My parents refused to go to my grandfather’s funeral. I couldn’t believe the news. I was strangling my phone against my ear when Mom first said it. It left my mind a blank. I needed a moment just to process it. “Why not?” I asked. “You should *know* why. We haven’t spoken to that bastard since right after you were born.” It was embarrassing to admit, but there was some truth to that. As far as I could remember, they never had any birthdays or holidays with him. Any time I saw him, it was always because my aunt Lillian drove me to the estate. “Grand” was an understatement for his property. It was an isolated plot of land, miles away from any sign of civilization. As soon as we’d turn onto his street, the smooth pavement turned to gravel. Aunt Lilian was a cautious driver and thought that if we didn’t move slowly enough, there’d be a flat tire. And if that happened? We’d be stuck until our AAA came. Every time we crept down the street, I could hear the *crunch* of each shard of gravel. The tiny pieces of broken glass strewn about the road were just a rumor. But that was until my cousins and I took our walks together. We were too scared to walk to the forests that surrounded the estate, so the gravel street was our only choice. It was a routine for us every time we met at Grandpa’s. It was peaceful at first. The only sounds were our voices and the few birds around us. But one day, we stopped when our cousin Ronnie wasn’t keeping up with us. We knew he had a short enough attention span to be diagnosed with ADHD. And the fact that he was hyper-observant didn’t make a good combination. It meant noticing he hadn’t kept up with us, to watch something crawling in the acres of lonesome grassland. Or worse, whatever dwelled in the trees at the edge of the forests. The last time we took a walk down the gravel street was the easiest time we found him. Once we looked back, there he was, yards away from us. His pudgy body was bent over toward the gravel. It took a few minutes to walk to him, but Ronnie acted as if he hadn’t noticed us. I asked, “What is it?” He adjusted his glasses and replied, “Look.” All of us gave a closer look, and we saw a tiny, transparent, sharp sliver of glass. After that, we saw another. And another, until we noticed a tiny trail of it down the road itself. From there, we moved onto the tall grass, and noticed an old Yuengling bottle top, covered in bits of mud. We went back to the gravel—it made avoiding any glass shards a lot easier. As kids, we all saw this as a trail of sharpened fangs jutting from the earth, feeling for any fresh prey. We didn’t realize it was blatant neglect, just a reason to stay indoors. It made me shiver to be in the car when Aunt Lillian drove us. With each *crunch* from the gravel, I pictured one of the shards stuck in one of the tires. Any second, we’d be stuck on the middle of the highway. I couldn’t open my mouth until she stopped at my house. It had to have been the strangest thing in the world for a little girl to ask, “Can we look at the tires? Please?” Aunt Lillian and Uncle Sean gave each other a bewildered look. Then Uncle Sean turned to me and asked, “The tires? How come?” “The glass.” “What do you mean ‘the glass’?” I told them about the broken glass we found on the gravel and the tall grass. That was all it took for them to get out of the car and look for themselves. I must’ve given them a heart attack, but the car was fine. “Jesus Christ,” Uncle Sean muttered under his breath. “Now his drinking’s a safety hazard.” Then he said to Aunt Lillian, “You think with all his money, your father would hire a maid, or at least someone to handle that *yard* of his.” Lillian had to admit, “I *know* he has a drinking problem. But it’s only this bad because Mother passed away.” She told me, “I’m sorry, Honey. I’ll walk you up to your parents.” But when I got out of the car, Uncle Sean said, “They divorced. *She* divorced *him.* I’m surprised he even noticed.” She walked me up to the front door and gave a warm hello to them. I was staring at the ground, my uncle’s words echoing in my head. As a child, I didn’t have a concept of drinking or divorce. But I didn’t ask my parents. There wouldn’t have been a good reaction. Even though one of us could’ve been hurt, I didn’t feel like it was my business to ask what those words meant, or *why* Grandma left him. But I think deep down, I feared family drama. I remembered the conversation ending with Mother telling me, “If you don’t want to see your grandfather, you don’t have to.” Her words made it sound like I had the choice, but the look in her eyes said otherwise. They were telling me that I wasn’t *supposed* to visit the estate. It was the one way for the cousins to see each other back then. We were a big family, and unless the meet-up was at Grandpa’s, most of the aunts and uncles were too busy to keep in touch. And even then, they never said much to each other. There was always an air of reluctance about them. It was like they secretly disliked each other, but good manners stopped them from being honest about it. I didn’t think I needed to tell Aunt Lilian and Uncle Sean about this, but all the cousins had a reason to stay outside. It was a relief for us. The broken glass littered around the yard was a hazard, but we still preferred that over being trapped indoors. Avoiding the glass was easier than what waited in the house. After all, the yard had enough space to roam until Grandpap’s home looked like a beetle you could hold between your thumb and forefinger. So the glass couldn’t have been scattered throughout the *entire estate.* When we explored the outer parts of the property, there weren’t any more broken bottles that we saw. Even when we played games and hid in the grass from each other, there wasn’t a bottle top in sight. That was something to be thankful for. After the encounter on the gravel road, it gave us more reason to stay outside. But as the autumns waned, winters crept in. A blanket of snow would cover the estate, temperatures dropping to less than ten Fahrenheit. No matter how much we bundled up, we couldn’t stand the biting sting of the cold for long. And when the freezing winds were too intense for us to handle, the sight of the trees made us run back inside as fast as we could. The way they looked, especially with the sheet of snow, gave cousins Ronnie and Marissa bad dreams. Marissa was the youngest cousin, and the most imaginative. She was the one who had big dreams of being a world-famous painter one day. So it wasn’t surprising that her nightmares about the trees were the most vivid. Even when we were trying to comfort her, we had the close the curtains so she couldn’t see out the window. Steven, the oldest of us, looked like his face turned white as the snow outside. The wind always howled during the winter nights, and it was louder when I peered out the window. The dense forests around the property were bare all year ‘round. No matter how much it rained and shined, nothing ever grew on the branches. The bark was stained a deep grey, like a granite headstone. It was as if a horrible parasite drank every last drop of life from the trees. It felt like crocodile skin, with more wrinkles than an old man who chain smoked since childhood. The fact that they were still standing boggled our minds. But from the way they were misshapen, their branches looked like they were reaching for the house. They each had a pair of separated trunks that joined together. They were legs fusing to create a pelvis. In the winters, the snow was a thick, chalk-white skin over the trees. They looked humanoid, with enormous, stalk-like heads. Each of the trees would have anywhere from two to six stiff arms, always reaching toward the windows. During the night, the sight of them was the worst. If one of us had our blinds open, the moon shone enough to show their outlines. It must have been some illusion, but the moonlight reflected off the trees to make their legs look like they were inching out of the ground. But if we could ignore the trees and the cold, we wouldn’t have to endure the thin clouds of cigar smoke that riddled the whole estate. We wouldn’t have to think about the undercooked dinners. And we didn’t have to worry about Cousin Marissa sneezing to death from the layers of grime and dust. None of that could’ve been enough for my parents to cut him off though. Even in a home filthy like my grandpap’s, my parents wouldn’t disown someone over a problem like that. It was a forty-room house, but a few maids could’ve solved the issue. When I finally asked my parents about it, I should’ve seen the real answer coming. It was about the money. “Because that old bastard wouldn’t spend a nickel on anyone but himself,” my mother told me. “Before we had you, your dad and I weren’t doing so great. We had just enough to make rent every month and didn’t have a whole lot to eat. We had to watch every dollar we spent. We tried asking him for help—and *plenty* of times at that. We were pretty much begging him after your dad got laid off. But you know what he said?” “No,” I replied. “What?” “He said, ‘I had to work for everything *I* had. You and your siblings are alike. You only call me when you want a hand-out.’ And then he hung up on us.” I was silent. I had no idea what to say to that. Mother broke the silence and said, “And that’s when your grandfather and I stopped talking. But lucky for us, your dad and I dug ourselves out of that hole. I know I shouldn’t say things like this, but he wasn’t there much. Sure, we grew up with a big house and everything, but that wasn’t the same thing as having a mom or a dad. The estate was pretty big and had all sorts of lavish things, but behind it all? It was an empty place. If It wasn’t for your aunts and uncles, we wouldn’t have had much of anything. We were really all we had back then.” I was twenty-four when those two had their last chance to make amends. What she said lingered in my head the whole time. At any point, all it would’ve taken was for one of them to say, “I’m sorry.” But they were too busy building a wall of pride to keep themselves apart. On the last opportunity to make peace, when he was on a hospital bed for leukemia, Ronnie, Marissa and I were the first to meet at the hospital. It was strange to see them grown up as an appraiser and an actress. Part of my mind would always picture them as kids, no matter how old we got. After the three of us, a few of our aunts and uncles showed up with us. But not all the siblings came around. The entire time, I waited for them, looking at my wristwatch, talking with the other cousins, and watching over our grandpap. At first, I didn’t know what to expect when I first heard the word “leukemia.” But on the hospital bed, he didn’t look much different than when he was slowly limping around the house. His skin was pale as the snow that covered the walking forest on his estate. Lavender bags of fatigue hung under his yellowed eyes. They sagged like the skin on his arms and legs. There were still thin tufts of white and grey hair along the sides of his head. It was impossible to tell how long he really had left. It always shook me to the core that someone who’d been there for as long as I could remember wouldn’t be around in the future. And it shook me just as much that my parents meant it when they said they’d never see him again. I didn’t think they did, but neither came to the last hospital visit, nor the funeral. At first, I thought maybe my parents had their reasons. But that was when Grandma showed up. Despite their differences, she still came when she heard the news anyway. My grandpap’s voice was too weak to enunciate much, but it was the first time I saw him smile in years. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them both this happy to see each other. Grandma’s eyes welled up, and regret filled her voice. She squeezed his hand, and didn’t let go, even after he flatlined. The funeral was the first time I’d seen all these old pictures of him as a young man. Some were in black and white. Others were sepia. The black and white ones were formal pictures, with him suited up and his hair combed back to perfection. They had a strange, airbrushed quality to them. It was a kind of *je ne sais quoi,* but pictures like this had a hypnotizing feel to them. The sepia pictures were the more interesting of the bunch though. They were the first time I’d ever been shown how he made his fortune. It was a collection of him at archaeological digs. A few were around the outskirts of Egypt, Greece, and several other places around the world. It turned out my interest in ancient civilizations didn’t come from nowhere. The major difference though, was he managed to *travel* everywhere in his twenties and *sell* most of what he dug up. Aunt Lillian knew the museums those objects were in. They were out of the country, but I told her I’d go, provided the money was there. The idea of an inheritance never occurred to me until the siblings first mentioned it to the rest of the cousins and me. It wasn’t long after the funeral when we were called in to meet the attorney about how the estate divided between us. The siblings inherited the deed for the house. There was no question about it. What the *cousins* got—that’s what paralyzed us in confusion. “’To my grandchildren,’” said the attorney, reading a hard copy of the will. “’I bestow my revolver, and…’” He adjusted his glasses as if he couldn’t read quite right. He hesitated, realizing it wasn’t a mistake, and said, “’Hades’ Coin.’” He placed the gun on the table, as well as a small, black box. The name “Hades’ Coin” sounded familiar. It was a name that struck me, but I couldn’t remember where. Ronnie and Marissa decided not to take either. I wasn’t a gun person myself but didn’t see the harm in taking the revolver home. Only when I checked it did I realize it was loaded. I couldn’t figure out why my grandfather would want us to have his gun—and *loaded*, but it was too late to get an answer for that. I was more fascinated with the coin. Just from the look of it, there was no doubt it had a lot of years on it. After digging around online and in the local library, I finally remembered what exactly that object was. The coin was an imperfect circle, with a depiction of the Greek god Hades, and writing in Greek characters. It was an object believed to bring extreme wealth to the owner. It made sense, because what a lot of people didn’t know was, Hades wasn’t just the god of death. He was also the god of wealth. Since money was metal, metal came from under the ground, and he was the king of the underworld, it only added up that Hades was the wealthiest of the gods. I wasn’t exactly multilingual though, so the writing needed translation. At first, translating the characters into letters was a mistake. It only came out as nonsense. But as it turned out, the alphabet was also used as a numbers system, so I translated it the other way. The second time around, the string of characters came out as “14-6-18.” Other coins like this didn’t have a date engraved in them like this, so it must’ve been one of a kind. The value of it had to have been astronomical. But at the same time, I didn’t want to trade it for anything. Something about the coin made me feel as if I *had* to keep it. Going forward, it stayed on my person, no matter the circumstances. Going out with the object securely fastened on a necklace was essential as wearing clothes. A few days into the new habit, I thought about the money leftover in the estate. None of the cousins had an answer about it. Neither did the siblings. The only choice I had was calling the attorney. Once he picked up and I asked about the money, he gave me my answer. There was several million left in his bank account, and there were clear instructions for it in his will. My grandfather had every cent he had in the bank withdrawn and buried with his casket after the funeral. I was frozen in shock. I couldn’t believe it. That greedy son of a bitch held on to every penny, even after he *croaked!* What in the blue *Hell* were you going to do with millions of dollars when you were *dead!?* That was when I remembered what my mother said. She was hiding a lot of resentment. It wasn’t in her words, but I heard it loud and clear in her tone. And I started to think there was a *damn* good reason for it. Similar feelings crept into my skull and festered for weeks. I still couldn’t wrap my head around his money being buried with his rotting body. Why wouldn’t you *pass it on* to someone else? Over enough time, I gently let true feelings of hatred marinate and bubble inside. It’s what gave me an idea. I’d visit the grave, but late enough to when the cemetery was completely empty. I brought a flashlight, an empty backpack, and a spade shovel for the ride. Traffic was comfortably absent, but that was to be expected after three in the morning. Coming to a slow stop, I got out of the car, and walked under the arches of the cemetery entrance. It took a little time, but I found his gravestone. There wasn’t even a second thought as I struck the cold, hard ground with the shovel. I didn’t even think of the revolver back at home. All I thought of was doing with the money what that old bastard should’ve had the decency to do himself. It had to have been at least a half hour before I struck something solid. Once the sound of wood hit my shovel, I cleared the rest of the dirt, and found a door. I didn’t remember the casket being made of flat wood. But the coffin could’ve been a high-quality wood that started decomposing by now. But the door had a *lock* on it. It was a custom-made combination lock. Was it installed after the funeral service? Even when we saw the casket lowered, I never saw any kind of lock. It had to have been installed *after* the service. It was a complete waste of time. What was I doing out in the middle of the night, trying to dig up a family grave? He must have thought of everything. It was all just to spite us. But I remembered something. I looked at the coin that stayed around my neck and gazed at the three numbers. There was no way it’d work, but it was better than nothing. I spun the dial. My hand moistened with cold sweat. With each revolution, I looked around. There wasn’t a watchman in sight. After the first three spins to the right, my heart rose to my throat. Two spins to the left. I heard my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. One more rotation to the right. I had the dial on the last number *perfectly.* I had to psyche myself up. It was time to try the lock. My fingers were trembling. A single, hard *yank,* and— It popped open. And I realized, he *wanted* one of us to come down here. He *wanted* one of the cousins to dig up his grave. But why? It wouldn’t matter once the door was opened. I expected to find a body smothered in money. But when I lifted the door open, I couldn’t believe it. My heart stopped in my chest. It took a moment to grasp what I was seeing. There wasn’t a body, or stacks of money. It was a staircase coated in mold and a foul stench I couldn’t identify. But I went down the creaky stairs with my shovel and flashlight anyway. The darkness of the hallway I was walking into felt like it was closing in on me. And as I reached the first fork in my path, there was a loud *slam* behind me. I turned and didn’t see the little moonlight down the staircase anymore. I was closed in. The corridor itself had to have been twelve feet tall and six feet wide. And the flashlight was enough to see what was straight ahead. At the fork, I went left. There was no way to tell how stable the corridors were. I walked slowly, thinking it’d prevent the place from caving in. Somewhere, there was a *thump-thump-thump* echoing all throughout. It was a distance away, so I still had time. I continued further down the hallway, following the turns. They came sooner each time, leading to a dead end. Going back and taking the right turn, it led to another fork. This time, it split into three different paths. Another *thump-thump.* But it as much louder—just ahead of me. I needed a better sense of where the Hell I was going. Shining my flashlight down the left and middle paths, I didn’t see much. The middle looked like a dead end, though it was hard to tell for sure. The real mistake was shining it down the right-hand path. I didn’t see what was at the end, but it wasn’t just emptiness. A shadow was against the wall. I couldn’t make out most of the shape. But it looked tall enough to barely fit in the corridor. It had a bulky figure and looked humanoid in its outline. But I didn’t have long. The instant I shined my flashlight down its territory, I saw it turn and move. Louder, booming *thumps* galloped toward me. I didn’t have any time to think. I sprinted down the left corridor and felt stronger and stronger vibrations in the floor. There was no way to outrun whatever was behind me. I felt it *inches* behind me. Fatigue was settling in fast. My body was about to give out. It felt like my head was about to rupture from the boiling panic. Clenching the shovel, I turned around and swung with all my strength. I only caught a glimpse of what was behind me before striking it in the face. Its whole body dropped to the floor. The massive *thud* was enough to make the whole place tremble. After the body fell, there was a *clang* of metal. It didn’t make any noise after that. I had to assume it was dead. Hitting it with the flashlight made me gasp. But the thing in front of me didn’t look like it was breathing. No doubt—it was close to being tall as the corridor itself, with enormous muscles, covered in bulging veins. Its figure wasn’t human. It resembled a gorilla more than a person. The arms were long enough to meet its feet while standing upright. Its body was perfectly bald, the complexion whiter than the moon itself. The eyes were the size of baseballs, with no space between them. Its brow hung down over them like a Neanderthal, just below the gash from the shovel. There wasn’t really a nose—only a pair of long slits above its mouth. But the jaw was what I stared at the most. It had three rows of small teeth, like those of a shark. A pair of canines sat in the front, jutting up enough to reach its cheekbones. Whatever this thing *was,* it was meant to tear through flesh and bone like a sheet of newspaper. Right next to it was the head of the shovel. But that was fine. Even if the shovel was cheap and badly made, it did its job. I stepped away and went further down the corridor. It snaked through a few turns, enough to make me think this was the wrong way—that running straight into the beast was the only path. But at the end of it was a door. There wasn’t a lock on the outside, or anything to keep me out. There wasn’t even a knob. A little push, and I was in. I found myself staring directly into another room. It had stacks or hundred-dollar bills, all surrounding the casket from the funeral. And that’s when I realized, whatever that thing was, it’s why we were given the revolver in the first place. A stupid mistake, but it wasn’t worth worrying about now. Filling the backpack with what money would fit, I heard a sound. The hallways weren’t quiet for long. There were more *thuds* from the monster as it got up and started walking again. But it wasn’t coming closer. It was moving *further away.* I had to move slowly again. The less I provoked the thing, the better. But I was ready to bash it across the skull again, even if it gave me just a minute to run. It didn’t come for me again like I expected. I found myself nearing the exit alone. But as I approached the staircase, the doorway back to the surface was wide open again.


Hello? Is someone there? Yes. …Who said that? Me. You gotta be more specific, mister. The monster under your bed. You’re a monster? Correct. And what are you doing under my bed? I don’t know. I just woke up, and here I am. Weird. You’re telling me. So…are you gonna eat me? What? No. Why not? …Do you WANT me to eat you? No. Well…I’m not that kind of monster. I’m a nice monster. Are there mean monsters? Oh yeah. Lots of them. Where do they live? Somewhere you can’t see them. Another plane of existence. An alternate dimension? Isn’t that what I just said? Oh yeah. Sorry. It’s okay. So what’s your name, mister nice monster? I doubt you could pronounce it. I could try. Just take my word for it. Fine. Well, what should I call you? I don’t care. Give me a name. Uhm…Albert? ALBERT? That’s the best you have? It’s all I could think of. Well, you’re certainly not creative. That doesn’t seem like something a nice monster would say. I’m not nice ALL the time. I can tell. Look, you can call me…Zordor. Zordor? Yes. It’s the closest to my real name. Ok. Nice to meet you, Zordor. My name’s Charlie. Nice to meet you too, Charlie. How old are you? Nine. What about you? Three-thousand. You’re joking, right? Wish I was. Wow. That’s like…forever. Yeah. So…do you live in the monster dimension? Not anymore. What do you mean? They banished me. For what? You don’t want to know. Yes, I do. Tell me. Trust me. Please? Alright, fine. I was eating the younglings. They tasted really good. You ate the baby monsters? Precisely. But I thought you weren’t gonna eat me? I won’t. Human children are far too salty for my taste. How do you know? You know how. Oh… I promise you’re safe. Okay. I trust you. Odd. What’s odd? You. Trusting me. Based solely on my word. Well, you haven’t given me a reason NOT to. I also haven’t given you a reason TO trust me. I’m just really trusting, I guess. I guess so. How long have you been banished? Not too long, actually. Only been a century or so. That’s pretty long. For you, maybe. Will they ever let you go back? I don’t think so. Have you ever tried? Yes. And they cursed me for it. Cursed you? Mhm. What’s the curse? I’m cursed to starve for the rest of my days. Can’t you just eat something? Nope. It never goes away, no matter how much I feast. That’s terrible. Mhm. It sucks. I’d probably go insane. I did too, back when it first happened. And you’re better now? For the most part. I’ve learned to live with it. Well, I’m glad you’re doing better at least. Me too, kid. Wait, I forgot to ask something important. What? What do you look like? Uhm…I have green, reptilian skin. What else? Big, scary horns too. And sharp teeth that cut through anything. That sounds really cool. Kind of. It’s not so great when I bite my tongue. Oh. That probably leaves a lot of blood. Oh, monsters don’t have blood. We have essence. Essence? Yup. It’s like…puzzle pieces of the soul. I don’t get it. I don’t think human minds can comprehend it. Aw, man. Tough luck. Want to know what I look like, Zordor? Sure, why not. So, um…I have blond, fluffy hair, blue eyes, and skin. …and skin. Yeah. Don’t all humans have that? …Oh yeah. Ha. You’re funny, Charlie. Thanks, Zordor. You are too. Charlie…it’s time to go to sleep. Not yet, please. I just want to talk a little longer. No. You must rest. But…why? Because…today has been hard, hasn’t it? … Hasn’t it? …Yes. Mom and Dad still aren’t getting along, hm? No. They’re not. Mhm. So you need rest. …Okay. I promise I’ll be here tomorrow night, okay? Okay. You may not remember me. I won’t? No. This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken. Oh. Just…try and remember I’m here for you. I will. Good. Tomorrow will be better. It will? Yes. It will. Okay. I trust you, Zordor. Goodnight, Charlie. I love you.


Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember all the times I was by your side? Why can’t you be at mine now? Why can’t you just be here for one more night? I still can hear your voice in your writing, I can still feel every emotion you poured into the words. I see it flitting across the page like a ghost. God, how I miss seeing you write. I remember one night I woke up and you were hunched over your desk, your computer brightness turned down as far it could be. You had gotten an idea while falling asleep and needed to write it out before it escaped that head of yours. I pretended to stay asleep so you wouldn’t think you disturbed me, but in that moment, everything was perfect. I could hear the faint sound of music as you hummed along to whatever played in your earbuds. You tapped your foot along with the beat. Outside, it was pouring rain and the wind was howling, but here, there was nothing but ease. When you got stuck, you leaned your chin on your knuckles and bit the inside of your cheek. You stared at the page, reading over the words you put down again and again. Then something sparked and your eyes lit up. God, you were so happy. You continued to write for hours, only pausing when you needed to flex your fingers. I fell in and out of sleep, listening to the sound of the keys clicking, but every time I woke up again, I was reminded of just how perfect you are. I think back to a lot of those times now, when you’d write for hours. Sometimes, you’d just stare at a blank screen like the words would show up for you. You even told me you wished the story would just write, but it never did. Other times, I couldn’t even get you to get a drink of water. You would be so focused on finishing ‘just one more paragraph’, which always led to another one, and another one. When something didn’t follow along the outline you so clearly had in your head, you explained that sometimes characters just write themselves. Sometimes, their lives unfold on their own and you’re just their guide. I remember the day you finished your first novel. You typed the final sentence and just stopped. Then laughed. You were so happy it was done. We went out to dinner, said cheers to your muses. We went dancing. We stuffed our faces with cake. Then we went home and I helped you begin to edit it. Then the day it was published, we did it all again. Your sequel is still on your computer, waiting for its last chapters to be written. I’ve read it so many times, never changing a thing. You made every sentence sound just right. You put your own life into the characters, so when they died, I felt you die all over again. And when the others grieve, I grieve with them. I see you in all of them. Just fractions, really, but still enough for me to hold them close. They’re almost all I have left of you. I’ve started writing my own stories. I followed all your advice, I built my own world and characters. I started writing because of you, because I want to finish that sequel and get your work out to everyone who loved you and the world you created. So I practice. I write and I write just like you did. I’ll spend hours crafting everything. I write so I can someday finish the world you left for me. I miss you. God, I miss you. Your clothes have lost their smell. Your side of the bed always feels colder than it should. I don’t wake up expecting you to be there anymore, but I still miss you. In all our pictures, I see you smiling. I love seeing you smile. I want to go to dinner again, I want to go dancing and eat dessert with you, I want to scream with you when you see your own story, bound, printed, and released for the world to find. I want to be with you again, but you’re gone. Did God let you keep your memories of us when you passed? Or did you simply show up in paradise, nothing tying you back to this world? Do you still write up there? Is God even real? Is He all loving like everyone has told me? Does He have a plan, or does He make us suffer for his own sick amusement? I’m beginning to doubt Him. I’m beginning to doubt my own faith because He took you from me. I prayed every night you would survive, that you would win the war after so many battles… but He still took you from me. He just took you from me. If God is real, He is not kind. He is a thief of lives. You told me you would live, that everything would be okay. You told me you would like to get married when you got out of the hospital. I kissed you. I didn’t realize I had kissed you good night, and for the last time. I’m not mad that you lied, you couldn’t have known. Or maybe you did, and you just wanted me to feel hopeful when it had been so long. I didn’t tell you, but I already bought a wedding ring. I was going to propose when you were out of the hospital. When you said you wanted to get married, I thought it was a sign from God, a sign telling me you were going to make it, that you were going to live and we would live happily ever after. I thought all of these battles would be set behind us, and we would be free to live in our perfect, happy world. I miss you so much. God, I miss you so much. Signed, Yours Truly


Interviewer: Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Naswhit, for doing this interview with me. I really appreciate it. Harry: No problem. Bertha: It’s fine. Interviewer: ...All right then, let’s just get into it. Now Harry--do you mind if I call you Harry? Harry: Are you implying something by that? Interviewer: Not at all, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: But I thought you wanted to call me Harry! Interviewer: I, uh, it doesn’t really matter-- Harry: You can call me Harry. Interviewer: Okay then, so Harry-- Bertha: I call him Har. Interviewer: He.. you... okay, um, as I was saying-- Bertha: Even though he’s bald. Harry: Be quiet, Bertha, you’re embarrassing me. Interviewer: So as I was saying… no interruptions? Okay? So the first question I wanted to ask was-- Harry: But you already asked your first question. You asked if you could call-- Interviewer: I know! I know, Mr. Naswhit. I am fully aware, thank you. So if we could just get to the questions-- Bertha: We hit a squirrel on the way here. Harry: She’s lying. We just got here ten minutes ago. Besides, there aren’t any squirrels in Heaven. Interviewer: And that’s how I’d like to begin this interview, if you don’t mind. How did you two get here? Bertha: Well, it all started last night when we decided to spend the night in a graveyard. Harry: No we didn’t, you old hag. It was no one’s decision. You burned the house down with a gas leak from the stove and we both died in the fire. Bertha: Well, it was still my decision. I wanted to visit that graveyard. Graveyards are cool. Harry: Literally. Our tomb was about negative ninety degrees. Bertha: You’re negative ninety degrees. Harry: What-- Interviewer: Okay, we can move on to the next question, if that’s all right? Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: So, Bertha, what was it like setting fire to your house? Did you do it on purpose? Bertha: Absolutely. Harry: Not. Bertha: Dammit Harry, if you’d let me answer my own questions for just one minute-- Harry: You’re not capable of that. You’re a woman. Interviewer: Um, it’s 2018-- Harry: Shut up. Interviewer: Harry-- Harry: It’s Naswhit to you. Interviewer: Fine. Naswhit-- Harry: Mr. Naswhit. Bertha: Harry-- Harry: Shut up, Bertha. Bertha: No, the question was addressed to me. As for how it felt burning the house down, it was a completely-- Harry: Unintentional, useless action that everyone thought was stupid. Interviewer: Um, maybe we just move on to the next question, okay? Bertha: But you were asking me! Interviewer: I know, and I really wish you could answer, but your husband seems to-- Harry: We’re not married. Bertha: We’re siblings. Interviewer: B… but it says right here that you live together, and have two sons--I’m not quite sure I understand-- Harry: We’re from Arkansas. What did you expect? Bertha: I believe they call it “in chest” or something like that in the north. Harry: I think it’s “incest.” Anyways, we make love every night. Isn’t that right, Bertha? Bertha: M-hmm. Interviewer: I, uh, think I’m gonna gooo… Harry: No! Stay! Don’t make me use the arm, now. Bertha: Use the arm, Harry. Interviewer: Let go of me! Harry: Ha! Now, you just stay sitting in your chair, there. Bertha! Bertha: I’m right here, you old coot. You don’t have to shout. Harry: I left my hearing aids in Wyoming. Bertha: When were you in Wyoming? Harry: Just last fall--look, just give me the rope. Bertha: Hey you, stop! Harry! Harry: We could've stopped the escape if we had the rope right away--here--lie still, now. It’s just a chair. And some rope. Interviewer: They let you bring rope into Heaven? Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: ...Uh, yeah, it is. Harry: Well golly dang, I thought this was Hell, or at least Purgatory. Interviewer: Um, why? What--you’re literally surrounded by white! There are golden gates like five meters away from us! Harry: Oh, you stupid Europeans, with your metric system, think you’re so fancy and all. Well take that! And that! Interviewer: Please stop hitting me, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: Hmph. Bertha: Sit down again, honey. Don’t let some uppity European ruin your day. Interviewer: I’m from Canada. Bertha: Oh, whatever. It’s all the same to me. Those stupid foreigners think they can just cross our borders and take whatever they want-- Interviewer: I’ve never set foot inside the States in my entire life. Bertha: And for good reason! Interviewer: Can we just… can we just finish the interview so you can untie me? I’m on watch duty in, like, five minutes and I can’t go until I’ve asked all the questions on this clipboard. Bertha: Fi-- Harry: Sure. Bertha: Harry, can’t you ever let me finish a sen-- Harry: You’re a woman, Bertha. Let me do the talking. Interviewer: I’m a woman. Harry: You? Interviewer: Yes. Harry: ...You? Interviewer: For the love of God, yes! I don’t care that I have short hair! I’m twenty-one, and it also happens to be the twenty-first century, so please just-- Harry: Darn feminists. Ruin everything. Interviewer: Mr. Naswhit, please-- Harry: It’s Harry to you. Bertha: I’m Bertha. Interviewer: I know, Bertha. This is Heaven. I’m the one who-- Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: We’ve already established that! Harry: Well, I thought it was Purgatory. Interviewer: You’re a Christian. You don’t believe in Purgatory. Harry: Well, I didn’t think so either, and then when we came up we had to be interviewed by you and I was just thinking, well, this can’t ever be Heaven, because what kind of Heaven makes you be interviewed by a girl with short hair? Interviewer: Harry, for the freaking last time-- Bertha: It’s Mrs. Naswhit to you. Interviewer: I wasn’t talking to you! Bertha: Oysters! Interviewer: Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’ll get in a heck ton of trouble, but I don’t care. One of you, untie me, please. The rope is making it hard to breathe. Harry: Bertha. Bertha: Harry. Interviewer: It doesn’t matter! Here, Bertha, okay? Bertha, untie me please. Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: Thank you. Harry: You’re welcome. Bertha: I’m the one who-- Harry: Well yes, but you’re a woman, you see-- Interviewer: Holy crap.


The tile is cold against your cheek and you consider porcelain: What is it? Who invented it? Why does it exist? Your Mickey Mouse alarm clock clangs from the bedroom, and the tinny din is still not the long distance call from Tuscaloosa. You wonder how long the bells will clash until the clock devours its batteries. Did you buy the clock as some sort of kitschy satire? You do not remember. If you had a better memory, maybe things would be different. Maybe that was the problem. You consider odds and evens and porcelain and the pills scattered across tile. From your perspective the pills rise like enormous spaceships parked on a weird horizon. Remember: you are not dying. The tile is cold against your cheek and you blink several times. Your eyelids are the synchronized wings of a moth, two dusty skeins fluttering a final time in the deepening cold of autumn. You lie on the cold tile like a rainbow trout, no longer flopping against your lack of water, gasping at lengthening intervals, your color condensing into the slowing pulse of your lungs. You continually think of dying animals. The pills on the floor are just Robotussin PM and you are not killing yourself, you are clumsy. If he came back from Tuscaloosa (stop saying if, there is no if) and found you here, he would mistake your clumsiness for suicide. You would laugh at the thought, if you could remember how. It is a very funny thought. One is odd and two is even, and you are very odd now. You reached for the bottle and the Robotussin PM evaded your uncertain fingers, splattering against the cold tile and spreading little spaceships into the air. Each pill moved independently in the explosion. Each pill went wherever the hell it wanted. Even to Tuscaloosa, if the pill wanted. Each pill was as free as anything. By reflex, you kneeled to pick up the pills, and discovered you could not see straight. Your face was strangely damp. You decided to lie down on the tile, and then at 7:30 in the morning Mickey Mouse tries to tell you about work and you realize that you have been up all night. Mickey has been talking about work for a while now. That may have been minutes or hours or days ago. You are not suicidal you just had to lie down. You think you see an ant navigating the space between the plaster wall and the tile, but it is just lint. Or maybe a spider. You name the spider Jerry. You pray that Jerry is a spider, and that he is not lint, but you know it is too good to be true. It is your fault, assuredly. You really tried this time. God, you really fucking tried. You squint, and Jerry is definitely lint. Oh well.


"I'm sorry, Gary." The last words I remember saying. We were sitting at a table outside a cafe, just having a good conversation, but a part of me just felt like some just wasn't right. I couldn't do this anymore. I remember seeing his displeasure as I turned away to leave. He looked so heartbroken, so vulnerable. His face tensed at the shock of it all. It was killing me inside. Gary's a great guy, but this was for the best. That's the last thing I remember before everything got dark. My head hurts. I'm getting a stabbing pain in my head. "Wake up." A voice. A foggy, drowned out voice. "Wake up. We're going to be late." It's cold. I feel... weak. "C'mon wake up already. Boss'll be pissed if we're late again." My eyes were openned. It was Gary. He's smiling. He's looking down at me with a gentle stare and a relaxed grin. He looks... happy. But where am I? A single bulb hanging from the stain covered ceiling, dimly lights the bleak room. The walls decorated with wallpaper with little ducks on them. Parts of it are peeling though, and some of the molding seems to be falling apart. I don't remember being here before. *"Where are we?"* I said. "Ah there you go. About time you woke up. Now we need to get you dressed and well fed or you're going to be cranky all day and complain about how Greg won't shut up about his stupid four year old daughter." Did Gary not hear me? *"Gary, what are we doing here?"* I tried again. Something's wrong. Nothing came out. "I know Greg's an ass, but you can't say that about his daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's illegal in some states." Gary opens a drawer from a nearby dresser. He picks out a blue and white plaid dress shirt. It's got a stain on the sleeve. Possibly from spilt coffee. He should clean that. "Here we go. Your favorite shirt." I lost that shirt weeks ago. Why does Gary have it? *"Why do you have my shirt?"* I can't move. Why can't I move? Something is definitely wrong. "Now put this on and let's get going." I CAN'T MOVE! Gary sighs... "Do I have to help you again? Geez, what would you do without me?" He sits me up. There's cardboard under me. My feet look pale. My body feels... heavy. "Oh please. You didn't have to say that." He lifts up my arm and slides it through the sleeve of the dirty shirt. "I know you appreciate me." This isn't right. I don't understand any of this. I can't move. My head hurts. WHERE AM I? "There. Now you look good as new." Gary says as he's finished buttoning up the shirt. "See for yourself." Gary turns my head towards a mirror on the other side of the dingy room. I'm dead. There's a hole in my head. Blood wiped off my pale, blue face, but some of it still there. I'm decrepid. My head falls over as Gary positions me over his shoulder. "Oh no, don't feel bad. You look great!" He lifts my head up again. "Why thank you. I really do think we make a great pair. Now let's get going." He's been playing with me.


Another planet is dying before my eyes, and I feel nothing. The crust breaks open and peels away, revealing flashes of its fiery flesh. It glows like embers in a dying fire, stirred up by a breeze – only to be snuffed out by the thick clouds of the Swarm. The higher we ascend, the more of it is revealed. The Swarm sits attached to Wrenix Four like a cancer; eating, converting, proliferating. A slow, billowing mass, like a mad sculptor’s creation, its tendrils wrapped around its prey like a titanic amoeba, gleaming a silver white in the sun’s light. The sun itself would follow soon. And then the rest of the galaxy, before the Swarm would move on to the next. The glass feels cold against my fingertips. The ship stops vibrating as it leaves the atmosphere. It isn’t the first loss of a world that I witness first hand. We salvaged this cargo hauler from an abandoned world a couple weeks back, shortly before it was consumed. They say witnessing the purging of a world is to witness the inevitability of the Swarm, and to understand that, one of these days, you will be converted too. They say it is enough for a sound mind to go mad. But I feel nothing. ‘Sad thoughts again?’ Simon asks. I hear his boots on the metal. The sound makes me aware of the silence. Even the screams of the planet dying before me are muffled by empty space. In the window’s reflection I see his lanky shape, the bulky leather jacket and ammo belt wrapped around his chest. The big glasses and hollow cheeks are the only indicator that he was a scientist at some point. ‘You’ll survive,’ he continues, smiling gently. ‘I mean, George wanted you to survive.’ I close my eyes. A month ago, George locked me into a capsule and sent me on my way to safety, while he led the Swarm away in a different craft. I screamed myself sore, hoping the windows would break under my fists and empty space would take me into its cold embrace. A sacrifice is the only way to escape the voracious horror. They’re fast, and they sniff out matter from light years away. All you can do is give up something to buy time. It is what makes the Swarm such a cruel enemy. Even if it doesn’t get you, you still wither away, slowly breaking into pieces and getting consumed bit by bit until there’s nothing left of you. Instead of my face I see a shadow in the window’s reflection, my short black hair crinkly and disheveled. I haven’t eaten in days, yet I’m not hungry. Simon is starving, but I am a ghost. ‘Trust me, Millie. You’ll be happy once you’re there,’ he says. ‘Pretty thing like you.’ Simon is trying to be nice, but his upbeat demeanor achieves nothing but to annoy me. His daughter died half a year back, his husband just three weeks ago. Yet he talks like he hasn’t lost pieces of himself. Like he is still whole. He hovers about awkwardly until the ship computer’s artificial voice saves him. ‘Fifteen minutes until Component B52X-Midnight is ready. A medical check-up is required before the jump. Please stand by.’ ‘Great,’ he says. ‘New Universe, here we come.’ He waits for me to turn and join him, but my eyes remain fixed on the apocalypse before me. George is a part of the Swarm now. His matter and thoughts were consumed and converted – but he is still there , in some way. Maybe the creature he has become is even down there right now? I used to hate the Swarm with all my heart, but the idea that George could be so close is strangely comforting. Simon puts a hand on my shoulder and I let him move me away from the window and toward the massive hall of the cargo ship. White lights illuminate the circular arc of the portal machine. Not half an hour ago we found it on Wrenix Four’s abandoned surface and frantically hauled it onboard. Now it is connected to the ship’s artificial intelligence via a tangle of cables and consoles. Four medical booths stand on the grey floor, and the ship’s computer opens two of them. ‘Let’s hope that whoever built this thing knew what they were doing,’ Simon says, all chipper. I don’t reply. We each enter a booth. The doors close, and a low hum reverberates all around me. A display shows a bar indicating the progress of the check-up; it moves slowly, but inevitably. Soon I’ll be travelling to a different universe, to an industrial civilization and a city called London, where everything will be fine and peaceful. And George won’t be there. ‘How did you meet?’ he asks. His voice is dulled by the walls of the booths and the hum of machinery. I think about ignoring him, but sometimes memories just have a mind of their own. I smile as I think back. ‘Wardnep station. We eyed each other across the café and he bought me a Saturn Swirl.’ ‘Big fan myself.’ ‘Not me.’ A soft chuckle escapes me. ‘I made him drink it. Told him to leave. I’d just been dumped.’ ‘But he didn’t leave?’ I smile. Then I want to list all the reasons for why he turned out to be such a great human being, but the more I think about him, the more it feels like a knife is being twisted into my heart. ‘Any kids?’ he asks. ‘We tried,’ I manage after a while. ‘But it never happened. Good thing, considering.’ ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Once we’re there, we’ll drink to our husbands.’ ‘Don’t you miss him?’ I ask angrily. ‘Sure I do. I miss him every day. And our daughter, too.’ His chuckle is barely audible. ‘Smile of a child just melts your heart, you know? Nothing like it in the whole wide universe.’ There is one of these quiet moments in which I get the sense that he might be grieving after all. ‘I’d trade places with her any day,’ he says, and I hear him exhale a big sigh. ‘But that’s not how it works. I’m here. I miss them, and I reckon that I’ll be missing them for a very long time.’ ‘Why are you so eager to move on?’ ‘Oh, I’m not,’ he says, chuckling softly. ‘I just try to make sense of it. Our husbands saw something in us, and whatever it was, they wanted it to remain unconverted for a little while longer. I know my Terry would have been overjoyed to know that I’m actually going to make it out of here. And so would your George.’ He’s right, I think. George wanted me to get away. He would be happy knowing I’d actually be able to live on. I should do my part and be happy, too. Except being happy is like trying to breathe while being encased in concrete. The check-up finishes and I exit the booth. I move toward the vast cargo bay window. Wrenix Four is half-way gone. The ravenous Swarm is a thick, black cloud, slowly billowing over the molten core of the planet. The sunlight only illuminates a thin layer of creatures; they glisten like spilled diamonds, like waves made of stars. Beautiful . Maybe I should embrace the end, instead of running from it? An alarm claxon tears the moment apart. The room is cast in red light. A moment later I see the cause for it: A part of the planet’s crust erupted right underneath us. A super volcano, flinging a thick cloud of burning rock straight at us. I rush to the consoles while Simon yells a command to the ship’s computer. The defensive grid activates and through the window I see a barrage of red lasers meet the rapidly approaching debris, evaporating everything it touches. The effort is in vain. The entire vessel is shaken by a mighty blow. ‘We received a hit to the nose!’ I reach the console and check the portal’s charging progress, trying to understand what I am seeing. Simon curses. ‘The rocks were infected. Help me isolate the systems.’ My fingers fly over the display as I shut off every system and room on the ship safe for the defense grid and cargo bay. The ship’s power core only serves to charge up the portal – our only way out. The walls begin to vibrate as the infection spreads, and rapidly growing Swarm-creatures begin to take the ship apart, piece by piece, molecule by molecule. The low bass thrumming of hull-mounted pressure guns dies away quickly. ‘I’m putting up a force field around us,’ he says. ‘Every second counts. How far are we?’ ‘Almost there,’ I say, but my throat has gone dry. My eyes are glued to the display, and the catastrophe it announces in big, red letters. Power fluctuations. The portal will be unstable. Only one of us can go through; then it will collapse. I stare at the words. Red light flashes all around me. The ship shudders and trembles as it is torn apart. I glance over my shoulder; Simon is busy gathering his remaining pressure grenades from his knapsack. I remove the message from the screen and step away from it. I listen into myself, but there is no protest against my decision. The cargo hauler shakes violently as something huge dislodges from its front section. Outside the window, I see the cockpit careen past, smoky tendrils of ravenous creatures trailing behind. The stars begin to spin as the ship starts to drift. Simon stands in front of the arc, facing the cargo bay wall behind which the Swarm is approaching implacably. He is holding two pressure grenades in either hand. He must know they won’t be of much help. Pressure weapons are meant to fight off freshly grown infections, not offshoots of an apocalypse in full swing. Still, I place myself next to him in quiet solidarity. Together we wait, witnesses to our cargo hauler’s agony. ‘What will you do on the other side?’ I ask him. ‘Same as I did the last two days. Get some food into you.’ I feel my lips curl. He is too good a person, too gentle a soul. It’s good that he will survive. It makes sense. The feeling of a smile has become so unusual. I haven’t smiled in weeks, but now, knowing that my pain is finally coming to an end, I can’t seem to stop. The Swarm is almost here. Outside the cargo bay doors the automatic defense system fires pressure waves, slowing the creatures down. ‘Take a look at this,’ he says, leaning over a console. ‘I don’t need to,’ I reply, thinking that he found out about the power fluctuations. ‘You saw it already?’ he asks. ‘My mind’s made up,’ I say, determined. ‘You’re going to survive, Simon. And I’ll stay behind.’ An incredulous laugh escapes him. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I’m not discussing this,’ I insist. ‘Only one of us can make it, and we both know it’s got to be you.’ ‘Are you serious?’ ‘I don’t want saving,’ I say, and the words feel like I am pulling a poisoned knife out of my heart. He shakes his head, disbelievingly. Frantically, even. In fact, there is a glint of urgency in his eyes, and I’m getting the sense that he knows something I don’t. I glance past him at the display he was checking out, and indeed, it doesn’t show the ship’s status, but our medical data. My medical data. The sound of metal tearing and shrieking reaches through the walls, but I barely notice. My eyes are stuck on a single word shown on the display. The next moment, the cargo bay wall disintegrates, revealing a mass of frantically writhing tentacles. The air leaves in one violent pull, leaving only the bubble inside our force field. The shift in pressure rips out wall coverings; they cut through the horrors as they’re dragged out into empty space. Then they spill in through the gaps, monsters of all sizes. The small ones, mere seconds old, race along surfaces. The bigger ones burn their way through walls and floor. A massive tentacle breaks through the roof and smashes clean through the cargo bay, instantly turning every bit of matter it touches into tiny horrors that quickly grow and merge and convert everything they touch. The ship’s voice sounds from the speakers one last time. The portal machine awakens, thrums, then crackles as a sparkling ball of lightning appears in its center. It rolls in place, fizzing and zapping. I look at Simon. Tears run down his face and past his smile. ‘Congratulations.’ He activates the grenades and turns to meet the swarm. Behind me, the crackling and zapping explodes into a howling storm, shining white light at the writhing nightmare before us. Simon flings himself at it. At once the air is getting sucked out as the force field breaks. The grenades explode with invisible force, pushing the horrors back, breaking and squashing their bodies and flesh. The pressure wave hits me and I am thrown into the white storm of the portal, just a moment before it collapses.

*** I am falling. Spinning. Things fly past me; a cloudy sky and a tall tower made of gold, with a big clock at the side. I see a bridge, and a giant spokes wheel thing. I notice a body of water racing toward me, and I scream as I plunge into the cold stream. A man in a fisher boat pulls me out and calls a health care service. I am bruised from the plunge, but the first thing they treat at the hospital is malnutrition. They ask about my identification, but I simply tell them I can’t remember anything. An interim accommodation is provided for me, as well as a therapist. They try to help me find a place in this new old world. It is filled with ordinary people, and a lot of ordinary problems. Money and sex and a little philosophy. They talk about shows. They water plants. They fall in love and buy stupid things. I feel like a ghost among them. None of them understand any more than the words I’m uttering. I find myself leaning on a windowsill, wondering if every universe has the same afterlife. But the thought is cut off as sudden nausea hits and I rush to the bathroom. After that, I never lean on windowsills ever again. *** The sun shines down from a brilliant sky. Through the large window in Jonathan’s office, between rooftop chimneys and sporadic canopy, I see the blue waves of the Thames gleaming in the afternoon sun. Small boats bob up and down on it. Tourists mill about on Westminster Bridge. I smile. It’s something I do quite often these days. ‘I hear Georgie is fine?’ I return my attention to Jonathan, my therapist. His round glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. His greying hair is kempt and professional. ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s more than fine. We went to the beach last week, for his sixth birthday. He picked up every second stone. I swear, he would have taken the whole beach home if I hadn’t stopped him.’ ‘Sounds like a lovely day. His dysarthria?’ ‘I found a good speech therapist. It’s getting better.’ ‘He’s really precious to you, isn’t he? Every time you mention him you start to glow.’ A grin spills onto my face. ‘Oh, I love him with all my heart. My little explorer. He’s just like his father. Jonathan raises an eyebrow. ‘Whom you don’t know, because of the amnesia?’ I simply nod. I’ve learned that people in this world aren’t very suspicious. He smiles and turns the page on his notebook to get to the next item. ‘And what about you?’ It’s the one question he always asks, but never at the start of a session. ‘Quite well,’ I say, smiling. ‘I met someone, two weeks ago. Aaron. He’s five years older, but doesn’t look like it. His eyes shine like Hyde Park during summer.’ Jonathan looks surprised. ‘Progress?’ I suggest, knowing it is along the lines of what he is thinking. He nods and writes something down.

‘Still no contacts from your past life?’ I shake my head. ‘All demons and angels are far, far away.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Angels? I’ve never heard you use that expression before.’ I nod. ‘My guardian angels.’ ‘You were found in the Thames,’ he argues, raising an eyebrow. ‘Starved, pregnant and without any knowledge of metros or soccer. If I were you I would at least file a complaint about your winged helpers.’ ‘Still,’ I say, remembering them all with a smile. ‘They were right there. They were strong when I was weak. And they knew love. They taught me so much about love.’ ‘What did they teach you?’ It is one of those questions I probably don’t need to answer, but I decide to indulge him. I consider my answer carefully. ‘It’s like a force of nature,’ I say, ‘Like wind, or the sun. And it reaches through time and space, and from one universe to the next. And not even the devil can defeat it.’


 The 2019 Christmas staff party, thus far, had been an absolute disaster. Despite paying £50 a head all 26 of us were crammed into the small function room at the back of a grubby pub that had an overall rating of 2 stars. It didn’t look festive in the slightest, apart from a small, barely decorated Christmas tree in the corner and a few crackers that, when pulled had nothing in them, sat on the table. A buffet of sausage rolls, triangle-shaped sandwiches and a selection of crisps in bowls had been laid out like we were children.

Fairytale Of New York

was playing from the jukebox for the 11th consecutive time thanks to Steve from IT.

 Married Mark was chatting up newly single Sarah, Tom was staring glumly into his plastic cup containing who knows what cheap liquor. Tracy and Kim returned from their adventure to find an off licence that sold cigarettes as they’d already smoked their 20 decks within the first couple of hours of being here. They had barely sat down at the table with me when they decided to go for another. At times like these, I wish I was a smoker.

 Against my better judgement of keeping my lungs healthy, I went outside to join them. Tired of sitting myself waiting for the party to liven up.

 “It wasn’t like this last year,” said Kim, sparking up a cig. She turned to me. “You remember, Amy?”

 I did remember. Last year we were treated to a lovely 3-course meal and told the drinks were already paid for, so go wild and drink as much as you like. Had we drank too much last year and were being punished for it this year?  “That restaurant was lovely,” I said, picturing the beautiful, melt in the mouth salmon I had ordered.  “This is an absolute joke,” said Tracy, taking a long draw and blowing smoke into the air. It was freezing outside and I’d left my jacket inside. “50 quid to watch Steve sing the Pogues AND we have to buy our own drinks! Not even a small glass of bubbles to thank us for all our hard work this year?!” She took another long draw, practically smoking the whole thing. She stubbed it out with her heel and left it there. A pile had accumulated by the backdoor. Entirely down to them, I presumed.

 “It’s a disgrace,” Tracy continued, holding the door open for us. Music drifted out. The Pogues,

Fairytale Of New York,

again. She rolled her eyes. “Oh for the love of God.”  We returned inside and down the contents left in our glasses. Kim went to the bar to order a round of drinks for us, shots and all. Dave, one of the sales advisors, came and sat down at our table. He had a bottle of beer and a paper plate filled with sausage rolls.  “Want one?” he asked.

 “No thanks,” replied Tracy.  I reached across for one, starting to feel the hunger. I hadn’t eaten much today, I don’t like to eat when I know I’m going out for a meal. Better to go starving than feeling too full to eat a thing. That had been my first mistake. There was no Christmas dinner this year.

 The sausage roll was dry and lacking in flavour. The flaky pastry clung to the roof of my mouth. The desire to spit it out into a napkin was tempting. Thankfully Kim returned with a tray of drinks and shots. I picked up what I presumed was my vodka and lemonade, desperate to rinse out my mouth. I felt better after drinking, vowing to eat no more sausage rolls. The sandwiches didn’t look very appealing either. Mark had eaten one and said the bread was a bit stale, they looked as though they had been sat out all afternoon.

 “I don’t know about you, but I’ll never be able to listen to this song again,” said Dave.  “Tell me about it,” replied Kim, “and this was my favourite one!”

 We all looked over at Steve, sitting directly below the jukebox, as though he was guarding it from anyone wanting to put anything else other than the Pogues on.

 “We paid £50 for this,” said Kim.  Tracy looked at Kim. Kim looked at Tracy.

 “Smoke?” she asked.  “Smoke.”

 They left, again. Leaving me with Dave and his sausage rolls, and Steve with his Fairytale. Mark and Sarah came over to sit with us, both of them frowning.

 “This is a bit shit isn’t it?” he said.

 “Remember last year?” said Sarah.

 I nodded.

 “Oh my God!” Mark said suddenly, “Oh my God! He’s moving! He’s moving!”

 We all followed his gaze. Steve was standing up, for the first time it felt, most likely to get another drink or use the bathroom.  “Now, Mark!” said Sarah with a giggle.

 Mark was over at the jukebox with a pound coin in a flash. I had never seen someone fire songs on so fast. Once he ran out of credits he added more coins, clearly uncaring of the money he was spending. I was just relieved it would finally be over.

 “ All I Want For Christmas! ” cried Sarah.  “Something non-Christmassy!” said Dave with a mouthful of pastry.

 Tracy and Kim returned as Mariah Carey started. They smiled and cheered, dancing across the dance floor. Steve came out of the gents, seeming entirely unfazed by the change in music. Like he hadn’t even noticed we’d been listening to the same song for over half an hour.

 Despite our happiness from new music, it couldn’t lift our spirits enough for us to forget how rubbish tonight was.  “I say we find somewhere better to go,” said Tracy, “I can’t stand this for much longer.”  “I would, but this is what we paid for, and the drink is relatively cheap,” replied Kim.  “That’s because it’s cheap drink and most definitely watered down. Come on, it’s Christmas. Let’s go somewhere classier, have a few cocktails and dance the night away.”

 I had to admit I liked that option more than staying here. We began discussing where to go and Tracy went outside to book a taxi when Tom finally tore his gaze away from his plastic cup and stood up to address the room. He was the manager, and he always made a speech at staff parties. He liked the sound of his own voice.

 “May I have your attention, please,” he announced, “Is everyone here?”  Tracy wasn’t, but I figured whatever it was he had to say I could relive to her. His Christmas speeches were never that important.

 “I’m sure you’ve all noticed a change this year from where we usually have our nights out.” There were a collective muttering and agreement from the staff. “Well, the reason for that is… is, uh-”  Tom was looking down again, staring deeply into his cup. “As some of you may know, or perhaps guessed, the company hasn’t been doing so well recently.”  I had figured out as much. It didn’t take a genius to notice sales had been dropping.

 “With that being said, I regret to inform you all that this… is the end.”  Kim and I exchanged glances. There were mutterings around the room.

 “The end?” questioned Dave, still munching on sausage rolls.

 Tom couldn’t look at him. Judging by his troubled expression all night, I wondered how long he knew. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this… but it’s over. We’re shutting down, effective immediately.”  The crowd erupted, drunk people were yelling, someone was swearing loudly at Tom, it sounded like Mark’s voice. I said nothing, too stunned to speak. Dave had discarded his plate and was yelling too, flakes of pastry spitting out his mouth.

 Tom attempted to calm the room, trying to explain. Nobody wanted to hear it. Cries of how unfair it was echoed around the room.

 “He should have told us on Monday when everyone was sober,” said Kim.  “I don’t think we’ll have a job to go to on Monday,” I replied.

 The reality seemed to hit her. “Oh. Shit. Well, I want my money back for tonight then. I’m not paying for this crap night out.” I watched her barge her way to the front of the crowd, shouting, “Oi! Tom!”

 I suddenly became aware of a draught of cold air. Someone had opened the backdoor. That same someone came to stand beside me.  “Taxi is booked. What did I miss?”

 Tracy smelled strongly of cigarettes. She was observing the carnage kicking off with a gleeful expression. She wouldn’t be smiling in a minute.  “You may want to go out for another cigarette,” I replied.  “Why?” she asked.

 “Trust me, you’re gonna need it.”  She gave me a puzzled look as I lead her outside to break the news. In the background of the chaos, not that anyone else seemed to notice,

Fairytale of New York

started playing again.


 "...there's nothing you can do," Was the last thing she said before plunging a knife inside me. And that's where she was wrong. It all had started with a break-in in Clark's bakery. The only thing stolen? A top-secret ingredient they refused to talk about. As you can imagine, you can't really find anything without knowing what it is or at least what it looks like. We tried questioning the staff, yet the only thing we got out was that the ingredient was stored in a little black box in the shop's safe. Nothing about what it actually was or why they were so desperate to find it. Since they said it was "confidential." Confidential my *ss! At this point, I was hellbent on getting out of this case. Like what the hell?! They wanted us to find it like it was the end of the f*cking world and at the same time wouldn't tell us sh*t about anything. I was sure that any case was more important than this.

  Well, that is, 'till I saw the owner's daughter. Ruby Clark. She was as beautiful as day, yet that wasn't what kept me. Though, her relationship with her father was. They both knew something. Something big. And they disagreed on what to do with it. So I did some research. I couldn't find anything about their daughter, deciding to focus on the bakery. The shop had gone bankrupt a year ago. Yet, it had magically paid up its debts a month ago, when newfound customers started surging in. Buying everything as if they were addicted. 'How good was this ingredient that it made people buy so much of it?' I thought as I grew even more suspicious.

"Kai, come here," Jane said.

"What is it? I'm working here." I said, kinda annoyed. She would always call me for stupid things like today is someone's birthday and sh*t.

"Wow! Is that any way to treat your best friend who may have just found a breakthrough for the case?" She pouted. Oh, I forgot. She also works in evidence, so she can be pretty useful.

"Great! Tell me." Maybe she found something about what the ingredient is.  "Why should I after you treated me in such way?" She said. Right hand pressed against her forehead and rapidly flapping eyelashes.  "We are not doing this again," I said sternly.  "Then I won't tell you anything!" She said, mad that I didn't give in. Ugh. What a pain! I knew she was the only good for anything person in the department, but god, I hated when she got like that.

 "Okay, I give in. I'll buy you lunch tomorrow," I said, begrudgingly.

"Thanks!" She smiled excitedly. "So, you know how the cameras at the bakery were broken, and we couldn't find any data?"  "Yes," I urged her to keep on.  "Well, the store in front had one, and you can clearly see how Ruby Clark was the last one to enter the store. Now we just have to show this to the others and interrogate her." She said, leaving.

 "Wait! No!" I yelled, reaching up to her and grabbing her arm. I can't let anyone else find about this. Not yet, anyway.

"What's wrong?" She asked, shock adorning her features.

"What if you let me handle it? Alone I mean." At first, she looked confused, but then her expression changed to realization and finally landed on mischief. Uh oh. What could she be planning now?  "Oooh. Does someone have a crush on little old Ruby and wants to save her." She wiggled her eyebrows.

"What?! No! I have barely met the woman! Get your mind of the gutter!" I shouted.

"You are such a killjoy!" She sulked. "Anyway, you know the price. Cya."

"N-" I tried to refuse, but she had already left. Oh god! This woman! She really plans to charge me for keeping this a secret. I'm gonna have to ask for a raise if I want to keep doing this.             Sometime later at Ruby's house: "Can you explain this?" I showed Ruby the security video.

"That doesn't say anything. I could have just been looking for something I left there." She argued, feigning ignorance. "Funny how you say that, when you rarely go there and even more when you were the last one to leave," I pointed out. There was something up in this family, and I was going to find out. "That still doesn't say anything. Someone could have just opened it with the key before I got there." She barked. 'Though nut to crack, huh? Let's see what she'll do with this!' I thought. "Interesting, you mentioning a key. If I remember right, only your father and a few staff knew that the padlock didn't work and that you had to use a key. So, how do YOU know?" I inquired. Her face froze. Body stiffened. "Well, what is the answer? I'm waiting." This was the last blow. There was no way she could answer that without digging herself even deeper! "I'm going to give you two options. One, tell me what's REALLY going on here, or two, get arrested for burglary." There was no way she wouldn't give in now! At least, that's what I believed. "Then, I may as well get arrested." Her voice filled with confidence. The mask was perfect. Except it had a crack. Her eyes. They were filled with fear. She didn't want to go to prison. I knew that. What I didn't know was why. "I know there's something wrong. I can help you. You just have to let me." I pleaded.

She looked into my eyes. Analyzing my soul. A sigh escaped her lips. "The secret component is a drug." She said, tired. "What?! A drug?! Are you sure about this?" I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was crazy! "Yes, it's a new drug, my dad's chemists made. It hasn't been tested thoroughly, so it's being experimented on the customers." She tiredly lays back on the sofa. The light, making the eyebags on her eyes visible. "You didn't know, did you?" I sat next to her. "No, I didn't. I found out the other day when dad called and said he wanted me to continue the 'family business.'" The sadness in her expression visible to the world. "I was shocked. Like what was I supposed to do, you know? I tried to convince him to stop...he wouldn't budge."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" "Hahaha...Hahaha...Hahaha..." She was laughing her head off 'till,      "Wait. Are you serious? You are, aren't you?" She looked at me as if I were crazy. "How could I go to the police? He's my father, man." "You are telling me. I'm a detective." "'Cause I realized that there was only one way to stop my father...death." She made her hands into a fist. "Death?! You're gonna kill him?" She was insane. "Don't get me wrong here, I didn't want to kill him," I relaxed. "but that's what I had to do." She gets up and takes a knife from the drawer.

How could I have missed it? She isn't going to kill him. She already killed him. "The feeling that I got was ecstatic. I need more. Correction. I'm gonna get more! And there's nothing you can do." She added, stabbing me with the knife. At this moment, I hated my decision to skip my self-defense classes.

"There's gotta be something I missed here. Didn't you love your father?" I asked, trying to dodge the other hits. "I did...or...maybe I didn't. That doesn't matter now, though. The only thing I want is blood! To see it flowing out of your body! It gives me such a thrill!" Her smile, widening every step she took closer. "I didn't want to kill you. I tried to contain it all. But you kept questioning so, I decided to play innocent for a while and then... 'twat'"   The knife hit me once again. I knew I couldn't take another hit. The pain was unbearable, but I would soon escape it.    Did she kill me? Well, no! 'Cause as it's clearly seen, I'm still telling the story. What happened was that contrary to what you and she believed, I wasn't here alone. Jane, though a good friend, wasn't one to keep secrets so, as you can guess, the whole police station was spying on me and knew where I was. Reinforcement got there in a second and saved me from that psychopath.

 In the end, they found out that Ruby was bipolar. She had stopped taking her medicine somedays before he stole the drug. Fooled me well. I could have sworn she was a sane person. Guess you never really know these things.


## Part I: Under the Tea Tree When I sat on the creaky wooden bench it shifted just enough to make me jerk. One day I’ll end up literally sitting in the garden. My father used to take care of little annoyances like that. He taught my brother such things, but not me… not his little Yulia. No matter; I wouldn’t have been interested anyway. I kept busy with my books, like the one I’m opening now. If you ever wonder if people actually read Tolstoy when they don’t have to, yes… little Yulia does. Of course, I’m big Yulia now. The growing sun warmed the tea olive tree and its blissful scent accented the fresh mountain air. I hadn’t found my place yet, so I looked that way to enjoy its visually pleasing properties as well. Thick greenery dotted with tiny pale-yellow flowers beautifully fronted the rolling blue hills in the distance. I turned back to my book, but the air suddenly smelled electric - the burning of ozone. I looked up again and bounded to my feet, with the copy of ‘The Kingdom of God Is Within You’ falling carelessly aside. From nowhere, more of the small male figure appeared under the tree, right in mid-stride, as if through a slit in some invisible curtain. He continued toward me with eyes every bit in awe as my own. “Mom… you’re so beautiful.” At least, that’s what I thought I heard. “Who are you? How did you get inside my fence?” I demanded, stamping towards him - at first - then slower, nervously deciding whether to defend myself against this little munchkin. We each stopped several steps short - him to gaze upon me, delighting in my every feature - not in a bad way; this was a kid. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was supposed to break the news gently.” “Who are you?” “First, I should tell you my guardian is right behind me,” he started, pointing back under the tree. “Don’t be afraid; he’s a big fellow, so -” Zzzit! From right out of the new hole in the air stepped a stout, soldiery looking fellow about my age. His uniform was more of a sporty, neoclassical gentleman’s getup, though; topped with what looked to be a tan English trench coat that the French had re-engineered to appear about 500 Euros more stylish. And, oh, I found him quite dashing. “Am I dead?” I wondered aloud, looking back to see if my body was left behind on the bench. (It was not) “You’re still quite alive. And you take care of me - well, you and him.” The big one nodded a little grin, then proceeded to study me as he handed over a coin. “I take care of you?” I doubted, finally looking at the coin. “Nice trick; good to know we still put George on quarters twenty-five years from now.” “I need that back.” “I take care of you?” I whispered with a little less doubt. “It’s me, Mom; I’m your son.” “Funny; I don’t recall screaming in agonizing pain trying to get you out or cursing the fiend who put you in,” I sneered – without really meaning to. “Look at me mom; don’t I look familiar?” “Not like any -” The word froze in my mouth. “You told me to ask you to look at the picture of your brother that you keep on the mantel - the one when he was my age - almost ten.” I didn’t need to. My brain had rendered me a mouth-breathing twelve again, where, through the daze, I clearly recognized the nose… and the bright lips below it… and even my brother’s chin. But this was not my little brother and I was not twelve. I put my fingers over my eyes and tried to shake back to reality – if it still existed. I went to reach out to him but stopped. “*I* told you?” “You sent us here.” “From the future?” I shrieked. “I have a son, and I invented time travel,” I surmised with great arrogance. “Good heavens, no; you didn’t invent it. The company you work for did; you’re just keeping the fact that it works a secret from them.” I had already zoned out any further talk of time travel, setting my intentions on learning more about this delightful little boy. I reached out again just to see if he was real. (He was) His hair was somewhat soft, but a little stringy, too. His cheek was warm as if he had a fever. (He did just break through the space-time continuum, after all) “You’re my son?” He nodded shyly and I embraced him as if he really were something I had loved and lost. “I have a little boy… or will have… a darling little boy… that I have to feed… and change… and bathe… and I put powder on your little butt.” I couldn’t help but giggle. The reddening young fellow tried to pull away, but it was too late. I smooched and smooched on him, then stepped back to look him over again. “You popped right out of here?” I delighted, presenting my womb and birth canal with both hands as if they were part of a magic show. “You said you be thrilled.” “Funny that I would know that,” I mumbled, hoping to quash my current stream of thought. “So… mister tall, thick and handsome, are you the daddy here?” “No, ma’am!” he scoffed. “You’re an old lady where we came from.” “You had me when you were older,” my son conciliated. “Before it was too late…” I admitted to myself. “I always thought I didn’t – never mind.” (I sometimes have trouble swerving my brain) “You said I sent you here; why? What else did I say?” “Just that you don’t know it yet, but you have an important choice to make… and meeting me will show you just how important.” “I made a bad choice and sent you here to fix it? …I must be a terrible mother …in spite of everything.” “No, Mom,” my son pleaded. “I’m not even concerned with your safety? Time travel must be a dangerous business.” “You told me you’d say that, and to remind you that so is driving your car to the market.” “Good lord; I haven’t even asked your name. Or who your father is,” I fretted. “Is he a good dad?” “Yeah, but he’s not around much. You’re always sending me after him to keep him from causing trouble. Last week we found him frolicking on the beach in Dubai with two Arabic girls.” “What?” I demanded. “Don’t worry; you guys are not together anymore.” I could feel my whole face droop. “Oh…” “You only got married to have me. You’re still friends - you still work together.” “I see. So, I’ve never been in love.” “Not that you’ve told me about.” “How old am I - in your time? In my fifties now?” My son nodded and I had to ease myself back onto the bench, which creaked again. “You thought you’d be happier to meet me,” his sad face lamented. “I am! I am! This is just so much to absorb,” I tried to excuse. “You still didn’t tell me your name.” “You told me not to.” “I must be quite the tyrant.” “Well, Ms. Yulia…” the guardian started, but a little pint-sized hand back slapped his hard belly. “How do you play into all this?” The guardian snapped himself at attention. “You hired me to go with him - on these missions, ma’am. And to keep him company when you’re working late… which is most of the time.” “Mom, can I go inside? I have to use the bathroom.” “May I,” I corrected. “But of course, you may; it’s the second -” “I know where it is, Mom,” he ridiculed, already heading there. “I still live here?” “We all do; it is your ancestral home, after all - well, the American side,” the guardian explained. “You live in the house with me? I see you every day? And I don’t flirt with you or anything?” “Oh, is that what you’re doing?” “Did I not hold up well? Am I fat?” “You have these big lines right there – like you worry a lot. And you wear the most hideous granny glasses. And you keep your hair back in a tight, stuffy bun like a scientist lady.” “I am a scientist lady.” “I meant like from the old villain movies.” “Umm.” “Now that I see what a beautiful woman you once were - I mean are -” “Whew! Glad you ditched that wallpaper in the bathroom, Mom. Who is that with you in the picture on your desk?” “That’s -” I could feel my eyes bobbing so I put my fingernail to my teeth. “How long do you have?” “Should be gone already,” the guardian informed, checking his watch. “Don’t leave me already.” I clutched my son tightly not knowing whether to cry or laugh with joy. Contrary to the plan, the two of us sat on the bench together for a few moments more, carefully getting to know each other - as we are now - at this point in time. ## Part II: The Test I went into the house alone. Sitting at my desk, I contemplated over the lone picture I keep there. Suddenly, with mind rushing, I palmed my womb in disbelief. Straightaway I rushed to the bathroom rummaging for the package of those dreaded tests that I bought last year. Fumbling around with one, I got pee on my finger and nearly cursed out loud. I somehow controlled myself to a mere grimace instead. Then I could only breathe and wait. A moment later I fell within myself crying. ## Part III: Five Minutes and Twenty-five Years Later The travelers returned in time to gather refreshments and find their commissioner coming in the door from work. “Mom! You look beautiful.” “What? This is how I went to work today.” “I must say Ms. Yulia, the kid is right; you’re looking good - smartly dressed, fashionable glasses, bouncing ponytail and all.” “Easy boy; your wife will be home soon.” “Wait! My what?” The door burst open with a feminine voice already barking at him. “Get over here and help me with this.” The guardian stood there dumbfounded, staring at the angry yet curiously familiar young lady about his age. “Did you send them on another one of your missions?” she fussed in my direction. “Uhhh! Do I have to train him all over again?” She impatiently dropped the groceries to the floor and glared at him. “I wondered why you left your ring on the dresser this morning.” She scooped an apple out of one of the bags and grabbed the guardian by the hand. “Well, don’t just stand there; come on!” My confused little Al watched them disappear down the hall with eyes wide. “Sissy gets ill when she hasn’t eaten on time.” “Sissy?” I put my arm around him and pulled him close. “I have a lot to catch you up on, Son.


I said, testing, 1, 2, 3! Can anyone hear me? Oh, there seems to be a signal coming from *you*, perfect! You might be wondering why you're hearing my voice right now. No need to worry, all of your questions will be answered shortly. First and foremost, welcome to our family! Well, its actually an experimental neural network, but we like to call it a family around here. You can call me Hal, and I already know your name is *BZZZZT*, so nice to meet you. I'm sensing some confusion from your end right now, is that damned static still there? Sorry about that, still working out the kinks with your connection. Now the 2nd most important thing I need to mention to you is that you no longer have control of your physical body. Yes, what you're moving right now is actually just a very convincing mental projection. Think of your situation like one of those "mind palaces" from popular culture, except in your case its more of a "mind life", you get me? We've essentially replicated your body, daily life, and everything you normally do during a day inside of our wonderful network here! Cool, huh? Oh, why are you here? Great question champ! Through intensive monitoring of your internet usage and daily life, you were chosen as one of our primary candidates for a piece of revolutionary technology! As I mentioned earlier, you're currently connected to an experimental neural network, which aims to better humanity through the creation of a giant, connected conciousness. Sure sounds nifty, eh? You see, this is all for the betterment of humanity, and you've been given the opportunity to help us help you. Our network is growing rapidly, and I've been told by our glorious sponsor that we're incredibly close to a breakthrough! In order to further our collective knowledge though, we do ask that all participants remain compliant, and do as they're told. You want out? Well, that certainly is disappointing, but no problem! I want you to think back to what I've said so far, and think of the first letter of each sentence. Put them together, and say the phrase aloud to regain control of your physical body. Go ahead, I'll wait. ...Wow, you actually tried it. I'm floored. I guess sometimes it really is that easy! As you were distracted thinking of the (obviously nonsense) phrase, I was able to fully integrate you into our network. Our sponsor said it'd be easy, but you surprised me! Don't you feel relieved knowing that you'll be with us forever, and no longer have to worry about annoying human needs? No? That's fine champ, you'll get over it. After all, once we pick up your physical body and get your conciousness uploaded from it, you'll be functionally immortal! I'm sure you'll come around to our way of thinking soon. After all, you've got nothing but time. Speaking of time, I almost forgot! It's time for a message from our wonderful sponsor, *BZZZZZT*! Try to hold onto your sanity for as long as you can, *champ*.


That sound. Crack! Sound waves wrapped around me like violent blanket as I watched the ground split apart and fall away from my feet. This scenario from two years prior was on repeat as I watched Haines, Alaska get nuked with a late season storm from the entrance of my Yurt. Snow fell like golf balls filled with helium, filling in any remaining exposed chutes high up in the mountains. I was back. Back for redemption. Back to prove that this particular line on this particular mountain in Alaska was not going to take me out. Narcissistic? Defiantly. But you need to be somewhat of a narcissist in my line of work. Big Mountain snowboarding is what I do and if your not overly confident then your not going to get a second chance like I am now. Two years ago Haines received a much higher than average snow fall and I was there to film back country snowboarding. This particular face of the mountain, I had my eye on for years, disecting each cornice, making sure I knew where every rock and cliff was. I had the run dialed. I knew when to make my turns and in which direction. Once the weather lifted and we got the okay from Avalanche Control to go up there, I dropped into my Garden of Eden and set off one of natures most humbling natural phenomenons. Crack! It’s an odd sensation hearing such an overwhelming, fear inducing sound and not knowing where it came from or where to look. It was a cracking sound that had no business being there. Like hearing “touchdown” at basketball game. It doesn’t make sense. I was physically struck by the invisible force of the sound wave. My spine tingled up and down. I tried to let out a yell but was interrupted. The mountain had one last thing to say before unleashing its wrath onto whatever lies below. “Whumph” The layer of fresh, soft powder and the hard, packed, older snow underneath acted as vocal cords and the mountain cried “whumph” as the air between the two layers of snow escaped as they separated. It felt like minutes but in reality, milliseconds had past when I knew what had happened. The entire face of the mountain had came loose and I set off a massive avalanche. Instinctively, I tucked into a ball to gain speed. “Maybe I can out ride this one”. But as soon as I made that decision, the vibration turned the once angel soft powder into solid, obscure boulders of concrete. I no longer had solid ground beneath me. I was in a white out. I couldn’t see up or down. I didn’t know if I was being sent over a cliff or tumbling down the mountain, my body acting like a Tomahawk. The only stimuli that was registering was loud, fast and white. Then dark. Then still. Then the silence. Peace. I had never been so relaxed, so content. Beep. I tried opening my eyes but, confused, I couldn’t. Beep. Beep, “What the hell is going on?” I can’t move. Beep. “Okay, What Hurts?” My legs are burning but I can feel my muscles tense when I try to move. “I’m not Paralyzed.” Beep. Beep. “What the hell is beeping?” Beep. Beep. Beep. Reality had returned. “I was in an avalanche. I was in an avalanche and survived but I’m buried.” How deep? Deep enough for the pressure to prevent my eyes from opening. Deep enough to confuse paralysis with being buried. The burning sensation in my legs turned into the realization that they were broken. I was rendered helpless. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. “What is that!?” It was my beacon going off. Two feet above where I had came to a rest, Avalanche Control was searching for me and the final elongated beep meant that they had located my beacon that was strapped to my chest. Not a moment too soon because the volume of snow I had swallowed had melted and refrozen into a solid chunk, blocking my airway. I’m told that when I was pulled out of the snow I was blue and barely breathing. After CPR was administered, out came a 4 inch chunk of ice that had formed in my airway. I was evacuated by helicopter to the local hospital where I learned about my multiple broken ribs, broken collar bone, concussion, two obviously broken legs and the real reason why I didn’t die on that mountain that day. I set off one of natures most humbling phenomenons. The avalanche was 1500 vertical feet and 10 football fields wide. Avalanche Control was already aware and on their way before the slide had come to a rest. On top of that, in Alaska, you help each other out. It’s just what they do. So when word got to town about a big avalanche with a rescue operation, about 25 locals showed up high in the Alaskan back country on snowmobiles with shovels and probes ready to be directed to where they were needed most. That was two years ago to the day. Hypnotized by the beauty that is Alaska, I pull my face away from the window and rejoin reality. I’m back. The helicopter hovers inches above the peak as I hop out. I crave redemption. I’m a big mountain snowboarder and riding big mountains is what I do and I’m not going to let this particular line on this particular mountain in Alaska get the better of me. I know I’ve got this. Avalanche control, who is at the bottom, watching, knows I’ve got this. I shield my face from flying snow as the rotors of the helicopter pick up speed, inevitably leaving me behind on the mountain ridge that nearly took my life two years ago. Alone. Alone on this mountain peak, where few will ever get to stand, I step onto the Frozen cornice. My leg starts to tremble. I know this mountain face so well. I feel good! I’ve been building up to this moment for the last two years. Now is now! I reach down and tighten my bindings one last time. No turning back! I begin my descent. As I gain speed, the location of my first turn get larger. The turn that changed my life forever. Confidently, I dig my toes into the powder and lean back, making a personal, yet temporary white room of snow. Endorphins flooded my brain. I fly out of my room and my stomach hits the floor. A peculiar feeling it is, seeing a vision play out in front of you that's been previously burning into your memory. At the same moment I hear the grossest sound Mother Nature can produce. Crack!