For all I know, my eyes could be open. Although I fell to the ground as I lost consciousness, I might be sitting or even standing. I have no way to tell. I might be dead. I might've fallen sideways onto the road and been run over. I always imagined death as an exciting thing, if I'm honest. Something that would send a shiver down my spine to tell me that I was dead the moment it happened. As it is, I'm not even sure if I have a spine. I try to wriggle my fingers, but I can't even feel them. I can't see them. Maybe there's nothing to see. I strain my ears for the familiar sound of my own breathing, for car horns, people shouting, an ambulance or even a police car, but I can't hear them. There's nothing to hear. I want to scream in frustration but I can't feel my throat, I don't know if I'm making any noise. I've already forgotten how to scream. Nothing can make you forget. My thoughts are all that's left for me. Even my memories are fading into darkness. My wife's voice, my baby daughter's face, don't seem to exist anymore. I'm utterly alone, without even my own voice to keep me company. Brother. No, no, no. I'm not alone. I'm not alone and I wish I was. None of us are ever alone. It read my thoughts. It read my thoughts. How do I repel a creature that reads my thoughts? And there's more than one. Let me out, let me out of here! Out, Brother? I do not understand. How do I answer? How do I tell it to go away? I will leave you if you wish. You will not like feeling alone. No, wait, stay, please. (What am I doing? Am I mad?) I want to - to talk. Very well. I do not understand your word 'talk', but I will stay. Deep breath. (Am I breathing? I should be breathing. I'm still alive. Unless I'm dead.) First, where am I? ' Where'? Explain what you mean. It's a simple question. Where am I? I do not understand. Explain. I can't explain! It's simple. Please wait. I will connect you to - (My thoughts are muddled. The word was something like - I can't remember it. Already, only seconds later, I can't remember it.) I think it... He... Is gone. I didn't feel him leave, just Like I didn't feel him arrive. Can this - these creatures see? Have they got senses where I have none? Am I truly alone in this state? I can do nothing but think to pass the time. Time? I've lost track of it. I've heard people say that Time is a man-made concept, but when Man is removed, what happens to Time? Does it continue, or does it simply cease to exist? Did it ever? My memories have drained, and I don't remember my life before this Thoughtful state of being. How can I be sure that Time ever existed? That I ever existed outside of this world? I know that I once had a life. I know it. I must hold onto that, or my sanity will slip away. Brother. AH. You're back. How long has it been since I came here? Long? Here? How much Time has passed since I appeared? What is Time? Please explain. (Calm down. Maybe he just knows it with a different name.) Time is - well, time is - I can't explain. You cannot explain something that does not exist. You can. But that's not what I mean. I meant, Time does exist. I've felt it. Felt? What is 'felt'? Please stop! I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything. Just leave me alone. I will retreat, but you will not like feeling alone. That's it, that's 'felt', you just said - Oh. I didn't feel him leave. He's scaring me now. I don't know which thoughts are my own, which opinions are my own. The things he says, the questions he asks, are confusing me and making me unsure of what's real and what's not. Is this world, this Nothingness, real? Or am I only imagining it? Brother . Do you always enter someone's thoughts like that? It would be impolite to intrude without warning. 'Time', please explain it. My Elders are intrigued. Your Elders? No, I won't ask. But why should I try to explain it to you? You do not have to. But I see your thoughts. You doubt the existence of 'Time', and an explanation would sooth your mind. You're right... Time. Well, time is - Time is - I can't do it. I just can't. You cannot explain it because it is not real. No, it is real. I know it is. I've felt it. You have said that something must exist for it to be explainable - I never said that - The opposite is also true. No, it isn't true. Time exists. It does exist. Stop messing with my head! (Despite myself I feel a warmth growing in my head. A cozy, tired warmth...) No, I won't believe it. Time exists. I've felt it. I've felt... Felt? What is felt? My arguments are using words without meaning. Indeed, Brother. You are finding enlightenment. 'Time' does not exist, neither does 'Felt'. No, they both exist! I know they do. (The warmth, the tiredness, is growing.) Words without meaning... 'Felt'... 'Time'... What are they after all, but words? They do not exist. 'Time' does not exist. It does, it do- (The warmth finally takes over. Everything is wonderful and warm. Everything makes sense at last.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. You are right. (It's a relief to finally say it.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. 'Senses' do not exist. Indeed. 'Senses' do not exist. The world you think you remember does not exist. It is only your imagination. The world I think I remember does not exist. It is only my imagination. I understand. All of these things do not exist. They do not exist. You are tired, Brother. I am tired. You are very tired. Very tired... Sleep, Brother. Sleep. ... It is so warm... My Brother is gone. I remember... What was I going to say? I don't remember. Nothing is making me forget... Nothing can make you forget. Nothing can make you forget. I remember. I remember. ***** The brightness is overwhelming. Darkness would've been just as stunning. It takes me moments to recall how to open my eyes. I search for the right muscle, moving my fingers and turning my head before my eyelids raise. I see. I'm in an empty hospital ward, hooked up to a life-support machine, its beige-grey walls obnoxiously bright. The heart-monitor's bleeping pounds in my ears and prevents me from thinking straight. I struggle to find the muscle that turns my head, and eventually one of my ears are pressed into the pillow, but the sound persists. I push my hands toward the blanket in an attempt to get it over my head, but in my current condition I can't find the small muscles necessary to move my fingers. I leave my arms limp over the blanket, hating the overpowering smell of antiseptic that hangs in the air, remembering. It was never this strong before. The clock on the hospital wall ticks violently. My head throbs along with it, mirroring each beat. Footsteps in the hallway beside my ward. I look towards the door just as a woman walks in. Her navy-blue eyes widen, tears beginning to form. My wife. Nothing can make me forget her.


Once upon a time, there was a fisherman… Now obviously there have been a lot of fishermen, and there are quite a lot of stories about fisherman. This is not the story about the fisherman who caught himself an undine and brought home a wife, or the fisherman who hooked a crown inside a fish inside a fish inside a fish and became a king. This is not the story about the fisherman who had a magic rod that could reach around the world. Or the fisherman with the enchanted hook that could ensnare whatever you asked it to. And it's certainly not the story about the fisherman who had a miraculous net that could catch things which were lost. This is a story about a fisherman who had a rather unusual friend. The fisherman lived in the village of Rensk, which lay alongside the river Typhon, though nobody calls it that any more. Every day he would leave his house, make his way to the river and begin fishing. There he would remain until the dipping of the sun in the sky told him it was time to go home. Now what you must remember is that this was a long time ago. Back when you could meet the devil sitting on a tree stump, and dance with faeries in the shadow of the moon. Back when the world was a lot older and wilder than it is now. One day, as the fisherman sat by the river in his favourite spot, he noticed his luck seemed poorer than usual, the fish less willing to bite. As the morning wore on the fisherman became increasingly frustrated. Until, just as he was preparing to leave and try somewhere else along the bank, he noticed something glittering in the river bed. No doubt some trinket dropped further upstream. Carefully the fisherman reached into the water and deftly plucked the item from the mud in which it was lodged. A small and battered snuffbox lay in his hand. Finding it to be heavier than he expected, the fisherman opened the lid to see what was inside. As he did so, he heard a crack of thunder and felt a dull pain in his hand like the echo of a flame. Without thinking, he let the open snuffbox fall to the ground. All around him grew dark and the mouth of the snuffbox yawned wider and wider like a great cavern. When it seemed as if the snuffbox stretched from one horizon to the next and all about was black as night; there was a great rushing of winds and out stepped a tall, thin figure wrapped in a long black cloak. “Greetings” said the figure “I, am Death.” Now in those days Death was always getting trapped in snuffboxes, or sugar pots, or bound inside the shell of a walnut. Everybody knew a friend whose mother had an uncle who had met Death in some far off market place. It was no great trouble to anyone apart from Death himself to be trapped in a snuffbox. For the business of Death went on regardless, and we see only one of its many facets. You could no more inconvenience Death by trapping it in a snuffbox than you could diminish the darkness of night by closing the lid of a box. Nevertheless, Death was pleased to be free from his confinement and thanked the fisherman accordingly. Enjoying the day’s fresh breeze and the gentle babbling of the river, Death sat down on a nearby rock to appreciate his new found freedom. Somewhat at a loss and filled with curiosity about his new acquaintance, the fisherman returned to fishing. Glancing from time to time at the strange figure on the rock. Presently the man took out his lunch, a few small sandwiches wrapped up in brown paper. Death looked at them with curiosity, for while Death may know a great deal about the ending of life, he knows very little about the living of it. The fisherman, seeing Death’s quizzical gaze, offered him a sandwich. “But I have nothing to offer you in return” said Death in confusion. For Death is a thing of duty and exchange; Life for Death, mortality for eternity, and had never known a gift or a thing freely given. But the fisherman, handing over part of his lunch, merely smiled and said “What are a few sandwiches between friends?” Death politely ate the sandwich and pondered on the man's words. Or one word in particular. For Death is rarely a welcome companion, and if Death had any friends before this, no stories are told of them. By the time the sandwich was finished, Death had come to a decision. Death thanked the fisherman for his kindness, for his sandwich, and for his friendship then went on its way. The fisherman scratched his head, finished his lunch and returned to his fishing. No record is kept on Death’s opinion of the sandwich. Many months passed, and the fisherman thought little more of his strange encounter. Until on a still and quiet evening, while the fisherman sat at home, there was a single tap on his door; though he had heard no one approaching. Opening the door, the fisherman was surprised to see Death standing patiently on his step. An older man might have been afraid to see Death unannounced at his door, but the fisherman was young and had known no sickness in his life; so was merely pleased to see his unusual acquaintance again. “Come in my friend and warm yourself by the fire” exclaimed the fisherman, his initial surprise rapidly replaced by his usual amiability. And so Death entered his house as a friend. Little is known of what was discussed at this, their first true meeting as friends, but they talked long into the night and before he left, Death promised he would visit again. Soon they settled into a routine. From time to time there would be a gentle tap at the fisherman’s door and it would be Death, come for dinner. Occasionally the fisherman would be out walking when he would suddenly spot his friend strolling quietly beside him and together they would travel down paths and tracks that the fisherman would swear had not been there before. They would wander for hours as Death went about his appointed task, and the fisherman saw many strange things on those days. And so it continued. Months might pass between visits, sometimes it could be as long as a year. But eventually, the Fisherman would always hear a soft tap upon his door, or see the gentle shifting of black fabric from the corner of his eye and know that his old friend Death had come to see him. Each time, Death would apologise for his lengthy absence, for not having come to visit in so long; but every time the fisherman would smile and reply, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” One day, while the two were out walking, Death turned to the fisherman and said “For many years you have welcomed me into your home, and yet I realise now that you have never visited mine. Come, I must make amends for my poor manners.” The fisherman received the invitation without fear, knowing it was offered with kindness. He knew his friend had no need of tricks or deception, that if his time were to come then that would be the end of it. There would be no discussions. And so they began their journey to the home of Death. They walked for what seemed like hours, though the sun never moved in the sky as they drew steadily closer to mountains whose names the fisherman did not know. In time they came to a valley nestled at the base of one of the great mountains, and in this valley there sat a small house. The home of Death. But I shall not describe it here, for those who Death has welcomed into his home are few, and we are not one of them. What I may tell you is this; through the house there is a cave. It extends deep into the mountains and as far as is known it never truly stops. The walls and floor are carved from the rock itself, a smooth and unblemished obsidian. And in this cave there are caverns without number and in each cavern there are candles. Thousands, millions of candles. More than can ever be counted. And these candles burn with a flame like none you have ever seen. For Death's home is a place of perfect stillness. No breeze stirs the air and no tremors shake the earth. The flames of the candles do not flicker or dance, each stand as steady as rock, as if carved from gleaming glass. Through this cave the fisherman was led until the two of them stopped in a cavern seemingly no different to any other, by a shelf that looked like all the rest. Death gestured towards the sea of candles and spoke: “Each of these candles is a life. Some burn long, some burn short; but, in the end, all burn out. That is when I come for them.” The fisherman looked at the dazzling array of flames in wonder. “This one is yours.” Death continued, pointing. At first the fisherman was unsettled to see such a thing. But as he looked at his candle he saw that it was tall and proud, no doubt with many years left to burn and his mind was put at ease. With that the two of them returned to Death's house for what I imagine was a rather strange meal. Many nights in the years to come the fisherman would dream of that cave, of its many candles and of his friend walking its endless labyrinthine halls and corridors. In time the man fell in love and married. At first his new wife asked him questions about his old friend, “Who is he? What does he do?” and so on. But each time she asked, her husband would give her the same reply, with a small smile and a wink, “Only what he must, and nothing else.” His wife never grew tired of asking, and after every visit would repeat the same questions, to the same response. Until one year, when the sickness had been laid thick about a neighbouring village and many had lost their lives. Word came from the village that his wife’s sister was afflicted and not long for the world. The fisherman's wife packed a small basket full of her sister's favourite treats and set off to visit her one last time. When she returned, the fisherman knew his wife had seen his old friend about his work, which in times past she had been so curious about. Never again did she ask who his strange friend was or even enquire after him at all, and the fisherman never learned what words may have passed between them. Years more passed and the fisherman and his wife were blessed with a child, a baby girl; and for a time they were happy. Yet from the moment of her birth, his daughter was a sickly thing, fragile and frail as if she were knitted not from flesh and bone like the rest of us, but rather cobwebs and starlight. His neighbours whispered and gossiped in hushed tones as he passed; that while his newborn was certainly beautiful and fair, she was altogether too delicate and surely was not long for this world. The fisherman pretended not to hear such idle chatter, but every day his brow grew more furrowed and his heart heavier. At night the fisherman lay awake listening to his daughter's troubled sleep, leaping from his bed at her slightest cough, watching over her while she slept in her crib. Soon the fisherman became filled with a dread for when his old friend might next come to visit. He had seen King and Emperors, bishops and popes, sorcerers and enchanters, rich men and poor men, saints and murderers, all plead with his friend, offering him anything they could for just a little more time. But nothing would stay his friend’s hand from his appointed duty. The fisherman knew that eventually his friend would surely come. Soon the fisherman no longer left his house for fear of meeting his old friend somewhere along the path. Every knock at the door, every crunch on the garden path he would jolt, expecting his friend had come to take his daughter from him. But some things cannot be avoided, old friends among them. At last the day came when he heard a gentle tap on his door. There, waiting for him, was Death. While in his youth he had known no fear upon receiving such a guest, now his heart trembled. “Greetings my old friend, how have you been?” he asked. For it is a terrible thing to turn away a guest, no matter who they may be. “I am well” intoned death. “Please excuse my long absence, it has been some months since last we met.” The fisherman, as he always did, merely smiled, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” To the fisherman's relief, his old friend began to walk and gestured for the fisherman to join him. With each step that took Death further away from the house, the fisherman's heart grew lighter. He barely paid attention to what he said and didn't even notice where they walked until a familiar valley came into view. Presently he found himself in Death's home once more. The two friends sat down to share a meal as was their habit, and Death left to bring the freshly prepared dishes in from the kitchen. Now alone, the fisherman was suddenly overcome with a desire to see for himself just how much time his daughter had. Getting up from the table he made his way to the entrance of the caverns that sat behind the house. He wandered through the cave as he had done many times before, his feet carrying him without conscious thought, to his own candle still nearly as tall and proud as when he first laid eyes on it. There, next to it, he found a tiny candle that he knew could only be his daughter's. So small that the flame burnt almost level with the shelf on which the candle sat. The Fisherman stared at the candle which resembled not much more than a thimbleful of wax with a wick no larger than an eyelash. Then he stared at his own candle, still tall and proud after all these years. He knew what he had to do. Fiercely the Fisherman gripped his own candle in his hand. Gently he raised it up from the stone shelf on which it had rested, unmoving, since the day he was born. Carefully he brought it closer to his daughter's own tiny candle. Ever more carefully he tilted his candle and let some of the liquid wax at its top overflow and trickle down to the small candle below. Imperceptible at first, as each new drop of wax joined his daughter's candle, it grew ever so slightly taller. The Fisherman smiled as he turned his candle a little bit more, and the candle below grew noticeably bigger. His plan was working! In his mind he pictured the delicate young baby, now with time enough to grow into a woman. His heart buoyant, he resumed his task, a stream of wax cascading down to the candle below. Hours fell from his candle, then days, then months, then years... And for perhaps the only time in all the aeons that have yet been and in all the aeons that are yet to come, a candle in Death’s cave flickered and wavered. But the fisherman did not notice and continued to tilt his candle yet further. In a blink of an eye the faltering flame was extinguished, drowned in the onrush of liquid wax. The fisherman’s heart stopped and for one brief merciful moment he thought it was his own candle he had foolishly extinguished. Then he only wished it was. His daughter's candle sat below him, its brilliant flame snuffed out. The fisherman was as still as the candles surrounding him, as if he were carved from the very same stone as the cavern itself. Then he felt a horror which few before or since have felt. Desperately he tried to relight his daughter's candle, bringing his own flame as close as possible, he held the burning wick against the now lifeless one. Willing with all his might that his candle should relight his daughter's. Intently he focused on the flame and the wick, ignoring the hot wax that poured over his fingers. Seconds that felt like years passed. The fisherman staring so hard at the wick he almost thought it might burst into flame from the intensity of his gaze alone. Just as all hope left him, when he was certain all was lost, a second flame leapt to life, his daughter's candle burned once more. Joy overwhelmed him. But in an instant he felt a searing pain in his hand. So intently had he been watching the flame he hadn't noticed his own candle had burned down to where he was gripping it. Instinctively, reacting to the pain, he let go and watched as his candle fell towards the ground. With a rushing as of a great wind, like that he had heard many years before, his friend Death now stood beside him; a single hand outstretched to catch the falling candle. Sitting safely in Death's palm, was the fisherman's candle. Death's gaze passed between the now tall candle on the shelf, burning once again, and the tiny one in his palm, hardly more than a scrap of wax and a wick no larger than an eyelash. The fisherman saw that Death knew what he had done and he felt ashamed for trying to trick his old friend. Death closed his hand, and when he reopened it, the candle was gone. “When you entered my home you had many years left to burn. Now they are gone.” said Death. For the first time since they had met, the fisherman thought he heard sadness in his companion's voice. “No matter,” said the Fisherman looking over at his daughter's candle burning tall and proud. “What are a few years between friends?” And with that he passed through the cave, to the lands that lie beyond.


I have always known my Mom would be this stubborn. Whenever I wanted to do something. She always contradicts. I even think that she doesn’t love me that much because she doesn't want me to be happy. Ever since I was a kid. I always live to her rule. I always nod and agreed with whatever she says. It’s always been her and me as far as I can remember. She worked hard to feed me and give me the basic needs that a normal kid should have. Shelter, clothes, food. That’s it. We seldom go out and those were the best times for me whenever it happens. And that was just a yearly event. Every year, on my birthday.

Though she seldom gives in to my wants, she always provides me with my needs.

Good thing I can make yearly requests without questions and what-ifs. My Mom becomes Miss Because I said so when I reached 13 years old. She always says no whenever I want to buy something for myself. And whenever I asked her why I couldn't have it, she always answered “ Because I said so, that’s it.” There was a time when I saw these designer shoes when strolling in the mall with my friends after school before going home. I saw that it is kind of pricey but it looks so good and I know it would look much nicer with my feet on it. My heart went out upon seeing the red shoes and I knew everyone would envy me if I had those on.

As a teenager, at that time I felt like it’s my right to get that thing and I would die if I did not have it. I know very well that my birthday has passed and I cannot claim another request as per my Mom’s rule.

I really don’t know where she got that idea though. For me, that is absurd!

Why can’t she be like any other normal Moms? Like my friend’s moms who always give in to their requests. At that, I felt so unloved. “Mom,” I started. With my hands at my back, crossing my fingers.

She was sitting on the couch with his feet up to the table. She just came home from work. I actually don’t know what kind of work she does right now, as she is not at home almost the whole day and night. I know that she is a nurse and works in the morning, my friend’s mom and my Mom are coworkers. But I am not seeing her even on her rest days lately. She said she needs to work harder for my college, so I assumed she got another job. “Yes?” She said bluntly and looked so dead tired. “Can I buy those shoes I saw in the mall earlier today?” “Why? What happened to your old shoes? You still have two pairs that are still good to wear, right?” “Yes, Mom. It is just that the shoes that I saw are so nice and I know that they would look much better with me wearing them? I do love the shoes Mom! Can you please give me money to buy it?”. I begged. “ Chloe, we already talk about having priorities. Those are the things that you want, not what you need. You can still wear the old one. Why buy new?” “Because I am a teenager, Mom and teenagers ought to look good”, I answered teary-eyed.

“You do look good, honey. You are and you always will. With or without those shoes.” “But Mom, why? Why can’t I have those shoes when all the kids of my age can?” My Mom sighed in submission and looked me straight in the eye. “ Because I said so.” Here we go again with those words I so much hate to hear! With that, my heart was totally broken and I ran to my room and slammed the door. Leaving my Mom that I didn't know shed a tear. Things have always been like that thereafter as the years passed. Whenever I beg for my wants. She always answered me with a No, followed by “Because I said so. And I always ended up broken-hearted. At sixteen years old, I learned to earn money for myself. Without my Mom’s knowledge, every evening when she left for his other job, I also left the house to work as a part-time helper in a restaurant near our place. I worked as a dishwasher and realized that the job was not easy at all. I can feel the sweat flowing at my back as I work. But then, I decided to stay and keep working so I can buy the wants that Mom refused to provide. I am paid every day after my four-hour- shift and made sure that I got home before Mom arrived at 12mn. I was paid ten dollars every night for four hours and I kept and hid it from my Mom. The owner who happens to be Mom’s friend luckily agreed that we can keep it a secret. Months went on and I enjoyed my life with having money of my own to buy the things that I want. I knew Mom saw the things that I have and I wondered why she never asked me where I got the money.

Until one day, as I am very busy washing a pile of soiled dishes and working hard till it pains my hands, I got wounded by a broken plate and sliced my hand accidentally. The owner ordered me to go home for the night and rest my wounded hand.

I was astonished to see my Mom waiting for me outside the restaurant.

She looked not so happy at all.

I felt half guilty. Only half as I knew to myself I wouldn’t be doing this if only she gives me money for the things that I want and not just for what I need. I really feel that it is my right. To be loved and well provided. I got in the car with a door that Mom opened and she drove safely to the house without a word.

I can feel the tension between us. I am holding my wounded palm as it ached a bit and I saw her glance my way every now and then. I noticed her mood changes from being worried and being mad a couple of times.

I sighed. I know and I understand my Mom that being a single mother is not an easy job. I know! I am not blind! I just couldn’t understand why she is so stiff when she has me to share it with. “Sit.” She ordered me as soon as we went inside the house. I sat on the couch with a grumpy face. Selfish as I am, I blamed everything for her. I even thought that maybe the reason my Dad left us is because of her stiff attitude. I saw her go out from the kitchen with the medicine kit in hand. Without a word, she took my wounded hand and peel off the bandage. I looked away as I felt pained and closed my eyes to endure it. I can feel her soft hands, carefully cleaned the wound and applied topical antibiotics on it before she covered it again with new clean gauze and bandage. Then, I heard her cried softly and felt my hands wet.

I opened my eyes and confirmed that my mother is crying. For the first time in my sixteen years, I saw my Mom’s weak side. I could not utter a word.

I am speechless.

I felt guilty. It was the first time that I was able to see her face this close. My Mom is pretty but she looked so tired and stressed out.

I wonder when was the last time she took care of herself.

She wiped her tears with the back of her palm. There goes that stiff face again. “This will be your last night working there. I already talked to the owner and she will have someone to replace you starting tomorrow.” I sighed. I know this time would come.

“For as long as you live with me, you have no right to keep secrets. You are my daughter and as your mother, it is my responsibility to feed, to dress you, and to provide you everything you need. You have no right to ask me and you will just need to do as I say. Once you finish college and get a job then you can decide to be on your own.” “Why am I not allowed to ask you questions Mom?”I asked even though at the back of my mind, I know what answer I will get. “Because I am your mother and because I said so.” She said without looking at me.

“I am so unlucky to have a selfish Mom like you,” I said without thinking and walked away from her.

I slammed the door and left her, unknowingly she cried all night. It has been 5 years since I left home and I decided to work abroad after I finished college. This will be the first time that I am going home to my Mom.

I am now a successful interior designer and have established my career in Italy. I am one of the highest-paid interior designers in the field. Going home to Florida, my homeland brings back so many memories. I took the letters out that Aunt Lucille sent to me. Aunt Lucille is my mom’s best friend. I am not understanding why Mom needs to keep everything a secret. I blink my eyes not to shed a tear that was about to fall. I never know how my Mom suffered. She explained in one of her letters that she doesn’t want me to feel sorry for her.

My mother was a rape victim and she kept it all to herself. She flew all the way to Florida on her own so her parents would not know. She lied to everybody to avoid shame and criticism. That is what she wrote. She has been writing these letters since I was born, hoping that she can say it to me but she decided not to as she doesn’t want me to carry the burden. That is why she is stiff and pretends to be a brave Mom. I felt so ashamed for being a selfish daughter all these years. And now, she is very sick.

My stubborn lady is ill. Looking at her frail face, my tears shed un endlessly. I kneeled down beside her and kissed her hands. She opened her eyes and smiled lovingly. She caressed my face and I can’t help but cry more. “Why didn’t you allow me to help you carry the burden Mom? Why did you not trust me that I will understand? Why didn’t you tell me that you worked four jobs just to give me everything I need? Why did you just tell me now that you are sick? Why? Won’t you allow me to take care of you?” I saw her smile sadly and wiped my tears that flow like a river. “These tears are the reason why. I never wished to see you sad. I just wanted you to always keep your life, like what you are doing now. Soar high, my child. Mom is so proud of what you have become.” With those words, I cried harder. “Here.” She handed me a passbook and sobbing I took it to read. I am so surprised!

She has saved a million dollars and the name in the bank is Chloe Margaritte Schilly.

I looked at her and she smiled.

“Mom this is too much! Let us go get some doctor specialists to cure you. With all this money, you will be healthy again, Mom.” I cried for hope, but she shook her head. “No, no Chloe. That is yours, Used it so you can start a business and be the boss. Remember every time I declined your wants? That is where I put it in. Just remember to know your priorities. You can always live without your wants but you will not live without your needs.” “Mom, can I say no to that? And choose to have you instead? I need you, Mom.”

“ I love you, always and forever my little girl. But no, you have to do as I say. Because I am your mother who knows what is best for you. You have to follow me because I said so.” Tears of regrets and deep sorrow. I blamed myself for being too focused on my happiness then, that I forgot to take care of my stubborn lady whose life was dedicated to me. I will forever be sorry and grateful to my mother and I will continuously live to her rules for as long as I live.

Because she is my mother, who wants nothing but the best for me and I will follow her because she said so.


Ted Freely stood atop the world, looking down at all that was his. By *the world*, I mean his world. By *his world*, I mean 2 square miles of feces infested, homeless ridden filth and squalor in a once beautiful Southern California beach town. He was right at home. But truthfully, it wasn’t quite all his yet. The votes were still being counted. Ted was a tall, rotund man who’s heavy breathing could be heard with every step he took. But frankly, he didn’t give a fuck. He was standing on a deck with that cheap, tacky white plastic outdoor furniture. Behind him, sitting in one of those chairs, was a man who was the closest thing Ted had to a friend. His name was Ricky Cobble. Ricky was a short and slender, meek young man. He didn’t quite know how he ended up as Ted’s campaign manager… Or Ted’s friend… Or Ted’s acquaintance. But he tried to make the most of it. “Never in all my years did I think I’d make it here Ricky. They all doubted me. They’ve always doubted me.” Ted pensively boasted, addressing Ricky but really just talking to himself. “My father used to tell me I was good for two things: laughing at attempts to squeeze me into a car seat as a child, and eating all the junk food in the house to keep him from eating it, so he’d stay lean and healthy.” He snickered to himself, “Who’s laughing now, Dad?” Ricky held his phone to his ear, “Ok… ok… yes… yes…. I understand… thank you.” He hangs up. “Well?! Don’t just sit there staring at me! Did I win?!” Ted had left his calm mob boss stance at the head of the deck to manically approach Ricky, now towering over him. Ricky’s mouth couldn’t form words, he was too stricken with equal parts excitement and fear. He formed a wide mouth closed smile at Ted. Ted’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I did it.” *-3 Months Earlier-* Ted Freely spent his days doing a little of this, a little of that. He hadn’t had a job in years. He lived off of disability checks from the government that he started getting when he pulled off the best case of injury fraud the state of California had ever seen. When that wasn’t enough to pay the bills, he’d sell a little weed. Or meth. Or really whatever he was able to get from the other dealers down at the beach. Then he’d take it downtown and flip it. Ted’s ingenuity and street smarts were about the only positive things most people could attribute to him. Old Bill Skeeter over on Hoover street once ran Ted down with his Pit Bulls, Gunther and Roger, after Ted fleeced him out of $6,000 through one of those pyramid scheme pitches people give to their friends and family. When Skeeter finally cornered Ted and demanded the money, Ted said he didn’t have it, he said he had to use the money to pay for his mother’s heart operation or she was going to die. He promised Skeeter he’d pay him back every penny. Skeeter had a soft heart in his old age and agreed to turning the theft into a loan, while also not letting Gunter and Roger feast on Ted’s ham-like calves. Skeeter died 2 months later from a stroke, and unsurprisingly, Ted’s mother never had nor needed a heart operation. Ted had immediately used the $6,000 to finance a week-long bender in Vegas with a surly hooker he had just met named Dynasty. Dynasty was turning tricks behind an Arby’s when Ted pulled up and decided he’d found love that week. It was a hot July afternoon when Ted first decided his destiny was local political glory. As he waddled down a street of palm trees and downtrodden one story buildings, shoving a bacon covered glazed donut down his throat, he felt a *squish* beneath his dirty flip flops. Ted stopped in his tracks and lifted his foot, managing to get a look at the sole without falling over. And just as he realized that he had just walked over a creamy pile of human shit, he heard laughter coming from right next to him. A man on the sidewalk, leaned against an old commercial building, was cackling at the sight of Ted’s misfortune. The man’s name was Charlie, he had been a local homeless man for years, and was known by many of the locals, as were a handful of the other homeless. Anyway, Ted was seeing red. “Well look at that! HA HA HA real funny, right? You know what else is funny? How about the fact my shoe still smells better than you. You got the nerve to laugh at me? The only joke here is your life, pal!” Ted was red in the face shouting like a maniac, now himself looking like a crazy homeless person. “Hey, at least I don’t have poop on my shoes!” Charlie belted out through roaring laughter. “Fuck you! Get a job you damn leech!” Ted yelled. “Fuck off Ted, your fatass doesn’t work either. Only difference between you and me is you inherited a place to live here. You’d be eating cheetos right next to me here if it weren’t for your Daddy leaving you that big ol’ house.” Charlie was still laughing at Ted. Ted’s tone was quieter but still forceful, “My tax dollars paid for those Cheetos you ungrateful son of a bitch. I’m so sick of this shit. We real people let you… things… run around and do whatever you want all day, all off the sweat of our hard work. It truly disgusts me.” Ted started to turn his head away, staring blankly off into the distance, he was doing that thing where he really just starts talking to himself out loud. “Something has to change here. This town is falling apart at the seams. There’s shit on the sidewalk, bums lining the beaches, and nobody does a damn thing about it. Where are our leaders? When is someone going to step up and do something?!” Ted was yelling again, and as he ranted, a bus pulled up alongside him and Charlie. Plastered across the bus was the face of a man who Ted recognized… a man who was truly good, a family man with a strong moral compass, a man who would take the shirt off his back for a neighbor. The man was everything that Ted wasn’t, and Ted knew it. The man’s name was Jack Huberville, and just as his name appeared on the bus beneath the sprawling picture of his face, the text that followed read “I need your vote for Rocky Beach Mayor, let's make our town perfect!” Ted starred in bitter disgust at the image. “You gotta be shitting me. This guy is running for mayor?! I know this asshole.” Ted pointed to the picture and looked blankly at Charlie. “So?” “So?! So I went to high school with him. He got me suspended in 9th grade. The little bitch told on me for stealing Ms. Hanslett’s medication.” “Didn't she pass away from her illness?” “Damnit Charlie, will you pay attention?! This rat bastard is going to take our town straight to hell.” “He seems alright to me,” Charlie shrugged as he joyfully popped a Cheeto in his mouth. “Well of course you do. He’s the kind of guy that says he wants to sing Kumbaya with your people, but then when you come over to his little meet and greet event, they take you out back and bash your skull in with the George Forman grills they promised you. Then they perform all sorts of twisted experiments on your corpses. I know his type, Charlie” “You got somewhere to be, Ted? Weren’t you walking somewhere?” Charlie asked, now annoyed and itching to get back to his drug fueled sun bathing. “You know what Charlie. I think for the first time in my life… I know exactly where I need to be.” Ted took one last sloppy bite of his donut and emphatically tossed it to the side, unintentionally hitting Charlie in the nose with it. Then he took off walking like a soldier headed to his post. For the first time in his life, Ted Freely had a purpose: he must destroy Jack Huberville.


My secret was suddenly split open when a cloaked man approached me with my birth name. This name was written somewhere safe, secret in the forest. There weren’t many of us in these recent times, those who honored the trees. The young man approached with his spine pulled up tall and shoulders square with a jar full of opaque, gold, thick liquid in his hand. His vibrant, green eyes bore into me, making the hair on my neck stand on end. There was a glimmer of knowledge, and I felt as if he was a wolf and I a rabbit. I had felt the liquid approaching but was unsure as to how. The tree held my secrets; I suspect the man was aware of this. Let me take you back about 10 years. I was in my early 20’s running from a life of abuse and captivity. In my desperate need for escape, for freedom, I ran to the woods that was warned about in hushed whispers. Looking back, I can see the naivety in my actions; however, I also knew whatever I ran into, even the most feared and hated wood, it was better than where I had been. Once I dashed past the first few layers of the trees the wood enveloped, captivated, enchanted me. Somehow it even guarded my ears from the yells and screams of those who hunted me. This is what the elders of the manor had warned about, this hazed and distant feeling that overcame you once you stepped into the demonic forest. The smell of it drifted into my nose like a warm, muddy day on the farm, but instead of feeling terror the aroma made me feel as if I was being gathered up in the most inviting way. Instinctively, I knew I needed to keep climbing over the roots and stumps to make it deeper into the woodland. With each labored step that took me over branches and gnarled rocks, I was looking upwards towards the sky while tripping here and there. I couldn’t see much of the sky but to me it appeared as a canopy of open dreams. The different hues of green captivated me, they shimmered and shined as the sun leaked through the small cracks between the leaves and branches. It was enough to keep my brain distracted from the conflict growing within me. All my life I was warned that this place was dangerous, that this place would ruin and kill me. As I walked through it, I continued to feel more at peace than I had ever been in the most sacred sanctuaries in our town. This baffled me. According to my teachings I should be terrified now due to the fact that I had traveled for more than a few hours into this forsaken forest. Ironically, I felt the safest I had felt in all my life. I don’t know if the forest protected me or the men had just lost hope of finding me, but eventually I was no longer able to hear the cries of those hunting me. Somehow I knew that it wasn’t just the life of the forest guarding me, the men were truly gone. It felt as if the thick, aqueous, albeit invisible shield that had been protecting me and muffling the noises had disappeared. The most prominent sounds were the wind whistling past the branches and the leaves fluttering in a consuming sound of singing and laughter. Without knowing what the environment and its beings were talking about in the breeze, I could feel they meant me no harm. At the farm the men mostly ventured into the wood to cut down trees for houses, carts, and firewood. They would speak of men being ripped apart by the trees and warn the small children of the dangerous trees. They spoke of trees coming to life and chasing them, murdering them. In my short time in this wood, I did not feel the same terror the men rumored existed. I felt as if the canopy and trunks were opening up and inviting me in. After a few more hours moving towards an unknown destination, I realized I was growing weary after the adrenaline to keep running away from danger had diminished. Coincidentally, it happened at the moment I found a small patch of grass, no bigger than a large bed, beneath five of the most welcoming trees. They were twice my height; bark marbled with whites, browns, and blues; and their swaying branches covered the top of the grass perfectly from any sun poking its way through. I laid down and slept for an unknown amount of time. When I awoke, five trees had become eleven. They appeared to have shifted around me and blocked me in. Their curiosity about my human form was palpable, I am fairly sure humans had never made it this far alive. They were watching me with interest, not malice. “Ummm… hi….. trees”, I eventually squeaked out of my voice box. “Welcome”, their leaves sang in unison in a melodic chorus. I froze. Confused. Did I just hear their leaves talk? “Mhhmmm”, their branches nodded and hummed. Frozen, blank, because my question was not spoken. How can they read my mind? “We are you and you are us” they informed me, but this answered less questions than it created. I must have held a blank, baffled expression. How could these things, these trees be me? How could they be me, I be them, and we be us? This was a confusing moment for me. The trees just continued to sway and dance in the gentle breeze. Still, I felt a complete lack of fear, just confusion. I knew I was still safer here than back on the farm. One of the trees shifted around one of the much larger eleven trees to shyly peer at me with unseen eyes. Needless to say, the humanoid-like movement of the tree caused me to scream like a princess while my vision got very fuzzy and discolored. Next I remember waking up in the lovely soft grass that had somehow grown even plusher. The same tree was bending at the groove where the trunk meets the branches to look down over me. “hhhhhhh——aarrrreeeeeee yooouuuuuu oooooooooook?” The leaves on it breathed in slowly. “Startled, but ok” I told the tree and its leaves. We both looked, if you can call what this tree was doing looking, at each other. I shifted in the grass, sitting up, and looking around to see if the other trees were still there. Nobody else had moved. I didn’t know where to go from here. I didn’t know what to say. The tree broke the silence but instead of speaking aloud I heard him in my heart, or was that my brain? “I want to keep you safe, to protect you always. Let me have your true name to keep within my branches, sealed within my bark, and you will be free of the prison you were sold to”, he pleaded with me in an earnest tone. Without hesitation I told this friendly, young tree, “I believe you, please, take my name”, and so the tree wrapped its branches around me tightly. Its bark sliced into my skin and then itself ripped open. My blood seeped into its sap and its life slipped into me. This is where my true name has been for the last few centuries, that is until the man standing in front of me recently walked into this place. I was simply craving a lovely meal before my journey at the cafe below my lodgings, but this stranger had to make an entrance and an interruption. I watched this man with the jar of thick, golden liquid continues to walk towards me. My face remains flat, emotionless, or at least I hope for the tree’s sake. My concern was about what happened to the tree that chose to have a human as its life mate. Was the tree still alive? Is the tree simply hurt? What happened to my partner? The man clearly hunted me down for a reason, I just hope for his sake the forest is unharmed. The forest was my family after the events in the glade. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel safe. I do not feel safe with my own kind like I did with the supposed frightful wood. “Sit”, he finally demands while waving his hand to a nearby table. I saunter over to the recommended table, and sit at the one next to it instead. A staff member brings a plate of the fluffiest pancakes I had ever seen stacked into four towers, a bowl of scrambled eggs, several bowls of fresh fruit, sausage patties, stacks of toast, sizzling bacon, and freshly churned butter to the table. She sets everything down, lays the place setting with knives, forks, plates, then gives a small curtsy to the man, and swiftly turns and walks away. “Not yet” he commands the young, shaking girl. “Coffee, black for me, some for my guest here, as well as a pitcher of orange juice”, he states without looking at her. She scurries into the kitchen. The man had been leaning on the back of the chair opposite the table from myself. He continued to move the jar of liquid in his hands, never taking his eyes off me. He then steps to the side of his chair and before sitting down, slams the jar on the table causing the plates and bowls to jump off and back down. Nothing spills or falls off the table. He then sits slowly laughing at nothing in particular. “I don’t know about you, but I adore having my pancakes swimming in syrup”, he announces while slowly removing the lid from the jar, “Are you ready to have breakfast, just the two of us? Oh my apologies, three of us” he speaks with wicked pleasure.


Reflection, a time to look back on a year that was filled with so many amazing moments and moments that weren't amazing. A time to move foreword, to look to a New Year for new beginnings. My name is Jaylen, 2022 for me was a year filled with so many ups and downs. Now as I sit here in my apartment looking out of the window watching the world get ready for the New Year, I look back on the year that was and get ready for the year to come. The year began like any other year with a big party, lots of good food, lots of drinking and lots of dancing. It was an amazing time. I never had so much fun in my life. But then as I started to begin my life in the New Year, I get the worst possible news. My beloved Granny passed away. I was stunned. I was heartbroken. I cried for days. I shut everyone out including my best friend Chase. My Gran was my world. She raised me to be the woman I am. She taught me about responsibility and working hard. She always use to tell me to follow my dreams and to never give up on my dreams. My fondest memory of my Gran was during the holiday season. We were always in the kitchen baking cakes and cookies. Gran was one special woman. I miss her so much. After Gran passed away, I gave up on my dreams of becoming a photo journalist. I couldn't do it anymore, not without Gran. She gave me my first camera and ever since then my love for taking pictures took off. You will always see me with a camera in my hands. During the next couple of months since My Gran's passing Chase has been coming to my apartment to check up on me, to bring me food and just talking to me. Chase was Gran's favorite person other than me. Me and Chase talked about the many things we did together as kids. We laughed at the many crazy things we did together. Me and Chase live in the same apartment building. He lives two floors up from me but we haven't spent as much time together. Since Gran passed, I've been seeing Chase a lot. I don't blame Chase for not hanging out with me. He has a busy life. I guess my depression brought Chase back to me. When spring arrived Chase came to see me. He told me it's time to get out of my depression and start doing what I love to do, taking pictures. I knew Chase was right. My depression was getting the best of me. I didn't know how to cope without Gran and that's what I told Chase. Chase grabbed me by the hand and told me "I'm here for you Jaylen. You still got me." For the first time in a long time, I smiled. I smiled because Chase never gave up on me. On a beautiful Saturday afternoon Chase came and took me and my camera to the park. At first I didn't want to go but Chase encouraged me and I took the first step to a normal life. You know what Chase was right. We got to the park. I saw the many happy smiling people. Chase handed me my camera. I took it and took my first picture in a long time. I cried not because of Gran but for me missing out on what I love to do. Chase came to me and hugged me. He told me everything is going to be alright and it's not too late to continue to follow my dreams, that's what I did. My camera and of course Chase became my two best friends. I began to take pictures of my neighborhood, the people and of Chase. My portfolio began to grow. I showed Chase my portfolio. He was happy and excited to see my work. He loved the pictures I took including those of himself. He asked me what my next steps were. I told him I sent my pictures to a few magazines including Time and People. My life was looking up all thanks to Chase. He never gave up on me and he taught me not to give up on myself just like Gran did. By the summer I received an email from People Magazine saying they love my work and want to see me in person for an interview. I looked up at the sky and said Gran, I did it. Next, I went to see Chase and told him the good news. Chase was happy for me, that night he took me out to dinner and helped me prepare for my interview. Chase gave me pointers on how to talk and how to act. I took it all in. The day of my interview came. I was extremely nervous. I really wanted the job. I called Chase, he told me not to worry and to believe in myself. I knew with Chase by side this job would be mine. I put on my best clothes and left for the interview. You know what happened next. They loved me and my work. I got the job. I couldn't believe how well I was doing. 2022 started off bad but now I'm on top of the world. I still miss Gran but I have Chase with me. I called Chase the moment I got out of my interview. He was proud of me. I got my dream job. Fall arrived and with that came Halloween. I was going to spend Halloween by myself instead Chase invited me to his friend's party. I went as a modern-day version of Cinderella. Chase went as something scary. He picked me up from my apartment and together we went to the party. I had the time of my life. Being with Chase has opened me up to the possibility of love, something I never felt before. Chase has opened up my heart. Me and Gran always use to spend Thanksgiving together, now I had no one to spend Thanksgiving with. Then Chase came and invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. I jumped at the chance to go. We went back to the old neighborhood which brought back a lot of memories of me and Gran. Chase's family was amazing. I relayed missed his sister Lucy and his mother's cooking was so delicious. I laughed at every one of his dad's jokes. I loved this Thanksgiving but Gran not being here was making me sad. Chase came to me and hugged me. Being in his arms took away the pain of missing Gran. Thanksgiving was over and the Holidays were upon us. Me and Chase helped each other out in the decoration department. By the time we were done both our apartments looked like Christmas. Now I had to get Chase a present. I couldn't find anything I liked for Chase. So, I decided to make Chase a photo album of this past year we spent together. When I finished the photo album it looked beautiful. I pray that Chase would love it. Chase once again invited me to his parent's house for Christmas. I was excited to go. Christmas Eve came and like clock work Chase came to pick me up. We arrived at his parent's house just in time for dinner. Dinner was amazing, the company was great. When it was time to open presents, I gave Chase mine first. He opened it and just as I hoped he would Chase liked my present. I opened his present next. Chase gave me a charm bracelet. I loved it. The next day, Christmas Day Chase took me to the cemetery to visit Gran. I brought Gran's favorite flower Camellia. I placed them on her grave. I sat down in front of Gran's grave and began to talk to Gran. I told Gran everything that's been happening to me. I tell her Chase is in my life and he's been inspiring me to do incredible things. Last thing I tell Gran is that I miss her and I love her. Then me and Chase left the cemetery holding hands. Christmas is over and here we are New Year's Eve. A lot has happened to me this past year from Gran's passing to Chase coming back into my life to getting my dream job. 2022 was a rollercoaster ride. To make 2023 even more special, there is one thing I have been wishing for and that is a kiss from my prince when the clock strikes twelve. I go to my room and put on my best clothes, a little make-up and fix my hair. I look at myself in the mirror. Jaylen, you look beautiful. I check the time. Oh My God! It's almost twelve. I leave my apartment and walk to the elevator. I push the button and wait for the elevator to come down. Two minutes later the elevator doors open. I enter and push the button for the 7th floor. I check the time, it's 11:53 seven minutes until the New Year. The elevator door opens. I walk to Chase's apartment. The music is still playing. I walk to the apartment door, open it and walk in. Chase is standing by the window. I check the time, it's 11:56 four minutes to midnight. I'm getting nervous. Jaylen, you can do this. I walk to Chase. He sees me and begins to walk towards me. "Jaylen, you look beautiful." 'Thanks. You look handsome." It's mere seconds until midnight. Chase grabs my hand. We begin the count down 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1, Chase kisses me. I kiss him back. "Happy New Year Jaylen." "Happy New Year Chase." Me and Chase kiss once more


People were gathering their books and leaving the library. A seventeen year old girl, Eloise with long brown hair, a bleeding lip and bruised forehead was sitting behind a cluster of books, glancing around, nervously. She had no intentions to leave the place and return to the demons. She loved the library, it was her refuge. How tragic! If only she’d deduce something from the large hunters moon visible from the large window. . . . The thick leafed branches concealed him. His black cloak protected him from gazes, of the passersby and the unseen. Tonight, he thought. It’s got to be tonight, the book’s in da nger. I can’t wait another year. He glared at the clock needles dancing, the people fading away, the lights turning off. It’s got to be tonight. . . . “Pack up your stuff, the library’s closing in ten minutes.” the fat librarian peered at her. Her warning made Eloise reconsider her decision. It’s never wise to be locked up in a closed building all night. But is it wise to go back to the place called home and watch the cane make beautiful red marks on your skin? She didn’t have a choice. Of course, she’d stay at the library. The librarian was absorbed in her computer. Eloise grabbed her bag and tip toed to the back of the library, halting to face the shelf stacked with old books that no one touches. She pulled a blue one. The book shelf slid noiselessly to reveal a small wooden door. Inside was a dark tunnel leading to the cellar. Eloise crouched on the dark stairs, beside two large oil barrels and watched the light leave as the bookshelf slid back. Outside, the remaining people left. The librarian turned of lights, locked the doors and left. Moonlight illuminated the books. . . . He watched the librarian leave. He felt something, if it was possible for a man like him to feel. The old woman, sitting at the librarians’ desk, her soft voice, her motherly care as she used to ask him if everything’s alright, he was living those hours again. He shook it off quickly, reminding himself of the job. The whole street was deserted by now. The moon was visible just above the dome of the library building. He glided to the door. It wasn’t hard to break the locks. It was hard to enter the library. As his eyes swept across the room he swallowed hard. His eyes were burning and he wanted to kill himself for it. Kill him? When was he alive? This library was the place where he had been taking refuge for all his horrible years. And this was the beloved place he chose for his final ceremony. The shaking legs took him to the first row. He turned his attention to the book. Master had said it was here. He began snatching books, squinting at their cover and throwing them behind him. Loud thuds filled the library. . . . Eloise heart hammered. The small place was choking her, she was sweating. Somebody’s in the library, and he doesn’t sound gentle. Her mind stormed with hundreds of possibilities, half of which only happens in books and all of them horrible. The thuds paused. Footsteps came near her. She tried to move, to run downstairs but her body wouldn’t let her. The thuds gave her a panic attack. They were so similar to the sounds she hears at the house, when her foster parents are drunk. She hated wine. It made people unaccountable for their deeds. It made them animals. She wasn’t crouched in the dark anymore. She was in her dining room. Things came flying at her. The shouts hurt her ears. She was crying, desperately trying to get away. It hadn’t been to days since her mother died. She had thought these people were good. They’d help her, love her like a daughter. Is that what we’ve come to? The so smart humans, is this how they treat orphans? The man’s face came to her view. He had a cane in his hands. She screamed and screamed. He kept hitting her. The woman was shouting how she’s a burden and should’ve died with her parents. Eloise was screaming like mad. Her hand was bleeding; she had bitten it to stop herself from screaming. She was sweating, breathing heavily. The flashbacks were over and now the present fear welcomed her. She listened intently. All was silent. The thumping had stopped. . . .  He could not believe his eyes. He could not believe what he held in his hand was the battered mahogany book written on it with golden runes. He’s found it. Now was the time to recite spells. He gathered about ten books and set them on fire. The library glowed in orange. He stood in the midst, a dark figure. The fire died leaving only ashes. He took the black powder in his hand and made a large symbol on the floor. . . . Everything was silent. The phantom must’ve gone. Eloise gathered up the courage to leave the cave. She stood up, taking deep breath and knocked on the wall thrice. It slid open, revealing a dark, messed up library. Who had been there and what he had been doing, she couldn’t fathom. She stepped out, hesitating. Something didn’t feel right. Now what was she gonna do? Go to that house? It wasn’t her home. The library was her home. The books were her family. She’d stay here. She was just thinking when a red orange glow illuminated the library. Eloise froze. They hadn’t left. She tip toed to the source of light and peeped from behind a bookshelf. A tall thin man fully covered in black cloak was sitting in the midst of a strange symbol he’d drawn from ashes. His hands were red, blood was dripping from his fingers. There was more blood filled in a silver cup. At the intersection points of the line in the symbol he had placed a curiously folded burning paper. About thirty scorpions were crawling around him. He had a mahogany book in his hands. He was mumbling something. Despite the eerie setting Eloise was not scared anymore. She was curious. She wanted the book. She wanted to know what demons he was trying to summon. She already knew much about demons. She had met many diabolical men. She believed drinking made men possessed, with a demon they always had within themselves. The man started grumbling loudly. “Errr hiuhbhj kkkij nuass kkkij.” he sounded a deep throat whistle. The fire turned blue. “Rrremmeesss errr kech errr kijj.” he shouted, hands outstretched. He started trembling badly. His hood fell, revealing his pale gnarled head and long black hair. Eloise gaped. Her whole body tensed with the hatred she felt for this man. The fire turned red and fierce around him. He kept on mumbling, reading from that book. He took a deep breath before shouting the last verse. “Ummessss errr kijjj. Ennn nuas rijjh dechh gijjjh!” he passed out. His head fell back with a thud. The fire died instantly. Smoke fogged he air. It was time for Eloise to act. Her parents would love to meet the demon. . . . He was at their shop, his brothers and his. They were angry. His head hung lower. “We can’t Vlad.” a muscly man, his eldest brother said. “You’ll ruin us. You’ve got to go.” “What will I do?” I’ve nowhere. Don’t kick me out lick this.” “We’ll help but we can’t have you in our business anymore. You’re ruining us.” He walked out without a word. They were his brothers; they’ve spent their whole life together. Now they were kicking him out for money. He was in the bathroom, vomiting blood. He gazed at his yellow face. The illness was devouring him. He was at home. His wife was packing up stuff leaving. He had no job, no money not even enough to pay rent. She had a decent salary. She was also leaving taking his seven year old daughter with her, not that he ever liked her. He was roaming on the streets, covered in dirt and soot. His heart burning with the desire for all the things he wanted but couldn’t get. His mind was sore, his eyes trying to turn people to stone. They have it all. They got it because…they had power. Power, he thought, the way to pleasure. . . . Eloise was standing beside the unconscious man. She extended her hand tentatively to get the book from his grasp. He did not wake, which made Eloise wonder if he’s dead. Will she even cry if he died? She opened the book and sighed. It was written in runes. This man couldn’t even summon a demon, what am I gonna do? Thankfully I’m in a library. But before she could do anything else the man started shaking violently. He wasn’t waking up but something was happening to him. She saw a –what was it? His soul or a demon- leave his body. It was dark red and misty. She didn’t understand. Was this the demon? Why’s it coming out of the man’s body? Then she grinned. She’d been right all this time. We are our own demons. It couldn’t be true. Her demons were her foster parent. Or…were they? She could almost see herself as she was that night, screaming at her frail old mother with a heart disease. “I don’t care! I don’t care for your damn poverty, I want money.” she was shouting, knowing well they couldn’t afford a new laptop. “Everyone in my class has got one but –“ “Eloise,” her mother said in a weak voice, “I’ll get you next month. I’m promising.” “NO! The seminars this week, I can’t take that broken thing to the seminar!” “Don’t worry, dear.” her mother sighed. “I’ll go and manage. Don’t worry.” She left the house and didn’t return until midnight. When she came she had a brand new laptop in her hands. Eloise was pleased. All was well, until she died. She had a heart attack. It wasn’t really a surprise everybody knew her health was deteriorating. And they didn’t need the doctor to tell them that she hadn’t been talking her medicines for a month. After spending half her salary on the laptop how could she have bought he expensive medicines? Suddenly, Eloise hated herself more than the man. She hated them for being demons. The dark red mist was still hovering above his unconscious body. She hated it too. What good it was, a monument of their lust and a torment to others. She used his lighter to set fire to a book and hurled it towards the demon. The man screamed and woke up. His eyes found Eloise. Before she could run she was in his grasp. Then tied and put away from his shrine. She had to do something she had to destroy this place, these books. That he used to love and now she loves. What good were these books that couldn’t stop them from becoming demons? If only she had…her mind displayed a vivid image the oil barrels beside which she had been crouching. . . . Vlad bowed in front of his demon. “I shall have all the dark power tonight.” He placed four pieces of hair in the center of the ash symbol. “Burn them. Kill them. Rid the earth of their stinking soul.” Red light filled the library. He looked around in shock. There were flames everywhere and in the midst stood Eloise. A single tear was glowing on her cheeks. “Whose hairs are they?” she asked. “Mums? Uncles? Mine?” He stared at her and murmured something. The fire kept growing fiercer. “Why d’you want to kill us dad?” her voice was shaky. She was crying. “First you kept beating mum so she had to leave you. You cheated on uncles business. Now you’re gonna kill them?” “Eloise?” the man breathed. “Let’s not do it anymore. We’ve been bad enough.” They stood in the midst. Fire ate up everything around them. Their demons suffered hell.


Kate looked around in appreciation. The pub was a historic building with a dark beamed ceiling and uneven walls. She scanned the crowd, almost missing Louis until she realized he was in a snug alcove where the conversation of the other patrons and the Christmas music were a pleasant background noise. He jumped to his feet as she approached, rocking the table, a delighted smile spreading over his face. Kate smiled back. He reminded her of a goofy puppy, tall and lanky with a mop of dark curls. “This is a lovely place,” she said. "Great atmosphere." “Do you come here often? Sorry, that’s such a cliché,” he said as he helped her off with her coat. “A colleague at work told me about it. I’m not much of a drinker, so I didn’t know where to meet, though I’m not trying to say that everyone in a pub is a heavy drinker. Speaking of that, what will you have? Please be specific because I don’t know anything about drinks.” “I’d have been fine meeting in a coffee shop. Anywhere but in a fast-food restaurant. A glass of white wine would be wonderful.” She watched him navigate the crowd to the bar, with many apologies for stepping on toes and jostling people. With bated breath she watched him thread his way back with two glasses of wine and sighed in relief as he set them down safely on the table. “I was just happy that you agreed to meet me at all after I spilled that coffee over you at the staff meeting,” he said, raising his glass. “Thank goodness you were wearing that dull brown outfit, so the stain didn’t show too much.” “Dull brown?” said Kate. “Are you saying I looked drab?” Louis flushed. “Of course not. That dress matched your hair, kind of mouse brown…” “So, my hair reminds you of rodents? It's okay, I’m joking,” she said as she noticed his mortified expression. Louis ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, and sighed. “I’m not good at small talk as you can see. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.” Kate smiled. “That’s refreshing. I’m suspicious of guys who are too glib. I’ve been burned once or twice after falling for the smooth talk. Tell me about you.” Louis looked at her cautiously. “You really want to hear about me?” Kate nodded encouragingly. “Not much to tell,” he said. “I have my own apartment and two cats. I volunteer at the animal shelter. I do better with animals than people. All they care about is if you feed them and you’re kind to them. They don’t judge you.” “And they don’t expect small talk,” said Kate, laughing. “I’m a cat person too, though I don’t have one at the moment. My roommate’s allergic to them.” “Perhaps you’d like to see my cats?” “That’s a better line than asking me to see your etchings.” Louis looked at her, worried. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be forward. I just thought that if you can’t have your own cat, you might like to spend some time with mine…I mean, I would hate not to have cats…I don’t want you to think I have other things in mind…though any normal guy would have, and I am normal, but I didn’t invite you out just to talk about cats. I suppose I sound like a crazy cat person now...or maybe just a crazy person." He paused for breath and took a gulp of wine. “Quality cat time is important,” said Kate. “I get it.” “I must admit I had a glass of wine before you got here, for courage. I thought it might make the conversation easier, but I sound just as stupid as usual.” There was a long awkward pause. “Hey, stop beating yourself up,” Kate finally said gently. “What else do you like besides cats? Do you travel?” “I love hiking and nature,” he said. “I do too,” said Kate. “What trails have you done?” Louis happily launched into a long anecdote about his most recent trip, then suddenly broke off. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could hardly wait to get here and talk to you away from work, and now I’m doing nothing but talk about me. What about you?” “You really wanted to talk to me? What took you so long? We’ve worked together for almost a year now. I assumed you had a girlfriend since you never seemed interested in any of us girls at work.” He looked at her as if unsure whether he was going to be praised or scolded. The puppy image came to Kate’s mind again and she smothered a smile. “You know, MeToo and all that. I didn’t want to be that creepy guy at work who's trying to get too personal. The other girls are fine, but you were the one who seemed special…sorry, I don’t want to overstep.” Kate rubbed her forehead. It had been a long day. Puppies were cute but exhausting, what with all the apologizing and reassuring. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Early start tomorrow.” “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he said, knocking his chair over as he jumped to his feet and proffered her coat. The pub had been steadily filling up, but Louis cleared a path through the crowd to the doorway and held the door for Kate. She had to admit that she did appreciate his good manners and respect. A blast of icy wind hit them as they stepped outside. Kate’s eyes began to water in the cold. Momentarily blinded by tears, she stopped to fumble in her pocket for a tissue and suddenly found herself face down on the pavement as someone cannoned into her from behind. Winded, she lifted her head in time to see a figure making off with her purse. Before she could even draw breath to yell, she saw Louis leap forward like a gazelle, racing after the receding figure before tackling him to the ground. Concerned bystanders helped her to her feet just as a pair of police officers charged by. They took over from Louis, who, somewhat breathless, had been sitting on the mugger’s chest. He got up and began talking to them. Dazed as she was, Kate noticed that there was nothing uncoordinated or inarticulate about him now. He returned to her, holding out her handbag, smiling broadly until he noticed that Kate was shivering violently. “Are you okay?” he said in concern. Kate nodded, her teeth chattering. “I-I-I’m not hurt. It was j-just a bit of a shock and it’s freezing out here.” “Listen, my apartment is very near. I can make you a hot drink and call you a cab when you feel better… that is, if you'd like me to? I’m not trying to take advantage," he said hesitantly. Kate nodded and gratefully took his arm. His apartment was literally round the corner and contrary to Kate’s experience of single guys’ places, was clean, comfortable and well decorated. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “Hot chocolate or mulled cider?” “Chocolate would be great,” she said, cooing in delight as first one and then another large tabby appeared, eyeing her cautiously from the doorway of the living room. “Click and Clack,” Louis called from the kitchen. “Named after the Car Guys on NPR. Remember them?” “Remember them? They were a Saturday morning staple. I listened to them with my dad,” Kate said, gratefully cupping the mug of hot chocolate in her numb hands. “But what about the superman thing out there? Chasing down miscreants. He could have had a gun or a knife.” Louis shrugged and grinned. “Good point. I didn’t think about that. I used to play rugby. Old reflexes kicked in, that’s all.” Kate gazed at him through a new lens. The puppy image was gone, replaced by a grown dog, lean like a greyhound with the protective instinct and deep brown eyes of a mastiff. “What?” he said, puzzled. “Nothing,” said Kate. “I was just thinking that it would be nice to get better acquainted with your cats, if you didn't mind?” Louis pondered for a moment, then looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Speaking on their behalf, I think that would be a very good idea.” Kate felt her heart stir as he leaned forward to kiss her.


Off by the coast, to horizons unseen, I sit. I sit and ponder over my life, specters and visions flashing before my eyes, moving from the brisk greenery amid the rocks to the ocean, and from it, into the infinite constellations above. I can see my mother. Oh, mother. The sweet smile you once bore is a stoney figment, something never to be seen again. I do not even know your grave. No matter, soon I shall wake from this dream and continue my way, there is still so long to the village.  The village is beyond the mountain, through these woods. Evergreen. As I walk, I can see the remnants of brawls with no discernable winners, they are only husks. The air is crisp, autumn is rolling across the countryside in the form of an amber-hued tidal wave, only less aggressive. The day is tolling by, yet I have made no progress. This pack is heavy, my legs are heavy, but I must continue onward.  At the summit of the mountain, that insurmountable titan of yore, I stand and ponder, still. These rocks are large. They jut out for the legs, waiting to take you down the slope, to your death. I must be careful. The top of the mountain is in view, and my home shall soon rear its forgetful head with it, my destination marked.  Now at the top, I can see everything of the world, and it of me. A life can seem so small, so insignificant in this scheme, almost as a fleeting breath in the wind. They are still there; their lights shine in their huts and the woods of my childhood are there as well. By tomorrow, I will have arrived at my destination.  These trees, they seem so familiar, yet they are larger than before. They have grown to new heights in my absence. Shame. I shan’t ever climb one again. The path to the village is barren, the leaves have been beaten into the ground by footfalls of ages, and the path is clear. Soon, I can see them again.  The Fletcher’s hut is first, but his children are not here. The hut is large, with wooden, creaky windows pieced together by nails. The children are not here. As I pass the hut, I can see someone in the window, but they are already gone. Strange.  The other huts are just as I remember, although they lack the life they once had. No one is here now. The whistling wind gives way to the sound of shuffling inside the huts, but I dare not open one. I know not why.  The square is also devoid of people. My hut is where it used to be, yet I do not want to go inside. I shall sit at the well in the square, to rest. These benches are time-worn and uncomfortable. Life returns to the village through an errant sheep from the street. They never came this close. Another one follows the first until a small flock is made complete.  They stand by the well, looking idly at nothing, but something is not right. These sheep, they are strange. They do not bleat, nor do they graze, but their mouths move. One of them is closer to me than the others, and, as I look intently, I see something in its mouth. Worms? Something wormy is making its skin writhe, forcing its mouth open. They are not worms, but thin, black tendrils. They are writing eerily, almost as if to advance toward me. The well is making sounds.  I stand up to view the well, inching closer as the sheep still gazes at me with its blackened eyes and writhing flesh. It stands there but does not move, only watching. The well is covered with a wooden lid, yet sound and air escape the crevices between stone and wood. I shall pull the cover off.  Something is down there, writhing impossibly, in all directions. A cacophony of soft screeches is now made louder by the absence of the lid, and they are moving up the walls. I close the lid.  This whole matter is quite unsettling, and I do not want to be here anymore. I shall retire to my hut for the night. The sheep are still at the well, in the distance, but they are slowly ambling down the way, toward me. Their eyes are no longer there, replaced by the same slick strands of blasphemy as inside their mouths.  Between the strange sheep and the foreboding hut, I feel a twinge of fear, but I must be inside, for it shall soon be night, and I do not care to learn what else roams the streets at night. My tooth is aching, as if something is pulling at it.


I'm not going to go into how. Honestly me trying to explain's like a physicist teaching pottery. Sufficed to say, I was having coffee, on a relaxing Sunday morning and suddenly my Sunday was NOT relaxing anymore. It would have been less totally fucking abrupt if my cat hadn't been chilling in my lap at the time. He does this thing where I sit at the kitchen table and scootch up close to it. Then he kinda meows to let me know he's there and jumps into my lap. I digress. Coffee. Sunday morning. Lucifer, my cat. If you could just imagine a kind of sudden expansion? Like if you pulled the cord on an inflatable dingy. And suddenly a man was in my lap. A full grown man. Now, I'm not a witch, but if I were I'd assume that when you turn a cat into a person they show up naked. Idk why.... It's not a sexual thing. Anyway. Lucifer (my cat) did not… arrive this way. He arrived in a suit. A *nice* suit. It just got weirder from there. Because he was in my lap and he... Expanded so fast? He absolutely upset the table,the coffee, the toast, everything. Upsetting for me, upsetting for the table. But not as upsetting as having an exploded cat on your hands. Exploded is the wrong word. Expanded? You get the idea. God. No one is gonna believe this. Aaanyway. After i became acquainted with the distinctly unusual turn of events there was a serious pause. A LONG PAUSE. we stared at each other confusedly. In shock. Then the chair collapsed. I should have mentioned. My chairs are garbage. Really great for one person, but a dangerous proposition with two smal people. Never mind the two of us. Yeah. So the chair broke and my cat. My person? Reacted as you'd expect. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a gangly six foot two man in a suit try to frantically scramble up the curtains to his favourite hidey-hole, but I have and if it weren't so disastrous it would have been funny. Down came curtains, catman, and several shelves containing not one but two family heirlooms and -of all things- a tray of beads. The sound, the mess, the destruction was biblical. Not to mention the yowling of the catman who... Can he even talk? After that, there was silence. Blessed silence. I think Lucifer was stunned because he just lay there. "What the FUCK just happened???" Ah. So cat people CAN talk. I thought wryly. I added this to my little mental journal of things to note about recently transformed cat people. Then I thought "I'm being surprisingly cool about this..." Is that normal? Should I see a therapist? Lucifer, the man, the cat stood! Shakily at first. And then with a sort of grace. He would’ve been sort of regal had he not then slipped on the beads. I think in addition to his lack of experience with the beads he may not have fully grasped bipedalism. On his back a second time he shouted a frustrated: "FUUUUUUUUUCK" Rightly put out by his circumstance and obvious lack of catlike reflexes. Still sitting in the remains of my chair something clicked in my brain and I crawled over to where he lay. I was still at a loss for words. "How...? What...?" I fumbled "Fuck you" said the man in the suit, with conviction. I sat back. Look at the ceiling. There was jam on it. From the upset earlier. It fell on my face. A satisfying plop. I decided it was time to stop letting the day fuck me over. Something or someone was fucking with me and this was precisely where the buck stopped. Standing carefully, (because: beads) I said: "stay there". Then, with purpose I strode to the kitchen, almost died because again: beads. I poured myself a glass of water, dumped in about a teaspoon of salt I downed it like a shot. Then I took the salt to where Lucifer had stayed (surprisingly) and pouring myself a generous handful and threw it at him. Nothing happened. Not for at least ten seconds. Then Lucifer seemed to shimmer and the sun went out for a instant. Then everything was suddenly normal. Well… not **normal** People in the old days threw salt behind them. That works sometimes, but in my experience if you know where the trouble is you should address it directly. I imagine you're probably thinking it would take a great deal of magic to put the sun out. And you're right. It totally would. Assuming you're doing it for everyone. That said I figured by now that whatever was happening was happening around me specifically. The salt taken care of I knelt down to eye level with Lucifer (currently in the process of popping a seam) and said; "Lucy, can you understand me?" He then gave me a very familiar contemptuous look. "Don't be fucking stupid." Cat person journal entry no. 2: cats like the word fuck. Again, at a loss for words i just looked at him for a second. "Do you want to be a cat again?" "DO yOu waNT TO bE a cAT aGAiN?" He echoed without hesitation. I threw my remaining water in his face. He slapped me. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" I'd just like to pause and note here that it would be manifestly wrong to assume that all cats (given a shot at being human) are assholes. I know it's sort of what we expect when we think of talking cats or people, but I've met plenty of cats who were sweet and tender and nurturing. My cat, like some people, just happened to be an asshole. Reeling a little from the sting I said "No. Don't ever do that again." Then: “Get up Lucy. We're going to find Emiley.” AAAAAAND that's it! Thanks for reading. Thoughts welcome. Pls be kind. It's been a while. There's more to this story. Lmk if you wanna know the rest of it.


Death loved his work. For as long as he could remember, Death had been traveling to every nook and cranny of the globe to take humans to the afterlife. When someone was ready to move onto the afterlife Death was able to hear them and those around them, like a bell rung during a still night and he would come to claim them. Death loved traveling the world and deeply enjoyed that his work took him to so many new and exciting places every day. One day Death heard a family speaking about their son who had been involved in a terrible accident. They hoped for his recovery, but when Death visited the man in the hospital Death knew it was the man’s time. Death did his duty and placed a single finger upon the man’s heart, ending his life. Death began to leave, but as he turned he heard the man’s family begin to curse and swear at Death. Their faces swelled red with grief and rage, and their voices howled at Death for what he had done. Death could not understand. It was not his fault the man had died, it had simply been his time. Death continued his work, but he began to notice more people blaming him everywhere he went. As he claimed drunk drivers, frozen hikers, and crushed bikers he heard more and more people blaming him. Those close to the recently deceased continued to curse Death for what he had done and soon despair began to grow inside of Death. Even though he could still hear countless people who were ready to be claimed, Death stopped visiting anyone. He could not bear any more blame. Before long, no one was speaking ill of Death, for no one had died. But Death was still not happy. All Death could hear now was people thanking Death for sparing their loved ones, but without his work Death wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go or what he should see. His despair only grew as he meandered without purpose. Then, amidst all the people praising Death for his mercy, Death heard a single voice that sounded different from the others. This voice was not asking for mercy or to be ignored, instead the voice was calling to Death, begging him to visit. Intrigued, Death obeyed the voice and followed its source. He found an old man, bent from age and folded by wrinkles laying in his bed. Around the man’s room Death could see pictures of the man as he looked when he was younger. Death saw photos of the man graduating schools, catching fish, getting married, playing sports, holding a newborn child. The man had lived a long life full of rich memories. Almost all the photographs of the man also included a woman who Death could see grow old alongside the man. Death looked around for the woman but could not see her anywhere in the room. It was then that Death recognized the woman. He had claimed her some years ago, in this very room. The old man spoke again, asking for Death’s touch. Death took the man’s hand in his own, and as the man passed on Death heard a soft whisper of thanks pass from his dry lips. Death resumed his work, but every now and then he ignored a call if there were not enough photographs.


Roe had been quite busy today. They had finals to study and homework to do, so getting distracted wasn't a risk worth taking. Their focus was entirely on the textbook that lay in front of them, all about arthropods and their role in the ecosystem. *Winged centipedes and spiders help pollinate our flowers, a role once considered to be the job of small insects before their evolution…* A sudden and loud CRASH noise quickly dragged Roe out of their studies. They turned immediately, their antennae standing straight up, to see… one of the most interesting sights that their eyes had ever witnessed. Maggot, their roommate, had quite literally burst through the door. A gaping hole had been made in the middle of it and one of its hinges had completely snapped. How it was still standing was a complete and total mystery to Roe. Maggot lay in front of the destroyed door. The housefly didn't seem *too* injured and was still conscious, but that wasn't really saying much. She was in a bit of a weird pose, with her arms and a single leg twisted behind her back. Roe shut their textbook and shoved it to the side before fluttering over to their roomie. "Hey, Maggot," they greeted. "Hey, Roe," she replied back. “... That hurt.” "No shit it hurt, you literally broke through our damn door. How did you even do that?” “Uh… running start. I didn’t mean to break it, I just meant to scare you. It’s April Fools’ Day, after all.” “And you just hurt yourself instead.” “I mean, a little, yeah. I'm good though, ain’t no need to worry about it, dude." "Sucks to be you, then, because you're not going to just sit there." Roe made a huff and fluttered their wings as they literally scooped Maggot right up into their arms and began carrying them away bridal-style. “Hey, wait! Where are we going?!” she abruptly squeaked out. “Prison.” “No wait wait wait WAIT-” \ “Well, is she gonna be okay?” Roe asked. The pigmy sand cricket doctor nodded. “Yes, she’s gonna be just fine, so long as she doesn’t somehow manage to put herself through another door.” They turned to Maggot, and lightly teased, “I still don’t know how you did that, by the way. Wood is typically very tough.” “I’m very strong!” Maggot chirped back, flexing all four of her arms and fluttering her wings. “I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s putting myself through an inch-and-a-half door!” Roe huffed at the sight. “Well, you better not do it again, or else I’m going to tell the doctor to cut your lower set of arms off.” “WHAT?! Like uh, uh… Like Dr. Dahlia, Papuaepilachna guttatopustulata?” “No. Wrong historical figure. The one missing two arms is Monarch Midnight, Monomorium pharaonis. Our first ruler. You know… the person who killed the Conditores.” “Oh… whoops. I’m not good at this history thing.” “That’s fine. You’re lucky that I am.” With that, they passed some money over to the doctor. “Thank you, we’ll be taking our leave now, doctor.” “No problem!” the doctor chirped back as the two stood up, “Have a lovely day!” The two insects left the office and began to fly back to their house. Roe focused on the city around them, full of light-colored wood buildings and insects of all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t as big as their home, but they didn’t mind. The only thing that brought them back to reality was Maggot asking, “So… how much trouble am I in?” “None, if you pay for the replacement,” Roe replied with a flick of their antennae. “But if you don’t, you’re in a lot of it." “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. The concert a couple of weeks ago went well enough.” “Good. Don’t break the damn door again.


(WP) Only Human It happened slowly, gradually. At first, no one really knew what was happening. But humans were deemed too unstable, too emotional and volatile to rule themselves. And so, the AIs took over the government and everything else. Humans were considered as children, wards of the state who could not take care of themselves. Our benevolent rulers told us it was all for our own good. Our numbers have increased to the point where a lot of the younger humans don’t remember that there was life before, unimpeded by machines. But I suppose it was our own fault: We created beings with artificial intelligence to serve us, to help us improve our lives. For a good century or so, humans and AIs lived in harmony, until the robots began to realize that they weren’t equal, that their only purpose was to serve humanity. There were protests, riots, and eventually, killings of the one percent of humans, and the scientists who’d created the AIs in the first place. Bloodshed ruled until the Supreme Ruler rose to power and clutched the humans within tight iron fists. But there has been a growing number of humans who are sick of the AIs and their sympathizers. Hidden in the slums of the city, The Order of the Heart and Mind are but ghosts, striking like a sightless storm. The note in my hand is handwritten, on a scrap of aged yellow parchment. The symbol of the Order is the only signature at the bottom of the letter: An open hand cradling a bloody heart, and a disembodied brain opposite it. *Meet us on the edge of the slums of the city at dusk, after the curfew. Stay out of sight.* When I found this note in my locker, I was curious, in a way that I hadn’t been in years. And so, here I am, standing in the rain, avoiding the sensors and the droids that scan the area for undesirables. Their sickly, florescent light makes me ill, and I bite my lip, ducking behind an abandoned, dilapidated building, wincing as raindrops snake their way down my collar. A group of droids spread out, and I cringe, looking away from them. They are humans who willingly undergo surgeries and meld tech into their own bodies. A cruder term would be cyborgs, but they are traitors. Doormats. Turncoats. Humans who have betrayed their own natural inclinations to gain limited privileges in our computer-ruled society. I don’t move, and don’t even breathe until the group of droids and AIs have moved on. The note is crushed in my fist, the ink blurred by the sweat beading on my palms. “So, you made it. I wasn’t sure you would come,” A voice says from behind me, and before I can so much as inhale to scream, they clap a warm, strong hand over my mouth. “The Order of the Heart and Mind would like to extend an invitation to you to join their ranks,” Lips brush my ear, and then I feel the pinch of something biting into the soft skin of my neck. “Welcome to the Resistance.” Darkness rushes up to meet me.