It was late at night and Mark was awoken by the screech of his phone ringtone. He liked having an unconventional ringtone as it drew attention to him when his phone rang; it was the only way he could simulate being the centre of attention, for he was pushed to the back and forgotten about for most of his life. “Hello”, Mark answered. “Mark”, a serious, but sleepy voice replied, “this is Sharon. There’s been an incident down at the County Cemetery, please could you go and make it safe”. Sharon was the lead cemetery caretaker and Mark was second in command. “I can’t. I’ve been drinking”, Sharon offered as her reasoning. It was more than likely, though, as Sharon had become quite a secret alcoholic as of late. Mark had raised his concerns about her with her manager, but they had been brushed off. Nobody listened to him at the best of times – having little in the way of evidence made this more challenging to discuss. “Yes, Sharon”, Mark replied. He didn’t have much choice, but knew he’d get a time bonus for the late-night work. “I’m on my way”, he continued. Alone in his one bedroom flat, Mark got himself dressed in his workman trousers, a fleece to take the edge of the chill of the summer night and his high-visibility clothing, then put on his boots. They weren’t too good to drive in, but he knew he didn’t have time to waste. The County Cemetery had big thick iron gates at its front, with the letter ‘C’ from each word interlocking as a way of showing the county was together. “Huh. That’s odd, these gates shouldn’t be open”, Mark announced to himself. It was Mark’s job to open the gates at eight in the morning and close them at eight in the evening, during the summer. He was sure that he had closed them this evening, though he was distracted by the football playing on his van’s radio. Mark drove straight in, his van headlights the only form of illumination in the pitch-dark graveyard. The bright, white wide-beam of his LEDs shone over the rows of headstones. It was ordered quite distinctly; the left represented the affluent west of the county, while the right represented the poorer east of the county. The left was usually a little more well-kept, with tasteful keepsakes besides the headstones; Mark spent most of his time on the right, tidying it and ensuring the headstones were kept respectfully, though had been working on the left earlier today. He was a spiritual man and often took a moment to reflect on each headstone as he attended to it; Mark was six months into his job and felt those that had been neglected deserved some love, so often came back on his days off to clean them. Parking his van in his favourite bay, Mark turned off his headlights to find himself in total darkness. He reached over to the glovebox and grabbed his torch guided by his interior van light, then got out, his interior light fading as he did so. There was a noise – a rustle came from near the trees of the west area. There was no wind; it was a still night. Still fumbling with his torch, Mark had forgotten where the on switch was. Seconds later, Mark let out: “Aha! Found it!” as his torch lit. He shone his torch on the tree he thought he heard the rustle come from. There was nothing there, but he noticed something was odd. Several headstones laid broken on the ground; the gaps in the rows evident from the distance his was stood. Mark ventured over to the nearest broken headstone. There, he discovered the headstone lying flat on the ground. It wasn’t damaged, which meant it could be reinstalled. Mark paused and lit it up with his torch. it said: ‘Mark Longbottom, loved father, grand-father and great-grand-father’. He took a moment for respect. “Stay back”, a voice shouted. “Hello?”, Mark asked nervously. He hadn’t been to the cemetery at night before, and, although spiritual, had never seen a ghost before either. His call was met with no response. Mark continued to shine his torch around, looking for the next broken headstone he could see from his van moments ago. It was a little further away, so he made his way over, walking carefully to avoid interfering with the ground. He arrived. He lit this headstone. It said: ‘Mark Wigglesworth, gone too soon’. Mark paused for a little longer than last time. Any wording such as ‘gone too soon’ really struck a chord with him. He lost his uncle, who was like a father to him, at the age of ten; his only role model, gone too soon. Noting that so far both had shared his name, he let out an audible statement, as he thought to himself: “Huh, that’s odd”. “Go home”, the same voice as before echoed. “Who’s there?”, Mark asked. This time, he knew he had heard something and was a little concerned about the unlikely coincidence of both headstones sharing the same name. Mark stood and assessed the situation; both were within proximity and both had his name. It’s an unlikely accident; he had a small incline it was done intentionally. Nervous, Mark shone his torch around again, looking for further flat headstones. He found one. As Mark went a little further into the west area of the cemetery, he discovered another headstone that shared his name: ‘Mark Johannsson, found his home here’. This hit a certain note with Mark; he was at home in the cemetery, though not normally in the dark. He had taken the statement a little too literal. “Do not go any further”, the earlier voice stated. Mark was concerned: “What’s going on?”. The voice this time was strong and intense, as if it was a severe warning from someone. Taking his torch again, Mark shone across the west area. There was another headstone flattened. This was near where he was working only earlier today; he was digging out a grave for a funeral tomorrow. As this was closer to the entrance than the others, he thought this might shed some information on what has happened. Mark was now about sixteen foot away from the iron gates, shining his torch on to the flattened headstone: ‘Mark Parker’. There was no statement. This was a little more unsettling – Parker was Mark’s last name, too. He paused, taking a moment to reflect, though understandably uneasy. To reassure himself, Mark shone his torch on the nearby grave had dug, telling himself he would be back at work tomorrow. He walked over to check everything was as he left it. It was; his spade, the debris from the ground and his wooden markers, untouched from earlier. Then, out of nowhere, Mark was pushed. He dropped his torch in shock. He fell. He was in total darkness. His right leg took most of the impact from the fall. He then realised where he had fallen; he was in the grave he had dug. “Help!”, Mark shouted, hopelessly, thinking that if there was someone there with him, they’d come to his rescue. “Help!”, he repeated. Of course, there was no response. He tried to reach for his phone. With a struggle, he did, he managed to pull it out of his right trouser pocket. But it was broken. The impact from his fall had smashed its screen and it wasn’t responding to his touch. Mark looked up. He noticed the dirt was coming at him. “Help! Stop! Hello!”, he shouted, panicking. The dirt continued to fall on him, getting faster each time. Mark tries to reason: “No, please, help me!”. There was no response. Large quantities of dry, heavy dirt began to hit Mark on the head. It knocked him unconscious. The dirt continued to fill the grave until Mark was buried.


“Where am I?” The white painted room with a bright white light blinded him momentarily. “What can you tell us about the pill Necrophilam?” a voice edged with steel threw the question at him. Her face was hard to make out against the blinding light which created a halo around her head. “What?” he asked her. “What is that?” “Ok. Let’s try this again. Do you know of the compounds moxizypin and edenovora?” she asked. He tried to think but the headache made it all but impossible. “What?” Without showing any visible signs of exasperation she repeated the question. It started coming back to him in bits and pieces. “Yes. I might. They are a -a sort of painkiller. Where am I? What is the point of this?” “So now you remember Necrophilam?” And at that moment everything crashed back into his memory sending a sheer jolt of pain through the left side of his scalp. Before he realized anything, he was crouching on the white floor, writhing with pain. “I need a medic in here.” she shouted into a microphone hanging at the lapel of her coat. He woke up again, and again found himself sitting in that blinding white room facing her. “I remember.” This was all that he could manage to get out. She kept staring at him. “Necrophilam is a combination medicine of moxizypin and edenovora. Acting together they can block any and all pain from reaching the brain.” He explained. "After your discovery of the compounds what did you propose them for, Mr. Gill?” she asked. “To provide painless deaths to terminally ill patients.” “Wouldn’t you say that a painless death is a coward’s choice? A cop out, so to speak!” Her penetrating gaze drilled into him. He could now sense some sort of hostility in her voice. “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? Are you with the government?” he asked. She continued staring at him relentlessly. “And where the hell am I?” This time he shouted. “That’s not important. Do you know what happens to someone who overdoses on Necrophilam?” “What? An overdose? Why does that matter? It’s given to someone on deathbed. Why should it matter?” “During the discoveries of moxizypin and edenovora, did you test subjects for overdose?” “I tested on patients who would die anyway. And how do you test for overdose on the dead!” “Yes. Maybe that’s true considering the limitations. Let me show you something.” She got up from her seat and led him toward and then out the door. The corridors were as white as that of the room. She led him down winding windowless corridors. There was no one in sight. At the end of one of such corridors lay a gray metal door. She opened the heavy door and led him through it. “These are called pods. Simple enough to remember.” she said, indicating at the white beds covered by transparent glass panes and attached to a lot of monitors and associated machinery. One of them was empty and the other one was occupied by a strangely familiar man seemingly in a deep state of sleep. “Would you please lie down in the empty pod?” she asked him gently. For the first time time since this thing began he sensed a reluctance in her voice. “Why?” he asked suspiciously. “We need to run some tests on you. Specifically regarding your past.” “Just ask me.” “We do not know how reliable you conscious memories are at this point of time.” “What does that mean?” He could feel his heart pumping rapidly, head throbbing and hands shaking What does she mean by that? Is this an experiment? Was he the lab rat? “Listen to me. I will not do anything unless you tell me what’s going on. I demand some answers and I want them now.” he said through gritted teeth and tightened lips. She let out an exasperated sigh. He realized she was on the point of telling him everything, teetering on the edge about the consequences of the explanations. She let out another long sigh and said, “I can’t tell you everything right now but maybe I can tell you something about the tests. But you need to promise me you won’t ask further questions until the tests are done.” He nodded in agreement and she began. “This pod,” she gestured toward the empty one, “is multi-functional. In this test, I will stimulate the temporal lobe of your brain, specifically the hippocampus and the amygdala. At this point we can only access memories that have left a deep footprint in your brain, memories that illicit a strong emotional response in you. You will experience them again, and I will experience them along with you. Whatever you see in those memories, I’ll be able to see the same in these monitors." “How is this real. How does this machine exist?” he mumbled, half to himself he realized. He made his voice firmer, an illusion of strength that he did not have, and said, “And what if I say no to being prodded for traumatic memories?” “Someone very close to you will die.” she said coldly, almost stating a fact. “Don’t you dare threaten me woman!” he roared, his voice cracking under the strain. “Calm down, Mr. Gill. It’s not a threat. I’ll explain later. Please. Help us with the tests. Trust me.” How he could ever trust a woman who had just threatened murder and whom he had met only minutes ago were not the things Adam Gill thought about. Behind her cold steely voice there was a hidden urgency this time, a pleading. The woman, however her external appearance might be, was shaken to her very core. Adam suddenly had a feeling of impending doom. “Ok.” he finally replied, “but after the test I want clear answers or I won’t cooperate. Whatever the consequences might be.” She nodded. He opened the glass pane covering of the empty pod and got into it, laying on his back, trying to find a comfortable position. She closed the cover of the pod and went to the adjacent control panel and pressed the switch. He was eleven. Billy Rutherford stared at him with venom eyes. Billy was about to punch him in the empty school locker room, thus gifting him with a scar that he would have to bear under his lip for the rest of his life. He kept eyeing the half shut door of the locker room. A way out. He was forty two. He had just discovered moxizypin and edenovora - the alchemist’s gold. Painless death. A way out. He was twenty one. His mother lay on the hospital bed, heavily sedated. She opened her eyes, looking directly into his. “Help me, Adam”, she croaked out, pleading with him. On that day, he had seen pain in her mother’s eyes. Pain in death. He kept eyeing the half shut door of the ward. A way out. He was forty. Dorothy and him were engaged in their evening shouting matches. Nick lay on the cradle just beside the dining table, lying there, screaming his lungs out. While shouting Adam frequently glanced at his briefcase containing the divorce papers. A way out. The machine buzzed him back to life, zapping him with an electric shock that brought him out of his revere. The woman turned her revolving chair back toward him, looking at him with puzzled expressions. “I don’t know why they decided to bring you out. I - I don’t think you’ll be able to help.” she stated blandly. She stood up, opened up the pod and helped him to the adjacent chair. Adam felt tired. Adam felt ashamed at his memories. He was not the noble hero he had thought he was. He had not realized it until this very moment. He always kept a way out, a back-up net, never fully committing, never standing up in the face of adversity. “I really will appreciate some honesty.” Adam said, anger now out of his voice, replaced by resignation. “Ok. Can you tell me the year when you discovered Necrophilam?” she asked. “Yes. 2025.” “Yes. And can you tell me the present year?” “I don-don’t k-know. I can’t remember very well. How did I get here?” “Yes, that is expected. Don’t worry. Now. The honesty that you asked for.” she said, dry washing her hands against the cold air conditioning. “After you published your paper on Necrophilam, the government hijacked your research. You were arrested for trespassing, breaking and entering and vandalism of government property because you tried to retrieve you research. They wanted to silence you but you were too valuable to kill, a goose capable of giving golden eggs to them in future. So they kept your consciousness alive with neural networks that I can’t even begin to explain. Your body was kept alive for forty years in suspended animation. You were brought out thirty seven minute ago.” she finished glancing at her watch. Adam’s head was spinning. Suspended animation! It existed. It was not just a theory. It piqued his interest. “So what happened to Necrophilam?” “Nothing.” she continued. “The government could not conjure up a military use for the pill at the time and eventually it was declassified and released commercially in the markets. That’s where our problems began.” “Problems?” “Yes. Suicide rates sky-rocketed. Mass apathy, depression, people choosing death over seemingly simple life problems. You took away the consequence to leading a life. Life always resulted in death before the pill. It was inevitable and painful. Necrophilam rendered the concept of death just a mere option.” “Jesus Christ!” “ He would’ve thanked you for your pill though.” she smiled a little, the first time she had done so. “Anyway, so the pill was eventually discontinued in open markets and reserved only for patients whose deaths were judged ‘more painful’ than others. And the government kept using the pill secretly, giving it to agents who might die in the field of action. That man”, she said pointing at the man lying in the other pod, “is one such agent. Somehow, he overdosed on Necrophilam but did not die.” “How?” Adam asked, perplexed. “We do not know but we intend to find out. There may be something else as well that we need to learn from him. A piece of information that he was able to retrieve from his mission.” “What information?” “We do not know and even if we had known, we wouldn’t have disclosed that to you.” she said blandly but sternly. “So how do I factor in all this?” “I don’t know whether you will be of any help. Your memories reveal that you are not a strong man, someone willing to face up —” “Excuse me! Are you calling me a bloody wimp?” “No, Mr. Gill. I’m simply stating your test report.” “So what would you have done had you not seen my memories?” “Our FMRI scans show that the agent can still feel pain, if not anything else. We would’ve killed you - without Necrophilam - and connect the right networks between the two of you to somehow jump start his brain back up. Our previous tests with pain show promising results.” “Hell no! You are not killing me today miss.” he bellowed, his voice echoing around the walls of the empty lab. “Why, Mr.Gill? Your only other option is to lay locked in the numbness of the suspended animation. Oh right. I forgot. That’s your way out, isn’t it?” That struck a chord with him. “You poked at me back in the other room, called me a coward. Let me give you a piece of advice. Cowards survive longer in this world.” “Anyway,” she brushed past his anger and said to him, “we can’t kill you without your consent and you are not the man that would choose anyone else’s life over his own. So, experiment terminated. Let’s take you back to the immersion chamber.” she said staring for the door. “Wait.” She stopped, looking back toward him. “Yes or no Mr. Gill?” Adam sat there staring at the agent lying in the other pod. What did he have to live for? He had no family. Dorothy would probably be dead by now, Nick almost forty-five. He did not know where Nick was. He was a man out of time, a soul kept functional enough to bear fruits for others. There was only numbness of the suspended animation. He kept on staring at the man. Ever so slowly, like a feather floating down to ground from a great height, a revelation dawned on him. The agent had his mother’s features. “I know,” he began, “that there are probably a hundred things that you cannot tell me. At least tell me this. What is that man’s name?” His voice left him almost in a whisper, a shadow of a sound. The woman kept staring at him. Then she made her decision. “Nicholas Gill.” These two words crashed down on him. Nick. His Nick. He had abandoned him once before. “Can you guarantee that he will live if I agree to go through?” The woman, now beside Nick’s pod, placed her hand on the glass pane covering, sighed and said, “No. But your neurons have the best chance of yielding a positive result. They are genetically compatible.” When Adam sat there, seemingly transfixed on Nick’s face, the woman said, “It’s an experiment Mr. Gill. All we can do is try.” Try. The word floated in his head. He had to try. He could’ve tried to punch Billy back blow for blow. Billy had not been a big kid. He could’ve tried to be at his mother’s side when she had died. He could’ve tried to accommodate with Dorothy, tried to make his marriage work. He could’ve tried to be by Nick during his childhood. He could’ve tried……… “Where do I sign?” Adam said, having made up his mind. All legalities taken care of, he lay there in the other pod, wires protruding out of the skull cap around his head, connecting his firing neurons to the wires and skull cap around Nick. “We can’t even give you anesthesia. You need to feel the pain.” The woman switched the system on, electric current flowing though the wires into Adam’s brain. He screamed alright. The man who discovered Necrophilam died, screaming at death, screaming in pain. The gray metal door remained closed. There was no way out.


In a previous life I had been a rabbi. I died surrounded my friends and family, knowing that I had done well to help teach and bring meaning to the culture and religion I had dedicated myself too. After I died, I awoke in a pitch-black void. I could clearly see my body, yet I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I had a clear feeling of being underwater, yet the numbness of the vacuum surrounded me. In this void of contradictions, I drifted, or maybe simply stayed still. Eventually a long rectangular line appeared before me, opening-up into a single human-sized eye. This eye was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, its dark pupil surrounded by alternating bands of black and gold lines that pulsed and shifted. Carefully I asked, “Are you God, O Lord of Heaven?” For a minute we sat in silence, I thought myself stupid for expecting an eye to respond when it lacks a mouth. But the silence was broken by a booming voice which came from everywhere, and nowhere. “I am the one you call God, who crafted the universe as a gift to my children within it.” For a moment I sat there in awe, meeting god was quite a momentous occasion after all. I said, “O God, why do you appear before me as but an eye, how could you make the universe when you lack a body with which to work.” And the eye I called God looked at me and responded “Child, how do you think I made the Universe? I gave up my blood to fuel the stars. My muscle and bone are the cores and mantles which hold the planets together, and my skin the crust which surrounds them. My stomach was a necessary sacrifice for the black holes which makes your galaxies possible, and my heart was given so that life could spring forth from the planets.” I was simply stumped, how could a God powerful enough to make the universe, be unable to do so without giving up his body. “God” I asked “that explains how they physical universe came to be, but what about the rest of you. Unless you were but a single eye with limbs, there must be more, right?” God chuckled at this question. “Yes, there is more. The last of my faculties I gave as gifts to my children. I gave up my brain so that my children could build, and learn, and feel. I gave up my mouth so that my children who were left downtrodden could call for help. I gave up my ears so that my children could hear those calls.” An irony that these are gifts human had seemed to squander back on earth. Wars of colonization, slavery, genocide…. All things that the gifts of the lord were meant to help us avoid. But instead we used his brain to build weapons, our mouths to shout orders, and our ears we covered, for we couldn’t bear the screams of the downtrodden. “God,” I muttered “I’m afraid that humanity has squandered those gifts, but there must be one last gift you have given us. After all something had to happen to your other eye.” The eye who declared itself God looked at me, conveying a puzzled look, despite lacking the face to show it properly. “My other eye?” God said “My child, I gave up all but one of my many eyes! How else could I have given you the many gifts of sight?” I was astonished, God had more than two eyes? This couldn’t be right, weren’t we made in his image? “God” I asked once again “You still have one eye, what gift did you reserve to yourself?” And the Eye known as God, looked at me and shed a single tear “The gift of seeing others as they see themselves.” “God” I asked, my final question for this eye who was only able to see the Gods its children saw themselves as “what did you used too look like before you gave up your body to make the universe?” And in my own voice I heard “More Awe inspiring than we could ever imagine.” I still don’t know who said it, God or me.


Case 1724.9 is now being presented to Prefect Charpentier. Brad Bentley, Prosecuting: *Prefect Charpentier, this matter brought before you today concerns a most peculiar crime indeed, one that obviously requires the audience of this special court.* Prefect Charpentier looks at his watch. Prefect Charpentier: *Go ahead. I break for second supper soon and wish to finish my meal before the second sets.* Bentley, Prosecuting: *Of course, Prefect. The State of Upton wishes to bring attempted homicide charges against the defendant and request that bail be set at two million dollars, as per the guidelines set out in the Upton Criminal Code.* Prefect Charpentier frowns, squiting down at the case notes in front of him. He looks up and stares at Brad Bentley. Prefect Charpentier: *Explain to me how the defendant went from cooking to being arrested on attempted homicide charges.* Bentley, Prosecuting: *Of course, Prefect. Well, you see, first of all, the defendant is no normal defendant; he is an alien, a shapehshifting alien wearing somebody else's face and skin.* Prefect Charpentier: I...see. Bentley, Prosecuting: *And I will now go on to explain how The State determined this. You see, on the night of the 3rd, last year, the defendant - an alien shapeshifter - began cooking a meal on an electric stove. The defendant then left the cooking unattended. A short while later, the cooking burnt and the entire property was filled with smoke, setting off detectors. At the time, there was only one other inhabitant in the property at the time.* Perfect Charpentier: *Mhmm.* Bentley, Prosecuting: *The State argues that there is clear evidence that the defendant - an alien shapeshifter in disguise - wrongly believed that the other inhabitant had asthma and with this belief in mind, maliciously intended to cause a fatal asthma attack by deliberately leaving the cooking unattended, thereby causing it to burn and smoke. The inhabitant's relatives are well aware that none of them have asthma, ergo, The State proved that the defendant was in fact an alien shapeshifter in disguise, given that were he not an alien shapeshifter in disguise, then he would know that none of his relatives actually have asthma.* Prefect Charpentier nods enthusiastically. Prefect Charpentier: *Go on, go on.* Bentley, Prosecuting: *So, the defendant - an alien shapeshifter in disguise - acting on the belief that the other inhabitant had severe asthma, set out to cause a fatal asthma attack. In the State's eyes, this would be akin to somebody sprinkling large amounts of nuts over food in the belief that the food is meant for somebody with a serious nut allergy which could kill them when nuts are consumed; or, pulling the trigger of a firearm with the intent to kill. Furthermore, albeit a little premature, The State would also like to make known its intent to pursue the death penalty.* Prefect Charpentier nods. Prefect Charpentier: *Okay, I have heard prosecuting. Would the defendant's attorney like to say anything?* Reece Fallows, Defending: *Nothing to say at this time, Prefect.* Prefect Charpentier: *Okay, in light of the above, this court will accept the charges of attempted homicide which have been put forward and I am remanding the defendant in custody and bail is set at two point seven five million dollars. The court accepts the Prosecution's arguments and the rather colorful analogies put forward today.


We make our way down the hall, through several winding corridors and arrive at the keep. It is vast and full of pillaged goods from the surrounding counties and lords. Before our coven, there were legitimate English nobles that enjoyed its riches. In our case, it was passed by force, and the previous occupants didn’t have the privilege of staying alive. Its entrance is flanked by two great statues of knights holding their shields upright, signaling the importance of the figure who lay within. I continued up the lavish walkway that lead to the King’s throne, shaking my head in disbelief. I could see him there — a man of over 300 pounds yet, somehow — an extremely gaunt face. His eyes were drained of life and he stared over our shoulders as if we weren’t even there. The pale white of his once youthful skin had turned a shade of blue. He wasn’t the man he was even twenty years ago. He was flanked by his two most decorated Generals. Their names were Roderick and Gaust. Their eyes betrayed no sign of weakness. They pierced us with their gazes and immediately put me on guard. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up involuntarily. Gaust was particularly notable. Even among Vampires, he had a reputation for being unnecessarily brutal and depraved. His last kill was a young mother walking along the country road. He decorated the nearby trees with her entrails. This was far from his worst offense. He stood towering over the King at 8 feet tall, an amalgamation of Vampire bloodlines that had granted him immense physical prowess. He is a force to be reckoned with. Roderick is far more diplomatic than his counter-part, and he preferred to let his enemies stew in their confusion before he delivered the final blow. Aside from being the King’s Bodyguard, he is also the Spy-master. He spearheads all covert operations against the Vampire Hunters and is a crucial tool in the fight against them. He stood a much more meager 6 feet, but had a look of serene intelligence behind his eyes. He was also quite muscular, albeit in a more functional sense than his counterpart. I made a short mental note to keep him alive when we took this place by force. “My King, they approach.” Gaust grunted in the direction of the throne. “…Wha, huh…” King Cailan raised his head, startled. “Oh… Yes, yes of course. I have requested you here today… Representatives of House Wren. Because… Because…” he started to trail off. I looked at Micah quickly and tried to convey the urgency that he not acknowledge the obvious deterioration. He nodded back in understanding. “Yes, my King. We are here to serve.” We both bowed deeply. “Very good… As I was saying. You have been called here for a very important reason. It goes without saying that this cannot leave these chambers.” He gestured around the room in a moment of unexpected lucidity. “Of course.” “Good, good. Well as you know we have had our hands full with these blasted Hunters always meddling in our affairs. Today, they took a step too far. During one of the regular patrols — you know the ones, by Kynnisgrove — Craven and his clan were ambushed. I gripped my fist instinctively. Although the Hunters had been making life miserable for us, they had yet to make a move this bold. Usually their methods circled around propaganda and disinformation. The blood dripped from my clenched hand. The King didn’t notice my reaction, and pressed on. “The casualties were significant. A hail of silver bullets hit the group as they went through an underpass. They were cornered on all sides. Three lie in the infirmary with clogged respiratory systems, unable to regenerate. The situation is dire, we are not sure if they will make it.” My mouth hung open in spite of itself. Three of us had been mortally wounded? By HUMANS? How was this possible? “Understood sir.” I said in my most obedient tone. “What would you have us do?” Cailan sighed dejected, throwing his hands up. “Gaust?” said the King. “Your excellence.” He bowed. “We require House Wren to join the hunting party that will strike at the village where this band of vigilantes hole themselves up. We will then deal with them as appropriate. Your vicious blood thirst will be an asset in this regard.” He nodded to Micah. Micah smiled in return. “That’s well and good Gaust, but how many others are putting themselves on the line?” “It should be reason enough that your King is calling upon you for this task.” Micah bit his tongue. “But, you will be joined by Houses Dunkan, Ulmer and Alnwick.” A wave of relief washed over me. All reputable houses who were less than content with the way this coven was being run. Perhaps there would be an opportunity for co-ordination. “…Oh and House Kearne as well.” The relief stopped there. The Kearnes were loyal to a fault, lapdogs of the King. Their family had served the Cailans for centuries. This was certainly an attempt to stifle and kind of insubordination on our part. No matter, we had a job to do. “I am glad to hear we will be supported by such strong Houses in our task.” I said with a grin. “Surely a band of Vampire Hunters will stand no chance” “My thoughts exactly.” Muttered Cailan. “To be sure, Gaust will be leading this assault.” “Understood.” I said, dripping with honeyed false respect. “Will that be all?” “That is all. House Wren will be commended for their efforts to protect the coven.” I laughed inwardly. “House Wren owes its life to the Cailans. Reward is not necessary.” He waved us off, and with a turn Micah and I had left the King’s quarters, feeling uneasy about this new turn of events.


“We want a shrubbery!” My eyes shot wide open at those words. My now wide open eyes were greeted with the sight of a forest canopy. Twas a beautiful sight, but one wasted on one such as I, at a moment such as this. Stop that, I told myself, you sound a tad pompous.

I resolved to calm myself and my language down, but only to ratchet it down one whole tad. I knew no other way. I rubbed my head. The rubbing of my head was of little help. This action of mine was automatic and it was in response to a perceived hurting that seemed centred in my head. The hurt continued and the absent rubbing did little to assuage it. “What happened?” I asked the world around me in a voice just above a whisper. Though my voice was gentle, the words assailed my poor beleaguered head and so I groaned. The groaning had much the same effect, so I took to groaning inwardly. Where was I? I asked myself this voicelessly in an attempt to be kind to myself and my achy head.

The obvious answer to this was that I was in a wooded area, so that meant that I was in a woods, copse, forest or something of that tree-filled nature. That obvious answer did not help with the

where

of it, which was really quite frustrating. There was nothing for it, I would have to sit up. I knew before I embarked upon this endeavour that any drastic movement would hurt my already hurty head. I was correct in this knowledge, it did hurt. Through the eye blurring pain I could swear that I saw a movement on my flank. Somewhere at the very edge of my vision and perhaps at the edge of the woods. It moved swiftly and fleetingly and then it was gone. I sat there allowing my body and mind further adjustment to its new and unexpected circumstances. I thought back to a time where I knew where I was and what I was doing in order to understand how it was that I got myself to a woods only to lay down and slumber.

Before casting my mind back I reassured myself that this was a unique set of circumstances, providing reminders that I had never done anything of this nature in my entire life, except for that one time in Llandudno, but that was on tour and would always stay on tour, such was the way of the tour and all that sailed in her. I asked myself whether I had been drinking the previous night and if so, who with. Marcus was in the frame for this, or

Mr Tequila  as he liked to call himself at precarious junctures of evenings that could and would go really badly for everyone if he adopted that ridiculous persona of his. No, I didn’t have a recollection of Marcus, nor of the evil demon of booze shenanigans,

Mr Tequila . Then what? NI! Ow! That hurt! That really hurt! NI! NI! NI! I clasped my hands over my ears, but this did nothing to stop these shards of words piercing my bruised brain. I had to ride it out until the wave of Ni abated. I found myself in the foetal position and I’m not ashamed to say that I had been crying. Shrubbery? Ni? Oh Simon! You have to be careful what you wish for! Had I really? No, I told myself, that could not be. It would take nothing short of a miracle to be transported to this place. In fact, it would take a miracle and a half to be… I dismissed this crazy notion. Had I taken leave of my senses!? Despite my broken state I found my feet, which is to say I established that I did indeed still have feet, and then I stood upon them. The only thing for it was to walk. Walking would allow me to get my bearings and once I had those, I could go home, make a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and work out what I had been up to the previous evening. Piecing together the sequence of events that led me here. Mostly, I wanted to identify the culprit. There would be someone to blame for my being here and once I knew who it was, well then I could harbour ill-will towards them and plot their downfall. Then I’d get over myself and give them a wide berth for a while, so there would be no repeat of this folly. NI! There were several more of the Ni words, but it only took the first one to lift me off my feet, send me sideways and experience a clumsy and quite heavy collision with a tree.

This was a bruising and disorienting affair, but at least I know knew where the Ni was coming from and this allowed me to plot a course in the exact opposite direction. A wise move and a necessary one, for that Ni word was very powerful indeed. I dared let my mind wander to what I knew of this Ni and also of shrubberies. In theory, somewhere in these woods were knights who were the Keepers of the Sacred Words. But that was… No. No, Simon, no! It had been a bit of fun! I was the culprit. It was me! And that awful revelation made me sink into the soft woodland floor. Each subsequent step was that bit heavier and I seemed to sink that bit deeper. I had inadvertently invoked a miracle. At least I think I had. I knew I should have binned that Ouija board when I found it. That it was hidden under a floorboard in my bedroom should have told me all I needed to know. The Post-It with a single word on it was really creepy. Enjoy! That one word, goading me and cajoling me until I got the board out and gave it a try. It bloody well haunted me. Enjoy! Still, I left the Ouija board alone for a whole year after finding it. That’s good going, is a whole year. A year to the day. 6 th  June. I wasn’t even drunk. I’d had a drink, but I wasn’t drunk. Merry was what I was. It was all coming back to me with a dire clarity. I was bored and listless, and I had that board in front of me, and I didn’t really know what to do. Didn’t know what I wanted. A blank and bored mind is most likely a dangerous thing to put in front of a source of magic. Not that I believed it was magic. Which probably didn’t help matters. I’d written the first thing that came to mind. I just wished I knew what that was. Oh, I had a very good idea of the sort of thing I had written. That wasn’t that much of a reach in the circumstances. Not with the Knights Who Say Ni in the woods behind me. Simon you bloody fool! What have you done!? SWISH! That time I saw it. In my peripheral vision again. Something big had flashed by. I was still. Hadn’t noticed that I’d stopped. Frozen more like. Scared stiff. What was that thing!? I don’t know how long I stood like that. Not the best of ideas really, but right then I was full of ideas that were not going to win awards. Thankfully I was distracted from my statue-like state by a sound, and the sound was approaching me from behind. CLOP! CLOP! CLOP! CLOP! CLOP! CLOP! CLOPPITY CLOP! The sound of approaching hooves, the hooves being the fashionable footwear of horses. I stood back from the narrow path I had been following and I watched in fascination as a small group of men came into view. The men were trotting and some of them, the less well attired of the group, were smacking coconut shells together.

“Arthur?” I said as the lead knight drew near. “King Arthur to you!” shouted another of his knights, “where’s yer manners!” I remembered myself and thought to show some deference. This was executed clumsily and I ended up curtseying to King Arthur and several of his knights. There was snickering behind Arthur, but he himself was composed and did not resort to such poor and impolite behaviour. “And who might you be?” he asked. He was looking me up and down and it was evident that he did not know what to make of me, dressed as I was in such strange garb for the times. “Simon,” I told him, “Simon Grail.” This caused an unfortunate response and led to some mild unpleasantness. I should have known, and I should have been more careful, but in my defence I was yet to fully appreciate where I was and the implications of my being there. “The Grail! The Grail! We have found the Grail! Our quest is at an end!” This was not the first time I had heard words such as these. My friends have burst into a chorus of these words as a boisterous greeting far too often for my liking, but if you fight these things it just makes them worse. So I stood there and rolled my eyes waiting for the silliness to end. It did not end. I was hoisted skywards and bourn aloft and taken from the woods. That was a silver lining of sorts. At least I was out of the woods. Or so I thought. I can be so dangerously literal at times. “Where are we going?” I asked of one of the squires who was carrying me. “To the castle on the hill!” he grinned at me with teeth that had never seen a toothbrush. They really hadn’t seen any dental care or maintenance, as opposed to whatever makeup actors use on their teeth to go full street urchin or mediaeval pleb. If I was in any doubt about this, the waft of interesting breath brought the point home loud and clear. “Oh dear,” I said out loud. “You sure you’re the Grail?” he asked me. I rolled my eyes again. “Only, I thought you’d be a cup,” he said, “or a goblet. A fancy one at that. You know, jewel encrusted,” he gave me a look up and down, “you’re a bit plain. Not fancy at all.” He shrugged, “mysterious ways and all that, I s’ppose.” “Maybe he’s got sparkly jewels in his codpiece?” chuckled another of their number. “He ain’t got a codpiece!” said another. “How disappointing!” chorused all the squires and a few of the knights.

There was a short, silence of disappointment. Then another of the squires spoke up, “it’s not like anyone would pretend to be the Grail is it?” “No, I s’ppose not!” said several of the squires. There was some chuckling at that. “What?” I asked the original squire. That squire grinned that dirty grin of his, but didn’t say anything. The grin was a bit horrid and I really didn’t like the lack of reply, but something told me it would be best to leave it all well alone. The castle on the hill was not all that far away, which was just as well as I was being jiggled and joggled all over the show and it was not at all pleasant as a form of travel. The short distance was also not a surprise. I always got the impression that the geography of the area was compact to say the least. The hill the castle was sat upon was actually a hillock. Whoever had sold the castle to the current occupants had been economical with the truth, but then I’m stating the bleeding obvious there. Estate agents are estate agents, just as sure as eggs is eggs. The drawbridge was down and the portcullis was up and we just waltzed in with no drama at all. I must say I was a bit disappointed, this wasn’t going at all as I would have imagined as I dreamed my dream and wished my wish the night before. I’d have rather have been debating what the Romans had ever done for us, or throwing a Holy Hand Grenade at a fluffy bunny with alarmingly sharp and pointy teeth. I was lowered to the ground and helped to my feet and I have to say that although the squires were a motley crew and I was in need of a cleansing bath having been man handled by them, they were caring and gentle and it was all surprisingly lovely.

I was ushered forth. “Behold! The Grail!” announced King Arthur. This was followed by a loud trumpeting. Directly in my ear. I turned and scowled at the trumpeter and so I missed what happened next having been deafened and then averted my eyes from the area the action was taking place in. When I turned back, there before me was the most beautiful woman in all of the world. She took my hand and led me away from Arthur and his knights. My luck was in! “Is that it then?” I heard one of the knights say. “Yeah, I thought there’d be more… you know…” “Ceremony?” “Yeah, that sort of thing.” “The clouds parting and the hand of God retrieving the Grail?” “Well maybe not exactly that…” “That’s exactly what he was expecting!” “Oy! Why would you say that!?” “Because that was what you were saying as we walked up the hill!” “It’s not a hill.” “What is it then?” “A hillock.” “I think we’ve all got off the point here.” “And you can shut it!” “That’s a bit rude!” “They’re shutting the door…”

The voices faded away as the door shut on King Arthur and some of the knights of the round table. I smiled and thought, just wait until I tell the lads about this. My smile faded a little. As if they’d believe me. I looked down at the hand that was holding mine and then I allowed my eyes free reign to travel up the arm and take in this amazingly beautiful woman the likes of which I had never seen before. Scratch that. I’ve seen beautiful women, but from afar. None had taken my hand and led me into a castle. This was a first in my life and I couldn’t help thinking that whatever the outcome of this hand holding and walking, this was already a highlight in the life of Simon Grail. Soon enough, we stopped at a big and solid looking wooden door. Hefty was that door. She let go of my hand and I felt a sense of loss that I probably hadn’t felt since I was little more than a babe in arms. She needed both hands to turn the big ring of a handle on the door and push the hefty door open. She turned and smiled a smile that did a multitude of things to my insides, all of which were deeply pleasant, and then she spoke. Her voice was a bit of a disappointment if I am honest. That happens sometimes. The voice doesn’t fit the person. Not one bit. It’s as though their proper voice is off having a service and they’ve got a crappy courtesy voice for the day. Just my luck. There has to be something to tarnish things in my experience. “If you will wait in here?” she said and despite the poor quality voice I would have done anything for that smile alone. I stepped onto the threshold and looked into the room beyond the hefty door. “It’s a bit dark…” I began. Then I felt a foot on my left bum cheek before I was unceremoniously thrust forth into the darkness of the room. I lay in the pitch dark in what I thought was probably the middle of the room and I sighed. Of course it was too good to be true and I had to remind myself of where I was. What I saw was not what I was going to get in a place like this. A light came into view above me. Then another and another. A host of flaming torches on a circular stone balcony above me. That face. The face of a goddess peered down at me. “Behold sisters!” she said in that mediocre voice of hers, “our miracle!” The bearers of the torches all stepped to the edge of the balcony and peered down. I counted them. Twelve sisters. Identical in appearance.

You don’t get that every day. I sensed movement to my right and I turned to see what it was that was in the room with me. The circular room with the big, hefty door. For something so big, it moved quickly. It was unfurling and as it did, I saw just how big it was, it encircled the entire room. It was huge. It was a phenomenon. It was something the likes of which no one had ever seen before. I had a terrible sinking feeling as I remembered the exact words I had spelled out on that Ouija board, and as though on cue, the sisters of the castle on the hill began to chant. “All hail, Monty!” “All hail, Monty!” Monty was the ginormous python in the room with me. Why, Simon? Why did you have to spell those words out? Words are powerful. Words are sacred, the Knights Who Say Ni knew that. If only I had appreciated the gravity of what I was embarking upon as I sat before that Ouija board and spelt out my wish.

I want to be in Monty Python. Now I was here and the miracle was happening. The great snake lunged. “Nnnn… Eeeee!” I cried. It went dark. And my wish was fulfilled, I was now in Monty Python.


Chains wrapped around her arms holding her down, Chains wrapped around her throat keeping her in check, Chains around her body holding her still, chains tying her legs together making sure she doesnt run. Every move she makes is watched, be it slight movement or big movement. Always ordered around, told what to do, how to feel. I have only known her for a short time but I can see the chains holding her back. She shows a smile on her face when she is around people but I can see through it, the cold heartbroken eyes that are hidden behind a mask of smiles, The tears running down her cheeks. I want to help her, I can help her… I can't help her. She is too far from me. I won't be able to make it in time, but if I stop now who knows what might happen, I have to try, even if it hurts. I can't let her fall any further into the darkness. I asked her if she wanted to hang out after school today. Luckily enough she agreed! Now I just have to show her the light that is left in this cold world of darkness. Although I’m not too sure what exactly I'm going to do I know that making her happy will help. I took her to a theme park! We went on many rides and won her many prizes. It took a while but eventually I was able to see her smile. It was filled with tears and genuine laughter but it was beautiful. The genuine happiness on her face almost put me in tears too. I invited her out again to go someplace else to which she agreed. She came to school this morning with red marks and bruises on her, when I asked her what had happened she just said she had gotten attacked by bullies. I know she was lying but I can't bring it up. Bringing it up will only cause problems for her. For the past week I spent every day after school with her. Taking her out to places, watching movies together and eating lots of yummy foods together, It was the best. After school on friday she said she wanted to talk to me about something. So I suggested we head to the roof of the school. When we got there she broke down in tears telling me about the physical abuse she has had since growing up from her parents, The unrealistic expectations put on her by her parents, the emotional trauma they caused by their cold words and how although she has friends I am one of the only people she can consider an actual friend. She told me she was thankful for me spending time with her, but before she could say anything else I hugged her tightly, we embraced each other and I told her in a soft loving tone “Although there is much pain in the world everything will get better in the end, I understand your pain as I have gone through it all too. You may think about ending it here and there but I assure you there is much in this world to live for.” She then asks me “Can I live for you?, Can you show me the rest of the light in this world?’’ “I would love to but my time is already up.” I reply She looked up at me with a confused expression to which I smiled back at her and said “Unlike you I ended my suffering long ago, and I am only here now to make sure you don't make the same mistake.” She held me tightly while crying her heart out as I slowly start to fade away “I don't want you to go! I don't want to be left alone again!” she wailed I tell her not to worry that I will always be with her, as I point to her heart. I then hold her cheek and kiss her lips as I completely fade away into nothingness. As I am drifting off into an eternal slumber I think to myself, Did I save her? Will she find happiness again? Then a smile crosses my face as I realise how stupid I am for thinking I didnt.


“It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same but she didn’t.” He chuckled as he stared out at the crowd. They were taking a bit longer than usual to settle but they would get there. He repeated the sentence and waited for the surprised looks he expected but they never came. The group of teenagers usually turned everything into something dirty and Mr Turnbull played on that idea, hoping to spark their interest but they were off that day. It wasn’t like any other, he would soon find out and thought someone should have warned him. “She had a hard time getting up, I had to give her a hand.” Mr Turnbull rolled his eyes, now regretting his choice of phrases and innuendos. He shouldn’t have stooped to their level and now he was talking about his mother in a sexual way. He felt maybe he could save it, to turn things around but he’d have to improvise and not even look at what he wrote over several agonizing hours. He was a planner and this wasn’t going as planned. At this point, it wasn’t even really going. There was a murmur throughout the audience and teachers, his peers, trying to hush their students but they struggled, too. For the first time in the 23 years of being a high school principal at Stewart High Mr Turnbull felt sweat take over his forehead. This was not good. “STUDENTS! Pay attention.” He literally and figuratively lost his cool and had no idea why. This was just a regular monthly assembly with nothing more to share than his mother visiting. It was the first time she ever came to visit, the first time she returned to the school. Martha Turnbull left town when her only son, and only child, took a teaching position at the school she was once in charge of. Nothing happened between mother and son, they talked daily and she sent post cards from every airport she landed in. Mr Turnbull, Richard, was proud of his mother for all the work she did for the world once she retired and hoped to do the same. He just wanted to be able to bring a family along but it didn’t look promising. It wasn’t that he didn’t meet “Mr Right” yet, it’s that he met too many of them. He couldn’t seem to commit to anything but teaching. The students finally settled but they were no longer looking at him, their heads were turned to someone who stood up and was walking, or rather strutting, down the center of the room. It was hard for Richard to see but then he did and gasped. His mother was witnessing this entire auditorium of chaos and his meltdown. He tightened his grip on the sides of the podium to steady himself and keep him from fainting as she got on the stage. She didn’t need a microphone when she exclaimed – “Listen up! This man deserves your respect and I expect you to give it to him.” While the student body, teachers included, only recognized Mrs Turnbull from the photo that adorned the main hallway by the office, they all straightened and gave her their full attention. Even after all these years she still had it. And then Mr Turnbull did faint as his mother took the speech off the podium and started reading it. She wasn’t supposed to ever read or hear what he wrote. He collapsed to the floor and hoped it would make her stop. When he came to she was still reading, out loud, to a very focused audience. A man, Mr Stark, was helping him up into a chair as his mother continued: “If you knew my mother you would know just how odd the relationships between students and teachers have become. Never would she ever befriend a teenager or chaperone, give advice on clothing or crushes. You guys have something special in this school and I want every one of you to realize that.” Was she crying? Richard struggled to get to his feet and stand beside his mother. He never saw the women shed a tear but she was doing so then. It pained him more than he ever imagined as he took the speech from her hands and hugged her. The audience applauded much to his embarrassment but he took solace in that moment, knowing it was rare. “Mom, I…” he couldn’t get the words out, she wouldn’t let him. “Stop. You’re right. I made a lousy principal and mother. I should have visited, should have been here on your first day instead of in Africa. You needed me just as much as those starving kids did. You changed this whole school around and while it looks the same, it feels a lot different. You feel different.” “Mom, I am happy. It seems weird and you caught me on an awful day but I like the changes we have been making to the education system. I know you may not understand them all as you were never one to “feel” but this is the new way of doing things.” “Richard, I may not have done many things right but I want to think I did what I could in my day. You have taken over the reins of this school and I am confused by it all.” Her tears kept falling, Richard started to cry, too. There was not a sound in the whole room as if everyone was frozen in place despite the rising temperatures. “This is embarrassing, we really should talk about this later,” Richard pleaded but still no one, not even his mother, moved. “I think it’s time for you to retire.” “Mother, don’t tell me what I should do. At this point you have no right to think about my next step.” Richard was disgusted, dismayed and disapproved of his mother’s words. “Come with me, to Africa. I have adopted a child and he wants to meet you. He has a brother who I want to adopt too but I just can’t handle both. I thought…” And then Richard realized what she was suggesting and he paused, took her hand and faced the student body. “I’m announcing my retirement, effective immediately.” The crowd exploded in applause and he wasn’t sure how to take that. It didn’t really matter though, he was going to meet his family and that was all that mattered.


As I layed on the ground, the grass touching my face. I could feel the wind blowing. I could hear the birds flying. “Why am I here? Why do I keep going? And how do I keep myself alive?” I heard a rustle of leaves behind me. "That must've been Clara" I thought, as I heard her calling my name. “Mark? Where are you? I found some food! We should gather some berries and eat before we move on again.”, I wanted to stand up, I really did, but my legs didn’t want to move. “I'm so tired Clara, can't we just lay on the ground some more. We got a few more hours before it gets dark. And I think the shelter must be nearby?”, “No, we must eat now and move on. You know we said we'd reach the shelter before dark. John is waiting for us there”. I stood up. And grabbed my bag and knife and walked towards the bushes to join Clara into gathering some food. Clara walked towards Mark and gave him the basket she found earlier. "Put the berries in there. And remember only the black ones not the red ones those are poisonous.” Clara said as she pushed Mark towards the other side of the berry bushes. A couple of minutes later Mark could hear Clara struggling to walk between the bushes without tearing her clothes on some of the thorns. "Becarefull not to tear your clothes. We don’t have any more thread to fix your clothes like the last time.” yelled Mark at Clara. “Oh, shut up, as if you're the one fixing anything, you can barely do anything let alone fix my clothing” she scolded and laughed whilst pushing aside the big rose bush she almost leant into. “oh nooo.” Mark heard Clara scream. “what's happening?” mark yelled at Clara. No answer came back, Mark quickly ran to the other side of the large bush and searched around for any sign of her. He pulled aside all of the plants and cut his wrist on some of the rose thorns. "CLARA WHERE ARE YOU?” Mark yelled around before hearing a faint sigh coming from behind a large fallen tree trunk that lay on the side of an overgrown path. “Nothing wrong. I just looked at this frog and before I noticed I stumbled on some rocks and fell over that log.” Clara answered whilst trying to stand up again and brushing dirt and leaves off her clothing. "Oh no.” She gasped and Mark quickly ran towards her in shock “What's wrong?” Mark asked worryingly, "My last favourite shirt is thorn.” She said sadly whilst having one hand in the air and the other feeling around her side trying to determine how big the cut was. “You had me worried there for a second.” Mark yelled at her and throwing a berry towards Clara's face. Clara bent down and scooped up a few hands full of berries and placed them into the bucket she had and walked around the long tree trunk. She pulled Mark by the back of his pants towards her. "Sit down here on the tree trunk and eat.” She said, as she brushed some dirt of the log before sitting down herself. “How long before we reach John and the others you think?” Mark asked whilst shovelling down hands full of berries in his face. “I hope within an hour or two, I really want to sleep on a bed tonight instead of sleeping in that disgusting two person sleeping bag you brought.” Clara groaned at Mark and giving him a dirty look. "Well, it was either the bag or nothing so be grateful would you.” Mark snapped at Clara, as he began gathering his belongings around him and putting them in his bag Mark pulled Clara up and they both walked towards a large cell phone tower they've seen in the distance that was marked on their map following the direction towards the shelter. As the light of the sun began reaching the end of the day and the sound of crickets in the long grass could be heard. Mark and Clara stood on top of a large hill looking down at a ruined city that used to be their homes. They both looked down on the destruction that was caused after the fallout. "Remember how we used to go to the shopping centre every weekend.” Mark said as he pointed towards a dark place of shops and houses on the other side of the town. “And how we used to argue for hours that we didn’t actually want to go and we just wanted to stay inside and watch tv, yeah I remember, those were the days.” Clara sighed and stared at an overgrown sign announcing the name of the city, and painted with trees. “How funny how there used to be so little green around town but now everything is overgrown.” Clara sighed. “Out of all things you find THAT, the funniest thing?” Mark laughed, “It's Kinda beautiful, maybe one day. Soon I hope, we can live there again?” Clara mumbled. "But for now, let's just hurry to the shelter, it’s a few minutes this way into the wood. Look. If you look there you can kinda see the smoke rising amongst the trees. You see?” Mark babbled on and pointed towards the tree line in the distance. “Yeah, lets hurry, I don’t want to be out in the open like this. It feels unsafe. We should walk along that line of trees there and rush towards those boulders there.” Clara declared and reached for the map that stuck out of Mark's bag. And showed him where they would enter the woods. She pointed at the sun that almost began to disappear behind the large field on the other side of the town. "let's just hurry and run. But don’t stumble and fall again.” Mark chuckled as he looked down at Clara's left side of her shirt that she quickly tied together with a string so it wouldn’t hang loose. Clara gave Mark a dirty look bit smirked as she pulled on his hands and rushed left towards the tree line. As they ran along the trees keeping to the shadows and watching to see if no one was around they hid amongst the bushes and high grass and ran to the boulders. They looked back at a few fences and houses in the distance and saw a few vague shapes. They didn’t know what they saw. But they definitely didn’t want to wait and find out. Mark grabbed Clara's hand and they ran into the woods. Quickly leaving the town behind and looking for any sign of the shelter. “Two life forms detected.” They heard as the walky talky Mark had in his bag turned on and they heard hissing sounds and people yelling and talking. "I think we are almost there?” Clara stammered as she ran out of breath and saw a large metal door in the far distance. Mark reached around his bag and felt around for the walky talky and found it. “It's us, Mark and Clara!” He announced. A moment of silence and a voice could be heard repeating their names on the other side of the line. “Mark? Clara? It's been weeks? Are you all right? we're opening the doors right now. Hurry!” hollered a voice out of it. As they both ran towards the metal door that now slowly slid open. She could see people around the fence and heard someone yelling around giving orders to the others. They reached the door. And Mark bumped Clara on her shoulder and pointed at a large watch tower to the side and she saw a familiar looking face. It was John. He waved and beckoned them inside. Walking past the metal door and hearing it slide close again and huge metal locks being closed they looked at each other with joy in their eyes. Finally made it after all those weeks. They could finally relax, a sigh of relieve came from behind them as they both turned around, they saw John slowly walking towards them with his hands out as to hug them "You must tell us everything! We haven't heard of you for weeks. And we are so glad you are still alive. Ill quickly inform the others of your arrival and prepare a huge feast.” John simultaneously pushed them towards the canteen and ordered a few people around him to make things in order As more and more people joined them in the canteen, they all sat down and a huge feast was set. Everyone grabbed plates full of food and the canteen fell in silence as everyone was eager to hear the stories of beyond the woods. Mark began telling them about how peaceful it actually was. "We haven't really seen one of them for a while. We sometimes heard a group of them moving amongst streets or roads. But they rarely venture into woods or anything.” Clara continued telling them "As we rarely walked near towns, we didn’t come across them much. We did have to hide often in cars or sheds to avoid detection.” Mark concluded “It was actually quite boring, we didn’t have much food after about two weeks, and we had to forage around a lot. Scavenging around houses or quickly running into stores to look around but as expected they were almost empty, after exploring about half the map we decided to come back and maybe in a few days we'll try to explore the other side of the map.” As people began murmuring around and talking about what they just heard. John could be heard saying “But why risk going out again when you just said it was boring. It's not worth the risk getting caught by those things when you can stay here and.” “And what...? Die of old age hiding in these shelters whilst our old world is just crumbling away next to us. We need to fight... we need to go back... we can't just hide for the rest of our lives. What's worth surviving if you aren’t truly living life to its fullest...?” Mark snapped back.


Do you remember Sludge? I do. They were a large, slimy blob that consumed everything. The muck left behind after they tore through an area wasn’t acid, fortunately, but it was absolutely disgusting. I wouldn’t want to be in his path. But one day, I didn’t have a choice. Like the cornered animal I was, I lashed out. To my surprise, I won that battle. One hit, and sludge just… Well… it wasn’t quite the opposite of turning to goo. The muck was still there, but it stopped being a muck monster and just became muck. The weirdest part is that a person was in it. A very shocked, very confused, and very scared person. I did what anyone would do in this situation – I ran away. The last thing I wanted was to be round when Sludge reformed. Based on what I heard from AVS News though, that… just never happened? According to reporters, the person inside was sludge, and was miraculously “cured”. Did I think that was weird? Absolutely. Did I spend much time on it? No, why would I?  Three months later, there was a similar occurrence. You see, I was catering for this kid’s party, when this guy we knew as Flame showed up. Parents and children panicked – and why wouldn’t they? Flame was famous for burning down hospitals! Churches! Parks!!! I wasn’t gonna let him hurt the kids! Turns out that was not one, but two mistakes. First, never punch fire. It HURTS. And then your hand might STAY ON FIRE. Second, make sure you know who you are catering for. Flame? Was the kid’s uncle. He was just coming to drop off a gift. And I beat him up. In front of the party. I actually knocked him out cold. Whoops. The story actually doesn’t end there. You see, it turns out the hospital almost killed him. Due to Flame’s unique condition, the hospital had this special treatment room set up. The cooling in there can be brutal if you aren’t, say, a supernatural furnace. It didn’t get a very long segment on AVS News, and I hadn’t connected the dots yet, but looking back… it would have been my fault if he had died in that hospital room.  But it wasn’t till Ice retired that I began to connect the dots. Before you ask, no. I didn’t lay a hand on Ice. She may be a frozen \*\*\*\*\*, but I have never in my life laid a hand on her. The thought of having to fight her still gives me the chills, despite my training! And I wasn’t even that far along when I met her! Back in those days I had only begun my self defense classes. You see, after getting into fights multiple times, I thought it might not be a bad idea to take up boxing. I bought some equipment and began going to this little gym down town. I even had a regular sparing partner. She’d punch me, I’d punch her. Sometimes we’d block, sometimes we’d get hit. It was fun. She often had to miss a week due to medical reasons though. She had an incurable medical condition that costed thousands of dollars a month if she wanted to live even two more years. I can see why She and Ice were under a lot of stress. After a full month of no-shows I had assumed the worst. I almost didn’t go back to the gym after a while.  Then Ice suddenly announced her retirement. My sparing partner returned that week too – apparently her incurable condition had just… cleared up somehow! On it’s own! The doctors were baffled! As for why Ice retired… well I suppose it’s easier to get buy without stealing from people when you aren’t paying thousands every month to keep your wife alive.  I suppose this means I kinda have an obligation to “save the world” or something. But if I’m being honest? I don’t really want to fight crime or go around punching random people in hopes it makes them better. I’m a baker. I make cakes and cater parties.  \[OT\] About this piece: The first version of this was written in response by a prompt from u/slashd on r/WritingPrompts. A Mod suggested I share this here. The prompt: "You can cure any illness by punching the person really hard in the face. It has a 50% success chance, and you can't tell/explain anyone about this.


“Grow up Petra. It's about time to grow up, and become emotionally mature, or you’ll continue to whither and crumble like dried fragile rose petals,” is the last thing he said to me. Can you believe it?! The cheek! What does he think he is, a poet?! Who does he think he’s talking too? I’m 47! He’s 30! I’m old enough to be his mother, almost. Literally speaking I AM OLD enough to be his mother! Perched on the edge of his sickly green couch, I dug my fingernails into its soft corduroy, and starting with a violent simmer, began to boil. Dagger eyes almost lurched out of my head, as I tried my sweetest smile through clenched teeth and managed, “Thank you so much for pointing that out, I’ll think about it.” And. I did think about, as I walked out of his office, and marched down Picadilly, waving the masses out of my way, and demanding that the whole of London disappear into one huge black hole! I thought about it some more, as I stormed with the intensity of a demented lightning bolt around the flower beds of The Rose Garden, in Hyde Park. Playing his words around in my mind, again and again, boiling more furiously, it burst into a frenzy of tormented bubbles, “Grow up. Grow up! Emotionally immature. Whither. Crumble. Like dried rose petals. Dried fragile rose petals! Hmm. I’m not sure if he should be saying things like that to someone with no self-confidence, to someone who hates themselves, feels like they’re a complete failure and have wasted their life entire life! Hmm. That was not very skilful. In fact, that was very unprofessional, and could cause severe further damage to my self-esteem, from which I may never recover! How dare he talk to me like that. How dare he say those mean things. How dare he drive the nail in deeper! He better apologise the next time I see him. No actually, you know what? I’m going to quit therapy. There you go! Take that now you 30 year old fledgling who knows nothing about real life, because you’ve only just outgrown your nappies. There! Not sure I can trust him. He’s just mocking me! No other therapist would say such a thing. He’s not qualified. How can he be? A mere 30 year old child who says that I’m like dried fragile rose petals, which makes absolutely no sense anyway! Completely contradictory is what it is! Right, that’s it! I’M QUITTING THERAPY!!! Oh my god. He’s right! Dam it! Oh, the little bastard is right. What do I do now? Where’s my chocolate?!” I sit on a bench, take a deep breath, whilst fumbling through my bag, hands shaking, “Where’s my chocolate??!!” I proceed to unzip all the little compartments. Mirror. No chocolate! Phone. No chocolate! Lipstick. No chocolate! Nondescript object. No chocolate! Purse. No chocolate! Half-eaten apple. No chocolate! Teddy bear key ring. No chocolate! Little pink slimy snake thing that’s supposed to stick on the kitchen tiles when thrown with force, but is now covered in grime and fluff!! NO CHOCOLATE! Underestimating the power of my rage, the bag is accidentally catapulted from my hands three metres into the air, then lands on the ground one meter away, just in front of tiny sandalled feet… I stare, body shrinking into the bench with embarrassment at those tiny feet, as full realisation of my childish behaviour whacks me in the chest. I take a deep breath and meekly look up. A small boy of no more than three years wearing a KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON t-shirt looking me directly in the eyes, breaks into a cheeky grin. He looks at my bag, then back at me again, then back at the bag, which he picks up, turns over with innocent curiosity, and playfully shakes out the contents. I grimace as everything tumbles out, including a bar of CADBURYS CHOCOLATE! Being the first thing he spots, he relishingly plucks it from the unsightly clutter, and places it on my lap with a don’t worry manière. I take a deep breath… This is where the second part of my life begins... yes that’s right. This is when I am reborn -the beginning part of being reborn anyway. This is when I realise how deeply I need to change. The journey feels eternal at times, and progress so painfully slow it can go unnoticed, for what feels -simply put- like far too long. The clouds part. The sun shines with extreme brilliance. The rose bushes are expanding in their beds, robust and ready to soar. It's spring. I share my chocolate with the loveliest little messenger that has thus far ever appeared in my life. We munch without saying a word. He giggles and points at the squirls. We play a quick game of hide and seek. His mum waves and gives a thumbs up from another bench, and comes to collect him about twenty minutes later. "I would have come over sooner, but it looked as though you were both having fun," she tells me. We hug, say goodbye. I sit on the bench for a while longer, whilst recalling and pondering some words I overheard a friend say recently. She was giving advice over the phone about growing plants, “The slower they grow, the stronger they grow. Patience.” The friend on the other end of the phone was getting anxious at how long it was taking for his asparagus seedlings to emerge. He would literally shout at the bare soil with exasperation every morning when there was no sign of progress. My friend gave further explanation: “Don’t give up. Try to be positive. These seeds need nourishing, they need fertiliser, they need water, first growing in the dark towards the light. They are happiest in a sunny place. They need looking after and tender care. You can even talk to them, say gentle things. It helps them to flourish. They need all this, yet don’t spoil them too much. It will take time, but your efforts and patience will all be rewarded. While they are on their path of becoming, appreciate and encourage their loveliness, especially when they are just vulnerable seedlings daring to peep their heads above the ground. And when they are ripe, you will harvest beautiful crops, which you can then share with others.” However long it takes, for however many days are left, there and then, I decide that it's time to grow up...


The first bang goes off around 3 in the morning. Everyone’s quiet conversations come to a halt as we all sit tight, waiting. The second goes off at around 3:10. The silence hangs heavy over us like a weight on our already hunched shoulders. Wide eyes catch the light from the dim lamp that somebody brought, showing me the terror in their mind as easily as I can see the inside of a store by looking through the window. The bangs come every so often moving further into the distance as time goes on. As they do hesitant conversations start up again, stopping every so often whenever a bang is heard. I look around the room, the heavy guns in the corner sending shivers down my spine. To my right is a mother clutching her young baby in bruised arms. My mouth dries, realizing that that child will never have a childhood like mine. It will never feel the soft grass below its feet as it's running into the park to get to the swings first, it will never be able to play games with its friends in the streets or hear the approaching music of the ice cream van as it pleads with its mother to buy some. I look down at my hands, not able to think about it any longer.

Just 2 days ago, before everything changed, I was going to the mall with Taylor and Beck, complaining that Jacob hadn’t replied to my text. “You’re too good for him,” Taylor had said. I scoffed as Beck put an arm around my shoulder, lightly nudging me into Sephora. I was just being a normal teenage girl, worrying about normal teenage girl things: like guys, my popularity and what I was going to wear to school the next day. Jacob not replying seemed like the end of the world to me back then. Little did I know that I would have bigger things to worry about, bigger than I could ever imagine in my worst nightmares. A bang comes again, snapping me back into the present where I’m huddled with people that I have never met, in a dimly lit, stuffy, make-shift room, carrying my whole life in the backpack beside me. My feet throb from running and walking and then running again. My face collides into my hands as tears start to spill from my eyes. I know Beck didn’t make it but as for Taylor and Jacab, I have no idea. More tears fall. I don’t even know where my parents are, or if they are even still here. I try to stop my mind from going there but it’s too late, I could be an orphan for all I know. Another bang shakes me out of my spiraling thoughts.

Later that day when I came back from the mall, happily carrying my little black and white striped bag, I would never be able to comprehend what would happen later. I was shaken awake in the middle of the night with my parents' panicked voices ringing in my ears “Matilda we have to go, NOW.” Half-awake and still disoriented from my sleep, I scrambled to put some clothes on and hurriedly packed my belongings into the first backpack I saw. We all rushed out of the house to find a layer of thick smoke concealing the quiet and empty streets. “What’s happening?” I shouted, but I was met with silence, my lungs burning with each the inhalation of the thick smoke. My mother grasped my arm and I jolted forward, blindly following her through the smoke. As we were running, I could feel my mothers grasp loosening, only catching glimpses of her bright auburn hair through the smoke in front of me.

Suddenly, a bang went off, causing me to lose my balance and fall. My contact with the ground was hard, my right arm sending shooting pains through my body as it met with the concrete below. That was the first bang I ever heard in my life. In the chaos my mother’s grip loosened and I could no longer feel her touch. “MUM, DAD?” I screamed, but my voice was drowned out by another bang, a little further away from me than the last one. I looked around frantically searching for her bright auburn hair, my eyes burning from the smoke around. “MATILDA,” I heard a distant voice shout. Scrambling to my feet, ignoring the pain in my arm the best I could, I stumbled towards the distant voice. However, the smoke that had crept throughout the city made the streets that were once so familiar to me seem like a foreign land. After continuously winding around the maze of streets I could no longer hear the distant calling of my name. Not before long, my breath started to become uneven and my heartbeat quickened. Collapsing onto the floor in the unknown land, I started to panic, my thoughts spinning out of control. I don’t know how long I sat there, thinking the end of the world had come. I still think that but at least it’s easier now.

Soon enough, someone found me and brought me to this make-shift room, full of people inside. They explained everything to me; that extraterrestrial beings had come into our atmosphere and everyone and everything had gone crazy. That countries had formed different alliances, each group disagreeing on what we should do. I remember my mouth drying as he spoke to me, unable to grasp what he was telling me. I mean I had read about these things in sci-fi novels and seen them in movies but never would I have thought that it could actually become true. “Are they good?” I remember muttering to the man. “Who, the countries? Yes, ma’am I’m asure you that there will be no conflict between th-” he started saying. “The aliens,” I interrupted. His eyes slightly widened before answering that they were extremely harmful and hazardous to our society, and that we should demolish them as soon as we got the chance. His response to my question almost sounded rehearsed, as if someone had told him to say that. Despite being skeptical I stayed in the make-shift room, watching people pile in as time went on, the weapons in the corner increasing with each new person’s arrival. Being sandwiched between sweaty people, with babies crying on and off, I was not happy.

With each day spent apart from my family, I became even more miserable, yearning for my mother’s bright auburn hair that looked like mighty phoenix’s flames. “You know why we gave you your name, Matilda?” she once asked. I shook my head, giggling, my little feet swinging from the chair, not long enough to reach the ground yet. “Because you love the movie Matilda and you wanted her to be smart,” my dad called from behind the barbeque, pointing the chicken skewer in his hand at her accusingly. She threw her head back laughing, her hair flowing majestically like a river of silk behind her as the gusts of wind gently picked it up and put it back down. “Matilda means mighty in battle. Something that I want you to be,” She touched the tip of my nose softly with her finger “When you grow up to be a big intelligent girl I want you to always look to your name and remember that you are mighty and strong and that you can overcome any problems that come your way,”

I wipe the tear from my cheek, I really cannot stand this place. If only I could go somewhere and find some peace and quiet for a few hours before I come back again. People have told me what lies near here and I’m sure that by now the smoke has died down. The man told me I should stay here but the chaos outside can’t be any worse than it is in here. And so, I swing my backpack over my shoulder as I quietly creep towards the door. People are too invested in their own problems and worries to care about what is happening around them, so I reach the exit easily. Lifting the flap of the make-shift room, I catch the baby’s wide eyes following my movements carefully. Before stepping outside, I smile at it, receiving a radiant beam of innocence in return. Immediately after I step out, I am met with a breeze of fresh air, my lungs relaxing as I let go of the flap behind me. The fog has not died down as much as I hoped but I do recognize the streets a lot more. Stepping over any debris I encounter, I fall into the rhythm of the familiar path to the park, the one that I have visited so many times, only now with no one by my side. Soon, I’m pushing the recognizable red gate, the metal cold in my hand. I observe the park. It sits unchanged from when I was last here, only now silent with abandonment. The sounds I hear are the rustling leaves on the tree and the slight creaks of the swings from the wind's movements instead of the usual laughter and chatter of excited children. I walk around and sit on one of the swings, falling into the well known motion of swinging back and forth, missing the strong hands that would once push me here as a child here. As I look around, everything is still before me. “What has happened to the world?” I mutter.

I don’t know what I will do from here. Perhaps I will return to the safety of the make-shift room or I’ll venture out beyond and attempt to find my family and friends. Maybe I’ll come across one of these extraterrestrial beings or aliens along the way and I can see for myself what they are all about. “Mighty in battle,” my mother’s sure voice echoes in my mind. I may not know what I will do from here or what will happen but what I do have is my name, Matilda, sheltering me with protection like a shield in front of me, making me mighty in battle. Just as my mother wanted.


I awake, alone in a dark room. Confined to an old bed by the machines that feed me. Soaking in my own dampness. Cold sweat has settled along my brow. A heavy chill embraces my almost naked body. The darkness is cut only by a sliver of light pouring through a narrow window on a heavy door. The window is my only connection to the outside world. The outside world I crave to know again. Yet what lurks outside is what I fear the most. Voices crawl through the door. A garbled confusion of words. Other voices say nothing. They only move up and down the hall in a state of pain and confusion. I stare at the ceiling. It has seen many eyes before me. The same empty stare. Piercing and relentless robotic tones echo in my black and murky room. Voices in the hall draw nearer. Creaks of carts that carry nothing but tools of pain and the abject horror of its previous victims grow louder. They’re coming for me. The voices and squealing shrieks come closer. They start to converge into a deafening cacophony. The screams of a banshee. My heart pounds into my head. The cold sweat protrudes faster. Shrill sound invades my ears. My brain floods with fear. The hypnotic tones of the machines that feed me become a melodic harbinger, summoning terror one step closer. The noise in the hall suddenly stops. They’re at my door! The small sliver of light transforms into shadows of horror. My mind aches as it strains against the sound of the doorknob. Why do they have to do this? The groans of the metal doorknob grind into my brain as it begins to turn. There’s no escape. The sudden flood of light is imminent. The light I long for, yet hate to see. Not now. Not for this. Blaring brightness blinds my eyes. I beg for the darkness back. They come closer to my bed. My mind goes numb. Pain brings it back. The ravenous lurking bloodsuckers only want one thing. And they never give up until they get it. The anguish of the needle drives into my skin. It digs around inside me with an unquenchable thirst. More needles slip agonizingly beneath my flesh. They’re relentless. It won’t be over until they harvest what they came for. I beg for it to be quick. I pray for it to end. My knuckles and teeth clench harder with every syringe that searches for my veins. My eyes squeeze tighter, damming welling tears of affliction. Suffering shoots through me. Again and again. They stop to examine the vial. Please let it be enough. Please, God… They turn to leave. Their cart now heavier with my blood and agony. But it’s finally over. For now. For me. Terror returns to roam the halls in search of the next victim. I’m alone again. Blanketed in darkness. Cold. Tired. Once again closed off from the outside world. But now finding solace in the blackness. Suspended somewhere between the light of yesterday and the lingering dawn of tomorrow, I wonder what time it is. It doesn’t matter. They’ll be back. Time has no meaning out there. Only in here as each vague hour passes. My gaze returns to the ceiling. It stares back at me. The sweat slows and cools my brow. My breathing calms. My heartbeat slows. The pounding has stopped. The pain has stopped. The metronomic tones of the machines are now the only sounds I hear. They lull me back to sleep in a web of rhythmic vibrations, steadily counting down to the return of the ravenous lurking bloodsuckers. The return…of the overnight phlebotomists.