(Covid-19 still runs rampant) **March 2nd:** As I approach the entrance to the ferry terminal a man in uniform walks up to me. "You essential workforce?" I don't even answer him. I just reach into my back pocket and pull my work ID card out. I hold the card up next to my face so the man can simultaneously scan the card and make sure the picture looks like me. The app on the guard's phone tells him I am clear to work for the next 15 hours in Seattle. As I walk down the foot bridge I see a man being wrestled to the ground. He was probably not cleared for travel to the city... or even outside of his house. He probably wanted to visit family or...get groceries? No one can ever know. You don't ask questions. You just keep walking in the line, keeping a safe 6 foot distance from the person in front of you. I board the ferry and begin to look for a safe spot to sit. They have marked every few seats as viable options for sitting down. All booths have been taped off with red quarantine tape. I sit down on a marked seat and proceed to sanitize my phone. A security guard in the corner watches me with scrutiny, any reason to pull out his baton. The ferry ride is fairly uneventful and as we pull into dock the other "essential" persons begin to stand. We form a line starting from the door and it begins stretching far back into the ferry. We stand upon the designated line formation spots marked on the floor. More men in uniforms scan our ID badges as we disembark the boat and enter the city. **March 3rd:** It is Wednesday. I usually have Wednesdays and Thursdays off because of my being on a “reduced” hours schedule for the past year. This is in addition to a standard...restful Saturday and Sunday. My employer pays my hours worked and the government sends me a check in the mail for the remaining hours that I am not allowed to work. It is early so I use my phone to apply for an exercise permit. I set my phone down and look out the window. There are a few crows picking at food scraps that have dislodged from an overflowing garbage can. The phone screen lights up and a chime tells me my permit has been denied and instructs me to wait twenty minutes. Since my morning jog has been put on hold, I busy myself in the pantry. I start by counting my on-hand stock for a weekly report to the local state government. The things I must list include the following: toilet paper, hand soap, shampoo, dish soap, various canned foods, sanitizers and non-perishables. I live alone so it is easy to make short work of this list. I worry for families of more than three that must complete this chore daily. I submit my on-hand list through a government app on my phone. I am e-mailed a voucher that lists the quantities I am allowed to purchase on my next shopping trip. The voucher also says which day I am allowed to shop: “Thursday 3-4-21” paints the top of the voucher in crimson decree. This relieves me, as I enjoy Thursdays as my shopping day. My phone comes to life again with a different chime. I have been cleared to leave my apartment for the next hour strictly for the purpose of exercise.


The Lady Chuprova Ioanna Yaroslavovna was an elegant woman. Highly regarded by her peers, the lady was well-known as generous and loving, having hosted countless charity balls in the past few years to fund projects all across the country. Despite being low-titled, she was known by every royal, peasant, and merchant. She was a high-quality woman. So high, in fact, that she was publicly known to be engaged to the second prince of the Empire.

Tanya was not the Lady Ioanna. She just happened to share a face with her.

It was a point of pride once. Tanya would go out and work at the local inn of her small town and strangers would come up to her and say how she “looked just like the young Lady Chuprova, you could be her twin!” And Tanya would smile, because being compared to the lady was a high compliment.

She stopped considering it a compliment when the High Lord Chuprova’s men dragged her, dazed and bleeding, out of her family’s cabin one dreadful night in February.

For earlier that week, the Lady Chuprova Ioanna Yaroslavovna committed suicide via hanging.

It would be a disgrace, she was later told by a sneering High Lady Chuprova, mother of Ioanna, for the Empire to know their daughter killed herself. That the Chuprova family would be unable to produce a daughter for the second prince to wed that fall at harvest.

How fortunate for them, to have found a girl sharing their dead daughter’s face, while also being within the boundaries of their dominion.

How unfortunate for Tanya to share a dead woman’s face while that woman still had debts unpaid.

And now, it was the harvest. Half a year had passed since she’d seen her family: Mama, Pa, and little Vanya, who had still been learning how to tie his shoes. They were safe, or so they reassured her. She wasn’t allowed to see them and all evidence of the existence of Zimina Tanya  was destroyed outside of the memories she left behind. Her family would continue, safe, if she did her job well. To fool the second prince and the imperial family was a high task to ask anyone, let alone a former serving girl with only half a year of training in her head. Her body yearned for sleep, sustaining on five hours a day the moment she was taken, too busy learning reading and maths, having history crushed into her head, manners beaten into her fingers and wrists. Dancing was the easiest; Tanya was already light on her feet from working, but it complicated matters when  she didn’t dance “like Ioanna.” Tanya was too strong to be delicate Ioanna, to sturdy to be willowy Ioanna, too Tanya to be Ioanna. But whether she liked it or not, she had to be Ioanna.

(It felt wrong, even after six months, to call the lady by her first name, even in her head, but Tanya continued non-the-less. For surely, she could call the lady that if she was to become her?) There was not a moment where her actions were not criticized, her expressions tamed, her manner corrected. If she was to spend the rest of her life as Ioanna, then her every action must be perfect. For the rest of her life, her mask could not drop or House Chuprova would execute her family, even if it was the last thing they did as a noble house. As long as she bore the second prince a son—the main clause of the marriage contract between his highness and House Chuprova—her family was hostage to the High Lord and Lady. Tanya had been allowed to read the marriage contract, as part of her training. It had been odd, knowing that his highness, Prince Maklakov Erik Vitalievich, had sought Ioanna out for marriage, rather than House Chuprova appeal to the royal family, but after weeks of politic lessons, she understood. Prince Erik was the second prince and his strange behavior inspired rumors abound. Whispers of Prince Erik consorting with thieves and seeking to assassinate the first prince reached even Tanya’s remote village. When compared to his brother, the court currently favored the first prince as heir to the throne. By marrying Ioanna, a beloved socialite and charity worker, his favor would finally rise enough to rival his older brother. If he discovered she was not Ioanna, that she had replaced her… She would be killed. Her act had to be perfect. Nothing else would save her life. The day of the wedding was stressful, to the point where Tanya worried she would break out in spots. She allowed the maids to apply her makeup, covering the Tanya in her face. Despite their similarities, Tanya and Ioanna were not exactly the same; Ioanna had high cheekbones and a small forehead in all her portraits, but makeup could fix that. Fix her “imperfections,” as the High Lady (no, you’re supposed to call her “Mother” now) would say. Tanya could do her own makeup; it was one of the first things she was taught, as well as to rise well before her husband so he would never catch her without it. Typically, ladies weren’t to do their own makeup, Teacher Olga had lectured, but given her unique circumstances, a little eccentricity wouldn’t be amiss. Her face changed in front of her eyes. Really, it was the last finishing touches to a long transformation. Extensions from a horse were grafted onto her hair, allowing for the flowing black to reach her hips. Rich food and inactivity had cut the muscle from her form, instead allowing for soft curves to form for the first time in her life. Her body had been rubbed down with oil and stripped of every stray hair follicle not on her head while her calluses had been scrubbed away. It was like they were born twins. The maid servants whipped around her in a frenzy as they prepared her wedding clothes, eternally silent for the High Lady had ordered their vocal cords cut (and everything in Tanya wailed at the injustice, because their only crimes were being Ioanna’s maids and finding her body. But if they didn’t have tongues, they could speak of their deception, the deception Tanya now participated in—). Her hair was braided multiple times at a speed she didn’t know possible, all so that the braids would loop back into a bun sitting on her nape. The corset pulled her curves tight, her gown sat heavy on her frame, and she couldn’t even bend over to slip into her shoes. Heels, of course, for a lady would not be caught without them. Two maids helped her to her feet. She did not sway under the weight of her duty and her dress. Her movements made graceful by the thought behind her every action, Ioanna was ready.


God I hate vogue. I flipped through the magazine aimlessly, waiting for them to call me back. It was my first interview I’d gotten since I got to the city and I wasn’t gonna let anything ruin it. Not even Vogue. I didn’t understand the blatant objectification of the models. They take these young beautiful girls and use them up until their beauty fades then toss them away. It made me sick. But if this job liked Vogue, then I liked Vogue. I sat in the waiting room for what felt like hours. The secretary typing furiously was the only noise aside from the incessant ticking of the clock above my head. I could only see her face behind the computer screen. She was drop dead gorgeous. Blonde hair sat in an unnaturally perfected bun with short bangs swept against her forehead. Her eyes had an intimidating sharpness. Black eyeliner with thick, propped eyelashes accentuated oceanic eyes. I felt like I was drowning just looking at them. Her features were sharp with skin, fair and smooth. Tight cheekbones and a small pointy noise built an angelic face. Her mouth was small but her lips were plump and wine red. I didn’t know how I didn’t notice her before, but now I couldn’t stop staring. I was entranced by her. My gaze must have touched her, as she stopped typing and shot her eyes into my stare. My throat jumped and I quickly looked back down at the magazine. I knew she was still staring, but I struggled to look back. She’s way too hot to be looking this long for nothing. Man up, say something. My head lifted to a giggle from her desk. “Hey,” she said. “Hi,” I said. Use your deep voice. “You’re cute.” The strength in her gaze lessened. “You’re here for the sales interview right?” I straightened in my chair as a smile pulled across my face. “Thank you, you’re not too bad yourself.” Gentleman. A bubbly laugh escaped from behind her computer monitor. “Yeah, I’m really hoping I nail it,” I replied. “Me, too. I know you’ll be a good addition.” Nice. “Are you nervous?” She asked. “Yeah, A little.” A little was an understatement. Both of my savings accounts were run dry and this was the only place I got a call back from. I know dad wasn’t gonna send me a penny even though I practically made the money for him. If I didn’t get this I didn’t know what to do. Move to some dingy, local apartment back in Naperville, Wyoming? Not a chance. “Is there anything I can help with? Make you more comfortable.” I hadn’t looked at the job description since I applied, so there were a number of things I could’ve asked. All I knew was they needed a seller and I needed a job. “Don’t tell boss I asked, but what exactly do you guys sell here?” I asked. Another giggle swam it’s way to my ears accompanied by a toothy smile, almost too big for her small face. Red lipstick pulled tight against bleached white teeth. The ocean in her eyes became unnervingly static. Frozen. “I’m glad you asked! Dr. Holmes has studied long and hard. Traveled across the globe in pursuit of the world's secrets. Secrets, most men were too afraid to find. The secret, to perfection. He’s-” “That’s quite enough Ms. Katherin.” A large voice called from behind the closed door next to her desk. As if on cue a tall crooked-framed man walked in and stomped into our conversation. “Forgive her, she tends to get rather excited about her job. Please, don’t fault her too harshly.” His words held a deliberate annunciation. Rehearsed in the mind, prepared in the mouth, and performed to the air. Their certainty pulled me out of the love affair Katherins words had. He swept silvered hair back before addressing me. “You must be Mr. Miller.” His cheeks pulled into his own proud smile. “A pleasure to finally meet you.” I reached for his hand but they remained buried in his jacket. “The pleasure is mine sir,” I said. “Pardon my tardiness, hopefully Ms. Katherin didn’t make you fall too far in love,” he said. Her eyes no longer looked at me, they stared hard at him. Drawn to him. “Only a little,” I joked. My words hit the side of his head as he and Katherin stared. Anger swelled in my chest as pride swelled in his rosed cheeks. “Right, let’s begin, follow me,” he said as he returned to the door he came from. I followed behind him. “Good luck,” Katherin whispered. She shot a quick wink at me as I walked into the hall. Behind the door was a short clean hall. Greyed drywall lined the walls while a beige carpet ran the length. Down the walls were black framed close ups of models. Emotionless faces of all shapes and sizes, each a foot apart from the next. It was dead silent. Aside from Dr. Holmes' heavy steps the only noise buzzed from the led lights in the ceiling. At the end we turned down another, longer, hallway. Models were replaced with large wooden doors. “What are the rooms for?” I asked to break the pulsating silence. He turned his head enough for me to see his proud smile. “They’re for the patients.” His neck clicked back forward and led me down to an open office at the end. Inside, I sat in a wooden chair in front of a kidney shaped desk. On the desk was a folder. Dr. Holmes closed the heavy door behind us, clicking the lock. He sat in a big leather padded chair behind the desk. Another friendly smile warmed his face. “So, were you able to find us easy enough?” he asked. “I got a little lost coming in, but it wasn’t too bad,” I said. “Good, that’s good,” he said. “So what brings you here today?” What? I swallowed snarky comments. “I saw you were looking for a sales representative and with my previous experience I believe I am the perfect fit,” I said. “Of course!” He exclaimed, his eyes squinted into a cheeky smile. “I took the time to look at your resume and may I say I was fascinated. Graduated top of your class at UIC, multiple bachlores, an MA in finance and even a minor in french. You then went on to become the top seller at one of the largest tech companies in Chicago.” “That’s right sir,” I said. “Then I’ll ask again, what brings you here?” Silence fell with a clap as his face dropped. Burning eyes singed my confidence. “Things just didn’t really work out I guess,” I said. “Thought I could use a change of scenery.” “I disagree.” The air hung heavily. Blue sapphire eyes pierced through me. “I’m sorry?” “Do you believe in fate?” He asked. “The belief that all things happen purposefully and deliberately?” “I’m not sure. I guess I never really thought about it,” I said. “Of course not,” he scoffed. Disgust pooled onto his face. “That much is more than clear.” My hands grew hot with rage as sweat began to clam my palms. I grinded my jaw slightly to release aggression. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking.” “You moved here eight weeks ago, am I correct?” He said. Disgust was replaced with the original stone expression. “Yes,” I replied. “An apartment on the upper west side of Charlottesville. One bedroom, of course, due to your lack of acquaintances.” I shuffled in my chair, but his stare didn’t break. “Yes,” I replied. “Right,” the taut muscles in his face began to slowly relax. “Mr. Miller, if you could change one thing about yourself, right here, right now, what would it be?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment. What wouldn’t I want to change?, I thought. “I guess I would want to be more confident,” I said. “You guess.” “I’ll ask you again, and answer with certainty; if you could change one thing about yourself, right here, right now, what would it be?” My stomach fluttered in response. Sweat poolcd in the palms of my clasped hands. “I don’t know Doctor,” I said. “You see,” he began, “I am a believer in fate. I believe you do know what you want to change, because I know what you want to change.” His face resumed it’s previous intensity. “You are a man of sin Mr. Miller, a sheep lost to the world, far away from his shepherd. You want so badly to be able to escape what you have done, but no matter how far you run, it’s right behind. You know what I’m speaking of, correct?” he said. “Yes,” I said to the floor. “Then why wouldn’t you choose to change the animal inside of you?” he said. “That wraith in your heart cost you your Abigail. And you say nothing about it.” Panic shook my eyes, blurring my vision. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “But it is okay, child,” he said. I looked back up to see his face had relaxed. The flaming intensity had cooled and melted away. “For fate has guided a lost sheep to a new shepherd. A shepherd who can help this sheep fulfill his destiny.” “I’m sorry, I don’t understand--” “With your expertise in selling and my expertise in healing, we can be a force unlike any seen before,” he said. “My practice, while considerable, is lacking in reach. The few whom I do get to help are not nearly plentiful enough for me to make as grand of a scientific revolution as I hope. I need you, Mr. Miller, to help me bring in more willing patients.” I sat, confused for an eternity. His calmness was comforting, but jarring. The panic had slowed throughout my body, but the nervous patter of my heart stayed consistent. “You want me to help you?” I asked. “Correct,” he said. His dismission of his previous interrogation caused anger to swell in me. “And if I refuse?” I asked. “You and I both know that isn’t an option,” he said. I looked up at the ceiling then back down at my hands, tears welled behind my eyes. “What do you even do here?” I asked. A firm smile lifted his face from its scorn. “Allow me to show you.” He stood and opened the office door. I pulled my body to its feet and followed him out into the hallway. He led us down to the opposite end of the hallway to a door, revealing a lit staircase. “After you,” he said. I trudged down red carpeted steps, scared that he was out of my line of vision. I kept my eyes down on the carpet as I went down. At the bottom there was another door. “Open it,” he said over my shoulder. I pulled it open and stepped into a stone corridor full of doors. The smell of wet rock reeked from all directions, but more powerful was the stinging smell of bleach. He stepped in front of me and we walked to the third room on the left. “This is patient 32. He is doing a clinical trial for a revolutionary new cure to obesity. He is going to help a lot of people.” he said, standing tall in front of the door. He opened the door and an abominable noise tore through the opening. I stepped into the stone walled room where a white silk curtain hid the man from view. Dr. Holmes stood in the doorway as I walked closer to the curtain. I looked back at him and he gave me a small nod of approval. The noise oozing out from behind the curtain cut into my ears, flooding into my veins and throat. I pulled back the curtain to reveal a bald man. In his ears were two white headphones. He thrashed violently against the bed but black leather straps held him in place. The noise heard before came from his mouth which had been fused in parts, leaving blood filled fleshy holes to become the instrument playing this horrific harmony. His face, beaten beyond recognition. Purple, blackened, eyes had been glued shut far too tight, the round shape of eyeballs protruding far out of their sockets. I tried to scream, but nothing was able to escape. I stepped back in horror and saw the machine the tubes shoved into his abdomen were connected to. Each tube was filled with a smoothie of bloody fat being slowly pulled out of his body. A wave of nausea and fear overcame my body and I sprayed vomit onto the floor, my body falling to the wet stone floor soon after. “It’s okay, my child,” Dr. Holmes said as he ran over to me, placing his hand gently against my back. “This is just the ugly part, that man is going to help millions of people all across America! He is a pioneer!” I continued hyperventilating as another powerful expulsion of vomit fell to the floor. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said, dragging my body up off the floor. I fought furiously against him as he carried me to the door. Through blurred vision I saw the man again. I’d never heard a noise like it before, but I knew he was crying. “What the fuck is this place!?” I cried once finally able to catch my breath. “This is the workshop for the future, Mr. Miller. Once we get more patients we will be able to do less tests on one single subject. Currently we only have 33 patients and with testing as revolutionary as this we have to run multiple tests on each subject, but with your help you can relieve some of their burdens and allow more patients to be part of the grand adventure,” he said. I threw a hard elbow back wildly over my head and smashed it into the bridge of his nose. He quickly dropped me and held the broken nose. I scrambled to my feet and ran as hard as I could to the door at the end of the hallway. “MR. MILLER! STOP, YOU ARE MAKING A MISTAKE!” he called from down the hall. I continued pounding my feet against the smooth floor, tearing open the door at the end. I slammed it behind me and ran up the stairs and down to the lobby. “KATHRIN!” I screamed as I slammed through the door. She was startled by the door and looked up from the computer monitor with wide, fearful eyes. “You gotta call the police! That fucking doctor is mangling people! Please you have to call the police,” I pleaded. “Who? Dr. Holmes?” she asked calmly. “Yes! He’s got this guy hooked up into this horrible machine and he fused his fucking mouth shut! You have to call the police right now!” I exclaimed. A polite smile pulled itself onto her face. Her eyes were soft now, the fear disappearing. Smooth waters. “No, those are his patients. Dr. Holmes isn’t mangling anybody, he’s helping them,” she explained. “What are you talking about? He wasn’t helping that guy! He was torturing him for his own sick delusions! Katherin, I’m telling you the truth you have to call the police and get these people help, please!” I pleaded again. She let out a short, sad sigh. “Ya know it’s a real shame. You were really handsome.” She lunged at me and stuck a long syringe into my neck. I pulled back from the sting and clutched my neck. She sat back in her chair and smiled. “What the fuck was that?” I asked fervently. She set the needle down gently against her desk and resumed typing. She looked exactly the same as when I first got there. Blonde bangs were just as swept, her bun was just as perfect, her eyes still as sweet. The same smile on the way out as the way in. She shot me a quick wink as I ran out the door. I ran, crying to my car. I ransacked through my pocket for my keys. I clutched them hard as I started the ignition. I smashed the reverse and tore out of the parking lot. I hyperventilated heavily as I drove down the road. Sweat poured down my face, soaking my collar. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t control my breathing. Each attempt to slow it caused my brain to fade. I struggled hard to keep the car on the road, but I couldn’t risk stopping. Tears filled my eyes as the steering wheel faded from my touch. The tingling numbness crawled underneath my skin toward the rest of my body. Please! Please get a grip, please! The man's face flashed behind my eyes. What kind of monster, would, do, that. The numbness conquered the rest of my body and I let go of the wheel, my head falling back to stare at the red fabric roof. I heard car horns blaring and saw the outside world whip and spin around me. Glass shattered quickly but loudly, the window going from blue, to grey, to black. Wet rock stunk from all around me. I wiggled hard and heard nothing. I felt smooth leather bands holding my body down tight to the bedding. I tried to scream but heard nothing. I felt the vibrations leave my throat, but they stopped behind my lips. I heard nothing. I attempted to open my eyes but my eyelids fought against me. Like big eye-boogers that I couldn’t seem to break through. I pulled hard in every which way, but I couldn’t get free. “Mr. Miller, can you hear me?” a voice said from within my head. I tried to scream again, but I still heard nothing. “Ahh good, it appears you can. Mr. Miller I’m very sorry that it had to come to this. You truly could have worked with me on a building better tomorrow, but, you’re like everyone else. You’re afraid, like a child separated from their mother at the market. You think the groceries are there to hurt you, so you cry out for mother. Mother!? Where are you!? And then your mother would find you and she would tell you that you had nothing to be afraid of, she wasn’t gonna let any of the groceries hurt you. The only problem, Mr. Miller, is that you can no longer receive solace from your mother. You are a man. A man who cannot dispose of his childish fears. You run from them and you get lost. I hoped to be your guiding hand Mr. Miller. I hoped to be the mother you found comfort in. But unfortunately, you bite the outreached hand and choose to return to the life of lost sheep. Well Mr. Miller, I cure those sheep and with God as my witness I will cure you.” A razor sharp screech poured into my head. I screamed until my throat felt it would tear open. I heard nothing. I violently thrashed in the bed as I tried to pull an arm free. The screech scratched the back of my eyes as if trying to break free. I continued to whip and trash until my left arm was free. I grabbed at my ear and felt a smooth plastic headphone. I tried to pull it out and a grinding buzz burrowed into my brain. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mr. Miller. Those listening devices are buried deep inside your temporal lobe. If you pull on them too hard you’ll destroy the brain.” Tears bulged out into my eyelids. “Do you remember what I asked you earlier? If you could change one thing about yourself, right here, right now, what would it be? I’m sure you know your answer now.” The screech resumed occupation of my brain. I grabbed the headphone again and pulled hard. The buzz replaced the screech until skin cracking and blood bubbles popping filled my hearing. With all the strength left in me I ripped the long series of wires and chips out from my ear, replacing all noise with a deafening silence. I could feel the wires in my hand but sensed nothing else. Her face was so sad. Not afraid, sad.


Juliet’s Song by Mehreen Ahmed Juliet worked in a cafe up the road. This morning, on her way to work, she thought, 'by the time I stepped out, the leaves were on fire'. She smiled to herself looking around at the hectic autumnal leaves, but she didn't realise that her pretty smile was something to see first thing in the morning. But she didn’t know that. She worked her shifts around the clock, being nice to the lovers of coffee, serving them, and taking orders. Juliet was stringent with her time, however, occasionally, she would spare a few moments to chat at the till. That would be generous on her part. No one knew what went on in her head. Nobody cared to find out what her thoughts were. And that was how it was; strictly professional. One morning a lady by the name of Rita Chowder, a regular at the cafe, came in and sat down at a corner. It was a quiet morning at the cafe that day. In fact, Rita was the only customer at the time. She finished her first cup of coffee. Then she waved at Juliet. And when she came by, Rita asked her for another shot. Juliet brought it over to her. As she took a sip, Juliet noticed tears. 	“What’s wrong?” she asked. A frown appeared on her smooth forehead. “What do you mean?” Rita asked. “Are you crying? Are those your tears?”Julia asked. “Yes,” Rita said, trying to hide them by lowering her head. “Why would you be crying?” Juliet asked. “Oh it is a long, long story. I think I am about to lose my house to the bank?” she answered. “That’s no good.” “I have been frugal all my life. Worked hard and drove second hand beat-up cars. I always dreamt of buying a new car one day. But that just never happened. I just couldn’t save up enough, always behind, no matter how hard I worked. I feel short-changed. “Oh, no,” “Turns out, that’s the way it was all going to be.” Rita concluded. Juliet listened with a lot of interest. She felt like doing something for Rita. But what could she do? How was Rita, to fight the big banks, and the hiking interest rates? She moved away from her to serve another customer. By the time she came back, Rita was gone. But she noticed, she left something for her on the table. It was a card, with her phone number written on it. Juliet picked it up. She gazed outside through the cafe gates and saw Rita walking away. Juliet thought whether to keep the card or to get rid of it. Clients came and went, everyday, but who cared about their stories. Something told her to keep it. She tucked it away in her apron pocket. When she looked again, she saw the last of her floral dress at the vanishing point, behind the garden’s neat hedges. After work, that night Juliet returned to her two-bed apartment, she shared with another girl. She went straight to shower, and wrapped herself with a dressing gown afterwards. They ate some pasta together, which her room-mate cooked, and they both sat down in front of the television. Over dinner, Juliet muttered something which her room-mate didn’t understand. Her name was Kate. “Was there something you said?” she asked. “Yes, I was speaking to a customer this morning and she was saying that she may lose her house to the bank.” “Really? Can she not pay her mortgage anymore?” “Yeah, something like that,” Juliet answered. “That would be really awful.” “Yeah, wouldn’t it? “Do you want to buy a house someday?” Kate asked. “Me? Ha! Funny you ask. I’m even lucky to pay my rent.” Juliet smiled. Kate noted sarcasm in her voice. She added,“Or get hitched with a rich guy.” They both laughed, and finished dinner. They watched the news and saw what the banks were doing and have been doing to their clients. After the news finished, they rose from their chairs, with the plates and dumped them in the sink. Juliet said goodnight to Kate and went to bed. She had an early shift the next day. In bed, she didn’t go to sleep right away. It bothered her that people like Rita had to suffer. She thought only people in the developing world suffered like this. She didn’t understand the economics of it at all. However, she took her dairy out of the bedside table drawer and began to write. Most were her own ramblings. But she also penned down Rita’s predicament. It hadn’t dawned upon her entirely, until now, how many people were out there, who tirelessly put uncountable hours into work, for negligible returns. What was it in the end, if they couldn’t even own one house in retirement or drive a brand new car? What was it? Was anything worth it? That people had to pay back double, even triple with interest on the principle they borrowed from the banks? That it would take four generations if not more, to pay back. Was it even fair? Juliet contemplated on a lot of questions, but no answers. She didn’t know when she fell asleep.

In the morning, when she woke up, she had a new resolution. She wanted to smell the sweetness of spring in all its freshness. She wanted to make money, travel, purchase a house, drive brand new cars. Live it up! After all, she lived in a first world country, and she should be entitled to those world class benefits. On her way to the cafe, she went to the news agents to buy a copy of the Sydney Herald. She turned the pages to shares and bonds. Investing in shares and bonds was the way to go. At twenty-five, she figured it out. She must tell Rita, too, if she were to save her house. Juliet thought of using her small savings to invest the lot in shares. She was going to buy blue chips. On lunch-break, she went and researched some more to learn about long-term investments; the rises and the falls of share markets. Windfalls, making quick money, while improbable, was not impossible. She called her brokers, and invested all her savings into a diversified portfolio. She felt almost jubilant that she was not going to end up like Rita. Where was Rita anyway? She didn’t come today. Thoughts about Rita distracted Juliet at work. She expected her to walk in through those gates. After work, Juliet gave Rita a call. Her mobile was switched off. She was just a client in the cafe, who came for a regular caffeine shot. Juliet didn’t even know where she lived or anything about her. But she wanted her to know that there was a way out. If Juliet could sell and buy shares wisely, she could end up with a little pot of gold. That night, she came back from work. It was her turn to cook dinner. She turned on the TV, and took an onion to slice. She must follow the market closely. On the news, an accident was reported. A body was found washed up by the local river bank. Most likely, it was suicide. A name was also released, Rita Chowder. ‘What?’ Juliet was devastated. The knife fell from her hand, and the onion rolled off the cutting board. Rita was no relative, hardly even a friend. But Juliet felt she was so much more. There was almost a bonding. Juliet was not sure now. This was puzzling. Her breathing, short and shallow, she struggled to accept this. She had to sit down. The perfect rainbow that she had been dreaming, suddenly took a bad turn and it transpired into something she didn’t think about. This other side of it, she wasn’t sure of. She saw the same rainbow, but in a different light. She saw its reflection on the water. Under wrinkled water, it didn’t look so perfect, but broken along the edges of the arch. That night she could not eat dinner, but went to bed straight away. A fresh start in the morning, this new day, should bring a refreshing new perspective, she hoped. And coffee shots to give those moods a false high. It took her a good many months for a return on her investments. It wasn’t until the winter months two years on that Juliet was able to sell her shares and turn in a profit. Over the months of July and August, she sold all her shares. And was able to double her savings. Juliet wanted to travel. She wanted to visit the USA. What a lark! No broken wings! This lucky girl was a survivor.


I never got lucky before. Never won anything. Used to buy the lotto tickets, every paycheck. Just $20 in scratchers. Anna in Accounting won a cool thousand my first week there. I played for 5 years and never once won. Course, Anna in Accounting is dead now. Same as everyone else. I spent the last month of the world in a cell. Oh, they didn’t call it a cell, they called it a research wing. The Red Death had already killed half the globe by that point. Asia was pretty much gone, North America was right behind them, and Europe was down to only 1 in 4 alive. 100% mortality rate, they said. No one could survive it, they said. Then there was me. I put on the mask as I prepare to leave. Gotta wear the mask. Maybe it’d be better if I left the city, but can’t leave the city, so gotta wear the mask. Sure, I was the Last Hope for Humanity, the One that Lived, or so the papers said, but doesn’t mean I can’t get sick. Just not the Plague. One in ten billion chance, apparently. I grab my shovel. The irony is, the Red Death started because some nutjob in Japan thought he had found the key to immorality. A retrovirus that would completely halt the natural aging process. And this nutjob? He decided that this was a gift to humanity, he didn’t want money or accolades, so he made the goddamn cure to age into a contagion, stuck himself with it, and took a flight. Tokyo to LAX. LAX to O’hare. O’hare to JFK. JFK to Heathrow. Heathrow to Charles DuGalle. Charles DuGalle to Moscow. Moscow to Dubai. He died in the terminal in Dubai, after having spent six hours walking around each of those airports, contagious as all hell, and all on the weekend before Christmas. “Fucker,” I mutter to no one as I shoe away some crows. They’re big bastards now. I’ve started calling them Crovus Rex. They don’t seem to mind me much, but they watch me. Read an article once, before the plague, about how damned smart crows were. Seems with us gone, they’ve been getting smarter. I hear them cawing at each other all the time. I think it might be language. Sometimes I think I can understand it. That one sound, a Caw with a harsh start and a slight lag at the end? Sort of a Kchraaaaw? I think that’s me. I wonder what they think of me. I grab my newest find and shove it into the wheelbarrow. Funny side effect of the Red Death? You don’t decay, bacteria don’t eat you anymore. You just bleed out and then sit there. Mummified. That bastard mummified the whole world. Except me, although he still kinda did. Everyone else died. Unless something kills me, I never will. No one could figure out why. Just a fluke of genetics that kept me ticking. The wheelbarrow’s heavy now. Time seems funny these days. Goes by so fast. Maybe it’s just because I’ve had so many days they blur together even while I’m living them. Either way, time to head out. I’m in New York, right now. Obviously. Well, maybe not. Dunno who I’m talking to these days. But I get out of the city, and then I walk a ways more. Been in New York for…for awhile. Couple hundred, maybe? Just about done here, though. Ahead of me stretch the Stones. I try to include a name when I can. Find it in wallets. Well, what’s left of them. It’s getting harder and harder as things decompose or get lost. If not, I put some details. Anything I can make out. “Wearing Red.” “Woman With Four Rings.” Anything, though it gets harder and harder to make it out each time. Still, I think I’ve got maybe a week or so left. Then I’ve buried the entire state of New York. Oh, I’m sure I missed some, and I’m sure the animals have eaten some. Some of the graves are no more than a fingerbone. But I keep digging. There isn’t anything else to do. Humanity may be dead, but it’s gotta be buried too. And I’ll be the Gravedigger.


For Old Times’ Sake Lavinia met her old friend María Balteira in a small bar near near the Praza do Toural in Santiago. She had invited her old friend, who was a minstrel, which meant she was paid for her services as a courtesan with King Alphonse the Wise. Balteira was from too long ago for Lavinia to ever locate and archive any artifacts pertaining to her, but they’d still gotten to know and like each other over the years. In fact, they were old friends. They went way back, you could say. Balteira arrived a few minutes late, grumbling. She certainly wasn’t the type to have tea, even with an old friend. “Where’s the drink?” she demanded right off as she let the door to Fervor slam behind her. Lavinia looked around, worried and hoping nobody had noticed the rudeness. They hadn’t. Once ‘the drink’ had been set in front of her and Lavinia’s green tea was in front of her as well, Balteira asked how her companion was. Lavinia used a Galician trick of answering a question with a question “Where have you been?” Everybody knew Balteira, who was admittedly famous, or infamous, but she still answered the query “I’ve been on the Road, of course. You know that’s what I do. Anyway, I’m here now and you can do me a favor.” Lavinia knew Balteira’s history, most of all from the writings of Marica Campo of Lugo. That meant she knew Balteira’s alleged reputation as a ‘loose woman’. She couldn’t imagine how she, a foreigner, could help the courtesan, who was getting up in years but still plying her trade, working to understand the world and be understood on her own terms. Balteira, because of her ‘profession’, had met many people - mostly men, if the truth be told - and had been the subject of many of the verses that had been sung and recited in the courts of the 12th and 13th centuries. Knights and clergy alike had all sung her praises, the ridiculed, vilified her for her low morals, her ‘dancing skirt’. Yes, Balteira was in a real snit, and showed it by scowling darkly. She was also a woman on a mission. “How can I possibly do anything for you?” answered her friend Lavinia, who hoped she didn’t look like she was talking to herself or to a ghost. Her friend was no longer of this earth, but she was her friend nonetheless, so she knew she’d have to try. “You’re still having the time of your life. The highway is your constant companion, along with a good assortment of male pilgrims…”

Maybe she’d gone too far. Balteira was sometimes sensitive about being reminded of her occupation, although she’d practiced it for years. She snorted. “Not so much. Haven’t you noticed? Recently I saw a chaplain in this very city of Santiago de Compostela, and told him I was getting old, vou vella . Actually, I sobbed, a lot, but he didn’t much care, man that he is. Aging is a problem for someone in my position, you know. Hell, for a woman in my position it’s absolutely catastrophic!”

Her companion had to admit it was true. She waited to see what her friend was going to ask her to do. “You’re here in this city whose cathedral is too big for a few weeks, right? So you can help me locate somebody. Everybody and his uncle strolls around the streets of the casco vello , the old sector, and I’m sure you can run into O Estudante sooner or later, if you try.” “What student? Who’s ‘The Student’?” Lavinia asked. “There are lots of them in the university here, thousands upon thousands of students, plus thousands of normal residents. It’d be like looking for a needle…” Balteira scoffed “I don’t know anything about riddles or refrains, but I do know about me. My skirt also knows a lot about them. So do my legs.” Lavinia stifled a snicker, thinking, correctly, that her companion was not trying to be funny. She was just stating a fact. She had no intention of judging her fun-loving friend, though. “So I need you to locate this student and can provide you with a very accurate description of him, right down to his…” Lavinia sipped her tea, thoughtfully, but with a slight squirm. She nevertheless listened attentively to the minute description provided, then agreed to do her friend’s bidding, with some trepidation. “What am I supposed to do once I locate him? After all, he knows you’re no longer on this earth, no longer among the living. He’s mourned your loss deeply even though you were at least twenty years older than he was, plus he won’t know who I am. More than that, I don’t have any of your potions to make a young student fall for me like he did for you. He could easily have been your son, and maybe close to that in my case. He won’t want to talk to me.” “Don’t lecture me!” snapped Balteira. “I don’t think you’re any saint in that sense either. Most women, if they’re smart, aren’t interested in living saintly lives. It’s just too dull.” Lavinia had to agree, but wasn’t about to tell her ghostly friend her story. That would wait until their next meeting. There was a task at hand, a request that friendship made a task she had to satisfy. “You make sure it’s him, gain his confidence any way you like, then give him these.” Balteira had a sheaf of old papers with inked lines, the script far from modern, because it was all handwritten and gorgeously so. “Here are my story, my songs, my words. The Student needs to take them, pretty them up with the editing knowledge he has acquired at University, then publish them. I am not skilled in technology, so he needs to do it. Those cantigas define my life, and as I said in Marica Campo’s play, Uncertainty of María Balteira , they’re my words, not the words of the men who plagiarized me, signed their own names, and ridiculed me as the sleazy broad, the one whose skirt was so easy to approach and explore. Marica left me with this decision to define myself, not be slandered by everybody. At that time I was on the Road to Santiago. Now I’m here, you’re here, and you can help me.” Lavinia looked serious now. O Estudante surely wouldn’t believe her if she did manage to locate him, because many centuries had passed, plus he might be too busy with exams or something to edit them the many pages. “You have to do it, L. I need to have my story out in the open. I need people to know how I really was and especially what I really thought and felt. What I still think and feel.” Lavinia looked doubtful. “If you do this great favor for me, I’ll gladly share some of the herbs and wisdom given me by the meiga Eusenda, the witch of Armea. Once the student has edited my writings and published them under my name with his own in small letters at the bottom of the inside page, I’ll come back for him. That’s the prize he’ll covet. That’ll seduce him into carrying out my request. Oh, and you can always offer to write the foreword, if that will help make him agree.” Lavinia, whose teacup showed only minuscule remnants of dark green, minced leaves, put the parchment pages into a blue portfolio made of heavy paper, with elastic on two corners, and nodded. “I’ll do it,” she replied, hoping she could. Balteira grinned, pleased at this response, and feeling even better after a few cuncas of thick, bloodlike Barrantes wine. She had itching feet and wanted to be on the move again. The two friends hugged the farewell from the 21st century to the 13th. Jeans-clad Lavinia with her ….. and ….., and a Balteira, older but with flowing hair and a swirling skirt. Lavinia set out toward the Obradoiro Square, in front of the Cathedral but also only a few steps from the School of Medicine and Dental Science of the University. If she didn’t find O Estudante there, she surely would be able to spot him near the area around the public market, where the School of Geography and History was located. Eventually, The Student appeared. His seeker knew who he was immediately, thanks to Balteira’s detailed description. (Lavinia didn’t need to compare every single detail to identify him, though.) He was walking along the historic Rúa do Franco, not really next to the market, but it was definitely him nevertheless. Just as he walked past Fonseca Square, off to one side of the Obradoiro, she took a deep breath and grabbed his arm. Lavinia was unsure of herself and just blurted out “These are from Balteira. She wants you to edit and publish them for her. I think she’s explained it all carefully in a note that’s attached.” She felt embarrassed. O Estudante looked at her, pursing his lips in a gesture of aggravation, puzzled at first because this older woman was a stranger and a foreigner, totally unfamiliar. He looked her up and down, decided he liked her in spite of her having just accosted him, because he liked older women, even respected some of them. He agreed to the request. Lavinia, slightly shaky, moved off, hoping she’d successfully completed her mission. The Student was just finishing his editorial comments and trying to decide if he wanted to ask Dr. Rivers to add anything. He was about to forward the manuscript to a potential publisher when Balteira appeared. The young man grinned from ear to ear, overjoyed at the sight of her and desirous of heading toward his lodgings with her in tow, but instead she moved off and he followed her lead toward the fields of meadowsweet, gorse and oregano on the edge of the city facing Pico Sacro mountain. They neared the waters with bindweed and yellow iris, toward the place where women speak, men agree, herbs and grasses have the ultimate power over mind and body, and many are happy. The story starts there.


Every day at noon he drifted through the village avoiding eye contact, mumbling, sometimes singing, with a perpetual grin on his face. He was large framed and tall with big hands and a long stride. His face looked red as a cherry, and his hair was greying and rested on his shoulders and looked unkempt, like a mullet. He usually wore a cape. A black cape. Not like Batman’s, much shorter. Why did he wear such a thing? Nobody knew. Nobody could answer that question. Sometimes he carried a cane and would beat the rhythm of each step on the road as he walked along. He was strange indeed. Everyone talked about him.  Only Jones the butcher conversed with him, but even then just small talk. He would come in the shop and point with his cane at what meat he wanted behind the glass counter and grunt or mutter the odd word or speak in broken sentences. Turned out he was the son of Mavis, the old gal who had passed away a few months prior. She had bequeathed him her cottage, and he had escaped from a mental asylum to live there. It wasn’t long before the bad kids clocked him and started making fun of him, calling him names and following in groups as he drifted through the village. He would spin round and wave his cane at them. They talked of him as the village idiot.

One day, locals Jack and Karen’s border collie Sinbad went missing. Grief stricken, they went to every household in the village, handing out missing dog flyers emblazoned with a soppy-eyed picture of Sinbad. The last house to visit was the cottage on the outskirts, the former home of Mavis, the old gal, now occupied by her son, whose name nobody knew. As Jack and Karen approached the front gate they noticed something familiar on the ground. Jack stooped and picked it up. It was a dog collar and it looked remarkably like Sinbad’s. Jack held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it, examining. It was Sinbad’s. It had his name stitched on it and the brass dog tag still attached with Jack and Karen’s home address engraved on it. They knocked on the door. There was no answer but they knew someone was in as they could hear noises coming from inside. Jack leant across and peered in through the lounge window. There was a roaring fire going in the hearth and a large black pot suspended over it, bubbling away and there was something bony poking out the top. Jack thought this was extremely odd as it was June and nobody lit a fire in June. They popped the flyer of the missing dog through the letterbox and shuffled back home. They got home and talked, suspicious about the stranger.          Next day the search for Sinbad intensified. All the villagers got together and covered every inch of ground in the area. There was no sign of the dog. Jack and Karen were crushed. That evening in the village pub, while nursing a pair of pints, they decided to confide in the group as to what they had seen over at the cottage the day before. Everyone now was even more suspicious of the new man in the village. They wanted to know more about him. They had become fearful. Was he a danger to the community?

         Word spread as to what Jack and Karen had seen at the cottage. The kids got crueller, and one day followed the caped man home, shouting out “DOG KILLER” and if he turned round would hide behind a tree giggling. One day, feeling particularly mischievous, they went to his house and spray painted ‘DOG KILLER’ on the front gate. He happened to see them do it from an upstairs window. He opened it and shouted something unintelligible at them. They laughed and started running. The man came out the house and chased them brandishing his cane. The boys took a short cut along the riverbank and the man followed making grunting noises as he ran. There had been a storm that day and heavy rain and the going was greasy underfoot. The man lost his footing and tripped on a tree root and went headfirst into the river. The kids stopped and look back expecting to see the man chasing them. “Look he’s in the river,” one of them said. The man was struggling in the currents, splashing. It was obvious he couldn’t swim. The boys stood there laughing and pointing. The man disappeared under the ‘water. The boys waited for him to resurface but couldn’t see him. The currents were strong and he was swept away. The boys ran home in a state of excitement, laughing. Next morning the postman noticed the graffiti on the gate and the front door of the cottage wide open. He walked on by and told everyone in the village what he had seen.

A couple of days passed and the villagers started gossiping that they hadn’t seen the eccentric around for a while. That afternoon, a squad of police cars shot through the village, sirens wailing. Then a police van pulled up outside Jack and Karen’s. An officer climbed out the back with a dog on a leash. Karen flew out the front door. “Sinbad!” She gathered the dog in her arms, tears of joy flowed down her cheeks. She squeezed him tight, petted him all over. “Where did you find him?” “He was spotted wandering around uptown, possibly taken there by dog thieves,” said the policeman. They thanked the policemen profusely.

“Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea officers?” said Karen. “We’d love to stop by but we need to assist some colleagues up ahead. You may as well hear it from us. A body of a man has washed up on the riverbank. Probably fell in and got swept away by the strong currents.”


Ambush The massive hand-hewn spear whistled through the forest in search of its target. With a sickening thud, the jagged steel tip tore through the chain-mail armor, gouging and ripping as it pinned its victim to a damp cedar tree trunk. Embúr, the wood elf, let out a cry of pain as he grabbed the violently vibrating shaft and tried to stop it from moving. His face was a mask of distressing agony as he bit his lip to muffle the sound, not wanting his attackers to find his exact location. He focused and centered his mind, ignoring the gushing rent in his mid-section–his task was not yet complete. Searching, his eyes spotted Wick, a few feet away, sitting, back up against a moss-covered boulder, hyperventilating, rocking back and forth, and whimpering. “Wick,” croaked the mortally wounded elf. “Wick, open your eyes and answer me. Are you okay?” The young wood elf blinked his eyes open and slowly turned his head toward the older elves’ voice, then threw his hand to his mouth, eyes wide with terror. “It is okay. You will need to finish this task. I have faith in you,” said the older elf surprisingly calmly. The wooden missiles continued to sail through the air, indiscriminately hitting trees or landing in the undergrowth. Wick cringed, hearing the bushes battered by the searching Grizloids with their foul guttural voices. “They’re going to find us!” cried the young elf. “Embúr, I don’t want to die,” the young elf closed his glistening eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees. In his free leather-gloved hand, Embúr unsteadily held up a hand-sized crystal orb that glowed a bluish-green. Speaking shakily, he voiced, “Galad beri-ammen.” The pulsing teal light from inside the orb grew brighter, moving out in every direction, creating a radiant bubble thirty yards in all directions, cutting through the darkness of the surrounding dense forest. “Listen to me. I can’t hold this shield for very long. You must collect yourself, take the Geostar, and complete our mission. I won’t be going any further,” panted Embúr. “Gather the life source like I taught you.” Wick opened his eyes and looked at his pleading older compatriot, who was fighting for every breath, then shook his head in acknowledgment. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the angry shouts and the pulses of light flickering around him as the attackers beat at the shield, only to be thrown back by its magic. Wick took a deep breath, remembering his training, then voiced the words, barely audible, “Beri-nin naneth terra.” Tendrils of steam rose from the moss-covered forest floor and swirled together, coalescing into a glowing blue rope. The ethereal cord moved towards Wick, like a snake floating in the air, then wrapped itself around the tiny chanting elf several times, causing his back and shoulders to straighten erect and stout. Wick hopped up with new vigor and ran to his proudly smiling mentor. He reached Embúr and tried to help support him but knew there was nothing he could do to help his friend–his insides viewable–the wound was too massive. “Very good, Wick. *cough* You did that on your first try. You are ready,” praised the fading elf. “Once I hand the Geostar to you, the Gúl Than will dissipate, *cough*, and the Grizloids will rush us. You need to run as fast as you can. You must use the Dolen Aglon to get to the top of Drago Ul balkalesh-ra.” Wick protested, “But you said the Dolen Aglon was too dangerous.” “Wick, it is your only option now *cough*,” said Embúr. “The Grizloids have blocked every ascent of the pyramid, but they won’t follow you into the Dolen Aglon. You have to get to the entrance before they find you. Can you do that?” Wick shook his head, “I can do that. They won’t catch me.” “Good, I have faith in you. Use the power of the Geostar to keep yourself safe through the Dolen Aglon, as we trained. When you get to the top, you know what to do.” Wick helplessly watched as Embúr let out a gurgled breath and slumped to the ground, his shaking legs unable to support him anymore. “You’ve…got…this…” Embúr’s face took on a peaceful gaze as his last breath silently expired, at the same time, his hand holding the orb opened, allowing the glowing object to roll to the ground. Like nails on a chalkboard, an ear-splitting screech ripped through the air as the shield phased out, bursting like a bubble, causing all hell to break loose. Fight or Flight Wick was in shock as he looked at his crumpled mentor lying lifeless against the tree. He snapped out of it quickly as multiple ravenous screams approached, putting him in fight or flight mode. He was not in the mood to fight, so he ran, holding the Geostar tight against his chest. His sight was crisp and clear even though it was almost entirely dark, the forest foliage blocking the moonlight. This clarity of vision was a by-product of the life source he had imbibed earlier. It also gave him focus, allowing him to ignore the swatting Thistle Palms that smacked him in the face as he ran. It gave him an extra boost of energy as well, powering him through the leg-grabbing Slither Vines that grabbed at his ankles. He picked his way through the bushes, over downed logs, and dodged tree trunks like a fawn escaping a hungry shadow cat. He felt almost invincible until a sharp pain cracked him in the skull, causing him to fall and skid face-first into the forest floor. He rolled over and felt a trickle of blood flow just above his ear. Spitting out a mouth full of dirt, he jumped back to his feet, shook off the injury, and kept going–his life depended on his determination. The knuckles and feet of his pursuers galloped through the undergrowth, getting ever closer. There must have been a dozen individual voices yelling in a language unrecognizable to most elves. Though Wick didn’t understand the words spoken from either side of his current location, he knew their meaning– get him . He came to the edge of the Cedar grove and saw his destination just ahead—a small stone door in the side of Drago Ul balkalesh-ra, the Pyramid of the Dragon. Several stones and spears sailed past him harmlessly as he ducked into the entrance, continuing as far in as he could until he could no longer see. He turned around, looked down the corridor, and saw several giant bear-gorilla beasts beating their chests in outrage outside the structure but not daring to follow inside. Wick let out a sigh of relief and then turned to continue. Uttering an incantation, “Galad nin té” into the Geostar, it began to glow a bright white-ish green. The cautious elf came to a stone stairway and ran up it, two steps at a time. It emptied into a tremendous cathedral-like room with tilted walls that mirrored the pyramid's shape. He could see across the massive hall a stairway that continued upward. His goal was to get to the top of the pyramid, taking the Geostar with him and completing his mentor’s task. Tentatively, he entered the room to cross when a fountain of sparks exploded skyward out of the floor in a funnel of burning, crackling energy. The conflagration turned into a tornado, spinning, sizzling, and reaching the top of the cavernous room. As it hit the ceiling, it arched downward, twisting, changing shape at will, like a murmuration of Fury Darts, until coalescing into a massive Dragon-shaped beast. Wick knew the monstrous shape before him was Naur Radag, the fire beast. Standing eight stories tall, head reaching up, opening its giant mouth, it let out an ear-rending roar. Wick crouched against the wall, paralyzed with fear. Use the power of the Geostar to protect yourself, echoed in his head–the words of his mentor. Gathering his courage, he raised the Geostar above his head and muttered, “Galad Magol.” Immediately, the Geostar transformed into a large double-handed sword gleaming greenish blue. Wick stepped forward, pointing the magical blade at the beast, moving slowly, working his way to the door on the opposite side of the room. The beast had other ideas and lunged like a snake for the tiny elf. Wick reacted without thought, tucked and rolled, swinging upward as fast as a bullwhip. The sword expanded to an enormous length and sliced the ethereal beast’s neck clean through, causing a shower of sparks and a gurgled outcry. The vanquished foe evaporated with the same sizzling theatrics of its arrival, leaving only the fading echo of the beast’s mighty roar. Wick stood astonished, panting, alone in the dark room with only the green glow of his sword. Convincing his feet to move, he hurried across the space to the stairs, fully focused on completing his task. Master’s Control Wick reached the top of the stairs and stepped out of the door. He stood on the flat-topped pyramid and looked over the dark forest below him. Several torches magically lit as he approached a ring of tall-pointy metallic spires that surrounded a circular waist-high stone platform at the center of the ceremonial pinnacle. His mentor was supposed to take the Geostar to the platform and stand on it. That task now fell on his shoulders, and he, without hesitation, entered the circle. Standing on the platform, he broadcast the magic spell as he had been taught, “Jiak auf ul Geostar shal anwher tor powr!” Wick’s entire body was subsumed in a raging green flame that swirled to a point and shot out into space, making him look like a wick on a pyramidal candle. He convulsed with the energy that surged unchecked through his body and let out a primordial scream that filtered down to the forest below. The Grizloids, at the base of the structure, cowered as they heard the sound and saw the emerald beam in awe and fear. As quickly as the light had appeared, it switched off. The Geostar, in the elf's hands, had disappeared into dust as the final incantation was spoken. The effort left Wick bent over, hands on his knees, panting. He had done it. “Very good,” came a voice just behind the exhausted elf. “You have performed your task exceptionally well.” “Master, how did you get here?” asked the exhausted elf. “In time, you will be able to travel wherever you want, with just a thought,” said the tall, black-cloaked elf. He stood head and shoulders taller than Wick, with slicked-back long black hair and pointy, gold-tipped ears that glimmered in the moonlight. His glinting stare was piercing. “Master, why did I have to kill Embúr?” asked Wick. “It felt wrong. He was my friend.” “His true task was to prepare you. I sensed greatness in you. He was only a means to an end. Once he had fulfilled his task, he was no longer useful,” concluded the Dark Elf. “Master, what is my purpose then?” Wick asked with trepidation. He feared he may be expendable as well. “You will find out in due time. Grab my cloak,” commanded the Dark Elf, offering his arm. “I hear and obey,” said Wick as the two elves whisked out in a blur of sparks and disappeared into darkness. The End


Whini ng, Sunny pawed at the door while Julian shuffled around the hallway gathering things and putting on his coat. He had the leash and the ball but knew he was forgetting something. Sunny whined louder with growing anticipation, becoming so distracting that Julian gave up and opened the door to the cold autumn night. It had been a hard transition from summer; Julian had started the final year of his degree in architecture - requiring a lot of his time and attention - and Sunny was having trouble adjusting. Knowing it was hard on Sunny, Julian had promised that their evening walks would never be compromised. Tonight, however, it had been pushed back a few hours, and they were both upset at each other. Julian had been busy frantically repairing the complex 18 th Century farmhouse maquette that Sunny, feeling particularly bitter that day, had chewed to bits. Julian plodded along grumpily as Sunny tugged excitedly at the leash. He was a classic golden retriever aside from an unusual covering of white fur on his paws that imitated little boots, especially now as he plowed through a large puddle in the base of the track to their favourite park. With the most unfortunate timing, Julian bent down and unclasped the leash from Sunny's collar just as he began shaking off the excess water. His shaggy coat functioned like a drenched mop, showering Julian in a spray of filthy puddle. The little rascal then bounded off, disappearing up the track while Julian slowly trailed behind, groaning and wiping his eyes. The day had been long and exhausting; the crisp night air biting at Julian’s face was the only thing really keeping him awake. Eventually he emerged between the tree-lined rim of the park and flopped down on the grass with a yawn. It was wet with dew, but he was too tired to care. Sunny was nowhere to be seen on the field. Julian figured he must be in the bushes somewhere, either marking his territory or sniffing out someone else's. "C'mere boy! Sunnyyyyy!" He called, throwing the ball as he did so. It was all part of their usual routine - Sunny would always come running from somewhere, and they'd play fetch until they both got too hungry and bored and wanted to go home. But Sunny didn't come. "Here Sunny!!! Come on boy!!!" Julian called again, a little louder this time. After a few minutes passed, he stood back up, deciding to wander closer to the bushes in case Sunny couldn't hear him or was distracted by a hedgehog or something. "Sunnnyyyyyy, here boy! Sunshine! Come here Sunny!" He continued calling him as he wandered along the edge of the park and peered into the bushes, knowing he would shine like his namesake in this leafy darkness. Julian was starting to get concerned. Panic was creeping up into his chest and he tried to push it down by yelling louder. "SUNNY! SUNNYYYY!!!" He couldn't whistle with his fingers but tried anyway, hoping that the skill would come to him in his time of need. It didn't. The park was embedded in the town belt; it wasn't quite a forest, but it was dense and dark enough to get lost in unless you had a light, which, after frantic rummaging through his pockets, Julian realized he didn't. That was what he’d forgotten - his keys. They were at home, sitting uselessly on the kitchen counter with his mini torch keychain attached. Julian was locked out in the cold with no dog. He started biting his nails, simultaneously willing Sunny to come back, and trying to figure out what to do if he didn't. In the midst of the dilemma, a warm yellow light appeared in the near distance, catching Julian's attention. It came from the observatory on the hill overlooking the park, only a minute or two away. Julian decided to go up there and ask for help, his brisk pace breaking into a run that left him breathless when he got to the door. Still panting, he knocked urgently on the heavy steel. It was loud and obtrusive but conjured no answer. He knocked again, and, having now caught his breath, called out to them. "Hello? Is anyone here? I need help!" He stepped back and looked up at the light in the window, his supposed beacon. A shadow passed over it, then the light went out. "What?" Julian whispered, confused, and feeling a little pissed off now. "HEY! I know someone's in there! Please help me!!! My dog is lost! I need help to find him!" He knocked on the door again, longer and even louder this time, determined not to be ignored. After a minute or so, Julian heard footsteps approaching the door. Slowly, it opened - but only by a crack. It was too small for Julian to see through, but from the other side came the voice of a man obviously grizzled by the commotion. "The observatory is NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. Stop all this fuss and make your way off the premises sir, or we'll call the authorities." He started to close the door but Julian grabbed it quickly and swung it fully open. "Look man, I'm sorry to disturb you but I really need help finding my dog, even if I could just borrow a torch or something? It’s so dark I can't see anything and I'm really worried, please." Startled by Julian's persistence, the man froze, unable to respond. Once he stopped his incessant begging, Julian too, was stuck for words. The man was cloaked in a golden silk hooded robe embroidered with thousands of different scenes of human history - wars, kings, queens, voyages, crimes, births, deaths - it appeared to showcase a timeline of every important moment throughout humanity. The room behind him was also gold, carpeted in a seamless velvet from floor to ceiling. Everything was illuminated by a single candle that the man gripped, still in shock as he stared at Julian with wide, blank eyes. It was all very strange and uncomfortable, but Julian needed help. "Um, I'm really sorry for barging in like this man. I can see you're obviously busy, but if I could just borrow a torch or a candle or whatever to find my dog, that would be amazing... and I'd bring it right back!" There was something very unsettling about this man and the room and the deadly stillness. Julian started to get a nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach; something felt wrong here, off, dark. Very slowly, as if he were moving through thick liquid, the man placed the candle in a holder fixed to the wall beside him. There was a sudden shift that could be felt within the man's movements. he no longer seemed awkward, rather there was an eerie calmness emanating from him now; an unsettling composure that made Julian feel vulnerable and unsafe. The man reached inside his robe and, as he bored into Julian's eyes with his sinister stare, pulled out a gun. Julian's blood ran cold. "We gave you every chance to turn away and go back to where you came from... but you couldn't take a hint, could you boy?" Fear engulfed Julian's entire body: his knees started buckling and beads of sweat trembled down his forehead as he stuttered and pleaded for his life. The man remained unmoved, expressionless as he stepped toward Julian and struck a blow to the side of his head. His body went limp.

*** A metallic gold room slowly came into focus, accompanied by a sharp pain in the side of his head. Julian moaned as he made an attempt to reach up and cradle his wounded temple - but his arms wouldn’t move. Confused, he looked down. To his complete horror, Julian found himself bound to a chair with cable ties. He tried pulling again and again, panicking and swearing; unaware that he was surrounded by ten figures shrouded in identical golden robes. Suddenly his forehead was met with a cool sensation, causing him to stiffen. He looked up. Still faint from the blow, Julian thought he must be dreaming: the golden wall of figures towering over him appeared rather mystical, almost soothing, like a collective of guardian angels. But this haze was abruptly cleared by grave reality, as the cool sensation Julian felt now materialized before him - it was the man from the door holding the gun to his head. "Does anyone know you're here?" His voice was deep and threatening. "No, no, I swear. I don't even know where I am, I don't know anything! I swear I don't know anything and I won't do anything please let me go please, you don't have to do this." Julian felt hot tears starting to stream down his face; he was completely helpless, trapped. “Don’t bother lying to us boy, we know you didn’t come here on your own. Now, TELL US,” the man pulled his finger back on the trigger, “WHO SENT YOU HERE?” “NO ONE DID! NOBODY I SWEAR!!! I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON I JUST WANTED TO FIND MY DOG YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!!!” Julian began sobbing uncontrollably. The man sighed. “Alright, get it together you sniveling idiot. You’re going to tell us who you work for, one way or another… and you’re running out of time to do it the easy way. SO YOU BETTER START THINKING BOY OR-” The man with the gun was cut off mid-threat as one of the other figures stepped forward, gently interrupting in a calm, soft-spoken voice. “Now, now, Bromine, maybe we ought to give this young man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he really was simply looking for his dog, and we have acted defensively in haste.” A glance passed between the two men. It was quick, but it contained an unspoken understanding, and had the weight of something sinister within it. Julian didn’t notice this though; he was just bubbling over with relief, never so grateful to be heard in all his life. “Yes! Yes! Oh, thank you, thank you sir, thank you for believing me! I promise I won’t say anything about this to anyone ever I’ll just find my dog and go straight home and forget all about it!” Bromine glared at him from under his hood. “You’re not going ANYWHERE, boy. Not till you drop the bloody act and start telling us the truth.” The other man, smiling, tutted and shook his head at Bromine, then knelt down before Julian on one knee. In a relaxed, friendly manner, he rested his elbow atop his knee and leaned his cheek against the back of his hand, looking directly into Julian’s eyes. “You must forgive Bromine; he has been betrayed before and doesn’t trust newcomers easily. Now, tell me son, where did you lose your dog?” The way this man addressed him made Julian feel almost childlike. He felt the panic starting to subside, his heart slowing to a more normal pace, able to breathe again. “I lost him in the park just down the hill - I think he ran into the woods maybe; I don’t know where else he could have gone. Usually he runs off for a bit but always comes back after I call him, but I was calling for ages and he didn’t come so I’m really worried… I’m scared he’s run away or maybe he’s hurt.” Julian started to cry again as he voiced his fears out loud. He wished more than anything that he hadn’t been so grumpy with him that day. It felt as though this whole nightmare was his own fault - if he’d just forgiven Sunny, if they just went for a walk at the usual time, maybe none of this would have happened. Sunny only ruined his work because he was jealous, after all. Julian was lucky to have a dog that loved him that much, he realized that now. He could see how dark life was without Sunny. The man patted him on the arm gently. “It’s alright son, we’ll find him. So, he’s a golden retriever; does he have any distinguishable features?” Julian told him the basic stats of Sunny’s height, weight, and age. The man maintained his calm demeanor, nodding along like a dad or a teacher. But as Julian described Sunny’s paws - how they looked like little white boots - the man’s eyes slowly widened, and a darkness fell over his face. The room, which was already silent, somehow grew even more so. Julian suddenly felt nauseous; he knew something he said was wrong, and any hope he had of getting out of here had completely vanished. Bromine, trembling, slowly knelt beside the man and spoke to him in a shrill, hoarse whisper. “Phosphorus, what he claims surely cannot be true. He is a meagre boy, an outsider… The Golden One would never grace someone so unworthy with his presence.” Through his panic, Bromine had exposed the façade of his severe, threatening disposition; he now appeared weak and on edge, the gun not so intimidating in his loose grip. As though they had traded roles, Phosphorus stood up, grabbed Julian by the collar of his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. “Now, you listen to me, boy. No one outside these walls knows of The Golden One. The Golden One is the divine leader of The Elemental Brotherhood of The Periodic Order. Centuries, CENTURIES we have awaited for the prophecy of the Golden One’s arrival to be fulfilled,” Phosphorus pulled his hood right down over his face, displaying an embroidered picture of Sunny circled by an iridescent glow, “the prophecy that destines our brotherhood to serve the righteous will of the one true leader; the immortal ruler who will grant us eternal life, and each our own wing of the golden palace.” Phosphorus lifted his hood back up and pressed his face close into Julian’s, leaving the tips of their noses only a hair-width apart. His breath was hot and stale. “If the Golden One has chosen you to guide us to Him, then be it so. But if your words are false, if The Golden One does not recognize you as an Elemental Brother, your life ends tonight.” Phosphorus let go his grip of Julian’s collar, dropping him to the floor.  Bromine stepped forward and cut the cable ties around his wrists. Julian bolted out of the chair toward the door - but was held back by a firm hand on his shoulder. It was Phosphorus, digging his nails deep into his skin. “I really hope we can find your doggy.” *** Julian thought he would feel immense relief once he was back out in the crisp night air, but the madmen who followed him - laden with pillar candles and guns - were definitely keeping him tense. They reached the edge of the park. The men stood behind Julian in a semicircle, forming a human barricade while he gazed hopelessly into the blackness of the forest. “Well, go ahead boy… make The Golden One appear.” Julian took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing with all his might for Sunny to come running out, tail wagging, happy as a lamb. “SUNNY! HERE BOY! SUNNNYYYYY!!!” The seconds that followed were agonizing; it felt like an age passed by. Having lost all hope, Julian was preparing himself for death when, suddenly, a faint glow appeared in the woods. At first he thought he was seeing things, hallucinating from fear - but then, sure enough, out of the woods came Sunny. Julian had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life; darling Sunny, his very own little ray of sunshine, casting light all over the horrible night and the scary men around them. They ran toward each other. As Sunny knocked Julian down and licked him all over his face, the brotherhood fell to their knees and began chanting in unison. “Oh Golden One, Mighty Golden One, we are your brothers, we are your home…” Taking this chance to escape, Julian sprinted across the park with Sunny at his heels. The brotherhood cried out in unified anger, and as Julian reached the track on the other side, he heard them fire shots into the air. They were being hunted. Adrenaline kicked in, and Julian made it home in less than a minute. There was considerable distance between him and the brotherhood - but, as he fumbled around in his pockets, Julian realized for the second time that night that he’d forgotten his keys. His body filled with dread. Their footsteps were getting louder; they were rounding the street corner, only seconds away. Julian looked around desperately for somewhere to hide while Sunny whimpered, pawing at the door. Then it hit – Sunny’s doghouse! Around the side of the house, half lodged into the hedge, was a doghouse Julian had built in the first year of his undergraduate degree. Sunny had never used it because it was too small and cramped, but tonight, it looked no different to a five-star hotel, and they jammed themselves in. Julian, ever so slightly, pulled back the flap and peered out to the street. The men were wandering up and down the road in search for them, only metres away. Then, two doors up, a porchlight turned on. The brotherhood suddenly stopped in their tracks. For a second, they were torn - The Golden One was so close, but maintaining secrecy was their ultimate priority. Within moments, they vanished from the street. Julian let out a long, deep sigh of relief. Although he knew he was still in danger and that he really ought to keep running, all the built-up stress and tension of the night suddenly caught up to him and, exhausted, he fell asleep with Sunny in the doghouse – vowing never to lose him again.


I apologize for going off prompt a bit.  My story does not take place in the Wild West, rather in the hills of east Kentucky, but I think you'll enjoy this disturbing tale nonetheless. The landscape of eastern Kentucky is worth seeing if you enjoy scenic places and Olive Hill is certainly as quaint as any small town can be tucked into a tidy corner of the Western Appalachian Mountains.

There is a country road, simply known as Road #2 that meanders through the rolling hills until you happen on a small hamlet called Forgotten Corners just past Sawbones Gap.  There is a reason why this place got its name, but if you are fascinated by ancient lore, this small section of the hills will bend your mind.

Those of us who have been here a while, know of this strange phenomenon I am about ready to reveal to you.  So put another stick on the fire, cozy up and let me tell you of a place in the hills known as Sawbones Gap. Washington Irving wrote of a place called along the Hudson River in New York where a man lay down for a nap and woke up twenty years later.

His story, like most told, does have an element of nonfiction amidst all the fiction.  Same with Sawbones Gap.  Moonshiners have been running that country route for as long as I can remember with hairpin curves and winding roads that seem to disappear into the clouds, Route #2 is a favorite because experienced moonshine drivers can easily elude the authorities, because, let’s face it, most of them patrol cars are not detailed the way runners are done up with engines that seem to run on Kerosene or maybe jet fuel.

There have been legends of runners who are known as ghosts up there by those chasing them. One day one of the better known runners, Beau Mondone told me of Sawbones Gap and Forgotten Corners just beyond that landmark.

Beau is one of my regulars at my dinner opened when my dad got out of the service and on the wall by the cash register is a black and white photograph taken back in 1955 when a young drifter happened by. He told my pa that he was from Mississippi and he was headed for Memphis on account he just signed a contract with Sun Records.

My dad served him up some of his best fixings and asked the young man to pose with him for a photograph.  And that’s how that photograph of my pa mugging it up with Elvis Presley got there.

“Can I tell ya something, Bill?” He asked me as he finished up his Roadkill Stew.

The stew isn’t really made from roadkill, but the name is sort of a favorite as my regulars will shout over to the short order cook, “Rustle me up some of that Roadkill stew woncha Russ.”

Newbies and travelers let their jaws drop at the request for the stew and this gets a good snicker from those who know.

Russ Mullins, my lead short order cook will dice up some squirrel sometimes when he’s been out in the woods for a weekend, but for the most part the meet is pure beef, but not some of the finer cuts if you know what I mean.

So I pull up a chair to Beau’s table and lean on over to him so he can talk to me without other folks listening.

His face gets this ghostly white all of a sudden and his voice gets kind of croaky like a bullfrog sitting by a pond, “Have you ever been to Forgotten Corners?” “Can’t say I have.

That road is a deathtrap.” I blow air through my two missing teeth making the gap whistle as I do. “Yeah, well I run that road quite a bit when Shane tells me his home brew is ready for distribution.” Beau takes out a cancer stick from the pack rolled up in his shirt sleeve and lights it with his Bic lighter.

After blowing a cloud of smoke in the air even though I’ve gone non-smoking in my dining room, I do not get all hyper if someone lights one up on occasion. “I went up there last night after sundown.  I’ve been told by bretherend not to do that, but Shane pays good, real good.” “So I’ve heard.

Ain’ never had the ATF sniffing out his stills.” I nodded knowing his reputation for caution to the trade.

“Anyway, I hardly ever notice that small knothole in the hills, but last night I picked up a cherry top so I stopped into the cafe just before you get to Sawbones Gap.

And this guy with a flattop and whitewalls comes strolling on up to me ready to take my order.  There was this big old mirror filling up the entire wall behind the counter where he was standing.

Pretty routine if you asking me, until I notice the mirror.” “What about it?” I shrugged trying not to appear bored. “The only one reflected in that mirror was me.” He paused, “That flattop soda jerk was nowhere to be seen.”

I laughed, because screaming would alarm my other customers, “What was he?

Some kind of ghoul?” “It would seem to be so.” Beau sucked on his cigarette for a minute it seemed like, the red glow at the end burned over half way down toward his nicotine stained fingers. “‘Cept Roy Dauers told me something that made my hair stand up on end.”

“Yeah, what?

You know Roy is a burnout from Vietnam.” I shook my head. “Yeah, but he’s one of the best in the business.

Hallucinating or strung out on other mind bending substances, I would trust him until the end.” Beau gave me a glare from his cold gray eyes, “Roy said them people live by a different clock.”

This was a strange statement by any stretch of the imagination, but Beau who never gave into urban myths or any sort of poltergeist bunk, was telling me that Forgotten Corners was a nest of ;paranormal activity.

There were enough stories of moonshiners turned serial killer using axes and other sharp objects to cut up their victims into little bite sized pieces.  The hills were always fertile grounds for creepy tales of bizarre behavior and horrible happenings.

“Time?

What do you mean?” I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall over the kitchen porthole where orders were placed as a bell was rung. “How many minutes are in an hour?” He asked without batting an eye.

“Sixty minutes.

Has always been sixty.” I shrugged and blinked my eyes. “What would happen if there were, let’s say, sixty one or two minutes in an hour while everybody else counts sixty minutes in an hour?” He snubbed out his cigarette in his glass of water that was half full.

I laughed. “Are you nuts?” “Wish I was.” He was not joining in laughter. “So you’re telling me that this place has extra minutes on their clock?” I asked still humored by the thought. “Something like that, yeah.” He was dead serious and this made me stop laughing. “This is nuts.

Time is the one constant we all have.

Gravity is another.” I pointed out feeling like my elementary teacher Miss Gibbs. She made us recite these basic facts during our daily chants. “Thirty days are in September, April, June and November, all the rest have thirty one except for February and that has…” “What was the world like before we had the Gregorian Calendar?

Really screws up the historical facts, but once the standard is set then everything becomes clear, but what if there were pockets or corners in this world that didn’t follow the rules or standards?” His voice was strained and his eyes looked like they longed for the lids to close. I began to run what he was saying through my central processor on top of my handsome forehead.

“There were no clocks in the place.

None of the people had reflections or shadows following them.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop to his chest.

“Why?” I put my hands together on the table in front of me.

I glanced over at Russ wearing his toque sitting lopsided on his bald head, but he gave me a thumbs up to let me know all was well.

“I asked.” He closed his eyes again. “And…” I cued him on.

“He told me that their shadows have not caught up with them in time.” He spoke through his clenched teeth.

“Wha?

Shadows?

Time?” I shook my head in disbelief. “He told me that Sawbones Gap there is this vortex, a black hole that sucks in small amounts of light and time and because of that, their hours have more minutes in them.” He put his hand over his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, “Shadows and reflections show up later.

Much later, because the time warp, like a ripple in the water, catches up later.” The last part of his explanation was swallowed by his own mouth as if saying this aloud would make this freakish phenomenon a reality.

I had heard others talk about Sawbones Gap stating that there was a strange sensation when you drove through the rocks resembling a football goal post.

Some of those who had been out on Route #2 said that there were strange waves fluttering through the rock formation resembling the refraction of rocks when heat rose up out of the desert rocks.

Some even told me that their engines began to pull as if the vehicle did not want to pass through gap.  It all seemed like urban legends to me, but then I had never gone up there.  I had no reason to.

My pa told me that I would be wiser to leave the hills to the moonshiners.  But now as I heard Beau tell me his story, I began to feel that I had to go have a look for myself.

As Route # 2 empties into the Olive Hill, a picturesque town that would look quite right on a postcard, but once you travel past the first hill, Route #2 changes personalities from a rolling rural road into a twisting deadly snake winding through the oak and pine trees that seem to smother the scenery with dense canopies that block out the sunlight in many places, giving them the appearance of dark sinister places capable of dispersing evil.

Some places receive such sparse sunlight that the rocks and pavement surfaces never seem to completely dry off.  Beau rode shotgun as I drove.  He asked to come with me when I told him that I had to see Forgotten Corners and the shadowless inhabitants. About twenty minutes of driving, the road got rougher, pots holes were everywhere and tree roots pushed up against the blacktop creating cracks and bumps that we seemed to catch each and everyone of them.

“There it is.” Beau pointed to the rocks on either side of the road, “Sawbones Gap.” He told me Sawbones Gap was named after a surgeon from the Civil War who afterwards, moved up into these hills to escape the memories of the carnage he had lived through for four years. He was very successful in his seclusion as he was never seen again.

The popular version was that he was killed by a wild animal he encountered trying to gain entrance to his cabin. There seemed to be some sort of electric field running between the two rocks as the area beyond the rocks was blurred by whatever force was active there.

Beau told me to drive through it and I did, but as I was warned the car shook as I drove between the two rocks of Sawbones Gap. “Are you feeling any different?” Beau asked. “No, not really.” But when I looked in the rearview mirror, I did not see my reflection and I gasped. “No reflection, eh?” He shook his head. “What does that mean?” I was almost afraid to ask, but I knew it was a question I needed an answer to.

“I’m not sure.” His face went white and bloodless.

It took twenty more minutes before I saw a sign posted for Forgotten Corners and in all my time in Kentucky, I had never heard of this place.

Surely with a name as strange as Forgotten Corners, someone must have noticed the novelty of the name.  Driving up to the dinner where Beau had stopped the previous evening, I noticed the parking lot was empty, but as I drove up the dinner appeared to have customers inside. Getting out of the car, I was stunned by the absence of sound. As soon as I turned the key, both of us were immersed in a cocoon of silence. I looked at Beau and saw he was looking back at me.

He offered a quick shrug as we walked toward the door to enter the dinner.  Even our footfalls were silent as we walked up the wooden stairs and Beau opened the heavy glass door.  I heard Beau gasped. “Mr. Mondone, good to see you again.” The young man in an apron greeted him. “You were working here last night when I came in.” He stammered. “Yes of course.” He smiled, but it seemed out of place.

Beau was right, the young man did not have a reflection in the wall mirror, but then neither did we.

Beau saw it too, but I shook my head when I saw he was going to question the young man. “Can I get you something while you look over the menu?” He handed both of us laminated menus. “Yeah...where is my shadow?” He asked abruptly. “Mr. Mondone, I believe I explained it to you last night.” He said patronizingly as he removed his pad from the pocket of his apron. “Shadows and reflections are locked into another time.” Simple.

End of story. Or was it?

Beau flopped down on a stool in front of the counter and put his head in his hands. “It doesn’t work like that.” He nearly moaned. “Here it does.

It has to.  We are behind.

Our day is twenty five hours long.” He crossed his arms over his clean apron.

“Over the years that adds up.  Even if our clocks were a minute off, in several years we would be a couple of days behind.” The young man patiently explained, but instead of offering comfort to this strange atmospheric reality, it just upset Beau even more.

I had to admit this wasn’t sitting well with me either. The pie in the case seemed to fade until there was nothing there but an empty plate. “No, it does not work like that.” Beau slammed his fist down on the counter, but there was no sound.

A few seconds later we heard the silverware rattling noise of his fist hitting the counter.  My mouth went dry. “You see, neither one of you really belong here, but you chose to drive through Sawbones Gap and once you do that, you become part of our world.

If you stay for a while, you will begin to acclimate to our time.  Stay one day and the next day will be twenty five hours long.” He did not take his eyes off of Beau who was sitting with his head bowed, his eye fixed on the floor knowing that if he looked up he would scream.

“The longer you choose to stay here, the more you will find yourself adjusting to our time.  I have been here for over one hundred years.”

“Noooo!” His shout was lost in the tick of the clock that went tick...tick...tick...tock. He put his hands over his ears. “Beau, I think we should go.” I suggested. “This is crazy.

All of this.” He picked up an empty coffee cup that was heavy ceramic and flung it against the clock.

The clock exploded without a sound.  Glass rained down all over the young man behind the counter, but he just stood there smiling.

After a moment or two the loud sound of glass violently shattering sounded. “Delay!  Why is the sound delayed?” “I told you.” He assured Beau who was beginning to have a nervous breakdown.

I found it difficult myself to come to grips with what was going on.  How could two places operate in different time dimensions within the same area?

This strange reality like the glass in the face of the clock was raining down all over us, covering us in this unsettling actuality. “I can’t take it here for another minute.” Beau stated as he stood up, “C’mon Bill, let’s get out of here.”

“Where do you think you are going?” The young man’s face sported a very sinister smile as we took a step toward the door where we came in. “Back to where we came from, junior.” Beau snarled. Suddenly the young man began to laugh and his laughter filled the dinner. “What’s so funny?” Beau asked as his laughter began to unnerve us both. “You broke my clock.” He pointed to the faceless clock dangling from the wall. “Yeah, so?” Beau shrugged. “What you destroyed was your passage back to where you came from.” He sniffed nodding toward the shattered timepiece where even the numbers were no longer legible. “You destroyed your only means of leaving Forgotten Corners and passing through Sawbones Gap.

You see Ol’ Doc Blanchard who found Sawbones Gap works as my dishwasher.” An ancient man with long beard and scraggly hair poked his face out of the kitchen and gave us a quick wave.

“All the people who come to Forgotten Corners must obey that clock you destroyed and without it you have disrupted the delicate balance-” I heard Beau scream pointing at the parking lot that was completely empty.

Upon noting my car was no longer parked out front, I gasp as the young man concluded, “ -you can never return to where you came from, because in destroying my clock, you have both now both citizens of Forgotten Corners. Welcome.”

An hour later I heard the scream that came from deep inside my guts and exited my open mouth.