An alert sounded from the communications system, accompanied by a small window that popped up on the ship’s graphical display. Somebody was hailing the CSS Halberd. Caden Rivers, the captain and pilot, was seated at the helm of the bridge. Surprised to be hearing from another ship this far into deep space, he read the hail request. Its source was a small cargo transport, apparently called the CSS Daléria, which was currently floating in front of the Halberd’s front windows. Its engines appeared to be offline. “Definitely a trap,” piped up Janek from his own corner of the bridge, barely looking up from his solitaire game. “We answer their hail, they stall us while their lasers charge up.” “We haven't even heard what they want yet,” replied Caden. Skye, sitting at her engineer’s station, interjected, “Their ship is called the ‘CSS Daléria’. If they were pirates, they would have the ‘HSS’ prefix.” Her work station was littered with several books on the history and mechanics of starships. Janek immediately retorted, “It ain’t that hard to install a comms mod-” “Quiet. We're going to answer the hail,” settled Caden. “If they try anything suspicious, then we'll leave.” And with that he accepted the communications request, opening up a new screen on the graphical display that allowed all three crew to see the Daléria’s interior. There was only one person visible on the feed, who appeared relieved that the hail request had been accepted. He promptly introduced himself. “This is Captain Hector Tully of the CSS Daléria, requesting to open a trade offer.” Janek shot Caden a smug look. Caden was also beginning to doubt the hailing captain’s intentions, but he didn't want to give Janek the opportunity to brag about his foresight just yet. He decided to entertain Captain Hector’s request. “This is Captain Caden Rivers of the CSS Halberd. I'll hear your offer.” “Thank the heavens. Our fuel tank ran dry on the way back from a job, and my crew and I've been stranded out here for two days. We have some extra funds left over, and I'd be willing to pay very well for any fuel you can spare.” They wanted to dock. Of course. “Captain Hector Tully, I'd like to discuss this offer with my crew first, if you don't mind. Won't take long,” Caden said as he temporarily suspended communications. The Halberd’s bridge was quiet for just a moment. Janek was the first to speak. “I can't be the only one here who sees what's wrong with the situation. We're in the middle of deep space, three days from the nearest planet, and they expect us to just trust them?” Caden and Janek looked at Skye expectantly, but she was quiet and obviously thinking the situation over thoroughly. She made no comment. He continued, “On my last job, we were trucking across the way to Osmis, and we got hailed by some guys just like that one. Claimed one of their thrusters had busted. We saw they had pirate markings on their ship, they tried to paint over them but they didn’t do a good job of it. We jumped out of there fast. Can’t trust these people.” Skye now argued, “We can see their ship right there; it looks like they’ve got a perfectly good paint job.” “I didn't think I'd ever say it, but Janek’s right,” Caden decided. “It's just too risky to blindly dock with them. We’ll have to leave them for somebody else to find.” Caden now resumed communications. “Captain Hector Tully, this is Captain Caden Rivers again. Unfortunately, we need all the fuel we have right now. I can't agree to the trade.” “I understand,” replied Hector. He looked upset, but his voice remained calm. “Good travels, Captain.” “Good luck,” replied Caden, and he ended communications with the Daléria. “I don't like it,” Skye finally said. “I know it’s risky to dock like that, but he looked like he really needs help.” “Not our fault he forgot to refuel before setting off,” replied Janek calmly, starting a new round of solitaire. As the Halberd flew off, past the motionless Daléria and on towards its destination, not one of the crew noticed the gunship with pirate markings on its hull stealthily approaching. It had its course set on the Daléria, laser guns activated and charging. The fuelless ship did not move.


# Fallen [Part One] A man and a boy are walking through an old dense forest. The man in his mid-40’s; decorated eye patch in his left eye, the other, the boy in his mid-teens. The older male raises his fist signaling the younger man to stop. He slowly pulls out a beautiful, decorated dagger and approaches a bush with much caution. He moves through the bushes to see a deer bleeding in the ground. Deep wound to the lower half of its body, blood gushing out. The man leans in to investigate, notices necrotic tissue. He presses on the wound and notices how the necrosis spreads as he presses on it. He closes his eyes and releases a deep breath. He sees the creature is still somehow alive, he takes the blade and drives it through its throat to end its suffering. He stands up and look forward into the dense path of bushes and says “*He* was here.” The two men continue to walk through the forest, older man with his dagger in-hand, the boy with a shield and sword prepared for what could come. The boy asks: “Why are we even looking for *him*? It’s not like we succeeded in finding him the last twenty times…” “We will try a thousand times if that is what it takes…” Responded the man to the boy, focus in his eyes, and his hand steady with his blade. The boy looks at the man with worry eyes, “Have you ever seen him? Face-to-face, I mean.” With a deep breath, and a face that reflected nothing but regret, the man answered: “Only a handful of times, son… But I’ve always been one step behind. Always short-handed when I had him in my grasp... But not today… This ends… today.” Determination flowing through his glance, they ventured on to what was waiting for them. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I got this patch?” Asked the man, as they silently venture forward. “You never talked about it…” Said the boy, looking at his father with curiosity. “It’s never easy to speak of one’s failures. But this is just the beginning of what my mistakes have cost me.” The boy listens closely to his father, learning of how this all came to be. The man begins to tell his tale: “When I was young, I used to venture through these same woods. Of course, back then, it was full of life, full of beauty. I was part of a small band of misfits back in the day. We were all we had. None of us had ever known what a family was, till we had each other.” We had a small wooden fort atop the trees, crudely built around them. Ladders dropped from different platforms, all connected by bridges made of wood and rope. One morning, with the first orange-hued rays of sunrise during fall, one of those boys came out of his shack, dressed in ragged clothes, with a red sheet tied on his neck to create a cape and a crown made out of twigs and leafs, he began to shout: “Hear ye! Hear ye! I, King Sigmund demand you all wake!” He began to pound a wooden spoon on an iron pot, creating a loud noise that echoed through the whole forest. All the boys and children walked out of their small shacks from all the noise Sigmund kept making. “What is all that noise…?” Asked one of the younger children, clothes bigger than he could fit, dirt all around his skin, poor lad was scratching his eyes, waking to the light of the morning. Tobey was his name. Kid was the youngest one of us. Sigmund was extremely frustrated. See, we had been planning a small heist for some time now, and he had asked all of us to acquire a key item to be able to successfully take what we were looking for. “Have all of you forgotten what it is today? We can’t miss this!” He shouted in between groans. One of the boys in another platform, Reeve, bigger in size, clothes tightly fitted, bit of a monster if you asked me, asked him: “I thought the day would be the king’s name day…” There was a clear confusion in his words. Sigmund furiously shouted back at him: “Today *is* his name day, you dimwit!” Sigmund took a deep a breath and gave the command. “Everyone to the war room!” He ran and jumped to grab on to a handle hanging from a rope, sliding his way down. The rest of the troop all jumped into their own ropes and made their way below into a small cave opening. Once inside, the cave went into a small room that had a table made from wood which we ourselves carved. Eight young kids surrounding the table, they each took to their chair. The room was decorated in the jagged style of a battle station. On the table, a crude handmade map of the city carved into it, it showed the different sectors of the city space. Sigmund began to speak as everyone eagerly listened: “As you all know, today is the king’s name day. And if there’s something that old geezer loves, is a good old city-wide parade. We’ve come up short every other time, but I’m positive we’ll get it this time.” With a crude ink-like substance, Sigmund wet a broken bamboo stick and began to mark on the map: “If the kids at the park are telling the truth, the parade is going to start from the church in the Graham Ward. From there, they will be taking the main road across the Merchant Ward all the way to the Fort. In there, he will be having his big party with all the other old people in the city.” “Did you all gather the things from the list I gave you?” Asked Sigmund like a captain to his crew. “Well, we were able to get most of the things. But how in the world are we supposed to get a sword and a helmet? It’s not like we’re knights!” said Ernis, a child growing into a boy. Towards the entrance, a scraping noise could be heard approaching. All of them stopped what they are doing to watch out for what was coming their way. The room fell silent and the noises stopped. Everyone was on their toes when all of a sudden a piece of metal flied through the entrance. Loud clanking as an iron helmet hit the table. And there I was, a boy in the middle of his teenage years, oak brown hair reaching my neck. On my hand, a sword was resting on my shoulder as I walked in. “I believe this was requested of me.” I said full of overconfidence of my skills back then. “Sigmund was shocked in awe when I came in with a knight’s armor. His face was priceless.” Said the man with a smirk as he reminisced his youth. “Wait.” Said the boy, stopping to gather the story. “You’re telling me, that you used to live in tree houses, with a bunch of kids?” The man stopped his step. “I know I never talk much about my younger days. Most of it was struggle, pain, deception. Not the kind of stories one shares at bed time, I’m afraid…” The man takes a deep breath and continues their path. “Anyhow, where were we…? Ah, yes…” “How in the world were you able to get this, Gaelin?” Asked Sigmund in awe of what was no easy feat. See, I had gone through the sewer system of the city which led under the armory of the city’s guard. I hid under the shadow of the night, shocked On that day, we were planning to steal right from the king’s keep. If we were to be caught, it was straight to the gallows for us. But Sigmund was never afraid to risk it all if it meant getting what we needed. After all, nobody was going to do it for us. \ Hey everyone! New to this sub! I would love some feedback and general feel of how this is going. If you enjoy it, I'm maybe going to be uploading the next parts.


Olivia massaged her forehead and read, “Chalupas… Enchiladas… Gorditas… What is all this shit anyway?” “Honey, I believe it’s called ‘food’”, retorted her fiancé, with a smug little smirk in the corner of his mouth. He turned to the next page of the menu, being careful to mind the Band-Aid on his middle finger that covered a nick that would pulsate when disturbed, and began to scan the section labeled “COMBINATIONS”. “Hardy, har, har. ‘My name is Noah and I’m super funny’… You know what I mean. This is all the same stuff! No matter whether you get a burrito or a taco, it’s just meat, cheese, salsa, and some vegetables all inside of a tortilla. I call bullshit.” She said dropping the menu on the table in front of her, hitting hard enough on the small plastic corner protectors to make a fairly audible clacking noise. Noticing this noise was louder than she intended it to be, she shrank back into the safety of her side of the booth with her arms clutching her jacket closer to her chest and her eyes darting quickly around to make sure she didn’t draw any unwanted attention. "Okay, first of all, real tacos don’t have cheese in them. Trust me, I know a Mexican. Second of all, I don’t think you can call bullshit on food. If you think it’s all the same thing, then just pick something because you know you like all of the stuff that you just listed.” he said, lowering his menu in an effort to be the voice of reason. Olivia rolled her eyes and sat forward to look back at the menu again, while letting out a slow, deep sigh. She flipped a page and stared. She flipped another and began to twist her long blond hair around her index finger. Letting out an obviously bored sight, she flipped the final page and the back cover in quick succession and let her right hand rest firmly on top of it as though it were a Bible and she was being sworn in to give testimony, saying to Noah, “I’m going to the bathroom. If the waitress comes by, order for me.” Watching her get up and adjust her hip hugger pants, Noah asked with a look of puzzlement on his face, “How am I supposed to order for you if I don’t know what you want?” Walking backward down the aisle of tables and booths, she threw her arms out to the side with complete apathy and said, “It’s all the same stuff, right? So surprise me.” Noah continued to look in her direction for another few seconds as she made the turn out of view on her way to relieve herself. Coming in the opposite direction was their waiter with a Sprite in one hand and a sweet tea in the other. Clean shaven, hair wet with gel, and filling a set of clothes that stood about five and a half feet tall, he was eager to do his best, and Noah appreciated that. He would be sure to leave this man at, bare minimum, fifteen percent. “Are you ready to order now? Or you want to wait for the lady?” he asked humbly as he set the Sprite in front of Noah and the sweet tea on the empty side. “I’ll go ahead and order for the both of us.” Noah said with a polite smile on his face. “Okay. Go ahead.” Double checking the menu, he began, “Alright, I’ll have the Enchiladas with a side of beans and rice and she’ll have the Fajitas Texanas. That comes with beans and rice too, doesn’t it?” Ceasing his furious scribbling, the waiter shot his gaze to the menu in Noah’s hand and reached out with his pen to point to the description and said with a smile on his face, “Yes sir, you see right there? ‘All fajitas come with beans and rice.’” “Oh, good. I think that will do it for us then.” He said handing his menu over and reaching for Olivia’s with the same polite smile on his face. The waiter, with both menus in one hand and the order pad in the other shuffled away in the same direction from which he came. Noah had been here a few times with Olivia but he never really took a moment to look around at the decorations, which were all typical of a Mexican restaurant. Lots of pictures of deserts, sombreros, and bright colors. The mariachi music wasn’t bad but it was hardly distinguishable to anyone who didn’t know the style that well, of which Noah had to regrettably count himself. He sipped on his Sprite and turned his head to look behind him to the picture on the wall of a desert, much like the others, but in this one, you could see mountains in the distance. They weren’t snowcapped or anything special at all, but it was a nice picture. Some cactus in the foreground and a tumbleweed on one side, all set in front of giant backdrop of upward reaching rock. “Nice picture.” Olivia said, sliding back into her side of the booth. A little startled, Noah dashed his glance in her direction. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail now. He preferred it to be down because he liked the way it framed her face, but seeing her blue eyes more clearly wasn’t bad in the least. “Yeah, I don’t know what it is, but I like seeing the mountains and the desert together like that. They always seemed like totally different landscapes that don’t belong anywhere near each other yet there it is.” He said as he shifted his weight around in the seat. “Hmm, I never really thought of it that way, but you’re right.” She said with a smiling innocence on her face. “Where is the menu?” “Oh, the waiter came by so I placed your order and he took them.” He answered, grabbing the glass of soda in front of him and feeling the cool condensation around the Band-Aid on his finger. “Fajitas Texanas.” “What?” she asked, looking at the drink in front of her with one eyebrow raised. “That’s what I ordered for you… Fajitas Texanas. It’s fajitas with beef, chicken, and shrimp… Oh, and a side of rice and beans. You said you were starving earlier, so I wanted to make sure you had plenty.” He said smiling at her and crossing his legs under the table. “Aww, aren’t you sweet. Thinking of little old me like that.” She joked, moving the tea to the end of the table and pushing closer to crowd the table with her body. “Maybe I’m hungry for something else…” Taken aback at the sudden shift in conversation, Noah pulled his shoulders back and suddenly, unusually, became very suspicious. “Here comes the waiter, why don’t you take a drink and we can eat our food.” “Here you are… Fajitas Texanas and beans and rice for the lady...” The waiter said setting down the loudly sizzling plate in front of Olivia. “And the Enchiladas with beans and rice for you, sir.” He finished, setting the final plate down with his gloved hand. “Everything looks okay?” “Everything looks…” Noah began, but was interrupted by Olivia. “I’m sorry but could I get a Coke instead?” she asked, holding the glass of sweet tea up to the waiter. “Oh, of course. Be right back.” He said, with a slightly puzzled, but still smiling, look on his face before darting away. Turning her gaze back to Noah, she could see that he was not happy. With a butter knife in one hand and a fork in the other, he was sitting with his back flush against the booth. He was staring directly into her eyes and his jaw was set. “How long have you been here?” Noah asked. “What are you talking about?” she asked with a slight chuckle and a smirk. “Please don’t fuck around with me right now, okay? I was trying to have a nice dinner out with my fiancé. I really didn’t want to have to deal with this.” He said, with an air of frustration setting down his knife. Looking shocked and kind of offended, she started, “I don’t know what…” “Stop it Gwen. I want Olivia back.” Gwen looked down, shame rolled across her face. The waiter was back now, this time more nervous than smiling. He looked in Gwen’s direction, “Your Coke…” then glanced to Noah, who returned a small but uncaring smile. “I just wanted to have a nice dinner too…” Gwen said, still with her head down almost crying. Noah was frustrated. He had a feeling that Gwen might make an appearance. Olivia was having bouts again lately, with her courses finishing and finals coming in the next few weeks. Stress always makes it worse. Sitting forward, he said, “I’m sorry I talked to you like that. I know you need time too but what did we agree on?” “To let you know when I come around because it’s not fair to you or Olivia when I don’t say so…” she answered, now moving her face up to meet Noah’s. “Right, I know you’re an adult too and you get lonely just like Olivia and I would but we’ve got to act like it, don’t we? Especially after last time?” He asked, doing his best to reason with her. She chuckled and smiled a little, now glancing to and away from Noah’s eyes, “Yeah, but it felt really good so I thought we could try again!” “No, that will never happen again.” “But!” “No, Olivia is my fiancé and it would be cheating if I were to do that with you. It will never happen again and you have to deal with that.” He stated, picking his utensils up again. “So just eat your food and drink your Coke.” Gwen picked up the fork in front of her and began to mix the beans and rice together, “will you at least let me tell you a story?” “Sure.” He said between bites. “Go ahead.” “Okay, do you want to hear the one about the ghost and the dog or the one about the turtle that has the world on his back?” Gwen asked with great enthusiasm. Noah looked up and said, “Surprise me.


"Well, that was a lovely visit to my sister's." Olivia skips through the woods like a young girl. "No, it wasn't. I never finished cleaning the grass," Jim says. "Don't worry. I'm sure someone will clean it," Frida says. "Oh my god." Reid rolls his eyes. "I can't believe it. It finally happened. I reached my breaking point with you two." "What?" Jim asks. "The grass was fine. You were just running your fingers through it," Reid says. "You just can't handle the level of fine details that I can," Jim says. "Wow, it's actually nice witnessing the freak-out for a change," Polly says. "Shut up, Polly," Reid yells. Olivia claps her hands at that quip. "And Jim, do you even know where we're going?" "Of course, I do. It's currently the morning. The sun rises in the south and sets in the north. As such, we need to go this way to go southeast back to our home," Jim says. Reid blinks his eyes. "That's it. I quit. I can't handle that level of stupidity. If the rest of you want to stay with him and die of starvation lost in the woods, go right ahead. I'll be going to back to the house." "Okay, have fun," Frida says. "Uh, I agree with him. I think we're going the wrong way." Polly joins Reid. "I don't really care who I go with. This has been such a wonderful day. I guess I'll stick with Jim because going with you two is more work," Olivia says. "What the hell? How is it more work? You're going to be walking no matter what," Polly says. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Polly. I don't want to change directions." Olivia waves which angers Polly. "Come on, Reid." She grabs his arm and drags him away from the trio who shrug and continue on their path. "I cannot believe them." Polly pulls at her hair. "They're so idiotic." Reid nods his head. "If it wasn't for us, they would've died so many times." "And the audacity to act as if they're smarter than us." "Exactly, they can't string together a sentence without making three ludicrous statements." "It's disgusting." "And Olivia is always teasing me." Polly shakes her head while Reid laughs. "That isn't funny." "You got to admit she's smarter than the other two." "But she's so mean to me." "I don't know. She hasn't actually hurt you has she?" "She placed a raccoon in my bed while I was asleep." Reid nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "I forgot that. That was amazing." "You're lucky I didn't get rabies." "Are you sure you didn't?" Reid asks. Polly pushes him. "Alright, I'll knock it off." "Do you even know where we are?" Polly asks. "Uhh." Reid straightens his back and rubs his head. "I was following you." "I was following you." The two stare at each other for several moments. "We have to keep moving. We can't let them get the better of us," Reid says. "Absolutely," Polly nods, "Let's keep going." "I found a sparrow's nest." Jim is in a tree to help navigate. "Oh my god, toss it down here. I want to see," Frida says. "Okay." Jim lets go with both hands. At that moment, the sparrow returns and starts to attack him. He falls off the tree and land on his back. "Are you okay?" Frida runs next to him while Olivia giggles. "I'm so glad I went with these idiots," she says. "Stay calm." Reid hyperventilates. "I think I saw that tree before," Polly says. "No, you didn't," Reid yells. "Yes, I did. I made that carving to mark it. See." Polly points to a scratch on it. "No, you didn't." Reid grabs Polly's shoulders. "We are not lost. That mark was put there by someone else." "Reid, we are lost. There's no use in denying it." Polly grips his arms. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to let Jim beat me." Reid breaks off into a dead spring. Polly chases after him. "Wait, Jim isn't winning. He's probably even more lost right now," Polly shouts. Reid stops moving, and Polly pants when she reaches him. "Told you we were fine." He points at a small metal bunker. "Did you know about that place before you started running?" Polly puts a hand on his shoulder to stabilize herself. "Of course I did," Reid says. "Bullshit." "Either way, it's still shelter. Come on." Reid starts walking again causing Polly to lose her balance. When they reach the door, Reid knocks several times. After getting no response, he opens and walks inside. The first room is furnished with a table, two chairs, and a small couch. A large bookshelf lines the walls with two doors beside the entrance breaking the bookshelf. On the table, there's a large bowl of cooked corn. "Fantastic." Reid walks over and starts eating the corn. "Uh, are you sure that's a good idea? Someone clearly lives here," Polly says. "If someone lived here, they wouldn't leave a bowl of food out in the open with the door unlocked. Besides, we can leave when we're done," Reid says. "That's true." Polly joins him, and they finish the bowl of corn. "Say. It's getting late. Maybe we should nap here too?" "Great idea." Reid opens one of the doors to find a storage supply of food. The other door has two cots and a door to the bathroom. The two go into the room and lie on cots. "Reid, can we switch cots? Mine is too hard," Polly says. "Absolutely not," Reid says. They fall asleep. They are awoken by the sound of metal crashing against metal. "Haha, got you intruders," a voice from outside says. "Damnit," Polly says.


Walter squinted at the book for a moment, then blinked rapidly. “Did the text on the book just change?” “When I first saw you, I surmised you weren’t of this world. I quietly cast a translation spell. You will be fluent in the common languages of this Kingdom for the next fortnight. Sometimes the spell has a tiny delay.” “I thought slow internet connections were a thing of my world,” Walter sighed. “I guess my over-the-hill-brain is connected via dial up.” “That is strange, the spell is translating, but the words you just spoke are nonsensical to me.” Benvolio confessed. He then added, “I must apologize for enchanting you without your permission, but I thought it the most practical course of action. It is much easier to put someone at ease when you can have a dialogue with them.” “You are fine, but next time please ask before casting spells on me.” Walter requested. Benvolio bobbed his head in acknowledgement. They flipped through the pages of the book, the gateways and portals between worlds, though seemingly random, were most likely to occur in moments of harmony between two places. One example the book gave was, if through improbable coincidence, two hallways in different galaxies were identical, it could cause a connection in which a person could easily walk from the hallway in their galaxy into the identical hallway in another galaxy. Cosmic echoes, the book called it. Likewise, two beings sharing a moment of great psychological or emotional resonance could cause a bridge between their realities. “Fascinating,” Benvolio pondered. He was beginning to form a theory of what brought Walter to his world. He asked Walter to turn the page. They came upon Benvolio’s bookmark, noting the spell he had cast on the knight. Once again, they agreed not to tempt that spell, since it seemed random in nature. Walter turned the page and Benvolio’s eyes studied it intently. There was a symbol on the page, one he had not seen since he was a hatchling. Her symbol. “Locus Cordis” Walter read out loud. Walter paused and looked up to Benvolio who was taken aback. Benvolio looked contemplative, then bowed his head down to Walter. “This may be the one, if I may, I must take a few minutes to reflect on something.” “Reflect away. Do you mind if I go find a bush or somewhere where I can go pee? I don’t suppose you have indoor plumbing here.” Walter asked. Benvolio shook his head “nay” to the indoor plumbing. Walter wandered off. Benvolio sat and focused on his memories. Benvolio remembered those earliest days. He remembered hatching; the great golden eyes of his mother, Bellissima, gazed down at him affectionately. Her scarlet scales shimmered in the firelight, her tail wrapped around Benvolio and his siblings. Bellissima sang to them in a smooth alto voice, bringing them food to eat. They nuzzled her, her scarlet scales emitting a low heat. In those days, the hatchlings had not yet matured enough to have their own flames, so they basked in hers to remain warm. She would take them outside, showing them the stars, explaining the constellations. One day they came; there was always a “they”. They used words like “monster” and “beast” to describe his mother. Benvolio would later notice that the same terms were always thrown around when they came for Benvolio’s kind. Knights and adventurers had a rather limited vocabulary. Bellissima tried to deescalate, but the knights would not listen. Bellissima swatted them with her tail, protecting Benvolio and his siblings. A single arrow, that was all it took, and Benvolio’s brother was no more. The halls of the cave shook with Bellissima’s roars of agony. She looked to the surviving hatchlings, sorrow in her golden eyes. Then one of the adventurers grabbed a sack, young Benvolio felt a hand squeezing him, making it hard to breathe. “Locus Cordis!” Bellissima cried. In that moment the knight’s blade found its target in the weak spot in Bellissima’s scales, piercing her heart. Benvolio tried to cry out, but his vision faded to white, and everything felt cold. When he awoke, the cave was gone, he was in a strange place filled with tall, cold stones. It was snowing. Benvolio closed his eyes, and gently closed the book shut with his claws. The mark on the page was his mother’s mark. The spell was his mother’s spell. Now, it was Walter’s best chance to get home.


It all started six years ago. Hercules III was just suppose to take high definition pictures and spectral analysis of Baker-Mendez 3A, a near earth asteroid. What was caught by chance on its camera was far more interesting than any asteroid. It was a bluish-green tinted planet in the distance. The science community erupted in euphoric chatter and jokingly named the planet Vulcan and unfortunately, the name stuck. In an emergency meeting, NASA cancelled the asteroid fly-by and used the precious left fuel to guide Hercules III as close as possible to Vulcan. The only reason Vulcan laid undiscovered until present day was its unusual placement in the solar system. It shared the same orbital radius and velocity as the earth, but always hidden from our telescopes by being on the other side of the sun; 180º out of sync with earth. Just as the apollo astronauts would experience a radio blackout going around the moon, so would Hercules III as it went around the backside of the sun to fly-by Vulcan. All radio communications would be impossible for eight months and no data or imagery would be received until the satellite emerged into radio view of the earth. The satellite confirmed uplink of the new fly-by program and all we could do it wait. It was on its own. Eight months passed and the Hercules emerged into radio view of the earth. It sent its mandatory “Hello, I’m back” signal to earth to coordinate the downlink of imagery and data. Understandably, speculation ran rampant and the anticipation was intense. The data streamed in, but it was very pixelated. The control room turned silent watching the giant screen. The room then filled with gasps as the image finally clarified — it looked exactly like earth. Oceans, green continents, ice caps, and more. Data confirmed it was 80% the size of earth, covered with 60% water, and contained an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. The name Vulcan fell out of favor and “New Earth” despite lack of creativity fell into common use among the population. The earth erupted into a mixture of excitement and fear over New Earth. Religions were in turmoil with many outright claiming the imagery must be a hoax. Despite some resistance, congress approved massive funding to continue researching New Earth and a rover being originally built for Mars was immediately reassigned to go to New Earth. The plan was complex: NASA would send a module containing a rover which would be deployed to New Earth, but a continuing satellite would relay data around the back of the sun back to earth. After rushing completion and launching what would was deemed “Odyssey” the waiting game ensued. Months passed and NASA knew any failure in the series of complex maneuvers and sequences could doom the mission. Unofficially. mission success was thought to be around 25%. Present day: A lonely station at NASA received code 82A from Odyssey — touchdown successful. The control burst into motion, receiving mundane, but important data confirming successful landing and deployment. Now granted, this all happened eight months ago, but that didn’t matter, it felt like it was happening now. The stress was high and the mission director was noticeably shaking.


Lagos I must say is a very crazy place. In the event you don't know, Lagos is a state in Nigeria, my beloved country in green and white. It is only in Lagos that the sole difference between day and night is the colour of the sky and the presence or absence of the sun and moon. Otherwise, the city is constantly bustling with activities, the streets are flooded with people. It is, for this reason, it is called the city that does not sleep. Mama will always complain whenever she comes around. She complains about the constant noise of cars honking, horns blaring, and music blaring from speakers of different models and sizes serving as commercials or entertainment at local bukas, restaurants and bars. For me though, I don't have much of a problem with all of this. I kind of like the city, it has my vibes you know. I've always been a chatterbox, I've always been agile and many will say hyperactive and so, I was never bothered by the noise of the city that was its centrepiece as far as I was concerned and the people's crazy behaviour was a plus. But, who can blame them, in biology we were taught that for an organism to survive it must adapt to its environment so there you have it, mad place mad people? For me though, I think the environment will have to be the one doing some adjusting so that it could keep up to my rhythm.

I recently moved into Lagos and I have over time formed the habit of walking when I can afford to so I could get used to my environment. Today's walk was particularly spectacular. Let me give you the full gist. I had just rounded the bend to my street when I saw this guy walking from shop to shop seeking to purchase some household items I suppose. Gosh! I think the Oxford English dictionary needs to look into the possibility of adding in new words as perfect seems to be too small a word to describe this beauty. Let me begin with his gait. He walked as though the earth were his subordinate taking steps like he was making a show of his level of supremacy with shoulders a perfect square and legs that were shaped like Cupid's bow. To make the movement more spectacular, the sun was setting just right behind him shrouding him in its last-minute glow giving him this Ethereal glow like a god landed on earth. His neat buzz cut hairstyle was a perfect fit for his delicately sculptured diamond-shaped face with a thin chin strapped beard running along the side of his face accentuating his strong jawline and conjugating at his chin. His lips were small and a little pouty giving his dominant male frame a childish touch making him even more appealing. As he talked to the woman in front of whose shop he was currently standing, flecks of light from the shop's light bulb reflected off his ivory white teeth, Oral B seems to have made the biggest mistake by not using him as their model and then he smiled, wow! wow!! wow!!! the sun seemed to instantly pale behind him knowing very well it was no match for this beauty. He walked closer the breeze blowing his scent over and I bet I would have given him my nose for a souvenir if he'd asked for it. He smelled like a heady mix of male musk and something so faint and sweet that I could not place. He got closer and the miracle of the day happened. We bumped into each other or better still he bumped into me in an attempt to avoid being hit by some rascal Lagos driver. I fell backwards and halfway to the ground he caught me and for that still moment we looked like two tango dancers at the end of the dance staring inquisitively into each other's eyes seeking out each other's souls. I guess he felt the awkwardness of the moment and so he decided to let me go, helping me balance myself properly on my feet. Since I almost fell I guess I could say he swept me off my feet. Not just me though but my nylon bag too 'cause it slipped out of my grip spilling out all of its content to the ground. This to you may sound a cliche but the scene was the climax of the evening and let's see if you guessed right; we reached down to pick up my stuff at the same time and clumsily our heads collided. He looked into my eyes and I looked back in his and whoa! I felt like I was being hypnotized. His eyes were like a whirling pool of caramel catching the headlight of an oncoming car it sparkled entrancing me in a hypnotizing stare. He came closer and closer and putting his lips to my ear, he whispered my name the sound so soft it could have been the wind speaking. Lily! he kept on calling my name repeatedly the volume and urgency increasing and strangely it soon started sounding feminine. Lily! Lily!! I realized it was not him calling me when I heard the person call me by my full name Ayomide Lily Akinwande are you going to wake up or should I call your people at the office to tell them you're not interested in resuming with them because your dreams are more interesting to you than your reality. Stop smiling with your eyes closed and get off the bed you have only an hour to go. With this notification, I quickly sprinted out of bed. Taking my bath and dressing up in a hurry. Breakfast did not make its way to my compulsory list as I even had to delete my priceless early morning makeup well it's a good thing I actually look like a sunflower even in my sleep or how did that guy put it?. I half walked and half ran to get a bus to my place of work and luckily for me there was no traffic today. Already settled in at my desk and not having any task I had to instantly attend to, I decided to ruminate on last night's dreams. Hmmmmmmmmm Later in the day, I smelled a scent that seemed all too familiar. I know this might sound crazy but it was the exact same heady mix of male musk and something so faint and sweet that I could not place. The same scent the guy from my dream had. I raised my head and I saw a young man He wore a burgundy suit, black trousers and a Black Tie. He walked as though the earth were his subordinate taking steps like he was making a show of his level of supremacy. Shoulders a perfect square and legs that were shaped like Cupid's bow. He had a delicately sculptured diamond-shaped face with a thin chinstrap beard running along the side of his face accentuating his strong jawline and conjugating at his chin. His lips were small and a little pouty giving his dominant male frame a childish touch. He was now talking to one of my coworkers revealing his ivory white teeth which should earn him the spot as the Oral B brand ambassador. And I knew without any shred of doubt that it was him, the guy in my dream, my new neighbour next door or better still my 'next house neighbour'. He walked closer, the breeze blowing his scent over and I bet I would have given him my nose for a souvenir if he asks. As he walked past my desk, he flashed that same smile that makes the sun seem pale in comparison, he looked into my eyes and I into his and then he whispered my name so softly it could have been the wind speaking Lily! Lily!! Lily!!! I jumped out of my daydream to realize he had long returned to his office after flashing a harmless smile in the direction of my colleagues and me. The other girls were now staring at me and giggling; well for me, I didn't care. At least he's a man worth crushing on and the fact is clear for all to see. Later that evening after working hours I decided to ponder a little on this 'I don't know what to call it' kind of coincidence. A new guy moved into my street who I clearly had a crush on appeared in my dreams yesterday and happened to be part of the company I had just been employed in. Could fate be saying something, could the hands of the sisters be weaving a new thread?. I knew fate had a role to play when he walked past me at the parking garage giving me the you're sighted look. I stood rooted to that same spot. The same spot where he met me minutes later asking if I'll like to join him on a ride home and I'm sure you know I did not refuse.

Just so you know, tomorrow is our wedding and I dreamt about him proposing to me the night before he did. In that dream, I was in my house wearing a loose blue top over black jean shorts. I was sitting down watching a movie when I heard a knock at the door. Surprisingly, the knock seemed to become louder and each knock was accompanied by the sound of someone calling out my name and once again it was my roommate. This time she was calling out to me to answer the door. I must have been having one of those dreams again. I opened the door and standing before me with a hello neighbour package was Oluwakayode Rotimi the main character in all of my dreams and my next door... sorry next house neighbour. Well, let's see how it goes.


Twenty feet in the air blows a flag; red, white and blue. Its stars and stripes signal a certain pride to the traffic passing below. Its pole was dug at great cost to the owner, who is old and in declining health. It took him three days and two shovels to move the required amount of Michigan soil, rocks and roots. Lacking the funds to purchase a tall, aluminum flag pole, the flag’s owner, a man named Royce decides the next best thing would be to go to his buddy’s scrapyard and find the longest, straightest, least-rusted piece of pipe he can find. Knowing Royce’s plan, the scrapyard friend gives him the pipe for free. He even welds two chain links about three apart to the top of the pipe to serve as the flag’s anchors. As far as Royce is concerned this is the moment the pipe successfully becomes a pole. Getting the pole home presented a new set of challenges, chief among them was how to fit 20ft of something in 6ft of pickup bed. Royce’s 1994 Ford F150 is up to the task. To be considerate of other motorist, he tied a red rag onto the 12 foot of pole overhanging from his pickup. He gets home without incident, but the rag is gone. In order to put the pole in place Royce backs his pickup into the yard so that it would tip from the bed of his truck into its pre-dug hole. If it was even five years ago Janice would be upset about tire tracks in her yard. Today it will take a miracle of concentration to get her to notice. Before setting the pole in place, Royce attaches the red and blue flag to the welded chain links. Realizing his pole lacks the pulleys most flagpoles have, it occurs to Royce that he will not be raising or lowering his flag anytime soon. Maybe that’s why the aluminum ones were so much more expensive, he thinks to himself. Adding a couple of bags of over mixed concrete he sets the pole in place. Doing his best near-sighted eyeballing, he holds the pole as the concrete hardens. After the concrete sets, Royce notices the pole leaning more towards the house more than it does to the road. Nevertheless he is satisfied. His pole is strong and mostly straight, proudly displaying the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy. One of the first people to notice Royce’s new ornament of the old south is a woman named Hannah. Hannah has two dogs, a live-in boyfriend and a sister in California she talks to once a week. She volunteers at her local United Methodist Church even though his tells her friends from college that she is still an atheist. Once a week, on trash day she does her best to separate everything correctly, with most of her glass, plastics and aluminum making into their respective bins. Arriving at home she finds her boyfriend Taylor standing in the kitchen. He is eating cold pizza and watching television on his lunch break. “You are not going to believe what I just saw.” Hannah says. “You know that shitty looking house on the right side of the road if you are coming from Clarkston? It’s just before you turn into the sub?” “I can’t picture it, but go ahead. What happened?” “They have a Confederate flag flying in their yard! As in the actual Confederacy. As in General Robert E. Lee. As in we wear grey uniforms and think black people are property! And in Michigan! You know, that great bastion of southern pride…Song of the South, sweet potato pie and I move to Ann Arbor!?! WTF!?! They live hundreds of miles from anything remotely Southern. They’re in the Midwest. They are in the Big Ten. Why do they have that flag in their yard?” Knowing Hannah is not done, Taylor attends to the work before him, and by work he means his pizza and the last 10 minutes of SportsCenter. “It’s just the laziest way to be a racist.” continues Hannah. “Being a white supremacist in suburbs of Michigan is like being a misogynist at an all boys school. If you are going to a racist pig, at least have the courage to live somewhere the stakes might matter. I guess I have more respect for the Mississippi racist than the Michigan racist. Is that wrong to say? I feel wrong saying it? I don’t know if I should have said that.” Meanwhile, satisfied with the work he has done for the day, Royce fires up a red Weber grill and throws on a trio of steaks. One for him, one for his wife, and one for a black lab named Wally, but whose full given name is Stone Wally Jackson. All three steaks will be served well done, with a side a microwavable fries and cold ketchup. “You know”, Hannah says, “I’ve always had this fantasy about telling a racist piece of shit off to his or her face. What do you think I should say? Not saying I will confront them, but if I did, what would it be? What would you say?” Still mostly into his pizza and TV, Taylor offers only slight resistance saying, “Maybe they aren’t from around here. It's terrible, but maybe the flag and what it represents really is just a part of their culture?” “Yeah.” says Hannah. “So their whole thing is that the flag is a symbol of their heritage right? It’s not hate, it’s just a part of their past that they want to remember. What if I turn that argument against them? What I go over to that guy’s house and flip him off right in front of his face. Middle finger, right in his fucking mouth. And here’s the best part, if they offer any rebuttal, if they are offended in any way. Do you know what my response is going to be?” Taylor does not. Or if he does seeing the fire behind his girlfriend’s eyes makes him too afraid to answer. “With my middle finger right in their face I’m going to say ‘Why are you mad? This is not a symbol of hate, but heritage. My father flipped people off, and even his father and grandfather before them. All of them gave people the finger. So because it is my heritage, you can’t get mad.’ What do you think?” Finishing his pizza, Taylor put his plate in the dishwasher, stacking it in line with the other three similarly sized plates ready to be washed. “I’m not sure what to think. I think I trust in your instincts in this instance.” “I’m gonna say something to them.” says Hannah without listening. “I’m going to go over there and confront whoever it is that lives there. Do you want to come?” Taylor excuses himself from the occasion by mentioning how swamped he is at work, telling Hannah that he really needs to buckle down and make phone calls for the rest of the afternoon. “If I wasn’t so busy I’d come with you.” Hannah is unsure of his sincerity, yet resolute in her own. The drive from her house to Royce’s is short. She sits up straight in her seat listening to Rage Against the Machine in order to maintain her righteous anger. Her Subaru Outback splatters in the mud pulling into Royce’s rock and dirt driveway. Getting out of her car, she sees an older man attending to a smokey grill. “Hey!” she calls from his driveway. Royce, focused on his steaks, looks up. Feeling herself unheard, Hannah walks closer. “Hey you at the grill! Yeah! Is this your flag? Huh? Is it? If that’s yours than fuck you!” She stares at the man at the grill as he stares back at her. His stature grows small with each muddy step she takes through his yard. Royce looks up again from his grill work and sees a young woman shaking her fist and yelling in his general direction. His initial reaction is to ask himself what he might have done wrong. Not thinking of anything, Royce asks, “Can I help you?” “Yeah you can help me! You can help all of us by taking down that symbol of hate and oppression.” “I’m sorry young lady you are going to have to speak up. I left my hearing aid inside.” Hannah moves close enough to Royce to touch him. “I said I want you to remove that flag in your yard. It gives our neighborhood a bad name. People will think we’re all a bunch of racists.” Hannah points at the flag and asks, “But maybe you are ok with that?” Still unclear as to what the young lady wants, Royce thinks about running in the house to grab his hearing aids. But after seeing her point to his new flag, Royce thinks that maybe if he talks about it enough, he will have answered her concern. “Well I put that up earlier today. Took me a while to dig the hole and pour the concrete. It’s not as straight as I like it, but you know, do what you can I guess?” Hannah feels sweat forming on her lip and brow, as her argument goes nowhere. She again asks if Royce is ok with being known as a racist. To which he hurriedly replies, “Yeah uh huh. You know, I don’t hear so good young lady. I’m gonna run inside and get my hearing aids. Forgive me, I’m doing my damnedest.” Immediately, as if falling backwards through a tunnel, Royce falls to the ground. His left arm pulls hard against his chest as he loses all consciousness. Hannah runs over and does her best to help him back up. Unable to lift him, she yells for help but there appears to be no one else home. She runs back to the car to get her phone. Hannah reaches the emergency dispatcher. “9-1-1, What is your emergency?” “There is a guy, he lives not too far from my house. I think he is having a heart attack. He just collapsed right in front of me.” “Ok Ma’am, don’t worry. I’m going to help you out. Can I get your name?” “Hannah.” “Ok Miss Hannah, my name is Latisha. Do you know your location?” “I’m not too sure. I’m on M-23, not far from the McDonals and Kroger outside Clarkston. I don’t know the address. I don’t live here. We’re right off the road. We’re underneath a oh…umm…Confederate flag. You can see it from the road.” “Mmm…426, this is Dispatch. We have a possible medical emergency in the vicinity of M-23 and Ratalee Lake Road. Be advised, victim is under a Confederate flag. Ma’am is the victim breathing?” “I think so. It’s hard to tell. He’s not moving. I just want you to know, that I don’t live here and I don’t have anything to do with the flag.” “It’s ok Ma’am. Can you tell me his name?” “I actually came over here to confront whoever it was that put it up. It’s just that when I did he passed out right in front of me.” “Ma’am, can I have the victim’s name?” “Oh, I don’t know, we’ve never met. This is the first time something like this has ever happened to me.” A small, bent over woman in an over-sized blue gown comes out of the house. She looks at Hannah, then at Royce, then at her yard, “Oh no, someone has tracked up my yard.” She heads back inside. “Hannah, the emergency team is on their way. Will you please stay on the line with me?” “Yes.” “Great. Paramedics should be arriving soon. Is there anyone else there on the premises?” “Oh, his wife is here, at least I think it is his wife, but I don’t think she’s all there. She looked at him and left.” “Hannah can you check on the victim again? Can you see if he is breathing?” “Hang on…I think he is. It’s just really slow. You know, I had this plan. I was going to come over him and I was going to come over here and shove my finger in his face. I was going to flip him off for having a symbol of hate in our neighborhood.” “That’s great Ma’am. Do you know if the victim has any health issue?” “Does being racist count? I’m joking, but not really. It really is a mental health issue. There’s been so many studies done that link racism and mental health. I hope he’s ok. I mean, I hope he is physically ok and that this can compel some compassion out of him. I mean he looks harmless enough. You just can’t ever tell what’s going on inside someone. My plan was to flip him off and tell him that giving people the bird isn’t hateful because my father gave people the finger, and so did his father. So it’s not hate, it’s my heritage. You know, flip their argument around on them. Do you think that would have worked?” “I really can’t say Ma’am.” “Look, I’m sorry what is your name again?” “Latisha.” “Look Latisha, I'm an ally, ok? I don’t have anything but contempt for these people. I think racist should be locked up and forced into racial sensitivity training. And I’m not just an anti-segregationist. I believe in institutional racism. I see redlining and gerrymandering as on-going symptoms of this country’s problem with race. I’ll even go so far as to say that reparations are probably the only way this country atones for its racist past. Personally I think every white family that sends one of their kids to college should also pay for a black kid to attend that same school. That’s the only way we make ourselves whole. Black History Month is great, but we need to do better. So I’m here to do the real work Latisha. I want to make a better country for people like you.” “Ma’am I’m white.” “Excuse me.” “I’m not black. I’m white. My parents are named Larry and Patrica.” “Oh…I’m sorry. It’s just that Latisha sounds like an African American name. I guess I was just thrown off by how it sounded. Now that you mention it, you don’t sound very African American.” “And how does an African American sound ma’am?” “Hey…hey Latisha come on. Be a buddy. That’s not fair. You know that’s not what I meant.” “How was I supposed to know what you meant?” “I guess you weren’t. I guess I just had an assumption in my head of a certain type of woman who answers phone calls all day. And then you said your name was Latisha. I guess my brain formed this picture of you as, you know, the stereotypical, sassy African American woman who does those types of jobs. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m realizing now I too make assumptions about people and if I did that to you, again I am sorry.” “What do you mean sassy? My tone and demeanor has been professional throughout.” “No I wasn’t saying you are being sassy, just that there is a stereotype of a sassy, African American woman, you know, who works in an office, and she’s says things like ‘Go ‘head!’ and ‘I’m not the one!’ She’s usually a bigger gal.” “So I’m fat now.” “No I don’t mean you. I mean that’s what the stereotype looks like. You are your own beautiful person Latisha. I’m sure you are beautiful no matter what you look like. I think everyone is beautiful and worthy of respect and dignity, unless you’re a racist piece of shit with a Confederate flag in his yard.” “My grandfather was from South Carolina and he flew a Confederate flag in his yard.” “Huh. Well shit.” “Ma’am I suggest that you stay on the line until paramedics arrive. If the victim gets worse you can tell me, but we do not have to talk.” “No, yeah. I think that would be best.” says Hannah. She and Latisha remain on the phone with one another, neither saying a word for another five minuets before the ambulance arrives. Hannah hangs up on Latisha without a word. A paramedic asks Hannah if he has any allergies or health issues. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him before. I just got here.” “You mean you just happened upon a guy having a heart attack?” “Kinda.” “Kinda huh? Well the police will be here in a minute to ask you a few questions. Let’s go boys!” Royce is loaded onto a stretcher and into the without any response. Hannah speaks to a nice city cop officer with a tattoo sleeve on both arms. He takes her statement and personal info before going inside to talk to Royce’s wife, dismissing Hannah to go home. As soon as she turns the key in her ignition, Rage Against the Machine starts bounding through her speakers. She turns the music off, hoping the polite office didn’t here anything. Back at home Taylor is again in the kitchen looking for snacks. “Hey how did it go? Did you tell off that racist piece of shit?” “I don’t know.” says Hannah. “It didn’t go like I thought it would.” “Well, what happened?” “I went over there, and was starting to go into my whole thing, but he was having a tough time hearing me because he was an older guy. When all of a sudden he falls down to the ground. So I called 911 and an ambulance came and I think he’s dead.” “What? Really?” “Yeah. He said he was doing his damnedest to understand me, and that he was going to get his hearing aids, and he just fell over. I think I was the last person he ever saw.” “Wow.” says Taylor. “You definitely did your damnedest on that guy.” “I don’t ever know what that means.” admits Hannah. “I guess I don’t either.” ———————————————- The funeral for Royce Lee O’Neal is being held six days after he raised a Confederate flag in his front yard. In attendance are loving members of his family, several dozens of his friends and acquaintances, lots of guys from the Rotary club, a couple members of the Local 713 Union of Pipe-fitters. Also in attendance is the person who indirectly caused his fatal heart attack. On her way to the funeral, Hannah drives past Royce’s house and notices the flag is no longer flying from its perch, leaving a naked, crooked piece of pipe standing 20ft tall with grassy tire tracks running up to it. The funeral home is a couple of towns further north, closer to where Royce grew up. Hannah finds her Suburu a parking spot among a flock of muddy pickups and beat-up SUVs. Not wanting to draw any attention, Hannah shows up to the funeral right as it begins (11am), sits as far back as possible, and debates slipping out a little early. The two story funeral home smells of floral death; flowers mixed with the formaldehyde and furnished with heavy couches and chairs in evergreen and navy. The stripped wallpaper peels from the corners, freshly varnished floorboards snap and creek underfoot. It’s as if the entire house stands in-between life and death, an American portal between this world and the next one. Hannah can see Royce from the back of the parlor. It is an open casket service which means everyone is either looking at him or trying to avoid looking at him. Standing near Royce’s head and pillow is a wispy, arched man in a suit one size too wide and one size too short. Hannah guesses him to be the minister, the man charged with saying something significant about her racist neighbor. After a few hymns, the minister reads from the Book of Psalms. He then offers a short homily. His words are not charged with religious rhetoric about the end of days or any need for zealous evangelism. Hannah notes that if anything the preacher’s words about Royce are rather sweet. He tells a couple of funny stories, mentioning even the time Royce dressed in drag at a Halloween party. The congregation laughs. And when he tells of the time Royce took in one of his grandsons, practically raising him, Hannah hears sniffs and Kleenex being pulled from the box. Afterward the sermon, a young woman in maroon dress sings Go Rest High on that Mountain. Hannah has never heard the song before and is moved to tears by the chorus. The service ends sober and sincere and full of hope, a tone anyone would want their funeral to possess. Hannah picks up her purse ready to escape quietly out the back. However she notices a line forming at the front of the room as people shuffle by the casket for one last glance at Royce. She turns around and joins the line. Everyone shuffles, their heads bowed, their eyes bright. Hannah reaches the front and peers into the steel, white box, its insides lined in silk and cotton. Royce looks peaceful and content with his current predicament. Gone is the agony Hannah saw on his face a few days ago. He wears a light blue suit, probably purchased for the occasion. In that moment, Hannah wonders how she will be buried. What dress will she wear? Where will her final resting place even be? Next to mom and dad in Florida? Perhaps somewhere here in Michigan? Maybe next to ol’ Royce. She is glad she has come. If nothing else she and Royce share a final moment together. Hannah leans in a little closer, but as she does she notices something inside, covering the bottom of Royce’s body like a blanket. Its colors do not match the decor of the casket, or Royce’s suit. The blue of the covering is much darker, the red very bold, and lined with white stars in the pattern of an X. “I will never understand you Royce. I don’t even know if I want to.” Hannah leans closer, close enough to kiss the corpse if she wants. “But I’m doing my damnedest.


Many moons ago, I had a hell of a lot more time on my hands. I was still in high school and did not yet have to worry about such inconveniences as rent. In those days, I went to a lot of concerts, *especially* in the summer. Local rock bands, mostly. Des Moines has produced a few you may have heard of: Slipknot, Stone Sour, Destrophy... We had no shortage of lesser known bands of similar style in the area either. There must've been something in the water, like.... "Yeah, yeah. *Puns*. Har har. Stop wasting our time with your pretentious tomfoolery and get on with it OP!" *Rude.* *AS* I was *saying*- I went to a lot of these shows. This particular caper is about a free show that Stone Sour was playing as a benefit for a local kid with cancer. You didn't have to pay anything to get in, but you were kind of a dick if you didn't toss a few bucks in the jar. This story isn't about that specifically, though. You just need to understand- * Stone Sour * Des Moines * Technically free-but really just hella cheap show from local boys who made it to the big-time. There was a long, *long* line to get into the venue. It was like a Star Wars prequel-trilogy premier, but with far more Jägermeister merchandise and real-live girls. *Similar smell, though*. My friends and I were standing in line, waiting for the venue to start letting people in. For hours we waited in the hot, blistering July sun, all wearing black because we were edgy teenagers and we were so unique. Yup. *Every single one of us.* After some time, the doors opened, and the line began to move, albeit *very* slowly. I continued discussing my sophisticated musical tastes with my peers, who nodded in enthusiastic agreement that we were indeed way ahead of the curve- Not like those *other* kids who listened to other, *less superior* genres. As we neared the entrance to the club, we found ourselves directly beneath this sort of grated-railing that stuck out about six-or-so inches from the roof, when I felt a light, moist tap on my shoulder. *[PLOP]* My friend Ryan lost his goddamn mind and began laughing. It was the kind of laugh that seemed a bit over-sold, like that one kid at the 7:25 mark in that racist short from the 40's or 50's or whatever. I looked at my shoulder, and there it was- A big ol' watery bird dookie on my favorite Screaming Monkey Boner t-shirt, which was rare as they had changed their name to 'Screaming Mechanical Brain' later- *Still not sure why*... "*You will pay for your insolence, you feathered rat,*" I thought to myself. I looked up to catch a glimpse of my attacker, so I would remember its stupid beak and, in due time, exact my terrible vengeance- But what I beheld in that moment stopped me dead in my very tracks. Fate had deemed that I would not have my sweet, sweet revenge- *Not* because the culprit had escaped, nor for fear of reprisal. No- I would not have justice this day because the fucker had *already dropped dead* in the grated-railing I'd spoken of previously. Its final act; to evacuate its bowels onto me. Not coo, pidgeon. *Not coo.


The just-risen rosy sun nestled in the boundless blue sky as the gleam of dawn pierced into her room. Long blonde locks, tall, slender body, a perfect smile and a bright blue cap, that seemed to mirror the intoxicating colour of the sky, donned on top of her coiffed tresses. A striking, fearless blue. She was ready. The sky wasn’t the limit anymore. The sky was the goal. “Good morning, Heff! Pre-boards done?”, she asked the boarding staff with a charming smile as she smartly walked through her favourite haven, the airport, exuding a perfect aura of poise and chutzpah. A compact, black pilot’s bag rolled smoothly behind her on the glossy terrazzo floor. It was an early morning transatlantic flight departing from Paris Orly Airport headed for Philadelphia. Just when she was about to board the aircraft and head for the flight deck, “Tan, come get your breakfast”, summoned her mother from the kitchen. Tania let out a sigh of despair and landed down to reality. She caressed the doll’s hair, then carefully placed it on her ornate dresser and sprinted to her mother. She stuffed a toast with sparsely spread butter on it in her mouth and grabbed a water bottle in one hand. Tania hurryingly finished her morning meal. “Will 20 taka suffice for lunch today?” her mother asked quietly, dejection resonated in her somber voice. “Yes Maa, I’ll buy myself something, don’t worry, love you!” was Tania’s hasty attempt at helping her mother take heart and curtailing her mother’s worries. Tania had waved her father one last goodbye when he dropped her off to school on that fateful day six years back. He breathed his last, unconscious on a hospital bed after a fatal road accident as his wife wailed in inconsolable agony and his perplexed daughter stared at her mother with blank eyes. Too young to comprehend death but not too young to understand hurt. Since then, life had been painfully arduous for the two hapless loved ones he left behind. Tania’s mother toiled day and night to make ends meet and earn a meagre amount to provide for her family. She had suddenly been coerced into becoming the sole breadwinner overnight while mourning in silence. She felt wronged, aggrieved, lost and despondent. Life had dealt her a cruel card that she did not know how to play. She felt like her little bubble of a happy family had been shattered and her wings had been clipped. Having lost her father at a delicate age where daughters held their father’s hand to find the most endearing sense of security and lay on their father’s chest for solace, Tania showed precocious characteristics as she navigated the excursion from childhood to adolescence without her doting dad. Beyond all the persistent hardships of their new reality, the ceaseless challenges and the unwavering void she endured lay a determination-driven dream. The dream to fly. The dream to reach the sky. The dream to give her mother a new pair of wings. The dream to be her father’s pride. The dream to become a pilot. And this dream burgeoned the day her father had gifted her the pilot doll on her fourth birthday and the month after, he was gone. The doll’s cap was a captivating shade of Egyptian blue. Tania dreamt of landing a plane in an Egyptian city one day and flying over the longest river in the world. The dream seemed far-fetched, the sky seemed unreachable but Tania’s doll of dreams was a sign of hope, bedizened in bold blue. Her doll of dreams clung to her like the unrelenting glossy pages of the travel magazines Tania fondly collected. The doll of dreams went everywhere with her. She took it to the biannual restaurant visits that her mother could afford for them, family gatherings, friends’ birthday parties and when visiting her father’s grave. Tania held her doll of dreams dearly. Over the years, the once tranquil, stable life that Tania had known only got increasingly difficult at an accelerating pace much like a plane mustering up speed to take off gradually after taxiing slowly. Yet, the engines on Tania’s metaphorical plane of will to achieve her childhood dream never failed. Its tires were awaiting takeoff and its pilot was in the making. She took her doll to various pilot schools, it sat in her locker on top of her Pilot’s Manuals and aerodynamics textbooks while she was in training and attending aviation classes. Her doll of dreams was realizing her dreams with her - the very dreams that it had helped foster. Months passed with Tania focused and diligently pursuing a career in flying commercial planes. “Maa, I’m home”, she said breathlessly one evening. Exhausted, she callously dumped her half-open bag on the floor by the kitchen counter and the doll of dreams fell out onto the run-down, rustic floor. “Hi, Tan, how was training today?” her mother asked, carrying a bowl of freshly cooked rice and steamed vegetables into the room. The two were engaged in rudimentary conversation till Tania’s mother’s gaze fell upon the cherished doll. “You take that doll everywhere you go, Tan, and one day you will go places, you will go everywhere”, her mother said gleaming with pride. Tania had met her husband at Flight School. They fell in love quick, like a short domestic flight. Soon after, they fell pregnant and Tania’s career aspirations made an unexpected emergency landing. A beautiful baby girl with eyes a brilliant blue. They named her Dolly. The year Dolly turned four, Tania knew she had a special present for her. The family gathered in the living room and watched the ecstatic four-year-old rip apart the wrapping paper to get to her gifts. ‘Happy Birthday my girl. This helped me get close to living my dream of soaring in the skies. I hope this present drives you to fulfil any unattainable dream you have. Love, Maa’, read an intricately written note on top of a rectangular box neatly wrapped in California blue wrapping paper that had clouds painted on it. It was the doll of dreams. Tania passed it down to her daughter and the next day, she went back to flight school. Several months later, Dolly was on her first ever flight on a family trip to Australia along with her grandmother and the doll was firmly clenched in her little hands, the brave blue cap sat tightly on its head. The pale crescent moon faded behind a congregation of velvety, wispy clouds before it blended into the vast darkness. Long kohl black curls, slim, sculpted figure, a welcoming smile and that bright blue cap. A striking, fearless woman. She was ready. The sky wasn’t the goal anymore. The sky was her realm.

 It was a red-eye Trans Indian Ocean flight taking off from Dhaka en route to Perth.  “Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. This is your Captain, Tania Iqbal welcoming you all aboard flight 86A to Perth where the weather is looking sunny, hopeful and like a dream. We will be taking off shortly”. The brave blue cap sat tightly on her head.  And so her dreams took flight.


My Excellent Good Friends By Andy Heidel Preface This edition of My Excellent Good Friends is based upon the one and only performance of Hamlet: 1990 . Author, unknown. Original cast, also unknown. While the original folio was lost, a lone audio recording from the wings was saved and painstakingly transcribed. However, the recording ends abruptly after the riots began during Act III. SC III. This is the only known representation of what occurred that fateful night in the late spring of 2007 at the South Boston Community College Theatre for the Blind. The recording, along with a half burned playbill that also served as a $10 coupon to the Orange Julius Ceaser at Faneuil Hall, are all that remain. All attempts to gain more information from the police, or the community college, regarding the incidents on the night of the performance, the author, or performers, have been denied. Regarding the title In act II scene II

Hamlet greets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and refers to them as “My excellent good friends.” However, it could be construed that calling someone “excellent good” is a double positive which cancels out the compliment. From the first encounter, Hamlet is remarking that his friends are duplicitous. [ Dramatis Personae. King, club owner. Hamlet, nephew to the owner. Polonius, investor in the club. Rosencrantz, fanboy. Guildenstern, barfly. Gertrude, co-owner of the club, mother to Hamlet. Ophelia, daughter to Polonius. Players Scene: El Señor Night Club. ] [ On stage, heard but unseen, is Hamlet. ] Ham.

[ on stage. ] To be, or not to be… [Rhythmic drums and fife play] [ Backstage, in the wings, are Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Gertrude and Ophelia. ] Ros. Why did he think this soliloquy needed to be a rap battle? Guil. This version of Hamlet is set in the 90’s. Oph. In a South Boston club.

Gert. And rap battles were really popular then. Ros. Makes sense, I guess. But the rap battle is against himself. Guil. He is, and he is not, two sides of the same coin. Ros. If this play were set in Canada, that coin would be a Loonie. Guil. Well played, if only we were at a casino. Ham.

[ on stage. ]

Perchance to dream. Gert. He’s brilliant! Guil. You’re just saying that because you’re sleeping with him. Ham.

[ on stage. ] There’s the rub! Guil. Sounds like an edible complex if you ask me. Ros. Don’t you mean Oedipal complex? Guil. Yes, that’s it, Oedipal!

Gertrude is his mother, after all. Gert. I only play his mother on stage. Ham. [ on stage ] The undiscovered country. Ros. OMG that was the WORST Star Trek movie. Guil. You’re thinking of The Final Frontier . Ros. Oh, yeah. The one with the space-god monster and Spock’s half-brother. Guil. The Undiscovered Country featured Christopher Plummer as a Klingon who liked to recite Shakespeare. Ros. Oh, he’s the one that said: “You haven’t experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon. Guil. That’s the one. It’s like everyone wants to name a movie after a famous line from a Shakespeare play. Ros. Infinite Jest. Guil. All the World’s a Stage. Ros. Exit, Pursued by a Bear. Guil. Once More into the Breach. Ros. North by Northwest. Ros. Band of Brothers. Guil. Brave New World. Ros. The Fault in Our Stars. Guil. In Cold Blood. Ros. The Sound and the Fury. Guil. This Mortal Coil. Ros. Wyrd Sisters. Guil. By the Pricking of my Thumbs. Ros. Something Wicked this Way Comes. Gert. Are you two mad? Ros. Funny farm mad? Guil. Or angry mad? Gert. You can’t recite Macbeth backstage in a theatre. Ros. Actually, you’re not supposed to say his name. Guil. Who’s name? Ros. Macbeth, evidently it’s bad luck or something. Gert. You two are idiots. Oph. Will you three shut up about your Macbeth method of madness? I’m waiting for my cue. Ham.

[ on stage. ]

Soft you now! Oph. I’m on. 	 								[ Exeunt Ophelia. ] Ros. Did you see LOTR? Gert. What? Guil. The Lord of the Rings. Ros. Remember when Gollum and Smeagol argued about The Precious? Gert . He had a conundrum whether to follow his true self or give into the dark power of the ring. Guil. He should have won an award! Ros. We’ll, that’s the Hamlet problem. Guil. Not winning an award or trying to kill hobbits? Ros. Forget LOTR! Back to Hamlet.

He’s indecisive, but he’s also mad. Guil. Is The Precious his mother, Ophelia, the throne, or avenging his dead father? Ros. It’s all four. Ham. [ on stage. ] Get thee to a nunnery! Gert. His voice really projects when he’s mad. Guil. Funny farm mad, or angry mad? Gert & Ros. Both. [ Enter King and Polonius. ] King. Where are we? Guil. We’re in the wings. Pol. In the play, my boy. Where are we in the play? Guil. Hamlet just told Ophelia to get to the convent. Ros. Nunnery.

Pol. What’s the difference? Ros. One has three syllables and rhymes with thee. Guil. The other is more accurate but doesn’t fit the metre. King. The first or second mention of the nunnery? Gert. The third. Pol. Just enough time for a snort. [ Pololious pulls a flask from his coat, drinks, hands to the King ] King. Or two. Oph. [ on stage. ] Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me… [ Exeunt King and Polonius ] King. [ On stage ] Love! Ros. King always forgets that love is a question, not an exclamation. Guil. There are times when you shout it from the rooftops. Then it’s an exclamation! Ros. You are one to talk. Guil. Why is that? Ros. You never question, my love. Guil. I may not ask many questions, but I do not question your love. Ros. Players? Guil. Player, I’m no player. Ros. The players are on stage. We’re almost on. What’s funny is Hamlet is playing the players to incite the king. Guil. Incite or recite? Ros. Both it seems based upon his machiavellian machinations. Guil. Those are some big machinations. Ros. Mmmmm. Big Mac. Now I’m hungry. Ham. [ On stage ] Come some music. Ros. That’s our cue. [ Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. ]


Esur looked out into the gloomy sunrise over the harbor’s waters and wondered aloud. “Would life be easier if I were a fish?” It made sense to him the more he thought about it. Fish didn’t have to worry about things like a job. They didn’t have to think about a slave-tasker of a boss yelling at them to unload a ship’s cargo faster. All he’d have to think about was swimming. The fish didn’t need to worry about scraping enough coins together to cover bills from the landlord or the tax collector. Anything below the water's surface just had to worry about their next meal or avoid becoming something else’s meal. In fact, being a fish meant that all he needed to worry about was swimming, eating, and surviving. The more he thought about it, the more Esur liked the idea of becoming a fish more and more. There was a quiet simplicity to it. A life where problems seemed straightforward and their answers even more so. The first hurdle in Esur’s idea was the whole part of turning from a mortal man into a fish. He couldn’t just strip naked and take a dive into the waters. That was a half-assed solution to the problem at best. After all, he’d have to come up for air at some point. Esur was a decent swimmer, but that didn’t preclude that he still needed to breathe. There’d probably also be people with questions like ‘what are you doing?’ and ‘why are you naked?’. Plus, he didn’t have any previous experience as a fish. Knowing his luck, he’d probably swim around for five minutes before sinking his teeth into a baited hook. The fisherman on the other end would probably be excited for a few minutes before dragging Esur out of the water. He could go to a local alchemist and see if they had anything that could turn him physically into a fish. Something that he could down and get to the water’s edge before he couldn’t suck down pure air and needed to start breathing water. Maybe he should wait until he was in the water before drinking it. That seemed sensible. Or maybe he could go and find a potion that just gave him gills. His fingers ran over the nape of his neck, where he imagined a set of gills sucking in water and air. He frowned. Would that be weird? He wondered. Or would it be worth it to completely turn into a fish? If he took a potion to become one, would he be able to pick out the type he could become? He’d hate to go through all of this effort to become a sardine. There was an alchemist not too far from where he lived that his co-workers said they always went to whenever they needed a potion. Apparently, she had a little bit of everything that could cure a little bit of anything. He’d never heard a bad word about her treatments. Esur had never been there since the spare coin in his pocket was usually enough to weigh nothing. If he had ever gotten sick, he’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and slowly working through whatever gods he could recall praying to. By the time he got through the third or fourth rotation, he’d feel better. Either the hours of bedrest would do the trick, or one of those dozens of deities was listening. If this alchemist was good, maybe she could help him solve his problems. Throwing on a pair of trousers, boots, and a motley patched tunic, he emerged from the hole in the wall that he called an apartment and onto the city streets. Men, women, and children were already emerging from their little apartments to do their own business. Heading to the docks to unload ships, fishing for actual fish and not people trying to be fish, opening up their little shops next to their apartments, and things outside of what Esur knew. Down the street, he saw a dozen children gathering for their morning pickpocket meeting. The oldest, Old Brian, was in charge at the grand age of twelve. Esur had learned to avoid their morning meeting lest he became an easy target. Instead, he went a long way around them down several side streets, up a ladder, across a rooftop, and back down half a block away from the pickpockets. It was the only way to be sure. Heading deeper into the city, Esur tried his best to follow along with the traffic flow. It was easier said than done. The foot traffic in the city of Weido was dancing, if the band playing the music changed tempos and genres of music every few minutes. There was an ebb and flow to it, much like the harbor's waters, that you had to pay careful attention to. A shuffling pace could quickly become a hustle to escape tourists. Skimming sideways around a pothole could quickly back away as the pothole turned into a sinkhole. A simple walk down an empty street could turn into a full-on run for your life as a troll rampaged towards you. Unfortunately, Esur had two left feet. It was a medical condition, born with both feet hooked slightly to the right. The condition didn’t affect his living badly, except for dancing and convincing bootmakers to sell him two left boots. Esur did his best to follow along with the crowd, but that had quite never been something he’d ever been good at. Frequently he bumped into other people, apologizing as he tried to keep up with the forward momentum. He almost shoulder-checked a lamppost as the crowd surged to the right to make room for a few of the city guards riding horses down the street, smug looks on their faces as the crowd cleared for them. By the time Esur had traveled for four blocks, a hefty sweat had already begun to build upon his brow. The morning was still quite cool, with a gentle breeze blowing from the sea, but Esur had a habit of sweating like a pig at the drop of a hat. He pushed on, fighting through the crowded streets, until he finally arrived at the alchemist’s shop. It had been set up in a quaint little corner between two smaller streets. A steady traffic flow was already passing it by, and Esur nearly walked right by it. When he got a good look at it, he was surprised he could miss it at all. Hanging vines cut like bangs over the clear, clean windows of the shop. On display shelves, odd bottles filled with even odder liquids were presented to passersby. A door that seemed a little too tall and narrow was the only way in or out, with a tiled roof of deep muddy reds pulled to a tall peak. He was amazed that he had never seen this place before. Most of his time was spent going between the docks and my apartment, with few occasions going beyond those handfuls of streets. The shop stood out, not like a sore thumb, but more like a hypnotic creature drawing prey. Hanging over the vines themselves was a simple sign, red paint on a light oaken board Primrose’s Poultices. Esur shuffled into the alchemist's shop, and his nose was immediately filled with a hundred different scents. Plenty of smells were down at the harbor, but those were mostly seawater, seabirds, and dead fish. He immediately sneezed into the crook of his arm as his nostrils were assailed with things he didn’t know where to begin describing. The air was sweet, spicy, soft, hard, salty, and so much more. Wiping his nose, he saw even more shelves filled with strange bottles. All of them were neatly organized in a way that Esur assumed made sense, as from his perspective, it looked like they were haphazardly placed next to one another. There was even one that appeared to be empty. He picked it up and found the label simply said *Invisibility Potion. Warning- Do not consume with alcohol. Not because they don’t mix well, but because it is a bad idea. Trust me from experience.* A polite cough from around one of the shelves made Esur nearly drop the bottle. He placed it back onto the shelf when a woman he assumed was Primrose came around the corner. She was a hair taller than he was, with a significant quantity of red hair draped down over her shoulders and back. There was a tilt of her head as she examined him through a pair of wide, round glasses. She was quiet for a few moments that seemed to drag on for minutes before she finally made a sound. “Hm,” She said. “Hm?” He said. “Huh,” She continued. “Huh?” He replied. She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before, have I?” “No, this would be my first time here,” Esur said, wondering if this would be the last time he was here. “I knew it. I never forget a face. Names, I’m terrible with.” She offered her own. “Primrose.” “Esur,” He introduced, giving her hand a shake. Her pale hand was far stronger than he would have guessed. “I apologize in advance if I mispronounce or forget your name, Esur,” She said as she went over to a nearby counter, stepped behind it, and pulled a large, leather-bound book from behind it. “So, are you just window shopping or here for something specific?” “Something specific,” Esur said, following her and standing on the other side of the counter. “It’s actually a bit odd, but I was hoping you’d be able to help.” “Believe you me, Mr. Estur, there is no shortage of strange requests that have come through that doorway,” She said, flipping through a few pages to get to a clean one. She took out a bright white feather and an inkpot from beneath the counter. “I’ve seen all sorts of maladies and troubles. Heart problems, broken bones, missing bones, troubles of the mind, and many, many more. Tell me what bothers you, and we’ll see what I can do.” “Esur,” He corrected. “Well, I’m just going to come right out and say it- I want a potion to become a fish.” Primrose paused. Slowly, she looked up into Esur’s eyes with a quirk on her eyebrow. Her quill hung over the page, a droplet of black ink dripping onto the now-stained paper. “A fish?” “Preferably not a sardine.” Her head tilted to the side once more, and he could see that she was momentarily lost in thought. “That’s a new one.” “I thought you said you’d seen everything?” He said. “I said I’ve seen and cured many things, but a person requesting to become a fish is a new problem. One man wanted to live as a merman for a week, but never just a plain old fish.” She said as she began to write on the page. Esur leaned over to see what she was writing down, but he could not distinguish the words on the page. Some kind of alchemist code, he presumed. Or maybe her penmanship was terrible. Both were likely. Both could be true at the same time. “Then it sounds like you already know where to begin,” Esur said, feeling a twinge of hope for the first time since he woke up that morning. “Just take whatever you did with making that man a merman, remove the man, and make it permanent.” She shook her head. “Why does everyone assume that potions are anything alike? There’s a reason why your average person doesn’t get into the alchemy business. It takes a lot of work to develop a potion that works the same every time, usually with a lot of failure along the way. Anything worth doing right is worth working hard towards.” She gestured out to the shop. “Every single potion on the shelf here took a lot of sweat, other people’s blood and tears to get right. Some were passed down to me by my mentor, and some I cooked up on my own. If you’re looking to become a fish, then it will take a bit of trial and error to make it work right. And that’s a lot of work on my part and coin on your part to make that happen.” Esur winced. His mouth had gotten ahead of his mind once again. The hope that he had for a whole minute was already feeling further away than before. “My apologies. I didn’t understand.” He took a breath to collect himself. “I will be honest with you- I don’t have much to coin to my name. There’s little in my pocket, and as soon as my landlord finds me, I probably won’t have much else. Becoming a fish seemed like a good idea to just have those problems not be something of mine anymore.” Primrose frowned. She set down the quill beside her book and steepled her fingers before her lips. Esur saw a glazed look in her eyes, utterly unfocused on what was in front of her. He waved a hand in front of her face with no response. Esur wondered if he should just go. This seemed more and more like a dead end to him. Whatever she had in mind sounded expensive. He frowned, feeling foolish. This was just a waste, wasn’t it? He thought to himself. All this really did was make him late for work at the docks. Maybe being a fish just wasn’t in the cards for him. As he started for the door, Primrose’s hands slapped the top of the counter. “I’ve got it!” She said before turning to face him. “I think I’ve got a plan that can be mutually beneficial.” Esur paused. That flicker of hope was threatening to start burning once more. “I don’t have much money, so I’m not going to be able to pay.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Forget about money. You can work off what you’d owe me in exchange for the potion.” “Truly?” “As true as blue,” Primrose said. “I need to do some research and figure a few things out. Components I’ll need. Tests I’ll need to run. It won’t be easy, but I think we can come to an arrangement that will benefit us both- you’ll get to become a fish, and I’ll get my hands on some ingredients I’ll need for other potions. Do we have an accord, Mr. East?” “We do,” Esur said, putting out his hand again, not minding her getting his name wrong. She gave him another hearty shake. “Don’t worry about coming back here. I’ll find you. Now, get out of here. I need some peace and quiet so I can focus.”He nodded and headed out the door. Being thrown out didn’t bother him either. Standing outside of the shop, he took a moment for himself. He breathed in the cool, salty breeze. The sun felt warm and inviting on his face. Even the crowd around him seemed lively over annoying. For the first time in a long time, Esur felt himself smile. It was an odd sensation, an unfamiliar one, but far from unpleasant. As he began returning to the docks to get to work, he briefly considered whistling. The idea was quickly squashed. Esur had never been musically inclined. The one time his mother had requested he try to sing for her, the wince on her face had told him all he needed to know. He was content to smile as he headed down the street for now. Where to go? What to do? He wondered. There was no telling how long it would take Primrose to make the potion. It might be a few hours or a few days. Til he got his hands on it, he still needed money. Somewhat reluctantly, he began his way back to the docks to head to work. The smile still stayed on his face, despite the ear-lashing he was about to get from his overbearing boss.