left us!” “Hey, hey calm down,” said Jung. “Base is probably out of range. Or.. or maybe there’s a dust storm.” 28 days later While Davis and Jung were going over supply rations for the week and trying to figure out how to make their own and restore contact with O-Base when the airlock alarm went off. Davis and Jung hurried towards the noise. Sanchez was inside, completely naked. His body was skinny and weak due to the lack of food. His eyes were sunken in and red, from crying. He had self-inflicted fingernail marks down his cheeks. Jung and Davis began to bang on the window. “Sanchez! What are you doing man? Get it together,” Jung pleaded. Sanchez just blankly stared past them. Davis grasped the handle but it was no use; once procedures had begun, there was no way to open the airlock. “Come on soldier, we can survive, we can do this.” Jung and Davis spent the next five minutes of the procedure trying to talk to Sanchez, trying to get him to come inside. Once the door opened, Sanchez walked outside, shivering. He took a deep breath and collapsed twenty feet from the door of the Hab. Dead. None of them slept that night. Jung sat in Sanchez’s room and stared blankly into the wall. Davis walked in. “Hey Jung, let’s get the radio com up.” “You’re not upset?” “What do you mean?” “Sanchez just fucking killed himself and you want me to get to work? You’re heartless,” he spat in the direction of Davis. “You know what Jung? Sanchez died because he was weak. We will make it out here alive, got it? I don’t need you moping around right now. We need to work to survive. As far as we know O-Base has no idea that we are even alive.” Jung said nothing. He just shivered, in the corner, tears streaking his face. “Get to work on the coms. That’s an order,” Davis left the room, a tear streaking down his cheek. 7 Days later Davis woke up to a small glass of water and began the systems check-up. “Hey, Jung? How are we doing on the communications fixture?” No answer “Jung?” Still silence. Davis walked into Jung room and saw his body grey and limp, hanging from the ceiling, the noose fashioned out of Sanchez’s sheets. His eyes were bulging out and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. At his foot was a knocked over chair and a note. It read: Sorry Davis. Can’t take it anymore. Better to go out on my own then die of starvation. I’ll be with Sanchez soon. Singed, Jung. P.S. Feel free to use my noose when you find me tomorrow. “This has gone too far,” said Davis. “The experiment was a success. Congratulations Corporal,” replied a disembodied voice from the overhead system. “This is not what I wanted; I thought that we were forging a new path for mankind. “You did your duty, Corporal. Now it’s time to come home. O-Base out.


Awakened by a shrill scream, Matt was shocked as he realized with cold sweat rolling off his body it was his own voice screaming in the night. The memory of the nightmare still filling his mind caused him to shudder violently. He had been dreaming almost every night about a clown. At times the clown was laughing with a deep resonating laugh. Other times he was giggling as he squeaked the balloons he was forming into animal shapes. The dream always ended with the same plea from the clown, "I'm lost, please find me." It was always the same...the joyful clown became a sad, lost soul with haunting eyes. Matt showered and headed to work. His current job was located on the other side of the county in the country rather than the city where he usually worked in construction. The drive to the country was most pleasant. Spring always brought out feelings of new awakening in everything and in the country it was even more so. The dogwood trees were blooming, fruit trees budding out and daffodils and paperwhite narcissus filled the air with a sweet fragrance. As Matt rounded the next curve he found himself entering a wooded area. He was close to his job site now.

Wow! It's so peaceful out here. I can understand why Doc wants a cabin now. Getting out of his Black Chevy 4x4, he could hear the crickets and grasshoppers singing a melody heralding warm weather. Then he caught sight of the pond shimmering in the sunlight.

Whoa! Bet the crickets and grasshoppers would be great bait. Maybe Doc will let me fish this summer." Time to stop daydreaming and get to work. The rest of the crew had arrived and the carpenters became busy as the honeybees that were diligently gathering pollen to make their sweet succulent honey. Doc and his brother-in-law, Jim, came out to see what progress was being made on the cabin that afternoon. "Doc. Jim." Matt extended his hand for a handshake in greeting. "Matt, how much would it cost me to have a covered walkway from the cabin to the pond?" Doc asked. "For a money price I'd have to do some figuring, but if you'd let me do some fishing this summer I'd do it for free." Matt said. Jim raised his head and jumped into the conversation. "I don't know if it's a good idea to let outsiders fish and hunt these woods, Doc." "Matt's not exactly an outsider. He lives just on the other side of the county and he's done an exceptional job with the cabin and keeps the area clean." Doc stated to Jim. Red began to creep up Jim's neck. "My place is just behind yours and I think we ought not let anybody but family fish and hunt. You remember all the commotion years back when that solitary old man that played as a clown in town disappeared. He used to hunt and fish some out here and the cops tore this place up looking for him when he didn't show for a kid's show at the school." "That was twenty years ago when we were kids Jim. They didn't look too much. Folks just figured he wandered off to another town the same way he wandered into Tooney." "Hey guys," Matt intervened . "I didn't mean to cause a family squabble. I can come up with a price if you'd rather. I just wanted to get away some for peace and quite. This seemed like the perfect spot is all." "Jim, how about having Matt out to fish with us and if all seems okay we can look at the subject again? It'd be a good way to get to know Matt better." The red became deeper on Jim's neck."It's your place. Do what you want." Jim stomped off in a huff to the vehicle they had arrived in. "Don't know what his problem is, Matt. Jim is a strange bird sometimes. I plan to have a fishing rodeo out here in two weeks for everybody. The kids like it. Why don't you join us then?" Doc offered. "I'd be glad to. Sounds like lots of fun." Matt said. "Two weeks then. See you. I am really pleased with your work. Don't worry about Jim, he'll come around." Doc said over his shoulder as he left. Tired from the pure physical labor of building the cabin with the same old hammer his dad had passed on to him, Matt showered, ate a quick sandwich for supper and turned in for the night. Two weeks passed slowly with Matt exhausted from interrupted sleep from the constant nightmares of the clown calling for help.

Maybe the fishing rodeo is just what I need to take my mind off these crazy dreams. Matt packed all his fishing gear in the truck and headed to the pond at Doc's cabin. The entire area was alive with excitement when he arrived. There were tables set up to register at. One table was registering children two years old to eight years old. The next table was labeled for nine to thirteen year olds and the last table was taking fourteen and above applicants. Matt saw Doc approaching. "I never expected anything of this caliber, maybe a few kids and old folks," Matt stated. "It's a bigger turn out than we thought too. Everyone seems to be having a great time though. We'll have concession stands providing hamburgers and hot dogs with chips and drinks around lunch time then again late this afternoon. Those two boys over next to the weigh-in table are mine. Let's wander over there." Pride shined from Doc's face at the announcement. "Boys, this is Matt. He's building our cabin." Doc began. The tallest towheaded boy turned toward Matt. "Hi, I'm Caleb. I'm the oldest so I'm showing my brother Joey how to fish." "Nice to meet you Caleb. You too Joey. Mind if I fish beside you when I get registered? Maybe you can give me some tips too Caleb." Matt said to the boys. Doc's smile indicated he was more than pleased with Matt's reaction. "I have to run to the cabin a while, but I'll be back to check on your fishing skills and watch the boys a little later. Jim still hasn't showed up and I am going to try to contact him. Do you mind keeping an eye out for the boys?" "My pleasure. Least I can do for fishing lessons." Matt responded. Joey brought in a small Bream but his smile indicated it could have been huge. Caleb hadn't had much luck and Matt even less. Matt was beginning to think they needed to change spots because people all around them were catching White Perch and Bream of some size. "I got a bite!" Caleb squealed. "Take it easy. Let that old fish swallow the bait then give him a snatch." Matt instructed. "It feels like a big one. It's hard to reel!" Caleb was struggling with the catch on the other end of his pole. "Okay. Here we go," Matt said as he waded in the edge of the pond with a fish net. Disappointment dripped from the expression on Caleb's face when Matt lifted the net from the water and it was holding a man's old shoe. Matt freed the shoe from Caleb's hook. "Well, it's the biggest thing caught so far. Let's try again. Here let's switch places and see if you have better luck here," Matt suggested as he tossed the shoe to the edge of the woods. Not two minutes passed until Caleb's cork began bobbing. "Slow and easy," Matt coached. Snap! Caleb jerked his line. "I got one! I got one!" he screeched. "Bet you got a winner here!" Matt announced as he pulled the net up. After weighing the fish in, it was indeed the largest fish caught so far. Caleb was beaming. Matt cast his line and felt a slight heaviness on the end of the line as he began to reel in. "I think you brought me luck too Caleb," he said as he felt the heaviness increase. "Hey, Dad, I caught the biggest fish so far." Caleb stated as Doc approached with Jim at his side. "Look Uncle Jim!" Matt pulled the line up out of the water and Jim's face paled. "Oh, my God," Jim whispered as Matt's catch was exposed. It was a skull. A human skull. The local news broadcast that night was viewed by everyone that had been at the fishing rodeo. "Today was a good day for some. A surprising day for all," the newscaster began. "It was a happy day for young Caleb Young who was the overall winner of the fishing rodeo held at his dad's pond out in the country today. That wasn't the most interesting catch of the day however. Matt Houston, a local construction worker and carpenter shocked all when he pulled up a human skull from the depths of the muddy pond. Local law enforcement has taken charge of the skull and a shoe caught by Caleb and will be conducting a full investigation into who this might be." Matt flipped out the light and turned the television off.

And I thought a day of fishing would bring calm and peace, he mused as he drifted off to sleep. His dreams of the clown hadn't stopped but at least they weren't coming as often. Six weeks passed with not just local law enforcement conducting an investigation, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had been called in to assist. Matt couldn't resist reading the entire story when he saw the headlines in the morning paper:

Lost Clown Found . It turned out the skull he had dragged from the pond was that of Joseph Stoltz, the clown that had disappeared so many years ago. It surfaced in the investigation that Jim, who had been ten years old at the time, had been fishing with Joseph at the pond the day he disappeared. Two local men in their early twenties had come to the pond and forced Mr. Stoltz to leave with them threatening Jim and his family if he told anyone he had seen them. During the recovery of the skeleton at the bottom of the pond, divers found a sealed plastic card holder. Inside the holder was a key to a lock box with Commercial Bank written on a piece of paper with the number of the box. Upon checking with the bank, it was found there was a deposit box still listed in Joseph Stoltz's name. There was also a savings account that covered the cost of the box. Those were the only transactions except for the interest added to the account. Within the contents of the deposit box a journal and pictures of two boys and a little girl were found. Among the items was the Last Will and Testament of Joseph Stoltz. The journal revealed the town clown who performed magic shows for schools and birthday parties was indeed Joseph Stoltz. He had chosen to live in Tooney because the name reminded him of the word cartoon. He had loved watching cartoons on Saturday mornings with his three children and his beloved wife. Joseph's overwhelming grief poured from the pages as he wrote of the accident that had claimed the lives of his entire family in one fell swoop. Since his children had so loved for him to dress up as a clown and do magic tricks and make animal shapes and silly hats from balloons he took the money from the insurance policies and moved to Tooney devoting his life to seeing children smile. Ringing in a shrill tone, the phone interupted Matt's reading. Matt had a perplexed look on his face as he hung up the phone. The television wanted to interview him along with others associated with the discovery of Joseph Stoltz-The Lost Clown. Never having seen the inside of a television studio, Matt was nervous as the interview began. "Sheriff can you fill us in on the findings as to cause of death, and if the skeleton has been positively ID'd?" the newscaster started. "DNA and dental records have positively identified the remains as those of Joseph Stoltz," Sheriff Ron Caldwell began. He continued, "No foul play was suspected before now due to Mr. Stoltz just disappearing the same way he appeared here. No one reported him missing at the time and he had just been staying at an old cabin in the woods close to the pond where he was discovered. The owners of the cabin passed away years ago and the cabin simply fell in from unattended age." "What about the report of Jim Carter being with him the day he disappeared?" the newscaster continued. "Mr. Carter was only a child then. The two individuals who abducted Mr. Stoltz that day were known to Mr. Carter as rough outlaws. He was frightened and never told anyone Mr. Stoltz left with them. Apparently, they had robbed, then murdered Mr. Stoltz. One of the men in question is Bill Johnson, who is currently serving life without parole for another murder committed in Walsh County. He has made a full confession of the crime and named Simon Green as the other party. We are currently searching for Mr. Green." "We understand there was a safety deposit box in Mr. Stoltz's name. What can you tell us about that?" "The court has appointed Mr. Walter Cummings as the attorney to handle that. He is here so I defer to him, Mr. Cummings..." Mr. Cummings straightened his tie and began, " Disclosure of Mr. Stoltz's Last Will and Testament revealed he inherited one million dollars when he lost his family to an unfortunate accident. He in turn has designated the funds which have been accumulating interest for the past twenty years to go to the town of Tooney. The town is designated to build a Community Center with a museum for clowns, a playground for children, and a new library for the county. I will be in charge of carrying out Mr. Stoltz's wishes and my first step in doing so is to hire Mr. Matthew Houston to construct the center." The newscaster turned to Matt, "Mr. Houston, how has this affected your life?" "You know it's the strangest thing, for months I have had reoccurring dreams about a clown asking me to help him. He'd say he was lost. Nothing like this has ever happened to me and I can't say I believe in ghosts, but it sure is an eerie coincidence. I look forward to the construction of a center where both children and adults can share happy moments together and hopefully this will give Mr. Stoltz peace." Later that day a memorial service was held in a little town in Tennessee where the rest of the Stoltz family was buried. Mr. Joseph Stoltz-The Lost Clown was buried next to his wife and three children. The next morning, Matt awakened for the first time in months without having dreamed of the clown.

Maybe there is such a thing as a ghost.Maybe he is at peace at last.  He reached for the tackle box and fishing reel he had assembled last night. Wonder what we'll catch today?  he thought to himself as he left to join Jim, Doc and the boys for a weekend of fishing at the cabin. 2578 words


The creaking library doors were the only thing to wake her. Drea had sunk deep into the worn armchair in the stacks. Della had already shook her awake once already and she promised she was making her way to the entrance. Drea stood, and slung her worn messenger bag over her shoulder. She remembered sitting back down to pick up a dropped pen when her favorite Mozart concerto 21 started. She leaned back, got lost in the melody and awoke to the doors closing. Drea’s feet skidded over steps as she raced down the central staircase and across the marble atrium. Too late! She watched the head librarian carefully maneuver her car into the powder soft snow that was falling from the sky.

It was a holiday weekend and there were no security guards tonight. They had cut most of the power to the newer part of the building, opting to route power to the older parts to protect the books. She pulled out her phone, 12%. “Shit! I was only suppose to wait out traffic. Look what time it is,” she growled under her breath. She looked around the barren marble atrium and then back up the stairs. “Conservator Della, probably has a charger in her office. I’ve been there once, it couldn’t be that hard to find,” Drea assured herself. She trudged back up the stairs and headed deeper into the library. Drea knew that if that door was locked, she was screwed. The phones on the first floors were in the locked offices. Her best chance was the Conservator’s office. It was located on the 7th floor, in the restricted section deep within the stacks. Drea cursed to herself. She never wanted to move halfway across the world, but what choice did she have. Her close knit family, stuck together, no matter what. In a year or so when the world went back to normal and they could be around people without masks on, she could finish her graduate degree and finally move away. For now, she travelled with the family. When her father was transferred to the dry dusty country with an ancient history, she took solace in her favorite haven. Libraries.

This particular library was housed in an ancient Citadel. She had become familiar with all the staff and almost all the nooks and crannies. The head librarian, the Conservator her official title, had finally started to trust her and was weeks away from letting her have free rein in the restricted section. She could only pray that the Conservator had a reason to come back this weekend. Shadows followed her as she hurried passed rows of wooden tables topped with green glass lamps. Stacks of books sat at the ends, waiting for librarians to re-shelf. This floor was a study hall of sorts. She looked down at her phone it was going to die before she got to the office. She glanced at the vintage gas lamps on every surface, and thanked the Conservator for her “traditional” tastes. She stopped short as she felt a deep vibration travel through the Citadel. “Oo gurl! Imagining things tonight,” she said aloud but kept going. She cleared the landing and blew past the middle floors, and raced up the last flight. Her sneakers squeaking as her feet flew up the stairs. They screeched as she skidded to a halt in the middle of the last marble atrium.

Before her a pillared wall with a closed double doorway. Drea’s shoulders dropped, the doors appeared to be closed and locked. She hung her head and turned to go back down.

The building shuddered again with another vibration, coming from the room behind her. It almost brought her to her knees, she stumbled and turned back to the doors. The doors were now cracked and a faint humming was coming from the opened doorway.

A magnetic tug pulled at her, and she drifted towards them. The hum didn’t sound human or mechanical but there was something about it. She squared her shoulders and rounded the desk. She didn’t think twice as she headed into the restricted floor. On the other side, she raised her phone high, the circle of light only extending a few feet. In the oldest part of the Citadel, the lighting was still gas, and always on. The stacks here staggered and gradually got taller in the center. Drea stayed on the main walkway, winding through the room, following the deep green carpet. The humming growing louder the deeper she got.

She shook her head and slowed, looking to her right and left, she found the source of the sound. The books where humming. “Wait, what?!” Drea stopped and reached out to the nearest shelf, touching one of the books. She nearly jumped out of her skin, the world shifted and her body reverberated as though it was a gong. Dragging in several deep breaths, she shook her head and stuck her hand out again but stopped just short of pulling a book off the shelf.

“No, I need to find a charger, and call Troy, so he can come and get me. If I ever find a way to call out. Why would these librarians keep all the tech in the offices! So picky when it comes to their precious building and books! Well, I get the books part at least. Humph, ok keep going,…no no no dammit don’t go out,” Drea stuttered as her phone died and the flashlight dimmed. “Shit,” she muttered.

She edged her way to the end of a stack and felt along the top, her fingers brushing the bottom of a brass lamp. “Thank you Della for being so old fashion,” she said and turned back. Any moment she would come upon the doors. Rounding another corner, a wave of vibration hit her square in the chest hard enough to make her stumble. She dropped the lamp and fell to her knees. The lamp went out, plunging her into darkness. She knew up ahead were the doors but the vibrations were coming from the Conservator’s office. She got to her feet to edge to the door. Then the books answered. All around her the books sounded like gongs. The sounds clanged through her head, again bringing her to her knees. The world around her shifted again but she stumbled towards the doors blindly, hands outreached. The books sounded again, calling to whatever was in the office. Drea stumbled and fell right in front of the doors.

The world was reduced to darkness and vibrations. Gongs ringing through her head. She raised her hand to the doors but before she touched it, a wave of vibration rumbled out of the office again, strong enough to knock her flat. Everything went black, vibrations pulling her apart and putting her back together in the span of milliseconds.

Then she was falling. Drea managed to flip herself over and watched as lights raced up to meet her. Her momentum slowed, and then she crashed landed and blacked out. Voices around her cursed and groaned as well. “Ladies falling from the sky? What is going on T.S.? You had better explain yourself and get to getting real quick.” She heard somewhere above her right knee.

Drea cracked her eyes and looked up into a group of men and women, all wearing dark clothing. Not one of them looked alike, nor were the same race, or species. ‘S hit are those pointed ears,’ she thought. Her eyes widened and she glanced around. Only one of them had noticed she had opened her eyes and he watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His dark clothing gave nothing away, but she marked his details before trying to move.

That’s when she realized she was laying on top of someone. The group around her discussed moving both of them, until she squeaked at the sight of the crumpled man beneath her.

“Aye! Now, just who are you and what’s your business here in Imaginary?” Drea looked up sharply and stared for a heartbeat. “What did you say? Where am I?” “I’ll say it again chit, who are ya? Do you know who you are laying atop? Get your arse up! Ham wake up,” A skinny man to her left chirped. Drea jumped to her feet and backed up into yet another large, very hairy man. The skinny one stooped and leaned close to the prone form. Drea tried to inch away but the burly hand clamping her shoulder wouldn’t budge. The man with the wide brimmed hat came closer but said nothing. “Uh, T.S. he’s not coming to. I think he might be fading,” the skinny one said. The crumpled body darkened and then winked out. The group gasped, as it was over in seconds.

The skinny one turned to the hat, “She killed him. You know what this means T.S. you have to answer the code. She takes what’s his and you serve her.” The man they kept calling T.S. turned to her and tipped back his hat. He surveyed her from head to toe and Drea took her first good look at him. He was tall, over six foot, swarthy olive skin, black hair, and his eyes were pools of darkness, with only the whites to mark them. Familiar, but how? He continued to frown at her and then turned to the others. “I don’t know what or who she is but she doesn’t belong here. Take her to the witch and get some answers. Send her back to wherever she comes from and tell no one. NO ONE, do you understand me?” The hat snarled and glanced around. The people around her jumped and looked down or away. Drea continued to search his face but he wouldn’t look at her. “Wait! Do I not get a say here? You can’t just man handle me like this! Who are you, and where am I? At least answer my questions,” Drea demanded. They turned towards her but barely spared her a glance. Another giant men came from behind and they picked her up between them. The hat looked her square in the eye and said, “Do not say a word girl. You are in over your head and a stranger here. You’ve killed a King and ruined any chance we have of restoring Imaginary to its former glory. You are going to Hecate and going back to wherever you came from. Take her, I will catch up,” T.S. growled and turned from her and the men that held her. “But wait! I don’t understand!” Drea struggled to break their hold but couldn’t pull away.

The giant men turned and started to run. They were fast, inhumanly fast, and the world blurred past her. They made several turns before stopping in front of a tall brownstone looking building. The stoop and the stones of the building appeared black with an oily sheen.

They hurried her up the stairs and into a dark hallway. Down the length was an open doorway, glowing brightly with shifting light. The giant men, picked her up and stalked down the hallway to the glowing room.

Inside sat a round covered table and a beautiful young woman, with the eyes of a crone, but the face of a maiden. She was dressed in more scarves than Drea had ever seen, the only visible part of her body, her brown hands and head. Her uncovered hair hung in fat heavy curls down her back, and her violet eyes snapped from face to face before coming to rest on Drea. All around her sat mirrors and bowls of water on every surface. Brackets hung from every available space on the walls and held torches. Keys hung from the ceiling clinking together on the wind of the newcomers. The giants stepped forward but said nothing.

They pushed her forward and she stumbled and caught herself on the table. The young old woman stared at her as she rose and straightened. They surveyed each other and Drea started to open her mouth, when alarms clanged through the buildings around them, bouncing off the walls.

The room went silent and then the young old woman rose and crossed to a window and cracked the shutter. “Hamlet is dead! Our King is no more. His light has been extinguished! Take heed, we could be under attack!” Hecate turned back and raised as delicate black brow and came to stand in front of Drea. The young woman recoiled as the witched reached out and touched her forehead. “GODSDAMN! She’s HUMAN! John! Charming! Out now, go find T.S. and bring him here. Ok girl, just how did you get here and what do you want?”

The witch moved around the small table and started to pull bottles off the wall. Not waiting to uncork them, she threw everything into a shallow bowl and kept moving around the room. Drea watched the items in the bowl crumble and the bowl start to smoke. She coughed as the fumes fill the room, she turned back as the witch approached. “I’m sorry girl, there is no time to explain, but if you have anything to do with the ruckus out there, we have to get you out of here quick like. Ah, T, here you are, close the door,” Hecate glanced at the door as it swung open silently and the man from earlier stepped through. Drea turned and opened her mouth again but he held up his hand. “You are in danger here. None of this is real and we do not exist. We are characters from literature and you are in the world of imagination. The longer you stay, the more you fade on the other side, so we are sending you back. No argument. I am Tally or T.S., as you may have heard,” the swarthy stranger drawled and smiled tightly at Drea. Her stomach flipped over. She knew that smile, she just wasn’t sure how yet. “Ok, so send me back. If you won’t tell me exactly what is going on, or hurt me, then get this over with and send me home,” Drea snarled with all the salt she was feeling. Hecate turned back to Tally and shrugged. T.S., blinked at Drea and then nodded at Hecate, “Do it, Tate.” The witch picked up the bowl and strolled to the nearest full length mirror and threw the bowl at the mirror. Instead of shattering, the bowl went straight through and fell into a void. After a second it lit from the inside and roared with light. Hecate turned to Drea and swept her hand before the mirror. “Tate, there are folks out front,” a gravely voice rumbled through the door. The witch turned towards the door and looked back. “It will stay open for another ten minutes. I suggest you go through and quickly,” Hecate said, nodded and turned to go. Drea watched her and murmured her thanks. Hecate stopped at the door and turned back, “You are welcome Drea Jackson, it was nice to meet a human like you. I wish we could of talked,” she said and left. “Now look here girl, forget what you saw here,” T.S. said and turned towards her. Drea started to make her way around the table. Her foot caught and she tripped on a low stool, but he was there before she started to fall.

Drea gasped as an electrical current passed from him to her. She jerked and fell into T.S. and for a moment they stared. “Hecate said you were human but could it be? I know you, but it isn’t possible,” he whispered and stared down into her eyes.

Drea, lost in his eyes, couldn’t close her mouth. He smelled like mossy sandalwood and every inch of him was hard. Her nostrils flared again and she leaned closer ever so slightly. “Same, but who are you? Why do you smell so good? Maybe if I just……” Drea leaned in, thinking to just get a little closer and drink him in.

More shouting outside made them both jump and pull apart. T.S. coughed and turned her towards the mirror. “Just close your eyes and you will be back,” he whispered. Drea tried to turn to look at him one last time but he turned her again.

He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I do know you, Drea Jackson. You are who gives me life here in Imaginary. You are the reason I don’t fade, and you read my story every year and keep me alive. You also wouldn’t have appeared here to me, if I hadn’t wished for you too.”

Drea tried to turn again but T.S. pushed her through the mirror and she was falling yet again.

She jerked awake to a frowning Conservator Della. “Drea! I’ve already woke you up once! Get your things and walk with me. You know we can’t be in the Citadel after a certain time. The witching hour is almost upon us and weird stuff tends to happen. Come come!” Drea looked from side to side and around the Conservator. She was back. Was that a dream? Where the hell did she go? What in the hell was any of that. Who was T.S., and what did he mean? She was so confused. Della continued to stare at her with her head cocked to the side.

“Ok, I’m sorry Conservator, I had a really strange dream and I’m not sure I’m actually here,” she murmured.

“Of course you are here child, this is the land of Imaginary, isn’t it, all libraries are! Now, come on, let’s get our things and head out!” Della chuckled and clapped. “Wait, what did you just say?”


Note: I wrote this essay for a college course and I'm not the best writer so don't mind my grammar. This is my story of being a heroin addict. I hope that it may help anyone who is struggling with addiction and also to give people an idea of what it's like being a heroin addict. Please give me constructive criticism to help improve my writing abilities. Journal Entry 4/21/11: Throw up before I wake, cloths soaked like a lake. Muscles sore all around, can't get up off the ground. Laying down, tossing and turning, so hot I think I'm burning. Scared about the day ahead, kill me now, I'd rather be dead. I crawl my way out the door, I have a buck, I need some more. I bum, I beg, with tears down my face, lose all pride, become a disgrace. I come up with just enough, now I just got to find some stuff. Searching the streets trying to find the man, waiting... waiting... Finally he pulls up in a white van. I stumble in and make the deal, relieve the pain I don't want to feel. Find a spot on the side of the road, I start to shiver as though I'm cold. Ready to feel high as a kite, I fill it up as dark as night. Stabbing my arm just to find a vein, don't notice anything, no pain. Piercing the skin, still trying to hit, mouth on the tie, I drool and spit. Blood running all the way down my arm, I think it's normal, don't see the harm. I finally pull and it fills with red, I hope this is the one that leaves me dead. I feel the rush then it turns to black, I'm free and I'm never coming back. I rummage through my only possessions, the contents of a black backpack. I can't find a clean rig. I had some earlier today, but now I'll have to use an old one. I find my prized spoon, one side blackened by butane, the other covered in residue. I cup my hand to collect water from the sink, drawing 100cc into the rig. I open a red balloon with my teeth, tearing it like a hyena tears through an animal hide, and I remove the dope wrapped in plastic. Carefully, I open the wrapping and make sure nothing falls. I breathe on the powdered dope to turn it into a moist ball. I put the dope in the spoon, lick the residue off my fingers. A sour bitterness fills my mouth. The taste is horrible. I squirt the water into the spoon. As I cook up the dope, the vinegar-like odor of it melting makes me gag. I try not to make it boil, because I'm afraid some of it will be wasted. When it is completely dissolved, I stir it up with the rig's plunger. I then drop a ball of cotton in the spoon, and fill up the rig. I make sure to suck up every last drop. The rig fills up to 50cc. I pull out my blood-stained tourniquet, and tightly wrap it around my left arm. I clench my fist, waiting for a vein to surface. Nothing. Frustration overwhelms me, tears fall down my face. I start to poke my arm, using the dull rig like a jackhammer to my arm. Blood streams down to my fingertips, sweat down my face. Someone bangs on the bathroom door, yelling "Hurry up!" I don't care. I did not strike oil on the left arm, so I untie the tourniquet, and wrap it around my right. Another ten minutes of searching and I finally hit the spot. The ribbon of blood in the rig brings me a rush. I slowly push the plunger until every last bit is in my arm. I release the tourniquet, take out the rig, and lick the blood off my arm and off the tip of the needle. Suddenly I feel a rush of warmth fill my body. I get the sense of relief as though everything in my life is alright. I slide down the filthy bathroom wall to sit. My sight becomes blurry, and I close my eyes. Nothing matters. Reality slips away. Everything goes black. The life of a heroin junkie is a life that no one deserves to live. It is a miracle that I am alive to write about my experiences. I should be dead. As I read through my old journals, emotions start pouring out as though I'm reliving those horrific episodes. It is as though I am having a recurring nightmare. The heroin problem in America is growing exponentially. Portland, Oregon, being the heroin capital of the west coast, is taking many lives. Every day there are overdoses happening throughout the city. Many of the victims are quickly forgotten. Heroin is like a plague that is growing, and it will continue to grow if actions are not taken to stop this epidemic. This is a day in the life of a junkie. As I open my eyes a bright light illuminates the room. I lie on the top bunk in a room packed with other homeless. The mattress I lie on is covered in sweat. As I peel my back from the plastic mattress, I feel like vomiting. I throw up in my mouth and swallow. All my muscles are sore like I just ran a marathon. I look over to the bottom bunk, to the left of mine, to find my brother still lying in bed. "Travis. Wake up," I say. After a few minutes of calling him, he replies with despair, "I'm so sick." "Me, too. We need to get well," I say. We then both get up. The shelter provides both breakfast and a shower. There’s no time for that. We head out the door. Outside the shelter, the air is cold. I spark up a half-smoked cigarette I found last night. The stale taste and smell of the cig fills my mouth and taints my clothes with the odor of an ashtray. I don't even notice or care. I don't care about anything right now, except for one thing: dope. We walk down the street like a pair of zombies, dragging our bodies in search for brains. We're broke and sick. The anxiety starts to kick in. We become worried about the day ahead. We have to do something. Travis has a cheap cellphone that he may be able to trade to the Hondos. The Hondurans don't have nearly as good of dope as the Mexicans. It is like a comparing a Geo Metro to a Benz. But the Hondos are willing to trade, and we have no other options. We make our way to the nearest payphone. I pull out the fifty cents I saved last night from spanging for a phone call, and dial the number of a Honduran that goes by the name of Juan. His number is engrained in my head, like carvings on a stone tablet. 503-***-****.. That number will never be forgotten. "Hallo? Who's dis?" I hear Juan's familiar Honduran accent. "Hey. This is Caleb." "Chino? Whatchu need?" "Dos negro." "You got the money?" "Yes," I lie. He won't come meet us unless he thinks we have money. "Okay. Come ah to like ah 12th and brouhnsaeed," he says with his broken accent. "Wait... Where? 12th and Johnson?" I ask. "No, Chino. 12th and Brouhnsaeed!" "Oh, Burnside!" "How long?" "Ten minutes." I hang up the phone. We quickly walk towards the meeting spot. As we pace towards Juan, the withdrawal starts to kick in harder. My eyes water, and I sneeze and shiver. My body is malfunctioning. I feel like a fish without water, flopping helplessly on the ground. I vomit as I walk. Travis starts sneezing heavily as though he is allergic to the world. When we finally reach the crossroads, Travis digs through his bag to find the old cheap cellphone. We wait...every second feels like a minute and every minute feels like an hour. Looking in every direction, Juan is nowhere to be seen. 10 minutes pass. Still no sign of juan. An eternity passes. Finally Juan appears from around the corner. It feels like Jesus's second coming.Juan walks up wearing the Nike's we traded him the other day. "What's up Chinos? whatchu need?" Juan says. "two blacks" I say. "wheres the money?" Juan says. Travis pulls out the cell phone. "AHHH NOOO Chino!" juan says with dismay. He then starts to walk off. Travis and I begin to follow him. "Juan please! this cell phone works and it has a sim chip" Travis says. "NO." Juan says with finality. We continue to follow him. Within I'm filled with the fear of not being able to cop. Afraid of being sick. Hopefully if we follow him long enough, Juan will finally give in. "Go away Chino!" Juan says frustrated. We begin to beg as though we are begging for food. "Juan, we are so sick. We need something" I say. Juan stops. "Okay I give you one" he says. He spits out in his hand one bag wrapped in a black black plastic and hands it over to me. I put it in my mouth and we head out. Travis and I head to the nearest public bathroom and both walk in. He gets the works ready. I open the black bag to find a small, sticky smear that smelled like perfume. Travis and I look at each other in disappointment. "What the fuck is this?" Travis says. "This shit must have been cut with something I don't even want to know about." I reply. We both were so sick we still decided to do it. As Travis cooked it, the strong odor filled the bathroom. This dope was dirtier than a whores vagina. When we did the dope, we felt nothing. No pleasure, no warmth, just a feeling of normalcy. We were well. Growing up, my brother and I Travis were like two peas in a pod. We did everything together, good and bad. No matter what situation we got into, we always had each others back. By far this addiction brought us down like no other.Everyday was a constant struggle to survive on the streets. Living homeless is a struggle in itself, but to also have a drug addiction made the experience hell. This drug addiction made us do things that we would never do sober. Travis and I came up with many scams to make money quickly. We took and resold recycled cellphones. We got beanies from homeless shelters and sold them on the street. We pawned everything we owned. Travis sold his prized possession "Reneysha", a 2002 BMW 525, sterling gray with a sports package, equipped with projector headlights, for half the value. We stole and spanged (asked for spare change). We dealed dope. We scammed people for "bus fare." Ad infinitum. It got to the point where we could no longer live this lifestyle. We lost connections with our friends, our family, saw people we cared about die from overdoses, we ourself overdosed on several occasions, this merry-go-round we were on was no longer fun and something must change. I remember one day Travis said to me, “one of us is going to die if we keep on living this lifestyle and it’s gonna take that death to be enough to make the other stop.”We needed to stop. After years of being strung out, 6 times of detox and rehab, my brother and I were finally able to get off the junk. Things we’re starting to look forward. We no longer needed a substance to feel alright. We felt like normal people. It was not an easy journey getting clean, the higher you get, the harder you fall. It was a cloudy christmas eve night in downtown Portland. The homeless youth shelter was packed and I would die if I slept outside. I needed to find shelter. As I walk down Burnside to the Portland rescue mission, I begin to reminisce on the good days. The days before I did drugs. I thought about all times we had Christmas with the whole family and sat in front of the fireplace. I can feel the warmth from the fire heating up my body from my head to my toes. The smell of fresh roasted coffee brewing in the kitchen while mom is cooking up Christmas breakfast. There was just a feeling of peace and serenity. There was nothing to fear. I had a sense of security. As I walk up to the rescue mission, I see a sign on the front door that says ‘shelter full’. I knock on the door. No one answers. I knock again. Nothing. Out of desperation I begin knocking on the door as though I was being chased by zombies and I needed to get inside to shelter. Finally the door opens and a man comes to the door. “Sorry there is no more space, we are completely full”. The man says. “Sir is there anyway you could fit one more person? The youth shelter is closed and I have nowhere to sleep.” I say shivering “I’m sorry there isn’t any room. The capacity of the shelter is 95 and we are pushing it we have 120 people crammed in here.” says the man. “It’s okay, thank you anyways.” I begin walking off. I don’t know where I’m walking to. I feel like a child lost in the supermarket looking for their parents. Or like Bob dylan says, ‘Like a rolling stone’. As I’m walking away from the shelter, I hear a man calling me. “Hey kid! come here!” says the man from the shelter. I walk back towards the man. “Yeah?” “It’s Christmas eve, we can fit you in here” says the man “Yeah?! awesome thank you so much” This was the greatest Christmas gift one can ask for. As I walk into the shelter, I smell an old familiar odor. The odor like the burnside bathroom. I look around this cram packed room to see a room full of homeless people laying on the ground. The man leads me to my mat. As we are walking towards my mat, I look at all the other homeless. I see men with expressions on their face like they are living through misery. I see helpless faces all around. We finally arrive at my king size temper pedic mattress, a 1” thick and 2’ wide blue mattress. “Here’s your spot, wake up is at 6:30. There is coffee in the morning” says the man “Thank you so much sir” I walk towards my mat. As I crawl my way in, the man on the left of me is coughing as though he just smoked a pack of old stale cigarettes. His strong odor of urine fills my nostrils to where I had to hold my breath. The man on the right of me reeks of cigarrette smoke and shit. As I lie down, each one of my shoulders touches the shoulders of the other men. As I look up to the ceiling I think to myself, “What am I doing here?” “Life was so good, and now it comes to this?” “God, if your out there, I need your help.” I fall asleep. The next morning I grab a cup of coffee and make a decision that will change my life for the better forever. My brother and I check ourselves into rehab. With the help of Ouside In, my brother and I both get ourselves into a rehab. Because we are siblings we were not able to go into the same rehab. This was going to be hard because we were always together, we became dependent on each other. There were no other options. We checked in that same day. After weeks of cold turkey withdrawel, I finally started to feel good again. This rehab was the best thing I ever did in my life. I would talk on the phone with travis once a week to see how he was doing. He was moving along pretty quickly in the program. I could hear the difference in his voice. He sounded happy for once. 3 and a half months pass. I’ve come a long way. I have my own studio apartment, I’m working and I’m no longer strung out. I feel as though I can do anything I put my mind into. Life is going good for a change. I inpatiently wait tell my brother gets out. we are both ready to start a new life clean and sober. One of his goals was to go to UTI and automotive school. He wanted to be a mechanic for bmw. My main goal was to go back to college and get an education majoring in Business. our goals were now once possible, we can now make something out of ourselves. When we were on the streets, this was not an option. It’s 5:30 in the morning and I hear a banging on my door. I get up to see who it is. As I open the door, two of my counselors from Outside In are standing at the doorway. The expressions on their face was not a good. They look like they have just seen a ghost. “What’s going on?” I say tiredly “Something happened.” they say quietly. As though they were about to say some bad news. “Is it Travis?” I say knowing that something awful has happened. I had a strange vibe knowing something bad has happened with Travis. “Yes...he passed away last night.” Right when they said this I was in shock and disbelief. This can’t be happening, I must be dreaming. “I’m so sorry” “What happened?” “He relapsed and overdosed. He died in the Joyce hotel” she said. It finally sank in and tears begin to roll down my face. It felt like the whole world was coming to an end and everything around me was going to collapse. I felt like a huge chunk of my soul had been torn off. I was left with this emptiness inside that nothing could ever replace. How could this happen? Everything was going so good. I call my family to tell them the news. Traviss’ death was the last straw for heroin. I will never touch that shit again. All the pain and suffering this drug has put myself and family through. This was no longer an option. There are no happy endings to a heroin junkie. The only thing you can get from it is experience. This experience has made me a stronger person. It made me more grateful for the things I now have in life. Today I’m grateful for the littlest things in life. I’m grateful to once again have my family and friends, I’m grateful to have hot water to take a shower, I’m grateful to be able to eat and not be hungry. I’m grateful to be alive.


The sun-bleached envelope was no longer crisp but textured with a layer of age. John slid his gnarled fingers along the dried-out seal so he could wheedle out its contents. A folded piece of paper dropped to his lap followed by a second. His name was written on the top of each: one with the notation "age 20" written beneath and one tagged "age 25." The familiar handwriting on them was the same script as on the front of the envelope. It was his handwriting. He lowered the envelope to his lap with trembling hands and opened the page labeled "age 20." John blinked to clear the floaters from his eyes then squinted through the thick lens perched on his nose. To John (ie. future me), I don't know if you will remember writing this, but before too much happens I want to put some things down on paper. Okay, where to begin? You may, or may not, still be working at Tech Corp Advantage by the time you read this, but there's where I am right now. Dr. Whinehouse recommended me after my first semester and I was pretty much hired on the spot. Of course, you already know this since it's in your past, but I want to create some context. Do you remember all the fuss over product distillation, specifically nutrient distillation? Do you remember being asked to be on the research team to help refine the process? Well, I've been in that department for four months now and it's amazing. The things we're working with and all the possibilities that are opening up... well... I can't really put much on paper because of confidentiality but the products we've started to develop are going to make a world of difference. Seriously, we're in the process of designing something that will benefit everyone and everyone is going to want it. I want it.

I'm mostly writing this because I want to remember how good everything feels right now. I'm on a great team, working with some super smart, and I mean really smart, guys right now. We get along at work and feed on each other's energy. And the parties after work are... I probably shouldn't put too much of that on paper either. Just know that next week I'm being moved from refinement into product testing. They asked for volunteers and of course I said yes. I know there are risks, but that's a given with anything in life, right? I mean, the chance to test out what we've been working on is just too good of an opportunity to pass by. Of course there will be set backs, but whatever it is I believe we can find a solution. You must know that being on the other side of this already. You've seen the obstacles that arise and have had to work through them. I'm still at the beginning and am excited to take the next step. This is going to change everything for me, and I mean everything. I hope you're in a place to agree with me on this. I hope the world is in a better place because of what we've come up with. I guess you'll know these answers before I will. Sincerely, John, age 20 John stared at the sheet of paper as it shook in his unstable grip. His eyes skimmed each of the words without really dwelling on what they meant individually or as a unit. A small part of him recalled composing the letter, but if felt like such a long time ago. He dropped the page and picked up the second sheet labeled "age 25". He cleared his eyesight again. To John (ie. future me), I don't know where you are in life right now. I don't even know if you'll get the chance to read this, but things don't always go the way we plan, do they? I guess you have already experienced this. You're probably looking back and regretting a lot of things. I know I've started to amass a few of those. As I'm sure you can attest, the initial trials of the new product were successful. I can still recall the absolute elation I felt, the wholeness and wellness that came from the daily prescription. It had all the benefits of a balanced diet without all the restrictions. I never felt like I was hungry or undernourished and I never had the sluggishness that comes from overeating. I could also clearly think and reason no matter the time of day or night because my metabolism never had to slow every other function in my body down in order to perform its task. In that first year, I (we) accomplished so much. If only it could've been sustained. Right now we're working on a solution for some of the complications that arose. Those of us in the first and second series of testing have been moved back into development. We're looking at why the effects seem to decrease over time. I'm sure you already know all that we faced and have yet to face. That's the nice thing about being able to look back. You don't have to wonder about finding a solution to the degradation. You don't have to wonder if it can be reversed. There's a bit of doubt that's crept into the back of our minds. The most recent tests show that while the drug increased daily productivity and physical wellness, the long term effects may to do the exact opposite. I know I've noticed a difference, but I could just be paranoid. We're still compiling data. Between all of us involved in the trials there's a wide range of complications, but it's too soon to know if this is the extent of it or if there will be more down the road. We also don't know if it's temporary or permanent. Side effects are a reality in any developmental phase. We knew that going into this, but what will ours entail? Will we go back to the way we were before or will we be worse? The newest course of action is to introduce another drug to counter or slow the effects of the first medication so we can be weened onto the next iteration. Most are hopeful, but I have my doubts. It's hard not to after the first failure, especially since I will have to live with whatever the consequences are. But you already know all of this. You've been through whatever lies ahead. You can attest if my fears about reactions and potential regression are founded. I really do hope a solution is found, but I fear it may come too late. Already my ability to focus wanes more each day. I feel more tired and weak in the limbs. If I take a new drug, or another in addition to the first, I fear it will not help as much as everyone would like to think. It may even hurt more than it helps, but I am too far into the process to back out now. I have come to the conclusion that I will lose a bit of who I am through this process, but hopefully a solution can be found that will benefit others. If I (we) are lost during this next phase it will still be worth it if others can be made whole later on. I hope you feel the same way about this wherever you are. You may also disagree with me entirely. Maybe all of our hopes and dreams are about to unravel. You are on the other side of all this and know what the outcome will be. Honestly, I am concerned that this new drug will not solve the problem. It may even exacerbate the situation. I'm saying it now on paper in case you need to use this in the future, although you won't really have any legal power to do so. I think we've signed our lives away. I think the damage is done and I don't know that there will ever be a cure. I hope I'm wrong, but I've lost faith in the belief that all the good of something can be extracted without all the bad coming along. I think it's a package deal and the more we try to separate the two parts the more we create ill effects, even effect that had not existed before.

Again, I hope you're in a place to disagree, but... I guess I'll know what you know soon. Hopefully you'll still be around to read this and I'll be able to write another installment in the next five years. Until then, John, age 25 John's gaze slipped from the words as the page dropped to his lap. If only he had known what he was getting into sooner maybe things could have been different. Maybe he could have curbed his enthusiasm and used more rational thought. He stared at his hands, the way his skin was marked by spots and his knuckles had become hard knobs on the back of his hands. Within the last two years his strength had slipped away, his muscles diminishing until they could no longer bear his weight. He longed to leave the wheelchair he was bound to, but he could no longer move in it without help let alone stand. His chin sagged to his chest. He had been young and healthy once. He had embraced life's challenges and striven to gain more time by tweaking nature's design. But nature and the world had other plans. It had shown him just how small and naive he was. The reversal he had hoped to achieve had produced the opposite effect. He could not cheat death; no one could. Everyone has an end to face and running from it changes nothing. Perhaps a year or two more could be stolen away in a younger body, but that imbalance would eventually catch up. It would make those later years much worse to deal with. So was it worth it? Sitting in the commons room at a nursing home seemed to answer that question. Aching and arthritic, with his sight failing and his speech impaired, John knew the answer to that question. How foolish he had been in trying to beat the odds. If only he had known how much it would cost. He stared at the pages in his lap. That third letter would never be written. It was too late now. His gaze strayed to the plastic hospital band still strapped on his wrist. In neat print--almost too small for him see, let alone read--was written: JOHN TRUESET, AGE 28.


Incoming call 1 Aug 2023 0700 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 2 Aug 2023 0701 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 3 Aug 2023 0658 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: No sir, we are all safe \[Disconnected\] Incoming call 4 Aug 2023 0708 Agent 1: Good morning, what is your zombie concern? Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: Sir, have you called every morning for the last few days? \[3 seconds of silence\] Caller: Has the zombie apocalypse started? Agent 1: I’m just curious because I set this up as a joke and you are only my 4th caller, they all said the same thing and sounded like you. \[6 seconds of silence\] Agent 1: Caller? Are you still there? Caller: Yes those were all me, and are you telling me that this service is not a proper zombie survival call centre, its all a joke? Agent 1: Yes sir, I’m just a student who though they might get a few jokers call to see what the service was and make a few pennies and have a laugh. Caller: OH! Umm…. It might be worth getting a few employees quickly. Agent 1: Why? Caller: No, No reason. Just a hunch that you might see a pick up on callers. Agent 1: Why? Caller: So the fact that i’m the only one to have called you means that, as far as you know the apocalypse hasn’t started. Agent 1: As far as I know there has never been any reports of any apocalypse but I’m now a little concerned that it may have started but reports haven’t gotten to me yet and that you know something about it. Caller: Ok, thank you. \[Disconnected\] Agent 1: What the hell was that about? Incoming Call 9 Aug 2023 2324 Agent 3: Good evening, you are speaking to Jane. What is your zombie concern? Caller: Hi, could I speak to your… boss… manager… the person in charge of this line? Agent 3: Could I ask what it is concerning? Caller: Tell them that its caller number 1 wanting to talk to them. Agent 3: ok… OH! Give me a second. Slack message \[Jane 09/08/23 11:25pm\] Caller 1 wants to talk to you. \[Alex 09/08/23 11:25pm\] Can you remember how to transfer callers? Transfer them \[Jane 09/08/23 11:25pm\] yes Agent 3: now transferring you. Agent 1: Good evening, have you started it yet? Caller: OH GOD! You know? Agent 1: Know what? Caller: OH GOD! YOU DON’T KNOW! Agent 1: Are you for real? Zombies are real? Caller: Yes Agent 3: \[gasp\] \[inaudible\] Caller: and you need to prepare for a LOT of calls. Agent 1: SHIT! \[ 2 seconds of scilence\] Agent 1: I have been preparing, I have a few friends who can also take calls and even been publicising the number around the net, I’ve even been getting a few pranksters call up. Caller: Pranksters? Please tell me none were from {location retracted} Agent 1: Give me a second, I’ll check Caller: And I think you need more than just a few friends. \[12 seconds of silence with some slight thudding noises\] Agent 1: no, none. Caller: Good. \[3 seconds of scilence\] Agent 1: Hang on a second, how do I know your not also a prankster?Caller: umm… just look \[loud banging and muffled shouts from callers line\] Caller: Shit. Look up my phone number and get many people answering your phones from all around the world, your service WILL be needed and don’t look me, I will be dead, dead dead, not zombie dead and don’t \[Crash then 2 loud bangs with caller disconnecting immediately after second one\] Agent 1: Jane, you're still there arnt you? Agent 3: yes… did we just hear what I think we heard? Agent 1: I hope this is one very elaborate joke because if it isn’t then yes we did. \[20 seconds of silence\] Agent 3: are you going to look up their number. Agent 1: I suppose so, im a bit concerned what I will find. It could be something confirming zombies exist or it could be a rickroll and I’m not sure which one I would prefer. \[42 seconds of silence\] Agent 3: the fact I can’t hear Rick Ashley, things are bad. Agent 1: Yep, can you wake Mark up, I will see if Bob is home, staff meeting in my kitchen in 10 mins.


Satan caved before God, which probably doesn’t come as much of a surprise. “I...look. I don’t really wanna take her. I will if I have to, but...she’s not reeaaallllly bad enough, don’t you think? I mean, I’m collecting murderers and CEOs over here. It’s not that I take issue with making someone look bad to put ‘em in Hell. But, she’s just pretty fucking annoying.” God, having already made up His mind that He wasn’t taking her, either, remained silent for a few moments. “We’re not doing limbo or purgatory or whatever, anymore, right?” “No.” Satan shook his head. “Too confusing. Way too many complaints.” “I have to say, she’s technically good enough for heaven, if I overlook a few things. But, I find myself agreeing with you, believe it or not.” In truth, they agreed often. “She’s just...well, she’s just so off-putting.” “So. What do we do? The two were sitting at their mutually favorite restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine and some bread. The irony was lost on them. It had come time for the two to discuss the terms of the earthly rapture. Nothing had been prophecized, or anything like that. To put it simply, they were growing bored of it all. “As my father always said, ‘On to the next, and the next after,’” said God. It was their 301,643 day speaking about the matter. Presumably, hopefully, it would be their last. As you may or may not have noticed, things seldom go, and things seldom went, as they are written in the Bible (or any other religious text, for that matter.) This is not something God planned. But, He also never planned anything at all, so when He let a few too many folks on Earth in on His existence, the whole “religion” thing got a little out of hand. While almost exclusively a tremendous annoyance to God, and, frankly, a baffling disservice to Satan, the two friends decided to humor the people, and go along with it, occasionally. Some time ago, God created a heaven, where pretty much most folks who want to go there end up once they’ve died. And shortly thereafter, Satan created a Hell. It became clear in the first few months of the heaven/Hell experiment that Hell needed a lot of reworking. As the two had based their initial criterion for entry into heaven on whether or not the person wanted to end up there, Hell was, as expected, quite empty. So, some guidelines of “pure evil” were established, and things began to balance out a bit. Then, in the early 21st century, people on Earth started to say things like, “If THOSE are really the kinds of people who get into heaven, then I’d rather go to Hell.” So, Satan created a second Hell, Hell 2, where generally good people are sent, and it’s exactly the same as heaven, only there are flames. That way, everyone except for the real icky people in Hell 1 are pretty satisfied. It should be noted that Satan doesn’t actually enjoy torturing people. He pretty much just leaves all the creeps in Hell 1 to their own devices, and their own devices happen to be almost comically miserable. The rapture, or end of the world, was a vaguely interesting idea to both God and Satan, but they recognized it would be hard work. Eventually, though, even God and Satan get a little sick of hearing, “The rapture is coming,” and so, they agreed that the rapture would come. Now, the theatrics of it all were one thing. God actually thought the idea of everyone floating up to heaven to be a little tacky, but He’d always thought of Himself as a people pleaser. Both of them, however, agreed that no previously dead bodies would be floating up to join them, as that is very weird. They contracted out a really good trumpet player to get the whole thing started. They had tried to figure out what it was exactly the guy should play, but eventually they told him to go with whatever felt right at the time. When it came to the folks meeting their ends in Hells 1 and 2, Satan thought it could be kind of a fun idea if the drop into the Hells was on some sort of freaky waterslide. Go out with a bang, as they say. As for the chaos that was supposed to transpire during the tribulations, the two decided it best just to forget it. Not for any reason, really, aside from the fact that pretty much no one on Earth would notice. All of this initial planning took about 5 days. It would have taken only a few hours, but the trumpet player had to make sure he wasn’t double-booked. The next 448 days were spent whittling away at the enormous list of people left on Earth into 3 categories. Hell 1, Hell 2, and heaven. The heaven people were always pretty easy to categorize, believe it or not. In fact, a lot of really shitty people get into heaven. Hell 2 is typically filled with more of your millenial anti-establishment types, and is also fairly shitty and easy to categorize. Hell 1 is always a little trickier, as the guidelines for pure evil were never very clear. Satan mostly just felt it out. But soon enough, they had placed every last person on the correct list. All, but one. On the 453rd day of their planning, they reached her name. God suggested the two take a vacation for a while, clear their heads before they dealt with her. 300,500 days later, they met again. And there they sat in the restaurant. Neither wanted her. “What about Hell 2?” asked God. “Hey, that’s like the one thing I get to be proud of,” said Satan. He was lying. Satan was proud of many things. “You’re right, it wouldn’t be fair to the folks there anyways. You could make a Hell 3?” “Oh my God. Do you know how much work it is to create one of those things? Come on. I’d consider it, I would, but she’d be the only one. And then, we’re done. No one else is going in after her because there’d be no one left. Way too much of my time for one person that, frankly, has no quality attractive or unattractive enough for me to justify making a spot for her in Hell 1 or Hell 2. And to be honest, you haven’t made a great case for keeping her out of heaven, either.” God looked over His notes. “You’re right. You know, sometimes I get these complexes where I actually feel like I am supposed to be this all powerful gatekeeper, this final judge of good and bad. They’ve talked about me that way for so long. It’s just a lot sometimes. I’m supposed to love everyone. And it’s shitty because you’re allowed to hate whoever you want. I don’t wanna be making these decisions anymore. I’m tired. And is it so bad for me to just admit that I don’t like her? I said it. I don’t fucking like her. She’s irritating. She’s kinda creepy. She’s not bad looking enough for me to feel sorry for her and she’s not good looking enough for me to feel sorry for her, either.” Satan sipped his wine and thought. “We really do a lot for all of them,” he said. “And most of them suck. A lot.” “Yeah,” said God. “After we take all the people, what’s gonna happen to Earth?” “Well,” God smiled. “It’ll be much quieter, and much prettier. I imagine animals will have a much better time of it all.” “What if we...just left her there?” said Satan. “Can we...do that?” “God, we can do anything.” God flipped to a new page of His notebook. He headed the page “Remainders.” He wrote down her name. * * * * * One half of a human lifetime later, Satan and God had long abandoned the earth. It was peaceful and beautiful, as God knew it would be. She had adjusted quite well to her solitary life. It appeared the decision to make her the sole remainder was a good one. She rarely spoke, but read frequently, and was generally happy. She knew why she wasn’t taken, and she had accepted it. Now, almost 80, she was dying. A plot had been purchased long ago, next to where her mother, father, and sister would have been buried, had they stayed on Earth long enough to die. She thought it was a sensible place to go for her death. When she found her headstone, she carved out an approximate final date. She set to work digging, climbed inside her shallow resting place, and laid down. A few minutes, or a few hours later, she was dead. She did not go to Hell 1 or Hell 2 or heaven. She did not go anywhere. Had anyone been around, they might have noticed an unfilled grave. They might have walked over and peered inside the hole. They might have seen an old woman, dressed in Dior from 2018 and they might have read her tombstone.


I’ll never forget the first time I saw you.

From the minute I laid eyes upon you, it was like I already knew everything there was to know about you. I didn’t, of course. How could I have known? I was sitting at the bar, like I always do around 8 o’clock on a Wednesday night. It’s my chosen hour because there are fewer people to deal with than on the more popular weekend nights, and the Wednesday clientele are less likely to try to make my drunken acquaintance. There were maybe three or four other people at the bar, all of us sat as far apart from each other as possible, as if we were fearful of catching the plague, and a couple of folks drinking pints at the tables, watching baseball on the grainy TV. And, oddly, you, dancing alone on the stage in the back. You were a terrible dancer. Jerky movements, off-beat shimmies, clumsy swaying. Your arms reached overhead, groping for the disco ball three feet out of your reach, your weight shifting so far up your toes that I felt sure you’d fall over. I thought that you must have been drunk, or baked, or something low-grade like that. I didn’t care. To each their own, as long as they don’t bother me. I wanted so desperately to look away, to ignore you. But I couldn’t. Something about you kept gnawing at me, something irrepressible. I had to understand you. And you gave me plenty of time, because you kept coming. Every Wednesday night, 8 o’clock sharp, there you were. Straining against gravity, reaching skyward, head tilted back, eyes closed. Twisting your core like one of those balloon men outside of a car dealership. Pure bliss. I think I was jealous. What brought you here? Why were you like this? I had to know. So I began to construct your life story from every detail you gave me. Shiny flats, translucent black stockings, pencil skirt, navy blue blouse, gold earrings. You came right from work. Some corporate job, surely. Let’s say finances. You were a successful exec at some nine-to-five, managerial-level. The life of the office Christmas party. You must have been a legend. Silver ring with a big gemstone on the ring finger of your left hand. Married, of course. Pretty young, maybe early thirties. Probably a photo of a kid or two in your wallet. Happy family, house in the suburbs, white-picket fence. You came here to let loose. It’s your only opportunity. Nothing wrong with a few drinks after work. To each their own, as long as they don’t bother me. You, though. I secretly hoped that you would. I secretly imagined that you harbored the same dreams about my life as I did yours, that one day you would sit down next to me at the bar and share them. Who was I, to you? I’d like to think that I’m a pretty observant person. So, naturally, most of my assumptions held some degree of truth, I’d discover. But I’m not very imaginative. I couldn’t see everything, couldn’t fill in the gaps. I couldn’t see the needle marks on your arms, which must have been concealed by the flashing kaleidoscopic lights of the disco ball every time you groped at the ceiling, baring your forearms for all to see and ignore. Were you trying to show us? Were you trying to show me? I couldn’t appreciate just how remarkably off-balance you were, constantly shifting your weight from one foot to another, catching yourself with quick lunges and back steps. I just assumed you were drunk at a bar, which is normal. Which is fine. I didn’t know that with every hop, every sway, every lunge, that your friends and family were slipping out of your life, drowning in the muck of corporate alienation. I could have known, but I failed to imagine. Or, more acutely, I guess I failed to ask. So it came as a complete shock to me that you didn’t show up on the dance floor one fateful Wednesday at 8 o’clock. I didn’t have to wait for the next to corroborate my worst fears. You showed up in the paper the next day. Twenty nine years old. I was off by a few years. Married, two kids. Bingo. Beloved boss at a corporate job. Pretty good so far. Drug addict. That’s what killed you. That’s what I saw every Wednesday at 8 o’clock, in combination with the booze you bought from the bar. I fell a little short, here. How could I have known? How could I have known that you needed help? That’s the question that plagues me, now, every time I take a shower, every time I board the bus, every time I stare up at the flickering LED lights at work, every time I try to fall asleep. Every time the cracked leather of the barstool sighs under my ass as I take my station at 8 o’clock on Wednesday. Every time I turn to study the dance floor and you’re not there, swaying in the lights, head lolling back, eyes shut in blissful apathy. How could I have known? Maybe I could have been more observant. Maybe I could have exercised a little more imagination. Maybe I could have gone up to you. Maybe I could have introduced myself. Maybe I could have gotten to know you. Maybe I could have asked, Are you ok? Maybe I could have been a little more human. But that’s not my responsibility, I remind myself. I’m just some asshole sitting at the bar, warning strangers off with my red-tinted glare. That’s what assholes at the bar do. We don’t talk to each other. It’s no way to achieve absolution. So, some Wednesday at 8 o’clock in the future, when I see a new person stride up to the dance floor and strike a faltering pose, I try something different. I walk up to them. I say hello. I ask, How are you? I take some responsibility. I’m sorry.


Riley Bronson, a stay-at-home mom, prepares to pick up her daughter from the bus stop as her phone rings. "ID blocked," says the caller ID. Riley wouldn't normally pick up a call with no ID, but she had 10 minutes before picking up her daughter and was curious who was on the other end, even if it was just a spammer. "Hello." "Good afternoon, my name is Felicity; I'm calling from the Jack Candor show, on 103.3, WKCT. We noticed you liked our show on social media and decided to give you the opportunity to win a trip to Disney Land. Do you want to play the game?" Felicity asks. "Oh my goodness, I adore Jack Candor's show. I have to pick up my daughter, Ava, in about 8 minutes; do you think the game will be over by then?" Riley inquires. "It'll be quick, Riley, it's only five trivia questions, so can I count on you?" Felicity asks once more. Riley says, "Sure, let's do it." "As I mentioned earlier, I'm going to ask you five trivia questions; if you answer one wrong, you're out. Unfortunately, if our phone call gets disconnected, you also lose. If you can answer all five trivia questions correctly, you'll win an all-expenses-paid trip to Los Angeles and complimentary Disneyland tickets!" Felicity explains. "That would be fantastic; my daughter Ava has been begging that we go for her birthday. It would be the trip of a lifetime," Riley says. "We noticed your daughter on your social media page; she's adorable," says Felicity. "Thanks, she's a great kid," Riley says. "So right, let's get started," Felicity says, "during Monday's show, what topic did Jack discuss that got Gladys from Glendale all worked up?" Felicity asks. "Oh, that Jack didn't like Philly Cheesesteaks!" Riley exclaims, ecstatic that she knew the first answer. "That's right! 'Great job, Riley!' Felicity says. "Let's keep the winning going. The second question is, "What did Victor's twin brother discover when he awoke from a coma on the soap opera The Young and the Beautiful?" Felicity asks. "When he awoke from his coma, he discovered that his brother had spent the previous ten years impersonating him. We thought we were watching Victor but were actually watching Rodrigo," Riley says. "That's correct! There are only three more questions," Felicity says. "Good, I hope they're all that easy," Riley says as she grabs her keys and heads out the door. "Oh no, Riley, you're breaking up; if the phone call drops, you're out," Felicity warns. "I just went outside to drive to my daughter's bus stop, she's only in second grade, and she'll be waiting for me," Riley says. "I can barely make you out; go back to where you were before; I swear it'll be short," Felicity says. Riley is uncertain, and she attempts to raise her phone to the sky, but Felicity still can't hear her. Riley looks at her watch and decides to quickly go back into the house to answer the questions. "All right, I'm back. Can you hear me now?" Riley asks. "There you are, three more questions to go, let's do this! What is the motto of the famous Betsy's Diner in Altoona?" Felicity asks. "This is unbelievable; I grew up in Altoona and worked at Betty's Diner, where the motto is, If you're feeling slow, grab some Joe," Riley says. "That's right! You only need to answer two more questions and you'll be on your way to Disneyland!" Felicity says as Riley checks her watch once more. "Your fourth question is, what is the island of Aruba's only poisonous animal?" Felicity asks. "This can't be real; I traveled to Aruba this summer. Are you playing a joke on me?" Riley asks. "Between you and me, the radio show wants to award the prize to a true fan; we saw you liked this program on social media, so we tailored the questions toward stuff you'd know about," Felicity says. "Well, okay then. Riley says, "Rattlesnake! After spending 6 hours in an Aruba hospital after my husband was bitten by a rattlesnake, I definitely know this one." "Correct! Riley, there's one more to go," Felicity says. "All right, let's get this over with; I really need to get going; I'm officially late now," Riley says. "All of that won't matter when you're soaking in the rays at Disneyland," Felicity says, "your final question is, where is your daughter's bus stop?" Felicity asks. "Wait, what?" Riley asks. "Yes, you mentioned it last week in a post, arguing the stop was too close to an intersection. You even attached a photo of the precise location with your daughter in the frame," Felicity says. "That's an inappropriate question; this is not trivia," Riley says. "No, it isn't. All I had to do was tell Ava that her mother, Riley, and father, Steven, wanted me to take her to her grandma, Pat, who lives on St. James Hill. You graciously shared all of this on your public social media account," Felicity says. "What?" Riley cries as she dashes outside to her car. "All I had to tell her was that I was a friend of her mother's and showed her a photo of us together that I edited when you posted a photo of yourself against a green background. You know, you shouldn't post too much about your life on social media; it's like stealing candy from a baby," Felicity says. Now driving about 90 miles per hour down suburban side streets, Riley turns the corner to see an empty bus stop. "You're out, Riley." Felicity says as she disconnects the call.


The Crimson Kisser Killing him will be simple. Too simple. I have nearly completed the job and

James is nowhere to be seen.

Surely he was here tonight. He would never miss a ball knowing that I am here …

Would he?

“Is your head elsewhere?” Charles asks, and I realize it looks to him like I am

gawking. “Only on how handsome you look tonight, I get so lost looking at you” I can see

his ego is growing, almost as much as my patience is waning. But I smile and feign an innocence I know he will like, it will make this whole ordeal much faster so that I may find James.

No.

I must forget James. He is not here, and he would only challenge me, try to stop

me from what I must do. Why would I ever want him here?

“I thought you one of the most beautiful girls on the dance floor tonight.” He

pulls me away again with the compliments I know he does not mean. I did not dance. Y ou’re just like the others I want to say. But I do not, because I never can, so I laugh.

“You flatter me, Your Highness. I do not think I have ever met anyone as

charming as you.” Other than fourteen of your cousins I killed, but you do not need to know that quite yet.

“What do you say we abandon this wretched hallway and go somewhere more

private?” He runs his finger up and down my arm, and that is my cue. I smile a smile that says I have never done such a thing, and nod a nod that says I am eager. Letting him step in front of me so he does not see the knife I pull out of my dress, I try to remember the last time this was so boringly simple.

Goodbye Charles, you never stood a- “Pardon me, Your Highness, how I hate to intrude. However, you are needed in

the ballroom.” I freeze. I freeze because I know that voice, and I cannot tell whether I am happy or angry to hear it.

“Can it not wait, James? I am very clearly busy.” Charles motions to me, and

judging by the impatient look on his face and the annoyance in his voice, I do not think he sees the knife. But to be fair it is past my dress, And they never see past that. “If that is what you want me to tell the Queen, then yes it can wait.” He knows the

last thing I need is more people here, and I know for certain now I am not happy to see him.

“It is alright Your Highness, I will find you later and we can continue our…

conversation.” I smile, and while Charles still looks annoyed, he nods and walks towards the party I had just managed to steal him away from, no longer a simple task when the entire kingdom is after you.

As soon as Charles is out of sight I take off the decorative masquerade mask

covering my face, James follows suit. As he walks closer I see the look of smugness on his face, meaning he can see the rage on mine.

I am angry. Angry because I wished for James. Angry because he thinks he won.

Angry because I failed. “Is anything wrong Crimson?” Crimson. Why James took it upon himself to give

me such a name is beyond me. He is very clearly taunting the name the kingdom gave me, so not much original thought seemed to be put into it. At first I was flattered, delighted even at the possibility that he cared enough about me to give me what my so-called parents never believed I deserved. But hearing him say it now, taunting me with the fact that Charles got away. I am not so sure anymore that I enjoy it.

“What could ever be wrong James? You merely interrupted a quiet conversation.”

I look away, I will not let him think what he did had any real effect on my mission.

“Oh please, like I would believe that The Crimson Kisser herself would ever have

a quiet conversation.” When I turn to face him his arms are crossed and he looks unamused. I can change that. I prefer him to be angry. “I had half a mind to believe you forgot I was the Crimson Kisser James,

considering how comfortable you have gotten with me lately.” And there it is. I watch as his breathing quickens and he bites the skin inside his cheek, and suddenly I am not so angry anymore, just determined. “I will never forget. And I will never be comfortable with you.” The way he says it

pains me, because he says it as if it is true.

But I know James. And I know he would not be so angry with what I said if he

was not just as angry with himself, because my words hold weight. “Then why are you merely standing there? Making no effort to arrest me, or kill

me at that. Could it be because you do not want to?” He looks away, but I can still see the seething. I know I am getting somewhere by taunting, I just do not know if it is good, because there is a reason I have not killed him either.

He must have read my mind, or perhaps I let my face slip, because his expression

changed from anger to some sense of realization, and he turned to fully face me once again.

“And what about you?” No. “What about me?” How idiotic I sound, and he knows it.

“You best me in every fight. Escape every masquerade no matter how hard I try.

And yet, you always leave me alive. Could it be that you do not want to?” I do not reply, because what could I say? I do not want to kill you because I fancy you James, but I killed twelve of your

cousins and your brother, who I also happened to be engaged to. And by the way, I need to kill six more and then you, but what do you say we forget all of that and run away together? I swallow the lump in my throat, hoping my thoughts are not as readable as they

feel. I am not so stupid as to believe we could ever do such a thing, nor so stupid as to believe he would ever want to. I know it was a mistake to allow myself to get so close, but at this moment my only goal is to prolong his life, and I cannot do so if I continue to sabotage my mission just to have a moment with him. I need to get him angrier. Blind him so much so that he attacks, and loses with

minimal damage. Then I will find Charles and finish this, and never again will I give James the time of day to stop me.

And I know just the way to do it. I throw my knife at his feet. He switches his gaze from me to the weapon,

confusion displayed on his features. Please let this succeed. “What are you doing?” He asks, and to be quite honest I am not sure. But if it

works, he can leave alive. “I am turning myself in.” I am calling your bluff and praying your ego takes the

reins. I put both my hands together in front of me, and his facial expression once again changes more to fear than to anger, but I continue regardless. “No you are not.”

“I am. Arrest me if you would like, kill me if you wish to save me from the masses.

But whatever you choose, I will go willingly.” Now I feel him getting angrier, however he has yet to do anything. James has never been one to hesitate.

“Stop this, you are acting a fool.” It seems as though he is talking to my hands

and not me, because he refuses to look up from them, I continue regardless. “I am simply making your life easier James, and all you have to do is accept it.” I

motion to my arms, still held up and together. He finally looks up at me, but I do not see just anger, I see desperation and fear, the type that I feel. I want to stop. I want to lower my hands and close the gap. I want to do something that will stop him from feeling those things, because somehow it hurts more to see them on him than on me. But I know what will hurt worse,

So I continue regardless. “Just do it.” My voice comes out quieter than I need it to, almost a whisper,

lacking the determination I need it to have. This is not how this is supposed to go.

He still looks angry, but I do not think it is because of me. He grabs my wrists,

only it is gentle, and as if he does not truly want to. I underestimated how difficult it would be to leave him this time. But he does not move. He simply stands with my wrists in his hands, as if he is

determining what to do next as much as I am, and he looks at me as if my eyes will give him the answer to what he should do, and I cannot look away. “I think they are down this way.” What? We both turn to the voices, and I know I have only

seconds before they see me. If I am lucky. I look back to him to see he is just as surprised, but I cannot risk it being a lie. For

all I know this is his latest attempt at a trap.

I remove my arms from his grasp and move to grab my knife, but before I can

I feel an arm grab me from behind and pull me further down the hallway. The voices begin to fade, and it takes me a moment to realize that James is saving me.

Why is James saving me?

There is no doubt about it, I feel the urgency in his steps and the desperation in

his grasp. He could have left me. He could have turned me in to the very people he works for. But he did not. I cannot focus on anything now. I am certain that if James was not holding my

arm I would have fallen, because I cannot even comprehend why he is holding my arm. Before I even have more time to think, the voices have gotten louder, and it

occurs to me that James does not know this castle. Luckily I studied its maps, so it is my turn to lead.

“This way.” I step in front of him and make a sharp left, continuing the run until I

see the outline of a door.

Finally. I push it open and we both run in, James slamming the door shut mere moments

before the voices pass the room. I was so preoccupied, they were closer than I thought. And so is James. My back is against the door to keep it shut, and James’ hand is

resting against the door as well. When he catches his breath he looks at me, and I see when he notices how close he is to me, but he does not move.

The only sound filling the quiet room is our breathing, and for a moment I feel as

though I could forget my duties, my consequences, the fact that I was almost caught, because all I can think about is how James has never been this close to my face before, and he has never looked at me this way before, and why is he not moving away?

“I think they are go-” I try to speak, but James cuts me off by kissing me. James is

kissing me. James has never wanted to kiss me before, has he?

His free hand finds the side of my face, so gentle and wanting, I do not know how

I ever thought he could hate me. And suddenly I do not care why he decided to kiss me, because I want this too.

My hands find his neck and his other finds my waist, and I cannot explain it, but

it feels as though he has wanted to kiss me. It feels as though he has wanted this since the moment we met. As if he had to hold it back every second since then and he has finally let it out. I feel it too. I have wanted this, wanted him , for so long that I feared I would never stop wanting for as long as I live.

And now I have it. I have his lips and his hands and his desires. I have everything.

And just when I thought he would pull away, it was as if he could not bring

himself to do so, and he came back to me with more, perhaps because we both know that this room is safe, the same way we both know that this room is not forever, but I do not wish to think about that.

I do not know how I ever thought this could be wrong, nothing feels more right

than him. The way his hands feel, so warm that I swear I could feel them through my dress, and if I could I know they would be soft, but just as wanting as the rest of him. And the way he kisses me, it is not just a longing caused by time, it is a longing caused by me. A longing that tells me he does not care about what I have done, he just cares about who I am, the woman I only let him see.

And then he pulls away, putting his hands on each side of my face. Looking at

him and having him truly look back is almost as good as kissing him. He licks his lips, and I listen to the sound of our breathing slowing down, letting me know it was not just in my head.

I continue to look at him, because I do not know what else to do. There is no way

to leave this room without everything changing, but there is no way to stay.

“Well, this complicates things.” Yes James. More than you know.