The weight of the key that’s laying flat in your palm is surprisingly light. You don’t know what you expected. It’s just a key, to unlock just a door. The old man who gave it to you didn’t question you too bad before he handed it to you. He just made sure you knew what lied behind the door, made certain that you were ready for what the key would unlock. You told him you do know, and you are ready. On the big steel door, placed into the mountain, there is an advertisement for car tire storage. It’s been withered as seasons have come and passed over the years. It’s been there for as long as you can remember, for all of your life really. You push the key into the lock, lingering there as you listen. In the distance you can hear the life of the town coming to an end. Happy drunks stumbling their way home. And some, you suppose, not so happy. Drowning in their sorrows as they try to suppress it. You can hear your pulse thumping in your ears. The closer you get to opening the door, the less certain you are. You don’t know what exactly is behind the door, your mother's old notes didn’t explain the details. You hadn’t lied to the man, he hadn’t asked for details. But your mother’s notes made certain of one thing: At the end of the road, lay hell. For the willing, lay profit. For the sleeper, lay eternal damnation. For the awoken, lay power. You don’t care about power or profit. You aren’t even sure what any of it means. You just hope you're not a sleeper. Eternal damnation never sounds like fun. But you care about your mother. After she went missing you had rummaged through everything that could be a clue. Years of albums and diaries you didn’t want to leave had been neatly placed in boxes in the attic. In the very back you had found a box. Heavily taped to ensure that it was perfectly sealed from the outside world. You had sliced open the tape with a kitchen knife to find notebooks just as neatly stacked as any of the others. On the black notebooks, a symbol in red had been drawn. A triangle, with circles at each corner, all within a larger circle. The texts within were at best nightmare inducing. The worst ones you couldn’t finish. But what you gathered was a delusion of grandeur where humans had been gods, and their domains had been under your very feet. You take a quick look around you. In the dark, on the street down the slope, the old man is still standing. Waiting to see if you’ll do it. No one else is around. So, you turn the key. You have to use your leg drive, and put much of your weight into pulling the thick steel door open. You’re met with a cold gust of air. At any other given time you would have welcomed the fresh breeze to combat the heat. Cherized it fully before it passed. Now, the air sends a chill down your spine. Maybe you should’ve brought a sweater. Maybe you don’t believe that you are a god forced into an illusion by hellspawn. But your mother did - and she believed that the road to power was here. She had been gone for two years. Whatever you would find wouldn't be pleasant, as much as you want to force yourself into a mindset of a reality where there could be a happy ever after. With care you take small steps into the darkness. You pull the steel door to a close before taking out your flashlight from your pocket and turning it on. Just as the old man had told you to do. The room you’re in isn’t huge, but it’s clear that you should’ve brought a bigger, and better, flashlight. It’s dim light isn’t doing much to help you see what’s in front of you. However, what you do see - and you can almost not believe your eyes - is car tires. You walk up to them, in a way almost glad that the advertisement wasn’t a bad lie to hide what lay beneath, and drag your fingers across one of them. You’re not an expert on tires, but these don’t seem to have been used. Much of the dirt you see on your fingers seems to be dust. Your hope dies. Perhaps it is just a bad lie after all. You shine around the room until you find the staircase you’re looking for. You approach it with careful steps, the sound of your steps against the wet floor echoes in your mind. You shine down the staircase. It goes in circles, and your flashlight doesn’t seem to be bright enough to shine all the way down to the bottom. You take a step down, and another, and another. Letting the dull sound of the rubber sole against the metal echo in your mind too. You scan the room a last time to see if there’s anything else. But this is it. This is the way down. The way you’re looking for. You keep going down, carefully placing your feet on the next step, for what must be at least 50 metres down into the ground, just going around and around in a circle. Never ending circles. The further down you get, the colder you get. You definitely should’ve brought a sweater. Until the end does come, waking you from the haze you’ve been in. The room you are in is like nothing you’ve ever seen. It resembles some sort of bomb shelter that you wouldn’t be surprised to see in a mountain like this. But the proportions are off. The scale is massive. Just looking at it you’re guessing you could fit at least a six story building before hitting the ceiling. The width, well, that had to be at least four or five of them next to each other, but you’re not entirely sure, the light isn’t strong enough to reach all the way to the mountain wall. When the awe sets, you notice a dim light on the other side of the massive room. You walk towards it. Every step is wet - amplified by the echoes not in your mind but in the room. As you push forward through the room, you hear a scattering around you. Metal against concrete, closing in on you. You shine around the room as you keep walking and see absolutely nothing - nothing is there, but neither is the wall. You pick up your pace, and so does the scattering. The closer the scattering gets, the faster you go, until you find yourself running towards the dim light. You feel as if the light is getting further and further away. When the concrete turns to gravel, the light almost hits an invisible wall. Unwilling to touch the wet concrete. As soon as you step on the gravel, the scattering stops. You turn around and shine out into the monstrous room. Yet again you see nothing. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. When you look around you, you see that the light is the beginning of a path. The path is all gravel, declining, and slim enough that you doubt two people would fit walking side by side. In the distance, where the path is so dim you can only barely see it from where you stand, you recognize another door. You walk for a minute or two, looking over your shoulder every once in a while. Nothing is ever there, but the burning in your neck from the eyes of the old man staring at you is still there. Just as the chill down your spine never left you either. The decline in the path makes it almost impossible to not notice the deep marks in the ceiling. Five deep and broad marks going from the beginning of the path, to the end of it. You reach for them. You feel the difference in texture between the rough rocky insides of the marks, and the smoothness of the rest of the ceiling. Perhaps they meant to put some sort of electrical wiring there. The tools must not have been right for the job though, the marks are all over the place. The depths vary over seconds of walking and so does the alignment, curving left and right quickly. At the end of the path, another steel door is blocking your path. You take out the key from your pocket, put it into the lock, and try to turn it. You try and you try, in different ways, at different speeds, and it won’t budge. You try to use brute force but it’s a heavy steel door. How could you possibly budge that? You try to see if there’s anything in the lock blocking the key to be used properly but you can’t see anything. Eventually, you have to consider yourself defeated. A deep sigh leaves you as you stare at the door. The old man should’ve mentioned this. Should’ve said what to do when you got here. A last idea comes to you. It’s dumb, it’s mental, but you have nothing to lose. “Fuck it.” you whisper to yourself, as you knock on the door. Three distinct knocks. *CLANK. CLANK CLANK.* When you knock the third and last time, you almost hold your breath, not sure if you want an answer, not sure if you want the door to open. Of course, you think after a couple seconds, there isn’t an answer. Why would there be? ‘ But there has to be *something*. You know it, you feel it. Maybe you missed something on the way down but you’re reluctant to go into the dark room again. And another, more alien, feeling in your gut is making you reluctant to leave the door at all. Like you *have* to continue. Not just for your mother, but because you can’t not. Like a dog tugged on a leash — you will choke yourself on the leash if you try to stray too far. Eventually, you consider yourself defeated by the steel door. You turn around to return to the surface. The second you turn around and start walking, you stop mid-step. On the other end of the path, just where the concrete meets the gravel, you see a slender figure. You can barely breathe as you stare at each other. It’s tall, and where its head ends, shiny spikes of metal begin, pushing into the ceiling. Your pulse begins to thump loudly in your ears, and you feel as if your heart is trying to beat itself out of your ribcage. You back into the door. For the first time you realize *exactly* where you are - in a dead end. The icy cold metal stings against the bare skin of your neck. The figure starts to walk towards you. Heavy steps echo thundersley down the path. The spikes scraping against the concrete ceiling with every long stride it takes. You turn around and try to yank the door open again. Brute force doesn’t work this time either. You look over your shoulder to see the being closing in. You try the key again and it refuses to work. You try, and you try, and you - *fuck*. You break the key. Most of it is stuck in the keyhole, while you’re stuck holding the small handle of it. The heavy steps stop. You drop what little is left of the key to the ground as you force yourself to turn around and look up towards its face. The humanoid features do not fit with anything in this world. Half of its face is covered by what looks like a gasmask. The airtube goes from the mask and straight into its chest. You’re not sure if it is even looking at you. Its eyes aren’t eyes, they’re golden rocks. Its hands, not hands, but claws of rusted metal as sharp as the spikes on its head and shoulders. You soon realize that its entire body is just rock and metal. As it stares at you, you feel how the door pushes against your body towards the creature. The stench coming from the otherside of the door creeps up into your nose and you’re having trouble not gagging. You can’t describe it, it’s a stench you’ve never experienced before. You pull your shirt over your mouth and face even though you know it doesn’t help. As the being pushes past you, into the black behind the door, you realize that it doesn’t seem to care about you. With careful steps you follow it. All around you a low humming echoes, you can’t decide if it’s external or internal. You can barely see your hand in front of you before you remember to turn your flashlight on again. As you do, you gasp for air, gagging on what little you could get. All around you people line the walls, all at various stages of decomposing. You realize what the stench is, and you understand why you haven’t ever encountered it before. It is death in its true form. For a morbid second you look around. You jolt back when the beam of the flashlight lands on eyes staring back at you. They blink, and the mouth opens and close trying to tell you something. They aren’t stuck to the wall by outer force, but rather their own chest opened, ribcage pinned to the side. You are stuck staring, your breathing going into hyperventilation. Their eyes stare beyond you. Before you can force yourself back to reality and to walk away the tall slender being comes from behind you and towards the person on the wall. It sticks one of its metal claws into what is left of their opened chest. Your pace quickens to a run until you find yourself on the other end of the room. You pass through a narrow gap in the mountain wall. On the other end of the gap you find yourself staring out from a cliff. You close your eyes for a second, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. At least that was the plan, but as soon as you fill your lungs up with the death filled air you push it out and everything that is left in your guts on the ground in front of you. You crouch down, holding yourself to the rocky mountainside beside you. The cold sweat running down your forehead comes in waves before you eventually push yourself back to your feet and forward closer towards the edge. The second you comprehend what you see, you are reminded of your mother's notes. *“Over depths, they shall see; In valley below, the price to be free.”* A passage you had written off as mere poetry. In context it made sense to be just that - poetry. In this context though, in which you are standing on the edge of a cliff staring into the abyss below, the sense made different. No. They made different. The words. They different. You shut your eyes hard, and try even harder to gather your thoughts and your words. All the images are etched into your mind, almost as clear behind shut eyes. Your senses all start to seem blurry. Like a light mist over a dewy meadow. But even a light mist can turn into thick fog. It’s not a valley. That much must have been poetry. But it is a cave, and somehow, it’s well lit. You can’t see any lights or fires. On the other end of the cave, staring straight at you, is a giant face carved into the cave wall. Like one of those famous founding fathers. Only it seems to be a woman's face. All around the giant open cave red waterfalls crash into the red rivers, spaced by thin slices of rock. The smell of iron mingles with the stench of death that refuses to leave your nose. In the middle of it all, the rivers turn into a lake with a single, miniature, island in it. It’s less of a lake than it is a moat for the island. A lone person stands on it facing away from you. At least you think they are. You *hope* they are. “Erothoth!” They shout. The shout jolts you back to the now. The deep bass of the voice makes you instantly read it as a man’s voice. “Goddess of many, goddess of all! Divine above all! Countess of the labyrinth! She—” “—who waits below.” you whisper to yourself as the man says it. The words fall effortlessly from your lips. At first you think you must have read it in one of your mother’s old diaries. “At dawn, at dusk. Under bright moon, under dark sun. Mother on earth, mother in abyss. I call upon thee Gaia! Upon thee Erothoth!” You continue to whisper to yourself, speaking the words exactly as the person below does. No, you haven’t *read* it. You’ve *heard* it. It’s an old memory, pushed back so far that it plays in your mind as if from another life. You weren’t allowed in the tiny room with black door except for once. She had told you she needed your help to do something. As she sat down on her knees in front of an old bedside table, the two of you were the same height. You studied her as she said the words, her eyes shut. As she called upon Gaia and called upon Erothoth she opened them, took the knife that lay on the table and asked for your hand. When you hesitated, she grabbed it. She forced you to open your hand, and made a large cut from one end of your palm to the other. You cried for two hours straight, and your mother didn’t care. No matter how hard you cried, or how little air you could get in between sobs. You look down at your palm. It’s faint but you can still see it if you try. The scar running from one end of your palm to the other. Once a passing lover had asked about it, and you replied reluctantly, that you didn’t know, you couldn’t remember. *‘How you could possibly not remember such a big wound?’* They had asked. You replied again that you didn’t know. You weren’t sure why you lied. You could just say the truth, it was a cut. But you lied. You didn’t want to know. You wish you didn’t know. You stare at the man in the middle. He’s still, and after a few seconds he holds a knife raised up and towards the face in the wall. As if he’s waiting for Gaia and Erothoth to hear him. And as if it had read your mind, you see the being from before walk towards the middle from straight beneath the cliff. It crosses the little lake/moat hybrid onto the island with just a step. It blocks the man from your view, but you’re sure, it’s towering over him as it did you. You hear talking but you can’t distinguish the words. A few seconds of talking pass until you hear a crack. You suppose it must be loud, but at this distance it’s no louder than stepping on a crusty leaf. The being walks over the man that has fallen to the ground where he stood. It turns around, and you know perfectly well that it’s looking at you. With every bone in your body you know it. It turns back around and walks towards the face. The closer it gets, the wider the face in the cave wall’s mouth opens. It walks into the darkness of it. You look around you and on the side of the cliff you find a ladder going straight down to the thin slice of cave floor. You climb down it, and make your way to the mouth. You have to jump over the moat onto the island. You kneel down to feel the pulse of the man but it’s gone. He’s gone. You tilt your head to get a better look at his face. He doesn’t look like he’s older than forty. You stand back up and jump over the moat again. The old man had asked you if you knew what was waiting for you down here. You had lied and said yes. You ask yourself the same question again as you approach the opening in the wall, the mouth of the face. You answer yourself honestly, no. And you answer yourself honestly again, yes. Step by step you are being pulled further and further down into the earth. In the back of your mind you know that even if you want to stop, give up and go back home, the feeling that you were being tugged by a leash would live in you forever. Until the day that the thing calling for you, tugging on your leash harder and harder, finds you instead. (A/N: First time posting! read all the rules, but i'm sorry if i missed something.


She waited her turn and looked around at everyone in the crowded hall. Tables littered with bits and bobs were scattered throughout the space, over which experts chatted with patrons about their treasures. Even more owners waited to determine if what they believed to be priceless was instead worthless. A child wailed and screamed somewhere nearby, setting everyone’s nerves on edge during what had already been a long day waiting in lines to get to the check-in desk, then waiting in another line to get into the exposition hall, and then waiting in yet another line to get to a table with an expert. She truly hoped that the trinket she had would be worth all of this hassle. If anyone would know how much money she could gain from this thing it would be the “Ancient Technology Expert'' at the Athenaeum of Antiquery, the finest antique exposition around. Or so the slogan had said on a banner overhead. Finally, the patron in front of her left, after tossing their own priceless artifact into a trash can that was beginning to overflow.

“Can you tell me how much this is worth?” she said as a means of introduction as she carefully unwrapped the newspaper surrounding the box. It cracked apart revealing just how long ago this had been packed up. She flattened the newspaper on the table as little flakes fell to the floor like confetti.

“Hmm. Most likely. Let me see what you have brought and I may be able to help you assess the value it brings,” they replied monotonously, watching as she carefully pulled the object out of its box and placed it on the table. The expert’s eyes widened as they beheld the artifact. They were hesitant about touching it and instead pulled a magnifier out of a pocket and peered closer at it.

“My word.” They breathed almost, but not quite, displaying some emotion. It was a small rectangular object of black glass with a metallic back. It was about 6 inches by 3 inches with buttons along each longer side and various ports along the bottom of the shorter edges. The corners were rounded and showed some wear and tear. The glass front was shattered in places as if it had fallen onto a hard surface some time ago. “I have never seen one of these with my own eyes. They are very rare. This is the Samsnug X33. The last cellular phone made before the Downfall. How did you ever come across such a rare antique?” “Well. My grandfather just passed away a few months ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you,” she replied with the ease of repetition. “In his Last Will and Testament he left his home to me. While I was moving my stuff in I decided to poke around in places that I hadn’t explored before when I was in my youth. In the attic, in one corner behind some old wardrobes and suitcases, I found a box. I guess it had been there a while cause it had a lot of dust on it.

See, this house has been in our family for many many generations. Rumors in our family said we’ve lived there since before the Downfall but I don’t know how much I believe that. So, that house has had a lot of time to accumulate a lot of boxes of trash and junk. Anyway, I dug through this box and found a lot of old stuff. Some tablets, wireless headphones, Guugle Glasses. Seems like my many great grand-something was a hoarder of old things. I threw a lot of it out but at the bottom I found this and I figured why not see how much I could make from it. Might help me pay off some school loans.” The expert nodded, still peering through their monocle unwilling to touch the device.

“How much do you know about the Downfall?” they asked.

She shrugged. “I think I remember a bit from history class.”

“Well, here’s a little history lesson then. These little handheld communicators, or cell phones as they were known back then, were used by all of humanity. It was their primary means of communication as well as their entertainment. It started off innocuous with voice based messaging happening instantaneously between people. This instant messaging then transitioned into text-based messaging which then evolved to pictographs. The people used them to communicate with one another. This occurred on an individual level, with one person speaking with one person and as a sort of mass communication with individuals speaking with communities as a whole. Eventually, individual based messaging, one person to one person, became old-fashioned as humanity became more immersed in mass-based communication.”

The expert finally picked up the X33 turning it this way and that, and watched as the light reflected off of the shattered touch screen front. They pushed a few buttons and seemed to deflate slightly when there was no response from the device. They continued their impromptu lesson.

“Entertainment from the device, too, went through multiple rounds of evolution. Beginning with sound based entertainment, songs and spoken word, then to longer visual and auditory forms called videos. But as human’s attention spans became shorter and shorter the entertainment moved to match, becoming short clips of video. This gave people easy access to sources for fighting boredom. Unfortunately, as humanity became more and more engrossed in this entertainment and mass communication, personal relationships were neglected leading to a severe decline in reproduction. A large amount of unreliable information led to a distrust of each other and their ruling governments which further deteriorated the sense of unity. This led to a population that was on the edge of collapse.” The expert picked up the box that the curio came in and examined it as well, setting aside a small booklet written in an ancient language long forgotten. They pulled a packaging insert out as if looking for something and seemed slightly discouraged to find nothing inside but a dried up sticker. As they put the box back together they kept talking, as if forgetting they were talking aloud.

“Luckily, a few intrepid groups were intelligent enough to foresee the eventual disaster. These people called themselves the Unplugged but are better known as homo sapien martian or Martians. This group saw the disrespect that humanity had not only for themselves but for the planet, as well. They had determined that there was no hope for the future. So they built spaceships capable of traveling reliably back and forth from their home planet, Earth, to the adjacent planet, Mars. It is unknown how, but most modern-day scientists believe they used ancient primitive technology to restart Mars’ inner core. This in turn led to a habitable atmosphere and terraforming. Shipments of a life-saving liquid as well as nutrients sustained the Martians until the planet’s restarted atmosphere was able to create its own. From this new home they watched as the bulk of homo sapien eventually succumbed to its own incompetence and thus the Downfall of humanity.” She yawned as the expert droned on and on. It had been a very long day. She tried to ignore the annoying pop-ups and various notifications that flashed along the edges of her vision. She had never been good at history and this was very much trying her short attention span. Her eyes started to roam to the notifications and she resisted the urge to open her new game, Space Invaders 3000. The expert seemed to come back to reality and notice her growing boredom. “This,” the expert gestured at the X33, “Is one of the last remaining pieces from just before the Downfall.”

“That was very interesting. But might I ask how much it’s worth?”

The Ancient Technology Expert’s eyes lost focus and she could see tiny numbers flash and fly over their corneas as their Eye-Techs ran the calculations. A notification flashed insistently at the edge of her vision as a friend wondered where she was. She closed it with a quick double blink before returning her attention to the expert as the numbers stopped flying by their irises.

“About 3-5 Million Cinches,” they answered deadpan.

She sighed, disappointed. “That’s unfortunate. That will barely even cover my first semester of school. I guess I’ll just pack it back up and store it for another 5,000 years.” She sheepishly reached forward and wrapped her tentacle around the cell phone, careful to keep her claws retracted. She put it back in its manufacturer’s box and bid the expert farewell as they settled back onto their hind legs and retracted their head. She had to dodge many various teeth, tentacles, and gelatinous trails before finally reaching the exit port and into her StarCruiser Nebula. She wrapped both front tentacles around the handles, gunned the engines, and shot away back home to the Pegasus Quadrant.


*“But Dr., wouldn’t you agree that these are quite turbulent times we’re living through? It seems almost arrogant to back the claim that turmoil eludes us in our everyday lives. And what does the social dubbing of the plague have anything to do with its real-world validity?”* *“Sadness is a construct based on our emotional state of mind when it’s faced with unfavorable circumstances. To believe the essence of sadness itself is killing scores of people daily is, laughable at best. While yes, its undeniable to say that the times we find ourselves in aren’t the greatest right now, they’re far from catastrophic. Our nation has endured hell. I see no reason why this time would be any different.”* *“So, your analysis of labeling the sickness that’s killed millions of Americans since February a non-issue and calling the woes burdening our society laughable helps put fifty dollars in a mom’s purse so that she might buy her kid a meal for the night? Granted that the shelves aren’t already empty by the time she gets there.”* *“No, I suppose neither really do help that imaginary mother, much like how your empty words laced with prejudice do nothing to help the so-called freedom fighters somewhere in western Michigan stay warm for the night. But, I’m sure you’re offering more of yourself to the cause behind the scenes.”* *“Excuse me but what the fuck did you just say?”* Chuckling at the venom frothing behind her tongue, cemented digits writhed against the leather-lined steering wheel. Running a palm across the metallic circle with three prongs shooting out in different directions from within, a fingernail slid across the prong shooting to the right. A sharp inhale drove an even quicker exhale from slumbering lungs. With his free hand, he flicked the dial. *“In other news, a massive fire has engulfed most of Missoula’s south side. It’s believed that a large concentration of federal agents were inhabiting a string of hotels and residential complexes hours before the fire’s outbreak. Emergency workers and police alike believe accelerants were used to bolster the blaze as they say it’s reached a point to where any further attempts to extinguish it would be reckless. No such organizations or individuals have claimed responsibility at this time.”* Rolling the toothpick around his mouth, the red hue filling the interior with a cosmic sort of persuasion made his lids feel heavy. It was too late to turn around, back to his apartment. Back the two-hour stretch he came from. Back down the road he knew would never be the same if he ever chose to take it again. Pursed lips took a hit off his vapor stick before restless fingers changed the frequency. *“Large detachments of militiamen belonging to the Sect of Concerned Patriots are gaining ground and advancing through Minneapolis’ East Town. City police and private enforcement personnel are being mercilessly gunned down and tortured as the men make their way towards city hall. The rag-tag band that joined the National Insurrectionist Network since the Texas-Idaho secession late last year have made considerable gains in geographical territory. Claiming all of west and northern Wisconsin, eastern Iowa and northern Illinois, they settled their sights on the land of ten thousand lakes after Governor Malinowski made an announcement pledging that he would stop at nothing to eradicate the organization responsible for toppling Wisconsin state’s government. But as it stands, the governor might soon find himself on the wrong end of a pike if the Sect’s leader is a man of his word.”* A rustling in his oil-stained jeans reminded him of the note that sat at the bottom of his pocket. Imperceptible seconds passed by glossy eyes as his left hand decided to unearth it. While absentmindedly digging, he leaned over the steering wheel and canted his head towards the stars. With his right hand, frigid fingers gave the knob a subtle twist. *“Northern Europe is turning into a black hole at this rate. We have no idea what’s happening behind the militarized wall spanning from Rotterdam to St. Petersburg. The U.S., the French, Germans, Russians. No one’s talking about what they’ve seen in Finland and Norway. Sweden went dark early last week. But, what’s the use? Even if the missions they got assigned to didn’t require the upmost secrecy, I have a feeling most coming back would elect to plead the fifth.”* *“You’re going under the assumption that those going over the wall come back at all. At the rate we’re sending over active duty and even reservists, at a time where our country’s coming apart at the seams, I have a feeling that whatever’s over that wall is kicking our collective asses. I mean, c’mon! For Christ’s fucking sake! Every country involved has some serious firepower at their disposal. Us and the Russians have enough ordnance to send the Nordic states swirling to the depths of the North Sea. What the fuck’s going on over there?”* He could hear the unbridled fear riddling the talk show host’s vocals as he examined the many dimples dotting the moon’s face. Try as he might, as much as his slowed breathing and sluggish pulse would allow inside a seventy-two degree driver's seat, the icy chill of fear scraped the bottom of his throat as its tip skated past the top of his heart. *“If you feel depressed, overly tired, lethargic, anxious, suicidal or unlike yourself, seek help immediately. These are all major symptoms of the sickness. If possible, remove yourself from the surrounding area entirely. There’s a strong correlation between a wide onset of symptoms and a localized area. If you know of those suffering from the illness are close to your place of residence, consider moving to another location immediately. Whatever you do, do not fall asleep in or near the area where your symptoms are worst. Do not wander out at night. Lock your doors. Do not go out after dark. For any reason. Shelter in place. Stay tuned to your local radio stations and listen to military and law enforcement personnel.”* The paper. The note. Where was it? *“Somethin’ else is goin on here, Jack. This don’t make no fuckin sense. Sadness doesn’t kill people. They do it themselves, sure! But, not the sadness itself. I get it. You could be a sad sack of shit in bed for a month and eventually rot away. But this? This is…have you heard of the reports people are posting on their socials? It’s fuckin horrid! Fuckin…its fuckin inhuman. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t care what you think about the insurrectionists. Nobody could do this to another human being. But the bigger question I have is, why are the cops burning every house and building they find victims in come daybreak?”* Rabid fingers now dug for the slip of parchment that had given him the peace of mind necessary to keep his foot on the gas of the burgundy sedan. Yet it continued to be just out of reach. *“Do you believe our country can survive in the state that it’s in? is there any hope of recovering the union?”* *“No, I can’t say with any confidence that there is. The D.o.D. is deliberating whether or not to nuke New Orleans. The U.S. Government doesn’t exist west of the Rockies. Whatever branches of military not deployed in Europe have either resigned, join the insurrectionists or become disconnected with Washington. This…Sad Flu has killed millions in less than half a year, and we can’t figure it out. Insurrection or government territory be damned. This plague doesn’t seem to take sides. Some have figured out that their differences need to be put aside to beat this. Or else, there won’t be anything left to claim after the dust has settled.”* *“What exactly do you think ‘this’ is? You don’t think…?”* *“What I think has no bearing on reality. And the reality of it all is that, we should do what we can to help one another, to do whatever we need to in order to survive, to see the light of a new dawn.”* Hope flashed beneath his pupils as crumpled paper graced his pointer tip. Inhaling another puff, he moved the dial. *“…Tom, we’re getting word of more reported cases emerging out of Baltimore’s Middle East neighborhood. Our sources on the ground have stated witnessing an entire block of residential dwellings being condemned by city police almost overnight. They’re also telling us some more…troubling developments. Can you shed some light on this?”* *“Kelly, hurry the fuck up! They’re gonna see us!”* *“Hey Tom, watch the language if you could. We’re live.”* *“Stacie! Shit. We’re…Kelly hand me the fuckin camera and get over the fence!”* *“Uhm…Tom, are you close to the site? What’s going on? Why are you breathing so heavily?”* *“Stacie! We had to ditch the cops! Police tape cordoned off the block of buildings Trevor tipped us off to. We didn’t believe it at first when he told us all he heard. But when we got closer, the cops saw our camera and a few of them chased after us. I think we lost ‘em. We’re behind the buildings now. Oh God, the fuck’s that smell!”* *“Tom, take a breath and quick cursing, I told you we’re live. Just calm down for a second.”* *“Oh my fuck, that’s foul. I can’t even breathe. Holy…Kelly! You dumb bitch! I swear to God if you don’t get your shit together right this second!”* *“Tom!”* *“Right there, zoom in right there! What…what the fuck is that? Oh my…no. No, I don’t…it can’t be a body! It can’t be! It’s way too skinny. Yes, I know those look like arms! l…it’s way too…why the fuck is it so grey? What the…no…no it can’t…”* *“Tom, what is going on? You need to talk to us. What are you seeing? The up-link on Kelly’s camera isn’t working.”* *“Are those bite marks? No, right there, underneath it’s tit. Is that a tit? Look right there, to the right of the nipple. Yeah, can you zoom in that far? Looks like a tiny bite from a shark. See how the skin’s all puckered around the bite while the rest is fine? The fuck is going on. Let’s get a closer look.”* *“Bite marks? Tom, what are you seeing? Can you hear me?”* *Holy shit…nuh…hughah…no…no…”* *“Tom!”* *“They’re all dead.


The bass of the music echoed around the club as if to trap the people in it with its sound of heavy oompf-oompf overlayed with a rap verse that consisted entirely of cuss words and a detailed description of women shaking their buttocks. Women clad in stringy bikinis and opaque teddies tramped up and down the walkway, some finding a seat on laps of leery men and some convincing over-eager twenty-something year olds to celebrate their bachelor party in the club's most costly, private VIP rooms. Podiums with erect poles were set up as strippers with the grace of gymnasts slid up and down displaying parlor tricks to the men and an occasional couple stopping by to enjoy the show. Amidst the adulterous pandemonium, a singular club worker donned in nothing but a lacy bra and thong and thigh-high boots stood awkwardly against the bar clinging to a half full bottle of beer. Although she had taken on the name 'Wildcat' as her club alias, her demeanor and appearance suggested she was nothing but. Men's gaze skipped over her as they searched for suitable companions for the night. Granted, since she had her first child, she had stopped paying attention to her features, letting her ginger curls grow out to a frizz, lack of skincare and post-partum hormones causing breakouts on her face and the growth of a pooch, resembling a fanny pack extruding over the front of her G-string. But even before her pregnancy and younger years, she had never experienced the attention of males as her peers have. She had stood by and watched as her classmates got picked off by pubescent boys for Valentines' Day and formals, when her mother paraded around the house with multiple boyfriends before finally settling on her step-father, as her best friend came to her with boy problems and getting ready for dates. "You still think you're cut for this job, hon?" Timmy, the bartender quipped behind her, "it's 12 am, peak hour and you've been standing there since opening." Wildcat turned to face the aging, flamboyant man. "I'm trying," she said, sheepishly, "it's just not my night." "Honey, this entire month hasn't been your night." He paused as if carefully choosing his words. "If this keeps up, the boss might let you go," he said gently. Wildcat felt a surge of annoyance. He was one to talk. Timmy in his 40s with visible wrinkles and crow's feet, trying to distract people from them by wearing eyeliner, sagging breasts protruding behind his constricting wifebeater. Who was he to judge her? Who was he to offer her remarks? But at the end of the night, even plain old Timmy would go home to his partner of ten years, cuddle under the sheets until his partner wakes up for his office job and kiss him goodbye. He still enjoyed the luxuries of affection, intimacy  and romance. Timmy watched as Wildcat's facial expressions turned helpless. "Here." He placed two shot glasses on the bar in front of her and poured Grey Goose into them. "Liquid confidence. Finish that beer and these, let them work their magic and go work!" Wildcat gave him a smile of appreciation before chugging her drinks. She turned back to the club and scanned its horizons for a viable target. The shots burned through her insides but gave her the incentive to go up to a lone boy who looked as though he had just turned 18 gawking at the club's sought after stripper, 'Aphrodite', who was having her turn at the poles. "Hey there mister," she purred seductively, or tried to, tapping on his shoulder. "You look like you want some company." Reluctantly, he pried his eyes off 'Aphrodite'. Wildcat tried to ignore the disappointment in his face when he saw her. "U-um," he stuttered, "N-no tha-" "50 for a lap dance," she cut through before he got the chance, "40 because you're so handsome. What about it? I'll give you something you'll never forget." The boy looked at a loss for words. He looked as if he was considering her offer but not because he wanted to. She almost felt sorry for him at that moment. The moment dissipated quickly when a group of frat boys threw themselves on him, laughing. "Bro, guess what?" one of them slurred distastefully, "I got you 'Aphrodite', she's the goddess of love. And she really wants to show you some love at the back." He made lewd gestures with his fist and his tongue poking behind his cheek. "Happy birthday, virgin!" He caught a glimpse of Wildcat, standing in front of them. "Don't bother with this one. I got you something better!" He swung his arm around the boy's shoulder pulling him to the direction of the private rooms trailing after Aphrodite. Exasperated, Wildcat turned her attention to the rest of the crowd. It's okay , she told herself, it's just one customer. There's a whole lot more. Her eyes settled on a much older man, who looked like he was the same age as her step-father, drinking his beer alone at a table. She plastered on the fakest smile she could muster and stomped over to him. "Hiya, handsome," she greeted and plopped herself on the chair next to him. "You wanna know why they call me Wildcat-" "Sorry darl," he cut in, "Got a missus back home. Only here for the boys, don't mean to waste your time." He tipped his bottle to a group of graying men three feet away flocked around a dancer grinding her crotch on one of them. "Oh, okay.." She slinked away, defeated. She hesitantly made her way back to Timmy who raised his eyebrows questionably at her. "I don't think the drinks worked that much," she explained, looking down. "Girl," Timmy sighed, "I need you to hear some cold hard truth." "It's been a month since you joined us. As much as I love you and your company, the only thing the boss cares about is how much money each of us is bringing in. Now I'm not sure why you chose this profession, I do know there's a little one at home you're providing for. But so are half the girls here." He swung his arms at the dancers nearby. "We do what we need to do to take care of the people we love. I say this because," he lowered his voice, "the boss might have mentioned you, ' the new girl ', not bringing in any money at all from customers despite the wage he's paying you. Girl, if you're not cut for this, you might have to explore other jobs." Wildcat felt her heart rate pulse. "Can you pour me a shot?" she asked, quietly. He looked at her deeply before succumbing to her request. She downed the shot straight away. "Another please." Timmy complied. She emptied its contents. "Another." He poured the drink. She drank it. "Another." "Michelle-" Timmy started. "That's not my name!" she blurted, "It's Wildcat! Wildcat . Another shot please, bartender !" Timmy sighs. "How much more do you want? Let's get this over with, I've got customers to serve, unlike some people." "Five! There! Is that so fucking hard? All you do is pour drinks." Wildcat was seething. Timmy lined up the drinks and stormed to the other end of the bar. "You're forty, working at a strip club!" she yelled after him. Several customers turned to see the commotion but averted their attention back to the dancers immediately. Wildcat wondered why she was unable to capture men's attention like other women could. She was not the best looking but she wasn't ugly either, just a little below average. She had witnessed girls much more homely get married to loving husbands. She finished the drinks Timmy had lined up for her. It's that bastard, Gerome's fault , she said to herself. Selfish prick saying I took advantage of him while he was wasted, saying he'd never do that to my mom, saying our baby's not his? He's the reason I have to resort to this, she told herself. I had no other choice, acting like he didn't even want me in the first place. She stumbled shakingly over to a group of men who already had girls on their laps. They stopped and looked at her startled. "Hey cuties," she slurred, "I bet I can show you a better time than these bitches." One of the dancers looked at her with disgust. "Michelle, are you drunk?" "Shut the fuck up." She turned to a customer walking by next to her, throwing her arms around him. "You want to take me to a room, baby?" she pursed her lips, leaning to kiss him. "Woah woah," he interjected, laughing uncomfortably. He pushed her head back lightly, "I think I'll pass." She took a few steps back, fazed. "Why not?" she screeched at him, " WHY NOT? " "This bitch is crazy," she heard him mutter as he disappeared off. She spun around to customers staring at her. They're looking , she thought gleefully, they're finally looking at me. "Which one of you boys want to take me to the rooms?" she yelled. She watched as some of them shake their heads with disapproval, others started laughing and chuckling to their friends. Boys only want one thing , her mother had told her when she had come back from school one morning bawling her eyes out when her life-long crush had rejected her. She had heeded that advice, walked into Gerome, her step-dad's room while he was barely conscious to give him what he wanted, what all men wanted. She unclasped her bra and pulled down her thong. Several of the girls gasped at the new improvement. She could make out Timmy's face in between the crowd. "Get security," she heard him mumble to a dancer nearby. Boys only want one thing, don't they, mommy? Then you cut me off for doing exactly that? "Come get me, boys," she juggled her breasts between her hands. "Free of charge! I'm free!" "Okay, little lady, that's enough," a voice came from behind her. A burly man grabbed her arm. "Time to go home." She pulled her arm back to slap him but missed and fell to her knees. "They call me Wildcat, 'cause I'm wild!" she exclaimed, still on the ground, waving her arms above her head. She felt an arm around her waist, pulling her up. The security groaned under his breath, realizing her weight. Regardless, he began pulling her away. "No, stop!" she screamed, kicking her legs up as she was dragged towards the exit, "they want me! They want me!" She was still screaming as the customers looked on her being removed. "They want me! I'm free!" "I'M FREE!"


The book was stirring up memories of long ago. I hardly ever thought about it these days, but reading this book was bringing it all back again – the words seemed to talk to me and awaken my senses – allowing me to feel and smell and see everything that had gone on around me all those years ago. I didn’t usually read history books or as my friend puts it ‘deep’ books that just make you feel morbid and unhappy! I disagreed with that but could see what she meant about the ‘morbid’ feeling, although I would say melancholy and pensive – but Gloria always was a drama queen. Strictly speaking this wasn’t a book about war that I was reading but of a love story set in the time of WW2. Thankfully there wasn’t too much written about the death and destruction that took place on the battlefields but more the relationship of two people with the war going on around them, in the background so to speak. The girl in this story was so in love, just as I was. She was young and I was a bit older than she was, not much. She was one of the lucky ones whose fiancée came back to her whereas I lost my true love. He went off to the war and never came back. But that was a long time ago. I’ve been through another two loves since then, two husbands, and both of them predeceasing me – would make a good murder mystery story I expect, if it wasn’t for the fact that they both died of natural causes! The heroine of the story I was reading was from a middle class family and living in the countryside of Devon, unlike me, who at the time was from the poorer side of town and living on the outskirts of London. Her life was about to be torn apart because the love of her life had enlisted to join the army and would soon be leaving her. I could actually feel the knot in her stomach and see the perspiration on her soft pale brow as he told her. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want you to die fighting the enemy. Do you have to go? Please don’t go.” she begged him, tears sliding down her ashen cheeks. “Of course I have to go my love” the enthusiastic young man whispered to her, “But I will be back and then we can get married. It will be alright and the war might not last that long anyway. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be ok” and he imagined what it would be like when he got there – how the enemy succumbed under attack from the mighty British soldiers. Their strength and agility too much for the German’s – he and his mates would come out the victors from the battle, laughing and hugging each other, exhausted but exhilarated. He had it all wrong. It didn’t happen like that. The tattered and torn letters that Brenda received from Jeremy on occasion told it differently. The enemy was relentless. The continual sleepless nights in cold deep muddy trenches, the incessant noise of gunfire and planes flying overhead, and the waiting, the long hours of waiting for orders to leave the shelter of the trenches to march, shaking with fear towards what could be your last day on earth. He never glorified the war; he didn’t want to be there. In his letters he spoke of his love for Brenda and what the future held if he did get back one day. He would never promise to come back, he couldn’t and they both knew it. And he didn’t come back. He got killed three months after arriving. All Brenda had to remind herself of the man she loved was the St. Christopher he wore around his neck and a letter he had written but not sent to her. She used to get the letter out and read it each day. But it got too painful to look at the dirt smudged papers, reading the thoughts he had while waiting scared in the trenches. She stopped after a while and put the letter in a plastic bag, high up on the top shelf of the attic. As the years passed by Brenda didn’t think of Jeremy as often as she used to, and she met someone else. The letter just sits in the plastic bag, but this story was reminding her of how she felt all those years ago. Brenda put the book down and sat with her hands in her lap, thinking of the people who used to live in her street, a lot of them long gone, most really, and those that were still here were either in a nursing home or couldn’t remember much anyway. She was one of the lucky ones, who for her very advanced years had a good memory. She always told people that she put it down to never having a drink and eating oats every day for breakfast! She doesn’t know if she really believed that though. Mr. Swindon was still around – he lived independently, but after talking to him last week, Brenda thought that it wouldn’t be too long before he had to be looked after. Many years ago he ran the post office not far from where she used to live and was a really cheerful man, always willing to help out if needed. Brenda would go in to send her letters to Jeremy and he would tease her about how sweet the envelope smelled from the perfume she had sprayed on it! He changed a bit thought when his brother got killed during the war. It was his only sibling and he felt guilty that because he was very deaf in one ear and colour blind he didn’t have to enlist. He remained a kind and helpful man but always slightly melancholy. He never married, saying that as Brenda was taken, it was no good looking any further! The only other people who were around at the time of the war and still here were Mr and Mrs Neilson, who were both in the dementia section of a nursing home. They didn’t even know who each other was any more. Their memories of the war and Mr Neilson coming back severely maimed after being shot down by German fighter jets were long gone. Brenda remembered how the neighbours would take turns in looking after some of the Neilson’s eight children while Mrs Neilson visited her husband in hospital each day and then when he came home to recuperate they would rally around to make some food for the family from the rations they all got. That’s when kind Mr. Swindon would talk his cousin into giving him an extra couple of coupons for the Neilson family to get some added butter and bacon. Brenda sighed and opened up the book again. She could relate to the girl in the story worrying, day in and day out about the men at war. She envisioned each time a couple of ranked officers marched up to a door, knocked and stood back, waiting to give the household bad news about a loved one far away and fighting for their country, and the feeling of relief when they got back into their army vehicle and drove off, not having to go to another house. She would shut her front door and cry a few tears in relief. Sometimes if the person lived very close you could hear the wailing of the parents or other family members in disbelief that they would never see their loved one again. Then on a very cold winter’s day in October, it was her turn. Brenda was at work when the knock at the door came - as soon as she saw her mother’s pale face at the office door, she knew. Something in the look on her mother’s face told her, suddenly filling her with a feeling of dread and anxiety and taking her breath away, and she silently mouthed the words that wouldn’t come out. Jeremy died on the front line, rifle in his hand. Most of the platoon died that day – young men with their whole lives in front of them. Their bodies were buried where they died and marked with their own bayonet. Many years later some of the bodies were exhumed – the ones found, and buried with dignity and love. Jeremy was eventually buried in the local church cemetery. After going to visit the burial site, taking flowers and just sitting and thinking for many years, it stopped and Brenda’s life moved on. “Oh I feel so tired” said Brenda to herself, shutting her book and putting it on the table next to her. “I’ll just have forty winks and then get up to do something” she mumbled as her eyes began to shut and she started to doze off. In her dream she was back on the day that the war was officially declared over. Brenda and her two best friends raced out, disbelieving, from the building where they had been working voluntarily putting together parcels for the soldiers at war. “It’s over, the war is over, we’ve defeated them” a group of boys had raced in shouting at the top of their lungs. Everyone downed whatever it was they were doing and ran outside. The air rang with the sound of people singing, loudly declaring “There’ll always be an England”. Groups of friends had all joined hands and were jumping up and down and laughing. The air around was saturated with elation and relief – the six years of hell were over. Shouts of “Let’s get the tube into London” could be heard as people raced to jump on the tube and get to the heart of a country that had been smashed to a pulp by the German bombings. It seemed as if everyone had come out to celebrate! The street was jam-packed, children had come home from school and stood with their families, laughing, joking and hugging each other tightly. Brenda told her friends to go on before her on the tube as she wanted to go home to find her parents and share the joy with them. Her elation that she shared with her mum and dad was diminished by the realization that she wouldn’t get to spend the warless years, the future, without the fear of bombs and death with the love of her life. The fact that Jeremy gave up his life so they could all enjoy this moment in time, didn’t seem fair. She sat on the front step, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder and cried, sobbed for all that could have been for her and Jeremy and never would be. Brenda woke suddenly and sat up in her chair. She wiped away tears from her eyes and off her cheeks, and then she remembered the dream. Feeling all of her age she struggled to get up and off the seat but eventually walked into the kitchen. She had picked up the book on her way through and put it in the bin. ‘That’s enough of that book. I need to brighten up! No more thinking of the past for me – I intend to enjoy whatever future I have left’.


The breaths I take are short and shallow, like the desperate gasping of a grounded fish. As the room in front of me sinks in and out of focus, threatening to tilt and spill me onto the floor, I slide down the wall at my back and allow my blood-slicked hands to rest in my lap. The fire below has warmed the floor to a pleasant temperature, the kind that you feel on clear summer days. Across the room, smoke starts to creep under the door, trending up into the air to gather against the ceiling. The fire would follow. I close my eyes for a moment, listening intently to my slowing heartbeat. It’s gotten so terribly slow. I start violently when the phone in my pocket buzzes, groping for it without bothering to open my eyes. I flip it open and speak, my voice hoarse and breathy. “Yes?" There’s a moment’s pause, and then a familiar voice replies, exhausted but still pleased. “Thank God, I thought you wouldn’t pick up. We’re on the plane, Marcus. I’ve got my sister." There's a small commotion that I can't hear, and then the voice again. "If you catch the next flight, we'll be able to get on international together. How long until you reach the airport?" His words make my heart throb in my chest, and I suddenly feel my lips tremble. I take a short, steadying breath, and it catches in my chest, my lungs protesting the effort. I answer softly. “I won’t be making it, Rick.” There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, I hear the denial in his voice. “What do you mean?" I chuckle into the receiver, closing my eyes as the smell of the smoke reaches my nose. “You know perfectly well what I mean.” Another pause, and this time I hear Chris in the background. There’s a moment of silence from my partner, and when he speaks, his voice is trembling, “What happened? What’s gone wrong? Are you captured?” I shake my head before murmuring, “Things just went a little haywire for a moment is all. But I’ve assured that you guys are safe. No one will ever try to hunt you down from this side." “Marc-” There’s a series of odd sounds through the receiver, and then Chris’s voice is on the line, frantic, “Marcus? What's going on?” My voice instinctively adopts a tender tone, “Things on my side just… took a bit of a turn. But I want you to know that you’re safe. I destroyed all of the files on you two.” There’s a sharp sound. She had dropped the phone, and it takes her a moment to retrieve it. “Really? How? Why aren’t you coming?” I smile to myself and allow her time to figure it out herself. She hesitates. I can hear it in her silence. She knows exactly what’s going on and simply doesn’t want to accept it. “You’re going to die, aren’t you?” Her voice is broken and sad, and it pains me to hear it. “Yes.” Another silence. "How soon?" The crackling of the flames below me has become almost deafening, and the sweat pouring from my body could qualify the room as a sauna. The air tastes burned, and the feeling of it ripping through my airways makes me cough violently. I'm barely able to summon the strength to speak. "Very." She sobs. "I'm so sorry, Marcus." "Don't be. I dragged...you kids in." My next words are a weak murmur, my energy becoming scarce. “Put Rick on, please.” There’s a second of silence as the switch is made, and then Rick speaks, his voice subdued, “Any last orders, boss?” My lips twitch in an attempt at a smile, but I lack the energy to complete it. I listen to the fire crackle outside the door, taunting me with it's never-ending noise. “Just…one.” It takes a lot of effort to say each syllable. I pause to take a breath, and I find it nearly impossible to draw air into my lungs. I’m running out of time. I take as much oxygen as I can before saying, “When…you land…I want you to… go back... to your wife and daughters. Live…a proper life.” I go to take another breath, but I end up choking on it and coughing violently. I peel my eyes open just a bit to see that the air around me has turned gray and thick, encasing me in a world of smoke. I take a moment to gather myself, breathing heavily, my lips only trembling a little bit as my heart clenches. “But don’t...forget me...okay?” There’s a lengthy pause before he speaks, his voice cracking in a manner much like my own. “I won’t.” My lips tighten and I feel tears collect in my eyes. I whisper hoarsely, the tears spilling down my cheeks, “Thank you.” I push the end call button with the last of my energy. My arm drops and the phone clatters across the floor. I feel my head tilting to the side, and in the time that it takes to blink, the rest of my body follows, the contact my skull makes with the floor feeling cushioned and far away. Slowly, the sounds of the crumbling building and the snapping flames fade away. Then, with the gentleness of silk, the warmth recedes, leaving a cold chill in its place, deeply set and unforgiving. My last breath falters in my chest, my consciousness fighting for just one more second, like a candle flickering in the wind. A soft exhale is all it takes to snuff it out.


There was a sound from the attic next door. It was an indescribably unusual sound. I stared at the neighbor’s door. I heard the sound again. It was a loud sound. So I tip-toed to the door, not fast, but steadily. AAAW, Bang, Bang, AAAW . . . aaaw . . . u. Then I heard no more noise. 5 minutes later I see a big box of ice and a man walk out the house. He was wearing skinny jeans, Adidas socks, and an Adidas shirt. On top of that he had a coat, it was a fancy coat with gold stripes but rain proof. It was an old looking leather coat, with modern technology; they waterproofed it. It looked like my best friend’s coat, but I was not sure. I do not know how he carried it. He was a strong man. I could not have carried the box of ice, not even to have saved my life. I had on underwear, ankle socks, and Ultraboost shoes. I was shivering, clacking my teeth, and I could see my breath. My hair was getting wet, my shoes got soaked, and my clothes were doused. I packed a gun, an umbrella, and got into the 2021 Ram 1500. At that point we were in Atlanta, GA, on a Saturday. I glanced at the guy in the other car. Their phone's directions were going to Little Tybee, GA. I went the opposite way to Tybee. I took the back roads, he took the highway. The back roads were bumpy, irregular, uneven, potholed, pitted, lumpy, stony, and rocky. I was getting very sick. I had a headache. Not only were the roads horrible but they started getting dusty. Now I snot was coming out of my nose and my head was bulging. I tried to put it on the air recirculation but dust was still coming through. I was also messing up my new shiny truck. I guess trucks are supposed to get dirty. On the way I saw an electronic billboard that said there is a $25,000 dollar reward (un-taxed!!!) if you find the guy with a 30078W license plate. When I arrived at Little Tybee, Savannah, GA. I saw a guy, it was the same guy. The guy had changed clothes. He was in a swimming suit when the sky ‘came orange, bright, and yellow. It was the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen and 83 degrees Fahrenheit in Little Tybee, GA. That was a huge change from the weather in Atlanta, GA His swim suit was jet black, with yellow and orange stripes. I do not know why he had stripes on his shirt if he did not want to be caught. He got out of the car with a human sized box of ice. The box was clear and he pulled it out with ease. I still wonder how people can be that strong. He goes to the ocean and dumps the ice in the ocean. Then I see blood, blood pulling out of a source; it was like an ocean of blood. “It is a human”, I say. I called a police officer. They came on their way. Once he saw the police he quietly got in the ocean and swam away. The police and I saw the body. I say, “ That looks like it could be my best friend.” We picked him out of the water into the boat. The motor went bump … bump … chchchchchch and the boat went to a stop. The police officers started cursing and complaning because they were on call. So I jumped into the ocean and got him from behind. I do not even know how I got a man so strong. He cursed me out for a solid 25 seconds. I got so mad, and when I mad people get hurt, and I am never mad. He could barely move after what I did to the person. A police officer threw me a rope and I pulled him to the boat. The police found a gas container in the boat. I almost cursed the police officers too. My shoes were wet, while 25,000 dollars were being added to my name. I guess I should be happy. Then I kicked the guy in the gut hard while punching him in the face. It looked like I was a black belt in Israel, even the police officers thought I took Krav Maga. I mumbled to him Fu*k you criminal. We put handcuffs on him and went back to shore. Luckily I had new clothes in my car other than underwear and socks, sadly no shoes, so my shoes were wet. We looked in the suspects car. I saw the owner of the coat; I started weeping, and weeping, and weeping. I was a single child, an orphan with no family; so I was devastated when my best friend died. My best friend was also an orphan but they became a millionaire. He was so much smarter than me. When we walked farther to sit down, there was the MSNBC news crew there. I told them what happened. Now it was 103 degrees Fahrenheit and 12:30 in the afternoon. It was scorching out there. Ev’rybody was complaining ‘bout the heat. A guy came in and gave me a flight to D.C. from the Airport in Savannah. The weather was so nice in The District of Columbia. It was 81 degrees for the high, and 68 for the low. The next day I got the President’s Award for Distinguished Federal Civilian Service Award and $25,000 (un-taxed!!!). I was crying on stage because of my friend’s death. The president was very nice; I even had a 3 hour conversation with him. After I met the president I went back to Atlanta. I turned on the news; the criminal got the death sentence.

The very next day, someone came to my door and told me to go to a huge government building. It was nice and fancy. When I walked in people talked to me then I was handed a check. It had my best friend's name on it. It was for $907,977,162.96. I know he masked his riches, but no one thought he was almost a billionaire. Plus I got their house, and 78 Amazon stocks, and 67 apple stocks, and 18 Zoom stocks. That was the best 2 day of my life, and the worst 2 days of my life. Now I live in a 8 bedroom home in New York and have 7 other houses; 3 in GA, one CA, one London, Main Tybee Island, The District of Columbia. My friend was the nicest guy. I met him in foster care. We got adopted by the same mom. We went to church every morning together. I feel so bad whenever I think about my brother. He did not even know Zoom stock could get so high. Now I am worth 9.78 billion and a national hero when my poor friend really deserved it all and more.


Begin Log 1: Well um, I don't really know why I'm doing this though here I am. But this is what he told me to do for a while, I think he said it was to remember the plan or something? I don't know, my memory is terrible. I don't even remember the plan, to be honest...I think that's why he decided to do all this so I check up on everything. I guess he knows that my memory is terrible as well, but that's beside the point. It's been about...um...I think two or so weeks since the whole thing had happened. He never explained exactly everything to me, but he gave me the basics of what happened. Why would someone do any of that? I remember a part of the plan that he had told me, but um, I don't really think that it'll work... End log ~~~ Begin Log 2: Hello there, it's Ash. I know someone may be listening to these tapes now and wanting to understand what's going on. The person that you heard in the last Log was another one of my friends, Calla. I'm not exactly sure who would be listening to any of this though, maybe we actually got her and handed the tapes over to the Police? If so, Hah! I told you I wasn't lying about what she did. Uh...anyway, our plan is going to happen real soon, I've actually seen her at the school and other places since it happened. I bet she thinks that we don't know, maybe she'll come then. It's been a few weeks since it happened though...I don't understand why she had decided to get rid of Vivian. Maybe we could get her to confess once we get her. End Log ~~~ Begin Log 3: Uh, Hello there again. I don't really understand why he's making the both of us do this, why couldn't he just explain to me in person? I'm sure he could have written it down as well, but I guess that's not important right now. I never actually met...her, but I did end up meeting Vivian a little while before her death. She seemed alright but I guess I could see why some people didn't like her. She uh...was like a cliche popular girl. I had gone around the school and other places to see what people thought about her, someone else said that not me. I believe the exact words were "She's like a cliche popular girl or something, does everything need to have one?" Well um, I guess I could sort of agree with that person in a way. But anyway, he told me a little while ago that the plan was getting closer and that I needed to be ready. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do, what if something bad happens? End Log ~~~ Begin Log 4: I was finally able to actually come up with what exactly the plan would be, it took me a while but I finally managed to do it. We're inviting some of my friends along with some of Calla's friends to my place. I didn't want to invite just Ivy, because then I think she'd start to get a bit suspicious and then leave. Who knows what would happen if she escaped? Uh, probably something terrible to be honest. I don't want her killing anyone else. While the "Cookie Exchange" or whatever it's called would be happening downstairs, I plan to bring her upstairs with me while Calla calls the Cops. I'll make sure to lock the doors or something, that way we don't lose her before the cops get there. Who knows though, maybe I could even get a recording of her confessing so that there's a lot more proof for it. I don't understand why nobody was believing me at first... End Log ~~~ Begin Log 5: Can I be completely honest with you? I can't tell Ash about it and I hope he doesn't listen to this tape, so uh...yeah. Anyway, It's just kind of about this whole plan he has. While his plan seems really good and I do kind of think that she would show up, after all, she seems to think that we don't know what she did. She's even been hanging out with us at the school sometimes. I have a feeling though that uh...that she uh...what was I gonna say again? Damn it, right when I was getting to the important part of this stupid thing. End Log ~~~ Begin Log 6: Sorry about that to anyone who has this at the moment, though I guess the good news is that I actually remembered the stuff now. Anyway, as I was saying...Ivy might just find a way out to escape. She had somehow managed to escape Ash's place after killing her quite quickly, at least that's what he told me. He never got a glance of her leaving or anything like that, maybe it was because you were inside and doing a lot of things, Ash. Though either way, she's still probably a bit smart and could possibly find her way out before the cops would get here. What if she gets rid of me and Ash and then jumps out the window? What if she has to go to the bathroom and goes down the toilet somehow? There's a lot of things that could happen...oh gosh I don't wanna die. End Log ~~~ Begin Log 7: I'm keeping this one short and simple I guess, the Cookie Exchange is going to happen in a couple of hours. All of the guests have agreed to come and they're also going to be helping. The good news about this is that Ivy is going to come as well a bit earlier than the rest. She sent me a text this morning saying, "Sure! I think it would be fun, and we haven't done anything together in a while." There's probably going to be a final log from me or Calla after the whole thing is over, I'm not sure exactly what we'll do after we get her. Maybe just relax for a while, I think we deserve it. Or maybe a Log from her actually... End Log ~~~ Begin Log 8: Damn it, neither of you have to do any of this you know! You could just let me go free and not call the cops or anything like that, it could be our little secret. How does that sound? Oh really, You want me to say it? Damn it. Fine, you all want to hear it? I killed that idiotic popular girl a few weeks ago. She really deserved it. I don't regret anything of what I did that day you, idiot, like I said she deserved it and I don't care what happens. I was able to get my sweet- End Log


(WP) Stasis The seasons didn’t change anymore; in fact, they hadn’t had a real season in years. Now, we were stuck in the strange limbo of winter and spring. The land had been ravaged, the plants and animals were enchanted into a deep and unnatural sleep. No one knew what caused it, exactly, but that didn’t stop the rumor mill from going on and on. Some said that it was a dangerous, contagious plague, caused by supernatural, otherworldly mischief. Others were convinced that this was only the beginning of the blight on the land, a precursor of what was to come. Astrologers were brought in, as well as thaumaturges that claimed for a certain sum that they could set everything to rights again. But it turned out that the princess was the one who set out on a quest to restore balance, and she chose me, of all people, to accompany her. Never mind that I was only her handmaiden because my mother was a cook in the palace, or that I was crippled with a twisted foot and have to walk with a cane. “I’m going on a journey to try and fix the land,” She told me, her face already locked in a scowl that let me know she wasn’t going to be talked out of this mad quest. “And I want you to come with me.” I stared at her, certain that she was pulling an ill-timed joke on me. But she didn’t laugh, or smile. She was completely serious. The first word out of my mouth was “Why?” She blinked, as if, of all the things she’d expected to say, that was the last thing. But no matter how I pleaded, she wouldn’t budge. Either I was going with her, or she wasn’t going at all. It didn’t matter, what the king and queen said, or their cabinet of advisors. The princess was going with her servant. Only this wasn’t just for companionship, I realized later. No, my purpose in this was sinister, but I didn’t realize that until later. \*\* We both rode a horse, with her behind me, holding the reins. We were following a lead, and I gritted my teeth, feeling my bones rattle with every new hoofbeat. There had been rumors that the source of the disruptive magic came from tainted river water, and the princess thought that it was as good a lead as any to start with. We left our steed tied to a tree and walked on, with me struggling to keep up. Even on a manmade floor it was nearly impossible for me to stay upright, let alone the forest’s. Roots and plants lingered under my feet, and I swore as the pain increased. The princess shushed me, holding out a hand to block my way. I looked at her, confused, but then the scent of magic, sharp, sweet and distinctive, tinted the air. “I can sense something within the heart of the wood. Something old and powerful. Come with me and see where it’s coming from.


The wind howled as Nikolaus opened the door and emerged from the snow. He had returned from hunting and brought back two things: a rabbit and a disappointed look on his face. His kids, Heidi and Rendall jumped with joy; it was finally their turn to eat. When Nikolaus would catch food, the parents would eat. Then the next time he’d catch food, the kids would eat. Their mother, Edlin, told them to calm down and reserve their energy. But they couldn’t get over the fact that they would finally be able to eat something bigger than a rat. While Edlin was preparing the rabbit, Heidi and Rendall bickered about who would have the bigger piece. The squabble escalated into a fistfight that saw Heidi victorious. Rendall said that he let her win in a last attempt to save what was left of his dignity.

At the dinner table, which looked like it could collapse at any second, Rendall surrendered part of his half of the rabbit to Heidi. She was salivating at the sight of the rabbit. Despite having the smaller piece, Rendall was still happy with his piece of the rabbit, but he still had to deal with Heidi’s bragging. By the couch lay Edlin and Nikolaus. Edlin talked to Nikolaus about how they could live a better life if they weren’t so disconnected from society. Nikolaus gave her the same response every time they talked about it; other people aren’t to be trusted and all strangers were evil.

Nikolaus had just fallen asleep. Edlin pulled a bird encyclopedia from under the bed and snuck into the living room. She lit her lantern and sat on the couch. Edlin forgot how to read, but was still entertained by the detailed illustrations of birds. From the hallway, she heard a loud creak coming from the floor. She tried to find a place to hide the book, but it was too late. Nikolaus was horrified by what he had just seen. He couldn’t believe that Edlin was reading a book made by a stranger. He hit and berated Edlin before lighting the book on fire with the lantern and throwing it into the fireplace. Edlin, being powerless, could do nothing but endure the punishment.

The next morning, Heidi played with her new wooden horse toy— a toy that she was supposed to keep secret. But she couldn’t handle having to keep it secret. She wanted to play with it. It was the most beautiful toy she had ever seen. Enchanted by its beauty, she completely forgot that she was supposed to keep it secret and went to brag about it to Rendall. At the time, Rendall was helping Nikolaus make arrows. Nikolaus noticed the horse and instantly began scolding Heidi for playing with a toy made by a stranger. He snatched the horse from her hand and burned it in front of her eyes. She ran away crying to her mother. Rendall sat at the dinner table, admiring his deck of skat cards. When Edlin gave him the cards, he was distracted by them while she was explaining that they were to be kept a secret. Despite not knowing how to play skat, he was fascinated. Just looking at them was amusing to him. Rendall wanted to show his father. Nikolaus was furious when he saw the cards. He chastised Rendall for playing with cards made by a stranger. The cards were ripped and burned before his very eyes. He couldn’t believe what he had seen. He was horrified and confused. Enough was enough. Nikolaus gathered the family to find out how they received the items. While Heidi and Rendall bawled their eyes out, Edlin provided an explanation. She confessed that while Nikolaus was out hunting, a trader visited their house. She was able to buy toys and sweets for the kids and a book for herself. But she never told him that the price was her body. Nikolaus was seething and lectured them for what felt like years. Each insult harsher than the last. Nikolaus woke up the next morning, grumpier than usual. He waited for Edlin to bring him his breakfast as she usually did, but it never came. He stood up and looked around the house. His family was nowhere to be seen. He realized how severe the situation was and he lied down on the floor sobbing, for he had lost everything. His wife and kids had left him. The only people who weren’t strangers to him were now gone. Was it his fault? He was trying to protect them. But that was the reason they left. A few months had passed. Someone was knocking on the door. Nikolaus ignored it, hoping that whoever was knocking would leave. But the knocking persisted. Nikolaus knew that it wouldn’t stop until he opened the door. He grabbed his gun and readied himself. As soon as the door opened, he fired. But what lay in front of him was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen: his wife’s corpse. His kids surrounded and mourned their mother. Nikolaus had just made the greatest mistake in his life. He had killed his wife in front of his kids. He killed one of the only people who wasn’t a stranger to him and traumatized the rest. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He had to be dreaming. But his children’s screams were too real. He couldn’t live knowing what he had done. He pointed the gun towards himself and pulled the trigger. Several years had passed. The kids had just been released from the psychiatric hospital. Every month they visited their old house. Beside it lay their parents’ gravestones. They always gave their mother flowers but spat on their father’s gravestone. They now prosper with society. They don’t know which life was better: the one where they are isolated and controlled but have a family, or the one where they are wealthy but have to live with the death of their parents.


I waited until the footsteps receded down the hall, reaching beneath my bed to grab the bag of things I had collected earlier in the day. I smirked to myself. No one ever notices what I do, and I love it. Once I opened my door slowly and checked no one had their lights on, I sneaked down the hall to the window. Checking behind me once more, I opened the window and sat on the sill. I took a deep breath and jumped. I resisted the urge to scream in delight, knowing it would only get me found. I dropped another two storeys until I opened a wormhole and disappeared. I stumbled to the ground, looking back at the castle and leaning against a wall for support. A giggle bubbled up inside of me, but I fought it back, remembering where I (hopefully) was. I walked around the side of the building and spotted the purple dot on the door frame. Another successful wormwalk. I knocked three times, waited, and then knocked twice. The door flew open and I saw Dena standing in the light that shone from her candles. She looked me up and down once, nodded and said: “He’s out by the field. Be careful now, you wouldn’t want someone seeing you.” Her voice had a slight lilt, making her words sound almost like a poem. I thanked her and walked behind the other houses near the field, careful not to make any noise. Once I was out in the open, I let the glowing rock my tutor had been showing me this morning come into existence once more, holding out my palm as the rock gradually reformed. I held it above my head once it was fully formed, letting its light guide me through the field without breaking my legs on some hidden hole. The field had a gentle incline, so once I reached the top, I paused for a second, drinking in the moonlit view of the palace that was my prison and home. Lower down the field, I saw a dark shape moving, and crouched, squinting into the darkness. “Nixon?” I called gently, my voice carrying through the quiet air. I see a flash of purple below me and then a hand touches my shoulder. I almost scream, but cover my mouth before I can make too much noise. I hear a smooth chuckle behind me and the hand retreats. “Star’s sake, Nix! You gave me a heart attack! You know I hate it when you do that.” I turn to face Nixon, my golden eyes glaring at him in the light of the glowing rock. His dark blue eyes, black in this light, gleamed with mischief, and the one-sided smile he gave me only made me want to punch him more. “Chill out, Hope. You’re late anyway, so it wasn’t for no reason. Did you make it ok?” He said in a deep voice, his words containing the same lilt as his mother’s. I nodded and sat down where I was, looking out over the valley between this little hill and the gentle mountain where the castle sat. “So,” I said, once Nix had sat down beside me, “What’s the lesson going to be about tonight? Ethical uses for Existential Sorcery? Or practical uses for the wormhole?” He looked at me for a moment longer than was necessary then looked at the moon. “Ways Existential powers have shaped our society and why they shouldn’t be outlawed.” I leaned back and waited for him to continue. “Many years ago, there were loads of Sorcerers and everybody prospered. Although some used their powers for bad, most people were helpful and kind. That is until the royal family tried to kill all magic. The general population doesn't know the reasons, but maybe you do. Most people speculate about why the king tried to kill all sorcerers and the common theory is he was upset because his family didn’t have any powers at all, so if they didn’t have magic, why should the rest of us? Anyway, he successfully killed magic in his time, but the tricky thing about magic is it isn’t an ancestral thing. It happens to appear in some people at different stages in their lives. I know of an old man who woke up with wormhole powers. And there was a baby in a village a couple of miles down the road who made her toys disappear. Then there was you. Randomly appeared right in front of me, scaring the starlight out of me and the sheep.” I laughed remembering the first time I accidentally used one of my two powers. “Yeah, but I wasn’t much more calm than you. I completely freaked when I realised where I was.” He turned his head and smiled at me. “You were really loud though, and I had to lie to that guy and tell him you had hurt yourself.” “Oh, when we were young,” I said teasingly. “Why do we say all that stuff about the stars and moon? I’ve only just realised that we say stuff about them all the time.” Nix nodded like he knew this would come up. "People were trying to find out the limits to magic before it was outlawed, and one of them was that we can't change the sun, stars, or the moon. Although we usually use words connected to starlight, sometimes other villages use the sun or moon more often. It all depends on where you come from.” He stood up and dusted his trousers off. “Right, let’s empty that bag you brought and see how much you’ve improved with your wormholes.” ***** My parents had told me repeatedly that reading was the appropriate entertainment for a proper princess. My older sister Hope could run around the palace singing at the top of her voice and playing with the piglets in their sties – in their eyes, she was a lost cause. But as long as they had no more children, I had to be princessy enough for both of us. I looked at the cover of the book I'd picked and sighed. Why can't I even be childish in my own room? I knew without checking that a woman was watching me from outside her door. There always was. It was times like these that I almost didn't like Hope. I loved her – as much as anyone can love a close relative that they barely see – but sometimes I resented her carefree, immature behaviour. I should be the immature one. Suddenly I felt an urge to do something – something mischievous, something definitely immature. “Dena, would you please find my father? I would like to discuss this fascinating book with him,” I lied. “Of course,” Dena replied in that musical way of hers (I envied her voice. It was so - perfect). She saw the book, lying open on the first page, and said nothing. When she was gone, I smiled—good old Dena. “Faith! You're not busy?” I whirled around, clutching my hands to my heart. “Star's sake, Hope! You gave me a heart attack!” I said. “And... why are you covered in flour?” She looked down at her blue dress, turned starch white from flour. She brushed it off, and I winced. I knew what our father would say about the mess. "That? I..." She blushed and looked down at her feet. "I wormwalked into the pantry by accident trying to get up here. Cook wasn't in a good mood." I laughed. Not the refined, regal laugh my parents had taught me - it felt good to laugh again. Hope smiled, self-consciously dusting off more flour on my bedroom floor. “How's the magic coming on?” she asked. “Magic? You mean, I can wormwalk like you?” “You could. Although you'll never be as good as I am.” My sister grinned as I gave her arm a weak punch. “Well, there is something,” I mused. She sat on the arm of my chair and waited for more. “I'm beginning to see these... faint lengths of string.” Her mouth opened. “That's the only way I can explain it, with string. There are loads of them, and they sit in people's heads – everyone's, although I can't see my own. They kind of overlap, like they're sitting on top of each other, but I can see them like they're spread out. And they're all different lengths.” It was hard to explain, but I was relying on her already knowing what I meant. Her face warned me that this wasn't a good thing, but I carried on, anxious for her to understand. “I haven't tried anything with them yet, but I'm sure I could. I feel like I could just... tug a bit. I want to see what would happen, Hope.” I burned with curiosity – if my parents had this, they would've told me, right? I gave myself a mental hug at the thought that I might be special. “Can you do something with my -” she hesitated. “- my string? Now, I mean.” I nodded and focused. I separated her string, picked the shortest piece, and gave it an experimental tug. It snapped in half, the frayed edges moulding into the invisible length of my own string. The room's colours seemed to dim a little, and I thought, Why am I trying this? I'm going to fail . I glanced at Hope. She seemed completely carefree – even more than usual. Then she frowned. “Give it back, Faith,” she said gently. It was my turn to frown. “Give what back?” “The string.” My frown deepened as I dug into my mind, trying to find the string to return. “Try mine,” my sister suggested. I looked into her mind and found the severed string. Raising a finger for Hope to be silent, I coaxed the rest of her string away from mine, watching as it separated and joined back to her. I straightened up, feeling lighter. “You know more about this than I do, don't you?” I said. Hope nodded, still recovering from whatever I had just done. “You know that magic is centred on voids, yes?” she said. I shook my head. “It's why we mention stars, moons and the sun so often. Because they're in space, which is a giant void.” I knew this was what her secret teacher had told her a few lessons ago (I'm not completely ignorant), but I listened anyway, silently praying. This better be good. “So some people can make wormholes, some people make things disappear, and some people -” She hesitated. I waved my hand encouragingly. “Go on.” “It's called emotional void, or EV for short. It's – rare. Those people can drain you of emotion – temporarily, I mean. Some people specialise in one emotion, in their case it lasts for a day, some people are all-rounders, which lasts an hour each.” She fidgeted on the edge of her seat. “So that's what I have,” I prompted, then paused to think. “There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?” “It can be good.” Was she – is she pleading? “People who specialise in sadness make our kingdom so much happier, and people who specialise in anger can stop wars.” Now I got it. “There's something you're leaving out. Some people specialise in joy, love, and positive emotions, don't they? And...” “And so our parents are scared of anyone with that kind of power, so prisons are for other sorcerers, and EVs get... executed. And what you just showed me is exactly what they're scared of...” Her voice trailed away. ***** When I returned to my room, I sat on the bed, thinking. What Faith just showed me scared me and I didn't know what I was going to do about it. The fear or the power she had showed me. I was facing the window, watching the clouds go by, my thoughts swirling like a storm. I twisted my copper-coloured hair around my fingers a couple of times, unconsciously biting my lip. I stopped when I tasted the metallic tang of blood, sighed and paced to the window. No one could find out about Faith now, not even Nix. I hated the thought of keeping something this important from him, but I had to for the sake of my sister. I smiled to myself, noticing that I was actually acting like an older sister should. A sudden knock on the door made me jump and spin around. “Who- who is it?” I called out, trying to slow my beating heart. “It’s Hatti, m’lady, and I come baring an invitation from your parents, the king and queen. They would like you to join them for lunch.” I could hear the squeaky floorboard outside my door, which meant Hatti was about to walk away. “Hatti! Wait!” I said as I opened the door. She turned slowly on her heel, giving me a wary look like I might try to bite her or something. “I, um, I don’t know what to wear, would you mind, uh, helping me to pick something out?” When I was ready, I walked carefully down the main staircase, trying not to trip in the weirdly puffy and long dress. I usually wore boy’s trousers with a tunic over them. Occasionally I would wear a very practical dress or two, but they were never like this. Finally, I made it to the bottom without falling on my face, and I hurried to the dining room, still not sure why they would bother making me have lunch with them. I never eat in the palace, I’m always out before everyone is awake, strolling the town or playing in the fields below the castle. Sometimes, I forget lunch entirely, only remembering to eat something when I get back home, late at night, when all the delicious smells from dinner still lingering in the halls. The heavy doors swung open when I knocked, startling me for a moment. No one ever does that for me normally. “Ah!” My dad’s voice boomed from the head of the table, “There’s the little rascal! Come on Hope, sit down already!” I scurried to my place at the table, nervously fiddling with the outermost fork. When my mother spoke, I jumped, and my fork clattered to the floor. I winced as a servant picked it up and I tried to grab it from her, but she gave me a strange look and got me a new one from a tray in the corner of the room. “So.” Mother said, giving me a hard look, “Your Father and I have been discussing your place here. We don’t think you’re as ready as we would like you to be, seeing as you’re the heir, and we’ve decided to give your sister the title of Crown Princess, instead of you.” Faith, who I hadn't noticed up until then, gasped and dropped her glass. “M-me?” She sputtered, leaning back for the maid to clean up the mess her spilt drink had caused. “Yes, you. Now, while we will still allow you to live in the palace, Hope, we want you to start helping out since you cause a lot of messes. We would also like you to stay out of the way when we have visiting officials and royals over, maybe staying in your room or… out.” She said the last word carefully as if she was thinking of saying something else. “So, you want to get rid of me?” I asked, my voice breaking on the word ‘rid’. This was my worst fear coming to life. I’d always thought that if I could lower the standard for Faith, then she wouldn’t feel so pressured as I had when that awful woman Leana was my tutor. She had always yelled at me for the slightest mistake, never letting me do anything I wanted. So once she was gone, I wouldn’t let myself get controlled like that again, swearing never to be like Leana had tried to make me. Of course, I still cared what my parents thought of me, but I figured if I couldn’t be perfect like Leana had wanted me to be, then I would try my best to be a perfect version of myself. But now, they all thought I was a failure, and I knew Faith never thought very highly of me, but now? The way she was looking at me now was a look of sympathy, but not one that said ‘I’m so sorry, Hope, I’ll try to help you get your title back,’ it said ‘Oh dear, you weren’t expecting that, were you?’. “No, dear, we just want you out of the way. If you can’t be a presentable princess, then you’ll have to stay quiet and unseen.” My mother said, condescendingly. I pursed my lips and stood up, pushing my chair back with my legs. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, but I blinked them back, turning and running away from the horrible people in the dining room. Unconsciously, I opened a wormhole and ran through it, my unshed tears warping my vision. When I finally stopped, I was on a mountainside somewhere far away from the palace. The castle was just a smudge of grey on a distant mountain. I sighed in relief, sitting on the ground and finally letting my tears fall onto the soft grass. Suddenly, the sun disappeared, and everything got dark. I blinked the remaining tears away, standing on the now-dark hillock. The stars were shining and the moon was round, but it was still the middle of the day. Then, one by one, the stars started disappearing. [Co-written with Annie Persson. I only wrote the parts between the '*'s]