'No matter who it belongs to, standing in front of a grave is a strange feeling. I don’t dislike it… but I cannot say I like it either. It’s cold, but it’s also real. It’s the only reality I am sure of. It will catch up to me as it caught on to this one here. ' Monologuing to himself, James placed a bouquet of white flowers in front of a tree. 'There once used to be a rock slate here, but with time, the name on it has withered away and maybe, the soul too. ' Roughly thirty years ago “Oh no I fell asleep!” James got up, panting. Mom will kill me! She WILL kill me!

was all he could think of. Fumbling, he got up and picked up his school bag. He had fallen asleep on the warm grass of the temple garden. “It hasn’t been that long, kid. And you better wipe the drool off your face.” A hoarse voice startled him.

He spun around to see an old man sitting on one of the two benches behind him. He had crazy white hair which looked like it was full of static. His hooded eyes looked almost closed and he was wearing a tired smile on his wrinkled face. The man was holding a bouquet of white flowers.

James, who had grown red with embarrassment, ran away without a second look. He was almost home when he stopped running. A distressing thought entered his mind. The old man had found his secret place, so it no longer belonged to only him. What if that old man starts coming every day?

James decided to settle it out with the old man the next day, in case the old man dared to show up.

The next day after school, James ran to the temple at full speed. He stopped in front of the benches, panting. The old man was not there. “Thank God!” He puffed and fell on the bench. After a few moments of silence, he heard a somewhat familiar, hoarse voice. “Sleeping again?” The old man chuckled. He was standing behind the bench. Startled, James jumped up and blurted out the speech he had been preparing in his head since yesterday, “T-this is my place s-so you please find your own.” sensing that maybe he sounded rude, he added a “- Sir” at the end. “Oh I see, so this is your place now?” smiling, the man went around the benches and sat on the other one. “Don’t worry, I’ll go. Will you let me tell you a story before that? I want to talk but there’s no one else around.” he patted the bench. Hesitantly, James dragged his feet and sat at the corner of the bench. “A long time ago this was my place. I went to a school there-” The old man pointed somewhere randomly “- and I would come here every afternoon to play with Kiko.” “What‟s that?” After knowing that the old man owned the spot before him, James felt intrigued to know his story. “Kiko was a fine lady. The prettiest feline I had ever seen, and no matter how hard I tried, she wouldn’t play with me. She would always give me the cold shoulder and climb up that tree-“ again he pointed, this time more accurately, to a big tree in front of them. “That tree is way too big for a cat to climb. Are you sure you are not lying?” James questioned. The old man burst out laughing. “I swear I am telling the truth. That tree has actually grown quite a bit since the last time I was here. In fact, this whole place is so different. The temple was smaller, the trees were younger, and there was a little stream on the other side of the forest which has now dried up. Also, there was no clear path to this place like there is now. This was a real secret place; my secret place.” James’ eyes were ready to pop out as he tried to imagine the scene that the old man had painted for him. “Was it really that amazing?!” James squealed in delight. “Yes. It was like a page out of a fairy tale. And it was all mine and Kiko’s.” James had totally forgotten about the cat till the old man mentioned it again. “You see Kiko did not belong to this place. She suddenly appeared out of nowhere one afternoon and I fell in love with her. But her lack of interest in me broke my heart. Still I decided that I would win her over.” “But it‟s just a cat!” exclaimed James. “She-“the old man smiled softly, “-was so much more than a cat. She was my friend.” James didn’t say anything and continued to listen quietly.

“I started getting food for her, every day. She ate it and then went back to ignoring me. After a few days, I started luring her in. I would hold on to the food till she would come to me and then pat her on her head before handing out the food. It took her a month to trust me. After that, the days went by like in a dream. Every day was fun. Going to school, playing with Kiko and lazing around at home for the rest of the evening.” “That sounds sooo boring. I do the same thing every day! Without Kiko of course. I wish I could just grow up and own a car and see the whole world and not study.” James’ eyes sparkled. “I felt like that too at some point. But now… I just wish those days would come back. Just once more, I wish I could go back, meet Kiko…” the old man’s voice suddenly grew heavy and his eyes welled up. James sensed the emotion but did not understand what happened. “Uncle?” “Ah sorry” the old man wiped his eyes and got up from the bench. “Are you leaving?” James asked. “Well, this is no longer my place. It belongs to you now. Treasure this time. One day you would long to come back but will be stuck in the real boring life.” With that, the old man walked away silently and waved one last time before disappearing around a corner. James sat still for some time and then walked over to the big tree that the old man has pointed to before. Behind it, he saw the bouquet of flowers that the man was holding yesterday and a small rock slate with something written on it in a jagged handwriting. He bent down and read it, “In the loving memory of my Kiko”. “KIKO?!” James exclaimed when he realised that he was standing in front of the cat‟s grave. He dashed back to where the old man had disappeared, but could not find him. James waited for the old man to come back someday, but he never did. In his place, James offered flowers to Kiko’s grave on that same day every year till he graduated and moved out of town. Roughly thirty years later A grown up James now stood where he once used to play as a child. 'Life kept getting busy and with each passing day I kept losing myself.' James thought to himself. ' Every day was full of work and people. I finally understand what the old man had said. I too felt a strong urge to return to that time. So strong, that now I am here, recalling his words.' 'Those were the most carefree days of my life. Taking a slight detour from school to home was only natural. I could wander just because I felt like it, or sit and stare at the sky. Not every thing that I did had to have a meaning. I was at peace with my existence-' A ball came flying at his feet and James returned it to the playing kids. He looked around himself. The temple was now just a dilapidated hut. The trees had been cut off and the garden had been turned into a crowded playground. Thankfully, Kiko’s tree still remained… but who knows for how long. James walked away silently and before disappearing around the corner.


Cautiously, Hanna picked her way through the crowded hallways of her high school. Keeping her head down and her eyes trained firmly on the floor, she mumbled barely audible excuses to her peers as she crept past. None of them seemed to notice her, but at least with her head bowed she couldn’t see how they stared at her with their haughty expressions.

Above her head, the school speakers crackled to life with the overly-enthusiastic voice of Carol Reems. “Fellow Lincoln High students! Remember that the cast list for the spring musical was posted this morning. Let’s break a leg!” Drawn to the far end of the hallway, Hanna continued sliding past people, brushing her elbow against a few thick backpacks stuffed with textbooks. Wincing in pain as she collided head on with one such bag, she stumbled back a pace, blinking in surprise. “S-Sorry,” she managed, pushing past the tall boy who blocked her way.

Finally reaching her destination, Hanna faltered. Nothing would make her happier in life than to be part of the spring production. It was her senior year and she wanted to take a few risks, make herself gain a little confidence before college. Though, truth be told, it was all her mother’s idea. She worried about Hanna going off to college without learning how to look people in the eye, without being able to tell people what she wanted to say. Hesitantly, Hanna raised her eyes a few centimeters and stared at the corked bulletin board. Few things in life were fair, Hanna knew, but she had been so looking forward to seeing her name in black flowing script on the cast list pinned up on the wall. Hanna swiped at her face, the scratchy wool of her sweater causing her eyes to water in irritation. Salty tears beaded on her eyelashes. How could she not have made the list, even as an extra?

She had studied for days! Every afternoon once school let out, she took a shuttle bus to the local library. Until 6pm when her dad picked her up in his beat-up minivan, she devoured every book the library had on acting. She knew the techniques inside and out. Surely that counted for something! Swallowing down her tears, Hanna backed away from the board, shaking her head in disbelief.

She recalled her audition perfectly. For weeks, she had practiced in the mirror in her bedroom, mouthing the words until they felt natural coming from her mouth. When no one else was home, she even practiced her delivery. Her diction and pronunciation were perfect! But the audition… Hanna shuddered just to think of that horrid day. Sitting in the rows of theater seats in the auditorium, she tried to ignore all the students talking around her. Each one of them was positive they would land a starring role in the musical. They held scene scripts loosely in their hands, smiling carefree at one another. She wondered to herself then if some of them even knew what the production was about. They certainly didn’t seem as prepared as she was. One by one, Hanna watched her classmates go up on stage and fumble through the lines, eyes darting down to the scripts every five seconds. As if they had never read the material before.

Grinning to herself, Hanna tried to make herself relax. She had this in the bag.

“Hanna Reems,” the director called out, scratching his head with the end of his pen. He glanced sadly at his empty coffee mug sitting on the table. These auditions always took too much time. Squaring her shoulders, Hanna climbed the steps onto the blacked out stage. “This is my castle,” she muttered to herself, practicing one last time the opening line, “and you were not invited to the ball!”

“Are you ready, Hanna?” The director, her science teacher Mr. Hob asked. “You can begin when you take your place center stage.”

Nodding, Hanna lowered her hand to her side, knowing she wouldn’t need to glance at the script. “This -” she muttered, her voice soft inside the huge auditorium. Bashful, she cleared her throat, trying to play her sudden nervousness off as a warm up exercise.

“This is my -” Hanna tried again. Her voice faded off. Mr Hob glanced up from his notes, a furrow of tiredness creasing his brow. Shaking her head, Hanna giggled, a high noise rising from deep in her lungs. “I’m okay,” she squeaked.

“It’s alright, Hanna,” Mr. Hob replied after a few more failed attempts at delivering the lines. “Thank you for coming.” Waving his hand in the direction of the stage stairs, he nodded, giving her a chance to clear the stage for the next student.

Slowly, Hanna felt her feet follow the path, going heavily down each step.

Now, backing away from the judgemental bulletin board, Hanna found herself blinking in disbelief. Surely there had been a mistake! She knew the lines better than anyone. With a jolt of decisiveness, she turned on her heel, pushing more forcefully through the crowded hallways. It was simple, she thought, she just had to prove to Mr. Hob that she should be in the show. Why should it matter if sometimes she couldn’t get the words she planned so carefully in her mind to come out of her mouth? She would practice harder, that was all. Every problem could be solved through practice and sheer determination. Those few friends who knew Hanna well would have described her as ‘quiet’. Never likely to be outspoken. Too afraid to tell others what she really thought for fear she’d be judged. They also had told her, many times, that she overthought every situation, dreaming up the worst possible conclusions until she was too tied up in knots to find a way out. Suffice to say, if they hadn’t been in classes of their own at the moment Hanna strode through the halls of Lincoln High, they would stare at Hanna as she passed by, wondering where their shy friend disappeared to.

Coming to Mr. Hob’s classroom, Hanna took a deep breath. Knocking softly on the wooden door to announce her presence, she opened the door another few inches until she could peek her head through. “Mr. Hob,” she began softly, noting that he was sitting alone at his desk, bent over a stack of papers.

I’d like to talk to you, she thought, the words stuck in her throat. If you have a moment. I know I didn’t showcase myself well at my audition, but I’d really appreciate it if you could give me another chance. You see, I’ve spent the past month researching and practicing the script. I really think I could be a useful addition to the cast. Please, if you could try to find a place for me, even a small role, I’d be grateful. Hanna breathed out, waiting for a response that would never come. She stood in the doorway another moment, trying to get up the courage to present her well-prepared speech. She knew Mr. Hob was nice, and if he could, he’d give her a role. Maybe a job helping with the set at least. All she had to do was say the words. But some words are easier thought than said aloud.


“So how do you become a boy?” I found myself studying her with an intensity I rarely applied to children. She had my sister’s eyes, the outline of her face followed the same exact lines, but the way she carried herself was undeniably different. It was in the grit stuck between her fingernails, the defiant soldier-like puff of her chest and the way she looked at me directly in the eye with as much genuine curiosity as there was what could have been envy. She had the ready-to-pounce springiness of an anxious young lad. “What a silly question!” Maureen, my sister, interjected from across the table. “Why don’t you go find Will and Mason?” “How do you become a boy, uncle Tom?” I pretended to poke at a slice of bacon with as much idle disinterest as could be mustered while having a watching parent breathe down my neck. In truth I was hooked. “Why would you want to become a boy?” “Because girls are all about dress up and throwing pretend parties and pretend this and pretend that and boys get guns and swords and arrows and they get to build forts.” “What’s so bad about dress-up? when I was your age I loved pretty dresses.” spoke her mum while inserting a knife into a fried egg. “So you would become a boy just to get guns and swords?” She nodded. The look in her eyes was as noticeable as ever. Maureen was using her fork to stir the ruptured yolk with mashed potatoes. I could see the eyes staring at me from the back of her head “Silly girl!” I would say. “What’s there to like about guns and swords? If you’re born a lady then you’re a lady or a lad a lad. Always been that way! Now cease these silly thoughts and go find your cousins!” and I would watch as the glow in her eyes went out like a candle and gray over. But that’s not what I said. “Well, I think that’s a neat little thought you have there. While I can’t make you magically pop up in boy’s skin, I think what’s more important is that you see yourself as one. In fact, I think that’s all there is to being a boy, that you see and carry yourself like a young man, and as long as you still believe in that part of yourself, in time people would start calling you a lad.” From the corner of my eye I saw Maureen’s hand give a little tremor, barely noticeable to maybe even his husband but I knew exactly where to look after all these decades under the same roof. When Anna had left the room and was most likely out of earshot she turned to me. “I wish you hadn’t said that.” “Why not?” “You might give her ideas.” “I don’t see why that’s a problem.” “I’d like her to stay a girl.” “Your daughter would say otherwise.” “what good is there to be a boy anyway? when we were her age you and James and Charles would go hunting and one of you would be bound to come back hurt and crying.” “You can’t blame her. You ladies have been allowed to vote for only what? Ten years? If I were her I would want to be a boy too.” “You can’t expect her to understand that!” “Doesn’t change my point.” I said, spearing my own egg. “She’s just a child. Don’t entertain her silly ideas.” “Didn’t seem silly to me. You should’ve seen your daughter. Deadpan serious.” “I still don’t want you telling her stuff like that.” Sensing that there wasn’t much space left for argument I threw up my arms in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am!” It was difficult to judge Anna’s maturity, in the same way it was difficult for all children. Both her parents said that she was a silly girl who should learn to grow up, as did Mrs. Taylor, the nosy teacher who taught her things like reading and adding up numbers. In a way she knew she was acting silly herself, when she entertained ideas like going to bed in a certain position then waking up the next morning completely changed into a boy like her cousins. But then you can also say she wasn’t childish at all, that she had a certain early-for-her-age maturity about her, because otherwise how would she know she was being silly in the first place? Will and Mason were like two sides of the same coin. while they had the same eyes and nose Mason was both taller and leaner than his younger sibling, who was stocky and had a noticeably rounder face. The difference still would not have been comical if it weren’t for Mason’s ears, which were oversized like a mouse’s and jutted beyond the outline of his head. He was also the shrewder and more adventurous of the two. “You wouldn’t believe this rabbit hole I found! It’s just across the hill. last time I saw two of ‘em leave. there’s an entire den of little un’s inside I’m tellin’ you.” “I don’t want to go.” “Why not?” “I don’t know, what if it’s a fox den?” “We’ll catch some foxes ’en.” “What if one of them jumps out and bites us?” “Foxes don’t bite. We saw one at the market. Tame as a dog.” “What if we get rabies?” “I want to go!” The two of them looked at her with the same curiosity and shock as one would have while regarding a particularly strange breed of dog, and it might as well be true. Neither had spent much time around the peculiar species their parents called “girls”. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” “Nothing. It’s just that you’re a girl.” it was Will who spoke. “I’m not a girl.” “But you are.” Mason was apparently too anxious to wait until the end of the argument. “Great! that makes the two of us! I’ll lead the way!” The two of them marched past hills and the occasional flock of sheep, dragging a protesting Will behind. It was unusually cold and windy for late June and the English countryside occasionally blasted massive gusts that forced the trio to turn around and walk backwards. At one point Mason, still leading, tripped and rolled the entire distance downhill. Much to Anna’s giggling amusement. He got up, dusting off the bits of grass and mud caking his pants, his face red. The “den” if one could call it that, turned out to be a disappointment, a dusty hole in the earth under an apricot tree. For the span of twenty minutes Anna was crouched over it, making what she thought were rabbit noises before dangling a blade of grass over the entrance like a fisherman’s lure. Her pursuits went unanswered. In time she gave up. “What are you doing?” Mason was already halfway up the tree, clumsily perched between two branches like the bear she had seen in picture books. The canopy bowed and shook in the wind. “Apricots!” he shouted, cheerfully, pointing towards the crown. Anna peered between the leaves and saw flashes of sunset orange among the emerald. “He’s not going to make it.” said his younger sibling, also glancing upwards. Indeed Mason was right. Ten minutes later he had gained barely a meter in altitude and his legs had started shaking as if they were mounting their own protest, bringing the entire tree rattling with them. Five minutes later he gave up, dismounting from the branches, his arms bruised and with no apricots to show. Somehow he still had the energy to convince his younger brother to repeat his mistake in the way only siblings could. Will made even less progress, hardly managing to lift himself to the first fork before losing his grip and falling to the ground in a graceless heap. Anna couldn’t take more of it. “I’ll go.” The two of them glanced at her with the same incredulity as before, albeit accented by exhaustion. It was Mason who spoke first. “You’re a girl.” “I told you, I’m not a girl!” “You won’t make it.” “Would you want to bet?” Neither spoke, much to her private delight. It was hard to tell if it was purely out of exhaustion. She started climbing the tree in much the same way she saw her cousins did, using stumps and forks as footholds and positioning her weight so that they didn’t give out under her. When there were no overhanging branches to step on it sufficed to use friction, Anna dug the sole of her shoe into the bark until it left green wounds starting to ooze sap, then she hoisted her other leg up onto the opposite branch, leaning on the first one for support. But that wasn’t why she did better than her cousins. If there was one thing she truly excelled at it was that she was clever in how to avoid exhaustion. She positioned her arms and upper torso in such a way so that they would never be strained. When she felt the faintest hint of a tremor start to radiate from her leg she knew it was time to reposition it in a way that didn’t require bending at odd angles. While the siblings knew that it was bad manners to laugh when misfortune befell ladies they were still expecting her to give up when she started scaling the branches. To say that such feelings transitioned to shock, then awe was an understatement, as she hoisted herself into a perching position a full ten meters above their heads. Anna scanned the treetops for the apricots she saw from the ground. A thunderhead had reared up in the distance, it’s anvil-shaped top angry and boiling. the wind had picked up considerably, the leaves clapped and rustled, the branch she had crawled on bowed under the gust and she felt her weight starting to shift as she tightened her grip reassuringly. One of the ripe fruits beamed a sunset orange smile from between the canopy. “You see ‘em?” “I’ll see if I can reach them.” she said as she extended a scratched and bruised arm. There were perhaps half a dozen in total-much less than the three of them had observed from the ground. she twisted the apricot in such a way so that it’s stem was severed and it dropped to the ground in a muffled thud. There was a rustling in the grass beneath as the siblings scrambled after it. “How is it?” “You split it open! There’s now dirt and gunk inside” “It’s not my fault! Can’t you see how high up I am?” “Can you drop them...slower?” “No.” “Can you at least try?” She ignored them as she went after the second of them, followed by the third and fourth. She was at the sixth and last when there was a gust of wind that slammed into her like a wall. She tightened her grip again. Her left foot started to slip as the branch bobbed like a horse, a sinking in her gut as it descended followed by a rebound so strong it threatened to send her sailing. And there was a joy welling up inside her she had never felt before. “Annie? Can you try getting down?” “No!” “I think we should go home. It’s going to rain soon.” They weren’t sure if they should feel more surprised or terrified when she started to whoop, as she held her face straight into the wind, it tangled up her hair, she could hardly open her eyes as the gust roared into her like a crashing wave, perched among the treetops, shouting, whooping, the sound of it carrying across the hills as the first raindrops touched the branches.


There was once a girl who loved the hills. She would stand barefooted on their peaks, letting the grass whip around her feet and the birds chirp inquisitively from the trees. Sometimes she would slide down their gentle slopes and rest in the shade produced by the blanket of leaves that blocked out the sun but not the sky. Other times she would climb the trees and pick an apple, each morsel of food giving her just a little more time before she had to return home. It wasn't her home, despite bearing that name. But each night, she was dragged back by the chains of blood and the weight of guilt. Her parents did not yell or scream or hit, but they stared. They stared at each other with fury in their eyes and hate in their hearts. The manufactured silence hung heavy in the house, and whenever the girl choked on it, her parents would turn to glare at her too. It was said that emotions made magic, and the girl dared not think what heavy magic was woven into her house, forged by hate and sorrow. And so, every morning the girl ran. She ran into her tiny legs could carry her no further, and then she stood on the peaks of the hills where the silence was did not force her to her knees, depriving her of any breath of happiness. In fact, the silence in the hills wasn't really silence at all. Instead, one could hear the chirping of the birds, the whistling of the wind, and the skittering of the squirrels. If one listened, that is. And the girl always listened. But as night fell and the girl's stomach started to rumble, the chains would once again force her back to her house, her family, her sadness. But her heart would stay in the hills, and when she closed her eyes at night she saw the twinkling stars instead of the run-down ceiling. When she breathed, she would taste the sweet air of the night instead of the stale silence she was actually breathing in. But only when she was alone. When she was with her parents, their glares would push her deeper and deeper into her chair, her heart yearning to be free from this place of sorrow. What the girl had heard was true: emotions did indeed weave magic. But what she did not understand was that the grief, the hate, and the anger that made up her life was not powerful. No, those emotions are far too common for that. They put tiny stitches in the tapestry of life, not quite making a difference. But longing? Longing is a very powerful type of magic indeed. It doesn't weave stitches into the present or the past, but it can change the future. And the future becomes the present before one can even blink an eye. And so, as the girl dat in the house at night and ran to the hills during the day, the magic woven by her yearning dissolved the chains of blood and did away with the guilt weighing her down. And with each day, the urge to stay in the hills got stronger. At first it was just a few minutes, lingering before she was inevitably drawn back to her house. Then, she started staying out for hours, laying on her back and watching the stars. Sometimes, she stayed out all night. As time went on, those nights became more and more frequent. One is always bound to something, and with the dissolution of one confine comes another. But not all confines are bad. Some are of your own choosing.


Malcolm continued to keep me under a close watch the next day. As soon as I woke the next morning he greeted me with a hearty breakfast and a fully-planned itinerary. My every moment was guided by him. We spent much of our time down by the harbor. The bustling crowds there allowed Malcolm to more regularly stop and talk to acquaintances, and introduce his strange find. However, I watched as best as I could, the blue-clothed workers going about their day. I watched their arduous labor, their quiet movements, their rare, almost non-existent interactions with the other citizens. It was as if the two lived in separate worlds, ghosts to each other. Only once did I see one of the citizens give the blue-clothed workers any extended attention. An old lady watched a young male worker intently. She never spoke to him, just stood some ten meters off, watching his movements. I had no idea what her motive was. Her face seemed so calm, so neutral, I could read no emotion in it. The blue-clothed worker, for his part, never seemed to notice she was there. I was only able to observe her for a few minutes before Malcolm ripped me away. “Steven,” he called out, before dragging me over to a middle-aged man, with a long and pointed brown beard. Malcolm introduced us, gave my backstory, painting the picture of my oddity. “This is Steven Donsbach, one of the leaders of the island,” he said. My attention was caught hearing the title. It was an opportunity to learn more, to get a different viewpoint from someone higher up. However, it wasn’t to be. Every attempt to join the conversation, Malcolm interrupted. He filled the silence with chatter, made sure my only sentences were responses to direct questions. I wasn’t to ask any awkward questions. I was to be an amusement. Nothing more. I only had two days left on the island and I was running out of time to learn anything more. However, I awoke with optimism on the third day. Today was one of the two days when Malcolm had to work. I got dressed and ready to leave as soon as I could. But as I walked through to the kitchen, I was greeted by Tamsyn, waiting for me. She had already poured me a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table towards me. I sat down, prepared to drink another cup of the bitter black liquid. Tamsyn took a large sip from her own drink, before speaking. “Dad is at work today. He asked me to keep an eye on you for the day.” I did my best to appear upbeat. “Oh, what do you have planned?” She smirked. “I’m fairly certain my dad would like me to take you on a long walk around the island, show you a few of the smaller villages on the west side. However, I think you’re probably old enough to handle yourself.” I instinctively let out a small chuckle. “I appreciate the faith.” She looked around the room for a few seconds, pausing before speaking. “I know you wanted to talk to the blues.” “Yes.” She paused again before the smirk returned. “If dad asks, you looked at some old stone ruins on the west coast, okay?” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll tell you where they live. You can go to their settlement.” I had no idea why Tamsyn was willing to go her against her father’s wishes. But I didn’t question, I simply listened to her detailed directions. “If my dad finds out I told you where to go, he will not be pleased,” she said. “You have my word,” I replied. I once more let out a flurry of thankyous, probably a few too many, before heading outside as quickly as I could. It was about a two-hour walk to the settlement. I climbed up a steep hill away from the main town by the harbor. At the top of the hill I met a fork in the path. Straight ahead the path continued along the top of the hill. The path to the right, the one I was meant to take, descended steeply and sharply towards the sea. The path was a series of natural steps worn into the hillside from many years of foot traffic. Rocks and tufts of grass stuck out awkwardly from the brown dust path. I began my slow descent of the uneven and difficult path. It didn’t take long until I could see a series of large brick buildings nestled by the edge of a cliff. The buildings were low to the ground, with flat sheet metal roofs. They were thin, probably some ten metres across. But each was incredibly long, stretching out at least seventy to eighty metres. I could see a few people walking between the buildings, each wearing the light blue clothes that marked their fate in life. Most stopped what they were doing and turned to take in the sight of a stranger walking towards their homes. Others dashed inside as quickly as they could. As I reached the settlement I greeted the first person I met, a thin, but very tall man with disappearing brown hair. “Hello, how are you?” I tried to greet him. He seemed confused, looking around himself, hoping someone else might respond on his behalf. Coming up with nothing he merely stood in silence, staring at my chest. “It’s okay,” I said, walking slowly towards him. “I’m not a citizen. I don’t live here. You don’t serve me.” Puzzlement appeared on the man's face. Several times he seemed to go to speak, his mouth opening before clamping shut again. Finally, he spoke. “If you are not from the Bluekira Ministrations, then why are you here?” I explained to him, as I had to Malcolm, my plans to travel the islands, and my quest to learn more about the archipelago. I had somewhat assumed that Malcolm’s reaction to my story would be the default here. And I said the story expecting a sort of merry, but well-meaning mocking. But instead, there was no laughter from the man, no enthusiastic curiosity. He seemed to just accept the information and move on. “What do you want to see?” he asked. \ I asked if he would show me around the settlement. He obliged. I quickly learned, as obvious as it was, that almost all the inhabitants were away, off working their long, toiling days. Only those who worked odd hours were here. The man introduced himself by the name of Wyatt, and we began a slow meander around the outside of some of the buildings. Their concrete foundations sat a foot above the ground and formed the only bit of smooth land in the settlement. The brick was cheap and chipped in many places. Cement had been swathed on carelessly, leaving thick gray globules hanging to the side of the building. Wyatt led me inside. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. While various spotlights of sunshine managed to make their way inside through the shutters, for the most part, the building was dingy and dark. For the entire stretch of the building, there seemed to be two rows of thin - very-thin - mattresses against each of the walls. Next to each one were some personal effects. Often, just consisted of a small pile of clothes, perhaps a cup of water, and very occasionally a tattered book. In some ways, it was nicer than the prison where I had been kept on Kadear Coalfields. After all, they did have at least something resembling a mattress to sleep on here. But any slight comfort was overshadowed by the scale. This room housed a little over a hundred people every night. And this building was one of many along this thin bit of cliff, tucked away out of sight of the citizens. It was strange to see the building so empty. At night, the whole room must have been filled with voices and baked with the heat of a hundred working bodies. But currently, it felt cold, and the walls seemed to breathe an icy touch. “It’s hard to imagine so many people all having to sleep in the same room,” I said. Wyatt nodded in acknowledgment. “It makes it difficult to sleep. Especially with the noise.” “The noise?” I asked. “Snorers. They aren’t very popular,” he laughed the meekest of chuckles. “It can’t be an easy life to lead,” I remarked. “In some ways,” he shrugged. “But, it could always be worse. At least every day I get to leave, see some other part of the island.” “Some don’t?” He turned and began heading back outside as he spoke. “A handful of people look after this place. Cook, clean, mend anything that’s broken. They never get to leave here. They work here, they sleep here.” “You mean, there are a few people here who have never left this place?” “They’ll have left at some point, sure. But most won’t have been away more than once or twice in their lives.” I didn’t want to seem voyeuristic. But this premise offered another viewpoint I was keen to explore. “Would you be able to introduce me?” I asked. Wyatt scrunched his face in uncertainty. “They may not like being interrupted while they are at work.” He led me back through the settlement while he thought on it. “I need to head to work soon. I’ll take you to them before I leave.” I thanked Wyatt for his help and apologized for taking up what little time he had. He said he was happy to help, although I suspected, in reality, he had felt obligated. A lifetime of being trained to say 'yes' was not easily shaken. We walked towards the entrance of the settlement until we reached another building, near-identical to the others. Only stopping by it did I notice the difference, a small metal chimney rising from the roof on the far end, steam gently wafting from it. “This is the common space. Where we meet for dinners,” Wyatt said. “I have to head. But Perdita should be in the back there.” I thanked Wyatt once more and offered my hand to shake it. He seemed taken back by the prospect. He looked at my extended limb for a few seconds, before simply nodding, turning, and heading the other way. Inside the building, the large main hall was empty. But there was a wall about three-quarters of the way along the building, with a small doorway built into the brickwork. I could hear movement from the other side; the sound of ill-fitting sandals slapping against the concrete floor, the scraping of a wire brush, and the clanging of metal trays landing on top of each other. I walked towards the sound as I began to smell the aroma of food. It smelt edible, but not exactly pleasant. A smell of meat that was just at the point of turning rotten, weak vegetables, and boiling water. I walked into the kitchen to find a woman with her back turned to me. She had long brown hair reaching down to her waist left in a tangled-free flowing mess. She was, of course, wearing blue. The woman turned, and my whole body skipped a beat. It was Tamsyn. Tamsyn, but now dressed in the blue garments. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Tamsyn,” I cried. “What are you doing here?” “I’m sorry,” she replied in confusion. “It’s just me,” I replied, turning sideways so she could see behind me into the hall. “Is there something you need?” she said in a polite tone that masked both confusion and concern. Suddenly I noticed the small differences. Tamsyn was fair, but now her skin was as pale as milk. Her eyes were a tiny bit more arched than they had been. And she now had a small, but noticeable, mole on her left cheek. “Hello, sorry, I’m Ferdinand” I said, trying to start again. “I’m Perdita,” she replied, her eyes fixed to my chest. “Is there something I can help you with?” I looked at her face once more. I tried studying the lines and curves of her jaw, the distance between the eyes, the width of the nose. Everything was Tamsyn’s and yet... not. So similar, and yet just with the tiniest distinctions. There was only one answer. Tamsyn, had a twin.


"They say that a monster lives here," Pawel said between heavy breaths as we loaded the last bale of hay onto the back of his father's wagon, "Did you know that?" "I've heard the story," I said, peering at him quizzically and wiping the sweat from my face. The sun beat down hard on us that day and both of our shoulders were glowing red, "What about it?" "Do you think it's true?" He hopped up onto the back of the wagon and I joined him. My feet ached. I looked down at the battered boots on my feet, the soles coming apart, and made a mental note to visit the cobbler next time I went into town, if I ever got the chance again. "I don't know," I replied, looking at him and shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand. The wagon began to bounce up the dirt path. "And if it is? What then?" "I don't know," He said, peering off in the general direction of the woods with a small shrug, "If there is a beast, maybe it's been protecting us, you know?" "Protecting us? What do you mean, Pawel?" "I mean," he paused for a second as if processing what he would say, "Have you seen any Nazis around here?" "Plenty of them in to-" I started to say but Pawel cut me off with a hand up. "Not in town, Jakub," He said, "Here. They say that a monster lives here, in Skowronka. Maybe the Nazis are scared, eh?" "I doubt it," I mumbled. The village was just a collection of farms with a small market at its center. The SS was not interested in us. They had bigger fish to fry, so to speak. Pawel and I did not talk about the beast the rest of the ride, focusing instead on our various aches and pains, and how his father, who's farm we both worked on was a drunk and an asshole. We parted ways after unloading the hay in the barn and feeding the horses. As I began my walk home from Pawel's farm, I noticed my big toe poking out through the top of my shoe and decided to take a trip into town the next day. I felt confident enough in my German and had a fake story all lined up in case a patrol stopped me. I would be Herman Franz, the German, instead of Jakub Wilkowitz, the Jew. I would be a loyal German man, just on my way to buy some new shoes, nothing more. The road into town from Skowronka was little more than a narrow dirt track, just wide enough for two horses and a cart. No one in the village owned an automobile. I woke up early that morning, had a hard, dry piece of bread with water for breakfast, and started my trek. I had walked nearly ten kilometers before I saw them. Two men in long, gray coats and wearing bright red arm bands emblazoned with swastikas stood leaning against a shiny black car smoking cigarettes. They laughed and spoke loudly in German to one another. As I approached I made out some of their conversation. "Filthy Jew," this, and "Less than dogs," that. I bit back my anger and gave them as wide of a berth as I dared, without looking suspicious. I went past with my eyes fixed on my tattered boots. I could feel their eyes burrowing into me. "HALT!" One of the Gestapo officers shouted just as I passed and my back was to them. I heard the click of a gun cocking. I stopped dead in my tracks and swallowed the fear that had bunched itself up in my throat like a dry rag. "TURN AROUND!" "What can I do for you gentlemen?" I answered in my cleanest German as I turned and put my hands up in surrender, "Is there something wrong?" "What is your name?" Inquired one of the men. He was a perfect Nazi. Tall and lean, his clean-shaven jaw chiseled and his eyes as blue as the sky. The other, a shorter man with black hair and equally black eyes carried a luger casually in his right hand. "Franz," I said with as much confidence as I could muster, "Herman Franz, sir," I kept my eyes down. The man's shoes were black leather and shined to a pristine mirror finish. "Ah! Good!" The Nazi officer smiled, "a fellow German. Tell me, Mr. Franz, what brings you to a backwater shithole like this, hm?" The shorter man laughed. Rage bubbled up in my gut again but I pushed in back down, hoping that I did not look flushed, "Just trying to spread the glory of the fatherland, sir. We common folk must do our part as well," There was a long, tense silence as the officer mulled over what I had said. Finally he took a step toward me and took my stubbled, dirty chin in his immaculate gloved hand. He lifted my face to his and narrowed his perfect blue eyes as they met my common brown ones. "I can tell a liar by the fear in his eyes," he hissed quietly, "And I can smell a Jew from here to Berlin. You wouldn't… lie to me, would you, Mr. Franz?" "O-of course not, sir," I stammered, "Never," The German squinted and stared for a long moment before letting go of my chin and stepping back. "Good," He grinned a satisfied, toothy grin, "Tell me one more thing then, would you?" "Of course," I eyed the other man, still holding the loaded luger a few steps away, "Anything to aid Deutschland, sir," "They say that a monster lives here," the Gestapo officer said, catching me completely off guard. He gestured with both hands to the woods surrounding the wheat fields around us. "Tell me, is it true? Is there some great and terrible beast in these woods that my men should fear?" "N-no, sir," I managed to say trying to puzzle out whether he had heard Pawel and me talking the day before somehow, "Just silly local legends," His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His lip curled into a slight frown. A tense silence hung in the air around us. Finally, after an eternity, his chuckle broke it. "Of course not!" He laughed, "Only a stupid Jew whoreson would believe such nonsense! Be on your way Mr. Franz, and keep your eyes open for goblins and fairies, hm?" He laughed again and turned to the other man as he waved me away. Both walked back to their vehicle laughing. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as soon as I felt they were out of earshot and hurried on my way to town. The cobbler was closed when I arrived on the outskirts of town. So was the baker, the tailor, the printer and the barrel maker. The entire town was closed, in fact, and I could see German soldiers marching through the streets even from a distance. People were huddled in the plaza, some holding their families close, others, lined up on their knees. There was no fighting, no rebellion or revolt, only quiet defeat and submission. The fighting was in Warsaw, where some still clung to hope that the Red Army would save them, or that the Royal Air Force would destroy the German occupation forces. They would no doubt be on their knees soon as well though. It was already afternoon when I arrived on the hill overlooking the little town, with the sun beginning to set, but I turned and ran before anyone saw me approach. I ran back to my village as fast as I could, cutting through woods and wheat fields rather than using the road. When I got there, it was already dark, but the light of the fires illuminated the little market at the center of the village of Skowronka. There, in the light of the flames, I saw my friends, my neighbor, Ewa, the butcher Igor and his young son, my best friend Pawel next to his drunken father. They were all on their knees as their homes burned around them, a line of men in gray clutching machine guns at their backs and the same perfect Aryan Gestapo officer pacing in front of them. I just stood there and gaped as tears filled the corners of my eyes. "No…" I whispered, "Please. No…" Before I knew what was happening, there was a gun at my back and I was being shoved into the lineup of villagers. Tears streamed down my face as I was pushed to my knees next to Pawel. His face was bruised and one of his eyes swollen shut. The Gestapo officer was shouting over the flames but I did not hear him. He yelled and gestured and delivered his glorious message as though he were Adolf Hitler himself. But I did not hear it. Instead, my mind went to my mother's voice, recorded in some deep dark recess of my memory. They say that a monster lives here, she had said, placing a gentle hand over my heart, a terrible beast that only you can control. Only you can let it loose. Only you can set it free. And so, I did. I dug down into my self and grabbed a hold of the monster within as I had remembered doing only a few times before in some distant past. I felt the skin fall away from my flesh, replaced with coarse black fur. I felt my limbs grow and elongate. My teeth became fangs. My hands, claws. I could hear further, see clearer, and smell… everything; the sweat and fear of the villagers, the acrid smoke, the shit and piss in the German soldiers' pants. I heard the gunshots, felt the bullets biting into my flesh only to be spat back out and the tiny wounds sealed almost instantly. I felt flesh tear between my claws. I smelled the stench of terror as they ran from me. I felt the Gestapo officer's perfect Aryan neck snap like a twig as I tore his throat out with my own teeth. I smelled the blood. The blood. No Nazi patrol ever visited the village of Skowronka in the Polish countryside ever again. They say that that place is haunted. They say that it is cursed. They say, that a monster lives there...


Cigar, Carmichael? Like many baby boomers, my parents saw the new suburbs as utopia. The open spaces beckoned those suffering from the crush of the concrete jungle. What my parents apparently forgot was that just a few decades prior, cities provided safety from the wild things that roam open spaces like wolves and mountain lions. However, as a kid and dedicated viewer of Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, and Davey Crockett, I was acutely aware of the dangers. Hey, don’t laugh. Davey Crockett killed a bear when he was only three. They were out there and those wild things were the nocturnal visitors haunting my dreams. During construction of our future home, we often visited the blossoming neighborhood. At first it was a huge expanse of prairie grass. A clever play by the developer; there would be no  expense for tree removal. Soon the landscape began to change. Popping up everywhere like spring flowers were new houses. As far as my eight-year-old eyes could see there were houses in various stages of construction but not a single flower, or tree, and to my great relief no wild things. That is until we moved in. *** Our car had not yet stopped when I spotted it. A wild thing on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s house, glowering at me with large yellow cat eyes. “A puma,” I thought because it was gray, not brown, and big, but not mountain lion size. Come on I’m not dense, I was eight and didn’t know that a puma is a mountain lion. Suddenly a knock on the car’s window startled the beejesus out of me. Okay, maybe not the beejesus, but it was close to requiring a change of pants. “Hi! I’m Linda McCall and this is my little sister Diane. Wanna play?” “Bingo,” I thought, “built-in playmates.” Cautiously I opened the door, wary of the puma pouncing. Seeing my hesitancy and following my gaze, Diane said, “That’s my Dad’s cat, Carmichael. It’s best to leave him alone. He can be mean.” “I knew it,” my brain screamed. “Crockett was right. There’s danger in these here hills.” As the weeks passed my neighbors and I became fast friends. Of course, I always steered a wide path around Carmichael. I had seen him in the moonlight, prowling the neighborhood, hunting the denizens of the dark. I heard his yowl in the wee hours announcing his reign of the neighborhood. One morning I found his prize from the night before meticulously displayed at our backdoor. I was certain it was a direct, and not so subtle, warning to me. His every move was that of a cold, calculated, serial killer. I was terrified but could not help admiring the regal way he moved and how downright beautiful and dangerous he was. One afternoon the girls and I burst into Mr. McCall’s study. Okay, it was the basement Mr. McCall turned into a library with a lounge chair, sofa, reading table and television. On the reading table was a polished wood box with a lock on it. A man cave before it’s time. Mr. McCall was quietly reading with Carmichael contentedly curled on his lap. “He’s growling. Is he going to bite you,” I asked. Glancing up from his book, Mr. McCall chuckled, “No, he won’t bite me. He’s purring and trying to trick me.” “It sure sounds like growling.” “You see this box,” Mr. McCall explained, “it’s full of cigars that I have had since before Linda was born. Where I’m from cigars are handed out by a new father if the baby is a boy. After Linda’s birth I came home to find Carmichael, then just a kitten, had opened the box and was munching away on my Cuban cigars. Well, I put a lock on the box and occasionally I’ll open it for a smoke. Carmichael waits for the box to open and then pounces to steal what he can. He knows by purring on my lap I get relaxed and may fall into his clever plan.” “I knew it,” I thought, “he’s a deranged wild thing that likes to chew tobacco probably because it tastes better than mice.” A few months later big news rolled through the neighborhood. No, the news wasn’t another tree was being planted, but rather the McCall’s were expecting a baby. The whole expecting thing, from beginning to end, was a mystery to me and none of the adults were inclined to give any details. However, I was pretty certain the stork had nothing to do with it.

I watched in amazement, always keeping my distance from the king-of-beasts, as Ms. McCall transformed from a thin, fragile-looking, woman into a glowing, round, mom-to-be. As the weeks passed I also noticed the number and frequency of Carmichael’s nocturnal conquests left at the McCall door increased as did his interest in the forbidden box. *** One day the girls and I were outside playing jacks when the McCall car unexpectedly roared away. My mother, ever the calm and understated epitome of Southern properness and decorum, popped her head out our back door, “Y’all stay over heah. The girls’ parents are going to be away for a bit.” “Geez Mom, tell us something we don’t know,” I thought, but discretion overcame stupidity, “Ok, we will,” I replied. Diane, unaware of Southern protocol in never asking an adult a direct question, went straight for what we all wanted to know, “Is Mom having the baby,” she asked. Caught between the Southern maxims of elusiveness to children and telling the truth, my Mother skillfully navigated the middle ground, “I’m not sure, we’ll see.” Finally, after what seemed like days but was really just hours, the McCall vehicle arrived home. Mr. McCall stoically walked to his front door and disappeared inside. The three of us, led by my mom, rushed after him. So much for Southern decorum, there were questions to be asked and answers to be had. In the front door, down the stairs, and into the library the four horsemen charged. Sitting in his chair with Carmichael in his lap, Mr. McCall glanced at us and reached for the forbidden box. Without saying a word, he slowly unlocked it, opened the top, looked at the royalty purring in his lap and asked, “Cigar, Carmichael?” The End


Two and a half hours after touching down in Innsbruck and boarding the SUV that waited to greet her, Amelia Carver’s overnight expedition came to an end at a squat, crumbling structure in the rugged terrain of Saminatal Valley.

From Dublin to Austria to Liechtenstein, from 12am to 6, from civilisation to desolation, and she still didn’t know if it was worth it. Looking at the building, little more than an abandoned mound of concrete, it was difficult to see how it could be. She hadn’t accomplished anything of note since last year. She wasn’t expecting to receive any awards. There were no contemporaries she still wanted to meet. And even if by some chance she was to be acknowledged for her endeavours, she had no desire to receive a tacky statue.

Not that it mattered. She was contracted to be here so she was.

At least this year promised to be different, since Bertram was introducing something new. And she’d made her own assumptions about what that meant.

A special guest. An unexpected attendee. One that would be worth turning up for.

If it was him . “So, you’re not gonna throw me a bone?” she asked the driver, as he stopped by the secret military installation, which has been constructed by Nazi forces during World War II. “Not so much as a nod or shake of the head?” The driver, mannequin-like in black suit and mirrored sunglasses, said precisely as many words as he’d said since collecting her at the airport. A sum total of zero.

“Cool,” said his ‘fare’, adjusting the Venetian half-mask that covered the left of her face before popping the passenger door, the fabric of her crimson gown rustling as she got out. “Good talk, thanks for the riveting repartee.”

Out of the vehicle, in the pale morning light, Amelia shut the door and straightened her skirt. Gravel spat like an angry rattlesnake as the driver stomped the gas and crunched away.

“Rude,” said Amelia, tottering on heels towards the entrance, a rusted steel door partially concealed by tangled vines. Exactly the kind of place she wanted to spend the first evening of the last month of the year, when she could be curled up watching TV.

But here she was. Pushing through a squealing slab of history to meet another expressionless brute, who was as conversational as the one who’d dropped her off.

“Hey,” she said, as the passage she’d entered closed around her. “Am I last again? I’m always late. Shucks.” The grunt showed no emotion while placing a barcode-scanner type device against the scar on her neck, allowing a beep to confirm her identity. While he did this, she removed her phone from her clutch and tapped on it to display the invite she’d received, which was also scanned and accepted. Once done, the guard stepped aside, allowing her access to a drape-covered door. “Thanks,” Amelia said, maintaining eye contact with the goon while adjusting her breasts. “So…is it true? Is it Abyss?” No response, the bouncer flicked his eyes back to the wall. Amelia sighed and pulled the drape aside, stepping into a better lit chamber that she lost sight of immediately when a pair of calloused hands fell over her eyes. “Guess who?” came a gravelly voice, laced with playful menace. Amelia peeled the hands away and turned to face their owner, a beast of a man wearing jeans, a white cotton waistcoat and a wolf’s head mask. Blue eyes stared from its sockets, his lips curled up within its maw. “Wolfclawe. Always a pleasure.” Of all the associates she’d met since joining the Network, Wolfclawe was the one she liked most. He had a sense of humour to go with his violent nature and was capable of faking social niceties. “Carver,” he greeted. “Thought it was you I heard coming in behind me. Looking pasty as ever. Still not getting any sun?” “Still got the same machete?” Amelia asked, peering over his shoulder at the curved weapon strapped to his back. “Thought it might have broke from overuse. Heard it's taken thirty heads this year. Not jealous.” “Old Betsy’s stronger than she looks,” the masked man grinned. “What about you? I remember you saying last year how your kill-count was too low. Any success ramping things up?” “In Ireland? Not as much as I’d like,” she said, rolling her visible eye, the taped up hole of her masquerade mask concealing the empty socket of the other. “Came in with a solid thirteen. Three more than last year. But shy of the twenty I wanted.” “An improvement is an improvement. And you are a more discerning kind of killer. Targeting assholes who mock the less fortunate and lack empathy is a task in and of itself. Unless you're starting to feel less philanthropic?" “Nope,” Amelia shook her head, turning away from the wolf-headed killer. "If I'm compelled to get my hands dirty, may as well clean some shit up. Anyway, never mind that. We better grab seats if there’s any left. Bertram starts on time and we’re late.” The interior of the chamber had been prepared for Bertram’s event—rows of chairs arranged before a makeshift stage holding a podium, spotlights casting shadows on red curtained walls. The seats were occupied by figures in various states, some in their work clothes (boiler suits, leather aprons, lab coats, military fatigues), others in more casual attire, some sporting face-coverings (canvas bags, chrome constructions, cliched hockey masks or things that had been assembled from strips of flesh) some displaying faces not even mothers could love, but all unmistakably killers. “Indeed,” said Wolfclawe, following Amelia towards the front, where she’d spotted a pair of vacant seats. “Wouldn’t do to be kicked out, when I’m in with a chance of Best Massacre.” “You deserve an award for that,” Amelia nodded. “Speaking of awards, I guess you heard about the new one?” “Mmm,” Wolfeclawe said, turning into the front row behind her. “Lifetime Achievement Award. Arguably long overdue for a ceremony that honours psycho killers. Half us fuckers are near immortal. The question is…” “Who’s the inaugural recipient?” Amelia finished, nodding at the motley crew of weird and wonderful murderers she passed as she made her way to a seat. “You know what they’ve been saying on Instagrim.” “Well, it’s got to be Abyss,” Wolfclawe said, taking a seat alongside her. “How many times did he win ‘Killer of the Year’? Twelve? Does anyone have a better record?” “Not only that. Best Dismemberment. Most Depraved Violation. Goriest Cut. You name it, he got it. Every year for a decade. Until he vanished. He’s the GOAT, would be an insult to give it to anyone else. The question is…is he alive? All the rumours that circulate, about him being locked away by the Government, retiring to live as a lumberjack…being turned into mince by a ‘final girl’!” “Fuck,” Wolfclawe gasped, as she organised her dress on her chair. “I know! The ultimate humiliation for serial slashers…” “Not that,” Wolfclawe interrupted, touching her arm. “ That .” Amelia followed his gaze to the left of the stage, where three men stood partially obscured behind curtains, two of Bertram’s goons and… Him. Clad in an oil-stained pair of overalls, feet stuffed into boots that were coming apart, head concealed by a latex S&M hood replete with zips, straps and buckles, the seven foot tall hulking form was unmistakably Abyss. The shifting, awkward posture. The way his arms flexed. The movement of his head, glitching like stop-motion animation. She’d only seen videos but she knew it was him.

Wolfclawe was squinting behind his mask as he studied the granddaddy of killers. “He’s bulkier than I expected. Taller. But look how they’re restraining him. Is that a neck manacle? Connected to prods?” Amelia had noticed this too, but before she could consider it the lights dimmed and the piped music came to a halt. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes went to the stage as the curtain on the right was thrown back, allowing a bearded man in a suit to stride out, beckoning applause.

Which he got.

In buckets. From all. Because this was their benefactor, Bertram Belasco, long-serving head of the Serial Killer Network. Amelia took part in the adulation as he soaked it up. In the five years since he found her and signed her up to his ‘club’, she’d come to respect him like everyone else. Being selected was nothing short of an honour. It meant her killer credentials were on point. It meant, despite the exorbitant subscription fee Bertram charged for membership, that she had access to all SK Network resources; anonymity, medical aid, protection and sanctuary when required. Luckily, she hadn’t needed to avail of much yet, being a small fish in the pond. A little treatment for wounds, some hacking to remove her image from cctv footage. All in a day’s work for the Network.

“Welcome, friends,” Bertram said, when the applause died down. “Delighted to see you all again. Our venue is a little less luxurious than usual but there’s a reason for that, one that will become clear soon. Before we start, I want to take a moment to say that this year’s nominees for our various awards were highly impressive—Kill of the Year, Sickest Mutilation, Most Creative Execution... You’ve outdone yourselves and I want to congratulate everyone for their efforts. You’ve made me proud and… Well, just… Well done.” “Weird start,” Wolfclawe whispered, and Amelia nodded. Bertram seemed more sombre than usual. “However,” he blurted then, perking up as his eyes went to Abyss. “Before we get to that…a surprise!” A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Amelia felt goosebumps on her arms. “As you know from my invite,” their host went on, “we have a special award tonight. And along with it comes a special guest. There’s been a lot of speculation online as to who it might be, with one particular name being mooted more than others. Well. I don’t want to keep you–or him–waiting any longer, so let’s kick things off with our first ever Lifetime Achievement Award. Won’t you join me please in welcoming…Abyss!” Applause filled the room as Abyss was guided out by the goons. His footsteps as he stomped to the podium were louder than the chants and cheers around her. But why was he secured like that? Was he here against his will? Was he a danger to his own kind?

“I know this looks weird,” said Bertram, as Abyss was brought to a halt alongside him, quivering as though volts flowed into his neck. “But sadly dear Abyss is not the force of nature he used to be. He’s had to keep a low profile these last ten years. Two decades as the world’s most prolific serial killer is something that can take a toll. He absorbed more pure guilt than anyone before him and handled it like a trooper. But there’s a limit to all things. And ten years ago today, he reached his. He had to be put away, for everyone’s safety. Just one more kill would have broken him, released the guilt, and we weren’t ready.” “What’s he talking about?” Wolfclawe hissed. Amelia shook her head. She had no idea. But whatever it was, it had the potential to be epic. As he spoke, Bertram retrieved an award from behind the podium, a grotesque creation made of twisted steel. “For you,” he continued, presenting the award to the monster. “With gratitude. But this isn’t your true reward. A polished lump of metal in your hands is nothing but a weapon. I know what you’d really like is…closure.” Abyss closed his fist around the award, gripping it like a bludgeon while Bertram raised an arm and clicked his fingers. Amelia sat up in her chair, watching the curtains at the back of the stage part and another suited mook wheel out a crate. “This is different,” said Wolfclawe. “What’s the old boy up to?” “Does everyone remember Diamond Lagoon, 1995? Abyss’ most infamous rampage. He took out an entire settlement in one night. An incredible feat of savagery. Sixty seven residents, sixty six victims, because one slipped through the net. A plucky young girl. Don’t you hate them? We’ve all been frustrated by one of those. For Abyss though, in a twenty year reign of terror, she was the only one who ever got away. The only blemish in an otherwise spotless career. And guess what?” Bertram moved to the edge of the stage as his man undid latches on the crate. “We have her here tonight!” Gasps in the crowd as the guard opened the box and a dishevelled woman fell out, barely getting her hands in front of her before hitting the floor. Her face was lined with age, her hair was grey. She whimpered where she’d landed by Abyss, whose head was turned down as he watched. “No way,” Amelia said, as Bertram and his goons walked off the stage. “Are we going to see a live kill?” “You’re free, Abyss!” Bertram called as he slipped through the curtains. “Let it go!” The crowd had gotten to their feet and Amelia joined them, all eyes on the scene, keen to see what would happen next. And what happened next was…like watching a movie sped up. 2x. Abyss threw his head back and howled. The woman screamed up at his hood. Abyss drove the trophy into her skull. The onlookers in the crowd cheered and jumped.

Amelia’s mouth fell open. Wolfclawe whistled. Abyss turned to the crowd and started to shudder. Not from being electrocuted, from something else. What was it Bertram had said? Amelia wondered. One more kill would have broken him, released the guilt. The shuddering turned to convulsions and Abyss roared, not now in fury but in pain. He staggered, his body shaking violently. His head jerked back, and with a sickening crack it split open, ripping through latex and spilling blood and bone to the floor.

3x. Black mist poured from his mask. Smoky tendrils shot forth, snaking through the air and filling the room. Writhing, maleficent tentacles, that multiplied and wriggled like worms before plunging into the heads of those below, squeezing screams from their lungs. Their bodies convulsed and their faces contorted as the Guilt from Abyss took control. Amelia watched chaos unfold beginning with Wolfclawe, who stared wide-eyed in horror from his mask as he took his machete, lifted it to his neck and sliced through. Hot, scarlet liquid splattered her face as she looked away, her eye falling on the killers behind her, who were turning their weapons on themselves, tearing at flesh, gouging out eyes, ripping their own jaws off in a frenzy.

4x. Tendrils of mist withdrew from falling bodies. Returned to the hovering mass over Abyss’ corpse. Amelia tottered, unsteady on heels slipping in blood. The screams were abating, the crowd was diminishing, not many remained on their feet. Not many continued to be overwhelmed by the guilt of their actions, encouraged by the fingers of mist that had entered their brains. All of their brains. Even hers. And that’s when she realised…she, too, had been invaded. But she, alone, was still standing. With a tendril of smoke connecting her to the pulsating mass, which was slowly drifting towards her from the stage. Drifting/oozing/throbbing, shrinking as it flowed into her head. Filling her mind with images of her victims. Bullies. Narcissists. Sociopaths. Bigots. Gaslighters. Abusers. Jerks. Am I supposed to feel bad for killing them? her inner voice queried. Am I supposed to break under the weight of massive guilt? And that’s when someone hit…

Pause. “I knew it would be you,” a voice behind her, Bertram’s, said and she turned, the last of the Guilt devouring her soul. "Thought we’d have more time to nurture your talent but Abyss’ willpower was waning. He was going to release it soon, one last murder or not. And it needed to happen in a controlled environment. It needed to feast after being locked away for so long. And it needed to choose a new host." "What…is it?" Amelia asked, aware of fresh darkness inside her. "A force as old as time," Bertram said, taking her hand. "An insatiable force that needs to be fed. But keeping it fed is not easy. And keeping it restrained? Even harder. You see what it does when it’s not. But it takes a certain kind of person. Abyss was that person before. Thirty years he held it—a record. But it fucked him up. He was a discerning killer too, once upon a time. An idealist. He focused his darkness, like you. Til he was chosen." “What…have you done to me?”

"I’m sorry,” Bertram said, leading her away from the carnage. “As its Guardian, I have to oversee the transference. It’s never easy. But it’s necessary. I do it to keep the world safe, believe it or not. Safe from unstoppable evil. It picked you today because you could hold it. But it’s going to change you, over time. It will naturally make you more feral. Less controlled. A rampaging beast, if I’m honest. But it will also make you a legend. The best of the best. With the Guilty Conscience fueling you, you'll be Killer of the Year for as long as you want. And the next Lifetime Achievement Award will be yours." Amelia’s mind was racing. His words sounded insane but she could feel it, a growing hunger that demanded to be sated. A hunger that would make her a Queen. "Then I suppose I have work to do," she said, her voice sharp, like the switchblade in her clutch. Bertram nodded. "And I’ve a new Network to build. Welcome to your new life, Amelia Carver.” “Glad to be here,” she replied, accepting a kiss to her hand. “I look forward to carving a fresh abyss."


Where she and her lineage of wizened eyes, handsomely greyed heads, often gnarled hands, and beautifully scarred feet have their placentas buried and bones interred, it is said it takes a village to raise a child. Well, they had a village and it did raise its children. Mama Mutai would with lightning-quick speed smack you on the back of your head if you happened to be within her vicinity and answered the call of original sin to talk back to anyone of the same age as the first sibling in your home; let alone attempting to do so to one of an age similar to that of your parents. Mama Achieng would, when the burnt orange meets the darkening blue and all animals great and small knew to troop back to where they call home, start grabbing and scrubbing dusty heads and muddy feet all the while profusely complaining about the most horrible state the growing pile of dirtied clothes was in, as she flung them all next to the water tank for them to think about their lives before they were also beaten and scrubbed to within an inch of their threadbare lives by Achieng herself. Mama Njenga was the designated headquarters for all functions; courting couples were watched hawk-eyed because weddings are no matter to be trifled with, babies were born into the pomp and flare they deserved, were dedicated to the Lord pots and pans a’banging, men, women, and children were laid to rest and not a soul near or far could question the grief that shrouded our village or that the departed belonged. My mother was the one whom they did not talk of or even mention her name often enough. She was the one who as a child was the quiet one, did not play too well or often enough with other children, and grew to be a loner of a girl. Our matriarch, Mama Neserian had long given up on being a wife, though not for lack of trying, hoping, praying, being beaten into, counselled to submit to and often out rightly shamed to; she however gave herself to the call of being a mother with all the fierceness of a wounded bear. She had five including my mother and another five from our grandfather’s other mother-of-his-children to raise, dote on, love, feed, scrub, spank or beat depending on the crime, and encourage with gruff words for after all who out rightly tells children that they are loved or can and must succeed and all the while using actual words. To call both my grandmother and she wives would be to grant my grandfather the honour of being a husband. Too high an honour! My mother grew into a quiet girl, one who was easy to forget, hard to notice she was there, an observer of people and life’s events, she never truly or convincingly enough said no to anyone or anything and embraced the fascinating habit of never lifting her head too long from watching the ground when she walked and of getting genuinely shocked when one called her beautiful or kind or strong or gracious, all things she was and did effortlessly and with a pull that invited one to prepare that which their heart so desperately longed for in food or drink, choose a sunrise or set as befits their spirit, tuck feet under, blissfully sigh and adoringly behold. Even more, despite and in spite of it all, she evolved into a fascinating woman. More beautiful, kinder, more gracious and stronger than we would know or think and at every re-telling of this tale, she would grow stronger still. Yet, she carried this shadow with her. When spotted in her eyes it drew the most shaken of gasps followed in quick succession by inquiry, horror, resolve and only much later, defeat and despair! Mama Neserian cannot even under the threat of hot coals to the bottom of her feet tell you when or why my mother was so different from her other children, all ten of them, she just was. Was it possible for either one or even two or three of her children at a time to be off somewhere doing and being something she would often worry or frown upon? A most resounding yes. After all, in raising its children our village provided all manner of thrills and spills. From roaring down the river after coming tumbling and screaming down the muddy ravine during the rainy season, to trying to spot and see how close we could get to a gazelle before it bounded away or even an elephant if we strayed far enough and serendipity smiled and no adult could be spotted or could spot us. There was such mischief to get up to and we were all such willing slaves to her. When a new family found their way to our village and were certified welcome after many shifting eyes and more wagging tongues, their children were taken under wing and none was allowed to be found unable to swim, incapable of stealing Babu’s bicycle from in front of his retail shop, afraid of flora or fauna and thoroughly seasoned in being on the receiving end of the cane of many a mother including their own. One such family came into town a little before I came to be and as soon as my mother and grandmother agreed that maybe the city with its twinkling lights, not as fresh air or water, ominous air, hope, and promise wasn’t a bad idea for my mother. My mother never did say who my father was and no one explicitly remembered seeing her leaning suggestively over fences, taking the long way around on errands, tracing and retracing with her shy feet the contours of our great motherland as sweet nothings were sent her way; so my announcement and boisterous arrival into our village remained unspoken of. Mama Neserian would not be bothered, bullied or otherwise cajoled to reveal such information because the truth was too much for her heart to re-tell. The night my mother sat next to her in front of the deliciously warm hearth, as the flames licked the walls and boiled evening tea along with the morning maize, my grandmother felt the air shift to make room for whatever it was her daughter needed to lay at her feet and she instinctively knew that because it was my mother, it would serve them both well to let her lead the way. And so my mother let it be known of my impending arrival in 7 or so months, that she was okay as okay can be for a 16-year-old girl, and had been and would continue to take care of herself and thus me as I lay cosy and budding, and that when she was done with the business of bringing me forth, could my grandmother then please do that which my mother was sure only she could for her, raise me and raise me well. And that is how my mother became a distant connection to an enchanting place over the horizon. My grandmother never let me forget that she was my grandmother and not my mother so at that same warm hearth, late in the evening, she would tell me tales of who she knew my mother to be, what she was up to through her letters first, and later through the most fascinating of contraptions called a mobile phone. My mother tried to visit and the first time she did I have heard it said that it seemed the shadow she bore had faded, quieted and she seemed all the better for it. Laughed easier, more freely, was gentler to interact with. As I grew and morphed into my own person embarking on that often arduous journey of finding and being self, my mother and I settled for camaraderie and she served us well. I eventually found myself in that twinkling, promising place on the horizon and Mama Neserian could not be prouder or sadder in equal measures. We missed each other terribly yet I was her connect to my other siblings and her children, a task I loathed or thoroughly relished depending on which relative was on the other side of the coffee, lunch, dinner, Saturday afternoon meet-up or phone call. One evening as I put up my feet and freed my braids, my mother appeared unannounced at my door. This happened often and was never a cause for concern yet on this particular evening, she was antsy. She was battling cervical cancer. She wore her bald black head with pride, fought her doctors at every turn, attempted to live life on her own terms and, so when she walked in, settled on the couch wrapping a blanket across her legs to keep warm and looked me straight in the eye and said, “it is time!”, my heart leapt to my throat. Unhurriedly, unfeelingly, in a voice devoid of extremes and calmly still, my mother proceeded to tell me our story. How she and her shadow were forever merged, how I came to be. When my mother turned twelve, she remembers, a new family came to the village. One of the whole ones so there was a mother, a father, six children of four rambunctious boys and two pretty girls, their livestock for no village is complete without a corral of them, and as is our African nature, theirs was a revolving door of various relatives. That year, an uncle came to live with them and that man came to be the life of our village! Young and old drew to him like flies to filth. He was the quintessential uncle to watch over children, chase them down hills, the eager goat bounding along with them, he drank at the table of men and spurred ideas of growth, better farming, higher yields, promising marriages and one last try for a boy, and he was the ever-helpful hand for mothers needing an extra sinewy hand. My mother watched all these things like she watched all life then, from under her downcast eyes and bowed head, quietly reading the random newspapers that were used to line the inside of some houses. This uncle finally came around to noticing her and would always try to stop and talk to her or sit next to her as she read or accompany her on errands. My mother never protested or acquiesced and sometimes his presence helped to keep off cat-calling boys and bullies and gaggling, whispering girls and that suited my mother just fine. By the time my mother turned 14, she and he were now on speaking and laughing terms and so they would remain. He was the only one other than family that my mother would raise her head from staring at the ground for, and he became and would remain her fiercest protector. The day I was conceived, my mother’s protector was away. Over the hill in another village doing what men do in providing and protecting. Mama Neserian had developed a cough that sounded like an old coal train announcing its ascent from the very bowels of the earth and by the time it exited her body, she was spitting black sputum and blood. And so, despite her protests, my mother had taken it upon herself to go see the medicine woman across the ridge. My mother was fifteen and oblivious to the fact that the new family’s father had come into the village, set down roots and proceeded to notice her and keep noticing her through the years. So on this particular day, as she set off on her mission to bring back respite and relief, he noticed and followed. Respite and relief never made it back and instead, Mama Neserian was found fretting and worrying for darkness had preceded my mother’s return. Uncle Murata returned from being provider and protector to find Mama Neserian waiting for him with sputum-laden breath. He needed no coaxing and became the search party. Two days later, him red-eyed and bone-weary, my mother bruised, battered and bloodied showed up with the dawn. The medicine woman was fetched and in the middle of her “tsk, tsk, tsk” and frequent wiping away of tears, she pronounced my mother alive but violently robbed of virtue. Mama Neserian stood there shell-shocked and after she had stared unseeingly into the walls of her home, she sent one of my mother’s brothers to fetch the ‘modern’ medicine woman. His feet cycled like a bat from hell and only briefly slowed at the melee that was at Uncle Murata’s compound that he would later hear left the father of that home dead and Uncle Murata packed up, never to return. My uncle returned with the nurse in tow who wiped, disinfected, examined, patched up and cuddled my mother back into what would now be her new self. She spoke with my grandmother and left strict instructions and the promise to return every day until she was satisfied she had healed that which medicine could, the rest would have to be left to God. Mama Neserian and the other elders were informed of the happenings at the new family’s homestead and the conclusion that the dead man was responsible and Uncle Murata our hero. He never stayed to receive punishment or accolade and only left behind the instruction that my mother was the only one who could reach him if and when she wanted and for whom he would return should she need him. My mother’s body healed, her mind limped, she never did reach out for Uncle Murata and only because she knew he would face grueling yet half-hearted punishment. When she went into the city, she did find him and they did remain protector and protected until three days before she showed up at my door. She said she had gotten the dreaded call from an emergency room and went in to find Uncle Murata laid upon a cold, metal slab. As her heart shattered, he remained still, peaceful, unmoved by her screams that though she thought were silent, rent the air and resulted in her in a heap upon the floor. When she rejoined the conscious, the emergency room doctor explained that Uncle Murata had been dumped at their doors, too many stab wounds for them to keep from discharging his precious life. They asked if she wanted his possessions to which she answered, “and his body as well. He deserved to be buried in love.” So here she was with a crumpled, bloodied note she had found among his things and all the note said was, “for dad.” In the days since she had found it, she had unearthed its meaning and was here to ask that I accompany her to face its writer. Without thinking twice, we left and as I drove, she stared out the window and then the tears came. They tore a wail from the bottom of her soul that I was sure had everything to do with not just the present but some 20-odd years ago. We got to a quiet neighbourhood, the kind that reminds you of the Desperate Housewives. She pointed to a red-brick townhouse, picket fence and all on the left and we sat and bore witness to its occupant go about the rituals of an eager host. Just as he and friends and family sat down to an elaborately laid out dinner, my mother weaved her fingers with mine, I heard her hold her breath and the night air tore with an explosion! Between reacting to it and watching my mother, the scene plays out in slow motion for me. That red-brick townhouse, its occupants and elaborate dinner go up in a whoosh of flames while my mother lets out that held breath. She had found the writer of the note and taken her own pound of flesh.


“Cameras in the house?” Rhea stared at the producer in such an unflinching way one could have wondered whether her soul had left her body. Had someone looked up the word incredulous , her face might as well have defined it. “Yes,” replied the producer, calm and composed. “That’s the deal. If you want the Extras, that is.” “Of course we do!” screamed Nick, elated. All three sat in a luxurious office at the Beverly Studios administration building. “What are the extras exactly?” asked Rhea. “Five thousand dollars a week for the rest of your lives. Multiple endorsement deals with commercial products. Oh, and lifelong fame, of course.” Nick’s eyes gleamed at the prospect, while Rhea remained unconvinced. “This wasn’t in the contract,” she said. “The contract you signed was for The Great Love Search. You’ll be signing a new one for The Great Love Found. That’s the principle of a spin-off.” “It’s just…” she mumbled, glancing at Nick awkwardly. “We’re… we’re not really in love. It was all make-believe for the show, I thought you knew this.” “I do,” replied the producer. “Few contestants come to The Great Love Search for love. They do it for money and fame.” “Exactly,” said Nick. “It’s all that matters, right. C’mon Rhea, we can do this. They don’t call you Rhea the Wrecker for nothing.” “For the rest of our lives? Isn’t that a little bit extreme?” Rhea could not even admit it to herself, but love was indeed what pushed her to audition for The Great Love Search. Like many young women, she dreamed of finding a Prince Charming to warm her on the cold winter nights back in Colorado. When all conventional dating methods failed, she packed her bags and put her candidacy forward for the reality dating show hoping this would provide an environment conducive to finding the right one. What could possibly go wrong with fifteen men and fifteen women mingling together on a paradise island? Of course, things quickly spiraled out of control. Her memory drifted back to the first fight. *** Filming took place in a lavish seaside house in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The sights defied Rhea’s wildest dreams. Amid palm trees and turquoise waves washing up on the shore, she took a long walk on the sandy beach upon landing. Colorado seemed like nothing more than a distant dream, leftover from a past life. Yet, there was this unnerving impression at the back of her mind. Something would go wrong. Rebecca provoked her on the first evening. Cleanliness mattered to Rhea: her mother always emphasized the importance of washing the dishes before going to bed. She gently reminded her roommate of the house rules regarding dishes etiquette, but the reminder was met with quite a lot of resistance. From there, the situation escalated quickly. Voices soared. Chairs flew. Knifes were pointed. “You freakin’ psychopath!” yelled Rebecca as she threw her dishes on the ground. The shattered pieces dispersed all around, one of them cutting lodging itself between Rhea’s toes. “What makes you think you can boss me around?” “Me?” replied Rhea, out of her mind. “A psychopath? When is the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? I have to boss you around because you’re literally a five-year-old child!” She threw back the broken pieces at her rival, who ran away upstairs screaming swear words. It didn’t take long for Rhea to resonate with viewers. The editing made her look like the cast member who did everything in her power to shake up the house. Clips of her outburst went viral, and she quickly became an overnight sensation, dubbed Rhea the Wrecker. She hated the moniker with a fiery passion and avoided conflicts to the best of her ability, but Rebecca’s constant bullying exacerbated their relationship’s toxicity to unmanageable levels. All men on the island turned out to be jerks. When the prospect of love clearly became hopeless wish, Rhea sought to get voted off, but the viewers gave her immunity week after week; such was their addiction to the feud between the two women. The finale came. Nick, the last man standing, had to choose between the two sworn enemies. “This was a very difficult decision,” he said, an envelope in his hands. They all stood with the rest of the crew by the beach as the sunset flamed up the sky behind them. “At the end of the day, I had to choose a woman with whom I felt I could spend the rest of my life with, so I picked…” He opened the envelope and pulled out a picture. It was Rhea’s. She acted ecstatic, of course. First off, Rebecca had been defeated, which was an accomplishment worth celebrating in itself. Winning a house in Malibu didn’t feel bad either. Only one thing had escaped: love. The minute the cameras turned off, an indifferent Nick went back to his trailer as she watched alone the last golden rays vanishing beyond the horizon in the distance. *** Three weeks had passed since then, and a new contract lay on the desk in front of her. Nick quickly signed it, then walked out of the office. “So long girl,” he said without looking at her. “See you in Malibu.” Rhea and the producer were now alone. She looked at the contract absent-mindedly, dreaming of the cold Colorado winters. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Believe me, I hate asking people to sign away their lives.” “Then don’t.” “It’s not that easy. The executives are the ones who make the decisions around here.” “They sure make it hard to turn down, with all these Extras. The question is, are the Extras worth the price? When I moved from Colorado for the show, it never occurred to me I would never get to go back. I certainly wasn’t expecting to live with cameras in my house forever… especially not in the presence of someone like Nick.” “Interesting.” “What’s interesting? My life falling apart?” “No. I come from Colorado too. I guess we were both disenchanted by the Hollywood dream.” He swallowed nervously. All along, Rhea had the impression there was something he wanted to say but did not dare to. “You know, I never liked that nickname,” he declared. “ Rhea the Wrecker. Whoever came up with that is messed up. How about we go finish this discussion over a cup of coffee?” Rhea smiled. This was the sweetest thing someone had told her in a long time. Without even thinking about it, she picked up the contract and reduced it to a wad of paper before throwing it in a bin. “I would love to. Coffee is my favorite.”


Despising the cocktail of cigarettes and fast food in his mouth, Randoulph put out his third cigarette of the night and pretended to watch another know-it-all become a millionaire. At this point he’s drowned out the pounding on his door. He knows who it is and what they want, and that he doesn’t have it because he spent it. Randoulph has long forgotten the fruitless efforts of his landlord and his thoughts have snowballed into a realization. Randoulph just realized that he’s leaving. Randy grabbed his keys, wallet, cell phone, pen, and notepad. Nearly running right into his fuming landlord he said, “Yeah, I got you on Thursday, don’t worry about.” He marched to his car, got in and drove to a gas station. The fuel was flowing and so were his thoughts, “Maybe I should let someone know.” he decided. Flipping through his phone he remembered why he decided to leave in the first place.      “Yeah, check please.” Randy requested from the waitress. It has been one week and he hasn’t settled down yet. At this point he’s feeling foolish thinking, “Yeah, right, like I’d actually just find some random town to fit my insatiable desire to be somewhere ‘different’ by driving aimlessly down the highway.” Turning back isn’t an option knowing the shit storm of unpaid debts and an angry chain of bosses. Randy did notice one thing. He can’t help but feel like he’s felt a tug, like a fish just took a nibble. He knows he’s onto something and doesn’t quite know what, he knows it starts with liberation and ends with content, and he knows that’s more than enough to keep going. The bell rings as the door swings open, and wanting to savor the taste of bacon, eggs, and pancakes he hesitates before lighting a cigarette. He settles in a quiet residential area with enough parked cars to avoid raising attention to his modest white sedan until morning.