Slowly, I turned that beam of cruelty I had always reserved for others as a way to keep the attention off me. I turned it onto myself, and you know what? It felt good. I mean, who was I? A lower middle-class, tall, scrawny thing that had little more to show for his 17 years than a trail of smoldering rubble from everything he touched. My motivations were fear and jealousy, hardly unusual for a citizen of the U.S.A. (Unusually Selfish Assholes), I just happened to handle this stress with the grace of a garbage truck. I looked in the mirror and said, "You are one low son of a bitch." Surprisingly, however, this realization didn't bother me. It was like I finally figured out who I was, and the revelation was a huge relief. I had always wondered if horrible people knew they were actually horrible people, and now I think the truly horrible people actually do, and they resign themselves to being the bad guy. Much like a serf must have lived with the drudgery of being a serf, or a marine on the front lines dealt with the inevitability of his own demise. "I am a serf, I was born to the land" and "I am a marine, I will take that hill or die trying." Both come up with a series of ideologies and religions to help them with this realization, and somehow give a desperate situation a bit of dignity. I was no different. I imagined a world of greedy, terrible people who were all out to get me, and I would do my best to screw them before they got to me, and then I'd screw myself for good measure because I was no better.  Suicide was never really an option. I've never tried to outright kill myself. That's not much, I mean many people live their entire lives without once killing themselves, but the fact that I've never really considered it is something I've always been proud of. It just always seemed like the easy way out. There were always those few kids in high school who never made it through. I remember one kid. 15 years old and his girlfriend of 3 months broke up with him. He got drunk, grabbed his dad's shotgun, sat on a motorcycle in his garage, and blew his brains all over the white wall behind him. His two best friends pleaded with him and watched helplessly as what was left of the body slumped forward on the motorcycle's handlebars. Gravity slowly pulled the corpse to the floor by the time the paramedics came with the bodybag and hugs for the parents. I still remember that picture of him in the yearbook, grinning like a ghost. Suicide is the ultimate cop-out, an embarrassing cry for attention, or a period at the end of a desperate sentence. I've never understood the slashed wrists, the intentional overdoses, the head in the oven, the jump off the bridge, and probably never will. Why not take some people down with you on the way?  Slow-motion suicide, that's the kind for me. The gradual killing of yourself over a long period of time, using malnutrition, sleep deprivation, cigarettes, unsafe sex, and drugs to whittle away at your once proud human frame. The modern tuberculosis that sits in your chest and eats you from the inside. You violently cough your dreams into the toilet, cables of bloody spit catching on the porcelain bowl. The strange thing about all this is that you feel tougher, meaner, leaner, and badder than anyone else, even though you probably couldn't fight for more than a minute without getting winded. You figure that smoldering chunk of coal in your belly will give you all the fuel you need to annihilate anything that gets in your way, and act tough enough so that nothing crosses your path. So it was for me.  High school passed. A few more years passed. By this time I had manufactured myself into some sort of dark, intellectual loner, quoting Dostoevsky, Marx, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer completely out of context, twisting their critiques of humanity into justifications of my cruelty, unaware of the meanings behind their words. I was brimming with pompous superiority, smugly correct in every instance, casting my shallow view across the humanity that I thought I understood. To effectively move against people, you must first put yourself above them, ordain your own mission in the name of a superior God (or a staunch belief in atheism), wrap yourself in a superior ideology, and then reassure yourself with your superior intellectual capacity. I did this with such alarming skill that by the age of 20, I could have shot anyone in the face with the .38 that I had taken to carrying, and dismissed the incident as little more than crushing a bug scurrying across my floor.  But also curious to my condition was also a strange state of feeling lower than everyone. Watching people meet for drinks, hold hands, cheer a football game, or even have breakfast out as a family served to do little more than further isolate me, and make me wonder why I wasn't one of them. Was it really my superiority, or was I incapable of moving as a 'normal' person, and wrapping myself in layers of intellectual gauze to explain away my inability to relate to anything? In hindsight the answer was pretty obvious but at 20, the world fucking owed me.  I met a girl at a punk show, Day-Glo Abortions at the Metroplex, 1986 or 87. She was rotten. She had red curly hair, freckles, black circles around her eyes, a body like a rugby captain, and smelled like a carton of spoiled milk dumped over a tub of rancid meat. Of course I was instantly in love. I stared at her for about 10 minutes straight before she came over and hit me up for a cigarette. I told her that smoking was for assholes who liked giving their money to corporations, but I offered her some of the bottle of rum I managed to sneak into one of the dark corners of the club. We didn't have much to say to each other, just what part of the city we lived in and where we were had gone to school. She dropped out of school after getting kicked out of her house. She tried to take the bus from her place downtown out to the suburbs every day, but it only worked out a few times before she gave up. The rest of the time she just sat, smoked pot, and listened to records. I made up a bunch of shit to make myself seem cool, and in the middle of a bullshit sentence, she kissed me with that rotten mouth of hers. She tasted like a pack of cigarettes fished out of a chemical fire, and had dirty nailed, clumsy hands that belonged to a man, but I went with it, more out of cool curiosity than lust or desire.  One of the opening bands, Porn Orchard, started playing and she pulled me to the front of the crowd, grabbing my hands around the wrists and putting them around her waist so that I was standing behind her, holding this stranger. She was only an inch shorter than me, which was saying a lot, and I had to strain my neck to avoid that rotten mop of a haircut bouncing infectiously in my face. Her stiff leather jacket caused a clammy sweat on me that chaffed with every jump. With my hands already around her damp belly, I moved my hands up her shirt onto her tits, waiting for any sort of reaction. There wasn't any, except for a slight smile I could barely see on the corner of her face. The band played for what seemed forever, and I eventually let go of her and walked to the back of the club where I had been before. I pulled out the rum and finished off the bottle, waiting for her to come back. I didn't see her again that night.  About two weeks later I was out again, by myself of course, and drunk. That's the best thing about public transportation, if you can manage to count out your 65 cents and sit down without throwing up, you can go anywhere. I took full advantage of that system, and probably spent half of my early adulthood sitting on a blue plastic MARTA chair, drunkenly trying to comprehend some book 20,000 leagues over my head, reading the same bitter sentences over and over again as if repetition would make me smarter. This night I was out to see Verbal Assault and The Stench at one of those clubs that disappears after a few gigs. I didn't have any friends at the shows, just the same people who seemed to be at every one I went to, who would nod in some sort of recognition to a fellow music fanatic, or maybe out of fear that I was someone important who knew more than they did.  I saw her at that show. She walked in with some huge skinhead. They weren't holding hands or anything, but he paid for her. I think the show was only $2, but still, the gesture must have meant something. They stood with their backs against the wall, side by side, wearing matching flight jackets. Now, instead of that rag-mop haircut, she wore a Chelsea, which is basically an inverted bowl cut, where everything under the bowl is shaved, and all hair not within the bowl's coverage area, is left, as a sort of fringe. Not too flattering, but you try telling that to a skin chick. I waited until he went to the bathroom and walked over.  "Hey, remember me?"  "No."  "Day-Glo Abortions?"  "Never heard of them."  "You kissed me at that show."  "Must have been someone else. You better move before my boyfriend gets back, or he's gonna jump you."  "I could take him."  "Could you take ten of his friends too?"  "No."  "Then fuck off."  I walked to the other end of the club. I knew I didn't have her confused with someone else. I can still remember that rotten milk stank to this day. I wasn't used to getting blown off like that. That did it. I had to have her, the fact that her boyfriend was some fat ass nazi skinhead didn't bother me, if anything it made things more imperative, more important that I get her, bag a disgusting girl who won't give me the time of day right from under the nose of a guy who would, in all likelihood, beat me to death. Being a guy ensures that you are constantly looking for a girl, and in that search you are turned down far more times than you succeed. The worst feeling comes when you drop your standards and go after some girl that disgusts you in every way, but for the mere fact that she is woman, and you still get brushed off.  I stared at her while her boyfriend was busily looking hatefully at the show, standing rigid and unflinching, like at any moment his services as an ignorant goon might be called upon. She stared back at me. Then she winked and smiled. Whether she was trying to lure me to destruction, or really wanting me I wasn't sure. My inflated image of myself made me think the latter, however thinking the former gave me a sexual charge that was undeniable. The unfair maiden, calling from behind the battlements, knowing my pursuit of her would result in my death, yet calling, singing, and staring. The challenge had been made, and seeing how at that point in my life, my mind broke every situation into winners and losers, challengers, competition, I could not back down. The fact that she was repulsive physically, and mentally (what kind of loser dates a Nazi?) made conquest that much more necessary, conquest for the sake of itself. After all, isn't life all about the pursuit of worthless things, the longing for worthless people, the absolute obliteration of your mind and body for worthless causes? Isn't that what makes us human? Or is it the fact that we deny the unimportance of our lives? Or is it simply the fact that we're relatively hairless and usually ungrateful?  I left the show early, deftly slipping her a piece of paper with a fake name and a real phone number on it. I didn't look at her until I was safely past. I turned around casually to see her slip the paper into her back pocket without telling her boyfriend. But still, she didn't call. Not for two weeks.  Exactly two weeks later, at about 1 in the morning, she called.  "Hey," she said. Right away I knew who it was.  "Hey," I answered.  "Do you have a car?"  "No."  "Fuck, I was hoping you'd come pick me up."  "I know the busses and trains like the back of my hand, where are you at?"  "Nevermind."  She hung up. She called back at 5 am.  "Hey."  "Hey."  "Can I come over?"  "Yeah. You have to take the bus though."  "Fine."  I gave her directions and about an hour later there was a knock on my door. She came in with an oversized duffle bag, sweeping her head around the small room as if looking for another way out.  "This place is small," she said.  "Yeah. It's cheap too."  "I'll bet. You live in a worse neighborhood than I do."  And with that, she moved in.  The next three weeks didn't amount to much, other than the ending of my sexual dry spell and the fact that I started smoking. She didn't have much to say, and I wasn't one for listening, so we just got high and listened to records all day. After fucking a few times, even sex got boring. A passionless rubbing of strangers. After only a week, neither of us would instigate anything, unless she got really drunk, and then she'd be on me like a malnourished cat. I think the stink she carried was almost tattooed on her, as she was possibly the only thing in the known universe that could make my apartment smell any worse. She was ugly and big, but that wasn't what bothered me. She was empty. Behind the eyes, there was nothing happening, nothing I could pick up on at least. She was like some sort of bloated jellyfish, living only to eat and stay warm. She didn't have a job, and seemed to get by on the general stupid programming of every male that makes us, even the bad ones, attempt to save women and protect them, even the worthless ones. I asked her where she saw herself in 20 years. The answer came immediately and predictably: I don't know.  At the time, my career was moving pot from downtown out to the suburbs every sixth day, a bowling ball sized hunk of compacted weed stuffed in a backpack that netted me $200 a week, just for riding 20 minutes on the bus each way. I was really good at it too, possibly the best. I looked like any suburban kid, maybe a bit leaner, with tight crewcut, so I definitely wasn't out of place as I got off the bus at Roswell Mall (the closest that the bus ever got to the north suburbs). On the bus, merely reading a fine work of literature keeps most people away. They'll resent you for being pretentious and most won't even dream you're moving enough weed to keep their kids high for 10 years. Of course now I know getting caught with that much pot in Georgia is tantamount to raping the police chief's wife in front of the whole station, but back then it was easier than working, and I didn't really give a fuck about getting caught. Something inside of me was very pleased by the fact that most of these drugs were broken up and sold to high school kids, hopefully fucking up their perfect little lives.  Life wasn't too bad for me, in fact it was so perfectly awful I was in love with it. I was the man with everything: a career, a woman, a palace to call my own. It was like the negative image of a normal life, something that was a Fuck You to everyone and everything around me. At the time it didn't seem odd that I build my life into a huge Fuck You. I mean to purposefully give yourself a bad life clues you in to who the Fuck You is really directed at. It took a while to figure it was pointed at me. And screaming Fuck You to yourself is insanity in anyone's book.  But then my perfect dream life ended, stopping my job as a drug mule and severing my cohabitation with one of God's nastiest creations. The choice was hardly my own. I came home from a run one day to get punched in the face by the girl's skinhead boyfriend, whom she had invited into my apartment, as well as two of his friends. They were smart enough not to dress like skinheads when coming into my neighborhood (if you're ever sick of living, dress up like a skinhead and go hang out in south Atlanta), and were waiting for me in an ambush that I assume was part revenge, and part business. They had already done a good job of breaking most of my stuff and setting aside my records to take home later.  "Give me the drugs," said her boyfriend.  "I just dropped them off."  "OK then, give me the money."  "I just move it. I don't get paid for another 2 days."  That got me knocked on the ground and kicked.  "Then we'll come back."  "I wouldn't. I've been making that run for 6 months without getting caught. If my guy hears that his star mule was getting shaken down, especially by a bunch of Nazis, he'd have you all killed." Which was probably true, but the hits would come more from the chance for a rich black dude to ice some skinheads than any concern for me.  "What did you say? You think we're scared of some coons?"  "Yeah, I do. Otherwise you would've worn your Johnny Rebel flight jackets down here." That was probably the remark that got the shit kicked out of me. Even the girl, who, up until this point had shown me nothing but pure disinterest, seemed to comprehend that she was basically getting me killed. Iron cross rings, steel toed boots, Budweiser numbed brains, all converging on my already damaged body. It only went on for a few seconds, but they were good at beatings, if nothing else.  "OK, ok, fine." I heard myself say through a bloody mouth. "I'll pay you."  "Damn straight you'll pay us."  "Come back. I'll pay you."  After they left, I laid there for a while, not that I had any other options. I was definitely bleeding from a few places, but I'd had worse. It wasn't a surprise that the girl called them or left with them, she was barely here when she was around.  Moving out of that place was easy, seeing how I didn't have any stuff left except some shirts and a box of books, which they somehow were unable to break and had no use for themselves. Yeah, moving out was easy, a suitcase full of dirty clothes and a box full of good books. The hard part was finding a place to go. I had burned most of my friends, and after people found out what I did to that girl back in high school, I wasn't too welcome in many places, even three years later. Anyone I talked to at shows was more of a cold acquaintance, who seemed to talk to me out of politeness, not exactly the people to ask for a couch. My parents had moved away after I graduated from high school, and I never really bothered to get the exact address.  I went to the dealer and told him what happened, played up the racism thing, made up some stuff they said about him, and suggesting that he put a few guys in my room and wait. He said he'd think about it, paid me my money, gave me an extra $100 and told me to go to the hospital. I thanked him, but I never went.  Instead, I rode the bus around a bunch. I even took a train to the airport and wandered around there, hoping to find a plane ticket on the ground or something. I sat and watched people getting off planes. Family, friends, or lovers scanned the steady trickle of weary passengers stumbling out of the doorway to the plane tunnel, wondering 'did they really get on the plane?' until they saw the face of the one they wanted. Some smiled and waited to be noticed, others blew right through the line, disrupting everything out of sheer joy. Some met with a handshake, some with a hug, some with a kiss. They'd offer to carry the traveler's bags, express concern for the quality of the flight, make some comment about bringing the good weather with them. They'd start talking about where the car was parked, how far they lived from the airport, who was waiting at home excited to see them, how the Braves were doing, stupid small talk that seemed so, comforting. I also saw the people who got off the planes by themselves. Hopefully looking around, as if some friend of theirs had deciphered the flight information and would be waiting for them as a surprise. This never happens.  I walked around and saw lonely men in airport bars, half-heartedly flirting with waitresses old enough to be their wives.  I took part of my $300 and bought a one-way ticket to Indianapolis. To this day I'm not sure why. I suppose I wanted to get out of the South, and the ticket to Indy was cheap. I knew that Vonnegut wrote about Indiana, as did Richard Bach. It didn't seem like it would be a very harsh city. It seemed like there would be nice people there. After all my shit, I was in the mood for nice. That's how it happened. I just got tired of being an asshole."  And now for a confession:  This entire conversation (Destroyer 2 and 3) isn't my story. It belongs to a guy who used to stop by my dorm room in college, usually drunk, late at night, ready to confess all of his sins while I sat and quietly listened. I have no way of knowing if it's even true, although I suspect most of it was. I'm not sure why he picked me to talk to, but we did have a lot in common. I originally met him at a party, and it turned out we were both from down South, both way into good books and old punk music. Although he wasn't enrolled in school, he was smart as hell, and just as untrustworthy. I couldn't leave him alone in my room without him pocketing a book or a CD and splitting. But he'd always bring them back. I told him that he could borrow anything I owned if he asked, and he told me that stealing was more fun, it was one of the only things that tied him to his old life. If he was telling the truth about his old life, he had turned things around pretty well. He was dating some Pharmacy student (he swore to me that it wasn't to get pills), and had a job at a record store. We even drove up to Chicago a couple times to go see shows, where we would spend most of our time wondering how the hell we'd never run into each other back in Atlanta.  "You know I'm going to steal your stories." I told him once.  "Oh, yeah? What are you going to do with them?"  "I don't know. Write a book or a movie or something."  "Tell you what, if you can live past 25, you can have it. Don't even give me credit."  "I won't. Anyway, it's not the story that's important, it's how you tell it."  "No," he said. "It's the story. It's always the story.


Pre-face: I’ve lived a long and prosperous life. Oft times, I sit in a chair near as old as myself and reflect. The neighbors seem to harbor fear or distrust for me as I stare blankly from my stoop. The lingering stares as they pass don’t affect me. I know of their secrets. I can see further and clearer than most, despite my current state of withering. The man across the way is an adulterer; he has even laid with his lowly maid. The neighborhood children are the cause for the pets gone missing. The neighbor to the left pockets the silverware when at others’ homes. The woman down the street had widowed herself. But they still pass, unaware of the ubiquity of a life long lived. My housemate is among them. He sleeps during the day and benights himself in the shadows as he prowls the streets at night. I watch him closely, for he seems the most disturbed on the street. And he watches back. I keep him out of reach to ensure my safety. I make sure he is comfortable and fed. When I rest my head and all-seeing eyes, I latch my doors and sleep facing the entrance. These securities I take may be superfluous, but they feel necessary. I awake to subtle sounds, those of mice skittering beneath the wooden floorboards or the chirping of a lost, lone cricket. Frequently, I have dreams of being watched. A man who peers around corners as I browsed the open markets. A child stuck in the corner of my eye. A bright light will shine on my face. Faint noises of metal scraping and creaking. These visions feel like more than a decaying man’s unconscious delusions and more of a warning. A warning that fell upon deaf ears. A warning I should have heeded. Half a fortnight has passed of these queer dreams before I was startled awake by a familiar sound. A sound that echoed from my fantasms; the creaking of an iron latch. The sanctity of my bed-chamber was compromised, and the door swung open. The silhouette of the man who breaks my bread ingresses and hovers to the foot of my bed. The housemate was leering above me. He bounds towards me with unremarkable speed. The lantern crashes to the floor. He grips my ankles and yanks my decrepit body to the floor. I let out one final cry, the last utterance of a life long lived. I hear a crunch and blinding pain as bones break upon impact. He drags the heavy metal frame over me, snuffing out my frail worldly existence. The pain fades rapidly and a darkness unknown creeps across my vision. I see nothing, but I can hear the thumping of a beating heart. One that is no longer mine. The beating softens to a whisper, then to a deafening silence. I can hear his heavy breathing as my chest falls for the last time with a rasp of stale air. His hand lies above my immobile heart for minutes. I am being dragged and am lifted into the porcelain basin. A stridulent sound arises as a saw grinds through my limbs, then my neck. I hear the strain of floorboards being pried up, and I tumble, piece by piece, into the emptiness below. I lie there cold and alone, bewildered by my inanimate awareness, for an indiscernible length of time. A knock comes from the postern and the falling of multiple feet enters my lodging. My slayer’s voice is booming with arrogance as he leads the officers to my dormitory. His deceit was clear to me. It appears he has meditated on this macabre act for a while. A chair is placed above my wooden sepulcher. His lies accumulate like snow rolling down a mountain. I am not simply out of town. His confidence staggers and the officers make a hushed note of it. My clothes still hang, my books still opened, my jewelry still displayed. I hear a thumping again. A heartbeat I long to have rests above me, thrashing uneasily in the chest of the man who ended a life long lived. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. The officers rise to their feet, erected by their suspicions. The murder casts aside the chair covering my false grave. “Villains!,” he shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!” A familiar creak came from above and the officers uncovered the remains of a life long lived.


He stood outside the liquor store, seemingly unaware of the rain pouring down upon him. His silhouette melding with the neon glow behind him, the man was almost perfectly still, save for the small orange glimmer of a cigarette moving periodically from his hip to his mouth. He dressed somewhat formally for the occasion, slacks, a coat, a shirt and tie, even a trilby to top off the ensemble. People like it when a man in his line of work dresses well, a lone sophisticated figure amidst a world of blood and grime. Slightly angered that his "uniform" for these jobs now hung heavy and damp upon his shoulders, the man still managed to take some solace in the pleasure of a job well done, and the silky warmth of the cigarette flowing through his chest. Lifting both hands to his face, he took a drag of the ever-shortening cigarette with his left, and with the right held a small leather square to the light of the store behind him. Unfolding the object, the man saw a familiar face stare back at him, one he had seen so many times before. "Detective James Warren." A mess of details danced about the paper hidden within the leather, but only the name stood out for him. This paper and leather construct somehow held within it and incredible power. Close down a bar for the night? Access the back rooms of your favourite sleazy establishment? Run a red light?... Kill a man? All these powers and more were granted to the individual that held this tiny mundane square, and why? "To protect and serve." The man closed over the object and took one final drag from the softly glowing cigarette, before letting it fall and extinguish on the inundated ground beneath him. Protect who? Serve Who? The people? The government? The scumbag in a bar that slips a few hundreds into your pocket? The man tossed the badge carelessly onto the sprawled form on the sidewalk beside him, a dark pool of liquid now exhuding from it and mixing with the rain before racing downward into the grate below. The man wasn't sure who James Warren had felt he served or protected, but he did know for a fact that the scumbag in a bar paid better, and that that scumbag was fond of a well-dressed man that can make a problem simply flow away, and down the drain.


I kept rowing away from the island. I had never rowed before, and it wasn’t long before my arms and back ached from my inefficient form. I put down the oars and stopped. With no more effort to give, and exhaustion setting in, I leaned back inside the hull of the boat and rested. I had planned only to relax, but perhaps inevitably, I fell asleep. I don’t fully know how long I was asleep for, but I was woken by a thud. The boat rocked fiercely. My arms instinctively grabbed the side, and my eyes jolted open, as panic forced me into consciousness. “Are you okay?” a voice came from above. I looked up to see a tall man with a thick beard leaning over the side of a boat some twenty times the size of my own. “Yeah. I think,” I replied, a little hesitantly. I turned my head, trying to get my bearings. Over my left shoulder I could make out a small island I assumed were the Kadear Coalfields, but I was now too far away to make out any details. “You look like you could do with some help. Can we give you a lift?” the man asked. I nodded my thanks. The man reached out a hand, I grabbed it, and with one quick yank of his broad arms he pulled me and my bag aboard his boat. I looked around. There were maybe five or six crewmembers milling around, currently all staring at me with intrigue. “Welcome aboard,” the man said. “The name’s Kedrick.” I thanked him. “Ferdinand,” I replied. “Where are you heading?”. “Kadear Coalfields,” he replied. “No,” I stumbled back. “No. I’ll go back in the rowing boat.” “You’ll die if you go back out in that boat,” Kedrick replied. “I just came from the Kadear Coalfields. That’s where I’m trying to get away from.” “Why? Are you a criminal? Are you wanted there?” I could see Kedrick ready himself for a fight. “No,” I replied quickly. Technically it was a lie. I was a criminal, officially. But not in the sense of right and wrong. However, now wasn't the time for nuance. “You’ll see when you arrive. Things at the Kadear Coalfields have… or are changing, very quickly. And right now, it’s not safe for me to be there.” Kedrick relented. He seemed to either believe me, or just feel sympathetic to the desperation in my voice. “I’m not changing course for you,” he said. “We’ve got a delivery to make. That said, if we see a ship coming away from the island, I’ll wave them down, see what we can do.” I had little choice but to agree and so we continued to sail; the very island I was trying to escape slowly getting bigger in my field of view. About twenty minutes later we saw one boat heading towards us, and I excitedly suggested we get his attention. Kedrick hushed me down. “That’s Robertson’s boat,” he said. “You don’t want that. He either won’t take you, or he’ll rob you and throw you over the side.” It was a sudden moment of realization that I was lucky to have landed upon Kedrick’s boat. Not all merchants would’ve been so kind. I returned to silence, thankful for my sanctuary. Another boat came into view a few minutes later. I looked to him and he simply shook his head dismissively. However, moments later he spotted a small trading vessel leaving the beach. It was a much smaller boat than his own, but still sea-faring. We waited as the boat nimbly tacked up the winds towards us. “Ah, Alessia. She might help you,” the man suddenly announced. He instructed one of his men to grab some flags from the back of the boat. The crewman set off and started enthusiastically waving them in the direction of the other boat. The boat noticed and began changing course towards us. As the boat drew closer, I could see the boat was being guided by one woman. She stood by the wheel calmly steering towards us. Her long black hair came down just past her shoulders and billowed calmly in the breeze, creating waves just like the sea. She wore a thick jacket, with large puffed sleeves, and black denim trousers. Around her waist was a small tool belt that seemed to carry various knives, matches, and a few other useful items. “What have you got for me, Kedrick?” the woman called out from the boat. “Alessia, I’ve got a passenger for you,” he shouted back to her. “I’m not a ferry,” Alessia groaned. “I don’t really care for living passengers. I’ll take him if he’s dead.” Kedrick laughed heartily. I did not. By now the boats were side by side, and one of Kedrick’s men threw a rope across to Alessia. She tied it to her own boat, pulling them together. Kedrick walked to the edge with outstretched arms. Alessia hesitated for a moment, before raising her own arms with a relenting smile Kedrick reached ver the small gap between the two boats and hugged her tightly. “Got a guy looking to get away from Kadear Coalfields, and we’re heading the wrong way for him. Thought you might take him,” Kedrick suggested. “Where does he want to go?” she replied. “Anywhere,” I interrupted. “Just not there.” Alessia looked me up and down, inspecting me like she would any cargo. “What’s in it for me?” she asked. “Some company?” Kedrick replied. Alessia laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” “He’s probably got something of value on him. And if nothing else you can put him to work. You’ll get free labour all the way to your next destination. Just throw him the odd fish that you catch.” Alessia scrunched her face in thought. She studied me intently, before finally making up her mind. “Look, I’m heading to the Bluekira Ministration. You can sail with me to there if you want. I won’t charge, but you work while you are on board. You can have some water, and we can catch fish. But otherwise, you don’t get paid. You work when I tell you too, you rest when and where I tell you too. And most of all,” she paused and took a step towards me, “if you even think about doing something stupid — robbing me or attacking me — then know that I will beat you to it and have no problem cutting you open like I clean a fish.” She smiled “And you’ll get to see. I can clean a fish really quickly.” She took out a knife from her tool belt just to drive home the message more clearly; the metal blade glimmering in the sun. As threatening as the contract was, it was safe passage. I walked up to the side of the boat. “Agreed.” I offered out a hand. She looked at it, ignored it, and turned back to Kedrick. “This guy does anything stupid, then you’re in trouble.” Kedrick raised his hands as if to accept the responsibility. And with that, I climbed over the side of one boat and stumbled clumsily into the other. \ It would be a full day-and-night’s sail, and Alessia put me to work immediately, sending me into the hull to rearrange the cargo to make things easier when we arrived. Upon my return, she asked me to try and catch some fish with a small line and hook. I had never fished before, and Alessia seemed to enjoy watching me attempt to figure out the process. I got the distinct impression that she had no intention of me catching anything sometime soon, that this was some kind of lesson in humiliation. After watching me ineptly dangle a hook into the water for around half an hour, she finally wandered off from the helm and came down to the edge of the boat. “You have no idea what you’re doing do you?” “That obvious is it?” I replied, trying to appear more amused than embarrassed. “Take it you didn’t have to catch your own food back at Kadear?” She took the small fishing line from my hands. With such quick ease that I was unable to follow her actions, she unraveled the string and set the hook down into the water. She let out more and more of the string as the line disappeared behind the back of the boat. “You want to make them think the line is a fish. It’s a weak breeze today, so you may need to pull it in really slowly to get the speed right.” “How will I know if I’ve caught anything?” I asked. She let out a small laugh at my expense. “You’ll know.” She placed the string back in my hand. “I don’t have a spare, so if you let go of that, you’ree going in after it.” With my humiliation achieved she sat down, resting on the side of the boat next to me. “So Kedrick,” I began, “he had a crew with him. And you seem to have a big enough boat for one.” “A crew is a hassle. It’s simpler this way.” “A hassle?” She paused for a second. “How many traders you met?” “I used to talk to them a lot actually on Kadear. They’d land on the beaches, and I’d try and chat to them, find out where they’d been…” “Yeah, but have you ever *really* met them? Ever traveled with them?” she asked. I shook my head. Alessia continued. “Things can be pretty rough out here. It’s tough, physical work. You have no real home. And there’s always the risk of some physical violence. So that lifestyle, it tends to attract a certain… type of person.” She stopped. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. And so I pressed further. “What kind of person?” With a shrug of her shoulder she elaborated,“Big tough men who think strength is what’s most important. Guys with bigger biceps than brains. You get guys like that on your boat, and sooner or later at some point, they get it in their heads that they should be the one running the boat, ‘cause they’re stronger, and they can lift more. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle myself in a scrap. But they’re always going to be taller and bigger than me, and ideally, I’d like to keep my boat for as long as I can.” She looked out to the sea, as if unsure if she had said too much. “I just can’t be bothered with all that macho shit, you know?” I nodded and smiled at her. “You let me on board though.” “Yeah. Don’t think you’ve got the ability to be violent in you though. Plus, I sized you up. I’d win pretty comfortably.” I chuckled, and attempted to hide some small wounded pride. Our conversation was interrupted as I felt a pull on the string. I announced it excitedly, and delicately reeling it in, with the help of Alessia’s guidance I lifted a fish out of the water and dropped it to the floor of the boat. I raised my hands in celebration. Alessia laughed it up, and grabbed a small hammer. “Do you want to do the honors?” she asked. I looked at her confused. “You hit it. To kill it.” she added. I looked down at the fish. It flopped backward and forwards awkwardly on the floor, desperate for some kind of purchase. Alessia took my pause as reluctance. She bent down and with one swift swipe hit the fish across the head, killing it instantly. She picked it up by the tail and handed it to me. “You’ve got a long way to go.” That night Alessia slept in the small quarters tucked within the hull. I remained on the deck. However, she provided me with some blankets, and with some maneuvering of some crates, I was able to create enough of a shelter that I slept relatively soundly. I slept soundly enough in fact that it was Alessia, and not the morning sun, that woke me the next day. “We’re about two hours away,” she said. “I’ll need your help when we get closer. There’s a small washroom in the quarters so you can freshen up. Feel free to use a towel.” I headed down into the hull and proceeded to wash and change. Finding a pair of scissors, I spent much of the next hour painstakingly trimming my beard into a more acceptable shape. It was a difficult task, with only a small mirror and the rocking boat throwing off my attempts at accuracy. Normally I would be clean shaven, be as presentable as possible. But such luxuries weren't possible currently. By the time I rose to the floor of the boat again the island was well and truly within sight, and I could make out people at a small stone harbor. While I had heard of and seen drawings of a harbor, I had never seen one myself. It was the first true sign that I would soon be on an island that was not my own. This island I was about to enter was truly foreign to me. Once we arrived, I begun helping unload the cargo to the harbor steps while Alessia spoke to the islanders. As soon as I placed each crate down, a man or woman dressed in plain blue trousers and shirt picked it up and carried it away in complete silence. While the traders spoke freely with Alessia, I could not help notice that none of the blue-clothed men or women dared to even make eye contact with either of us. It was as if they were incapable of noticing us. With the crates unloaded, I turned to Alessia and thanked her for the safe passage. “How long are you planning on being here?” she asked. "I hadn't given it much thought," I responded. “I’ll do you a deal,” she said. “I’m doing a run to Pearl Docman, but then after that I’ve got to head back this way for the next delivery. It’ll be about five days there and back. You get to the edge of the harbor wall when I come back, at let’s say sunrise, on the fifth day, you can have another lift onto where I’m heading next.” I hesitated for a second. “It’s very nice of you to offer…” “Just say yes or no,” she interrupted. “Yes,” I replied quickly, in case any hesitation be taken as rudeness. “But... I thought you didn’t want a crew?” “You’re not crew. I have to pay crew.” She turned and jumped back onto her boat. “Dawn, fifth day,” she called out as she untied the ropes and the boat gently eased off from the harbor edge. I turned to face the island. The large stone harbor curved around me in a perfect panorama, allowing me to watch the islanders going about their day. While they were the minority, wherever I looked, I could see those same men and women in loose blue clothing. The other islanders seemed relaxed, enjoying a the unexpected warmth of a winter morning, but the blue-clothed workers darted back and forth, carrying boxes and delivering cargo. None of them seemed to ever stop or talk to anyone. I had no idea what to expect from my time on the Bluekira Ministration, but I had chosen to discover the archipelago for myself, and initial ignorance was part of the journey. I began walking along the harbor wall towards the island. The exploring had begun.


# 1. The Bet “It’s all in the feet. See? See how much he’s kicking? Can’t conserve a breath like that, no sir.” Maggie looked up at the man swinging from the high branch of Hangman’s Tree. She felt a twinge of sympathy, but mostly anticipation. A pocket watch ticked slowly in her hand. “You’re wrong, it’s the swinging. Puts too much pressure on the neck, squeezes all the life out. Watch now.” Otis approached the hanging man following the swinging death arc with his arm. “And how, pray tell, is he supposed to stop swinging when they kick the bucket out from under him like that?” Around a minute earlier, the lawless men had put the poor bastard to the noose and removed his last lifeline. It was a common practice, but far less likely to break the offender’s neck than traditional gallows. Otis turned to Maggie and scoffed. “Core exercise.” “Core exercise?!” Maggie spat in a futile gesture. “You stop the swing with your abdomen, sucking it in like this.” Otis made a big show of sucking in what little stomach he had. “Stiff as a board, conserved energy, maybe buys you enough time that someone comes and lets you down.” “Oh, he’ll be stiff as a board alright. What do you recon? Under three minutes?” “Under three minutes, hah. No one has gone that quick, not even you.” Maggie rubbed at the black scar around her neck where the rope had cut in. “That a bet then?” Otis laughed, a hollow sound. “Oh, you bet it’s a bet. An easy one at that.” Astride powerful horses ten feet away, the men who strung the noose watched hungrily as the hanged man’s struggle grew more desperate. The leader kicked his horse and cantered closer to the dying man. “This is what happens when you try to two-time me, boy. It’s the last mistake you ever going to make.” Maggie moved closer, feeling a horrible sense of familiarity. “That you, Reggie?” she asked, mostly to herself. A mask covered the bottom half of the man’s face, black to match his hat and horse. As far as gallows theming went, Maggie thought it got the point across, even if it was a bit overplayed. Otis floated circles around the hanging man. “You think everyone is Reggie. Can we keep to the matter at hand?” He glared at the condemned. “Will you hold still for one minute?!” Maggie ignored him, staring down the leader. “It’s him, I’m sure of it.” Otis stopped his pacing for a minute to look over. “Well, if that’s Reggie, he sure is looking well.” “Hate in the veins will do that, keeps you young just to spite all the people who want you dead.” “Well I’m sure there’s more than a few of those. Why do they need to do that anyway?” “Do what?” “Tell the nearly dead why it is they had to die?” “Assuaging a guilty conscience, I guess.” Maggie returned her attention to the hanging man and the pressing matter of their bet. She circled, willing him to die just a little faster. The pocket watch in her hand ticked slowly forward. “Two minutes thirty,” she called out. “Amazing that damned thing still works. The ethereal plane won’t let me fix my damned hat, but you can pull a watch out of your pocket and it still ticks.” Otis’s hat skewed to the left, slumping down over one eye, permanently on the verge of falling off. “Yup, the afterlife’s a bitch, Otis, and it’s about to get a lot worse for you.” She pointed a finger at the nearly deceased as his frantic swinging turned to spastic jerking. “Ah, put him out of his misery,” cried one of the hangmen. Maggie looked up in surprise. It was hard to tell with the mask covering most of his face, but the man who had called out sounded young. “Reggie’s recruiting kids these days?” The leader gave a disgusted snort at the idea. “Shut up, I’m trying to enjoy this.” “You think that’s a pervert thing?” Otis’s eyes widened. Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Really? At a time like this?” “Can’t tell with the mask, but I bet that sick son of a bitch is licking his lips. Criminal and a pervert. This town really does take all types.” “Even after all these years, Otis, I will never understand what catches your attention.” “Nobody deserves this,” called the young man. “Someone, shoot him and end this.” A nervous tremor crept into his voice. “He keeps standing up like that and we’re going to have a second hanging today.” Hangings were the closest thing Maggie and Otis got to entertainment, but one was enough. “I hear you. Look at the conscience on this kid. A little late, I’ll admit, but nice to see in the youth. Maggie, you know this doesn’t count, right?” Maggie shrugged. The horseman in the lead shot a glare, attempting to silence the younger man. “Two-fifty-five.” “Maggie, this shit does not count!” “Maybe you can put that in the rules of the bet next time. Watch his hand.” Sure enough, the young man’s hand moved to his pistol, hesitant at first, but firm when it found the grip. He looked at the leader and then to the dying man. “Fine, I’ll do it myself!” The young man drew his pistol, hardly taking time to aim and pulled the trigger. The shot rang clear across the plains and struck the hanged man dead in the face. At the same instant, the hanged man appeared beneath the noose, looking much like his former self, but suffused by a pallid, green glow and semi-transparent. pulling his hands up in front of his face. “No!” he shouted. Maggie clapped her hands together. “Down to the wire, but that is two-fifty-seven. I believe you have someone to welcome, Otis.” “Maggie, I said this didn’t count.” If Otis’s face could have flushed, it would have. Instead, it remained the same omnipresent ethereal gray that accompanied the dearly departed. “A bet is a bet, and you know what that means.” “You’re a real son of a bitch, Maggie.” “Fair is fair, break it to him gently.” Otis shook his head and walked over to the newly deceased man still holding his hands over his face. “You can put your hands down, kid. It’s too late to block that shot.” “Stay back!” Shouted the man, keeping his hands up. Maggie wanted to savor her victory, but she was watching the horsemen. Already, a scuffle had broken out and the gunman with a conscience was taking a beating. The gun was out of his hand, forgotten in the dirt as two men kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. “You’re lucky I know your pops, or you’d be swinging next to him right now.” The leader landed a savage blow, causing the kid to spit up blood. Meanwhile, Otis knelt next to the newly deceased, trying his best to explain what was never an easy concept. “Where—” the dead man faltered, trying to gasp for air, but finding none. “You’ll get used to that. What’s your name?” “Adam.” The man’s eyes were wide, searching his surroundings. “Well, Adam, welcome to the not-so-great beyond. Name’s Otis, and that’s Maggie.” Maggie continued watching the horsemen as they slung the battered man over his saddle and prepared to ride back towards wherever they had come from. The leader turned, his mask down, no longer needing to conceal his face. Maggie glared at him, willing some force from beyond to let him see her. Reggie, leader of the Hosh Gang, and the man who had hung her, gazed longingly at Hangman’s Tree. “Rot in hell, boy,” he whispered, before spurring his horse and riding into the rising sun.


Trigger Warning: Mental health and implied self harm/suicide attempt. Not graphic. Not once in all of Her days of the concept called living, had She ever felt this way. This way, or that way? There was a right and wrong to things, so this must be wrong. It has to be or else She’s not perfect.

Not once had She sank to the floor, wallowing in such grief that would rather be unspoken by communities and mothers.

“My child isn't such a fool. She’s in tip-top shape, right sweetie?”

Really mother? A mother’s image of perfection never fit her mold, impaling holes through the rubber where edges were too sharp and the rubber could not bear much more. Because no, a little girl is not to find herself, but to be found by another, forced into a persona of which does not match. Alas, no She did not understand. This concept is called mental health? That’s not real right? Because the doctor fixes everything, right? There’s no reason for Her to feel this low because She lives the perfect life, right? Don’t weep or complain, child, you ungrateful scum. There’s more to cry about than the clouds blanketing the sky, than the leaves growing old and falling from their place in the tree. Get up, you lazy bum, you have no need to be tired.

But She can’t. Every little fiber of Her being protest against movement, has eliminated all feeling to where She becomes a shell of Herself. Hollow. Empty. Scared. The debilitating urge to get up, to fight against this, this pain . She’s fought that fight though, losing to Herself again, and again. Where did Her strength go? Why is She lying in bed, liquid diamond streaks flowing down flushed cheeks every day until the sun goes down? Why is the sun allowed to sleep, but not Her? Question after question playback like a broken record in Her head days on end until Monday seems like Thursday and everyday is dark, melancholy and uneventful. No one has yet to take notice of Her absence, even Her closest friend, He, has not even attempted. Or has He? She wouldn’t know, Her phone being lost in the large expanse of Her room, yet again, She could not find the will or way to search and respond. Are you okay? Is She okay? She thinks so, there’s no reason for Her to not be.

That was a lie, She should stop lying to them. To Herself. She is not okay, but asking for help is a burden, difficult and unimaginable. Because She’s perfect. Perfect people don’t ask for help.

Right?

She can’t be perfect. She is not perfect. She will not be perfect. No one was designed for that level of greatness, even those who get close will always fall short. But She’ll never know that, She’ll never see imperfections as realism. Instead they’re all pointless mistakes. Her brain competes with itself, day after day, a small voice occasionally reminding Her, you need help. But help is for the weak, right? Strong people fight their battles and move on but She can’t.

That’s when She finds Herself in the bathroom. The task to get there seemed exhausting, though the walk was short, Her capacity had depleted. Sitting on the cold tile woke Her up, although only minutely. Deep thoughts become deeper as She scrambles to find an escape. An escape from the whirlwind of…nothingness. She had forgotten what it was like to feel, anything. Sitting quietly turns to sobbing hysterically, trembling and screaming, until She finds Her release. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe She needed to feel something to feel something. She did.

And it became routine. She never was the same, not at all. Her mind overflowed with anxiety and meaningless meanings to the world around Her. Even when He came back. He talked to Her, listened to Her, fought and cried with Her. He was dedicated, yet She was never truly thankful. Thankful that He took the time from His day to be Her guide when She wasn’t in Her right mind. It was supposed to help… right?

Something must be wrong with Her, because the days aren’t supposed to feel the same. The parties, the amusement parks, the teenage fun, it all felt, the same. The same as in no happiness or genuine smiles. He noticed, but kept a distance. She wanted to cry out so badly, hold onto Him and never let go because Her body felt as if it would escape itself if she had no tether. Simultaneously, She also wanted to push everyone away, force everyone to leave Her, allow Her to drown in self pity alone, if that’s what you could call it. At least, Her mother called it that.

Months pass and eventually enough is enough. She’s tired, exhausted, gassed and wrung out bone-dry by the task called living. She did it, every day, with Her release but even this day. This forsaken day, it wasn’t enough.

And so She was done. She did not think twice about Him, or Her mother, or anyone else because they would not think twice about Her. To Her assumption. There would be no difference, with or without Her. So She took one last walk. She walked and walked until the sun settled just above the horizon, emitting a lovely orange hue across the town. And oh, how She wished She could see it, even smile at it, one last time. Arriving at the lake didn’t startle Her, there were no thoughts left for Her to think, no feelings to feel. And it was at that moment there was peace, peace and the gentle beating of Her heart. That, and approaching footsteps accompanied by panting breaths. She closed Her eyes tightly, wishing whoever it was to go away until they stopped running and became a looming figure, towering over Her. The silence was heavy, until He spoke. He spoke and She listened, Her mind waking to the realization of Her actions as He spoke. All it took was Him. Begging, asking, pleading with Her.

“Please, don’t do it.”


The world was a cruel place for him. He went through the days, wearing a smile, fake and forced. There are those who have to wear a mask, simply to fit in with everybody else. Play a role that society wants them to play. That was his plight. It had gotten easy for him to pretend he was happy. A simple smile. “I’m just tired.” But play a part for long enough, one begins to forget who they really are. The lines between reality and fantasy begin to blur. It’s nice to have the fantasy of happiness for a little while. But when cruel reality strikes its tactless hand, it can shatter everything one holds dear. It was another typical night for him. Nights were even tougher for him than the daytime. He was typically alone, so he would remove his worldly mask and let his true self be free. He laid in bed, crying himself to sleep like he normally did. There was never a reason. It was easy to lie to the world around him. He did it every day. But he could never lie to himself. He was just sad. No one said or did anything to him, but that could have been part of the problem. People assume that when there is no one, that also means no one to cause pain. This is true, but it also means there is no one to end the pain. And for him though, this was more than pain. It was suffering. Seemingly endless. Unnecessary. Unrelenting. He would eventually fall asleep. Not because of choice, but because of exhaustion. He woke up the next morning, cursed the world and begrudgingly worked to prepare himself for another day. He went to the grocery store, where he felt out of place. Everyone was so…happy. They would smile to each other and wish each other “Good Morning,” a phrase he considered to be an oxymoron. When someone said as much to him, he forced a smile and would simply say “Morning.” He moved on, sulking through the aisles, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. He didn’t know these people, nor did he want to know them. There was no reason to act happy. Act like everything was right in the world. Act like he belonged, even though he knew he didn’t. He continued walking when he spotted a woman up ahead. Something was different about her. She was dressed like everyone else, but he could tell there was something very different about her. He was tempted to go talk to her, but he knew how much he hated when someone did that to him. Walk up and strike a conversation for without a good reason. Instead, he took in her simple beauty for a second and then continued about his shopping. He walked past her just like he did to every other person in the aisle. But as he walked past, he heard someone say “Hey,” in a simply wonderful voice. He turned around to see the girl looking at him. She smiled and said “Morning.” The smile he now wore was genuine as he simply replied “Morning.


The stars are bright tonight. They shine so much brighter tonight because the whole city has been without electricity for almost 2 weeks now-an effect of the recent very devastating typhoon. But her eyes, though hidden behind her lids now as she takes shallow breaths beside me, are still the brightest. And I could stay in this moment forever if I could. Seal this (her, me, the skies, the lack of electricity, everything) in a capsule of a moment. "Hey", she whispers as she catches me watching her sleep. I used to blush and pretend to not have done what I was just caught doing. Now I just returned the greeting and kept watching her. So beautiful. She looked back up. At the sky. And I did the same. Just content in having her with me. Right now. In this moment. "What would you do if tomorrow, I told you that you only have 12 hours to pack your bags and decide whether to come with me somewhere far from here or not? No turning back. They'll hate us for leaving without a goodbye, anyway. We can't go back after leaving like that," she asked after a while. I was taken aback. She's always mentioned wanting to run away. But usually, she meant it as a thing she'd do alone. Never considered bringing me with her, she said. Never considered coming back for me either. So for her to say it like this took me by surprise. A bittersweet surprise. "I guess I can't really tell. Unless that time actually happens, that is," I replied. With that, she closed her eyes and slept again. I woke up the next day to find her gone. I looked for her around the place. I mean, she might have just woken up early and wanted to look around. So I checked the time first. On my phone. I saw that she left a message. Says she went home early to prepare for work. It only came to me then that today is Monday. So I went back home. It's 10 am. She'd have gone to work and been working for 1.5 hours now. I'll bring her some lunch instead and fetch her after her working hours. Today was good. I just dropped her home. We had a great dinner. Watched a movie even. I'll have to report back to work tomorrow too. God, I love her smile I called her phone this morning on my way to work. Make sure she wakes up early enough to at least shower. It didn't even ring. I'll drop by her place instead. It's only 6:40 anyway and I'll still be early if I took a quick detour to wake her up. Her door is closed. She must still be asleep. What a sleepyhead. 😅 I took the extra key from under the third cactus pot on her porch and sneaked in. This will be a good surprise. "Oh..." Her place is spotless. She's a bit OCD. But hella sleepy and lazy haha. She must have gotten bored. I sneaked into her room. Trying not to make a sound so I can make a good surprise. Everything is as they are. Except for the bed. That lay flat. "Oh.


I woke slowly, i don’t know how long i really laid there, watching the dust fall through the cracks of light in the room. I hauled myself out of bed, fighting the strained and tired muscles, my stiff joints from sleeping on the uneven bed. I walked into the bathroom, and lifted my canteen, i took a few drops of the murky water and rubbed my face, with it. I shook the dust off the mirror and looked at my face, dirty unshaven, my tired eyes stared back at me beneath my unkempt hair. I turned my back on the bathroom and walked down the creaking stairs, into the living room, breaks of light between the boards shone through here too. Walking into the kitchen i looked at the water collector, it was empty, This was the third day without rain, and if it kept up this way, My third day without refilling my Canteen. I picked up the jacket I had taken off a soldier long ago, it was frayed along the bottoms, there were light rips, and the cords were splitting. The discolouration in the shoulders and elbows we’re apparent. I did up the buttons and tied the cords, the way i have a hundred times, I reached and grabbed my old shotgun, I had 10 rounds, i loaded 4 into it, and left the rest in the closet. i checked the handgun in the holster on my hip, i slung the shotgun and replaced the handgun, before picking up the wood and flint 3 pronged spear. The shoelaces taken off the dead we’re wrapped around its head holding the flint in place. I held it in front of me as i unlocked the steel framed door in front of me. I stepped onto the bright covered porch. As my eyes adjusted i looked around at the desolate street that used to be the Gale Crescent Cul-De-Sac, the dilapidated houses stared, empty back at me. The fractured and potholed road as familiar as an old friend. I locked the gate and stepped into the sunlight. As i walked past the cars which had long since been made useless i couldn’t help but feel indolent, the feeling of helplessness crept into the back of my mind like a fox tracking it prey. I tried to shake it off as i walked towards the Amigary Downs Park, which held the canopy of trees, where i had set-up my snares, and often tried to fish or spear hunt. I walked into the comforting embrace of the trees, and the cover from any curious onlookers. I walked through the trees humming to myself, checking my snares, after 3 or 4 i found a small rabbit, which i took out of the snare, and reset, a while further i found a squirrel. A pretty good quarry for the next few days. As i walked back through the forest i heard a few loud bangs, and dropped cover, unslinging my shotgun, and bringing it to bear. After 3 or 4 hours of waiting I walked cautiously back to the road, I saw a group of cars, one of which must have burned, blowing the tires. As i arrived at the cars, i noticed i was right, As i stared looking at the remnants of the burned cars, i saw one which had mostly been left alone, save a small area in the back seat. the once clean interior of it had a layer of ivory ash, in the passenger seat laid the remnants of an easier time, the flip flops, the old sunglasses, and a small teddy bear laid on the floor in front, its plaid sweater ever so slightly staring back at me beneath its ashy tomb. An equanimity washed over me for just a second, and just as soon as it came, it was gone, reminding me to go home.


I’m feeling extra grouchy today. It’s unfortunate because ‘giving out’ to others is what I do. But then, being driven half-crazy by scratching whilst lying in wait on my futon can do that to a person. Especially during the middle of the night.

     It seemed to be coming from the back of the skirting board. The intermittent scraping put my teeth on edge. So much so, I barely slept until the last hour. My heart rushed as the morning alarm jolted me awake; it was too late to do my daily exercises (a vigorous workout keeps me sane and enlivens me). I showered, gulped coffee, slammed the door and sprinted up the road, praying my  new occupant isn’t a rat! Rats conjure up images of Plague doctors dressed in long coats, carrying sticks and wearing disproportionate beak masks beating a path through infested streets during  the 16 th  and 17 th  centuries. I can cope with anything but a rat!

     But having a mouse as a house guest is bad enough. For the sake of argument, let’s assume last night’s visitor

was  a mouse who managed to sneak in from the garden where everything is ice-coated, even the pond. Come to think of it, why isn’t the silly creature hibernating? But when I googled it in the night (always fatal), I discovered mice are more sensible than humans. Give them some credit. They can sneak in and out of the tiniest hole, even making it in through a house’s foundations. You can’t blame them.

     Somehow, the idea of its presence defeated me. I hate being defeated. Perhaps it scampered in when I was tying the leaves of Lyndsey’s palm to protect it from the frost. It was her last gift to me and I can’t stand the thought of losing it.

     I first heard it two nights ago, when dropping off. I closed my ears to the scrabbling. But when it started again last night, I was on high alert and switched on my lamp, prepared for battle. I planned to use my dressing gown as a net, but there was nothing to be seen other than wooden floorboards and shadows. I waited some time, but other than the ticking of the clock, there was only silence. I was just about to doze off when it started again. I was now highly agitated. How could a creature, no bigger than my hand, be causing such aggravation? I suddenly remembered the gerbil I had as a kid. A friendly little thing called Pinky, I loved watching it exercise on its wheel. But as I’m rapidly discovering, a wild mouse is another matter altogether, particularly when one is alone in the house. It’s like a predator. My heart beat steadily. At any moment, the mouse might scurry across the floor and land on me! Considering I sleep on a futon (in retrospect, not one of Lyndsey’s finest ideas, but I knew she’d always wanted one), it can’t be discounted! Urgh! How I wish she were here with me now. We could deal with this blasted pest together. At the very least, she’d have seen the funny side of it. I miss her humour.       But then, everything is exaggerated at this time of year! Christmas which was once a happy occasion, now secretly dreaded. You see, Lyndsey, my partner and best friend, died two years ago -  just before Christmas in fact, and tomorrow is the anniversary of her death. I keep hoping it will get easier and sometimes it does. I thought I was doing alright until I overheard someone say, “It’s about time she met someone new,” but I’m not ready.       I’m not sure I’ll  ever be ready.

     Yesterday I got a message from Natalia. “My mother has arrived in England. Can she come and help in the shop tomorrow at 9.00? Her name is Ivanna.”

      Natalia, I should explain, is one of my helpers at the shop. She arrived from the Ukraine under a scheme to help those fleeing from the war and has been living in England at Graham’s house. Graham is another volunteer who helps. He sorts, prices books, attends to the banking, and acts as general handyman and magician all rolled into one. Our shop is the busiest charity shop in town and I’m its manager. Graham and his wife have given Natalia a room in their house while she improves her English and looks for full-time work. She found a part-time position at an art studio, but it was temporary. At the charity shop, she helps steam clothes, tag labels and puts out the finished products for sale. She’s friendly and efficient and I like to think I’ve done my bit to make her feel welcome. I can only imagine what it must have been like to to leave her former life behind. Her brother and father are fighting in the war, but I don’t like to ask her about it. Some things are too painful. My father was also a soldier, but that’s another story.      The first time Natalia came to the shop, I wondered how we’d communicate, but I needn’t have worried. Aided by her translation app, we soon made it work. Her English is certainly improving. Recently, she mentioned the possibility of her mother joining her shortly.      By all accounts, Natalia’s mother knows very little English. It would be easier if mother and daughter were together the first time Ivanna comes to the shop so Natalia can explain what needs doing. I need to catch up on a growing number of tasks and checklists on the back office computer. There’s always extra work to do and I’d planned to spend a couple of hours getting onto it. Even one hour would have been good.      When I got Natalia’s message about wanting her mother to help at the shop, I quickly rebooted.      “Can she come in at ten? 9.00 is too early,” I messaged back.

     “Sure,” she replied.      That was yesterday evening. Today, my eyes are sore and my head is filled with all things MOUSE. In my mind, the house is infested with them. A veritable tribe have built a nest somewhere and it just keeps growing. Maybe I should ring up the council? They ought to take pest control seriously, but I’ll  probably have to spend hours waiting for a reply, only to be fobbed off from one department to another. The other alternative is to go online. Me and computers?? Enough said..

     It’s easier to deal with the problem directly. Be strong Yvonne, I tell myself. Live up to your surname. What about mousetraps, then ? Sounds ok in theory, but I’m not keen on the idea of inflicting unnecessary pain. I don’t hate it/them enough for that. YET!! Poison, then? Not a particularly pleasant way to go either, from what I’ve heard. The only thing left is “humane traps.” The protagonist (me) tempts the antagonist (the mouse) into a small chamber with morsels of delightful food. At which point the door jams shut. Let’s hope it’s not a claustrophobic mouse because it could have a heart attack while waiting for me to return home to be released in a field where it will probably freeze to death.The mind boggles. Maybe the lethal mousetraps are the best method, after all.      My mood turns thunderous when I catch sight of bags and boxes stacked up against the shop door. Why would anyone do that? Isn’t it bad enough leaving it against the window? As I get closer, it appears to be piles of rubbish and filthy bedding. Usually there’s a respite before Christmas as people are preoccupied with shopping and have less time to donate. It’s a welcome chance to catch up on neglected tasks. Apart from the fact that the path outside the shop is a treacherous slide, leaving stuff outside the shop is

actually

fly tipping. In other words, illegal. The perpetrators clearly haven’t read the sign on the window.      It states in bold letters: Do not leave donations, except in shop hours, as they are liable to be ransacked.

     Standing by a bench, I see a woman waiting outside the shop. I hope it’s not a customer wanting a refund. Another annoyance. They must be keen to be hanging round a quarter of an hour before the shop opens. Normally, I arrive at the shop at least an hour before opening so I can set up and prepare for the onslaught. I like to be prepared.     The woman turns to me.“Excuse….. I Natalia’s mother.”      What! Already? You’re not supposed to be here till ten! I want to say, but don’t.      My head is aching and I’m desperate for coffee. “Ok. Come in.” I try not to sound cross as I fiddle with keys and she follows me in.      Close up I see she’s very much like her daughter, only about twenty years older.

     “I’ve just got to bring these bags in. Can you help?”      It takes a while but after a few gesticulations and grimaces she helps bring them in.      “They shouldn’t do this. It’s not fair,” I mutter to myself. “Bloody arseholes.”

     “Sorry. I speak only little English.” She gives me a concerned look.      It’s just as well she can’t understand me because I make various rude suggestions about where such people can stick their unwanted goods. If first impressions are anything to go by, most of it  should have been disposed of at the town’s tip!

     Inside the shop, I gesture a seat.“You wait here…..”      She sits down.

     “Your name?” she asks holding out her hand.      “Yvonne. Hello.”      “Hello. I Ivanna.”      “Hello Ivanna. Nice to meet you. Now. Wait here.”I hold up my hand like some police officer stopping traffic. “Won’t be long. I have to set up.” She waits while I turn heaters on to warm the place. I then get the money from the safe and set up my float. Although people increasingly use cards now, many prefer cash.

     I feel I’m being heartless here. Making her wait.

     Over time, I’ve perfected a way of settling new volunteers in on their first day. It’s called a “taster session” where both manager and volunteer see how they get on. At least, in theory. In reality , there’s nothing worse than when someone totally unsuitable shows. Since Covid, more and more people are battling with depression and mental health. I do my best to help, but sometimes it can be overwhelming. I’m not a trained professional or social worker and it’s difficult to strike the right balance. Between helping people and running a shop. There’s no secret to a successful shop. The more quality items are sorted and processed to be sold, the more money the charity makes.      By now, Jane, the assistant manager has arrived. She can see I’m struggling.      “I’ll go in the shop, if you want. Then you’ll be able to spend time with the new lady. Shout if you need me.”      After showing Ivanna where to hang her coat, she follows me to the kitchen area where staff lockers are kept. Some of the keys are missing and have not been replaced (in spite of having kept a spare set in the safe). With the amount of people coming in and out, keys often get lost. Note to self. I must get some new keys cut ASAP.

     Ivanna seems baffled when I explain about pinning the locker key to her jacket so as not to lose it. I feel like an actor in a pantomime mining where to hang her coat, and the need to ‘sign in’ in case of a fire.      Normally I would explain about the fire doors, safety, and the nearest exit routes, but I’m feeling  shattered. When all else fails, steaming is a job that needs doing. Ivanna looks more than capable.

     “I’ll show you how to use the steamer.” I point to an electrical gadget which looks a bit like a Henry hoover minus the friendly face. It’s a cylinder with a hose attached to it. At the end of the hose, a nozzle rests on a holder. Ivanna watches as I unscrew a lid and pour in water from a jug using a funnel. The water must be hot (I explain), otherwise it will take ages to reach the right temperature. After readjusting the lid, I press a green switch. The water heats up and a cloud of steam emerges from the nozzle. Ivanna watches me take a blouse from a rail and place it on the holder. The heat has made the pipe malleable and soon the creases iron out. She looks suitably impressed.       When it runs out of steam, the machine makes a loud noise to alert the user they must switch it off. You then refill, wait for it to heat up and start the process all over again.      Ivanna wants to ask a question.      “Have you got a translate app?”I ask.      She checks her mobile phone and tries to work the app. “Ooooh,” she says irritably. I wait while she perseveres. What with that and me speaking English as slowly as a snail (how peculiar words sound spoken like this), we get there in the end.      Ivanna a settles into a routine and diligently steams a rail of clothes. By now, other volunteers have trickled in to offer their services. I introduce them to Ivanna. They are a friendly bunch.      Suddenly Natalia appears bright-cheeked at the doorway. Unexpectedly, shes cycled through icy roads to check on her mother’s progress.

     “Getting on well,” I say.      “Ah, I see you get her use steamer,” she grins.      “Yes, I’ve tried to show her where to put the clothes in the shop, but it’s difficult. I really need to go on the computer. Have you got time to quickly show her?”      Natalia takes off her coat. “Of course. I would have come in earlier but I did not want to miss my English lesson.”      “Well, if your mother works at English like you, I think she’ll be good.”      For a while, they converse in their own language. Ivanna is being thoroughly instructed by her daughter. While Ivanna sets about her task, Natalia smiles at me.      “I have question to ask. I’m looking at Christmas present for Graham. What you think I should get him?”      I smile. Graham a very kind man, with a cheeky sense of humour. He has a saucy side which we all take it with a large pinch of salt. This year he’s managed to get invited to at least eight Christmas meals, all of which he will greatly enjoy. I count myself lucky to have been invited to two. I’m less certain whether I will go.      “I thought maybe I get him game,” Natalia says.        “A good idea. What about monopoly?”        “How you say?”       I skip monopoly for the moment. What do you play in Ukraine?”

     Her expression turns wistful. She once told me before she got out, her family lived by the sea. She said it was warm in the summer which surprised me, but then the Ukraine is a large country. “Well, the young people my age like playing video games in cafes.”      After searching the back room for a monopoly set, I find one for sale in the shop and hand it to her.

     “Ah monopoly!” She understands now. “But Graham already has that. He loves it. It is very loud when he plays. It is a big family game with him. His daughters enjoy it too. They shout loudly.”      We suddenly come across a beer glass designed in the shape of a woman’s body. It’s fairly mild compared to some of the things I’ve encountered in the the shop. Sex toys are a definite no-no. Some of the customers might be offended and send an email of complaint to head office. It generally results in grovelling on my part.      Perhaps Graham would like this beer glass?” I suggest mischievously.      “But I think his wife would not.” We laugh. “I already have chocolates for Graham’s wife.” Natalia finally settles on a game of chess for Graham. “I don’t think he has a chess set. I think maybe I teach him. He likes to learn. Something I can give for him being kind and letting me live with his family. And for helping me with forms for my mother to come too.”      “Yes, he is good.” I cannot imagine how hard it must be for them. Their courage and strength shine through.

     A day or two later, I sift through the Christmas cards we keep on a shelf in a box for the staff. When I get home I open mine. Graham’s one says. You’re very welcome to join us for Christmas. Natalia and Ivanna both hope you can make it. xxx      No pressure then. But then, why wouldn’t I want to join them? Last year, I did Christmas alone - in spite of several kind invites. As I make my way home, I think of Ivanna. Her step when she left the shop was lighter than when she came in. All in all, a job well done. As for the mouse business? Tonight I’ll sleep in the spare room. Let’s hope it’s mouse-proof. In the New year, I’ll treat myself to  the cat Lyndsey always wanted. As for joining Graham’s family and my two Ukrainian friends, why not?       We can always play a game of monopoly.


I’ve always known my reflection was a bit off. I often caught glimpses of it, never thinking much of it. But as the years have gone by, the occasional “that was weird” thoughts have graduated in severity. And now, I am hiding besides my bed, fearing for my life. My parents first brought the mirror when I was 7. It was a few days before my first day of 2nd grade. It was delivered to my room by my dad, hoping to have dual benefits: The new mirror would allow me to dress myself for school every morning and simultaneously alleviate my mother’s hectic morning routing. My little sister was soon to enter kindergarten and required morning assistance. I encountered it one evening as I entered my room, oblivious of what it would eventually become. My dad placed it next to the bedroom door without warning, trying to avoid my objections to it. Even though I would have never admitted, I secretly enjoyed being dressed by my mom, and I had expressed poor excuses as to why I shouldn’t have it. Nonetheless, it stayed. The mirror was tall and skinny. My mom called it a “body mirror”, which seemed a bit grandiose to me: It was just a big mirror. Protests against it quickly wore off, and that mirror became a part of my morning routine. Every morning, I dressed myself. And every morning, my reflection stared back at me, dreadful eyes watching me. It started like that, with those eyes. Initially, I didn’t take notice; my innocence confused dread with grogginess, and that was normal, right? Everyone was sleepy in the morning, so there was nothing out of the ordinary! It took me years to realize this was not the norm. Years passed, and I became aware something was off about my reflection in *that* mirror. I first noticed one afternoon in the third grade. I caught a glance of my *real* reflection on my school cafeteria windows. We chatted away, in single file line, waiting to receive our meal. As a kid, I never cared much for my looks. I didn’t spend time in front of mirrors. I was like most kids, oblivious to physical attributes. But catching a glimpse of my reflection through the windows caused me to do a double take. I looked different. My reflection looked…alive. It looked vivid. It looked nothing like what stared back at me every morning for years as I got dressed for school. That reflection was glum. It was cheerless. It was even a bit pale and sickly. Here I stood waiting in line, captivated by what I saw. My classmates nudged me, urging me to keep up with the line. But I stood there, staring. When I arrived home, I went to my mirror, still in disbelief. I looked. The empty shell of a boy stared back at me. For years, I made excuses to justify this disparity between what I saw in my mirror and elsewhere. In the 7th grade, we learned the science behind reflections, but that didn’t seem correct. My mirror’s reflection wasn’t me. It looked similar to me, but it wasn’t exactly like me, as the teacher had taught. Windows, water, even other mirrors, they all showed me, but not the one in my room. The years passed, and I never told anyone, afraid to being labeled as a crazy teenager seeking attention By then, it was obvious something was wrong with that mirror, but the variances were always only aesthetic. I attributed it to bad lighting in my dimly lit, edgy, teenager bedroom. My skin tone looked unhealthy. My eyes didn’t look human; they even looked lifeless. My lips were dry. But I grew used to starting at a pale, soulless version of me, never digging deeper into its strangeness. But it finally happened. It was exactly 3 months ago today. My reflection disobeyed me for the first time. I was getting ready to go to my first college interview. I was putting on a tie, staring at the mirror while rehearsing an opening anecdote to use during my interview, one that highlighted my knowledge and wit. I fidgeted with my tie, mumbling the words of my story, trying to seem genuine and spontaneous. I lowered my hands to my side. I straightened my back, puffed my chest, like a soldier ready to go to war. I was ready to go to my first college interview. I examined my attire from head to toe. I approved. I turned away, satisfied with my appearance, and noticed something through my peripherals. My reflection *didn’t move*. I jerked back towards the mirror; it stood there. Staring at me – unmoving. I moved my hands nonsensically, like a mime waving enthusiastically. I raised my hands, wiggled my fingers, but it stood there, hands down, unmoving, a stranger in my room. I took a step forward; he stayed still. I reached my hand towards the mirror, my fingers feeling the cold polished surface. He stayed still. Then, slowly, his face contorted into a smirk; otherwise, he remained unmoved. I felt my stomach clench. I moved away and sat on my bed, away from the line of sight of the mirror. I knew I had to have imagined it. But deep down, I had been waiting for this day to come. I gathered the courage to stand in front of the mirror again. When I did, everything was back to normal. The pale version of me mimicked my every move. Since then, my reflection’s disobedience is growing in frequency and severity. The worst just happened, minutes before typing this. I felt particularly brave this evening, drunk on excitement for being accepted to my dream school. I wanted to challenge him, knowing he couldn’t really do much to me. He was the one confined to the mirror, not me. I stood in front of the mirror. I stared at him, trying to catch him break character. I did this half-jokingly, since he rarely response to provocations like this. I taunted. Usually, this kind of provocation would fail, as he seemed to only act when I least expected it. But He decided the facade was up. I stood, staring at my mirror, challenging him to defy me. I bobbed my head side to side, smirking, as he rightfully mirrored every one of my moves. “Ah come on! Indulge me!” I said conceitedly, as my head movement became more extreme, heavy with arrogance. But as those words left my mouth, he stopped. He froze, head tilted mid bob. And he slowly straightened his neck and started back at me. I felt a rush of embarrassment and fear, as I stood there, swaying my head to side to side idiotically. I felt my face hot and eyes wide. Before I could collect myself, He took a step forward, growing in size. I stumbled back in fear, knocking over a stack of papers neatly placed on my desk. I reached for support, as my legs became jelly. He stepped forward again. Again, I recoiled, this time stumbling to the ground. I sat there, legs bent against my chest, staring forward, feeling the sweat drip down my face. He was now towering over me. He stood there, so large, half of his body took up the entirety of this so called “body mirror”. He stared, and his face changed again. Horror filled me as I stared at a stranger that looked like a possessed version of me. One end of his lips curled up slowly, creating that smirk I had seen over the last 3 months. He stared at me, taunting, towering over me. He slowly shook his head. His demonic smile remained unchanged. He raised his right hand, index finger and thumb extended out: The universal hand gesture for a gun. He placed the tip of his index finger on his head temple, his thumb aiming towards the ceiling. He imitated a gun shot with his hand, recoiling his head to the side. His demonic smile remained unchanged. His neck and head quickly sprung back to position, staring at me. Uncontrollably, I thrashed backwards, crawling away and breaking eye contact. When I looked back, he was gone. Only I stared back, fear covering my sweaty face, panting for breath and grasping at anything to offer some support, as if the ground below me was giving out. With the help of my desk, I slowly stood. The room was spinning, and my head was throbbing. I became unusually aware of my temples pulsing unnaturally on the side of my head. I reached out to touch them. Adrenaline pumping through me, my immediate reaction was to reach for my bed’s comforter. I threw it over the mirror. He can’t do anything if he can’t see me, right? But as I write this, I hear hoarse voice is whispering, “you’re going to die…” over and over. I’m crawled up in the corner of my room, but there’s a light tapping of glass coming from the mirror being muffled by my comforter. It’s growing louder as the whispers continue. I’m afraid my reflection is going to kill me.


There he sits, in the crowded train going to Memphis, Tennessee, rereading yesterday’s newspaper from April 24, 1942. Halfway there the man begins to regret his decision of applying for a law enforcement job. Why did I leave the beautiful, scenery of Kentucky for this stupid job? he ponders. I like food better than music. But, life has its reasons that it keeps to itself. All of a sudden, a black man is getting on the train. He sits down in the front. “Hey, you,” the conductor says. “Go to the back of the train.” “But, sir, I-” “I don’t wanna hear it,” the conductor interjects. “You either go to the back of the train or you don’t ride this train at all.” “Conductor, wait,” says the man from Kentucky. “Let the black man sit with me.” “Well,” the conductor starts to say, then hesitates. “Ok, fine.” “Thank you so much,” the black man says. “No problem,” says the future law enforcement officer. A day later the man arrives in Memphis. He loves the scenery and the beautiful hills there, but he did not realize it would be so busy, and he feels sorry for the hundreds of people without a home, crying and struggling to keep their kids fed. As a few families soon see that this man is a prestigious individual, they scamper up to him and beg for the precious paper with the president's face on it. "I can only afford to treat you to twenty dollars each; I am so sorry,” says the man. Sniffling, one of the mothers gratefully speaks. "God bless you, Mr…," "Isaac,” he replies generously. “Isaac Hunt. And you?" "I am Ava Griffin, and this is my 12-year-old daughter, Naudia Griffin. My daughter's dream is to be a great detective. We needed money for food and clothes, so we could eat and I can get a job to pay for my daughter's education, so she can live up to her big dream. Thank you so much for the twenty dollars, we will never forget this." Isaac humbly replies, "You are so welcome, and I am glad I could help. And Naudia, good luck with your big dream. Just don't forget to never give up. And trust me, you will make it. And, who knows? Maybe we will cross paths once again. But for now, goodbye." As Isaac walks away, he notices that it was getting dark out and that he didn't even have a place to sleep. But thankfully Isaac sees a humongous, lit-up sign that reads, "Glacier Inn and Suites." Something about this place strikes Mr. Hunt’s mind, and before he even knows it, he is inside the building. "Hello sir, would you like to book a room?" a blunt and heavy voice asks. "Oh yes, a regular room please," Isaac replies softly, feeling very welcomed in the city. "How many nights will you be spending?" the man at the counter asks. Isaac hesitates for just a moment and says, “Just tonight, please.” “Okay, that will be five dollars. Here’s your key and you are going to be in room 202,” the man at the counter tells Isaac. As Isaac walks up the stairs to his room, he begins to look around the burgundy stairway to try to figure out why the stairway reeked of gasoline and cigarettes. But, before Issac finds out, he lets out a yawn, so, knowing that he is sleepy, he walks tiredly into his room. “Wow!” he says to himself, “I didn’t think the rooms would be this nice! Are they all suites? I thought I ordered a regular room.” He crawls into the very warm and cozy bed, and very fast he falls asleep. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The fire alarm goes. Isaac wakes up. There is a lot of heat and pressure.

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” Isaac yells as he hears screaming. “HELPPPP!!!” he hears a female voice say. “MY BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Isaac knows he can’t leave them; he has to help them. “Don’t worry, help is on the way!” Isaac yells so loudly, it hurts his own ears. He feels the door with the back of his hand, checking if it is hot. It is not. He runs out the door, slides down the stairs, runs past the lobby into the hall of rooms he knows the woman called from. “Ma’am,” he yells. “I need you to yell something, so I know where you are!” “OKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!” she yells. Almost instantly, Isaac knows where the woman is. He feels the door with the back of his hand again, but this time it is hot. “I’m coming, ma’am!” he yells. He runs into the bathroom in the lobby, finds a wet towel, and opens the door. But the flames. The flames are everywhere! With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he runs into the janitor’s closet, grabs a bucket filled with water, and throws it on top of the flames, dulling them all out. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I will save you.” He runs into the room with a towel partly over his eyes, grabs the baby, and puts his free arm around the lady, and brings them out of the hotel and into the parking lot.  Together they watch the hotel burst into flames as they listen to the sirens of the fire trucks and the ambulances. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” the lady says as she starts coughing.

“You’re very welcome, but get to a hospital right away, just to get you and your baby checked out.”

That is how Isaac Hunt’s career started. He became a renowned law enforcement officer, with his trained sidekick Naudia Griffin, and he fought against many foes, including Nazis, the KKK, Communists, and many other villains during his reign. After a long tenure as the chief law enforcement officer, he passed the position down to, now a full-grown, Naudia Griffin, who holds the position today.

He retired and lived a happy life. Nobody knows where he is now, however. But some have seen him in gardens, looking at the sunset in all of its glory. Because that is what he liked the most.


WANTED: SINGER/SONGWRITER Able to pair subversive lyrics with catchy beats in order to create popular songs that are easy to sing along w/. Also the ability to promote giving into base desires instead of worrying about public issues. Songs need to pertain to Spontaneous Sex, Mind Altering Substances, Casual Violence, and to Overvalue any feelings resembling Love. MUST be able to create an air of acceptance around personal failure, poor money management, and relationship issues, also the ability to impress youth with the idea that individualism, self-thought and hard work are not necessary in society. MUST be able to make Fashion and Likeability synonymous with Overt-Sexuality, and be able to Idolize Drama and Infidelity. COMPENSATION: Guaranteed Stardom, Transformation into a Sex Symbol, Legal Ambiguity, and to be lusted after by youth of the opposite sex while idolized by youth of the same gender. Cosmetic and Computer compensation can and will be used to fix physical, vocal or other flaws. APPLY TO Department of Homeland Security, Black Budget, Internal Awareness Prevention Division.