INTERVIEWER : (grumbling, visibly annoyed) Welcome, everyone, to this very special interview on WVRT Channel 7, right here in the heart of New York City. Tonight, we have an extraordinary guest—God Himself. Let's give a round of applause for the Almighty. I had to cancel my plans, so let's discuss this. (pauses) And by 'discuss,' I mean I'll ask questions, and He'll give divine answers. It's a win-win, really. GOD : (fidgeting, voice unsteady) Thank you, thank you! Wow, great to be here. You know, not every day I get invited to do a TV appearance. Usually, I stick to more, uh, celestial venues. But hey, I'm here to mix things up! INTERVIEWER : (sighing, looking at phone) We'll try to make this quick. We all know You're a busy God, and some of us had to cancel important plans for this. (rolls eyes) I mean, it's not like we have a life or anything. GOD : (laughs nervously) Oh, I appreciate that. Time is relative when you're eternal, but I have quite a bit on my plate. Managing the universe is a full-time gig, and the overtime is killer! INTERVIEWER : (mutters) Great, another comedian. Okay, first question... (scrolls through phone) People imagine you as an old man with a beard, very serious and solemn. What's the deal with that? GOD : (chuckles awkwardly) Yeah, I get that a lot. The whole old man with a beard is a stereotype. I like to mix it up. Today, I decided to go for a more relaxed look. You know, approachable and ready for a good chat. Divine presence doesn't have to be all thunder and lightning—sometimes it's nice to just have a conversation. And honestly, who wants to carry around that heavy stuff all day? It's murder on the shoulders! INTERVIEWER : (sighs heavily) Right. Uh, next... (scrolls) How did you develop the idea of creating the Earth? Certainly, you had a plan. Like I had it tonight. I had to cancel it because of this interview. GOD : Well, I was just floating around in this infinite nothingness, you know, doing my thing. And I thought, 'This is getting old! Let's spice things up a bit, shall we?' So, there it was—the spark of an idea. Time to make a world. It's like a little side project to keep me entertained. Think of it as the ultimate DIY project but on a cosmic scale. INTERVIEWER : (under breath) Fascinating. And then? Wait, let me find it... (scrolls) Ah, here. How did it all start? GOD : Oh, funny story—I was all set to start another round of contemplating the mysteries of existence. But then I thought, "Nah, let's cancel that. Time for something new." So, I scrapped my plans for another eon of meditation and dove headfirst into creation. And all of this happened in just a few minutes, mind you. INTERVIEWER : (with an exaggerated eye roll) Oh, the drama. Okay, let's move on to the next act... (scrolls) What was your first move, Mr. Creator? GOD : "Let there be light!" I announced it with the confidence of someone who knows what they're doing. And BAM! Light everywhere. It was like flipping a switch in a cosmic closet. But then I realized, "Hold on, which way is up?" Turns out, in a void, there's no up or down. No biggie, though. I decided to define it myself. Light on top, darkness below. Simple enough. The first day, I nailed it. High five, me! INTERVIEWER : (forced laugh) High five, you. Moving on... (scrolls) So, what happened next? GOD : Next up, I figured, "Hey, let's get some atmosphere going." So, I split the waters, making a cool sky above and an ocean below. It took a bit of effort. Those waters were stubborn! I had to do a lot of negotiating. It was like dealing with a cosmic union. But I managed. Second day in the bag. This was getting fun. I could totally get used to this creating gig. INTERVIEWER : (sighs, rubs temples) Yeah. Great. Then? GOD : On the third day, I decided it was time for some real estate. "Dry the land, please!" The waters obliged, revealing vast stretches of fertile soil. Plants sprouted up like they had been waiting for this moment their whole existence—which, in fairness, they had. Trees, flowers, grasses, you name it. It was like Earth got a major landscaping upgrade. I even threw in a few bonus waterfalls for good measure. Who doesn't love a good waterfall? Especially when you don't have to worry about mosquitoes. INTERVIEWER : (checks watch) Sure, waterfalls. Uh... fourth day... here we go. What about the fourth day? GOD : By the fourth day, I was on a roll. "Let there be lights in the sky!" I said, putting up the sun, moon, and stars like a cosmic interior decorator. They started twinkling and shining, making time a thing. Days, nights, seasons—bam, all sorted. It was like setting up a giant celestial clock. Tick-tock, Mother Nature! INTERVIEWER : (mutters) Tick-tock, great. Fifth day... (scrolls) How did you feel after four days of creativity? GOD : Feeling confident, I looked at the oceans and skies and thought, "These places could use some inhabitants." So, I filled the waters with fish and sea creatures and the skies with birds. The oceans were splashing, the skies were flapping—it was like a grand opening party for the animal kingdom. The fifth day was done and dusted. I would have dropped in the ocean if I had a swimming suit. But I didn't want to scare the fish. INTERVIEWER : (checks phone again) And on the sixth day? GOD : On the sixth day, I went all out. "Let's bring in the land animals!" I said, and the ground was suddenly teeming with creatures of every kind, from lions to ladybugs. It was like a zoo had exploded. But I wasn't done yet. "Let's make humans," I said, molding them in my image. I gave them some smarts and creativity, and boom—humans. And here you are, folks! My little science projects. INTERVIEWER : (half-heartedly) Incredible. So, you must have taken a break after all that work? GOD : Definitely. But before that, I noticed a tiny detail out of place—a leaf slightly askew, a ripple in the water that didn't quite fit. No problem. I paused the passage of time with a mere thought. Yep, that's one of my perks. Everything froze perfectly still, like a grand cosmic painting. I took my time adjusting that leaf, smoothing out the ripple. Once everything was right, I restarted time, and everything flowed seamlessly—perfection. INTERVIEWER : (sighing) That's amazing. But you mentioned that all this happened in a few minutes. Can you clarify how that works with the whole seven days of creation? GOD : Ah, good question! Well, from my perspective, I have this nifty ability to pause time. So, while the creation story is told over seven days, I used a pause, tweaked, and perfected everything in what felt like minutes to me. Think of it as divine multitasking. Seven days for the story, but just a few sacred minutes of intense creation action. Like a speed run but with more existential weight. INTERVIEWER : (sarcastically) Fascinating. Now, have you had any problems with creation from the start? Did you have to cancel any plans or make changes? GOD : Oh, absolutely! It wasn't all smooth sailing. Take the waters, for example. They were stubborn. I had to negotiate a lot to get the sky and oceans sorted. And the stars—don't get me started on those. At first, they were just drifting aimlessly. I had to tweak their courses several times. It's like herding cosmic cats. And yes, I did cancel a few plans here and there. Originally, I thought about having flying elephants, but then I reconsidered. (chuckles nervously) Good call, right? INTERVIEWER : (under breath) Flying elephants...brilliant. Where did you spend the most time during the creation process? GOD : Honestly, the details. It's the little things that take up the most time. And humans, well, they were a project all on their own. Ensuring they had the right balance of intelligence, creativity, and curiosity took some fine-tuning. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to program a sense of humor! INTERVIEWER : (looking at the clock) And now, a question I think everyone wants to know. How satisfied are you with humanity? GOD : Ah, humanity. Well, it's a bit of a mixed bag, isn't it? You have done some truly amazing things—art, science, pizza. But then there are those moments when I think, "Did I forget to include a commonsense chip?" (chuckles) Overall, I'd say it's a work in progress. There's potential, though—loads of it. I'm optimistic. I just need to update the firmware every now and then. INTERVIEWER : (sighs heavily) One more thing that many people are curious about—what can you say about Adam and Eve's situation in the Garden of Eden? What's the deal with the snake? GOD : Ah, the Garden of Eden. That was supposed to be a perfect little paradise. Adam and Eve were my first humans, and I wanted to give them a good start. The snake, though—well, let's just say that was a bit of a hiccup in the plan. I gave them free will, and the snake exploited that. It was a test to see if they could resist temptation. Spoiler alert: they didn't. But who hasn't made a bad choice because someone whispered in their ear? The snake was crafty, but it was all part of the grand design to allow humanity to choose. Free will isn't free if there are no real choices, right? INTERVIEWER : (checking watch again) Can you tell us something about Adam's or Eve's reaction to the Garden of Eden? GOD : Of course. I remember once Adam said, "I am the happiest man alive!" And Eve said, "I wish we could stay here forever." They were thrilled with the setup until the whole Apple incident. After they were kicked out, they had to learn to slow down and pursue a quieter way of life. Adam and Eve learning to slow down and pursue a quieter way of life after being kicked out of Eden was a big lesson. It's a lesson I hope humanity picks up on, too—sometimes, it's okay to pause, take a breath, and enjoy the beauty around you. You don't need to be in a rush constantly—leave that to me! INTERVIEWER : (stands up, clearly ready to leave) Thank you for sharing this incredible story with us, God. Do you have any last words for our viewers? GOD : Just this: keep exploring, learning, and growing. Remember, the journey is just as important as the destination. And who knows? Maybe one day, you'll surprise even me. Keep up the good work—mostly. Thanks for having me, New York! Until next time! INTERVIEWER : (already walking off) Thank you again. This has been a truly enlightening experience. Until next time, everyone! (muttering) If there is a next time...


It’s that time of year again. The time when everyone suddenly realizes that they’ve put off their holiday shopping a little too long. When everyone decides, on the level of some kind of group consciousness, that they need to get all their gift buying done right now. And it seems like every last one of them decided to come to Bart’s Mega Mart, where I work. I guess I can see the wisdom in their choice. I mean, here at Bart’s you can find everything you might need. I mean, you can buy novelty garden gnomes, big screen 4K TVs, and custom-flavored beef jerky all within a few feet of each other. And you can do it in something closer to a small-store atmosphere than any of those big warehouse outlets. Now, people are doing just that. A lot of people. The aisles are so packed that it looks like a rave at two in the morning, the noise level is through the roof, and the whole place is developing a bad case of barn heat. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I love working with the customers, helping them get what they need. There’s nothing quite like that sense of satisfaction you get when someone’s eyes go all big and they exclaim, “That’s just what I was looking for!” But holiday hours are in full swing, my feet are hurting, and if one more person asks where the baby deer plushies are, I swear I’m gonna scream. To make matters worse, we’re operating off one of those stupid discount pricing catalogs, where each and every sale item has to have a special code and it takes forever to find it and the lines at the register are backing up and every customer has a particular and demanding need and I can see myself totally losing it in the next five minutes. I take a deep breath, step back from the counter under the pretext of glancing beneath it. “No, I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have any more of the red bags. Only the green ones. Will that be all right?” Oh, please let that be all right. The woman, a bit older, frizzy red hair escaping from beneath a knit hat and a frown of concentration on her face, purses her lips in indecision, as if weighing the fate of the universe. “I suppose so,” she finally says. “Thank you,” I breathe, before slipping her purchases into the bag and handing it to her. “Thank you for shopping at Bart’s Mega Mart. Have a great day, and happy holidays!” She grunts and moves off, and I wonder if I didn’t put too much forced cheer into my words. My face hurts from holding a smile all day. Before I can greet the next customer in line, a hand claps down on my shoulder, and I glance back to see the front-end supervisor standing there. “Dave,” he says. “I’ll take over here for a bit.” Am I on break? Has it been that long? Oh, please let me be on break. “I need you to take a walkabout, see if any customers on the floor need help.” The words shatter my fleeting hopes, but all I can do is nod. “You got it.” “Be back in fifteen.” “Right.” It’s not perfect, but I as I move off into the crowd of shoppers, I still hold out some optimism. Maybe I can march around purposefully, a harried look on my face, and no one will bother me. That could be almost as good as a break. Yet even that slender desire is cut off as I leave the sight of my supervisor. I’ve barely entered the stacks when a hand touches my elbow. “S’cuse me, buddy, but can you help me out here.” I plaster the biggest phony smile I can on my face and turn toward the customer. “Certainly. How can I…” My voice trails off at the sight of this particular shopper. He’s a big guy, tall and… let’s say “heavy”, so we don’t sound mean even to ourselves. He’s wearing a big coat over a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up around his face, almost as if he’s afraid of being recognized. In the depths of his cowl, I glimpse a big, bushy beard the color of fresh-fallen snow, a hint of a rosy nose, and eyes that twinkle even in the harsh fluorescent lighting. There’s a hint of stale eggnog on his breath, with maybe something a bit stronger mixed in, and he gives off the air of a man with an impossible task, and a determination to see it through. “…help you,” I finish. I don’t know quite why I’m surprised. We do get our share of department store Santas in here, fresh off their shifts, scrambling to finish their own holiday shopping. But there’s something different about this guy. “Well, I’ve got a list here,” he says, fishing around in a pocket of his big coat. “Well, two lists, actually, but I really need help with the first one.” He pulls a wadded ball of paper out of his coat, smooths it out and peers at it. “Let’s see… carrots, an onion, bell pepper… oh, wait, that’s the wrong one.” He chuckles. “Mrs. Claus had some last-minute requests. You know how it is.” His hand dives back into the folds of cloth. “Ah, here it is.” Now the hand emerges clutching a roll of what I can only call parchment. With a shake of his wrist, he unfurls it… and it keeps on unfurling, dropping to the floor and rolling off, disappearing from sight beneath the tromping feet of other shoppers, none of whom pay it any attention. I stare at the scroll in his hands, a mix of confusion, wonder, and sheer despair washing over me. “Um, sir, maybe I should call a manager…?” “No need, no need,” says the man. “Let’s just go down this. It’s all alphabetical. Knew I should have gotten to this earlier, but, well, sometimes I do let things slide, and it is that time of year.” I can only stand there, in growing desperation, hoping this guy will suddenly start laughing and reveal the prank, point out the hidden cameras. But he doesn’t. He starts rattling off names, listing out gifts wishes, solely focused on his list and oblivious to the look of horror on my face. After about a minute, he pauses and looks up at me. “Following me, sonny? Think you can help a fellow out?” For a few seconds, all I can do is gape like a fish. “Um, sir, that’s a lot of items you want, and it’s so late in the season…” His face seems to fall, that twinkle disappearing from his eyes. “Oh. Oh, I see.” He heaves a great sigh. “You know, maybe I’ve been doing this too long. Maybe it’s time to throw in the towel. I just can’t seem to keep up anymore. Ever since the elves got unionized, I just can’t make them crunch. And PETA’s been all over me about how I treat my reindeer.” His shoulders slump. “I just hate to disappoint all those kids. The ones that still believe in me, still believe in the magic. I know, there are fewer and fewer of them every year, what with the Internet and all that stuff. But there are always some that still hold on; I guess it’s time for them all to just grow up and deal with it.” He sounds so down, so devastated. I really want to help him. But there has to be a couple hundred thousand names on that list. I could work around the clock from here to Christmas and I wouldn’t get it all sorted out. I mean, it’s great to do the shopping and find a special gift for each and every person on your list, but… Then an idea hits me. “Um, sir, have you ever thought about gift cards?” He blinks. “Gift cards?” He says the words like he’s never heard them before. “Yeah. They’re cards that give people a certain amount of money to spend on whatever they want at our store. They can come in any amount you want. Say, twenty dollars each?” He hesitates, scratches his beard, a thoughtful look on his face. “I don’t know. Seems kinda… impersonal. Like I didn’t even bother taking the time to look for what each person wanted. Like I didn’t care enough.” “Not at all, sir,” I say, shaking my head. “A gift card is all about giving the person you’re gifting a choice, leaving it up to them how they want to spend the money. It says you care, not just about the giving, but about their own decision, about letting them control what they want. I mean, imagine if they changed their mind between now and Christmas? They’d be stuck with a gift they no longer want or need. No, a gift card is the ultimate way to say that you’re thinking of them and want them to be happy, without taking away their freedom to choose.” I know I’m laying it on a bit thick, but I’ve never been so desperate to make a sale in my life. Still, he hesitates, a deep frown on his face. Then he smiles, and the twinkle returns. “You know what? I think you’re right.” With a flick of his wrist, he rolls up the scroll with a snap. “We’ll do the gift cards.” I almost wilt with relief. “If you’ll come this way, sir, I’ll get those ordered for you. Would you like us to ship them, or…” “No, no, I’ll handle the deliveries myself,” the guy says. “I should make that effort at least. And, believe me, after all these years, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.” “Perfect,” I say, growing happier by the minute. Man, am I gonna make bank today. This might even net me a raise. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” He pauses again, rubs at his chin. “Well, now that you mention it, I do have this other list… do you guys sell coal, by any chance?”


My mom used to tell me this story about her home planet, Earth. She told me all about this once magnificent planet, but when I looked out of my spaceship window, all I saw was a scary ball of flames that used to hold beautiful, green trees, vast oceans, and oxygen that seemed to last forever. The humans needed to eat for fuel, drink water to live, and oxygen to breathe. Mom said that Earth was home to many families, children went to school, and everyone was happy at one point. But one day, Earth changed. It wasn’t all of a sudden, but certain events led up to this moment. The humans would cut down trees for their buildings like stores and houses. They learned how to make paper from trees and would cut down about 15 billion trees each year. My mom would show me a picture of a tree and it looked gorgeous. It looked so alive and green that I couldn’t believe it even existed on the toxic planet. She told me that birds of all colors and sizes would live on the trees and sing happy songs. Mom would smile at the picture and then become sad, saying that one day, there were no more trees the humans could cut down, and it caused many problems. The humans couldn’t breathe in carbon dioxide because it was toxic to them. But CO2 levels on Earth had gotten so high that not many of them could survive. A lot of the humans had a hard time breathing and it even got to the point where they had to always wear oxygen masks to live. You see, the trees that they cut down inhaled carbon dioxide and exhaled oxygen. If the humans hadn’t cut down all of their trees, there would still be air for them to breathe. Animals also lived in these trees, sheltering and protecting them. Mom said that the humans could have recycled their products, try to use cloths instead of paper items, and plant more trees to avoid what happened. Another problem that contributed to the humans’ air quality is their use of fossil fuels. They used it to heat their homes, produce electricity, and as gas for their cars. One tank of gasoline could take their car hundreds of miles. The humans used fossil fuels so much because it didn’t take much processing to make. What they didn’t know was that fossil fuels released a lot of harmful by-products, creating pollution and affecting their air quality. Fossil fuels are also a non-renewable resource, meaning once you use them, they’re gone. The humans were also using fossil fuels much faster than they could be made. What the humans could have used instead of fossil fuels are renewable energy sources, meaning resources that can be naturally made over a short period. Some examples are solar panels and wind turbines. If the humans used these resources, they could have had more time on their planet. Mom said that Earth used to have blue, massive oceans. She would show me a picture of her next to something called a “beach.” It had blue water and huge waves, like something from my dad’s old history books. The oceans provided water and had sea creatures like sharks, fish, and octopus’ that have 8 legs! I find that hard to believe but if they did, the creatures are long gone now. The oceans also produced oxygen for the humans to breathe. There are a few theories about how the oceans changed drastically, but here is one: carbon dioxide. With so much carbon dioxide on Earth, it could have turned into ice and covered the oceans. Eventually, as it gets warmer, the ice would melt and evaporate. If the humans had done as was suggested before to decrease their levels of CO2 on their planet, maybe they would still have one. Maybe I would also have experienced this “Great Earth.” Eventually, the human population decreased so much that there were not many left. They couldn’t live without the oxygen their trees provided and the water and air their oceans gave. The humans had only one planet and now it’s gone. My mom and dad were astronauts when the downfall of Earth happened and got on a rocket ship to live in space. My daily life is to wake up, make sure my space suit is intact, and check to see if I have enough oxygen for the day. Sometimes it’s annoying because the stuffy suit would get in the way of the things I need to do like schoolwork. Mom and Dad would switch off teaching me different subjects, but I loved learning about Earth. If Earth was my planet, I would have definitely taken good care of it for future generations to enjoy nature’s beauty. The humans only got one planet and it’s not easy getting another one once you have destroyed it. I don’t even think you could get another one! My parents told me that back then on Earth, humans didn’t have to go through the hassle of paying and caring for an oxygen tank. It’s second nature to me though. I’m jealous of those humans on Earth; they got free oxygen just from big, green trees and were able to swim in the vast, blue oceans. Dad tells me that one day I might be able to go to Earth and experience its beautiful nature, but I could tell he doubts that would happen because of the unlivable toxic atmosphere. I was born and raised in this rocket and never got to see rainforests or feel the wind of the beach, but I heard that it’s amazing. I could only hope and pray that I would have those luxuries. Breathe in fresh air from trees instead of the air of oxygen tanks. I want to feel the sun on my skin without getting burned because the ozone layer is basically gone on Earth. Earth didn’t wait for the humans to change their ways, so it showed them a life without it.


One would think the biggest problems encountered during the apocalypse would be staying hydrated, foraging for food or maybe even finding a not-so-dirty dick to sit on. But, in 2022, that wasn't the case. There was still a ton of food and water because most poeple had died from the virus, and the giant Costco's and Wal-Mart's and BJ's and Sam's clubs were still filled with miles of unperishables and dams full of unopened water bottles. We considered this the one consulation prize for being a capitalist society. The need to consume may have been the reason most of us perished, but atleast this abortion of capitalism was making up for it. In some areas, there was even still electricity due to the fact that before the year of death, some poeple actually still believed in solar and water power. Who knew it would actually pay off in the end. If only the republicans could see us now, too bad they were mostly dead. That's what happens when you're old, stubborn and don't wear a mask. Most of us that were still alive were considered immuned because after the first worldwide vaccination, old people started dropping like beats in a dupstep song. One after the other, after the other. It was right out of an Eli Roth film. Something in the new vaccine was making old people's hearts explode right out of their chests. Which would've been extremely tragic if there weren't so many tik tok videos about it. By Valentine's day of 2021, no one was getting money in their birthday cards. Grandsparents had gone extinct. To think that none of us would ever get an awkward, boney hug ever again. By St. Patricks day, poeple were remixing the videos on YouTube and even doing recreations and reaction videos. Which sounds vulgar, but it really was the only thing that was lightening the mood, at that point. We thought after that, the American gov't would finally take notice and try to use our scientists to create a better vaccine, but they just kept trying to figure out a way to get to Mars. A lot of ppl, including myself, think it was because all the billionaires were trying to abadon us underlings on the first day of 2021. Well, those scientists must not have been that great because the space shuttle blew up on ignition. It killed the entire executive and judicial branches of the gov't, as well as all of Silicon Valley. Now that was an anarchy party. Things got a little weird after that and the exploding hearts. Russia and China were in competition to finish the new vaccine, and finally, amongst all the tensions on April 20th, 2021, devastated, we ran out of weed. Oh, and they created a new vaccine. It was a bittersweet symphony just like the band the Verve said it would be, but since both countries were so huge and powerful, and our country had no discernable people in power. China and Russia decided to deliver the vaccine through the air attempting one of the biggest crop dusts is human history. Which probably would've worked had all of the crop-dusting tanks been cleaned properly before being filled with the vaccine juice. Something about the mixture of trace amounts of bug killer with the vaccine messed with the chemistry. By the time the second vaccine rained down upon us, it had somehow converted itself into a relentless supervirus. Killing everyone and everything that wasn't immuned. Turns out making me and my boyfriend take elderberry for no reason at all for all those years really wasn't the "waste of time" that someone thought it was. Roughly one in a thousand people seemed to be immuned. How both of us ended up alive together still weirds me out and is somewhat stressful if we ever decide to grow apart. But if the virus didnt get you outside, it eventually seeped through the window seals and got eveyone in their homes. Along with most of the plants and animals. Most everything was dead by the next day. But the worst part was all the weed, aka marijuana, aka the devil's crab grass, was gone. The one thing that we needed during these trying times beside food and water was Finito. Extinct. Justin and I looked everywhere, within a 100 ft square footage. Nothing. So what else does one do when they have no weed and all the free gas in the world. Motherfucking Road trip. Which would've been the juiciest of tits. But no one really emphasizes the importance of weed on a road trip. It's basically the whole reason they're fun. Otherwise it's just long periods of driving through nowhere with nothing more to say. Atleast on weed you can appreciate what nowhere has to offer. All the California farms were done-zo. Same with Colorado. Our only chance was to find a dispensary that wasn't yet tainted. We only had 2,476 of them to look through, so it was going to be tight. We found most of them occupied all ready by whoever in that area survived the vaccine and had a bunch of guns. If you thought everyone smoked weed when the world was normal. Wait 'til you have a global pandemic and national weed shortage. It's the only thing people want to do. We finally found a small dispensary in Colorado Springs that had been left ransacked but wasn't occupied with angry stoners, or so we thought. There was one old, top-bun wearing hipster in the back of the small store guarding the safe. He was obviously protecting something good because he was holding a throwing ax and his eyes were too tiny for regular weed. "Back up, man, I know how to use this thing and I'm afriad to use it." We were confused. So, I tried to clarify. "Huh?" He stammered. "Wait. I mean. You know how to use this thing, but I'm not afraid to. Or something like that. You know what I mean! Back the fuck up." "Uh, yea, we get it. I guess. If we move you'll lizzie borden us to death." Jealousy set in. The weed he was hiding strong. I could tell. If the horrible sentence structure didn't clench my suspicion, his general paranoid demeanor gave it away. He obviously couldn't even handle this kind of weed. I could liberate him. So, I charged. "Hey, wha-!" he exclaimed while clumsily releasing his ax opposite my direction. He missed me as I tackled him to the ground and knocked him out with a giant handblown stash jar. They are way more sturdy than you might think. "Ooh, these are nice, look around for some..." Before I could give my full review of the newly found stash jars, I saw Justin had been hit. The hand-whittled axe handle hung from the meaty part of his upper right arm. He tried taking it out and I screamed. "Don't! I have something better than that." "Better than taking it out of my arm?! What is better than the sweet relief of no ax in my arm?" "Wait for it!" I leaned down, found the everpresent post-it note on the side of the safe donning the code and finally found the one thing that could save us. "Shrooms!? What in the shitbag kinda luck!?" Aw, Fuck. That wasn't what I was expecting. In fact, I completely forgot about shrooms. Like all together. They werent my thing. So, I shoved a handful in mine and Justin's faces, waited the applicable 45 minutes. Justin complained. "So, when you said wait for it, I guess you meant 45 minutes." "Did I sound specific to you?" So, we waited. For the record, it took 38 minutes, and right when my beloved started grabbing flowers that weren't there, I ripped that underused and overembelished hatchet out of his arm like a giant, sharp bandaid and kept it for sentimental value. There wasn't much of that in this new normal. And that guy seemed pretty cool when he wasn't throwing sharp sticks at us. Justin survived as we quickly found another lead on weed in the store. But he had the weirdest trip of his life. Pro tip: Don't ever do shrooms when you're bleeding. I probably should have thought of that before I forced them down his gullet. For us, there was still no weed in the apocalypse, for now. But we vowed we would never give up until we found it. Unless we were hungry and tired. We're not machines.


A nice, two-story brick home sits on a lush green lawn in the middle of suburbia. Angela Rollins opens the front door. Black with long braids pulled back into a ponytail, she’s dressed like she’s going to yoga. A duffle bag is slung over her shoulder and a veil of grief covers her pretty face. She holds the door open for her ten-year-old son, Jase. Light-skinned with a backwards baseball cap and an iPad clutched to his chest, Jase’s gray eyes keep to the ground as he walks past her. Angela presses numbers on a keypad and the door lock engages. They walk down a cobblestone path to the driveway where a newer model Audi waits. Jase gets in the front passenger seat. He pushes a button on his iPad and the screensaver shows a picture of him, Angela, and his father, who has curly red hair and fair skin, in front of a Christmas tree. They look happy. The Audi cruises down the highway. Angela drives with earbuds in and Jase plays a game on his iPad. A cellphone mounted on the dashboard lights up and vibrates. Angela taps the screen. “Angela Rollins,” she says, and listens to someone on the other end. “Yes I understand the D.A.’s desire for a speedy trial, but I still have boxes of discovery to go through,” she explains. “I’m playing catch up. Didn’t my office inform you I was on a personal leave?” Angela listens again and furrows her brows. “Thank you. I plan on spending the weekend working on this. I’ll be in touch.” Angela taps her cell phone to end the call and pulls the earbuds out. She turns on the radio to a news report. “Authorities say the body of a woman found naked and missing her right hand is likely the work of a serial killer,” says a reporter in a serious voice. Angela shudders and turns off the radio. She looks down at Jase. “Whatchya playing?” “Roblox." “Your Grandma and Grandpa Rollins are excited for you to spend the weekend with them. They texted me right before we left,” she says in an encouraging voice. Jase’s eyes grow wide. “They know how to text?” Angela nods. “Daddy taught them before he...” she says before stopping. “You can say it, Mom,” says Jase. “I don’t like to,” she softly answers back. Angela looks down at him, her face softens. “This weekend will be good for you, son. All of you. Your grandparents miss your daddy so much, and you’re so much like him.” Jase shrugs. “I guess.” Angela sees an exit sign off the highway that reads: Conroy, Ohio. She points to it. “My own grandparents used to live down that road. I spent time at their house when I was about your age.” Jase turns to her with a desperate look on his face. “Do you think they’re gonna have WiFi?” Angela smiles. “It had secret passageways.” “What did?” Jase replies. “I told you. My pappy and nana’s house,” says Angela. Jase looks incredulous. “Secret passageways?” Angela nods. “One day, nana went to play bingo at church and I stayed back. Pappy was in the garage tinkering on his ol’ truck like he always did, and I was bored as all get out.” She looks at Jase. “No WiFi.” He smiles. She continues on, “So I started doing cartwheels all over the house. My goal was to do twenty cartwheels in a row. I made it to about fifteen when I cartwheeled into the office. But it had a low hanging light, so I turned and was this close to number twenty when BANG! I collided into the back wall of a closet. Except... it wasn’t really a wall." Jase’s face lights up. “A fake wall?” “Mmm-hmm,” says Angela. “It opened to a very small room with steps.” “Where did they go to?” “Up and down to different rooms. Lawd, it’s been thirty years...” Angela says as she thinks hard. “One room had a tunnel that led all the way to the garage. You should’ve seen my pappy’s face when I came up from a door in the floor.” “He didn’t know about it?” Angela shakes her head no and continues on, “So, Pappy and I went back through the dark tunnel. He led the way with a flashlight and at the end of it was a small brick room. Pappy shined the light all over. We saw an old roadmap of the United States with lined routes leading up to Canada and there was a musket hanging on the wall. Pappy handed me the flashlight and took it down to get a closer look. It was all rusty and scratched, but the bayonet was still sharp. There was an inscription that read, U.S. Union Army.” “Whoa!” exclaims Jase. “Pappy said the musket must’ve belonged to a Union soldier from the Civil War. He figured, given the map and that the house was built in the 1850’s, it was part of the Underground Railroad,” says Angela. “I’ve told you about that, right?” “Is that where they hid the slaves that escaped?” “Yes, son.” “And all that happened when you were my age?” “Mmm-hmm." “Wow, Mom. Maybe you were right...” he says with a look of amusement. “Maybe kids did have more fun in the Eighties!” "We sure did," she laughs. The Audi pulls up to a modest rambler. An older white couple in their seventies stand on the front porch and wave enthusiastically. Angela looks at Jase. “I told you they were excited.” He looks at her with big, glassy eyes. She pulls him in for an embrace. “I love you, son.” Angela drives back down the highway. Her face reflects the pain in her heart as she wipes away the start of each new tear. She turns on the radio. “Authorities are hoping a sketch of the suspected serial killer terrorizing women in the Ohio River Valley will lead to his capture. It was made public after a witness says she saw a man in the vicinity where the latest victim was found. He’s described as a black man with a medium build, dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie,” says the reporter in a serious voice. Angela changes the station. The last few chords of a gospel song plays, then the Deejay comes on. “That was, *Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen*, by the queen of gospel herself.” Angela smiles and shakes her head. “Mahalia Jackson,” she coos. The Deejay continues on, “When Miss Jackson had trouble in life, she sang about the goodness of God. Praise, my friends, is a powerful weapon against the enemy.” Another gospel song starts, and Angela cranks up the volume and sings along. She passes a sign off the highway that reads, Conroy, Ohio. One Mile. Angela stops singing. She bites her lip and looks to the right. The exit to Conroy is approaching. She hesitates, then veers to the right, taking the exit. Angela drives down a tree lined street where large restored homes from the mid-to-late 1800’s sit on well-manicured lawns. A sign reads: “Welcome to Conroy. America’s Historic Home-Town.” Angela looks around as she slowly drives down the street, carefully studying each home she passes. She looks intently at a large Victorian with scalloped siding and large shutters. She pulls over and parks. Angela takes another look at the house, then turns the engine off and gets out of the car. She walks to the sidewalk in front of the house and stares at it. Next door, an uppity woman with a blonde coiffure and tennis outfit checks her mailbox. She sees Angela, looks her up and down, and sneers. Angela doesn’t notice. She just stares at the house, reminiscing about her time with Pappy and Nana. Suddenly, a man walks out of the front door carrying a garbage bag. Frank is in his fifties with pasty-white skin and a receding hairline. His checkered sweater vest fits snug against his pooch. Frank whistles as he walks to the adjacent garage with the bag. He presses buttons on a keypad and the garage door raises with a loud rumble. He throws the bag into a garbage can and pushes a button, and the garage door rumbles back down. As Frank turns back toward the house, he sees Angela. “I was just admiring the house!” she shouts to him with a smile. Two little girls on bikes ride down the sidewalk past Angela. They ring their bells and shout in unison, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank smiles and waves back at the girls. “I hope you don’t think I'm a weirdo,” Angela says as Frank approaches. “Not at all,” says Frank, who stands next to her and looks at the house. “I admire it, too. That’s why I bought it!” Angela chuckles. “Truth be told, I spent a lot of time in that house when I was a child." Frank’s face lights up. “Oh? Do tell!” “My grandparents lived here. I haven’t been back since... ‘89 I think,” says Angela. “How long have you lived here?” “About a year,” he answers. Frank looks to the right and left, then leans into Angela. "I got a killer deal on it, too!” he snickers. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?” “Foreclosure,” he says. “It sat vacant for years before it went to auction.” Angela looks sadly at the house. “That’s too bad,” she laments. “But good for you. It’s a big house, do you live here by yourself?” “No, no I’m married. We just celebrated twenty years." “Congratulations.” “Would you like to come inside and take a look around? I’m sure my wife would love to meet you." “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. Thank you, though,” she politely responds. The girls on bikes ride past again. They ring their bells and wave at Frank. Frank smiles and waves back. He turns to Angela and offers his hand. “Well, it was very nice to meet you...? Angela looks down at Frank’s hand. It's deformed, gimpy, the fingers are curled inward. She awkwardly shakes it. “Angela,” she says. Frank notices the uncomfortable moment and raises his other hand. “Lucky for me I’m left-handed!” he says with a jovial grin. Angela embarrassedly smiles. “And you are Mister Frank?” “Or just Frank." She nods. “Well, I have soup on the stove,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Angela.” “Goodbye,” she says. Frank turns, walks back toward the house, and resumes whistling. Angela stares at the house. She wrings her hands and bites her lip. She really wants to get a look inside. She looks over at the girls on their bikes and then back at the house. Angela lifts her hand and calls out, “Frank!” Frank stops in his tracks and smiles like a Cheshire cat.  INSIDE THE HOUSE Angela follows Frank through a doorway that leads into the kitchen. It is immaculate with white cabinets and marble countertops. A large pot boils on the stove and a small table is set for one. “Honey! We have company!” shouts Frank. He turns to Angela. “Is it how you remembered?” “Sort of,” she says as she studies the room. “The cabinets have been painted and there used to be wallpaper, floral I think. And the counters were butcher board.” “Oh, butcher board would have been nice,” he says. Angela walks into the dining room, Frank follows closely behind. A large rectangular table sits under a chandelier adorned with prisms. “Oh yes, I remember that chandelier,” says Angela. She looks behind her and points to a closed mahogany door. “And that was my grandfather's office.” Frank walks to the mahogany door and stands in front of it. “I use it as an office, too. It’s just a tad messy at the moment,” he says as he smiles and extends his hand. “After you.” Angela walks out of the dining room into the living room. She looks around at the classical furniture and built-in mahogany bookshelves. An old Victrola catches her attention and she walks up to it. “It was here when I bought the home,” says Frank. Angela inspects the Victrola. “It has to be the same one,” she murmurs under her breath as she touches the needle. “Nana wore down the vinyl of her Mahalia Jackson record from playing it so much." Frank walks over to the built-in bookshelf, fingers down a stack of record albums and pulls one out. He hands it to Angela. “Was it this?” Angela’s eyes grow wide as she takes the album. The cover has the name Mahalia Jackson in big red letters. Angela pulls out the record and sees an indentation on the vinyl. Her eyes well up with tears. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “Why would my uncle have left all this?” “Your uncle?” Frank asks. “Yes. My grandparents died in a car accident while they lived here. My uncle sold the home and must have included some of their belongings,” Angela says as she stares wistfully at the album. “You keep it,” says Frank. He walks to a stairwell leading up and slides his good hand over a mahogany spindle. “Really excellent craftsmanship throughout the home,” he states. “I can’t tell you how many times I slid down that banister,” Angela says with a chuckle. “Feel free to give it a whirl!” he playfully answers back. Angela shakes her head as she looks around nostalgically. “A house of stairways and secrets isn’t it?” “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Frank asks in a deep voice. Angela, startled by his change in tone, looks at him. For the first time she notices large beads of sweat on his forehead. “Did you say your wife was home?” “Who? Oh, yes. She must be napping,” he says. Angela sees that Frank's hand is gripping the spindle so tightly his fingernails are digging into the wood. She shudders. “Shall we tour the second floor?” he asks. “No, I should really be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality,” says Angela, as she turns and begins to walk back through the living room into the dining room. This time through she notices white bars behind burgundy curtains on the windows. Her gait becomes more brisk. Angela enters the kitchen and narrows in on the single place setting. Her eyes then go to the boiling pot on the stove. A human hand suddenly rises to the top. A look of horror covers her face. “Finally, some color to add to my collection,” says Frank in a gravelly voice. Angela spins around to find Frank inches from her face. His eyes are wild, and he presses a handkerchief over her mouth that muffles her screams. Angela’s attempt to fight back is short-lived as she succumbs to the chloroform. Angela lays on the floor in the middle of the office. There is a closet, desk, chair, and hanging ceiling light. Sunlight streams through gaps in the curtains onto Angela’s face. She comes to and slowly opens her eyes. The realization of where she is hits her and she jumps to her feet. She puts up her hands in a defensive posture and frantically looks around. She runs to the window and rips open the curtains to find bars covering the glass. She pulls on the bars with all her might, but they don’t budge. Angela runs to the mahogany door and sees the knob is missing. She puts her ear against it and listens… In the kitchen, Frank sharpens a large butcher knife on a whetstone. His eyes in a crazed trance as he stares at the metallic dust flying off the blade. Angela, ear pressed against the door, recognizes the sound of a knife being sharpened. Her eyes water, she covers her mouth to stifle her cries. She turns around and sees newspaper clippings about the serial killer scattered about the desk. She picks one up. It shows a sketch of the suspect: black, wide nose, big lips, hoodie. Angela shakes her head in disgust. She sees the Mahalia Jackson album on the desk, picks it up, and hugs it against her chest. She closes her eyes. “Not this way, God. Not this way,” she softly cries out. Suddenly, her eyes open wide and go straight to the low hanging ceiling light. She turns her head to the open closet. Angela steps inside the closet, puts her hands against the back wall and pushes on it. A click, and then it opens with a creak. In the kitchen, Frank stops sharpening the knife and tilts his ear to the left. What was that he heard? Angela closes the fake wall behind her. She unzips her jacket and stuffs the Mahalia Jackson album inside. Angela looks around the tiny room. Wooden slats on a brick wall lead up. A piece of plywood covers a section of slats leading down. Angela bends down to move the plywood but hears the sound of the office door opening on the other side of the fake wall. She quickly starts climbing up the narrow steps. Frank enters the office holding a long butcher knife. He looks at the spot where Angela was lying, then quickly turns on the ceiling light. He looks all around the room, under the desk, and in the closet. He inspects the bars on the window. Frank, panic-stricken and confused, lets out a bone-chilling scream. Angela freezes mid-climb when she hears Frank scream. She looks down, takes a deep breath, then takes another step up. Frank rips up the carpet and examines the baseboards. He checks the windows again. His face becomes distorted with rage and he throws the butcher knife across the room like a dagger. It sticks to the back of the closet, rattling the fake wall. Angela looks down when she hears something hit the wall. She takes one more step then reaches the top. She presses against a large boxed cutout, a click, then it opens. Franks walks to the closet wall and sees it vibrating. He pushes on it and it clicks open. Angela emerges from the cutout into a bedroom with red walls; a hinged bookcase hangs open behind her. Frank takes a step inside the small room. He looks around, eyes bugged out of his head, and chortles a maniacal laugh. Angela looks around the room in horror. Women’s torn and bloody clothes hang from a four-poster bed like a canopy. Five mason jars sit on a dresser, each filled with liquid and a human hand, polish still on some of the fingernails. Angela gags, hunches over and heaves. “Jesus... Jesus...” she pleads. Angela wipes her mouth and looks up. A thought! She unzips her jacket and takes out the Mahalia Jackson album. She looks at the cover. “Praise is a weapon." Angela pulls out the vinyl record and breaks it in two. She holds a jagged piece up like a weapon and slowly walks toward an open doorway. Frank begins to climb up the steps but has trouble grasping the slats with his gimpy hand. He slips down a few steps and shrieks with rage. When he finally gets to the top, he pushes on the cutout. It opens, and Frank sees that it leads to the bedroom. He pokes his head out to look for Angela, but she's nowhere in sight. Angela slowly walks down the hallway. She looks around the corner and sees the staircase with the mahogany spindles. There’s no sign of Frank. Angela begins to descend the stairwell, but each step she takes makes the wood creak loudly. There’s only one way to get to the bottom unheard. She gets on the railing and slides down the banister. She gets off at the bottom and peeks around the corner. She can see the door she came through in kitchen, but first she has to make it past the living and dining rooms. With the jagged vinyl record raised high, she takes a deep breath and makes a run for it. Angela dashes through the living room and into the dining room. She sees the office door open and the carpeting pulled up. She runs into the kitchen to the front door. She turns the knob, but it’s locked in place. She jiggles and pulls on it, but it doesn’t budge. A keypad sits in place of a deadbolt and she frantically presses the buttons. Suddenly she hears footsteps coming up behind her. She turns around and Frank, like a wild beast, comes lunging at her with a knife. Angela whips her arm around and stabs him in the neck with the jagged record. Frank howls and drops to the ground. Angela jumps over him, but he slits the back of her ankle with the knife before she can get away. She shrieks and limps out of the kitchen. Angela swiftly hobbles into the office and goes straight through the open fake wall. She pulls up the plywood that covers the steps leading down. She looks at her bloody ankle, the cut is so wide she can see her Achilles tendon. She takes off her jacket, wraps it around her ankle, and wipes her bloody hands onto her sports bra. She quickly descends into the narrow hollow, her face ravaged with pain. She stops and looks up. “Damn it!” she cries. She forgot to cover the opening. In the kitchen, Frank pulls the jagged record out from his bleeding neck. He wraps a tea towel around the gaping wound and picks up the butcher knife. He looks ahead, his eyes dark and demonic. Angela slides the plywood over the opening. She quickly goes back down the steps, gritting her teeth through the pain. She steps off the last rung onto the floor. It’s dark, so she feels around the brick walls of the hollow for an opening. Frank follows the trail of blood into the closet. He steps through the opening of the fake wall and looks up the steps. Angela finds an opening and enters into another room. A sliver of light carves through the darkness so that it's not pitch black. Her hand bumps into something on the wall. She squints to see it’s the musket and pulls it off. “The tunnel has to be close,” she says in breathy voice. Frank starts to climb up the steps when he notices a bloody handprint on the floorboard beneath. He jumps down, pulls off the plywood, and sees the opening going down. Angela holds the musket under her arm and feels around the brick walls for the opening to the tunnel. “Help me, Pappy. Show me the way," she cries. Her hand brushes over a smooth surface. It’s more plywood. She finds an edge, wedges in the musket and rips it off. Frank descends the steps in the narrow hollow. Angela limps as fast as she can through the tunnel carrying the musket under her arm. Frank, like an animal hunting its prey, sniffs and feels around the walls. “I can smell you, Angela!” he hisses loudly. Angela comes to the end of the tunnel. She feels around and again finds slats nailed to the wall. She climbs up the steps, still holding on to the musket. She can’t hold in her cries of pain anymore and wails loudly. Frank hears her and begins slashing the air with the knife. “I’m coming for you, bitch!” he screams. Angela reaches the top of the steps and uses the musket to push open the hatch. A square piece of the flooring in the garage lifts up and Angela emerges. With every ounce of strength, she hoists her way up through the opening. She rolls onto the garage floor and tries to catch her breath, still clutching the musket. She looks down at her ankle and sees the jacket is saturated in blood. She closes her eyes, then opens them, as if going in and out of consciousness. “Angie!” a man’s voice calls to her. Angela opens her eyes and sees Pappy standing over her. He has a shorn gray afro and wears overalls. “You’re almost free. But you have to get up, Angie. Get up!” Angela mutters, “Pappy…” She looks again but Pappy is gone. She turns to her side and sits up. She looks ahead and sees the garage door. Angela moans in agony as she gets to her feet, picks up the musket, and limps to the garage door. She finds the opener on the wall and frantically pushes the button. The garage door rumbles opens a little, then rumbles back down as she erratically pushes the button. Frank hears the sound of the garage door. “Fuck!” he screams, and runs out. Angela, musket under her arm, sweats profusely as her eyes flutter open and shut. She presses the garage door opener one more time and falls backward. She is close to losing consciousness. The light from the setting sun hits her face as the garage door opens all the way. Her eyes open wide and she limps toward the outside. Suddenly Frank appears in front of her. He raises his knife. Then the sound of ringing bells, the little girls call out, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank instinctively cocks his head to side. Angela plunges the bayonet into his stomach. Shocked, Frank's demon eyes stare back at her. “Not today, Satan." Angela thrusts the bayonet deeper into his bowels. Frank falls to the ground, blood oozing from his stomach. Angela limps out from the garage as fast as she can to her car. The neighbor lady opens her front door to let in a little dog. She sees Angela getting in her car with just a sports bra on. The lady rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Angela lays against the steering wheel and lets out a guttural cry. She turns the key still in the ignition. The radio comes on to the gospel station. Mahalia Jackson belts out “His Eye Is On the Sparrow.” Angela’s car speeds down the street of historic homes on well-manicured lawns.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - **For this first week, let’s get to know each other a bit. Introduce yourself! Tell us a little about yourself and the things you enjoy writing!** I’ll start us off. I’m Bay and I *love love love* all things horror, thriller and suspense, whether I’m reading it or writing it! I also really enjoy dabbling in lit-fic. I enjoy exploring atmosphere, mood, and (especially) emotions in my writing and how they affect character behavior. **Additional Questions this Week:** - **What are your preferred genres to write in?** - **Are there genres you’d like to try but haven’t? Why haven’t you?** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


“Tell me your biggest fear.” I looked into Sam’s emerald eyes and smiled. Sam was so beautiful and I was the luckiest person in the world. I leaned in for a kiss. “Don’t try and avoid the question! Tell me your biggest fear.” “Just one kiss and I promise I’ll tell you.” I pressed my lips against Sam’s and, just like every other time, it was a drug I could never get enough of. When we pulled away, I could still taste its sweetness on my lips. “Now, what did you want to know?” A smack landed on my arm. “You know exactly what I asked.” Suddenly, I felt pang of sadness. I couldn’t figure out why. Here I was, intertwined with the love of my life, without a care in the world and I was feeling sad? I tried to shake it off but it lingered. “I suppose… um… it would be… being forced to watch White Chicks on a loop forever.” Another smack, this time on my belly. “What?? It is! I love that film and if I ever over did it and stopped loving it, it’d be hell!” “I’m serious! I want to know what shakes you to your core; the one thing that you would rather die than live through.” Those green orbs looked into me and all I felt was the same gloom. My brow furrowed as I wondered why I felt this way. I didn’t like it and tried to change the subject. “Why do you want to know this so badly, right now? Let’s just lay here and enjoy this moment before Life comes along and ruins it.” I burrowed my head into Sam’s brown locks and got lost in the scent. Sam always smelt like coconut. Always. But there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Different soap? Hair cream? Something wasn’t right. It was almost… metallic. “Babe, did you change your shampoo or something?” No answer. “Babe, are you sleeping?” I pulled back to check if Sam was asleep and a scream tore out of me. I jerked back and pushed away. Sam was covered in blood. But it wasn’t just that; it was the eyes. They were slit like a cat’s. “SAM? WHAT THE FUCK, SAM?” Again, no answer came but a hideous, spike-tooth grin spread across this *thing’s* face. “What’s the matter, honey? Aren’t I your ‘babe’? Don’t you want to just enjoy the moment anymore?” It was Sam’s voice mocking me. What the fuck was going on? I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. My heart was pounding and my chest was about to explode. What the FUCK?! “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” it laughed. “Your tongue’s not the only thing I’ve got.” A blood-soaked hand – no, claw – reached out towards my chest and I scrambled back until my back hit the wall. Shit. “Oh shh shhhhh. Don’t be scared, I don’t bite,” it said soothingly. Almost sincerely. Then, a large sinister smile. “Not unless you want me to,” it sneered. “S-Sam?” “Is that what you want? Ok, one sec.” Instantly, Sam, *normal Sam*, was back. “Sam? Is that really you?” “What kind of a stupid question is that? Yes, it’s me! Why wouldn’t it be? What are you doing over there? Come back and let’s cuddle.” “I- I could have sworn you were just – I don’t know. It must have been a nightmare or something.” I shook my head to clear it. Such a vivid hallucination. “Oh, honey. You must be terrified. Come tell me about it.” Open arms beckoned me and I started to shift back towards them. “You stupid FUCK!” It was back! “That’s the problem with you people. One speck of affection and you’ll throw common sense away.” “Who- What are you?” I whispered. It was all I could do. My throat was closing up from pure fear. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, I’ve won my bet.” “What?” “It took me a while. Considering I’ve only been doing this for a few weeks, I got you to crack in 2. The bet was 3. I tried all the cliché stuff first: spiders all over you, falling off a cliff; you know, the usual. But nothing truly scared you, not like this.” “What?” I couldn’t make sense of any of what it had just said, or that it was still Sam’s voice. Spiders? Cliffs? What? “I know you’re not stupid. But you do need to close your eyes and we can do this again, from the top. It’s so fun!” I was never taking my eyes off this creature. Not if my life depended on it. It probably did. I needed to get out. Somehow, I needed to distract the beast and make a break for it. My mind raced as I thought of how the hell I was going to do that. “Come on,” it goaded, “I promise it’ll be just as exciting!” It started to slither towards me and I didn’t think twice! I punched it in the face, jumped out of the bed and sprinted to the door. I was going to get out! Talons landed on my shoulder and dug in painfully just as I grabbed the door handle and Sam said, “you’re going to wish you’d never done that.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “Tell me your biggest fear.” I got lost in Sam’s emerald eyes and leaned in for a kiss. “Don’t try and avoid the question! Tell me your biggest fear.


The soft sound, delicate against my not-yet fully awakened ears, echoes throughout the space like a pebble skipping across still waters. It threatens to rouse me to awakeness, to pull me from the peace, quiet and safety of the deep and empty slumber that my mind had slipped into. My mind slips back into darkness, away from the prying, grating noise that threatens to steal me away from my place of safety. Again. *Hoot. Hoot.* My eyebrows knit together in solemn acceptance, recognizing the significance of the sound as my mind stirs into lucidity. I am alive. Now is not the time for rest; there is work that must be done. My eyes slide open, pupils dilating in silent protest as shafts of dim light snake their way between the hoods of my eyelids to assail my still waking eyes. I lick my lips, the modest amount of saliva attempting to saturate their parched, cracked, and desert-like surface. I swallow, the spittle on my tongue feeling like sandpaper as it treks its way through the bone-dry crevasses of my tortured throat. The dull, throbbing aching in my joints, my bones, and my muscles crying out like a single voice, lost within a vast and uncaring wasteland. A third time. *Hoot. Hoot.* Now fully awake, but still not fully alert, I open my eyes to survey the wreckage around me. I lay within the shattered remnants of the still-smoking ruins of our battalion. Around me are the dozens of hollowed out shells of our trucks, carrier ships and machines of war. It’s then that the scent finally hits me, the putrid, agonizing stench of decay mixed with motor oil. I gag on it, the implications of its presence tightening around my mind like a vice, threatening to overtake my still recuperating mental faculties. It would seem I was the only survivor of this conflict. Still not wanting to believe it, my thin, raspy husk of a voice quietly, solemnly calls out, the sensation and the weight of the noise tearing through my aching vocal cords with the force of a gunshot. “H..Hello?” I whisper to the vast, empty void of space around me. “Is.. anyone t..”, I pause mid-sentence and cough, lungs forcing the air out of my chest in a violent, painful burst of sound. “Is anyone there?” I try again, hoping beyond hope that I have not been left alone in this wasteland. Much to my surprise, a response comes, the syllables tickling my ears as it travels through the air, the meaning of the words still incomprehensible to my tortured senses. I blink, muscles protesting as I raise a sooty hand to my eyes, wiping away the grime and stains of warfare that coat my eyelids. The voice comes again, words now much more clear, the threatening tone and harsh meaning cutting straight to the core of my being, and I know that I am undone. “Kyle, get off the floor and turn your alarm off, it’s time for school”. “But Moooooom…” I protest, looking at the circle of toy army-men and figurines scattered around me. “I don’t WANT to!”.


A tumbleweed rolled across the empty dusty road. Whatever pushed it along its way was unknown to Kristy as she baked under the brightness above her. She was hunched over the hood of her broken down El Camino. It was little better than sitting inside the hot car, but at least out here she could breathe. She had no water, and she had no idea how long she would have before the tow truck reached her. Kristy stared off into the distance toward the mountains of red sandstone. The bases of the mountains were blurred behind the water-like mirage rising from the ground. Looking at it made Kristy even more thirsty. She started to turn her head away until she noticed a large dark figure coming toward her through the haze. She stood up to see if her eyes were deceiving her. Sure enough, the figure of a tall, slender, and dirty man came into focus as he continued to approach the car. He had on a tank that used to be white, but it was now covered in stains of the sands that had clung onto his sweat. Kristy could also see that a small boy was following behind him. The dirt on his face matched that of his father’s. Kristy straightened up and tried to gather her composure. She quickly switched from being tired and groggy to alert and focused. She wanted to run into the car to grab her switchblade before he got too close, but she didn’t think that she had enough time before he reached her. “’Ya need some help?” the slender man yelled as he continued to walk toward her. She stood silent until he was close enough to hear her. “No, I’m alright,” she said cautiously, “just waitin’ on my tow. He should be here any moment now.” “You want some water while you wait?” the man asked. “We live just over those rocks and it wouldn’t take ‘ya too long ta git back.” Kristy was hesitant to follow a man she didn’t know, but her thirst got the better of her. After all, a man with a little boy couldn’t be that bad, could he? Kristy walked over toward the man without grabbing her razor. After about 5 minutes, all three of them climbed over a small mountain of rocks, and Kristy could see a rusty trailer in what appeared to be a small canyon. There was a little dirty pond of water near the rock wall, not too far from the trailer. Hundreds of flies flew just above the murky surface. The area smelled of dead animals and sulfur. Once they reached the trailer, the boy picked up an empty old plastic milk jug from the miscellaneous items strewn about the ground and walked over to the pond. The flies darted in every direction as the boy punched his arm into the water. After submerging the jug until it was filled, the boy took the water behind the trailer. “Is… is that the water you’re offering?” Kristy asked hesitantly. She followed the boy and saw that there was a small campfire burning in a ring of rocks. The boy picked up a pot that was sitting on a grate above the fire and poured the water from the pond into it. “Yeah,” the boy said, “it gets really clean after boiling it, I promise.” There was no way she was letting that water anywhere near her lips. But what was she to do? Should she politely excuse herself? Or should she bolt to the car and lock herself inside, despite the suffocation she would have to endure? Was she overreacting? Likely out of utter confusion, Kristy started to sit in one of the tattered lawn chairs by the fire. It wasn’t until she felt the drip down her elbow that decided against it. You aren’t safe , she thought she heard the boy whisper, but when she looked over at him, his gaze hadn’t left the fire. The man joined them near the lawn chairs. “Sorry for the mess,” the man said. “It’s been just me and the boy for past couple of weeks. We don’t ever expect any…

lady  guests while we’re here. This is really the perfect spot to catch the animals that stop at the pond.” Animals?  she thought to herself.

How can they catch animals out here, and in these conditions?

It wasn’t until then that she noticed the pistol tucked into the waist of his pants. Kristy clasped her hands together. “Ya know, I appreciate you all for your hospitality and everything, but I think I’m gonna head on back now.” She wished she didn’t have to pass the man to get back to her car. She figured her only option was to walk back calmly. “But… but you didn’t get’chur water yet,” he said, gruffly. “I’m okay, really. My tow will be here any minute now.” She continued to walk toward her car. As she tried to walk past the man to leave the canyon, he caught her by the wrist and squeezed it tightly. “What did that boy say to you?” he hissed close to her ear. “N- nothing,” she uttered. “I just didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be able to see the tow truck from here.” As he reached for his gun, she broke free from his grasp and grabbed a fistful of sand from the ground. She threw it into his eyes and ran back toward the car without looking back. She made it all the way back when she heard the unmistakable sound of a gun shot in the air. She collapsed onto the hood of the car. The light started to fade around her. “Miss! Miss! Are you alright?” Kristy jumped as she felt someone vigorously shake her shoulder. A man in a grey mechanic uniform and a baseball cap had awakened her. A tow truck was parked in front of her car. She peered around and realized that it was now dark out. “Was I sleeping?” she asked the man. “Passed out, more likely,” he said, and handed her a bottle of water. “Sorry it took so long for me to come, but you’re waaaaay out here. You got your keys?”


As We Speak the Truth. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.” “I, Wilfred McNab do solemnly affirm that the evidence to be given by me shall be the truth , the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Wilfred looked nervously around the courtroom. He’d been in jail several times in his life and the prospect of returning was not one he relished. His big dilemma about taking the required oath was whether to tell the truth, or slightly bend the edges in order to shape an outcome that hopefully would keep him out of prison.

He blinked several times, adjusted his glasses and met the gaze of his partner in crime, Myrtle Dubois. She smiled serenely, the effect immediately calming Wilfred’s fears, bringing his world into a balanced centre. He stoically repeated the oath, his eyes never leaving Myrtle’s face. The crown prosecutor began building his case. He methodically laid out the charges and began a grilling, which though casual in appearance was a carefully constructed framework designed to snare and trap Wilfred into a guilty charge. Wilfred sensed the danger and did his best to foil the hunter in front of him. He quietly answered the questions being asked and only occasionally glanced towards Myrtle for assurance. Things had begun rather innocently with a plan.

Viewed through the eyes of many, especially those steely orbs of Lady Justice, it was a bad plan. Myrtle and Wilfred however failed to consider the full extent of what they were contemplating, especially the possible consequences. The pair lived within a marginalized reality that respected little of conventional systems of law and order. Basic survival was the main drive and rules that bound many, failed to deter them from the scheme they began to devise. It was Myrtle who first broached her partner. “Wilfred, we need food.” “I know Myrtle.” Wilfred sighed. He dug into worn jeans, pulled out a thin wallet and realized that he had just enough currency to cover a limited number of choices. Cigarettes? With their treaty card they could squeeze out maybe two packs, three if they turned a bit of change on the street.

Booze?

They actually had a fairly good routine going at their favourite LCB. Wilfred would play his fiddle while Myrtle, wearing her favourite ribbon skirt, primly danced to the fiddle’s call.

She would smile beguilingly at passersby.

One might imagine her toothless grin would scare people off.

That gaping dark hole seemed instead to prod the occasional person out of a numb zone of indifference. Some deep well of forgotten guilt edged its way to consciousness. Gratitude for a mouthful of pristine white enamel came with a cost. Many passing by had a vague awareness that a company dental plan absorbed most of the exorbitant fees of their oral upkeep. They managed to avoid the reality that this was a luxury denied to the less fortunate in life. “Those lucky bastards live off the government.” “My hard earned tax dollar supports these sponges.” “Why don’t they get a real job?” These attitudes conveniently overrode any compassion with the ignorant assumption that ‘those sponges’, got way more than their fair share of the pot. Myrtle and Wilfred played the odds.

They knew they could count on those rare souls burdened with an awareness of their entitlement. This knowledge inevitably overrode a more measured sense of caution. These benefactors knew full well that their contribution to the pot of change at Wilfred’s feet was not going to any dentist.

For the most part they were inured to the various and sundry stable of performers, begging for their ‘hard earned’ money. These reluctant caretakers, upright members of a reputable community, managed to overcome their repugnance and stopped to politely watch the entertainment. They understood that the “Need food for our children”, “Homeless,need shelter”, “Trying to get to …” signs were nothing but a ruse.

The clever signs served to further poke away at their conscience and induced some sense of obligation to compensate for all they had.

Some simply sighed, aware that the scene before them would be best forgotten if they pulled out a few loonies, tossed them into the pot and walked away quickly. Wilfred and Myrtle actually did need food. They lived somewhat frugally and yet often found themselves short at the end of the month. They were grateful for a small pension that guaranteed them a roof over their heads, enough food to stave off starvation and a little extra to supplement the needs of less fortunate relatives. They understood that their vices, cigarettes and alcohol were a problem Fortunately, they had a plan and more importantly, a good friend who was ‘white’ and looked like an upright member of acceptable society. Sandy had been brought up in a foster homes that endeavoured to instill values that might better guide the destiny of her life. Her birth home had held little promise of that opportunity and it was hoped that her removal at a young age would assist in a more productive outcome. This was not to happen and when she aged out, starting life on her own, barely managed to stay off the streets. She began associating with questionable companions and quickly became familiar with the many ways to relieve others of the burden of their earthly possessions. Sandy was a most proficient con artist and an accomplished thief. Over the years, she honed her skills and was able to make a rather comfortable living from the profits of selling her ill gotten goods. Her friendship with Wilfred and Myrtle had begun early in their lives. They’d all lived in the same foster home at one time and had formed a bond which had stood the test of time. Wilfred and Myrtle were sometimes a little shocked at the deviousness of Sandy’s schemes. They were astonished that she had managed to escape the long arm of the law and were quite baffled as to how she had achieved this skill. It was not exactly a talent they possessed. They had each been strongly influenced by Kookums who had raised them til death had placed the two children into the care of the social services system. It was in this environment that their traditional values began to falter and eventually, they simply accepted that Sandy had a real good thing going. So, they were having tea with Sandy and casually mentioned their problem. Sandy smiled, forefinger to nose, thumb to chin and said, “Hmmm, I may have a plan. to solve that.” Wilfred only cringed a little. His youthful ‘plans’ had earned him a place in a gang and that experience had not turned out well. He’d spent several years in jail for crimes mostly related to violence and was determined not to make that mistake ever again. Myrtle however, knew the potential of a good shill and was not above capitalizing on Sandy’s ability to pass as a normal, middle class, white woman.

The next day found them at a well known high end department store.

They were careful to enter separately and though they perused the same areas, made sure that no one would guess they had connection. Sandy, dressed to the nines and disguised as a wealthy suburbanite, carefully filled her cart with expensive electronics and pricey gadgets which would bring a good price on the street. In the clothing department, she selected top of the line leather jackets, fancy high heels and an assortment of classy costume jewellery. Myrtle nodded as Sandy’s hands passed over various articles, indicating an especially good catch. Next came the difficult part of the scheme. The three friends would head to the main floor, select a checkout till close to an exit which afforded a quick getaway.

Sandy had borrowed a friend's van. The handicap placard allowed her to park in a spot designated to assist those unfortunates. This spot further facilitated a quick escape. Sandy parked her cart by the door, pretending to look for a magazine on a rack facing the exit. Myrtle and Wilfred proceeded through the checkout. Wilfred tried to look as guilty as possible, fumbling in his pocket for change to pay for some small items they had chosen. Myrtle glanced around furtively, pretending to watch for suspicious security. Their act was successful. The clerk punched in their purchase and with disdain queried, “Is that everything? Do you have anything else?” Wilfred pulled out a dirty handkerchief, wiped sweat from his brow and mumbled, “No, that is all.” As they proceeded to leave the store, the clerk had already pressed the buzzer that alerted security. Within minutes, two burly security guards appeared and told Wilfred he was going to have to wait for the police to arrive before leaving. Myrtle went into high theatrics, yelling, “What? What are you assholes trying to do to us? This is racism, you’re targeting us ‘cause we’re Indians.” “Get your hands off my man or I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Wilfred joined the act. “You people are crazy, I’ve stolen nothing, everything in this bag is paid for.” By this time the police had arrived and a rather large audience of bored shoppers was watching the live drama unfold before their eyes. Wilfred went to reach into his pocket, pretending to hesitate as though looking for a weapon. All hell broke loose. The police pulled their guns out, Myrtle started screaming and Wilfred dropped to the floor pretending to have a seizure of some sort. The surrounding audience began to panic, people saw the guns and were terrified of being caught in the crossfire of a shoot out.

Shoppers turned and began running away as fast as possible. Those who could, darted out the exit doorway and along with them, pushing her stolen booty, went Sandy. The police, the store security, all the gathered clerks, never even noticed her departure with several thousand dollars worth of merchandise. Sandy made her way to the parked car and quickly began dumping her haul into the opened hatchback. No one even noticed her as she slammed the door closed, got into the vehicle and calmly drove off. It was only after Wilfred and Myrtle had been released and time had passed for the store to do an inventory that estimated the damage of the threesome’s shopping spree, that more serious justice was sought. The police arrived at the McNab residence, read Wilfred his rights and hauled him off to the city jail. The next morning found him in front of a judge, the courtroom clerk read him his rights and invoked his oath to tell the truth. Wilfred felt trapped. He knew there was no way he or Myrtle could be connected to the theft in question and yet he was torn. His Kookum’s spirit sat on one shoulder, gently nudging him, “Son, tell the truth, tell them what your plan was.” Myrtle’s steely gaze from the courtroom spectators warned him, “Don’t you DARE!” Wilfred took several minutes to debate his choices. He made an invisible sign of the cross, placed his third finger over his index finger and firmly stated, “I stole nothing from the store that day.” The frustrated prosecutor decided to give up and not waste any more money on this useless game of revenge and retribution. Wilfred and Myrtle left the courthouse, took the bus across town and met Sandy in a divvy bar. The three chortled as they counted out the dividends from the fenced items and made the three way split. The money greatly relieved Wilfred’s sense of guilt and what little remained was washed away by the straight whiskey in his glass. My question for you dear reader is this... “Would you have dared to tell the truth?”


He brandished the second finger from the thumb as he sped away on his rocket powered tricycle, the tassels flowing majesticly in the wind just as a grenade drops at his enemy's feet. The guy exclaimed a swear that was quickly cut short by the shrapnel ripping through his esophagus and up into his brain lining the pavement with his blood. When the dust settled all that remained was just a man and his trike riding off into the night as tiny squeaks emanate from his bloodied wheels. Three children, traumatized by this sight watch him ride off. The look of pure terror etched into their face and that gruesome scene now burned into their mind. They turn and walk home as the heart of the man beats it's last. He takes a sip from his flask, as he swears under his breath, "I got cocky" he said to seemingly nobody. As he sped along the desolate landscape he noticed a something strange moving along the horizon. Before he could react something catches him by the neck and he flies off his trike tumbling into the pavement, the tricycle lands far away with a barely audible crash. He searches around frantically taking in his surroundings. As he begins to get up he feels a sharp pain in his side and falls to the ground, hissing a stream of vulgar words. Dark figures emerge out of the darkness and begin to approach, he tries to get a good look at them but the movement causes him to double over and his vision doubles. "Did we kill him?" the first figure asked. "Im not so sure" said the second figure who seemed to be holding something long and thin. He begins to panick because while not knowing why, his body understands he is not safe. "If it were anyone else i bet they would have died on the spot, not many people can take a hit like that." "Well don't underestimate him, remember what he did to Fin back there? The poor man, didn't even get a chance to escape." *Ah so his name was Fin, i'll be sure to pay my respects later* he thought to himself still frantically looking for a way to escape. As the first figure nears he leaps forward biting down on his ear and feeling something warm and metallic trickle into his mouth. A scream echoes through the canyon as he is thrown against the wall, a large chunk of flesh now in his mouth. "The little shit took my ear off!" The first figure said as he picked up what he could now make out was a sword. As he gets up he sees a second figure out of the corner of his eye and jumps out of the way just in time to dodge a shot from what seems to be a crossbow. He begins to run but another sharp pain slices through his body as he topples to the ground. A boot lands on the square of his back knocking the air from his lungs and he gets lifted by his hair. The man, now clearly visible to him had a scar over his left eye that seemed to go all the way past his lip and disappear into the entrance of his shirt, and a now bloody space where his right ear should be. "You better be worth it after what you've done." The man said as he pulled back his arm and landed one final blow knocking him unconscious.


If I were to die at this very moment, life would move on as if I never existed. Sometimes I question if I’m already dead, people look at me as if I’m a ghost anyway. I am the next and only heir to the crown, even though most don’t know I exist. I haven’t left the castle since I was a little girl and I stopped talking at all a few months ago. My mother died when I was a child, we were never close but my father and I were even farther. When he realized I was going to be the only heir to be born in his lifetime he decided it was only appropriate to “keep me safe.” I wasn’t allowed outside, I couldn’t walk the grounds of the property alone and all my food intake was monitored. My head was being held underwater with no possible way to breathe, I had no other choice but to drown. After a while I grew familiar with this life, content even. Then it happened, they started preparing me. My father now weak and sickly lay in bed and gaze into my eyes, they’re empty. You think at this moment he would show compassion, be honest, tells me he’s sorry, but he doesn't. He grips my hand tight enough to turn it white and I hold back a wince, “The time has come,” he says, monotone and feeble. He gazes at me expectantly, but I suck in a breath and turn my gaze towards the window, there’s a songbird sitting on the edge. I let my mind wander for I do not wish to be here. I wonder how far it’s flown, I wonder if it has a family, I wonder if it’s scared of people and if its call is beautiful. My father shifts his gaze towards the window, and as if the bird could sense it, it flew away as fast as it came. He speaks up again, “You have been prepared for this, I will be stepping down as the king in due time, and you will take my place.” Every word spoken he grips my hand tighter and tighter, I refuse to let him know it hurts. I feel many things, anger, sadness, resentment; but this feeling was new. I am panicking. I can’t breathe and I need air, I can’t keep breathing in the same air, I need more. I crave more than this life that’s been forcefully given to me. I abruptly stand up, still, not haven spoke a single word. I’m escorted out of the room and taken to mine; I stare intensely at the window. I shift my gaze past and look at the clearing of trees seen above the city walls. It’s lush and beautiful, and the air is probably so fresh. My body knows whats it’s doing before my mind, and I move towards the window. I trace my finger along the rough stone; it’s cold and damp to the touch and it sends a chill down my spine. There is no hope without some risk involved and all I can do is hope. I hope for a new beginning; I hope for a place to belong, and I hope for comfort. I make my decision and by nightfall, I’m roaming the quiet city for the first time in almost 16 years. I walk by a bar, and I hear laughter inside, I can smell the aroma of beer and bread and I almost walk right in. The streets feel as if they’re stretching miles, I slowly lift my arms and a breeze flows under and my mind wanders back to the bird. I yearn to know if it has ambitions if it has dreams if birds can feel. I wonder if it knows how lucky it is, how freeing of a life it truly has. I softly smile to myself when another gust of wind blows up my coat, I imagine it as my feathers. By the time the outer gates come into view, I begin to register what I did. I left. and I left when they needed me. They’re going to look for me. I can’t stay in the town or go to any of our neighboring towns. I reach the wall and lay my hand upon it, it’s cold and damp and I’m reminded of the windowsill and of the forest. Logically it’s the only place that I can go. No man has ever survived long enough to come back and speak of his journey, though with that in mind I would rather die there than live the life I have planned out for me. I step outside the walls for the first time in my life, and with my head turned up towards the sky, the air feeling thick and the smell of fresh rain in my nose I breathe in. It’s long and deep, and I’m out of breath when I finish. Laughter bubbles out of me and my hands go up to the sky as if hoping it would allow me to fly. My feet wander to the start of the trail into the forest. There’s a sign that’s been clumsily hammered into the ground as if they didn’t want to linger here for longer than they had to. The sign reads, “DANGER! DO NOT ADVANCE!” My eyes seem to scan the words over and over and without hesitation, I begin walking. It’s quiet, almost eerily so. The leaves and twigs on the ground splinter and crunch under the weight of my feet. My hands are grasped tightly around myself seeking some comfort, any kind of familiarity. My eyes seem to trace the trees, and everything suddenly feels sinister, they seem to tower over me and obstruct all moonlight that should be shining through. I begin to grow emotional which I didn’t know was possible after all these years. My face blotchy and red, I frantically wipe my tears away. I always thought I was an ugly crier, though isn’t everyone? Through my blurry vision, I spot a small pond and as I get closer my ears are no longer filled with silence but the croaking of bullfrogs. I’ve only ever read about them, but they’re about as beautiful as you would imagine. I crouch down and right at the base of my feet lies a rather large frog. My movement must have scarred him as he jumps away when I move towards him kicking muddy water up into my face. My tears are gone and I laugh, I am alive. I have survived up until this point, counting down the hours until I could go to bed and repeat the same day over and over again. I will never live the same day twice past this point. Every wake will be a new start, a new life, a new chance at happiness. By the time I collect myself and start walking down the trail once again I spot a run-down house that looks almost abandoned. My pace quickens when I realize how much time has passed, the sun will begin to rise soon and I need shelter before that can happen. As I grow closer to the house, I see a clothesline hanging up with an array of sheets and black garments drying, glancing at the garden I see a wide range of herbs and spices, and the house is illuminated by candlelight from inside. I advance to the entrance, and I can hear pots clacking inside, I take a deep breath and slowly raise my hand to the old rotting door, my knuckles softly pound against it. Everything stills and I suddenly feel cold, the forest is perfectly silent again. The door opens a crack, and I can see the eye of an old, elderly woman, her wrinkles especially accentuated around her eyes as if she smiles too much. We stare at each other silently until she speaks up “What are your intentions?” she says slow and careful her voice breaking halfway through. It sounds as if she hasn’t spoken in years. I clear my throat and tilt my head down, speaking for the first time in a long time “I seek shelter and a way to leave my past life, I don’t mean any harm, I swear” I grow quieter as I speak. Her eyes visibly soften and they look kinder, “I know that feeling well, you may come in.” The door is opened all the way and I can gaze into the house. What looked like a small one-room cottage from the outside is now a large and cluttered home, bookshelves and potion bottles line the walls and I come to realize she’s a witch. She walks right over to a table on the verge of toppling over, piled high with everything you can imagine. I’ve never had these many worldly possessions in my life. I glance around in wonderment, and she watches me with a soft gaze, “What troubles you, child?” I can sense no malice behind her words and my troubles still lie heavy on my soul. Would it be okay if I told her? I feel like a child when I shrug my shoulders and attempt to shrink myself down, she gestures to the chair at one of the tables and I slowly sit. The cabinet is opened, and she’s studying an array of herb mixtures. I don’t pay any mind to the contents because I’m sure none of the names would ring a bell. I hear water boiling and I question when it was started in the first place. I’m silent as she opens one of the jars and pours it into a cup and then fills the rest with the water. She walks slowly back to me as she stirs it and places it in front of me. I hesitate and anxiously peer down, “What is it?” I mutter, fear evident in my voice. She smiles wide and gives a hearty laugh, “Oh dear, you think that low of me? It’s tea!” She ends her sentence by gesturing to the mug and bringing her cupped hands up to her mouth to signify drinking. My hands shake as I take the cup and bring it up to my lips. I stare at her as I take a sip, the powerful flavor of chai tea washes over me and I calm down. She runs her hand through her hair, and it somehow becomes messier, “Is it good?” she asks genuinely. I smile and whisper my answer, “Yes, thank you.” A comfortable silence follows, and she asks her question again, “What troubles you?” I straighten myself out and start talking, like really talking, “I need to get away from my father and never be recognized again,” I say frantically, “I’m trapped, I want to be free. I feel as if I could never live a normal life in this body” Her gaze lingers on me for longer than what I feel comfortable with, “Do you want another one?” she asks in a slow voice. I tilt my head in confusion, “Another what?” I say, confused and frustrated. She laughs slightly, and the room feels lighter and warm, I feel safe, “Why another body of course!” I reel back and grip my cup tighter, now the hot tea being lukewarm, “You can do that?” She taps her head with a single finger and says “I can do anything, but it always comes at a cost, that’s just how these things work” A sense of panic rises in me, “And what would that cost be?” I prepare for the worst but I am pleasantly surprised, “Well, you’d lose your beauty and youth. Are you willing to pay that price?” Without a doubt in my mind, I say fast and clear, “Absolutely” Looking in the mirror still feels foreign, but not bad, I no longer have my father’s eyes and that makes me smile. I’m old and hunched over, with the same messy grey hair that the witch has but thinner. I walk outside into the garden where she works surrounded by lush flowers and plenty of vegetables, she doesn't glance at me when I walk over, “So, how do you feel?” The voice that comes out of me is unrecognizable and scratchy, “I feel great.” I say with a wide smile, and I realize I’m missing a few teeth. I wander around the grass clearing and I see it, a songbird. My eyes widen and my old wrinkled skin moves with it, it’s really here, all the way in the forest, and it’s singing so loud and clear. It’s so beautiful. I’m free, nobody can hurt me here or in this form. I must’ve been there for a while watching the birds come and go as I feel a thin hand on my shoulder, I turn my head and those kind eyes look back at me. Before she can speak I ask her something I’ve been wondering, “Do you think I’ll ever live how I want? Free and happy? Will I grow?” She looks thoughtful for a moment and looks up to the sky, “The flowers grow back even after they’ve been trampled on, every season they have grown back without me replanting them” Her gaze shifts to meet my eyes “They always grow back and so will you”