The house was exactly as he left it. When Uncle Steven moved to hospice last spring, he had already transferred all the rights to his books and published articles to his nonprofit foundation, the Lamont Library. After he died in August, he left his house to me, his only niece, since he never married and had no children of his own. Months had passed, but nothing had been touched. Even his last two case studies he had planned to archive for the library were scattered in boxes stacked to the ceiling in the study. No one had shown much interest, until now. I got the call the day after Thanksgiving. Dr. Thomas Li, an award-winning neurologist, formerly with MIT, asked to meet with me to discuss an important study. And if I would be willing to transfer the remaining files to the university to continue Dr. Lamont’s work. “I know it’s a lot of trouble to find those materials.” Dr. Li apologized over the phone. “I’m happy to come by, at your convenience. The grant includes a small budget for research assistance. I can pay for your help.” I agreed to meet Dr. Li at my uncle’s old house. I told him I had already located several boxes of videotapes, marked “Confidential.” I wondered how these outdated, dusty tapes could be so important.

“I know exactly where those tapes are,” I assured Dr. Li. “Any materials you want, you are welcome to borrow and make copies.” “This isn’t just for my research,” Dr. Li insisted. “Dr. Lamont’s work will change the lives of so many people, including his own patients still struggling to this day to remain anonymous until this field is better understood and fully accepted. “Your uncle captured footage of his team treating patients while channeling dark energy forces. The phenomena manifested on videotape prove these episodes were not hallucinations.” I didn’t believe anyone could take his experimental therapy that seriously. As if it would change the face of medicine, and the world? But his former patient, Jackie, now a graduate student interning with Dr. Li’s research group, had convinced him this work was groundbreaking. Dr. Li arrived before I did. He called me to check if I was on my way. “Sorry, my car died in the driveway. Very odd, it wouldn't even start." It was my turn to apologize.  "I’m getting a Lift driver to take me over there. If you want to go inside, there’s an extra key by the side of the mailbox. The boxes you want are down the hallway, to the right. The study is full of them, but I moved the videotapes outside the door.” Dr. Li found the collection of videos that I had set aside. Inside the box, he found the personal instructions my uncle had left for me. “Dear Frances: If I don’t live long enough to tell you in person, please make sure nobody touches these materials unless they agree to three rules, for safety, which I failed to follow: 1.     Anyone who is told about or has any knowledge of these studies must seek the help and support of a deliverance ministry to pray for their protection. This energy is very dangerous and infiltrates the human network through our conscious and unconscious thoughts. Nobody can even know about this, unless they are fully protected. Or they will find themselves attacked as I have been. Please, this is very important! 2.     Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to replicate the exorcism rites I studied that require an individual, even a priest, to step in on behalf of God’s authority and make direct contact with any such energy or entity of demonic nature. This was a mistake, and I should never have studied this by direct contact. I hope that when my brain and body are donated to science, the mysterious growth of cancer can be studied to prevent the same deadly exposure that I believe is responsible. 3.     The minute you experience any signs of negative energy forces causing disruptions around you, please seek the prayer support of a deliverance ministry to remove the causes and protect you. IMMEDIATELY. Please share the knowledge of spiritual healing that doesn’t require anyone to step in and do what I did. This research is important, but it must be done safely and consistently with the right approach and methods. What I did wasn’t safe. I regret not being able to warn you and others in time. I’m going into hospice care soon, and may not have time to explain in person. Please WARN everyone who hears of this research to AVOID any contact, whatsoever, with the occult, with dark forces of witchcraft, sorcery, spells or curses. If I contribute nothing else to science, I want to leave this knowledge in the right hands. But everyone must be fully informed and protected." The note ended there. Dr. Li was more curious than alarmed. He opened the door to the study to look for more boxes.

Without warning, the door slammed shut in his face. He opened it again, holding the knob which started turning by itself. As if someone was on the other side fighting with him to keep him out. “Who’s there?” the doctor shouted. But there was nobody else in the house but him. Suddenly the sound of a dozen phones rang out in the hallway. Old-fashioned phones, the type that nobody makes or has anymore. Dr. Li spun around, but there were no telephones, and no visible source of the ringing anywhere in the hall or in the house. He called me on his cell phone, frantically yelling. “Frances! I’m inside the house, in the hallway. What is going on here? Is this a prank? How do I turn off these alarms, these phones ringing?” “What?” I was equally shocked, and felt a surge of pure terror spill into my soul from the panic in Dr. Li’s voice. “Are you sure that isn’t your phone picking up signals?” “No! It’s ringing behind my head. In the room around me. But when I turn around, there’s nothing here. Where are the phones in this house?” “There are no phones in the house! What are you talking about? Of course I can hear it. Where are you—” “Never mind, Frances. I’m hanging up. I’m going to record this nonsense.” He hung up on me. I felt a strange dark energy fill me with anxiety, as if pure evil had entered my world and was riding next to me in the car. I handed all my cash to the driver, begging him to rush me to the house. By the time I got there, the chaotic ringing had stopped. But the clock hanging in the hallway, without any batteries or power source, start chiming. As if to announce the time of my arrival. Dr. Li was recording the study door slamming open and shut by itself. “Frances, do you see this? This isn’t my imagination. It’s not a delusion if we're both seeing this! Quick, use your phone.” Together we recorded as much footage as we could, trembling with both terror and excitement. With two of us as witnesses to the same phenomena, we had a better chance of capturing clear proof and convincing others this was real. I spotted the opened box on the floor, with the note on top. I had forgotten the instructions my uncle had left me. No wonder he tried to warn me! “Dr. Li, we need to get prayer help. Now! This is exactly what he meant!” “In the name of Jesus Christ. I command you to leave!” My uncle’s voice came out of nowhere, and boomed through the hallway. I didn’t know if that command was for the demons or Satan, himself. Me or Dr. Li. But we obeyed, grabbed the box of tapes, and fled. Whatever was the next step of this research project, I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to hand the research to Jackie and Dr. Li, and disappear. Pretend I never heard or saw anything. And pray the demons would leave me alone.


Most people haven't experienced real cold. -50F. -60F. -70F. You can hear sounds from miles away, clear as a bell. Engines won't start, and the internal components of electronic devices can freeze and crack. Glass can simply shatter. When it's that cold outside, you could walk into a deep freeze meat locker and feel 60 degrees warmer.  The Cold seeps through layers of clothing, and with each passing moment, frostbite threatens to maim. It's easy to lose fingers and toes especially. If you don't wear a mask, you'll lose the tip of your nose, your ears. Your lips. Skin left exposed is skin lost. Sweating presents a mortal danger, and urination risks frostbite on your most intimate areas. The fluid on the surface of your eyeballs can freeze, hurting your eyes. Inhaling deeply through your mouth can hurt your lungs, and touching metal with your bare hands guarantees you'll be leaving a patch of skin behind. The risk of an asthma attack grows by the second. Wet hair freezes instantly, and it freezes so cold that you can snap it into pieces. When it's that cold, you could sit down and be dead within an hour.  The Cold isn't beautiful. Snow is beautiful. The Cold is malevolent and terrible. It's surreal, as if it wants to kill you personally. Imagine how you would feel if you learned that someone had hired an assassin to murder you. Take a moment to close your eyes and really imagine how you would feel if you found out that there was an assassin coming to kill you. Did you feel that little jolt of fear? That's how every second feels in The Cold. Temperatures don't have feelings and desires of course. The Cold doesn't want to kill you, but it will do the job all the same.  The three ingredients of fire are oxygen, fuel, and heat. Water is effective at combating fire because it is a coolant, thereby removing the heat component of fire. Extreme cold performs the same action, actively resisting efforts at creating and sustaining combustion. You could do everything right and The Cold might still kill you if your food and water freezes and you're unable to get a fire started. The Cold wants you dead, or rephrased in more scientific terms, life is not compatible with The Cold. Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) Ha!  Throughout Earth's history, there have been five ice ages. You could say that the history of our planet is the evolution, growth, and proliferation of life, followed by The Cold utterly annihilating that life with contemptuous efficiency. The last ice age began 2.6 million years ago and killed 96% of all life on the planet. Most people think an asteroid killed the dinosaurs, but that's only a partial truth. In reality, it wasn't a fiery apocalypse that nearly snuffed out all life. It was The Cold. The influx of dust into Earth's upper atmosphere blotted out the sun, which killed the plants, then the insects and plant-eaters, and finally, the meat-eaters. The Cold killed them all. 75,000 years ago, the Toba supervolcano in Indonesia erupted, once again chilling the planet and reducing the human population to 10,000 – 30,000 individuals. Humanity barely survived. Ultimately, The Cold will claim everything as the stars die and darkness and entropy settle in to the ever-expanding space between matter. This is the ineffable destiny of our universe. We exist in the infinitesimally small moment in time wherein heat and life are possible, just before the vast yawning eternity that is The Cold.  As I sit in this squat little cabin, contemplating The Cold and watching ice crystallize on the inside of the tiny door, I find it increasingly difficult to not take it personally and anthropomorphize. The ice seems to be reaching for me, blindly groping at me from the darkness beyond with cold fingers that won't take no for an answer. “Cabin” is perhaps too generous a word. It would have been impossible to heat a real cabin for long enough to survive The Cold. It's more of a deluxe-sized coffin, built short and sturdy. I built it with an oppressively low ceiling and an inward swinging door so small that I have to crawl out on my hands and knees. The cramped space is packed to the ceiling with chopped wood, neatly stacked as tightly as I could get it. The fireplace and chimney are stone, hewn together with clay mortar and sprinklings of ash. Most of my time is spent tending the meager fire and baking rocks for my primitive heated bed. The fire alone is not enough to keep me warm. I can feel The Cold leaching through the walls and floor, and I can hear the wind blowing down the chimney. Sometimes it's a whisper, sometimes a roar, and occasionally, a furious perpetual shriek of impotent rage. The only other sounds are my own breathing, the crackling fire, and the occasional gunshot-like detonation that can be heard when a tree freezes and explodes, or when a branch shatters and comes crashing down through the tree canopy, snapping all the branches below in a final act of arboreal suicide.  I built my little coffin cabin on the top of a hill. The wind roars fiercer and colder up here, but at least I don't have to worry about being entombed in a 20 foot snow drift, fuck you very much. I have two 5 gallon buckets for company. One is filled with high density food. The other is filled with my waste. I'm sure there's something poetic about that, but the poetry seems to fade every time I shit in a bucket and the smell lashes out at me with fish oil infused violence. The stench never lingers for long though as the incessant wind howling down the chimney provides ample ventilation.  Did you know that The Cold can kill in more direct ways as well? To quote and paraphrase Atlas Obscura: In 1942, a British forest guard in Roopkund, India, made an alarming discovery. More than three miles above sea level, he stumbled across a frozen lake surrounded by hundreds of human skeletons. That summer, the melting ice revealed even more remains, floating in the water and lying haphazardly around the lake's edges. Analysis of the skulls showed that hundreds of men women and children had been killed from blows to the head suffered during a severe hailstorm. Fun right? Strong winter snowstorms and blizzards can even produce their own lightning strikes, a phenomenon known as thundersnow. Lighting formed in this manner can strike from miles away, sometimes even from beyond the horizon. As interesting as that is, I'm not here for hailstorms or lightning strikes, nor am I here to see exploding trees, or birds falling out of the sky, frozen mid-flight. I'm not here to see herds of cloven animals flash frozen to the ground, or ice crystals tearing life apart at the cellular level. No, I'm here because there's something in The Cold, and I'm going to find it.


“Hey! Thanks for making it.

Don’t you look dapper.”

A gorgeous brunette in a red trench coat called to a balding man in a wrinkled business suit.

He sat on a park bench about to read a newspaper.

He turned around looking for whom this beauty could be speaking to in the crowded food court.

She looked like a model straight out of Victoria Secrets.

He pointed to himself.

“Yes, I’m talking to you. Cliff, right? Don’t you remember me? It's me, Demona.” Cliff cleared his throat and secretly removed his wedding ring. He gave her a quizzical look.

 “We chatted online last night.

I sent my pictures.” She displayed one of her photos. “I recall your pictures were from NYC.” He put the newspaper away and grinned.  “Now you remember, so sweet.

You agreed to meet me here, at the Markets of Hartford, the best street food in Connecticut.”

She sat next to him and crossed her legs. “We have everything your soul could desire.”  Cliff was about to speak, when Demona interrupted.

“It’s so busy here, but it’s never too late for street food.” Cliff looked at his watch.  She looked at his watch.  “It’s only 9 am?

I lost track of time.

I was up so late with you.” She winked at him. “How about a breakfast burrito? I know the best place.”

She grabbed his hand and they ran across the tumultuous courtyard.

They stopped in front of ‘Hellfire Burritos’.

She ordered for him and within seconds his steaming hot meal was ready.

He took a bite as she watched.

The amazing flavors nearly burst his taste buds.

Cliff moaned in culinary pleasure.

“I knew you would love it.

Best burritos in the business.

I have connections.

I used to manage this whole facility.

Now I work in culinary education and promotional distribution.” Cliff devoured another bite and then pointed to himself.   “You work in education right.

A teacher?  No, I remember a principal.

Fascinating.” She grabbed a napkin and invaded his personal space. “You got a little salsa on your chin.

I’ll get it for you. There you go.

I know, so amazing.”

He snapped off another bite staring at her. “How about a coffee?

Excellent.

Be right back.” She touched her cheek.

He enjoyed watching her walk away.

In a flash, she returned with a large hot coffee from ‘Witches Brew’.

He sipped the dark elixir.

It tasted better than the burrito.

“Do you like the java?

Fresh ground Colombian.

I drink it all the time.” Cliff pointed to the logo of Juan Valdez on his cup and then to his hostess.

“Juan Valdez?  No, I don’t know him.  You are funny.” He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and devoured his breakfast. “So tell me about your school.

Last night you mentioned, let me guess, Daniel Webster Middle School?

On the other side of town?

I love that part of town, so quiet, simple, and quaint.” Cliff agreed with her.

He took a sip of coffee and placed it on a round table.

He pulled out his school ID badge.

She slowly removed it from his hand.

“Wait a minute, it’s Monday morning.

Shouldn’t you be at school?

Are you being a little devil and skipping just to meet me?  You are so cute.  You’re turning red.”

She rubbed his arm.

The blushing principal pointed back to the ID and then sipped more of his beverage.

Demona examined the back. “Oh, I see, the assistant principal, Mrs.Carpenter, opens on Mondays.

Perks of the job, am I right?

So how long can you play hooky with me?”

With his coffee hand, Cliff lifted three fingers. “Until noon? That is fabulous.”  She put her hand around his elbow and smiled.

“Let’s sit down in a private cozy spot. Over there.” She pointed to a restaurant called ‘Wolf’s Den’. “It’s my favorite little hangout.”  They walked together. Cliff grinned, finished his meal, and followed her like a lamb. They walked into a dimly lit bar and grill.

Demona went directly to a secluded booth near the back.

She removed her coat revealing her skin tight dress and knockout figure to Cliff.

He plopped down in the booth and she slithered up to him.

She caressed his pasty hands.

“How about a mimosa?

Great.

I love these in the morning.”

She waved her hand in the air.

Cliff couldn’t believe she wanted to be with him.  Her beauty hypnotized him.

Three morning cocktails appeared before them.

He noticed one was red instead of orange.

He pointed at the different one.

She smirked, “After a mimosa, I like to drink a Bloody Mary.”

Cliff raised his drink to her.

Demona copied him. They clinked glasses and drank.

He barely sipped while she downed it all.

“Aww.

So refreshing.” She boasted. “It cleansed my palette.” She stared at Cliff and ran a finger through his hair. “So tell me about your school.

Any interesting students?”

He shrugged again and unsuccessfully chugged his cocktail and spilled some on the table.

She wiped it up with a napkin.

She cleaned his chin and then brushed her lips on his.

“You had a little pulp on your lips. Your lips are so soft.” She eyed him. “You’re probably wondering why I keep asking about your work.” Cliff raised his eyebrows and drank the remaining mimosa.

Demona pointed to an outside window. “I used to work at a shop out here, with a business partner, making and selling cupcakes. ‘Cupcakes by O’ Scratch’.  You can still see the sign by ‘B. Elze’s Butcher Shop’.” Cliff strained to see through the darkness and then his focus switched to her body. “Would you like to try my cupcakes, Cliff?” He grinned from ear to ear.

“You are such a bad boy.

Here you go.” She twirled her left hand and a luscious cupcake with black frosting and red sprinkles appeared before him. Without hesitation, he devoured the entire pastry.

He had frosting all over his face.

She continued, “My partner and I did not want to be a small-time operation, so we pitched our ideas of worldwide distribution on Death Tank.

It’s like Shark Tank , but if the judges don’t like your idea, they mutilate you in front of the other demons. Very entertaining for the audience, but high stakes for the participants.” Cliff, for the first time, realized his surroundings and his precarious position with a dangerous beauty.

He stood up but Demona, with one finger, pulled him down to his seat.

“Not time to go yet.

I have to finish my story. You don’t want to be rude, do you?” He shook his head and nervously smiled.

“Cliff, you seem anxious, so I will get it over quickly.

Put you out of your misery, so to speak.

My partner, Lou, and I got a contract with Death Tank and it has been an extreme success.

We changed the name to Scratch Cupcakes.

We have been selling cupcakes and gaining souls by the millions.

However, the only stipulation of Death Tank is that we control all the school districts in Connecticut, before we go nationwide and then worldwide.” He listened politely, but his eyes tried to find an exit.  Any exit.

“Are you tracking with me, Cliff?” She grabbed his pasty face and shoved her phone into it.

“You see that tiny blue dot, in the sea of red? Can you guess who’s school that is?”

Cliff shrugged, but could not break her grip.

“It’s your school, you dolt. Do you know a kid named Joshua Carpenter? Think Cliff! Think!” She screamed.

He realized the other patrons ignored her screaming.

He nodded in agreement.

“Did you know this little punk won our cupcakes for the whole school, but rejected them.

Any reason why, Cliff, what makes this stupid kid so special?

You like my cupcakes, right Cliff?”

The principal began to whimper and cry. “You are useless and pathetic.”  She snapped her fingers and two burley shadows lifted him from the booth.

 “Take him away and harvest his soul.

First, send his lovely wife these sensuous pictures.”

She sneered and displayed a series of pornographic photos to Cliff.

“I really like this one.” He tried to protest, but the shadows stuffed a dirty napkin in his mouth and dragged him out the backdoor.

They launched him into a garbage filled dead end.

They slammed the door.

Demona’s phone rang. “Hey Lou. Just finished.

Yeah, you were right.

The principal was a wash.”

 She listened for a few seconds.

“So you’re telling me, this kid,

the one you said was no one special, called for an all school assembly to talk about healthy food choices for 11 am!” Demona listened.

“He does seem overly clever.

Do you think he’s getting help from the other side?” She looked over her shoulder and felt a shiver run down her spine.

“Ok.”

She whispered. “I’ll be right there.

Don’t interact with him until I get there.

Let’s keep this quiet.

See ya soon.” Demona snapped her fingers and an ominous shadow beast placed car keys in her hand.

It bowed before her as she exited the Wolf’s Den.

She wrapped the coat around her neck and it transformed into a red-hooded cape.

She jumped into the driver’s seat of a jet black Cadillac Deville.

She peeled out and drove through the busy food court toward the quaint part of town. License plate:

1MORSOL


Charlie Wordsborough woke up to a buzzing sound that cut through his Venetian blinds. Stretching his fists in the air, he looked through the window pane only for his eyes to land on the neighbors’ kids throwing big lumps of snow at their dad’s car. It was the irritating alarm the car ever made.            “Not again,” he mumbled. Jumping from the luxury of his sapphire velvet bed sheets, Christmas was all the way up the air, right from Ms. Jenny’s dazzling Christmas tree on her shade across the road to the wheezing snowflakes that rested on the edges of his beard as he spied from his window shaft. Still gazing at the snow, the lonely man groomed his beard. I think I can use this holiday to earn some extra cash, what are holidays without Beth . Charlie put his hand to a pencil portrait and in slow short paces of breath, he regretted. As he picked up the smiling picture of Elizabeth Langston, his reflection from the glass frame talked back to him.  “ You shouldn’t have left her alone.” Today was marking twelve months when Beth, her little niece and the remnant of her family disappeared in the backyard that late summer evening. As a man in his donkey years, he sipped on his cup of coffee after a few timely twenty minutes of cleaning up and straight he headed for the front door. The morning blizzard with lots of love had wielded a quarter tone of snow in front of his door that it would take half an hour for a thin tall and skinny man like him to remove the snow worth double his weight. He stared at his watch in haste and turning the eyes back to his coffee mug, he placed it on the padded burst of his fireplace. Sliding the mahogany drawer just adjacent to the royal blue couch, Charlie flung out five olden keys dusty and heavy that must have seen several fortnights in the dark terror beneath the lowly wood. He in a hurry folded them beneath his hands heading for the back door. Intact for twelve months, he approached at a faster pace as his blood raced faster pouring the memories of the teenage Beth back into the thinking cap.It was the door she slide through and never returned ever again. “The guilt would soon cease to come, just forget all about the night.” the words of his therapist ran down his spine as he drove out to work but still he shivered as his hands sweated for the horrors of a missing niece had just been brought to life. For the first time, he heard the echo of his footsteps clutching on the white tiles as he raced his silk trousers across the hall. “You are welcome.” the bio-metric machine sang as his index finger struck its pad and with a glitter of the red light that flushed, Charlie found himself smiling instantly as he fixed his glove back to his sleek fingers.            “I must admit you look stunning today.” said Charlie to the elegant lady occupying the reception desk.            “Stop it Charlie," Mable giggled beneath her charming smile. “Any big news today,” he inquired.            “Tom just signed a memo of employees who would want to earn some extra dime, she punched a bunch of papers. “They will meet him at 6:00 pm in the second board room.” she swirled around in her chair. “This is fantastic,” Charlie marched to the Christmas tree that shone and tickled all the brilliant luxury out of his mind. “What plans do you have for the holiday,” he asked advancing back to her desk. “The good thing is that am not spending it with my family, she paused. “You know restraining orders.” “Come on, stop messing with me.” he leaned forward, arms resting on the glass edges of the table amid the busy morning of employees arriving and the disturbing noise of the bio-metric. “ You are welcome.” He paused looking into her big blue eyes that opened like a rose in the winter frost. “So what's your bottom line.” she asked shying away from the charming look he had to offer.            “We will see about that, first I have some work to document nice day Darling.” He moved majestically whipping off the snowflakes at his scarf nearly hearing them drop on the floor that held the hollow corridor in place.  Flinging the door behind his basement office, he rested his briefcase on the marble table, no doubt the pharmaceutical company was worth working for and his career as a pharmaceutical researcher was evident on the cash he always checked out. As he opened his laptop, his eyes caught a wonder through the glass walls; it was for the fifth time that his curiosity and suspicion grew for the ‘Level 4 Clearance’ staff in this facility. “This must be a hell worth of a project.” he thought, regarding all four of his seniors, men of grey hair except for Tom Harding whom a week before had celebrated his thirty fifth birthday. They all swiped their clearance cards across the laser detector on the wall and one by one moved into a room whose contents remained anonymous to all employees forgiving the old rich men who frequented the research facility on a quarterly basis for God knows what other motive apart from spilling the research facility with grant money. Everyone at the workplace had his face glued at the computer, if not, they were exchanging ideas in board rooms and almost all the fellows in the laboratory were having their grips tight at test tubes, looking for new drug molecules to put on market. As he moved his eyes to the Culturing center, all his colleagues even Sam, the renowned laissez faire was already having his eyes down the microscope lenses giving a meaning to the microbiology sector. Charlie decided to take his time, cross checking study by study to compile a valid report of the new drug he was working on that could put an end to depression after their groundbreaking discovery. As the clock ticked smoothly, Charlie had spent twelve hours of proper documentation which tempted him to reach for some ice and his favorite Irish whiskey bottle from which he poured the red flaming liquid down the walls of his champagne glass. With one shot, he flung the glass as Ice cubes crushed on each other sending an awakening to the soul and mind. His eyes were flickered by the aluminum wall clock, then slowly he focused at the ticking time piece, 7:30 pm it was. Charlie quickly grasped his briefcase and headed for the reception using the only stairs that accessed this underground facility. Quick he tried to open the door, with more energy he pushed his body against it as the door pushed back yet it didn't yet it didn’t even move an inch. Startled by the fear of being left alone on the cold winter blizzard howling, Charlie headed for the coffee machine in his office to warm up the night as he looked for his phone to beneath the layers of his attire. As his legs carried him off, his eyes distracted him off to a blue patch of paper lying on the floor just a few feet from the secret room as he had named it. “Well well well,” he muttered as his curious persona bent down and picked up the most prized piece each employee admired to own. The Level 4 Clearance card. On a closer look it read, 'Tom Blackgold CEO SUPERCEUTICALS'. Amid all the cold and weird quietness that filled the station, he moved to the secret room as he had named it. Not a thought of confidentiality struck his mind, but a thirst for knowledge led Charlie to stop and swipe the card at the laser reader. The door slowly opened tempting him to slide his thin muscles into the new world where his eyes were greeted by a clear map stuck on the back of the door as he swung it closed. His eyes met the part labeled cryogenic chambers; his eyes struck with terror and doubt, Charlie moved beholding the recent state of the art equipment that his eyes had never seen. The latest transmission electron microscopes, the latest ultra centrifuges, and not forgetting the good looking friability testers his hands felt as he moved along the Disneyland of the company. " If this is a hub of technological laboratory equipment, why keep it in a top security hideout," his mind continued to do the math’s. His smile reflected from the marble floor as the map guided his steps far away from the entrance beholding all manner of tidy technological wonders until he reached a steel case seven feet tall and four feet wide with a spinning wheel twice the size of his hands.  He didn't bother himself of what was inside and with no thought he turned the frigid wheel to the right as the six inches of body thick opened to a humor of cold air. He stepped into another room full of cryogenic chambers that his eyes couldn’t number but behold in amazement. Confident in quest he went further and closer to one of the cryogenic chamber, clearing the mist off the glass chamber. Through the glass stared back the same very eyes that he sure was they belonged to a human being freezing to death. The air around him grew colder and denser, dropping the map and shuttering its binders on the floor, he flung back, screaming as a seal pup startled by a polar bear and in slow breaths he whimpered in the cold room full of lights beaming a flavor of demonic illusions to the poor soul. With his muscles shaking and his teeth drumming, Charlie moved into another chamber and when he rubbed the mist off the glass, a young face of little girl looked back; this time with a smile aligned with stiff cheeks and flaked teeth. He cleared his sight advancing back to the chamber as his stomach drowned into dyspepsia, she smiled more clearly from the chamber and the entire face pattern revealed a lost loved one whose smile he cherished and knew well enough, Beth. Elizabeth Langston. His eyes opened wider as his breath became sequential that his heart pounded as if the Vikings were drumming in the twilight moon. Down to the middle of the cryogenic chamber was a note stacked and in blue words, Times New Roman font it read. Elizabeth Langston Adenochrome P25A. His hands then reached into the chest pocket of his jacket and out went a phone. Struggling to remain on his feet; he wiped with his glove the tears that his eyes were shedding on his phone screen. Charlie glanced his camera, taking video and pictures of each of the four chambers he managed to film before he threw up on one of the microscopes. As the cold shook the terror out of him, he headed for the main door, with a handful of evidence to the unlicensed wizardry going on under his nose for God knows how many years. Forty three of innocent children and some former employees had found haven in the bliss of ice unwillingly. He burst out in a loud tone of cursing as he face called Tom the man he looked up to in his work career for integrity and success. “I know everything about the room," Charlie held Tom’s clearance card to his phone camera as his jawbone dropped wide open struggling with replies. “Oops, welcome to the club.” he muttered.


Jason walked quickly down a hallway through the airport to get to his gate. The escalator was ascending just in front of him. To his right, a shopping area and food court bustled with other passengers all waiting for their respective planes. He had always hated escalators. He had fallen down one as a kid and he disliked them ever since, but he was been in a hurry and the stairs were tiring, considering how far he still had to go. Plus this would give him some time to think and get some space from Karen, before they met to get on their plane. Annie was trying to take her time. She really needed some space to herself. She had been arguing with her boyfriend for the last twenty minutes at the gate and had just walked away to get a break. The exit to the food court and overpriced stores had just joined up with a hallway and at the far end of the junction was an escalator. Jason was deep in thought. He couldn't believe he had been coaxed into this trip. His girlfriend had bugged him relentlessly until he had agreed. God he disliked her parents. They had such a different view of the world then him. Also why did they have to live in Minnesota, it was quite a long flight from Sky Harbor Airport. In the middle of winter too. He hated this. Annie hated the cold but her boyfriend Chad had to go to the Rockies. He “needed” to snowboard. Why couldn't they ever do anything she wanted. Annie was about to step onto the escalator when she bumped into someone. “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said as she turned. A tall well built man who looked to be in his late twenties was standing there just as stunned as she was. “Oh, no problem,” he said back looking at the floor. Jason looked down. He had been so lost in thought. This cute girl just bumped into him, and now he was all flustered. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed her and now they were standing face to face. He could tell he was blushing but looked up and took a step back. He gestured with his hand and smiled. “After you.” “Wow,” Annie thought. He's so chivalrous. He seemed very sincere in the gesture so, she stepped onto the escalator before him. The man nodded and smiled but hesitated before stepping on after her. Jason had been with Karen for almost a year. He didn't really know why he still was, but he figured it was the best he could get, so why lose it. He noticed he'd stopped laughing as much and tended to do nothing but fight with her. Plus their tastes were so vastly different. He loved warm places with a beach. Hawaii. California. He needed the water. Karen on the other hand was all about the mountains and land locked states. She would never travel to the ocean. She was too afraid of it. Though she had never been but Jason had always guessed it was just a fear of the unknown. He loved spicy food. Karen hated it. He loved to read. She hated books. To be honest, Jason felt more and more like polar opposites with her, but he didn't have the courage to tell her that and break her heart. Plus she was his first real girl friend. He had been with a couple of girls before but they were short relationships so he never really counted it. Which made everything that much more complicated. Annie had been with Chad for years. They had been high school sweethearts. Now that she was twenty-four though, she had realized how they weren’t the same. Not even remotely. She was into art and books and anything that had to do with warm sunny beaches. She loved the ocean and felt like it helped her write and read and just be more herself. Chad on the other hand, had really turned into a bum. He barely worked anymore and had been relying on Annie more and more for his income. He would sit around most days either watching T.V. or playing video games. He had planned this trip by dipping into their savings, for it was for his own “well being.” Annie was getting more and more disgusted with him but was too sweet and polite to tell him they weren't working. Annie turned slightly on the escalator and looked at the man behind her. He had a death grip on the rail but she could tell he kept peeking at her. She smiled to herself. He really was cute. He had such startlingly bright eyes. What she couldn't figure out was why he was holding the rail so hard. Maybe he knew something she didn't. Wait, what if the escalator was going to jerk or hitch or something? They sometimes did that when they got older, right? Come to think of it, this one did look kind of old. Okay, really old. She might fall and get hurt. She tightened her grip on the rail too, just in case. Jason saw the corner of the lady's mouth twitch when he looked at her. He thought for a second she was smiling but figured it was his imagination. Then he saw her grip tighten on the railing. Oh god. Something was going to happen. He knew it. She was freaking out because she knew the escalator was going to jerk and he would fall down it and get hurt again. Annie had been always looking for that “Knight in shining armor.” The one from fairy tales. The one to sweep her off her feet. She definitely didn't feel like that with Chad but she couldn't leave him. They had a huge history together. Heck they had been out of high school for five years now. Annie looked down at her feet, thinking again. She needed a change. Something new and exciting. Maybe going somewhere like Hawaii or California. She had always wanted to go and hoped that someday Chad would take her there. Jason was the kind of guy who wanted to sweep a girl off her feet. Do everything old-school. Be the knight in shining armor. He would take her everywhere and anywhere she wanted to go. Be the man that she needed and make her his princess. He has always and will always love with all of his heart all the time. That is part of the reason he couldn't leave Karen. He couldn't bare hurting her like that. Also, could he even get another girlfriend? He doubted it. Jason looked forward as he neared the top of the escalator. He would treat that girl with the utmost respect and be there for her whenever she needed it. Annie shuffled her feet a little. She was almost at the top. She needed someone who could take care of her. Someone to hold her and tell her everything will be alright. Someone that would respect her for who she is, not drag her off to the cold, mountainous... She took a deep breath, wanting leave the argument alone. Annie stepped off the escalator at the top and took a few steps. She turned and looked at the man behind her. She smiled sweetly and said, “Have a nice day.” “You too.” Jason said back. “Hope it's a great one.” Jason turned as he got off and started walking toward the A gates 1-23. Hands pushed in his pockets dreading seeing Karen again. Wishing he could find the right person. Wishing he could find his princess. Annie turned and headed toward the A gates 23-45. She pushed her hands in her pockets wishing that some how when she got to her gate Chad wouldn't be there. God she needed her knight to save her now. Jason found Karen sitting at their gate. She had her feet over her things so no one would take them. She looked up and smiled but it seemed fake to him. He smiled back and plopped himself next to her believing this is the best he would get. Annie saw Chad sitting at the gate where she had left him. He looked up and smiled but it didn't touch his eyes. “I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to yell.” He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She leaned into him and smiled believing this is the best she would get.


Three months ago, the Client had cried and begged to my liaison to help fulfil his vengeance. I don’t remember why I agreed to the first meeting, but I’ll never forget the excuses I made for every meeting since. I won’t forget when the excuses dried up, either. Hammerhead and I had been driving down to a café once; he’d asked me why I didn’t cut the deal. I didn’t have an answer for him. I just turned to the window and took a long drag of my overpriced cigarette. It was easier to admire my hazy reflection in the side mirror than to think too deeply about it. Maybe I thought I’d find an answer reflected somewhere there in those tired lines. They only had more questions and half formed accusations. Anger at myself, anger at the Silence that the Client brought with him. Two weeks ago, the Client had finally scraped together the small fortune he’d need, to the surprise of even himself. He’d passed authentication and security and the funds were laundered for later collecting. I remembered a small knot in my chest, an unfamiliar trepidation that surrounded a task I’d seen through a dozen times before. Something was different this time. Four days ago, I attended the wedding doomed to end with the grooms’ death. Hammerhead had arranged my invitation to oversee Plan B, insurance to cover everything from a minor miscalculation to divine intervention. The revolver felt heavy in my purse, its silver barrel itching to see the sun. I knew I wasn’t the only one. The groom’s father was a spider in the web of the underworld; the hawkish men and women overlooking the perimeter would drop those clammy, half-hearted smiles in exchange for firepower in an instant. Everything proceeded like clockwork. The bride and groom exchanged their vows, eyes reflecting the deep, overflowing love of true passion, ignorant to the cruel strings of fate closing around them.  The reception started slow, steadily building into a frenzy of contagious excitement, a cacophony of laughter that infected every guest in attendance. I joined in and tried not to sound too disinterested with the casual conversation and predatory attention swirling around me. The attention would be redirected soon enough. All eyes were drawn to the first dance between newlyweds. A practiced routine paced to slow, near hypnotic music at odds with the vibrant energy of just moments before. I remember turning away at some point, trying to appear busy on my cell. Raucous applause and a new round of drinks let me know it was finally time to get into position. Back against a nearby exit, purse opened slightly, a hundred paces from the nearby escape vehicle if worst came to worst. Imagining the beads of sweat rolling down the drivers’ forehead brought me the first genuine smile of that night. When the groom finally collapsed still holding his liquor of choice, the first sound was a sparkle of uncertain laughter. It melted away in the same second as the gravity of the situation settled in and hysteria blossomed. The man’s life faded before emergency services arrived. Though the official autopsy was still underway, I knew that they’d figured it out within the hour. Poison in the ice. Simple to detect, though it would never be traced to my people, so it didn’t bother me. The Client was quite specific about how he wanted his perfect vengeance to unfurl. It was impossible to forget the little specifics that the Client requested. Every time he paused to think, there was that blasted Silence. When I’d realized later that I’d never have to hear his dreadful metronome grinding again, I felt… something adjacent to relief. Not quite, but close. I thought that was the end of it. Just as I was beginning to steer my thoughts elsewhere, Hammerhead told me the news. That brings us to today, when I learned that the Client had earned a pittance of a bounty across the local community and was expected to expire within the week. In hindsight, it wasn’t that surprising. The man hadn’t been subtle about his involvement. I’d heard that he even taunted the groom’s family afterwards. Family that, mind you, had their finger in the pie of every half-crooked officer and politician of our fair city. The paltry sum offered for his disappearance filled me with a strange melancholy. It didn’t even break five digits. A fraction of what the Client had paid for his vengeance, paid by men who could afford a standard fee without breaking a sweat. It felt insulting. I knew it was beyond stupid to feel that way, but I couldn’t fully suppress that little curdle of indignation on behalf of the loathsome Client. All that planning, all that fiery obsession, to be met with a price so lukewarm that it was hardly worth the time or risk for any serious contractor. I’d told Hammerhead to pin down the Clients address; until now, communications had been exclusively through a liaison or burner phones. He told me he’d get it within the day, which was his modest way of promising six hours at most. Now I had a free afternoon with no choice but to relax, unwind and enjoy the latest trashy thriller on my shelves in silence. A peaceful, serene silence, interrupted only by the turning of pages and the sound of my own breathing. A longing, fragile silence, fractured by every car that sped by before being pulled back together. An impossible, unwelcome silence, unfamiliar after so many conversations with the Client. Every time I turned a page, I could feel it echo in the back of her head. Gnawing, gnashing, grinding, yearning— I snapped the book shut more harshly than the innocent paperback deserved. It wasn’t the novels’ fault. It didn’t bring the Silence. It wasn’t judging me. It wasn’t watching me. It certainly didn’t think any less of me for these unwelcome thoughts. Minutes passed as I did everything I could to try and clear my mind. Reclining one way, then the other, draping over every piece of furniture in my apartment like a particularly restless cat. I poured out the cheap red wine kept at the front of the counter for emergencies, took a single sip and divorced myself from the glass a moment later. I curled my hands and flexed my fingers, pulling them from my lips time and again, resisting the instinctive urge to bite at my nails like thin mints. A nasty habit I thought I’d kicked to the curb decades ago, resurrected in the wake left by the Silence. I gave up eventually, of course. There’s no way I could get my mind off it. The dreadful cloak that the Client had wrapped around himself during every conversation. That unnerving tic that had left her regretting the very first meeting and second guessing every interaction thereafter. I turned back over to the book, finding myself seated right back where I started. I knew what it’d say if it could talk. If those words could rearrange to write a query, or better yet, split down the middle and enunciate with a grotesque, half formed mouth, the question that had no sane answer. What the hell are you so worked up about? There’s no way I could explain to anybody, but I knew that anyone who heard the Silence would understand instinctively. Hammerhead knew as well. It didn’t seem to bother him as much, but I’d seen the way his face contorted into a subtle, uncommon grimace when I’d mentioned it to him the first time all those weeks ago. In the three months that I had been in touch with the Client, we’d exchanged seven conversations over the phone. Every single one of them had been punctured by what I liked to call the Silence. That word came with a capital S, and no dictionary in the country would dispute it once they’d heard the evidence. The Client was the sort to take long pauses between his words, especially after rants about the various injustices of the world and the depths of his despair. These rants were never rare; he was blessed with an unrelenting loathing that would put the grudges of ancient Greek and Norse myths to shame. In these times when he caught his breath, I’d feel my shoulders tense up just a little as I listened to the Silence. It wasn’t anything occult or mystical. A simple grating of teeth, at least I assumed. I’d never heard a man who could grind them with such audible zeal before. It was as if his molars were stones wearing at each other as they had since the dawn of time. A chilling gnashing that left me a little on edge just imagining it. With that piteous grinding of teeth came the long, ragged breaths. They weren’t deliberate; they came too erratically, but not at a pace or labour that suggested actual exertion. Too quiet to be panting yet too loud to pass off as regular breathing… and every so often, just a little, sickeningly wet. It was a disastrous combination of noises that came to be known as the Silence, and it was always at its worst when the Client discussed his vengeance. At those times I swear I could hear the trickling of feral saliva dripping down from his maw, an odious bile that would surely sizzle through the floor beneath him. I hated the Silence. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal; it wasn’t the first person I’d met with an annoying tic. There was something about it that felt… off. As if the Silence was expecting me to acknowledge it. Every gnash of molars was a command. Every longing breath was an invitation. It wanted recognition. I never did. That would be surrendering. I knew that the Silence was hungry, yearning for attention, yearning to invite more questions so that the Client could rant on and on about the deep seated loathing that had become his very being. The Silence and his romanticized, all-consuming vengeance were two sides of the same, oozing, rotting coin. It made me wonder if it was gone, now. That was why I’d sent Hammerhead to find him so quickly. I hadn’t even realized it at the time. The self-realization filled me with more shame than I care to admit, and I returned to my long-abandoned glass of wine to finish the job. As if he could sense the way that every passing minute dug its hooks into me, darling Hammerhead was ready with the location of the Client within a single hour. It hadn’t been hard to find him, with the bounty up for almost a full day before I’d been told. Night had already fallen, and the soft padding of rain kept it company, but the location was surprisingly close. A seedy motel with dirt-cheap prices perfect for the sort of hanged man that had cashed over every dime he’d ever earned on a contract killer.

Strapping on my boots and weathered coat, I stepped out with umbrella in hand and purse over shoulder. The firearm in there had never felt more vital, like a second heartbeat. A reassuring presence, a companion in the rain, promising that everything would be alright. It promised me that it could drown out the sound of Silence with a single pull of its trigger. Keen awareness of surroundings was vital in my line of work. Hardly an insect would escape my notice on a bad day, and I could count the heads in a crowd in less time it took me to finish a breath. Tonight, that usual alertness was muddled- and I knew it. I could scarcely pay attention to the cars that rushed past, nor anything ahead of me until the motel finally came into view. It was a ten minute walk. I couldn’t tell you a single thought that had entered or left my mind throughout. My hand was shaky as I pushed open the door to a motel half as lively and twice as decrepit as I had expected. The man at the counter didn’t even bat an eye at me as I walked right past to go upstairs. The alarm bells that should’ve been rattling in my skull were nothing but a muted recognition of the surreal edge that tonight held. It was dangerously easy to accept these strange tells. A single, flickering light stood sentry over the upper hallway of the motel, guarding a total of three rooms. The one that I was looking for had its door already ajar. I could feel my heart racing in my chest, a creeping dread infused with crouched adrenaline ready to spring. The hallway was silent- truly silent, and I walked with quiet, trained steps with a hand in my purse. He was already dead, of course. I didn’t need to open the door to confirm that, yet I still felt a small stain of disappointment when I saw the body. He was slouched over his mattress at an uncomfortable angle, head turned away from the door to hide his visage yet unmistakably deceased. At first glance, it looked like his throat had been quietly slit. Stepping into the room at the same time an overgrown cockroach skittered out, I inspected the scene more closely. The room was filled with empty bottles of cheap beer and take-out boxes; the Client had been here for an extended stay. Either this motel didn’t provide daily room cleaning or he’d explicitly told them to delay it. He didn’t look as gaunt and sallow as I’d expected, even in death. I looked over my shoulder. The aloof attitude of the man at the counter flashed back to mind. He must’ve been paid off to turn the other way for today. He might’ve mistaken me as a cleaner, or maybe he was keeping his distance from the unsavory dealings tickling his nose. I needed to leave as soon as possible in case other would-be bounty collectors came along. I knew that, but I couldn’t move. My feet were glued to the floor. The Silence was gone. Tension that had weighed on my shoulders invisibly for weeks melted away like butter on hot pavement. The Silence was gone- but that wasn’t enough. After a moment, I stepped forward to confront that burning, unknowable question. I grabbed the corpse by the chin and turned his head with an almost reverent gentleness, to face me. Empty, baby blue eyes met my own. In them I could see my reflection, so like that hazy visage in the car an eternity ago when Hammerhead first asked me to explain the impossible. This time, I could muster an answer. I’d never really believed in peaceful or dignified death. Every corpse was one of two ways for me; gormlessly staring up at the heavens, or too mutilated to do even that. When I looked upon the face of the Client, however, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man, surrounded by his own squalor and murdered for a pittance, was content. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that in those last few days he’d been free of the Silence. The Client had invested everything into his vengeance, and he’d never looked back for even a second. It made me wonder, for the first time since my earliest clients, what it felt like to cling to something so passionately. Clawing at a romanticized, pointless vengeance like it was a divinely instilled purpose, throwing away every shred of your life to chase it and sacrificing even your own future? I refused to open his mouth. I didn’t want to see what condition his teeth were in. When I finally turned away, I couldn’t help the shadow of a smile that touched my lips. The question that I’d never known I had was finally answered. The Client had died in enviable peace, and the Silence died with him.


CW-slight hint of suicidal thinking, some swear words Sweet sax strains of "Stormy Weather" swell and fall, taking the edge off my aching loneliness for a moment. But my classic jazz downloads fail to distract me from my level six pain this morning. They never help with pain, but I like to tell the few people I still talk to in the flesh other than doctors that they do, that music is a pain management strategy, a mindfulness tactic I employ alongside my daily rainbow of drugs. These caring folks crease their brows, nod

ooh

and

ahh , not sure how to respond. Who can blame them? Impossible to relate to chronic pain if you don’t have it. Especially this undiagnosable, not-understood, not-quite-chronic-fatigue thing I’ve been struggling with for seven years. Hard to understand or fear a monster that’s only theoretical to you. And I do think of it as a monster. An entity that’s entered my body and taken over. When I’m at my worst, every inch of my skin burns, even while I’m on the drugs. I can’t move from bed, can’t move from fetal position, can’t move for fear the flames will engulf me in a ritual of pain the monster has devised to make me finally give in, to call it quits.

The hardest part isn’t the pain, though. It’s not knowing what afflicts me. For now, my only comfort is knowing I’m not alone. About three years ago, I found an online community—there are a whole lot of us out there, hundreds if not thousands around the world, with what we informally call “millennial disease.” Because for some reason we’re all under the age of forty. And bonus: we’re all infertile. We’re all also befuddled and angry that there’s no research into it. Zilch. You'd think it’d be a goldmine for the first pharmaceutical company to crack its code, but something rotten is going on, and other than writing moot letters to our congress people, we are basically helpless. A tender piano rendition of “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face” tinkles, and I scrabble for my phone from under the covers, hitting the arrow forward button. Too late. I’m already back there, remembering the good, the bad and the end with Will. When we found out about my dead ovaries and he told me he wanted children. I need distraction. Now. Maybe Jimbo2 is online. He helps me feel better, jokes me out of my worst moods. I move gingerly to a sitting position, find my laptop buried under my sour-smelling sheets. Luckily Mom’s due to bring groceries and clean up sometime today.

I’m in luck. Jimbo2 was chatting in our support group a couple of minutes ago. I shoot him a quick inmail. SassygrrL: What’s the word down under? - - JImbo2: ‘Lo , luv. The word is shitty. You? Thought Boston would be dark about now. - SassygrrL: Hunh? - JImbo2: Check news!

- SassygrrL: Will do. Meanwhile, “shitty” is the word for me, too. Time to talk? - - - - I wait thirty seconds, a minute, but he doesn’t answer. Very unlike him. I click my news icon, which downloads the landing page while I’m sleeping. Sometimes I remember to check it. Today, every headline is a variation of the one in the NYTimes box: “President Declares State of Emergency While National Energy Grids Shut Down ‘For a Short While’” I click into the story, but it won’t download. I check my wireless connection on the top bar, and sure enough, it’s dark gray. Which would explain why Jimbo2 didn’t answer me either. Grabbing my phone, I slide out of bed, bare feet stung by the cold hardwood floor, and wobble down the hall to the living room. Sure enough, the router, shiny and black behind a brown, crispy fern, is lightless. No digital numbers glow from the oven clock in the kitchen either. I flick the light switch. Nada. And I don’t know if I’m only now noticing, or if it’s suddenly reached a pitch, but the noise from the street is ten times the usual decibel level. I look out to see streets crammed with honking cars and people lined up in front of my neighborhood bodega.

I need to call Mom.

I hit her number three times. “Call failed” blares back at me. I do my breathing exercises, deep breath in, hold it at the top, deep breath out, hold it at the bottom, but two sets in I know I’m wasting time. After Dad died, we always said if there was a disaster, no matter where we were in the world, we’d meet up at the house in Cambridge. This might not be a serious disaster, but it could be, so I have to go to her. I shuffle back to my bedroom, peel off my three-day-old pajama skin and decide on a luxury I can probably ill-afford right now, a hot shower. It could be my last for a while.  Stepping in, I realize something: I haven’t noticed my pain since the power went out. In fact, this might be the most pain free I’ve been in months, if not years.

I do a quick body check while I soap up, check my tenderest spots, along my ribs and behind my knees. Both areas are at a level one, and that’s only because I’m anticipating pain I’m not really feeling. Wow. Normally I’d be rejoicing at this unexpected reversal in my pain journey, but it’s unlikely I’ll have time to really revel before the pain comes back. The silver lining is that I need to feel my best to cope with the state of the world until I can get to my safe person, my long-suffering, kind mother, so she can help me if I backslide during this outage. Or when. My monster will not be gone long.

I put on clean, warm clothes, and remember the tips I’ve learned from all the apocalyptic content I’ve watched. I feel pretty silly because this isn’t technically an apocalyptic event as far as I can tell from a headline or two, but just in case, I pull out my backpack from the front hall closet and throw in a change of clothes along with my useless meds, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant and prescription body cream that does nothing to alleviate symptoms. In the kitchen, I dig up a bag of walnuts, some hard cheese, crackers, and a half empty jar of peanut butter and throw those in, too. Last, I fill a water bottle. On a whim, I toss in a couple decent sketches I doodled when I felt on the good end. I haven’t painted in eons, but hope springs eternal, right? Grabbing my coat, gloves, wallet, phone and keys, I step out into this new world order, feeling paradoxically like a million bucks. I hop into my faithful Toyota, and as usual, she starts right up. I pat her dash with a smile. “Good girl, Sassy. Faithful to the end.” I pull out of my garage stall and out the building’s driveway. The road is busy but passable and I turn north from my apartment on the edge of Jamaica Plain towards Mom in Cambridge. I feel a little giddy. Excited. Like Sassy and I are headed on one of the adventures like we used to before, letting the road take us wherever it wanted for a couple of days. I met Will on one of those adventures, at a pub in Salem. I told him I was a witch and he played along, and we laughed and laughed. Later he would joke that I put a spell on him that day. Snuck a love potion into his Sam Adams beer. If it were true, I’d have made one that lasted. Funny, this thought doesn’t tank me like it usually would. Or even an hour ago. Maybe after three years of angst, I hit a threshold an hour ago and I’m finally getting over him. Wouldn’t that be nice. Cambridge can be at least a half-hour on a good day, and I think I’m in luck traffic-wise. People seem to be staying off the roads for the most part. I turn on the radio, but all I get is static, so I check to see if I can still bluetooth my phone to my car. Yes! Sassy does it again! My

Calming Jazz  playlist comes right up, and an instrumental “I’m Crazy” emanates from the speakers. I laugh maybe I do feel a little crazy, in a good way. I check my dad’s beat-up analog Timex. Half-past eleven. Time for optional meds if I feel anything coming on. I check in with my body, and I can’t believe it, but there’s no sign of anything, percolating or otherwise. Less even than I felt in the shower. Just be grateful. You know this is only a moment. A gift.

Around me the residential streets are eerily quiet. I know it’s selfish, but I really wish they were always like this. Like I always felt this airy and good. I think fleetingly of JImbo2, why he said “shitty” was the word for him today, and some of my heaviness comes back. I kind of don’t want to know.

# I arrive at my parents’ Victorian house a few streets away from Harvard University, an easy walking “commute” to the ivied campus for my dad during his career as a political science professor then Dean of the College. I swallow hard. I can still remember the taste of his disappointment when I didn’t get in. Soon after that, at only fifty-one, he died of a heart attack. I park Sassy out front and dash up the stone steps. I rap on the door, but Mom doesn’t answer--knocking is a formality with us anyway--so I use my key. The house feels cold, which shouldn’t surprise me because the heat is off, but it does.

“Mom!” No answer. “Mom?” I head into the kitchen, crossing my fingers, and sure enough, a small sheet of salvaged paper, cut up from one of dad’s old files, waits for me on the counter.

Darling, I know we always said we’d meet here in the event of something like this, but that was before, when you weren’t so stricken. If you get this, I’m coming to you. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to drive. But if you are here, sit tight. I’ll be back after I shop for some groceries and other things we’ll need if this thing lasts a while.

Love you, Mom My heart drops a little. Things could get dicey out there. I weigh my options. I don’t really have any. Other than to my place, I have no idea where she’s headed. She might try her usual foodstuff haunts, find them overrun or picked over, and try somewhere else. My best option, as she urged in her note, is to sit tight.

I might as well put my newfound physical wellness to use, so I head out to the shed, load the wheelbarrow with wood and bring it to the back door. Remarkable, but still no burning skin, so I carry the wood, armful by armful and stack it next to the yawning fireplace. I’m not even getting tired, and god this feels so good, the blood flowing, my muscles flexing. Luckily, Mom’s oven is gas and easy to light with a match. I start a kettle for tea, and I run (I CAN FUCKING RUN!) upstairs to grab some old print versions of the Globe, crumple pages for a fire starter. So glad she didn’t listen to me about getting all her news virtually. Watching the fire I made, enjoying its warmth, I have to remind myself that even though I feel amazing, this is not fun, this is not an adventure. This is potentially the beginning of a long-lasting disaster. The voice in my head sneers. Always been such a clueless Peter Pan. Dad used to call me that, Peter Pan. And not in an endearing way.

Sipping my peppermint tea in Dad’s leather armchair, I reflect on how that voice, Dad’s voice, has dominated my thinking over the last seven years, how it’s kicked me while I’m down. How I’ve been too weak, too consumed by the unnamed pain-monster, or by trying to keep Will, to fight back. I grit my teeth. “I’m not a Peter Pan, you bastard. And I’m not a career-driven, critical, narcissist who should never have had kids, either. I’m an artist, and I would have been a fucking great parent, no thanks to you.” I can’t breathe for a second while a sob wracks me, catching me off-guard. Wasn’t I over this shit a long time ago? Hell, child, maybe not dealing with something isn't the same as being over it. Memories crash over me, memories of the lectures, the belittling, the cold indifference, while I sit in his favorite chair. Why had I decided my dad was a hero, a wonderful man, someone to revere? I always felt a little responsible for his death, too, as if my rejection to Harvard, worrying over me and my future, had killed him. I can see now he only cared how my failure made him look, not about what it meant for my future. And he probably died of his own damn meanness. Guess there's always been a monster in my life. Stunned, I stir the fire. It’s only taken me twenty years to figure that out. Jesus. A crazy kind of guffaw-giggle escapes me. Man, my emotions are all over the place today, but my chest feels lighter. In fact, I feel so good, I could run a marathon. Instead, I run upstairs again to Mom’s room, pull Dad’s watch off my wrist, and dump it on her dresser. I pluck one of hers from her jewelry box. It’s ticking, and on time, if I had to guess. I head back downstairs for lunch, to make something I stopped eating when Dad ridiculed it, a sloppy, triple-decker, peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwich. # Three hours later, the sun is setting. Where the hell is Mom? All I can think to do to keep anxiety at bay is start making the nicest dinner I can scrounge up.

# Long past nightfall now, and I’m kicking myself while I pick at my cold stew by candlelight. Why didn’t I go out to find her? What if she’s hurt? What if she had a heart attack? I’m tempted to go look for her now, but it’s not a good idea for me to go out after dark. What if I relapse? To distract myself, I wrap up in a quilt and head out back. The crisp, night air hits my lungs, but that’s not what makes me gasp—it’s the night sky that bowls me over. The Milky Way stretches above me, millions of tiny pinpricks and swathes of light, more stars than I’ve ever seen. Maybe more than any being on Earth has seen in fifty years. Seeing our galaxy like that…I feel more insignificant and less alone at the same time. It makes my head spin. I don’t want to go inside, ever, but it’s too cold. I pull the quilt up to the hearth to be by the glowing logs and make a bed of sorts to wait for Mom. I watch embers dance while Miles Davis’s “Stella By Starlight” pulls at my heartstrings like taffy.

# I must have drifted off. It’s freezing and after midnight according to Mom’s glow in the dark watch. Someone’s knocking at the door. Mom! “Oh, Mr. Fitz. I thought... Are you okay?” Mom’s frail neighbor seems paler and more sickly than normal, even in the profound dark of an unlit city. “Not well at all, as you may imagine.” His reedy voice is barely a whisper. “But I was glad when a policeman came by tonight to tell me the news.” “What news?” I ask, hoping it’s about Mom.

“Power’s coming back on. In just a bit. It was some big anomaly with sun flares, and they’ve got it all figured out. He asked me to tell a few neighbors to spread the word faster.” “Great.” I smile without enthusiasm. I’m not sure he knows what he’s talking about, but I thank him, helping him along to the next house. I’m more concerned about Mom. I check my phone for bars, but still no luck. I still feel like a normal person, so I leave Mom a note and jump into Sassy, head toward my place and drive slowly to look for her silver Volvo. I’ve just crossed the Charles when the streetlights flicker to life behind me. My heart sinks to see what it does to the sky, erasing the universe. My phone dings, messages from my online support group, and I can’t say why, but my heart sinks a little further.

Bars go all the way up on my phone now, so I try Mom. It rings a few times then cuts off. Cell towers must be really backed up.

I decide to go back to Mom’s. And, thank god, she’s there, waiting for me. We hug for a long time, and before she can tell me what happened, her living room lights go on.

A familiar, ominous flame-lick, the monster's lick, starts behind my knees and around my ribs, while all across the country, a roar rises, a collective cheer celebrating the return of electric power.


TW: eating disorders Peony looked more beautiful than ever, stepping out of the house in her bright green bell bottoms and a tight white blouse revealing her warm, sun-kissed chest. Emmett was always excited to visit her during the summer, but what Emmett didn’t love was the amount of bags Peony wheeled behind her, as though she wasn’t pulling a thousand pounds of luggage down her driveway. Well, it was her driveway, and the gaudy ‘For Sale: SOLD!’ sign didn’t seem to help make this fact any less apparent.

“Your girlfriend is about to transform into a Cali chick, how about that?” Peony laughed, kissing Emmett on the cheek and hurling her entire life into his van. Emmett smiled as she jumped in, noticing how she didn’t even take a second look back at her old house.  It belonged to no one anymore, a tiny cottage with white trim and pink shutters where Peony had lived since she was ten. It was empty; no more ripped corduroy couch sitting in the middle of the living room. Her height marks had been scrubbed off the wall and the scratched up interior was restored to a dull eggshell color. It even smelled empty, the odor of a willowy plant no longer sneaking its way through the kitchen, no more old opened books from the large shelves revealing a comforting, grainy aroma. Even Peony’s bright blue bed was gone, the one Emmett and Peony had both lost their virginity on. Emmett had moved to California with his mom a year ago, yet the image of Peony sitting cross-legged on her desk chair and singing drunk into her curling iron was one scene he didn’t expect to never see again. “You okay?” Emmett asked, meeting Peony’s eyes that were hidden under her favorite pair of square-shaped sunglasses.

“If moving in with your boyfriend to the sunniest state in America means not being okay, then I don’t know what is, love.”

“Where do you think all the furniture went? You know, after it got sold.”

Emmett hit a speed bump then, yet Peony’s body never moved in her seatbelt. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is that I solemnly thank those people, as they are the sole reason that I am not in debt.”

“Peony--” “We have two thousand miles to think about it, Em.” And they did. Two days of driving, in fact, that wasn’t starting off strong. The two day drive beforehand to Peony’s was nerve-wracking, as Emmett spent most of his time eating Taco Bell and trying not to rehearse what he was going to say to Peony for the one millionth time:

Baby, I’m so sorry.

I know, we’ll get through this together, I promise.

It’s okay your dad’s dead, he was a dick anyway. Passing their favorite pizzeria in town, Emmett moved his mouth to say the words, “Damn, I’m really gonna miss that place” but no noise came out. Emmett caught himself before he began, reminiscing to himself, remembering Peony’s stinky breath after they would share a garlic knot;

she would always purposely kiss him straight on the mouth just for him to taste it.

“So, how much do your friends know about me? What am I getting myself into at this cool new high school?” Peony cut through the music as they made their way out of the state, gripping Emmett’s thigh tightly. He thought about how to answer this.

In Emmett’s mind, Peony would always be beautiful, her skin dipped in honey, traceable curves that outlined her body and deep dimples in her cheeks, with perfect breasts that rose like soft, evenly baked bread. Her fingers always had hardened calluses on them from playing her guitar, her lips always in a sweet, convincing smile that may or may not have almost stopped the palpitations of Emmett’s heart a couple of times in the public gaze of the hallways and in the privacy of the bed. Yet the Peony he was able to see through a stranger’s eyes was someone he no longer recognized: dark bags drooped under her glassy eyes, her face puffy and her body grotesquely skinny under her thin clothes, the summer sun forcing her not to hide herself in a hoodie. Her voice came out scratchy, a low croak emitting from her throat like it usually did most mornings over coffee, yet now she couldn’t seem to shake the sound.

“They’re stoked to meet you.” His friends hardly knew about her.

            “If I found out that you have a secret San Diego girl awaiting your arrival, Emmett, I will be mortified.” “No secret San Diego girl besides you, baby.”

Peony smiled at that, staring out the window.

He remembered the first time she had jumped into his car when they had been freshmen, the beautifully weird girl choosing to take a ride home from him on the last day of school, the one who never shut up about the sunshine and made her own earrings out of bent metal from the school’s workshop and never bothered to put on a bra.

“Woah, this thing is awesome,” Peony laughed, and had flicked her fingers on Emmett’s Hula girl bobblehead and had traced the etchings on the patterned seat covers. “Eh, it’s nothing really,” he remembered saying, wanting to take those words back and eat them whole after looking at Peony in the passenger’s seat.

“This is the coolest car I’ve ever been in,” she breathed, not breaking eye contact with Emmett as he almost swerved into a mailbox. He wasn’t sure why he said yes to taking Peony home when she randomly approached him in the parking lot. He could only assume it was because he could see her nipples through her tank top; but, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the pink chipped paint that covered her arms or the sweet smell of the pottery room still lingering in her scent.

“Hey, really, you don’t gotta hype me up or anything. I’m sure you do cool shit all the time,” Emmett shot back. “My dad works a lot, and I don’t have a car, so not really.” “Oh. Why’d you ask for a ride?” “Because I thought you were pretty.” Emmett remembered the way he almost stopped breathing then, his hands numb on the steering wheel and oblivious to the stop sign in front of him. “Oh,” he said back.

“What are you thinking about?” Peony asked while the sun started to go down, her legs crossed on the seat, how she sat in every chair. Her thigh scared Emmett to grip while he drove, too afraid he’d hold onto her too tightly until he felt bone.

“How about you?” “Just wondering what the smoothie joints are like up there. Is that a weird thing to think about? Of all the things that’s going on, to wonder where I can still get my favorite kiwi juice?” “No,” Emmett tried to laugh, which seemed to turn into a choke. “There’s lots of places, I promise.” This was followed by an empty silence.

“This is the most awkward reunion we’ve had in a long time,” Peony said back. “You’re not talking to me.” Emmett regretted saying the words, felt his speedometer pushing fifty, sixty, seventy, waiting for an annoyed response or a worn out huff from her, yet nothing came. He felt as though he was driving back to California alone again. “I know.”

“Pe-” “Do you remember the day before you moved away?” Peony snapped.

“Yeah.” Emmett truly did remember that day. They set up a little picnic by the lake, eating Peony’s most favorite weird vegan food and making out on top of the blanket, sucking face so hard as though it may or may not have been the last day they ever got to see each other ever again.

“I was gonna break up with you.” “Oh,” Emmett said. He was now doing eighty, his foot pressing so hard onto the gas pedal that the sole of his foot throbbed in pain.

“Well, if you didn’t already know, I didn’t go through with it.” Emmett’s mind was racing again. He was not prepared for this conversation in any way shape or form; the idea of a breakup on the way to California, this type of talk on the way to Peony moving into his house with his mother. It was supposed to be far from the agenda. “Peony, did I-” “Pull over,” she commanded, the pastures around them turning pitch black, the country road foreboding, but not enough not to do what Peony instructed.

When the van was pulled over, he barely had time to process that Peony’s seatbelt was unsnapped from her waist, her large lips hitting his face, her protruding cheek bones seeming to clank up against his own. His large hands were around her body once again, his palms curved into the exact shape he was accustomed to feeling when holding her in his arms, yet all he felt was how hard her ribcage seemed to have become, how banged up her body looked in the moonlight. Every time Emmett kissed her neck Peony winced, every time he hugged her back she squirmed, every light touch became an accidental hard tap that Emmett deemed unfair to continue to inflict on her.

“So, are you going to kiss me, or what?” Peony asked, wearing a bright blue bikini she had knitted herself to the beach, her skin even hotter than the bonfire that burned right next to them.

All summer the two of them had struggled to get past first base, but that night Peony had downed a hard seltzer and the two of them were surrounded by even hornier highschoolers such as themselves. “Is there spinach in my teeth or something? Spinach is my favorite snack, you know.” “Oh, please,” Emmett rolled his eyes while Peony planted a kiss right on the side of his mouth, which made Emmett practically do a flip off the log they were sitting on, knee to knee. Her lips were just as perfect to kiss as he imagined they would be after staring at those pillowy wonders for over a month. Emmett felt as though Peony fit into the dips of his own body nicely, his mouth perfectly made for her own, and from then on, the rest of the school year seemed to agree: Peony and Emmett were undeniably unshakeable.

Emmett gathered what was left of Peony’s face back into his palms and planted a kiss on the side of her mouth once again. “You’re allowed to not be okay.”

“I just never thought he’d die, not now, not ever.” Peony half-laughed, meeting Emmett’s eyes again, watching her face unharden as he adjusted to the darkness. “He loved you.”

“He could’ve stuck around a little longer.” “I could have, too.” “Well, you’re still here, trying to nurse your grieving, anorexic girlfriend back to health.” “That's fine with me. Besides, I want to be the one to dump you down the road, anway.”

She snorted at that, the chirping crickets no match for her eruption of laughs, as Emmett reached for her body, yearning to hold her so close that both of their beings meshed into one of their own. She was fleeting far away from him and Emmett refused to let go.

“McDonald’s Egg McMuffins are literally a heaven sent gift from God,” Peony laughed that next morning after they both fell asleep into a sweaty heap into the back of the van. She ordered three muffins and a chocolate milk, Emmett refusing to watch the primal way she seemd to be shoveling down her breakfast.

“I can’t believe you’re eating animal products,” he teased as they travelled down a mountain, the hot summer air seeming to be no match for his broken AC.

“I can’t believe you let me stop and eat there.” Peony snorted again, her mouth full of bread and buttery goodness. “I can’t believe you’re coming back to California with me,” Emmett said back.

“I can’t believe I get to see your mom.” “I can’t believe I get to see your boobs.” “Emmett, what the hell! I can’t believe you’re such a perv--” “I can’t believe you didn’t take that as a compliment.” “I can’t believe I let you drive me all this way already….”


It was a cold, rainy day outside, but Brady didn't mind. He just wanted to get out of the office for a few minutes. He felt drained and overwhelmed, like work was sucking the life out of him. Projects and action items were being piled on him with no regard for the backlog of deliverables he already had to produce. It was one thing after another, always being added to his plate. And then at home, it was all about his kids. Cleaning, cooking, breaking up fights, helping with homework. The never-ending whirlwind of responsibility never ceased to usurp his time. Exiting his cubicle, Brady didn't even bother to grab a coat or umbrella. The rain could soak right through his shirt for all he cared. He rushed through the lobby and straight out the glass doors into the pattering rain. Almost instantly, a sense of tranquility formed inside of him; it began to battle the established anxiousness. Brady breathed heavily, taking in the fresh, misty air. With each lungful, he could feel tranquility making another advance. And as it did, his walking pace waned into a more relaxed state. After a short while, he found himself being greeted by a family of geese. There were two larger ones, which he presumed to be the adults, and four baby goslings, who were trailing their parents. The rain trickled off the backs of the mother and father. But the little goslings had soft, furry feathers which soaked up the rain. Their bodies shuddered in the cold, trying to keep warm. As Brady watched, he could see that the mother and father were also starting to shake. Perhaps they too were cold, worn down by the pouring rain. The little goslings waddled over to their mother and father; they poked at the parents, signaling that they wanted something. Understanding of what was needed, the parents took one of their children under each wing, so that all four kin were protected. The little baby geese nuzzled their heads against their parents' torsos. They looked up with what Brady thought to be a gaze of adoration. *Honk! Honk!* the adults sounded happily, holding their children close. Brady's thoughts drifted to his own family. How his kids rushed to him when they were scared or hurt. How they would hold on to him, never wanting to let go. The last time there was a storm. Eli, his youngest son, raced into the room and jumped into his arms, crying in excruciating pain. A tear trickled down Brady's cheek and he pinched his lips together. He felt so bad at the time, seeing his son scared and crying. But now, the memory swirled warmly inside of his heart, soothing his mind and body. With a big, beaming smile, Brady wiped his eyes, then walked away while waving to the geese. "Bye, little geese." *Honk! Honk!* one of the adults replied as Brady headed back toward the office. With every step closer to the glass doors that he took, a small piece of his smile died. He could feel anxiousness reclaiming its ground. Tranquility yielding some of its prior gains. But the walk had served its purpose, and perhaps now he could make it through the day.


The Yellow Dog Tavern A morning like any other. That’s how Erik always begins this story. The sound of roosters signal the start of a new day. The smell of morning dew and and smoldering embers fill the room behind the Yellow Dog Tavern. With a stretch and a yawn tavern keeper Erick Addler rouses himself and starts his morning routine. He washes the sleep from his face with the brisk water from the basin by the now open window. First thing’s first, get the fire started in the large hearth at the back of the taver and begin brewing the day’s first coffee. Erick preferred his coffee with a healthy dose of fresh milk and sugar, just like his mother used to make. Once the coffee finishes, he breaks his fast with a hot plate of eggs and sausage. With a full stomach and the morning stiffness warmed from his bones it was finally time to get to work, starting with chopping wood. People come to taverns to end their day in comfort and good company and this far north even in the summer you need a fire to stop you from freezing let alone be comfortable. After a couple hours of chopping enough wood to last through the day and into the night, it was time to start the kitchen fire and bring up the casks from the cellar. Erick always kept his finer drinks in the cellar not just because the cellar kept them nice and cool, but also because the cellar has only one way in and out and it always stays locked. Brightwood, named after the large brightwood tree at it’s center, is a small hamlet and none of the denizens would ever even think about robbing the Yellow Dog. However Brightwood also sits directly on the main road leading from the far north straight to the capital farther South which means The Yellow Dog sees more than its fair share of travelers. Once the preparations were done and the food was nearly ready, the day’s first patrons walked through the door at noon and were greeted by the smell of wood smoke, cooking meat, and Erick’s warm, welcoming, smile. A group of four, they were unfamiliar to Erick, a tan skinned older man slightly grizzled with a cropped beard and well kempt hair. Two younger men probably in their early twenties both clean shaven, if shaven at all, one with the sides of his head shaven and a short patch of hair on top, the other with shoulder length hair loosely pulled back in a half ponytail. And a young woman, also early twenties with her hair cut short and a short pink fresh scar under her right cheek. All four armed and lightly armored, but bearing no banners or coat of arms, clearly mercenaries. It was fairly common for mercenaries to pass through Brightwood on their way to the capital in search of work. Erick greeted them with “Welcome to the Yellow Dog, we got a pig on the spit and nice cool ale fresh from the cellar. Find a seat by the fire and give me a shout when you’re ready. Name’s Erick”. “‘Preciate it Erick” the older man said with a rough voice as he sat at a table near the fire and pulled out a short, well worn, pipe. They ordered a round of ale and four plates of the pork to start. As the day went on people came and went, some regulars but mostly travelers during the day. The regulars didn’t really start to pour in till the sun started to set and the day’s work was done. Erick loved that part of the day. He loved seeing his friends and helping them enjoy a well deserved break at the end of their long and strenuous days. Erick also enjoyed the fact that he had recently found that the Yellow Dog was making enough money to hire someone to help serve drinks and cook during the later, busier hours. This meant that Erick could now spend most of his nights drinking and talking with the people he had known and loved since he was a small child. Today, however, was different. His friends wouldn’t stop by the Dog tonight. Just a few hours after the first patrons of the day walked through the door Erick heard something he would go on to describe as “It sounded like the sky itself had been smashed asunder.” Everyone ran outside and looked around till they saw the southern sky. A purple green pulsing light filled the sky above what Erick knew in his heart to be the capital, despite it being a three day ride away at least. Immediate panic filled Brightwood. What was that noise? What was that column of light pulsing in the sky? Was it truly the capital, and if so is everyone alright? Is anyone alright? Erick felt compelled to go to the capital and see for himself, but Erick was a tavern keeper not a fighter. Brightwood wasn’t exactly known for its military might. They had a town guard, of course, but now didn’t seem like the best time to leave the guard short handed. “The mercenaries!” Erick thought. “I could hire the mercenaries to go to the capital and relay whatever news they can find.”. “You lot, you’re all mercenaries, yes?” “Aye, what of it?” replied the girl. “How much would it cost for you to ride to the capital and bring back work of what happened?” “Sounds easy enough.... 40 silver. 20 now and 20 upon our return.” said the older man. “I suppose I don’t have many options, 40 is fair.” Erick reached into his coin purse and produced the 20 silver. “Hurry if you can.” “We’ll leave now.”. Erick watched as the mercenaries mounted their horses and rode hard South toward the lights in the sky. Erick never did see them again. But, regardless, Brightwood soon learned what happened that evening when the sky was torn open.


I live where the wind never stops blowing, where the rain never stops hammering, where the wolves howl in the middle of the day. I am as sleek as an otter, cunning as a crow, and as fierce as the black rat himself. But unlike these beasts I was not born to a mother. I was made from the silt in the stream and the spit of every animal in the wood. My maker mixed me up in a hollow tree, found red roan berries for my eyes and shards of flint for my teeth. Then he summoned a storm and made the lightning strike the hollow tree again and again, until fire lashed about me and baked me into something hard. When evening settled about us I awoke among the ashes. My maker led me through the woods on a rope because I was a wild and frightened thing. He showed me the untamed country, let all the animals inspect me in turn, taking little pieces of me into their mouths so they would recognise me when they met me again. He taught me how to speak and found me a home in the mountains. Then he left me there to live my own life. For the first few centuries I waited for my maker to come back. I was still a child then and hungered for his love and protection. But in time I became more resilient. I no longer needed anyone to care for me and, besides, everything else lived so briefly and died in so many clumsy ways. So perhaps my maker was already dead. At first I imagined that he would be as long-lived and canny as myself, but perhaps he is like the potter whose ceramics will stay whole and perfect long after he himself, the product of an inferior craftsmen, has crumbled into dust. No I do not miss my maker. I choose not to think of him. Besides I have not always been alone through the years. I have known many of *your* kind. Such clever beasts. If you come boldly into my cave and address me respectfully I will welcome you. I will make soup from the bones of field mice flavoured with wild garlic and let you sip the broth which will strengthen you and make your eyes as keen as mine. And we will go hunting in the forest. I will show you how to climb the tallest pine without bending its branches and we will gorge ourselves on the nesting birds. We will dive from the highest rock into the deepest pools and we will tease the monsters who dwell in its black depths. Then later I will take you to my bed of furs and feathers and we will make a perfect circle. But, if you skulk into my home, keep to the shadows and don’t properly announce yourself I will take you for a thief and an enemy and I will close up the mouth of my cave behind you. Then I will play games with you in the dark. And if I ever let you out your eyes will never be able to take the light again. The sun will burn and blind you, and you’ll be keeping to the shadows till the day you die. The people you loved will not recognise you, they will take you for a fiend or a spectre and they will hunt you with axes and burning branches for fear you’d hurt their children. There have been times in my solitude or when I have come across a former lover, grown old and near death, that I have thought about making a companion for myself, making a husband or a daughter. I would make them better than myself. Make a thing that didn’t feel my loneliness, that did not have my instinct for cruelty. I would not birth them out fire. I would shape them from the wind and the water. They would flow and dance with such grace and I would never be alone again.


The mounted courier blazed past the line of carts and splashed through the puddle in front of Gretchen’s makeshift stand. She curled her lip and flicked a glob of mud from the ribbon stitched to her pink apron. “Really, Nora? Dignity aside, you had to choose a miserable day to do this?” “You made the wager, and I won fair and square.” Nora glanced up from her newspaper with a smirk. “Besides, the fundraiser is tomorrow. You’re doing a good deed.” “Nobody is buying lemonade from a witch on the side of a road. This is all to humiliate me. Where d’you learn to yodel like that, anyway? Anyone would think you’re some kind of mountain-woman icon.” Nora chuckled and turned her attention back to the paper. “I’m a woman of hidden talents.” Gretchen rolled her eyes and watched the procession to the city crawl along. Merchants and traders who hadn’t been early enough to get the worm waited as guards took their time to admit them past the gates. A delivery of raw hides was getting closer, and Gretchen wrinkled her nose at the stench. “Oi, you there!” A driver leered at them. “Reduced to serving drinks, is it? Potion business not treating you well?” Snickers came from the traders within earshot, and Nora stirred. Gretchen held a hand to her friend’s arm and stood with a cheery smile. “Just doing my good deed for the day, sir. For the old witches’ home. Poor souls deserve a crust of bread, same as anyone. I think you’ll find our lemonade is the best of refreshments for a hardworking man such as yourself.” “You’d do better with ale, hag,” he chortled. “A fire in his belly is what a man needs. Should have charmed your face into something pleasant if you wanted to con a man out of his coin.” Gretchen smiled through gritted teeth as the peanut gallery roared with laughter. Pouring a cup of a slightly different pigment, she stepped over a puddle and proffered it. “A taste test then. I challenge you to say this isn’t the finest lemonade in the city.” He opened his mouth as if to refuse then glanced at the onlookers. Gretchen reckoned his type wouldn’t back away from a wager, and he snatched the cup with a grimace. “Probably horse piss. But I’ve had worse.” He tipped his cup to the spectators and threw it back in a single swallow. Gretchen bit back a grin and watched as his eyes widened. With a hand to his belly, he gave a mighty belch and flames spewed from his mouth. The poor beast in front leapt ahead and jostled the next wagon. A chain reaction ensued and shouts came from the entire line. Gretchen dodged a flying hoof as she jumped over the puddle and grabbed Nora’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.” “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Nora panted as they ran for the cover of the treeline ahead. “Made the entire venture worthwhile.