It was dark, and the snow flashed like glass across her cheeks. Melanie opened her pack, and took out her cloak. The wind tried to rip it from her hand. Wrapped in the mismatched furs, she felt a little better. *Stars, I am tired*. The hollow had been uphill the entire way, and her calves ached. But there were greater evils in Verpace than steep slopes, and Melanie shrugged her pack onto her back. She set off into the snow. The wind dropped off as she slid and floundered down the slope, the tract’s wall to her back. Peering from her hood, the expanse of the new area unveiled its grim face. The frozen roofs of buildings, with the odd tower and broken wall, poked up from the hills of white. No trees grew here, no foliage at all. The wintry landscape extended to the farthest point of her vision without respite. Icy fingers gripped her heart, and she shivered. This could end badly. Cold moonlight shone down, white light shimmering off the ground like water off a blade. The dark tops of buildings rose like tombstones around the woman as she strode forward. The storm did not abate. Even with the cloak wrapped tight around her body, the cold penetrated to her bones. She would die of frostbite in a half an hour if she didn’t seek shelter soon. But each building was solid stone, without clear entrance by window or door. As she floundered through the snow, her hope died within. This was where the journey would end, meaningless and hopeless, a pointless existence with a pointless end. This was the world of Verpace, and such were its tales. Her fatigued muscles shivered, and she couldn’t stop it. They were shaking off the icy embrace of the stars, the stars which claimed all evil souls at the end. Or so the Valley taught. It wasn’t the only religion she had stumbled across in her life, but it was the one that had the best stories. Her belief or non-belief wouldn’t matter in a few minutes, anyhow. What lay beyond would manifest itself, and she would know the truth. A glimmer of light caught her eye, a flash of golden warmth. She acted immediately, leaping up on her numb legs and stumbling like a drunkard through the snow toward life. Her eyes were growing heavy, and she knew her willpower would only carry her so far before it discarded her unwilling body like a dirty rag, to be buried in the snowfall and never seen again. The light spilled out across the snow in golden rivers, renewing her hope. It came from a brazier in the top of a tower, the cast-iron holding red-hot logs and spilling embers across the floor. The tower’s top was level with the snow. Melanie didn’t check for any enemy, but collapsed into the cloud of heat around the brazier and absorbed it greedily, her skin flushing red. She fell unconscious seconds later. Melanie awoke to a dull scratching sound. It took her a few moments to realise her head was propped on her pack, and her damp fur cloak was wrapped around her. The warmth of the fire thawed her memory, and she remembered where she was. The scratching persisted, refusing to let her sink back into the bliss of oblivion, and she forced her eyes open. *Could be a damned beast about to eat me, after all*. The thought annoyed her more than anything. The strangest man she had ever seen was perched on a gigantic bag, scratching with a quill at a parchment propped on his bent knees. His tall pointed hat sagged with dampness, and his beard ran down his chest in braids tied with grey string. Two bright blue eyes sparkled over his gnarled nose, which twitched now and then in motions betraying a desire to sneeze. And all about his person there lurked pages, scrolls, and the corners of small leatherbound volumes. Every pocket was bursting with paper, and his hat-band was stocked with multiple quills and folded letters. His scarf had a scroll or two poking out at mad angles, and Melanie did the only thing that seemed appropriate. She laughed. The man jumped at her cold-roughened voice, and she laughed all the harder as he teetered precariously on the gigantic bag beneath him. Tears streamed down her cheeks when he fell off with a shout, and the resulting crash and cloud of pages which flew upwards sent her into hysterics. She rolled over, arms clasped around her midriff. Straight into a puddle of melted snow and hot embers. She sobered up immediately. As she rose, stiff muscles cursing her name, the man stood up as well, gathering the scattered pages while muttering under his breath. He tucked them away in various locations on his person and bag, Melanie stretched and checked her belongings. Everything was there. “Who are you?” she asked. “A question best left unanswered in these times, don’t you think?” he replied. His tone was neutral, cautious. He kept his eye on Melanie’s right arm. “You’re breathing still, writer.” “I pulled you in from the cold,” he said, placing the last piece of wood on the cooling fire. “Yet another reason not to eat you,” Melanie said. “You jest, but I have met both lichtridden and cannibals in these days, and the two are not mutually exclusive by any means.” “My name is Melanie Stake, since you place stock in such things. I’d say we have less than an hour before we freeze to death, so I would work with you to find a solution, if you are keen.” The man looked at her. Melanie could see no mad lust or violence behind his gaze. Merely calculation and attention to detail. “My name is Tarraniel Ver Teltelvishnar. Please call me Tarr. We need to find an entrance into the city below us.” Tarr spoke quickly, but with certainty. “I have no business in a city which lies under fifty feet of snow. I seek any hollow but that one,” she said, gesturing behind her. “There are no other hollows up here. I checked.” “Stars above, then we are dead. That hollow is corrupted now. The licht found a way into it’s depths and is tearing it apart.” Melanie leaned against the stone of the tower, heart growing as cold as the stone behind her. “I know. I passed through there two nights past.” “What have you been doing since?” “Freezing, and exploring,” Tarr said, packing his bags, checking the belts and pushing escaping scrolls and books back into it. “There are always at least two hollows to a tract. I am a historian, and a cartographer, a mapmaker. In the dozens of tracts I have mapped, there were always two or more hollows. It allows the licht to flow, from tract to tract, according to some primary research and various secondary sources… Why are you looking at me like that?” “You survived dozens of tracts? You? Surely you aren’t cursed. I see no deformity.” The man frowned, stuffing damp pages into his bag. “It’s not a curse. The correct term is lichtridden, and no, I am not. I don’t know why, considering how far I’ve come.” “I thought you’d have made a fine meal for some of the beasts I’ve encountered,” Melanie smirked. “Caution and planning can avoid most dangers, I find,” Tarr grumbled, hefting his bag onto his back. Melanie laughed at the barb. She wrapped a rag tightly around the remaining piece of wood, cursing as the flames nipped at her. She used her knees to hold it as she deftly tied the knot, the makeshift torch burning brightly in the icy night. They set off, cloaks billowing in the wind. Sparks flew from the torch, and the flames whispered, harsh as gravel being ground between the teeth of giants. With each step, the cold scratched its way through their cloaks, sharp teeth tearing away at their warmth. The first roof they reached had no breaches in the tiles, and they moved on. They couldn’t dawdle. The wind ripped a loose page out of Tarr’s pack, and tore it to pieces before he could react. He swore under his breath, but Melanie only saw his lips move, the wind shredding whatever words were spoken before they could reach her ears. The snow lashed their bare cheeks with a fury Melanie felt was wilful, as if some white-robed wizard was hurling snow at them from afar. She snorted, knowing there were few who could control the licht, and even fewer who could maintain their sanity while doing so. *The licht has a will of and unto itself. It is a power that has no master, and cares nought for its servants. The licht doesn’t, indeed cannot, care who stands in the path of its storm, as long as it creates more chaos than there previously was*. Melanie smiled at the remembered echoes of some madman she had met many tracts ago. He lay dead, and she lived on. Who was the wiser between them? The second building they reached had an opening, a thin gap between two pillars which led to a frozen wooden door. The pair rushed in. Melanie kicked the door, grinning as the water-damaged wood gave a muffled crack. A few more kicks and they were inside. A stairway went down into shadows, and Melanie put a hand on Tarr’s shoulder. She gestured with the torch at the footsteps in the ancient dust on the worn flagstones. “We have no idea how old those are,” he whispered. “Can you fight?” He looked at her, and Melanie could see his manly pride giving way to reason as he shook his head. “Your honesty is commendable. I go first. Carry the torch overhead, not in front of my face. If you blind me, we are both dead.” They slipped down into the dusty gloom, red light flickering across the bare walls of the stairway. Melanie kept count of the steps in her head, her eyes scanning the darkness before her. The ancient dust smelled of nothing, not death or decay or rot. Just dust, more ancient than memory could tell. Before her, the footprints went, step by step. Her lichtridden arm twitched a little, but she could sense the licht had not penetrated far into the city. Or if it had, it was in the very depths. Forty-three steps later, they entered a vast chamber. The dripping snow from their cloaks created eerie echoes in the place, and they halted at the entrance. The torchlight showed no roof, and barely reached the farthest wall. Great grey stones made up the walls, each one several metres in breadth and height. Benches and tables of strange designs filled the room. They were heavily carved, and Tarr nudged her forward, clearly intrigued. Melanie let him go, keeping watch on the shadows. She couldn’t spot the tracks they had seen previously. Unsettling. “Why, these are constructed of wood I have only read of in books! From the forests of Aterr-She, before the First Lichtvallen. Priceless, even in that time. The carvings are the work of masters.” “Clearly,” Melanie said, her eyes on the next doorway. “Our torch is burning low.” Tarr continued to study the carvings for a moment, then turned to her in shock. “Not a word,” she growled, stopping his outburst. “Whatever value these once had is as dead as the trees they come from.” She took hold of the nearest stool, and kicked at the joinery. The furniture was in surprisingly good condition considering its age, but Melanie’s boot prevailed. Soon enough they had four pieces of wood with rags wrapped around the ends. Tarr pulled out a candle and dripped wax into the cloth of each, ensuring greater longevity. They packed two of the torches away, and lit one each. “There is no licht here,” Tarr said as they moved across the chamber toward the far doorway. “Faintest traces from our entrance, but you are correct; it is very odd.” Another stairway greeted them, and they walked down, following the footprints in the dust. Their torches provided some warmth for their bones as they climbed into the depths of the city. Thirty steps down, Melanie could see no end to the stairway. The walls seemed to shrink in on the intruders, and she considered the vast weight of snow lying above them. “I have read of older magic than the licht, in ancient books,” Tarr said. “Old books are full of nonsense,” Melanie replied. “I hear they once read tales of fancy, where people that didn’t exist pranced through worlds that were imaginary. Not all books are historical, and even those of history are full of lies.” “Does your cynicism aid you in your travels?” “I believe what I see. And I have seen much,” Melanie said. “As have I, and read more. There is no licht here, and I maintain an open mind as to why there are no inhabitants.” “Maintain that open mouth and you’ll wake them if they *are* here, that’s for certain.” Tarr shut his mouth, eyeing Melanie’s arm. The crippling atrophy spread from her fingers to her elbow, the skin wrinkled and grey. The veins were visible as lighter lines running through the skin. Many years ago, she would have hidden her arm with a deep sense of shame. But she now knew that if people feared you, they were more likely to think twice. And such thought was beneficial for a person’s health, in Melanie’s philanthropic eyes. “Why are you smirking?” Tarr grumbled. “Because I have wandered long alone, and have been my own source of amusement for years. You’re a welcome relief, though.” “I’ll write about you someday, so watch it.” “Who would read about a lichtridden?” “Future generations. We must leave a record of our experiences, to allow those who come after to learn from the past.” “Stars know what they’d learn from me.” “I wonder the same,” Tarr said, one corner of his mouth lifting. The sudden jolt of the bottom of the stairs made Melanie jump. “Damn it, man, you made me lose count.” “Eighty-four,” Tarr said. “Hm. Thank you.” They were in a vaulted corridor, the ceiling rising far above them. Pillars lined the walls, stretching up into the shadows like the trunks of some stone forest. The vaulting was of a style neither had seen before, and Tarr noted the peculiar metallic globes which hung from each meeting of arches. Before he could speak another word, the one above them shook. A sound like a bell flooded through the corridor. The next one did the same as the first’s echoes died away, and the third. Neither traveller moved. The torches flickered yellow and red, the shadows around them jittering in the fitful glare. The final bell ended, and silence reigned again. Neither spoke, listening and holding their breath. After a minute, they gasped and looked at each other. “An ancient greeting system?” Tarr inquired, the hope weak in his voice. “Or an alarm,” Melanie said. “Yet there is only one path before us, and we must take it.” They marched onward, and came to the end of the hallway. Another chamber opened before them, this one with dusty carpets and great empty chairs lined along the walls. A tapestry hung on one wall, and the imagery there showed a large court filled with people. There was a tall throne in the centre. But as their torches flickered, Melanie could swear that one or two people of the court had vanished. Tarr gripped her shoulder, pointing up the chamber. The tall throne depicted in the tapestry loomed in the darkness. A statue was seated there, the royal dressings carved in intricate detail in the white marble. The figure had its forehead resting on its palm, elbow propped on the throne’s armrest. It was a picture of despair and great weariness, as if all the pain of this dead kingdom had been absorbed into this marble king. His desolation was made all the more grim by his complete isolation. >*But where are thy guards, oh King* *And why hast thou been so left?* *Do see the gains of thy sin* *Observe thy dead realm bereft*  Tarr whispered the poem in the dry air, and his words fell flat in the dark chamber. “An old poem,” he explained, “Maybe even about the man seated there.” Melanie grunted, and looked back at the tapestry. Now it showed only the king seated in his throne, an exact replica of that before them, but in vibrant colours. “Tarr, there is a magic here which I have not encountered before,” she whispered, stepping backwards. Tarr followed, but cringed as the bells tolled again, pealing down the stairway. The pair ran to either side of the doorway, leaving their torches spluttering on the flagstones beside the carpet. Yet no one was coming down the stairs, and as the last bell’s echo died away, they sighed a breath of relief. “Look, Stake!” Tarr said. The statue was no longer resting on its arm. It sat now straight, and staring directly towards them. The shadows seemed to deepen around the throne, and fear stretched out tendrils toward the two intruders. One of the torches on the ground had set the carpet smouldering, but neither could tear their gaze from the statue and the shadows. Darkness filled the furthest crevices and corners, flooding over the ceiling. Soon all that could be seen was the marble figure against a backdrop of darkest night, the red light of the torches a diseased illumination. The statue wasn’t moving. The carpet and the ancient dust was burning now, and thick smoke rose in black clouds to the rafters. The statue stared at them. The bells tolled a third time. Before their eyes, the statue rose to its feet, stone cloth splitting and becoming soft, as it had once been. Marble muscles rippled under marble skin, and the eyes blinked once, then fixed on the two humans. Ten feet of living marble, wearing a cloak of deepening shadow which spread its folds across all the surroundings, shadows billowing across the floor, walls and ceiling. Melanie wrenched Tarr toward the farther doorway, grabbing her torch as they circled the burning carpet. The bells were still ringing as they fled the room, and Melanie’s last glance showed the statue still standing at the throne, with flames licking around its feet. They ran through corridors and chambers, boots loud on the flagstones and dusty carpets. They passed tables piled in silverware and dusty feasts. The food had merely dried in the stale air. Statues sat at some tables, while in other rooms they stood guard or lay resting on ancient beds which climbed high into the shadows. Servants carried trays, various items of bedding, food, or wood, their faces all equally impassive. They passed royals kneeling in prayer at alcoves, grotesque statues of some long forgotten god looming over their veiled heads. Priests bent in earnest conversation, but no words left their still lips. There was no life here, only a sick mockery of it, captured in a perfect montage of white marble. All the while, Melanie checked behind them, and her thin hope lifted at the lack of pursuit. Maybe the fire had prevented passage. They stumbled down stairways. Tarr’s tall hat flew off at some point. Melanie lost count of how deep into the city they had come. The statues’ dress became coarser and their appearance uglier the lower they went. A figure of a woman lay on one arm, the other broken into pieces of marble. A guard stood beside her with unsheathed sword. An expression of despair was frozen on her screaming face, and Melanie shivered. Other statues lay contorted in the middle of rooms for no clear reason, and the regal stillness of the floors above was nowhere to be seen. Some figures knelt with hands to their faces, bodies tensed, each muscle caught forever in cold stone. Heavy footsteps sounded from behind them as they ran through the hallways and rooms. “The king is coming after all, it seems,” Tarr gasped. Melanie noted his breathing was as laboured as her own. The torch she carried was sputtering, and she handed it to him. He took it, his panicked eyes meeting hers for only a moment before returning to the darkness ahead. As she leaned behind her to reach the last two torches, she saw the shadows behind them were darker and closer than they ought to be. The heavy crunch of marble on flagstone came from the darkness in sickening waves. Melanie wrenched the torches free and held both to the unsteady flame Tarr carried. They caught quickly, and Tarr threw the old one behind them in a shower of sparks. The shadows swallowed them instantly, and the torch flickered out a few seconds after. “Damn it,” Melanie gasped. “Where is the hollow, Tarr?” Tarr shook his head, and kept running. They chose between doorways and stairways randomly, and eventually began to make their way back up. The despairing statues grew in number here, often climbing over one another to squeeze through one doorway or another. Fear was scrawled across their faces like the last words of a visionary who had seen beyond the stars, beyond death, beyond the physical and into the spiritual. And what he had seen there was frightful beyond measure. The steps boomed from behind. At the top of a long stairway, the pair burst into a library. Piles of books lay stacked against shelves which towered into the gloom. Reading tables covered in candles and piles of molten wax lay scattered about. Scrolls written in extinct languages lay spread across the floor. They passed between the shelves, Tarr muttering under his breath the entire time. At one end of a wide section of shelves they entered into a round, open area. Statues knelt with hands upraised, all facing toward the centre. There, on a dais of a few steps, stood a tall statue, dressed in the robes of a sage or priest. A real book still lay in his marble arm, right hand raised high in impassioned rhetoric. The statue’s mouth was wide open, and his brow was furrowed. The statues by his feet were part of his stone inheritance, their grasping hands wound tight in his robes, supplication bleeding from their tearful eyes. Tarr had stopped, bent over and breathing hard. Melanie collapsed to her knees, and spat to the side, but carefully held her torch above the scattered pages and books. *We have outrun the king, but not for long*, she thought. Even now his footsteps could be felt rumbling through the flagstones. “I believe this man killed the city, or he was trying to save it. Either way, he failed these people,” Tarr said between gasps. “Would the licht kill this bastard?” Melanie said, looking back at the growing shadows. “I think this city died long before the First Lichtvallen, Stake. Centuries before.” “Answer me.” Tarr shook his head. “There is no way to know. But if you failed, we’d be dead before we could form another plan.” Melanie cursed, and thrust her torch into a pile of books and scrolls, which burst into flame. Tarr looked away, and she understood. She was destroying something of great value to him, with complete disregard. She knew that feeling too well, could still remember it from when she was a six year old child. That pain would never go away, but one learned to live with it. The flames filled the library with light, and the advancing shadows burst angrily against the red glow. They couldn’t swallow so much light at once, it seemed. The light was like a wall. Tarr ground his teeth, staring at the liquid darkness. Melanie tensed. She had seen no exits from this mausoleum. The footsteps crunched though the wall of shadows, and Melanie glimpsed the white figure stalking through it. The king’s face appeared, and the top of his chest. The shadows flicked across the stern features, but his brow didn’t lower, his mouth didn’t move. The eyes stared directly into Melanie’s own, and she recognised the wordless statement they made. An enemy had been recognised, an intruder, a violator. The hatred burned coldly, colder than the ice and snow so far above them. Yet Melanie saw a special malevolence meant for her alone. Her soul cowered under its gaze. The shadows began to push forward. “Up there!” Tarr yelled, pointing high up one wall. Far above the shelves there were openings, tunnels for ventilation or light. Darkness lay there now, but it was their only chance. They ran toward the ladders which leaned against the shelves here. Alicia threw her torch into a collapsed bookcase, the wood and paper lighting in a grim bonfire. The king’s gaze was fixed on the statue of the priest, and the shadows were lashing furiously at the flames below him. His rage was fomenting around him, the darkness expanding in sharp waves. “Go, Stake!” Tarr said, pulling at her arm. Melanie couldn’t look away, though, and watched as the shadows burst through the books and flames, enveloping the priest and his audience. Shrieks poured forth from the shadows, climbing in crescendos as the crunch of marble and cracking of bones intensified. Words in a tongue the world hadn’t heard in a thousand years poured out in exhortation and reproach. The shrieks overrode everything, and terror clawed its way into Melanie’s soul, a dark creature that knew exactly where to strike best. Her heart pounded, panic filling her ever-calm mind. Turning, she climbed up the ladder, right arm limp at her side. She had witnessed something that she understood, and yet didn’t. The darkness wanted her, and she knew it wanted her specifically. Not Tarr, not anyone else, just her, and if she didn’t make it to the hollow, it would take her. And something deep within her knew what lay beyond, had been there, and had faced that faceless, nameless nothingness. Her right arm was twitching sharply, but she ignored it, leaping up the ladder and forgetting all else. Tarr followed behind, his massive pack of books, paper, and supplies weighing heavily on his back. Melanie’s fear was apparent, and he took it as a bad sign. The shrieking was dying down now, and the shadows swirled darkly in vast clouds. The king emerged, and in his hand he held the stone head of the priest. He lifted it, pointing the dead face toward Melanie. Melanie turned, and saw the gesture. She screamed and climbed harder. The king threw the chunk of marble at her. It smashed into the ladder, and both Melanie and Tarr leapt aside onto the shelves as it collapsed. The darkness surged towards them, the marble figure approaching steadily. The pair climbed madly. Books fell down into the raging bonfire, and the shelves cracked under the new weight of their bodies. The air was filled with their heavy breathing and the crackling fire, with the deep beat of marble feet rising from the twisting shadows below. With a final pull of her good arm, Melanie reached the top, and collapsed, breathless. Her lungs burned. *This is not how I end. I won’t die like this!* She rose to her knees, every muscle groaning, and turned to the tunnel. Tarr screamed from below. Melanie took a step forward into the tunnel, jaw set. Shelves cracked, and Tarr’s heavy breathing and mutterings tore through her mind. She took another step forward. “Stake!” She closed her eyes, but a tear broke through anyway, and drew a burning path of shame down her cheek. She strode forward. “Help me, Stake.” She stopped, the fear in her heart urging her to run. Emotions led to death. Empathy was a weakness. The king wanted her. The darkness wouldn’t hesitate to rip her to pieces and send her mind into the insane maelstrom it called home. Perhaps this need to help was a suggestion from the shadows, a bait for her. Melanie turned and slid to the edge, looking over. The darkness was ripping into the bonfire, eating the flames even as they were born. The king looked straight up at her, but she forced her eyes to focus on Tarr. He was only a few shelves down. Hooking her feet into the stonework, she lowered her good arm. The man made a grab for her hand, but missed. His muscles were visibly trembling in the strain. “Drop your pack, you fool!” she shouted. Tarr looked up at her. Melanie met his eyes, betraying none of her thoughts. She couldn’t help him decide. He swore. Shadows ripped the books and shelves into pieces just below his feet. He unbuckled the pack. It fell down onto the king, and the papers and books burst into bright flames. The darkness swept back, leaving the statue in the open. Fire swept around it, but didn’t scorch the white marble. Tarr gripped her hand, and she wrenched him up and over the edge. He collapsed, but dragged at her shoulder. “Come on, Stake.” Melanie looked for a moment longer at the marble king, who stood looking up at her. The same cold recognition burned in his eyes. She read an acknowledgement of defeat. Neither the king nor his prey had died, though. The cloak of shadows wrapped around his white body. This was an eternal battle, and one which Melanie would have to wage eventually. The king stared, and Melanie challenged him, glaring at him in triumph. *I won today, I’ll win tomorrow. And I’ll keep winning, you bastard. Mark my words*. “Lets go,” Tarr said. Melanie rose, and they ran down the tunnel, the feeble light of the burning library their only guide. Soon that faded. they ran on, and didn’t realise they were in the hollows till the feeble glow of licht told them so. \ *Scars of Magic* is a collection of short stories which follow Melanie Stake. There is an overarching story which is unveiled piece by piece as she explores the world of Verpace. First drafts of all stories will be completed by mid-2019, with publication of the book in early 2020. I also write low-fantasy novels, hence the slow pace.


It started late last fall, when a little boy from my sisters art class, James, a very shy quiet boy started telling his teachers he'd made a new friend, but when the teachers asked, he'd tell them it was a secret, and he couldn't tell. Obviously, in a town as small as ours, rumours spread, some meaner then others, some hopeful that this kid was finally coming out of his shell. But when he stopped coming to school, people got worried. Friends of the parents would ask, and both the mother and father answered the same "he's sick, whooping cough and all that.". This worked for a few weeks but time went on and James was still absent. "Do yah think he'll be ok?" My little sister, Holly, asked me one day as we sat on the porch, watching the dogs run around. "Yeah, I had whoopin' cough as a kid, ain't that bad, just a fever and a rash." I explained to her, but then, my sister's best friend stopped coming to school too, and when Holly and I went to see if she was ok, we were greeted by both her parents, and James's parents, as well as the two children themselves. Neither of them looked sickly at all, but to all of our horror, James, who had once been blond with brown eyes, and the friend, who'd had brown hair and eyes, now had snow white hair and the most radient blue eyes you'd ever seen. People got worried that something was going on. Most people thought it was chemical, or it was a weird condition along the lines of poliosis or albinism. But neither kids families had a history of pigment conditions, and our town was miles away from anything, let alone a chemical facility. But we are southern, so the next logical conclusion was the supernatural. Over the next few months, two more kids changed, but strangely, more stuff started to happen to them. They started reassuring everyone that they were safer then they'd ever been, and that they were all alright. The four kids started to crave each other's presence, as if they needed to be together. Their parents tried to keep them home but at some point they just couldn't keep them apart. I started to get worried for my sister, and asked my friends to get my schoolwork so I could stay home with her. By the time winter came, and a rare flurry of blizzards hit our town, there was five of them, the oldest was eleven, youngest was five, and the town was in a mess trying to find out what was happening. A special doctor came in from the big city, and she concluded that whatever was happening to these kids, was some kind of infection, but unlike any she'd ever seen, and it wasn't long before all five kids were shipped off to a special facility to keep the rest of the town safe. The facility could be seen from the highway, and it loomed over the elementary school like an omen of death. But clearly, the infection wasn't spreading from kid to kid, it was coming from something else, because to my own horror, while I was brushing Holly's hair, I noticed a white strand, and another and another. I knew I couldn't keep her home because everyone would know, so I grabbed some of our mother's cheap dye and thanked God she had the same hair colour. I spent the rest of the day in shock, barely able to function. The kids who'd been taken had been sending letters to their parents... But I haven't seen the little red arm of James's families mailbox flip up recently, and in my paranoid brain I assumed the worst. While I was home alone, doing the chores my parents should be doing, I stopped, turning off the tap, and for some reason I just collapsed in on myself, the horror of the situation and the hopelessness finally setting in. I went to my sisters room, where all the photos were of ME and HER. Our parents hadn't raised her, I DID, and now this. I spent the next few hours sitting on her small pink bedside, tapping my left foot anxiously as I panicked inside. But as I looked down at my hands, I noticed something. A very faint blue glow from under her bed, I wouldn't have been able to notice it if the room wasn't dark. I thought I'd imagined it, but when I knelt down, looking beneath the bed, I realized that something was glowing in slow pulses under the floorboard. My sister caught me in that moment, her smallness making her tiny footsteps too quite to hear in time. She looked at me, here eyes just a bit bluer then they were when she left. "Stan?" She tilted her head. "Holly, do yah' know what that blue glow is?" I sat up, gesturing under the bed. She looked between me and the bed, no expression on her face; her head still tilted slightly. "Nooooo?" She said in that childlike drawn out manner. "We're leavin', I don't give two shits if I don't got a full license, I'm gettin' you out'a dis fuckin' town." I stood, stomping over and grabbing my sister by the arm. She didn't fight, and as I grabbed the keys and our jackets, I heared a knock at the door. I was pissed off and annoyed and yelled that nobody was home, stupid I know. I picked up my sister and left through the side door, the snow and wind blazing in our faces as I got her in the back seat and quickly got in the drivers. I hadn't stopped to look at who was on the front step, but when I did, I froze. James, Jessica, Henry, Linsey and Grace, the five kids looked back at me with their icy blue eyes, and in my state of complete shock, I was only snapped out when I heared the back door open. I was too late, by the time I undid my seatbelt and climbed out the door, she'd joined them, the cheap hair dye ran down her jacket, exposing the white streaks in her dark brown hair. "HOLLY! GET AWAY FROM THOSE FREAKY ASS KIDS!" I shouted at her, but as if she didn't hear me, she and the other five kids ran away like a pack of wolves. I chased them down the street, not caring if anyone saw. I chased them until I lost every ounce of breath in my lungs, and I cried out for Holly to come back, but she didn't of course. The scientists from the facility soon appeared in town, frantically searching for the kids, but not as much as I did those next few days. I practically flipped over that bed and tore off the boards to expose a strange blue moss or fungus growing underneath my sisters bedroom floor. I ripped out more and found out which direction it was growing from, and low and behold it was roughly coming from the direction of the last kid to be infected. I went outside and beneath the snow and grass was more moss, in thin lines like veins. I followed it for days, drawing myself a map as every day the snow covered up my hard work with my shovel. When I got to James's house, the ground zero of this whole thing, I came to a stalemate. The moss ended here, and I had to make a tough decision that day. I do feel guilty for what I did the next night, but I love my sister like a daughter, and I couldn't let this take her away from me. I didn't care about the other kids, or stopping the infection from harming others, my goals were selfish, and I came back that night, with a crowbar, rope, and ducktape. I knocked out the father first, and after that it was easy to take down the mother and soon they were both tied up. I wasn't gonna hurt them, I just needed them out of the way. Their house was quiet and sad, clearly the house of a grieveing family. James's bedroom door was easy to find, since the frame was covered in colourful lines with heights next to each one. I pushed the bed aside and began tearing of the floorboards, but there was nothing there. I shouted profanities in frustration and quickly began searching the house for literally anything blue or glowing. And it was then that I found it, it the basement of the house. Glowing blue mushrooms sprouted from holes cracks in the cement. I was confused why the parents wouldn't have reported these, especially after what happened, but then I realized that they were growing as I watched. These mushrooms were newer then new and the parents probably didn't even know about them. Thankfully, the father was a handyman, so there were plenty of tools down there. I began smashing the floor and walls with a sledgehammer, until the cement was in small enough chunks to simply be pushed aside. I found it, I finally fucking found it, under the floor was a colony of this weird fungus, and the cause of all of this. I went back to smashing, trying to uncover all of this stuff, but to my horror it was everywhere, probably in the bones of the house too by now. I made it to a separate room in the basement, where all the fathers tools were kept, and of course I found more fungus in there too. The fungus smelled funny, and the more I uncovered the worse the smell got. It was kinda like standing in a field of berries, that sweet smell, but x100 until it was completely overwhelming to the senses. "Stan?" My sister stood in the door way, her hair and eyes now completely shifted to white and blue. She stood in the moss, which grew over her boots and up her legs. "Holly!" I smiled, lunging forward but I realized it wasn't real. Her form waved and distorted and slowly dissolved into nothing. "I'm ok Stan, I have a new big brother to keep me safe, I don't need you anymore.." Her voice echoed around me, and I frantically searched and searched even though I knew it wasn't real, that I was exposed to that fungus and it was getting in my head. I found a gun in the basement, hidden in the top shelf of the fathers work table, and even though I had no idea what it'd do it made me feel safer. As I quickly walked up the stairs the mushrooms seemed to swiftly follow me, growing up from the stairs and spreading across the carpet. I reeled back in terror, nearly collapsing on the wall, but I kept on running as the shrooms pursued me. I soon realized I'd made everything worse, and the two knocked out parents were consumed by the fungus, and it began to grow from every nook and cranny, filling the house with a horrible blue glow. I scrambled, almost crawled out the door and fell on my face into the snow. The blue glow radiated from the window and open door and I huried to my feet, only to see I wasn't alone. The five victims, the children, they bombarded me, pushing me to the ground with strength I wouldn't have imagined for such small kids. I'm nineteen I should be able to take them but I struggled for what felt like forever before the smell of berries overtook me once again. This time it seemed more like a freshly baked pie. I could feel the warmth of a kitchen with its oven being used, and I could almost hear my mother humming, like she would back before she started going out to party every night, which was her way of saying she was getting away from my dad for the night. The feeling almost made me forget about the situation. The kids, the fungus, my sister. She was the last thing I saw. Her and her pink jacket looming over me like an omen of death. I blacked out soon after, only to awaken in a place unfamiliar. I found myself in what seemed like a cave, or a catacomb or something of the likes. Those blue mushrooms and that moss was everywhere, and I didn't dare touch it as I slowly sat up. I could hear children laughing deeper in the cave, and in my desperate need to save my sister, I went forward. I soon walked into a large open space, where the blue light seemed to begin. In the center of the room was a giant mushroom that looked more like a tree, and within it, fused to it, we're the five children...and my sister. Seeing her, in the belly of this beast. I shattered inside as if I was glass and I rushed to her, collapsing as I pulled her in. She was covered in that moss, and her skin was a pale blue as were the others. She hugged me back and smiled up at me. "Stan... Are yah here to join us?" She asked, but I could barely hear her over my sobs and cries. I was in way over my head, and I had no idea how to save her from this. "Are you ready to join the family?" She asked him. ".. Wha-what family?" I spoke between sniffles. "Big brother keeps us safe, big brother loves us, please join us Stan, be a part of the family..." She pulled him closer. It was then that he saw him, wearing the same white medical garbs that the other kids wore, the only difference being the numbers "00" being stitched onto the side. He had the white hair, but his eyes were completely blue, no iris or pupil, just blue. He stood with limp arms and shoulders, and looked down at me with a weariness in his expression. "Stanley, aren't you tired of being the crutch your parents lean on? Aren't you tired of the neglect, the lost innocence, the loneliness?" The guy leaned down. He looked close to my age, maybe a little younger. "The world is so cold, and so dark... Let me keep you safe..." He reached out, but I pulled away. It was then that my sister tightened her grip on me and I realized she wouldn't let me go. As the weird fungus boy reached out once more I squirmed frantically out of my sisters arm, but just as I was gonna bolt away the boy grabbed my wrist, pulling me in. I couldn't look away from those eyes, and once again I smelt berries, but this time it was as if I was laying in the bushes, looking up at the sky. I smelt morning dew and I heard distant squacking of tweety birds. My fear melted away and I eased my tense muscles. I soon fell into his arms as the children chanting in a language I didn't recognize. I felt the moss grow on my skin but I didn't mind, I was simply enjoying the embrace. The fungus boy set me down next to my sister, and sat next to me, smiling as he played with my slowly whitening hair. He told me how happy he was to have another boy his age to talk to, how he was so lonely in here with nobody to love, no family to call his own. I was falling asleep to his calming voice, and some part of me, the part that wanted to fight back, was slowly drowning in the overwhelming feeling or contentness. My sister looked happy to have me here, and the other children continued to chant. "Be mine forever Stanley, let me take care of you and our family..." He said. I only really recall slipping into the moss as it consumed me, and the last thing I saw was the boy and my sister, watching me decend into the mass. I belong to the colony now, with my little sisters and little brothers and siblings. Big brother provides for us, he protects us. I love big brother, and I will forever be a part of him, here in the mass... I love... Big brother.


The flat becomes a graveyard, its soul fled somewhere unreachable. Our hanging photographs are survived only by the ghostly rectangles of clean paint, the rest of the walls discoloured from the everyday grit of our lives. Flowers I bought die in their vase, petals collecting like leaves beneath a wilting tree. There is a sense of something ending; a curtain falling, a book closing, dirt tossed on a casket.

I stand on the stairs, watching him silently through the gap in the doorframe. I can only see a sliver of him from this angle; the singular curl of hair at his nape, the outer curve of his ear. It doesn’t matter - I know the rest of him better than I know my own face. In my mind, I fill in the missing pieces: the freckle on his lip; the way he blinks thoughtfully, his eyebrows scrunched together; the silver scar on the bridge of his nose. I creep closer, stepping carefully to avoid the creakiest part of the stair. I can see more of his face now, illuminated by the lamp I bought and hauled up three flights of stairs the weekend we moved in. I watch him stare at his open wallet, his hands long-fingered and elegant. I watch him reach into the see-through pocket and slide out what I know is a picture of us from our first anniversary; bodies pressed together, lips stained red with wine, his eyes shining as he gazes at me. I watch as he closes his wallet with one hand, the photograph pinched between his fingers, as he looks at us. I watch as he drops it, and we both watch it flutter into the bin.

We move around one another like strangers, our bodies keeping a constant perimeter of distance between us. It’s like we’re opposing magnets, one of us pushed away as the other draws close on the landing, as we shift in the open space of the kitchen. He stops cooking in the evenings, piles of takeout containers aggregating in the recycling, the thick gravy of Thai green curry residue heavily grasping the foil. He starts showering in the mornings, earlier than I’ve ever known him to wake, leaving wet footsteps on the carpet to the spare room like five-pointed arrows. I can smell him everywhere all of a sudden; the scent of him I’d become so accustomed to now pervasive, wafting from the clean sheets I snap over our bed, too large for only my body, the citrus of his aftershave sharp on pillowcases he won’t sleep on, his sea salt soap scenting the steam left behind in the shower. The smell of his skin, abruptly in my nostrils when I’m curled up on the sofa alone, writing and deleting messages to Harry, to Liv, to Mum. It’s a comforting sort of pain, like pressing on a bruise. I press and press, contusions etched into my body, into my mind. I do laundry sparingly, only when I’m forced to wear a pair of too-small bikini bottoms as underwear to work, the day spent restlessly shifting the elastane where it bites into my hips. I stay late at my desk, eyes wide and blank, staring at my computer screen long after it’s gone to sleep. Desperate to know if Noah is home, unable to bear the answer. I eat frequently, in heaping spoonfuls, piling food into my mouth until I can barely chew, breathing in ragged gasps through my nose. There is a constant lump in my throat, a deep well of hunger in my belly that food can’t satisfy, a bloated fullness to my body that makes me feel like an intruder in my own skin.

* The night I can’t come back from, he didn’t come home until 2am. His phone was still off, my messages showing as delivered, unread. He found me on the staircase, hugging my knees, the scratchy yellow blanket he hates wrapped around my shoulders. We stared at one another, my eyes red, his face drawn and pale. My hands shook when I reached for him. He took my hand, clammy in his, and he started to talk, telling me about his day, his eyes shifting, thumb stroking the veins of my hand. He didn’t say where he’d been or who he’d been with. He told me about the phone call with his dad earlier that day, news from home. He told me about a dream he’d had a few nights ago, its contents disjointed and meandering, how he woke with a formless, grappling fear, while I’d been asleep beside him. His mouth seemed swollen. His voice was rough, gravelly, like he’d been smoking, or talking too much. I sat there, clutching the blanket, clutching him, wanting the night to go on forever, knowing it would end. * “I don’t understand this, Matty. It’s not like you to make such a huge decision on a whim.” Liv leans forward, chin on her hand.

I bite back a sigh. “It’s not a whim.” “It seems like it is. It can’t be that bad? Surely? You guys have always been so… solid.” I rub my eyes tiredly, cursing under my breath when I remember I wore mascara tonight. I wipe the smudges away with my fingertips, gnawing at my lip. She raises her eyebrows. “You’re really not going to tell me what happened?” I shrug, shaking my head. I let my eyes unfocus around the bar, sliding over the various groups of slouching office workers in their rumpled suits, hands protective over sweating pints. A woman sits hopefully at the bartop, hinging forward to force conversation with a young bartender. His colleague looks on in amusement, drying glasses with a faded cloth. “Noah loves you, any idiot can see that.” She reaches for my hand. “Whatever it is… you don’t have to say goodbye, you know?” I look at her, her sweet round face, her characteristically large earrings pulling the lobes of her ears down like sagging branches. Her undereyes are mottled blue, deeper than the last time I saw her.

I meet her gaze. “It’s not that simple.”

She sighs. “How’s Harry taking it?” “I… haven’t seen him.” She raises her eyebrows. I shrug again. “I haven’t really seen anyone.” “ That’ll be a messy custody battle.” She takes a sip of wine, circling the base of her glass with a pink-painted fingernail. “It’ll change things.” A beat of silence, everything this means unfolding before us. “Do you love him?”

I frown. “Of course I do.”

“Then you can fix it. Right?” She gulps her wine, eyes on me. She licks her lips, and there’s something unsettlingly fervid about it that makes me recoil. The bar feels claustrophobic suddenly, the music too loud, the tables placed uncomfortably close; the press of bodies and conversation pushing down on me in heavy pulses.

I think of Noah this afternoon, how he stuffed clothes into his backpack with one hand, chucked his toothbrush in loose, its bristles still wet from the morning, how he hesitated as he packed his book from his bedside table. How he zipped up the bag and hefted it onto one shoulder, avoiding my eyes. How he ducked his head and left the flat quietly, without argument, without touching me. Without a promise to return. “I don’t think so,” I say to Liv now, leaning back in my chair. I want to , I think. I wish we could. * He told me the truth several days after the night on the staircase. His back was straight, his hands soapy with suds from the sink. He held the pot we’d used for dinner suspended in the air, dripping water onto the countertop. He spoke to the window in long, run-on sentences, not pausing for breath, words collecting together like a multi-car pileup. Words about me, about her, about what I meant to him, what she didn’t mean, all the words crushed against each other. Words about what he wanted, what he needed, what he thought. Words pouring out of him, pooling between us, amalgamating and warping into a congealed lump of language. I’d stood behind him, frozen in place, tugged under by the force of him. * I unlock our front door quietly, pausing in surprise when I hear voices. They hear the door snick closed and the conversation stops, resumes urgently, dipping to a whisper. I inhale a deep breath and exhale, climbing the stairs to slink, unseen, to bed.

They’re hovering in the hallway, bodies appearing nearly conjoined from this angle. They look caught, startled in the too-bright light.

“Hi,” I say, looking between them. I try not to look devastated. I think I fail. “You’re back,” Noah says, his voice a caress. Harry smiles at me, somehow making it look more like a wince. My sense of betrayal balloons, ugly and unfair.

We all start speaking at the same time. “We were just-” “I didn’t think you’d-”

“We didn’t mean to-” We stop, embarrassed, trying to be grownups.

Harry swallows. “We were just collecting…” He holds up Noah’s wallet, brown leather wrinkled and worn. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.” “Oh, you’re - you’re not disturbing me.” It comes out quieter than I mean it to, more intense. I pull emotion back from the surface, forcing my mouth closed. Harry looks to Noah, apologetic or uncertain, it’s hard to tell. Noah keeps his eyes on me, round and dark. “We’ll go,” he says. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else, my mind thrumming desperately: stay .

We sidestep each other, a solemn, heartbroken dance that ends with my back pressed to the wall, my shoulder brushing Noah’s on his way past. I jerk it away, stung, so forceful my body thumps against the wall. I swallow down the pain, eyes burning. Harry looks between us, lips turned inward, hands fluttering at his sides. I can do nothing but blink at them, clutching my elbows, watching them leave together. It takes me nineteen minutes to peel myself from the wall, to stagger up the stairs. I collapse on our bed, staring at the ceiling long into the night, the occasional tear collecting in my ear.

I wake early, eyes raw, to a message from Harry. Can we talk? I squint at the glare of my phone, the time flipping over to twelve minutes past six. I wait an hour to text him back, suggesting we meet at a familiar haunt in town.

I sit at the usual table, organising the sugar packets and replacing them in the ceramic pot. He arrives ten minutes early, surprised to see me already seated. There’s only one other table occupied, an old man mumbling to himself in the corner. Harry gets our coffee, placing his down too firmly on the table, foamy milk sloshing over the side. I mop it up with my sleeve, waving away his protests. I take a burning sip of my latte, tasting nothing. “You can’t do this,” he says finally, frowning at the table. I study his face. His jaw is set firmly, his teeth clenched, determined. He’s always been handsome, in a gentle sort of way, his hair wavy and dark, his nose giving him a refined, feminine beauty, offset by the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“Matty.” “Mm.” “Come on. You can’t want this.”

My eye twitches, his words too similar for comfort. This isn’t what I want. “I’m really tired of being told how I feel.” He shifts in his seat, frustrated. “I’m…” He huffs a sigh. “I just mean - you two have been together so long. We all have. It’ll make things… Are you sure?” A flash of the night we broke up: bitter, shocked silence, nails digging into my skin. Is this really it? I blink rapidly, eyes on the tabletop, forcing myself back to the present. “I think I am.” “You think ? You don't know?” I look up in frustration. “Did he tell you? What he did?” Harry’s eyes cloud over. He shakes his head once, dropping his eyes from mine and cupping his mug. “I don’t need to know the details.”

I speak over him. “He slept with her.”

His gaze snaps to my face. “What?” “Emma.” He shakes his head, violently, the force of it rattling his whole body. “No.” “He said he didn’t?” “He… didn’t tell me.”

“What did he tell you?” “Just that - that things had been difficult, that you’d both decided…”

I snort, shoving my coffee away. It’s too sweet, the oat milk woody in my mouth.

“But why would - it’s not like him. To do that. It can’t have been…?” He swallows. “I know there was the little… flirtation , but he’d never let it… become…” This realisation, that Harry was complicit in the secret, keeping me in the dark, not just protecting Noah, but siding with him - it stings like a slap, bringing everything into acute focus. The feeling of something fracturing, being wrenched apart, not by accident, but by deliberate, decisive action, overwhelms me.

The knot in my stomach tightens. I watch Harry stumble over his words, arms crossed tight over my chest, finding grim satisfaction in seeing his confidence unravel. A small, quiet part of my heart chips off, disappointed. His mouth sets into a grim line. “I’m sorry, Matty. I didn’t… he didn’t say.” The ‘ but’ he doesn’t add hangs in the air between us.“Right,” Harry says, nodding to himself. “That makes things… different.” He sips his coffee, wincing at its temperature.

He seems changed to me now, this new knowledge throwing his character into sharp relief. Somewhere in all this mess, lines have been drawn, and it’s a shock to find myself pushed to the other side, alone.

His phone buzzes, and he wrestles it from his trousers, frowning. He audibly inhales when he reads the message, eyes darting back to me. “What’s wrong?” He leans forward, suddenly penitent. “I wouldn’t have done this if I had known - ah, fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, his face miserable. Dread creeps into my chest. “What, Harry? What have you done?”

“He’s - here. I’m sorry, I-”

I look up, seeing Noah standing in the cafe doorway, eyes sweeping across the tables, settling on me, something like surprise in his expression. He’s wearing our old university t-shirt, its grey collar loose with wear, the fresher’s logo emblazoned over the left breast. I blink and see him as he was eight years ago, the first time I saw him: his hair shining in the sunlight, head tipped back in laughter, face smooth and freckled, Harry at his side. It’s like all of the tiredness leaves me in an instant, my skin electrified. I unfurl my spine, sitting straighter in my chair as he walks over. My heart begins to beat its familiar old rhythm: Noah, Noah, Noah.

Noah pulls a chair from another table, wincing as it scrapes across the floor. He sits, hands folded in his lap, eyes on me. “What is this?” he murmurs. Harry squirms in his chair. “I… okay, I didn’t have all the information,” he shoots Noah a sharp look, “but I thought you guys should talk.” He crosses his arms, defiant, shaking off his remorse.

I sigh, feeling like I’m pulling breath from my whole body, deflating as I exhale. “Harry.” Noah rubs his face. “Mate, there isn’t…” he looks at me, pleading, his hand on the table, centimetres from mine. “We’ve said everything we need to.” I let myself look at him for a searing heartbeat, letting the ache crack my chest wide open. I haven’t , I think, moving my hand away from his.

Harry shakes his head. “No, come on.” He looks between us, growing desperate. “Is nobody going to say it? He made a mistake , Matty. He’s sorry, alright? You’re sorry - this doesn’t all have to end.”

I close my eyes. Noah makes a quiet sound next to me, half choked, half gasping.

“Harry.” Noah speaks like he does to his four-year-old niece; gently, trying to be reassuring. “This doesn’t mean we can’t all still be friends. We still care about each other,” he says, his voice catching. “We just need a bit of time apart.” I clench my hands into fists to stop them trembling, looking at them both across the table. “Look,” Harry insists. “If you still care about each other, then - then-” “Please stop,” I whisper.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “So, what? This is it? A decade of friendship, just over?” His voice takes on a frantic timbre, the sound of a heart breaking. “No.” “Are you with her?” I ask Noah, surprising us all.

They blink at me in tandem. “What?”

“Emma. Are you together?” He swallows hard, his lovely face transformed into a stranger’s. “I… it was just once. Only the once,” he says, so softly I almost miss it. He looks haunted. “No,” he says, emphatically, when I don’t look away.

“That’s all there is, Harry,” I tell him.

Sometime after they’ve left, the waitress appears at my elbow. “Was that your boyfriend?” she asks, piling our mugs onto a tray. I’m not sure which one of them she means, or what the answer is, anyway, so I stay silent. “You look so good together.”

I fake a smile, unable to respond. “He obviously loves you a lot,” she says wistfully. “You’re lucky.” She wipes the table half-heartedly, and realising I have nothing to say to her, takes her tray and her rag back behind the counter.

I sit in the cafe, watching the trees sway outside, a child on a tricycle hurtling along the pavement, a parent trotting several paces behind. A dog sniffs at a lamppost, their owner gesticulating enthusiastically as they speak into their phone. Two women pass by the windows, their eyes alight with laughter, inspecting the piles of sagging pastries on display. They move on, bodies bumping together amicably. I sit alone there, stuck at my table, feeling cleaved in half.


February 21st 1916 Verdun, France the German army launched a terrifying artillery attack against the French, they launched around 1500 artillery shells every minute for 10 straight hours, 1 million shells in total. The French hide in the trenches with no way out, some cried for help, others prayed to god while others stood there in absolute shock. One of the soldiers lying in the trenches was a young soldier, Pascal Bourdon, hem and his battalion were hoping for a break from that hell, buildings were turned to ash, everything around them was ablaze and hope had been lost. Pascal in order to remain sane started conversation with a friendly soldier, they talked about their lives, their homes and their loved ones. But still the German artillery kept falling, they knew their chance of survival was low, at this time Pascal choose to finally accept his faith he knew he wouldn’t survive this hell. He knew this for everything around hem was either in ash or ablaze, there was no life, no trees and not even a single piece of grass. Pascal pulled from his left hand pocket a pack of cigarettes, he offered the friendly soldier who kept hem company one before lighting his own. While smoking he started talking on how the trenches were missing something, something he couldn’t put his finger on, the friendly soldier giggled and said “What more could we be missing other than water, rations, ammo and guns?”, but Pascal had no answer and yet that feeling stayed with hem. The artillery kept getting closer and closer, they prepared for their fate. The Germans were too far away to shoot and to charge the enemy with the amount or fire they were under would be certain death. Then finally a artillery shell hit the friendly soldier, his body was turned to pieces in seconds, his helmet flew into the lap of Pascal, it was only when he started using the soldier’s helmet has an ash tray that a sense of achievement overwhelmed hem, he finally found what he though was missing in the trench, has this sense grew he knew that his sanity was lost.


Sorry for bad spelling Once upon a fork, there was a batch of butter cooking in the oven. Naturally, all the flakes of candy wrappers were jealous of the butter. It sat in the finest pie tin of them all. Once it was done cooking, it got out of the oven to go harvest the fish. On its way to the basement of the dentist’s office, it saw a potato, who immediately stopped butter for a question. “If you have only one eye and you close it, is it blinking or winking?” Butter was immediately confused, but decided to continue this strange conversation. “Well, how many eyes do you have?” the potato looked him in the eyes and said “This week? the usual.” Butter shrugged off this strange conversation and continued on his way to the basement of the dentist’s office to harvest the fish. “So, how do I harvest fish?” butter thought to himself. “You know, I should really know how to do this, especially since this has been my job for the past 30 years.” the cat was at the berry bushes smelling the flowers, as all reptiles do in the winter. that was strange, because it was mid summer. butter was having a boring day, so he decided to join the cat in smelling the flowers. “SMELL.” said butter. “SMELL” eventually, butter decided two and a half hours of yelling the word “smell” at a flower was enough, and he got back to his walk to the job he still doesn’t know what to do. Once butter had arrived at his work, (for the first time in 30 years,) he pulled out the fish harvesting handbook, gifted to him by his boss who was too lazy to teach him how to do his job, or do anything but pay him and commit tax fraud. Butter opened the book. “A Guide to Fish Harvesting. Step one: Make sure you have the freshly killed fish all lined up on hooks on a string.” Butter looked at the actual fish, which were now rotted bones. “then take the first two layers of skin off of the fish” “already taken care of” butter thought to himself. “dig a hole in the concrete, and set the first two layers of skin on top of the pile of dug up concrete.” “well, I can scrape of the first two layers of bones off with a potato peeler if that helps” thought butter. “Now, remove the rain from the clouds, and water the empty hole you dug up. The more rain, the better the harvesting season is. for the people in animal crossing, not you, you dumbass.” “Might as well make something better for the people in animal crossing” thought butter as he lowered the clouds with his google assistant. “now that you have the clouds to water the holes, take the rest of the fish, and feed it to yoda.” “Whos yoda?” asks butter, who soon realizes who yoda is after looking at a pile of bones next to a dog sized water bowl and empty food bowl. “please note that yoda needs feeding daily.” “well its a bit late for that, says butter as he flips the page. he sees more steps, but decides to be done for the day “when you complete your task, record a 30 second video of what you did and submit it to me on google classroom. Dont worry, I will make sure NOT to mark it as “onion.” Butter looks at the mess that was made by the books instructions, and climbs the elevator to get back upstairs. The dentist looks at butter when he comes upstairs, and askes why he was there, to which butter responds with “shut the fuck up gordan ramsay, your giving me a head cavity. I work here.” “WELL I DONT LIKE YOUR LAMB CHOPS. NEGATIVE 300 OUT OF TEN GORDAN POINTS.” yells gordan. “now if you’ll excuse me, im off to do better things you panini head.” before butter completely walks out of the door, he turns back and asks gordan why he is a dentist if he always eats food and yells at it like a phsychotic judgemental butt head. like, its common sense that dentists dont eat, right? “well…” gordan is stumbling over his words. “well… well… I… I…” he is getting visibly nervous. “fine! you got me! i replace teeth with long term turnips! is that really so bad?” “it actually is” butter responds “you know teeth trafficking is highly illegal and tasty? I mean gross? I mean, I dont stay up til 3 AM watching random ass shit on youtube, YOU stay up til 3 AM watching random ass shit on youtube!” “That might be a personal problem” says gordan as he pushes out butter with a broom. “CURSE YOU PERRY THE PLATYPUS!!!!!” yells butter as he is being kicked out. Butter is back outside, and he is melting on a frying pan that is on the sidewalk. he sees some eggs walk his way and he thought they were going to join the party, but they walked into a cake bakery instead. He didnt notice them every coming back out, but he assumed they just went out the back or something. After telling his google assistant to turn down the weather so he could become a solid again, he walked to the library and asked if the librarian knew where any good cooking books were. the librarian directed him to the exit, because eating was not tolerable there, as she was a dentist in her spare time. butter threw a box of marbles at the librarian, and told her that she should try eating thoses, and they help with digestion if she ever wanted to try eating. butter walked out of the library and told his google assistant to load up some headphones, but then butter was reminded that he doesnt know where his ears are or how he even hears things. he decides that he will go to get some dirt colored, textured and tasting gold, because he wanted to buy something nice and expensive. As butter walked into the jewelery store, he noticed a sign saying “no robux accepted, and if youre gonna rob us, dont take my jacket. My mom will be mad.” an employee immediatly went up to him and asked what he wanted. Butter explained what he wanted, but later changed his mind and asked if he could have a cookie. the cookies were only for good boys, and butter qualified. sort of. he got a cookie. he went out to the bus stop to wait for his bus. butter wanted to play minecraft while he was waiting for his bus, but he forgot his phones password. he decided that he would just guess. he clicked random numbers, and his phone said “good enough” and let him in. he played minecraft, and inside the game, he tamed a villager and taught it how to download and play minecraft easily with a google assistant. Butter got off at his stop to go to the fish store. He thought he might as well try to figure out the rest of his job while he was figuring out what his job was. He bought some freshly killed fish, and returned to the basement of the dentists office, and greeted gordan ramsay by placing a pair of cards from cards against humanity on gordans face. he walked downstairs and repeated everything from before. he lined up the fish on a hook, took off the first two layers (still with a potato peeler) he dug the concrete, put the fish skin on the pile of concrete and put rain it the hole. he still decided that he could help the animal crossing community, so he activated his google assistant. He looked at yoda, and just piled up the rest of the fish on him. now, he was moving onto some new steps. “pour 1 cup of flour into the rain water” butter grabbed flour, and sprinkled it all over the water. he got a little on yoda, but thats ok. “chop the concrete so that it is done medium well. Speaking of medium, make sure to grab an extra medium bag of dog food for yoda.” butter gets a knife, and gets the extra medium bag of dog food and puts it in yoda’s bones. if gordon comes down here, he’d have quite the snack. dead fish, dog food, AND bones! “once you have done all of that, make some lemonade. hold a “lemonade stand.” essentially, what you need to is charge people 85 dollars to enter a drawing to win some lemonade. then, pretend that you have given someone the prize, but dont actually give anyone anything. go drink some lemonade, and go on a vacation, paid for by your boss.” butter looks at the book in disbelief, and talks to his boss for the first time in thirty years, and he confirms it.


The droning of insects and the chirping of birds joined the general buzz of activity that filled the area. Children dashed around after balls or frisbees. A dog or two could be seen playing with their owners. The smell of grass and the occasional wisp of flowers were on the breeze. Sunlight warmed the area and all who occupied it. All-in-all it was a lovely day at the park. Derrick sat on a bench, people watching, marveling in the normalcy. He had been having a good week. Work has been going well. There were weekend plans with a friend to look forward to. He was healthy. Best of all, he hadn't had a single episode all month. "A good Wednesday," he whispered. Pushing the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth. Lunch was almost over and he needed to be getting back. *Maybe I finally got the right meds*, he thought wryly. *Only took them 25 years*. He would talk it over with his therapist this afternoon. That was for later, work was for now. Standing up he was off. It was only a few blocks from the park to his destination. A large 25 story apartment building. It was easily seen from the park where he had lunch. He clicked his badge back onto his belt as he reached the entrance. He worked for the building's owner, doing maintenance. Keeping the pipes clean and the lights on. He was good at it. It was lucky he had found a person willing to employ someone with his condition. It had taken him most of his 6 month tenure here for him to settle in, to feel confident in his work uniform. Some, including a few members of his family, thought manual beneath them. He had shared that attitude for too long. Denying the peace that fixing something, making it work again, brought him. It was the only time he felt normal. Flashing his badge to the security officer; he was let in. The building was located next to a prominent school and not too far from multiple offices. That attracted wealthy people. More than a few well-off families made their homes here. The price of even some of the lower end apartments made his eyes bulge. Luckily he had a space provided for him. His apartment, if you could call it that, was in the basement. It was small, bordering on cramped. To him, it was just less room to maintain. The last thing you wanted to do after spending all day fixing other people's problems was come home to do more of the same. The basics were all he needed, and he had them. He enjoyed the solitude. Plus, there was a small office next to the living space for him to work. As he entered the office area, he noticed the phone on his desk. There was a small light flashing on it. He had messages, and that meant work. Taking a seat he picked up the receiver and took notes. Some supplies he needed had finally been ordered. That was good news; he had waited a week now. There was a leaky faucet on floor 18, and something about graffiti on floor 10. He noted the date of the order before heading out. Stop at floor 10 to check the unwanted artwork. Then go to floor 18 to see what was wrong, and what parts he would need. The halls were empty this time of day. Anyone who came home for lunch would have returned to work by now. That was perfectly fine with him. Nobody to get under foot, or to ask him silly questions. He stepped into a waiting elevator, and up he went. The elevator dinged and he stepped out, floor 10. There was a small lobby on each floor, brightly lit and inviting. This one was no exception. Halls branched off to the left and right. He set off to the right, his eyes on the walls. He hadn't been told where the graffiti was, but that wasn't a problem. The halls made a large square. The apartments were on the outside of the building, so each one had a view. The infrastructure, like wires and the elevators, were in the center of the building. The walls were finely painted, and the carpets thick. Both were immaculate. The apartment had a whole separate cleaning crew. Well polished brass light fixtures hung from the ceilings, and there were paintings on the walls. This was a luxury apartment complex, and it showed. He was expected to help maintain the image of prestige. He rounded a corner. The first thing he noticed was this hall, unlike the others, was not empty. A solitary man stood sideways in the center of the hall, his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. His clothes, a button up shirt and slacks, marked him as a businessman. *Great*, he groaned internally. *Somebody saw it before I could take care of it.* "I'm sorry Sir," he called out. He quickened his pace towards the man. "I will take care of the problem, no need..." He trailed off as he got near. No answer was given. The man stared blankly at the wall in front of him. His body was rigid, unmoving. His eyes still fixed on the wall, didn’t blink. He followed the man's gaze. The wall was covered by a large black splotch. It looked as if somebody had opened a can of paint and threw it on the wall. However, the ceiling and the floor were spotless. Only one section of the wall was stained. No drips or drops could be seen around the main body of the graffiti. "What the hell?" he gawked. "Do you see it?" the man whispered. "Yes Sir," he answered, trying to be reassuring. "I see it. It will be taken care of. I will clean it. Don't worry, by tomorrow it will be..." "DO YOU SEE IT!" the man's voice shook as he screamed. Derrick stumbled back a step. The man hadn't moved, but his limbs began shaking. Tendons started to pop out from his clenched hands. His neck swelled as he clenched his jaw. His eyes stretched open wide. Pupils whirling in their sockets as it tried to take in every inch of the blotch. "I can see it, I see it now," the man cooed. "Show me more, give me more." His eyes shifted back towards the wall. The graffiti was dripping now. Long black lines ran down the wall, pooling onto the floor. "It wasn't dripping before..." he started before cutting off. The mass of paint shifted. It started to swirl, spiraling into itself. The edges fuzzed, and the line between the wall and the stain blurred. Tendrils of black sludge started coming out, extending into the room. Jerking their way forwards, struggling to come into existence. The strange man lifted his trembling arm, reaching out to them. "No, no, no," Derrick whined, taking more steps back. The appendages continued to force their way into reality, twisting as they lurched out. They waved towards the men, beckoning them forward. The man pitched forward, his arm outstretched, touching one. Instantly it wrapped around him and pulled. His whole body coming off the ground as he was drawn into the black inky void. A joyous smile spread across his face as he vanished. Fear welled up in the now lone man in the hall; he spun and ran. All thoughts of his job and duties forgotten. The walls and lights became a flickering blur as he dashed away. He frantically smashed the button on the elevator, sweat dripping off his brow as he waited for it to come. He forced his way in even before the doors were finished opening. His fingers pressing the floor one button over and over. Eventually the doors closed and he huddled himself into a corner. "It's not real," he rocked himself back and forth, arms wrapped around his shoulders. "It's not real." The ping caused his head to snap up. The doors opened and he dashed out. A crowd of professionally dressed people stood in front of his path. He pushed through them, knocking into a young woman, who yelped in surprise. He muttered an apology keeping his eyes down, fearing to look at anyone too closely. The outside doors grew larger in front of him; he stumbled his way out. The sidewalks were filled with people. It didn't matter where he looked, someone filled his vision. He tried not to focus on them knowing what he would see, heads and limbs distorted into dark monstrous shapes. Void like faces twitched unnaturally, jerking left and right. Overly long arms, or warped legs dragged along the ground. Occasionally one lashed out at a passerby. Passing through their body, and leaving a slimy residue behind. Every person he saw had something wrong with their body. A corrupted part of them shining out in the afternoon sun. He glanced up only as necessary. Shuffling along trying to avoid everyone, flinching anytime he bumped or was bumped. He had never gotten used to this. His whole life had been this off and on nightmare. Kids in school with no faces. Teachers with tentacle-like arms caressing his back as he cried in horror. He would curl into a tighter ball as they tried to comfort him. It had never gotten better. *I had been doing so well*, he lamented, as he wrapped his arms around his hunched shoulders. *I was free for a month, that was longer than ever. Why now?* He traveled as fast as he dared, struggling to avoid any person he came across. Block after block passed as he went. Not far now, only a few more streets, he would be safe. A familiar building came into view. A squat structure, compared to its surroundings. A small sign hung above the door stating its name. New Horizons Counseling, his sanctuary. He made his way in quickly. The small waiting area was empty. No secretary sat behind the counter on the side of the room. Walking around it, he walked down the short hallway. Three doors were in front of him. One on each wall to the right and left, and one at the end of the hall. The door to his right had a small light fixture above it. It was dark. He knocked on that door. "Yes," came a calm, feminine voice. "Ms. Whitelock," he called. "It's Derrick." "Derrick? One moment." He waited, seconds stretched by. The wait seemed like hours. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he began to wring his hands. Eventually, the door pulled open. A tall, shapely blonde woman appeared in front of him. Her tailored pant suit fit her well. Long hair was tied back into some form of intricate braid. Black eyes looked confidently over her guest. Like always, her very presence made him feel somewhat shabby. "Mr. Fletcher, you are about," she looked down at her wrist and the watch located there. "Two and a half hours early. Given your appearance, it is safe to assume something has happened." "Yes," he said, stepping in. She placed a hand on his arm stopping him. "You know the rules Mr. Fletcher." "Yes Ma'am, sorry. May I come in?" "Of course. Please, sit," Her hand came off of his arm. She stepped to one side and pulled the door open farther. He scurried in. The room was standard fare. A dimly lit comfortable space. The walls were a light blue, a few drawings and paintings decorated them. A large mirror hung on one wall. A couch and a comfortable looking chair sat in the center of the room. A bubble of light cast by the ceiling fan housed its occupants. He glanced at the slightly shadowed corners as he sat on the edge of the couch. Was that one darker than the other? Was that one moving? Sarah Whitelock, his therapist, walked calmly over to the mirror. She looked into it for several moment before speaking. "So, why have you come in so early today?" Her voice pulled his eyes towards her. "It happened again..." he muttered, lowering his head. "You don't need to be ashamed, Mr. Fletcher," she turned from the mirror and took a seat in the chair. Picking up a notepad and pen that rested on the cushion before she sat down. "Speak up and let me know what is going on." "I had another episode," he made an effort to sit up straighter and speak more clearly. "I was at work, and there was this painting, graffiti really, it came alive. It reached for me..." "I see. Please, go on," she began taking notes. "There was a man, He was grabbed by it and pulled in." "You have spoken previously about other people being affected by your hallucinations." "Not like this. He wanted it to take him," Derrick started to rock back and forth on the couch. "He asked it to. He begged for it to 'Show him more.'" "Interesting," Sarah's head slowly turned to look at him. Her focus now solely on her patient. "So this man saw what you saw, and engaged with it?" "Yes, but it's always been passive before. Nobody but me ever seemed to notice these things. I thought I was getting better, but this," he grabbed his hair in clenched fists. "It's getting worse, I'm getting worse, right?" "We don't' know that yet. It is far too early to jump to any conclusions." "But..." "I don't like to interrupt my patients. However, I am sometimes forced to do so. You are, understandably, distraught. Don't jump to a verdict on yourself too quickly," her eyes returned to her notepad. "This sort of thing can change as one ages, or with medication. Sometimes things get worse before they get better. We don't know what is happening yet." "I suppose," what she said made sense. "It's just so terrifying." "Just remember. Everything you are seeing isn't real. It's a figment of your imagination." "Yes Ma'am. It's not real," he took a deep breath and relaxed his hands. "It's not real." They talked for another hour, going over details. He explained everything that led up to the event, and his feelings during. It was uncomfortable, but he pushed through it. Eventually he let it all out. Reliving every moment of that horrific event. By the end he was tired and emotionally drained. A familiar empty feeling welled up inside of him. It always did after his therapy sessions. He did not enjoy talking about his issues. "We made a lot of progress today," Ms. Whitelock smiled, pleased. "The more we talk about this the better an understanding I gain." "I just want it to stop." "Eventually Mr. Fletcher, these things take time." He heaved himself to his feet, struggling to stand up straight. Shoulders slumped unconsciously as he considered what to do next. He would have to call his boss and explain his absence. Most likely he would be working overtime to make it up. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm sorry I barged in." "That is quite alright. I am here for all in need. I am just glad I was available to help." "Remember," she continued as she escorted him to the door. "Keep going. Don't hide from your feelings. Let them fill you and then let them out. I will always be here to listen." "Thank you," he gushed, stepping back out into the hall. "You are a real lifesaver." "Anytime," she then walked him to the exit and saw him out with a smile. The streets were not quite as busy as before, but there were still a few people walking. They looked normal. No black, no sludge, no odd limbs, just regular humans going about their day. Just like after all his earlier sessions, things had gone back to normal. He sighed in relief. Rolling his shoulders to try to banish his fatigue he took a step forward, then stopped. In his haste he had forgotten. They almost always set up their next meeting at the end of the current session. He turned and reopened the door. The waiting room beyond was different. It *felt* wrong somehow, even though it remained unchanged. He crept past the desk and down the hall. He didn’t feel better anymore. He didn’t feel welcome anymore. The door on his right seemed to mock him with it's normality. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the knob. The door cracked open silently. Before he could voice his presence, his throat locked closed. He caught a glimpse in the mirror. Ms. Whitelock stood facing a shadowed corner. Towering above her was a slender cloaked figure. Its shoulders were bent so they didn’t touch the ceiling, it's head held parallel to the floor. Large hands hung off of overly long arms. Clawed fingers idly picked at the carpet. He couldn't make out how many fingers were on each hand, but it was more than five. He was about to burst in, worried for his therapist. That is until she turned. Her face, reflecting off the mirror, was black. A mass of writhing tendrils grasps at the air. They seemed to stretch out in all directions. Trying to find something; as if tasting the very air surrounding her. He let go of the knob and turned. His eyes wide, his muscles now stiff with adrenaline. He snuck out. Lungs burned as he began to hyperventilate. “It’s not real,” he whispered to the afternoon sun. “It’s never real.” \ Sarah Whitelock glanced over at her door. It was cracked open. She shrugged. It must not have latched when she returned after Derrick left. She returned her attention to the shadowed room. Her attention now focused on her next visitor.


EST: 3m read Corn Ice Cream Valladolid is an ancient Mexican city destroyed by the Spanish and rebuilt with the direction of the church on the backs of the natives. According to my tour guide, it is famous for its corn flavored ice cream. This is something about that and my short time there. I took a trip on a tour bus with some friends and other people who were part of the same tour. We had just left the humbling ancient ruins of Chichen Itza built by the Mayan people, and now we were on the final stretch of the tour heading towards the city of Valladolid. The main attraction of the city was the church and old Spanish architecture but, most importantly, the corn flavored ice cream. Once we arrived, I joined the group and made our way to the church, which was only a short distance away. The church was surrounded by a small courtyard located near the center of the city. Just outside of the church was a lovely park with ornate decorations, a fountain in the center, and various vendors at all exits. The church was beautiful on the outside. Built from ancient stones from the destroyed Mayan pyramid that was the center of their city long ago, at least that's what our tour guide said. The age was apparent. The rain over the centuries had made the stones appear porous. The church only had two entrances, and only one was heavily used. As we approached, we could hear crying. I watched a group walk by a mother with a baby who struggled and cried in its mother's arms. We soon walked by them too without a second glance, just like the group I watched. The cries added more weight to the humidity of the region. Unlike others, I did look at the withered flower of a woman and child now being treated as a normal or expected fixture of the background of the lives of the groups of tourists that visit the popular church. I imagine she might have hoped to receive more sympathy from the foreigners there. The child squirmed in her arms, like a puppy being restrained from food. She had no voice, I could hear, her eyes were louder. Her eyes were powerful on the groups. Like a shepherd's dog, her eyes would corral the tourists into the doorway free from her gaze. Until the only open door was filled, the group of tourists would then be forced like sheep in the only other entrance passing by the mother and her pleading gaze in a hurry. They avoided eye contact as much as possible. Our group entered the church through one of the old solid wooden doors that had been propped open to allow for passage on either side. I stayed with the group, but they didn’t stay long. There weren’t that many things to take pictures of. Only the beautiful deep Irish green altar was worthy of a photo to the crowd. I sat back and watched them pray at the altar with their phones and cameras changing their locations every now and then to see the altar more clearly, I assume. We left through the other door back out into the darkening yellow of the setting of the Mexican sun. I listened for the child crying, but I heard nothing. Our group walked by her. She didn’t have her cup in her hand now, it was next to her on the floor, still empty. She sat dejected with her head down or whispering soothing things to her child. The groups separated into pairs or smaller groups of friends. My own made our way to the nearby park and watched a couple of natives in their traditional clothing. They set up tip containers and began to play music and dance. A crowd gathered to listen & take pictures. I soon left them and made my way into a small plaza with outdoor seating to find the ice cream shop. I soon found the shop next to a Chinese food inspired cuisine store. I asked for the corn flavor, and I handed the attendant five dollars, and she did not return the correct change to me, but I made no fuss. I just gave her a knowing look, and I could see the discomfort, but I had no urge to challenge her for it. Leaving the small mall, I waited near it and watched people go by towards the park, stores, and other activities. The ice cream did taste like corn and it was good but I wouldn’t buy a second one. As I waited, I made my way back to the tour bus, where I would wait for my friends. I passed by disheveled people on the sidewalk steps. Their eyes gazed on all the passersby. They asked for change. I watched one old man who I couldn't easily avoid. I prepared to greet him and politely say no, but he did not ask me or look at me. As if from experience, he knew who to ask. He knew not to waste his breath on single men who never gave change and never will. My friends and the various smaller groups soon returned to the bus. Three hours on a bus and another three hours walking in the sun along with an hour of skimming the daily life of a city based on tourism had exhausted everyone. The conversation was light and pleasant. Our tour guide offered rum & cokes and cold beer. I drank a cup of beer before I settled in and stared at the rich Yucatan landscape pocketed with the poverty and construction projects half completed. I dozed off for the remainder of the drive back to the resort. Thank you for reading.


I believe you may be sick in the head. There’s nothing wrong with that, don’t panic, because I know just the cure you need. Relax and breathe and try to stay calm, there has been millions like you, and we have done this millions of times before. You’ve been having strange thoughts lately, thoughts that no normal person would ever dream up. So I know that you are sick in the head, don’t worry, because I have the cure. Perhaps you don’t even think you are sick in the head, but trust me, I’m a certified professional, and you are as fucked up as they come. Please just take this pill. The medicine doesn’t seem to be working; we may have to put you on something stronger. Would you like to know the chemical you are ingesting? I don’t think that would be to your benefit. Besides, it’s not like you can even understand any of the things I’m going to tell you. All you need to know is that you are sick in the head. Sometimes no medicine can fix the ailment, in fact, think of it as more of a physical deformity of the brain. Something didn’t grow right and now all the wiring is off, but a quick poke here and a quick cut there should fix everything up. If you don’t think that you are sick in the head it’s only because you are sick in the head, relax and breathe because this will all be over soon. The surgery was a success! Tell me, do you still have unnatural thoughts and feelings? What do you think of your fellow man or authority or the government that takes such great care of you? Answer truthfully and promptly because I have reason to believe that you may be sick in the head.


"Nolan." "Yes father?" "Have a seat." "Ah...I'm going to miss this room. You know, this is a celebratory occasion. Why not open that bottle of scotch? It's been in that cabinet for at least two decades." "Nolan. You're going to need a clear head. And you are not old enough." "Oh, who cares about drinking laws down here?" "The military would be most displeased if a new soldier arrived at his first deployment with headache and nausea! They may have told you that drinking is alright after battle, but never before a first deployment. You should know that." "Oh yeah, that's true. Sorry." "Now, we need to talk. We need to have a long talk about what is happening tomorrow." "I already know what's happening tomorrow." "...Nolan. This is absolutely not something you need rush into. You may think you know what's happening, but you do not. What they teach you in Engineer Training is nothing compared to the real thing. They teach you how to repair and how to think on your feet. Then they teach you how to man some of the weapons. Then start talking about the comradery, make it seem like no one will die. Everything they've showed you, everything you've been taught about what happens in battle, is completely flipped on it's bloody head when you experience the real thing. So don't try to say that you know what will happen, because you do not! ...Jacob said... almost those same words to me the day before he was deployed." "Father... please don't bring that up! You know how I felt! You know how I feel about that now! But... I have no choice! I have to go... I have to! My whole goddamn life has been building up to this! I'm ready! Okay, it's not like you know what they've been teaching me! It's... it must be.... so much more different then whatever you were taught when you were a cadet! My instructors have given me more inspiration than anything you've ever told me! And my friends... they're the best people I've ever met. They would take a bullet for me, I know it." "Nolan! Christ...... this is what I haven't been able to tell you for years. This is what I hoped you would not be taught. They try to tell you that this war is about winning and becoming bloody heroes! They work this idea into your head that killing other men is... is fucking glamorous! They try to make you think that when a sub implodes that the men on board just evaporate! That they die a painless death! It is astounding what they try to tell you! And your friends will not be taking any bullets for you because there are no bullets in where you're going! Were you an Aquanaut, there would be bullets. And there would be proper fighting on solid seametal. Where you're going there will be nothing but the blue and green lights as the torps ram into the subs and kill everyone on board, all at once! And that is the pleasant way to go! For if the battle's not in an atmosphered zone, you know what'll happen! Water intake! The alarms that let you know that you are going to die! The scramble for the emergency tanks! And even if you somehow get your hands on one of those, you then get to sit in the cold black! And what will get you first? The drowning after you deplete the five minutes of air? Or the hypothermia? That is what battle is, Nolan! That is what this fucking war is! In this war, there are only the cowards who lead the armies, the brave men and women who give their lives, and the nil effects a death will have on the future generation! Only through millions of deaths is something changed! And not always for the better! The wars that were once fought on actual land were fought with machine, explosive, knife, and bullet! This war that we are locked in is fought with machine, explosive, knife and fucking torpedo hundreds of meters beneath an endless, frozen sea! The two may seem vastly different, but when one takes a closer, firmer look, the differences become obsolete. So forget dying a hero's death, forget being saved when your friends will certainly die with you, and forget that propaganda that they blind you with. I'm not asking you to die, Nolan. I simply wish for you to understand the truth about this war." "..." "It is time, son. Get some rest. Think about what you will say to us when you depart in the morrow hour. I have said my goodbye. Do not end up like your brother. Return to us alive. Then, we can talk about that scotch...