“I told you no one was going to be wearing team costumes!” Oliver whispered harshly to Kerry as the five teens walked into the big building where the competition is going to take place. They all looked at the other teams of five that had on the matching colored T-shirts while they had on elf costumes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Anna said when she looked at each team either wearing blue T-shirts or red or any other color. The other teams that were each standing behind their own kitchen island was now staring at the new team that walked in dressed as elves. Giggles began to fill the room then. As if Kerry’s chocolate brown skin tone could not already hide the fact that she was blushing so hard, she scooped a bunch of hair from either side of her face to hide her cheeks. How could she have made such a mistake? “We-we still got this guys.” She said turning around so that her back was to the other contestants and she was facing her four good friends. “It doesn’t matter what we’re wearing. All that matters is that we make the meanest; biggest cookie the whole of Idaho falls has ever seen!” She smiled her wide smile at them and even though Anna wanted to cry of embarrassment and Freddy could feel his elf tights riding up with every step he took and the other three were almost as red faced as Anna, they still nodded and mumbled

‘You’re right.’ at Kerry. Kerry clapped her hands together and the five of them made their way to the one and only vacant kitchen island. 8:45am. They still had a whole fifteen minutes to wait before the competition would begin. Now that the initial shock of a group actually dressing up as elves was over, the other teams seemed to have forgotten and started talking among themselves. “Okay guys.” Kerry began saying. “Do you all remember what to do?” Kerry had always been a huge fan of cooking shows and ‘Big Time Bake: Holiday Special’ was her absolute dream show. Last year the task was to bake a very moist chocolate cookie and this year the task was to bake the biggest cookie ever. When she found out about the competition last month she immediately persuaded her four best friends; Oliver, Anna, Freddy and Cassie to be her teammates. “Hold on, when it’s time for getting the ingredients I’m gonna get the uh...” Cassie trailed off as she placed one hand under her chin and started thinking hard about what her part in the ingredient snatching was. Kerry rolled her eyes. “You’ll grab the baking soda,ground ginger and baking powder.” She reminded her. “Oliver you’re collecting the flour, dark brown sugar and granulated sugar. Anna, cinnamon and butter, Freddy salt and nutmeg and I’ll get the chocolate chips and cocoa butter. Guys this is really important cause once those first five minutes are up, we can’t get any other ingredients.” Kerry could already picture the award she would win when the competition was over.

She imagined placing it on the desk in her room but Oliver said they should all take turns on who should have the trophy. “But I thought I was getting the flour and ginger.” Cassie asked confused. Kerry felt like she was growing faint. Maybe bringing Cassie along was a mistake. “No Cas.” She said trying to keep her voice in check so she wouldn’t come off as though she were stressed even though she clearly was. “Remember your duty is to get baking powder, baking soda and ginger.” She said the two ingredients slowly. Like if she said it any faster it would jumble up in Cassie’s brain. “Morning contestants!” A deep voice came from the front of the huge kitchen making everyone look forward. It was George Reed. A very famous baker and the host of Big Time Bake.

After him came floods of men and women holding huge cameras up and recording everything that was taking place. The teams applauded him as he looked from right to left at all of them. When he finally got to the last team which was Kerry’s team, his eyes popped open just a fraction but he quickly regained himself from his brief shock of seeing their costumes. Anna’s face was now as red as her elf dress and her blue eyes stared down at the floor. “Welcome to this years annual Big time bake off Christmas special, teams.” They all applauded. “I’m George Reed and today we have six teams with us.” Some of the camera men recorded each team as George Reed called out ‘the red team, the blue team, the green team.’ When he finally got to the last group he hesitated before saying; “The elf team!” Kerry, Oliver, Freddy, Anna and Cassie waved awkwardly at the camera which seemed to linger on them before shifting back on George. “Okay teams, We have a special guest today. She is the owner of her own five star bakery and has published several cook books. Introducing Miss Carla Adler!” More applause filled the room as a woman of about five foot two walked in from the door on the right and stood beside George. Both of them looked like polar opposites as George was tall, lean and as pale as a ghost while Carla was short, plump and darker than he was. She said a short greeting to the teams but now Kerry wasn’t paying any attention. She couldn’t wait to get started. “Can I get an hour on the clock?” George asked and the huge circular digital clock that hung behind him and Carla on the wall read; 1:00:00. Excited chatter filled the room as Carla and George began to count down from ten. Once they got to one, everyone ran as fast as they could into the store that had automatic doors that just opened up. Oliver was the first to get back to their station followed by Anna. Freddy was next and Kerry followed. When the five minutes were almost up Cassie wasn’t back yet. The automatic doors were beginning to slowly close when finally Cassie came out just in time almost tripping over twice. Oliver and Anna started on the dry ingredients. Since they aimed at making the biggest cookie the whole world had ever dreamed of, they used a lot of flour, ginger, cinnamon nutmeg and cocoa in a huge bowl.     Anna handled mixing the butter with fresh ginger and brown sugar. Cassie lines the baking pans with parchment while Kerry heats the oven. The clock doesn’t stop for anyone and when it’s thirty minutes left the dough for the cookie is ready and they need to shape it. “Stop eating the dough Freddy!” Anna says. “I’m sorry it tastes amazing.” Freddy says. “Let’s shape it in the baking pan.” Oliver suggests. They all work together to shape the dough into a round shape and when they’re done they have only twenty minutes left. “We have to bake it now!” Kerry says after sprinkling the huge flat brown circle that is the cookie with granulated sugar.

She rushes and drops it into the oven feeling a hundred times better that now their master piece is baking in the oven. “Five minutes left teams!” George’s voice comes. “Uhhh Guys?” Anna says uncertainly. She’s standing in front of the oven looking in at the baking cookie. Everyone gathers around her and stares in horror at the terrible sight inside the oven. “Why does it look like bread?!” Freddy asks. Kerry opened the oven and took out the baking pan bringing the monstrous cookie out into the open. She can hear Carla talking about their cookie gone wrong but she doesn’t pay attention to it as she tries to think about what could have gone wrong.

Why was the cookie rising? She poked at it and it deflated. “I think I know what happened.” Oliver says. He hands Kerry a container of yeast that was beside the baking soda. All eyes turned to Cassie who’s eyes were wide open. Her hands flew up to her mouth but she couldn’t utter a coherent sentence. “I’m s-so sorry. I don’t- I didn’t- I thought.” Kerry couldn’t help but cry. This was going terribly wrong. After all the weeks of practice this awful ugly brown half risen half deflated cookie is what they show for all their hard work. “Don’t cry Kerry.” Anna said wrapping her arms around her. “We did our best. And honestly this was a lot more fun than I thought it was going to be.” “Three minutes left teams!” “Yeah Kerry.” Freddy started. “We’re dressed as elves plus we have these ridiculous bell things on our shoes. I still don’t know how you got me to wear this.” He stuck out his right foot and jiggled it making Kerry giggle.

Who would have thought Freddy with the black leather jackets, greasy sleek black hair and boots would be dressed as an elf wearing shoes that had bells attached to them. “This isn’t something I’m gonna forget in a long time.” Oliver added. Kerry smiled, looked around at her friends. She was so busy taking this whole thing so seriously that she missed out on the best part which is having fun with her friends. “You guys are right.”

She said finally. “This was really fun.” George and Carla begin to count down from ten and Kerry, Oliver, Anna, Freddy and Cassie huddle together in a group hug. “Okay teams step away from your cookies!” The judges start from the right, talking to the teams as they taste their cookies. The other teams cookies look great. They are big and flat and different flavors and scents fill the room. George and Carla finally make their way over to the elf team. The Camera man zooms in on the weird cookie so that everyone who is watching live will get a good look it. “Elf team what do we have here?” Carla asks. “This is a chewy chocolate ginger bread cookie.” Oliver informs her. “Well.” George says taking another look at it. “It’s huge.” Is the only nice thing he can say about the cookie. The judges break pieces from the giant cookie and chew it. When they’re done they head back to the front of the room to decide who the winners are.

They are back a few minutes later. “Thank you teams. This has been a very amazing competition. We loved all your cookies. You all showed great technique. But it is without a doubt that we give the award to the team who has really wowed us today with their cookie.” He pauses for a dramatic effect before saying. “The green team!” ***** “You know, these participatory badges aren’t all that bad.” Anna says as they head back into the van that will take them home wearing shiny badges on their chests. “Yeah at least now we don’t have to worry about sharing the award.” Cassie says. They nod in agreement. “We should do this again next year.” Kerry suggests. “No way!” The four of them chorus.


The Television. The Television is gone. I could have sworn it was here just a few minutes ago. (Make sense of it) It's weirdly uncomfortable without the TV set. It doesn't feel right, nothing has felt right lately. Like as I stand here, I feel that funny feeling when you believe you've been there, done that before. Do you ever get That? (Sit down. Make it stop) We're not used to sitting in silence like this; for this long. It's agonising. (Do something) There's nothing to do now the television is missing, except to stare at the once occupied space in which the Television filled with sound and light and life that spanned the room. Now, a barren, cold enclosure with archaic yet universally familiar wallpaper that lays loose on the walls and folds or tears sporadically. It's rustic and homely though, ripe with sentiment and rich domestic attitudes about it. It seems perfect But it isn't the same now without enthusiasm. The television usually does that. It filled the silence with sound, giving us something to listen to if not each other. It used to fill the darkness with light, providing an excuse to pay attention to anything at all. It makes a great conversation starter, our source of anticipation, passion and liveliness but what now? (Say something. She's waiting) I looked to where she's sitting...She isn't here either. Much like our TV set, Zapped from existence before I could ever get the chance to say goodbye. (Find her) I sometimes forget that she's gone. I'd like to believe she's just outside, watering the plants or, in our bedroom reading a book to give any excuse for her absence except for what is true. At Least there's an explanation for that. But this? The sudden disappearance of our television is wildly uncanny and unpredictable in such a way that unsettles me. (Remind yourself) We used to gather around to watch the cricket, I'm not sure she enjoyed it. As much as I did at least but the company was what mattered the most to both of us. We'd watch the firework display when the clock struck 12 on new years eve. Or when the queen would deliver her speech on Christmas day. (You're alone) It dawns on me every time I remember, she must live in the clouds, always watching down on me. I bet she'll be so disappointed. I'm like a Lost, lonely lab rat in an experiment to find exactly "what would happen if we took everything away from it, one by one until it had nothing left" maybe that would explain why on earth the television has left me so suddenly too. To prove them right. But I have nothing now. When will the experiment end? Does it end? Am I just as disposable as our TV? And, "Why me?" My voice echoed through the room. It startled me a bit. I haven't heard my own voice in a while. I haven't had a reason to speak. I have no one to speak to so all of my thoughts and feelings remain, bottled up inside my head, often clashing or escaping me. I don't remember much nowadays either, almost as if my brain has exiled all of my memories for the only thing that matters to me. (Bring her back) We created so many memories together, for What? I can't remember most of them for the life of me and she, herself, is now just a memory. My only memory. The only thing to support the notion that I have a history. The very miniscule idea that I've had a life outside the present. Outside of this cursed room...


CW: death, gore, illness The man in my room was dressed like an alien. He had a white plastic suit, like a packaged fish from the town over the hill. I couldn’t see his face behind a dark visor, but when he spoke his voice was fluent in muffled smiles. It was comforting in a way, like burying your face in pillows when you’re tired. I wish I could see his face, I hadn’t seen anyone's face in weeks.

Not since I got sick.

I was playing with my baby sister outside the village about two weeks ago. Running around near an old hollow tree. We were playing pretend- she was the princess and I the brave prince. An evil vampire bat had captured her, hiding her in the tree for me to rescue. I fought through the guards, smacking them with a stick I found, and broke into his foreboding tower.

My little sister was crying.

She had a little red mark on her hand, so we went home.

When we walked through the door, Mom was the first to identify the bite. A bat must’ve got her when we were playing. It wasn’t big and there wasn’t much blood, but the fear in Momma’s eyes frightened me.

“What bit you?” She asked. My little sister wiped tears from her eyes, “A mean old bat! I didn’t mean to touch him, but he looked so cute hanging there. I didn’t know he’d bite me!” “You need to be more careful, sweetheart.” Mother wiped the wound clean with water, then poured some smelly bubbles onto a piece of cloth. My sister flinched as Momma pressed the cloth to the wound, “This is why I told you never to play by that tree! Honestly, it’s like you never listen to me!” She was looking at my sister, but talking to me.

“Momma, the tree is hollow! It’s the perfect evil tower!” She sighed, “I know.” Two days later my little sister had a fever. A day later my Momma had a fever too. Another day passed and I had one. I quietly wished Dad was here to take care of us, but he left a long time ago. The village elders tried to take care of us, but as more and more people fell sick they stopped letting people visit each other.

It was a week into the sickness that men in white suits came to help us. They separated us, putting us into little makeshift rooms on comfy beds. They’d poke and prod, check our temperature, and feed us.

They’d never take the suits off though.

“Can I see my Momma? Is my sister alright?” I asked.

The man had been working at a nearby table. The vials of blood and urine clicked against one another as he hesitated, “No, son.” “Why not?” The Covered Man set the vials down, turning towards me, “Because they’re very sick right now and need to rest. You need rest too.” He placed a covered hand on my forehead as he spoke.

“But I’m feeling better today! Can’t I just say hey?” He sighed sadly, “No, son. Not yet. Not until you’re all better.” I hadn’t moved during the conversation, I hadn’t moved in a long time, “How long will that be?” His face was hidden, but his voice shook, “I-I’m not sure, son. Soon though. Soon-” My breath was rattled, shaky, and wet, “You keep calling me son. Are you-?” “It’s an expression used in America, where I’m from.” I felt my eyes grow wide. Imaginations of Dad being behind the visor dissipating. My chest beat with excitement, “America?! I’ve always wanted to go to America!” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah. My little sister wants to go too, but Momma said it was too far away.” “Did she now?” He took my hand and squeezed slightly.

“Yeah-” I felt something warm on my cheek, sliding across it like a wet slug, “I’ve always wanted to try a hot dog…” The Covered Man chuckled, “Oh yeah? Hmmm . I think I have an idea. Hold on for a minute.” I smiled and nodded as he left the little room. His footsteps disappeared down a corridor of moans and crying. Someone was in the room next to me, shuffling around and mumbling to themselves. They were new here. My previous neighbor had left a few days ago.

I called out weakly to him, “It’ll be okay! They’re really nice here. You’ll be better in no time!” An old, gruff voice echoed back to me, shaking, “Yes-Yeah! Yeah, little man, we’ll be okay.” I could feel the tears in his voice. The loneliness. The shock. His words spoke comfort but his voice betrayed a deep despair. Before I could ask the old man his name, the Covered Man stepped back into the room carrying a plate with weird bread on it. There was a log of meat in between, covered in ketchup and mustard.

A hotdog?! “A hotdog?!” I whispered, breathlessly. My chest hurt.

He brought it to me, “Yeah! I had one of my colleagues deliver it from my ‘special stash.’” Sitting down next to me, the Covered Man broke off a piece of the hotdog and held it to my mouth, “Go on. Take small bites.” It tasted exactly as I imagined. I chewed it slowly. The ketchup was full of vinegar, blending well with the mustard and the mysterious meat of the hotdog. The bread was like a little cup holding all sorts of flavors. Happy tears slid down my cheeks. Thick. Sluggish. I took another bite. Chewing deliberately.

It hurt to swallow.

The Covered Man was silent as he fed me, finally pulling out a white towel and rubbing my cheeks carefully. When he pulled back, the towel was coated in red liquid. He tossed it into a yellow bag with symbols across it.

“You need to…You need to take one to my sister… She’d love that.” I sighed, “ I wish I wasn’t so mean to her all the time.” I took a deep, shaky breath. When I coughed, my entire body hurt. Globs of coagulated something splashed across my chin and lips. “I wish I had…I really wish I had listened to Momma about that tree-” The Covered Man’s chest rattled, “Y-yeah, son. I’ll make sure to do that.” I could feel his eyes on me, safe behind the visor.

“Can’t I go see them?” I asked.

It’s so hot … “I-I can’t-” The Covered Man was crying now, struggling to speak.

“Hey, don’t cry .We’ll be okay.” I reached out to him. He took my little hand in both of his and squeezed.

“Yes, son. You’ll be okay.” His voice spoke of comfort. Companionship. Of hot dogs and freedom. Of playing with my little sister far away from the tree. Of my Momma watching us run around, rarely joining us but it was always better when she did. I imagined Dad coming back home from wherever he’d gone. He would smile and give me the biggest bear hug. He’d tell me how proud he was knowing that I helped Momma take care of my sister.

I closed my eyes, using so much strength to open them again.

The Covered Man was still there, looking down at me.

I reached towards his face, towards his mask.

He recoiled and I stopped.

“Sorry. I-I didn’t mean to scare you.” He hesitated for a long time, taking deep breaths. After a while, he took one big breath, exhaling slowly.

The Covered Man took my hand, cautiously leaning down towards it and pressing it against his cheek. I felt his mask; cold, hard, and old.

I couldn’t help but smile.

“You know, Doctor, you don’t need to be with every person when they pass.” A woman in white coverings was scolding the man. He placed the now limp hand, so small, so young, against the boy’s chest.

“All he wanted was to see his sister and mother again.” The woman peaked around the Doctor’s shoulder at the still warm corpse of the boy. He was patient two. The second patient to contract the illness. “Did you tell him what happened?” “No.” The Doctor shook his head, “I didn’t.” They stared at the boy in silence for a while. He was no older than ten. The hemorrhagic fever had destroyed his face. Blood bubbled from his ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and everywhere else you could imagine.

Finally, the woman broke the quiet, “You shouldn’t let patients touch you, Doctor. This disease spreads through touch and we can’t risk losing our team leader.” “I know, I know.” The Doctor took a deep breath, “But all he wanted was a connection. He didn’t want to suffer alone.” He paused, “You know what his last request was?” The woman placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “What?” “He wanted a hot dog.” They sat in silence.

She spoke, “He was smiling when he passed.” “I know.” There were three wooden crosses next to a hollow tree.

One for the Mother, the Sister, and finally for me.


Juno lived a peaceful life. One where she grew up helping her parents at their bakery. She knew her way around the small village like the back of her hand. Juno always had big plans for herself, becoming a knight or even a guard for the prince. When she was younger, she liked to pretend a stick was her sword, and she had to fight to save her family. While her parents believed this was just an act of her overactive imagination, they supported her in whatever she would strive for. As time moved on, that dream of hers began to walk away once she started to grow up. Juno focused on helping her family out in every way she could. By the time she was 14, Juno's older brother, Lukas, had opened his bookstore. There, she began spending her time, reading stories about brave warriors saving the princess from towers guarded by dragons that always ended in a true love's kiss. Juno never believed in those, she was old enough to know that never really happens. However, she still had daydreams here and there, wondering what her life would be like if she was a brave warrior. People throughout the village always talked about the person who would become their hero, Killian. He had been chosen personally by the prince to face the darkness that has haunted the village of Windcrest for centuries. Nobody knows what this "darkness" really is, but everyone knows that it is an honor to be handpicked to fight. Unfortunately, for these brave knights, none have ever come back. So, after months of their hero having been away on their quest, the village's nobles decided to declare the valiant Killian dead. The rest of the town prepares for the next selection, the only time the royal family enters the village. On the day of the selection, everyone gathers in the town's center to greet the royal family. While the king and queen usually have the power, they leave selection days to their only son, Prince Amir, as their way of preparing him for when it's his turn to take the throne. The townspeople all stand in a bunched-up crowd, moving to the side when the prince starts to walk in their direction, looking for the next chosen one, analyzing each and every option. Everyone eagerly awaits his choice, the choice that would change someone's life. Amir starts walking towards Juno, staring straight at her. Just as he walks up to her, Juno starts to move to the side before Amir raises his hand for her to stop. He gestures for her to follow. The cluster of people moves to make a straight path to the center circle of the gathering. Juno doesn't want to believe she's going to have to fight at 18 years old. "Name?" Amir demandingly questioned. Hesitantly, Juno responded, "Juno Belmont. My name is Juno." "Everyone, Juno Belmont is your new hero!" Amir had made the announcement Juno had a hard time believing the crowd. And with that statement, came the loud roar of cheers and applause. To Juno, it was deafening. Amir turned back to Juno, "Two days. You will gather your belongings together and an escort will be at your residence to pick you up. Then, you will start your training." He immediately walked away, leaving her standing in shock as the town came up to congratulate her. Juno heads home and goes straight to the table where her family greets her. Her mother is the first to approach her, embracing her in a warm hug. After releasing her, she speaks up. "Oh sweetie, I'm so happy for you. This is what you've wanted since you were a kid!" "Come on Juney, you should be ecstatic right now," her brother pats her on the head. "I bet you're just overwhelmed by the amazing news, right?" her father jokes. "Yeah. Just overwhelmed. I'm really happy," she lies. Yes, she's dreamed of being the hero in the story since she was just a little girl. But right now, Juno isn't sure whether to be excited or terrified. "I'm going to head upstairs to pack my things." "Alright, little warrior," her father shows the biggest smile Juno has ever seen. "My little girl is going to be a hero!" They may all sound happy, but Juno can tell they are all worried for her. Two days have passed. Juno waits on the porch with her bags. As the carriage arrives, her family all give her their goodbyes. She watches her brother start to cry as she leaves and watches the house disappear as the carriage pulls away. She is still conflicted about what she should be feeling at this moment. She knows this quest isn't like how the storybooks always told them. Ever since before she or her parents or even her great-grandparents were born, no one has ever come home from this quest. She arrives at the training temple. Juno exits the carriage, staring at her new home in a daze. Is this all one big nightmare, Juno asks herself, no, it can't be. She walks towards the front of the grand building, brushing her hand on the holly bushes at the entryway. Juno begins to worry about what she's getting herself into. She is greeted by Prince Amir once again. "Hello, Juno, was it? Glad to see you again. I'm only here to get you familiar with the people you will be spending the next few months with. These are your trainers," he motions to the three people standing very seriously in front of us, "We have Gwyn, Leon, and Robin. These three will be your guide and teach you everything you need to know to be fully prepared for battle. I hope you enjoy your stay—it won't be an easy one. Now, that's all I had to say. I shall be taking my leave now. I wish you the best Juno." Juno or the trainers weren't able to even get a single word out before Amir left the temple. Now, Juno has been training for months nonstop. Following a strict schedule, it's hard for her to get a moment of peace. Her trainers push her to the edge. Every day, she wakes up before sunrise, has a meditation session, goes to breakfast, trains, eats lunch, trains some more, then dinner, hot springs, and finally can get some sleep. Her training has almost made her a soldier, ready for battle at any given time. "Juno!" Leon calls for her to come to the dining hall. Just like any soldier would, she approaches Leon and the other trainers front and center. "Yes, sir?" "You've been doing well in your training." "Thank you, sir." "I am so proud of—" "Enough with the small talk, Leon," Robin cuts in. "Yes, you have been doing well. But we have some not-so-great news for you." Worried, Juno asks, "What is it, sir?" Gwyn looks at the ground as she speaks, "The village has been threatened." Gwyn and Leon have always been the nicer trainers of the three. "What do you mean?" Juno says confused. Leon makes sure he's the one to break the news. "It's time. We need to start getting you ready to head out. We have taught you all that we can. And now your home needs you more than ever." Juno is shocked but doesn't show it. "I'm ready," she states calmly. "Thank you for training me." "It was our pleasure. You leave tomorrow. We will have a bag of supplies prepared for you in the morning," for the first time, Robin looks heartbroken, "Please, do everything you can to get back." "I will. I should go rest up before tomorrow." To Juno's surprise, all three of her trainers pull her in for a hug. They're scared, and Juno knows that. But, for some reason, she isn't. She was telling the truth when she said she was ready. Morning comes, and so does Amir with a carriage. After being given her supplies and saying goodbye to her trainers, Juno enters the carriage. The whole ride is silent. They make one stop to allow Juno to say goodbye to her family. Her mother, her father, and Lukas all give her big hugs while crying. They make her promise to come home. She enters the carriage once more while continuously saying her goodbyes. As they drive through the town, everyone who lives there comes out to wish her good luck and farewell. They reach the entrance to the forest. "This is as far as the carriage goes." That was the first thing Amir had said since they met that morning. Unexpectedly, Prince Amir also hugs Juno. "Do your best." The carriage heads back towards the village as Juno begins her trek into the forest. Nothing much happens in her first couple of weeks, besides hunting and running into spiderwebs. Juno has no idea where she's supposed to go, or what she's supposed to be looking for, not like anyone else knew either, though. She goes through the same routine each day; wake up, hunt, cook, walk, set up camp. One night, she sets up camp next to a cove. The following morning, during the middle of the third week, she wakes up to the sunlight dancing on the pond, how it sparkles while she listens to the birds chirp. She feels peaceful at this cove. She decides to take a bit of an easy day and goes for a swim. After taking off her armor, she walks into the water. The initial touch makes her jump a bit. Once she is fully in the pond, she tries to swim around so the water isn't so cold. She takes a moment to just float a bit while taking in the nature around her. She gets out of the water and gets ready to walk through the forest again. After more solitude hours of walking around, the night starts to surround the forest, filling it with darkness. Juno lights a torch and begins to look for a place to rest. However, a fog that Juno hasn't seen since she got to the forest covers the ground and makes it hard for her to see. She sees the figure of someone up until a strong wind blows her torch out. Dropping her bag, Juno pulls out her sword preparing herself for a fight. "Who are you?!" No response. "Whoever is out there, I'm not afraid!" The dark figure charges toward her with his sword. Juno puts hers up in defense and uses it to push him away. Panicked, she loses sight of him and begins to slowly turn in a circle to find him. He shoots straight for her again. This time, scraping her ankle, but Juno fights through the pain and charged forward to strike. After using her leg to push herself forward, she made a hurt gasp but still tried to fight. The figure blocks and pushes his sword against hers. He pulls his sword away before striking down, aiming for her legs. Juno notices and jumps over. She runs behind a tree to try and get a leverage point, her heart pounding throughout her whole body. He tries to strike the side of the tree until Juno leans to the other side and thrust her sword toward him. After making contact, the figure tries to lean out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough, and Juno's blade slashed his side. He lets out a pained grunt. She leans over to the other side to attack again, but her opponent lunges forward and his weapon left a deep cut on the side of her arm. The figure lunges closer to her to try and draw her away from her only defense. She leaps backward, beginning to lose her focus. Everything from her training starts to blur together. Her opponent continues to lunge forward. Hoping to catch him off guard, Juno decides to reach forward after diving back. Now, she has created a gap between them. "I'm going to ask you one more time! Who are you?" Before getting any sort of answer, the figure dashes forward, but not to strike Juno with his sword. The figure reaches his leg out aiming for Juno's feet to knock her off her balance. After falling to the ground, the figure goes to kick her sword away from her. With his blade pointed right at Juno's neck and his foot on her chest, he reveals his name, "Call me Gareth." Juno tries to reach for her sword but has no success. The pressure is released from her chest and the figure who calls himself Gareth is nowhere to be found. Juno forces herself up and limps over to her bag. She tries to find where Leon put the bandages. When she does, she struggles to wrap both her arm and ankle. After that, she doesn't bother to set up camp and just uses her bag as a pillow. The sun shined directly on Juno's face, waking her. As she moved, she felt sore, forgetting about her injuries from the night before. She quickly, but carefully, swapped out her bandages and left to find something to eat. She tried to make sense of the previous night's events. Gareth, she kept repeating his name in her head, Is he the darkness from all the stories? What did he want from me? Why did he let me live? That last question bothered her. She knew the only way to figure that answer out, was to ask Gareth himself. After eating, she left to try and see if she could find his footprints. For the most part, they were faded, but she could still see fragments of them. She followed them to the best of her ability. Night fell and she had gone off track. The footprints are impossible to see now. As she began to look for a place to rest, she stopped dead. There was light not too far from her. Puzzled, she continued to follow the flames like a moth. This must be where Gareth ran off to, she believed. While many would be frightened, Juno was not. With each new step, she felt braver and stronger and kept pushing toward the tower. With each new step, Juno wanted to walk faster. With each new step, everything she had feared, went away. Juno had just walked through the garden entrance where she dropped her supplies, not even taking notice of the bushes of lemon balm and purple hyacinth flowers in the center fountain. She started up the endless stairs, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She's ready to end this forever. Juno reaches the top of the stairs, to the rooftop, where Gareth sits alone on a bench. His sword is laying right next to his hand. She tries to sneak up on him when he reaches for his sword and turns to face Juno. She is shocked by how quickly he had reacted. As they face each other, Juno asks him about what's been bothering her. "Why did you let me live last night?" Gareth moves away from the bench and signals Juno to do the same as well. "It wouldn't be an enjoyable fight for you if we are stuck by the bench." Gareth doesn't seem very entertained as he says this. The two go back and forth on the roof. Juno strikes straight for the chest every time. She's determined to save her home, just like in her imagination as a child. She's so filled with anger at this being who's plagued Windcrest for ages. This naïve girl doesn't even have a speck of fear inside of her. Gareth, on the other hand, is not aiming to kill, going for her legs and arms, and purposely intending to miss slightly just to cut. It takes Juno a while to notice this. Finally, she tries to go on the defense and attempts to get her enemy in a position where she can talk with him. With her sword pushing against his, making no room for him to drive it away, she lets out just one word, "Why?" "I'm not sure I understand," Gareth doesn't try to continue the fight. "What are you? You've been threatening my home for generations. So, why?" "You wouldn't understand yet." "Fighter after fighter, have been selected and trained and sent away. Then, after Killian was defeated, it became my turn, all of the weight was given to me, I trained for months, I left my family, and now I'm risking my life for someone who is very precise with his sword, but only wants to leave a cut.) Why do you keep attacking the village? You know, this could end. You could come back with me. You could live in Windcrest. You could have a peaceful life. You could—" "No, I can't. That's not what I'm here for." "What do you mean?! Of course, you can." Gareth pushed his sword back. He initiated the fight to start again. Still aiming for her sides but with more force. Juno remained on the defense. With each block, saying something that could maybe convince this strange being. Her mind is racing with ideas, she needs something, anything to make him stop. After Gareth has given her repetitive shots to her legs, Juno started to lose her balance. One more strike had sent her to the ground. She dropped her sword and couldn't reach for it. With a final strike, Gareth sent his sword through Juno's chest. Not an attack that would kill her immediately, but still a painful one. He didn't even look at her as he made his attack. He pulls the sword out and tosses it to the side before kneeling to her. "Is it over?" the hero asks quietly? She formed a river with her tears. "Yeah, it's over," the villain picks them up and walks a couple of floors down before he carries them to a bed, "You were amazing, and I'm so, so very proud of you. Of everything you've done. It was unfair of them to pin you against me-- you had no chance of winning. But none of it is your fault. They always send you guys too young. I've fought countless people who were all just like you. I never wanted to fight them, just like I never wanted to fight you. That's just what fate has planned for me, I guess." The hero begins to fade away from consciousness. The villain reaches for their hand, "Rest easy, young one. I'm sorry you had to go through this. You were the best warrior I've faced. I want you to be calm when you go." The hero is finally at peace as they die. "Why must you send me such great people?" He looks up at the sky through a window. He goes to another room where he craves a sign that says "Juno, the nicest warrior." Gareth goes down to the garden and picks some flowers before walking back up to the room again. He picks up the hero once more and brings her down to the side of the tower where he walks past the grave of every other hero he's faced. He stops at an open one where he gently places Juno and covers her with dirt. He places the flowers on top and sits in front of the grave. "I'm so sorry." He spends a moment with her as he begins to cry. For the next year, he dreads the next knight he will come to face him. Each lonely day, he starts the morning by picking flowers from his garden and leaving a few on each grave. He sits by himself as he mourns each one. Gareth told Juno the truth when he said he was not here to live a life of peace. No, this living death is only here to help people leave peacefully and at ease. He's there to help them reach "the better place." He's never liked his job, but he knows why it's so crucial he has it. For now, he just waits for the next one. Where he will repeat the same painful process over again.


“Whoa! That was close. Try again!” Clayton laughed gleefully as he encouraged his brother.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, their dad was busy making his homemade tomato sauce. It was his favorite part of harvesting bushels of tomatoes from the garden. His wife helped him harvest, chop and prepare, but the patient work of boiling and simmering rested with him. He savored it. His biggest pot was happily bubbling away over a low flame. It was filled with a nose tantalizing combination of tomatoes, garlic, onions, and olive oil. The sauce would slowly reduce and thicken with patience and time. He puttered about the kitchen while he waited, tidying and organizing. Clayton, his middle child of 10 years, came in. “Hey Dad, can I have a taste?”

“Sure,” Dad dipped a spoon into the sauce and turned to his son. “Wait,” he paused, scrutinizing his face, “what happened to your forehead?”

Clayton smacked his hand to his forehead quickly and gave his dad a hasty, guilty look before slurping the spoon and fleeing the kitchen.

“Sauce tastes good!” He yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared. Dad returned to his pot, slowly stirring while he thought. Clayton had a red dot on his forehead, which was definitely not there earlier. There was no obvious reason for a cut or mark like that. Usually Clayton’s shenanigans resulted in scrapes or bruises. He lifted the spoon to his lips to give the sauce a taste. Not ready yet, he thought.

Later, Jacob came into the kitchen. At 14, his oldest son was as tall as him. Without a word he opened the refrigerator to get a drink. “Hey Jacob, what happened to your brother's forehead?” Dad asked.

Jacob paused briefly. When he turned, he casually replied, “What do you mean?” “He has a red dot on his forehead. It looks like blood, but he ran away before I could look at it. What’s he been up to?” “Did he say he was hurt?” Jacob asked, while taking a sip of his seltzer.

“No, he didn’t seem hurt.” Jacob shrugged. He glanced into the sauce pot, gave his dad a thumbs up and left the kitchen.

The sauce was reducing nicely. Every time he returned to stir it, the bubbles formed a little slower in the thickening liquid. Just as they always do. Dad knew there was a reason for Clayton’s most recent injury. He was also certain Jacob knew what happened. They were clearly up to something that required concealment. He would get to the bottom of it. He always did.

While the sauce continued to do its delicious work on the stove, Dad went about some other chores around the house. As he walked by the patio doors he saw his boys on the deck, leaning towards each other conspiratorially. This was worth watching. Jacob was talking. Clayton looked up at him with rapt attention and clear admiration. Finally, Jacob pressed a single finger into the red dot on Jacob’s forward, playfully pushing his head. He laughed and ruffled his little brother’s hair before turning to walk back inside. He saw his dad standing behind the glass doors and had the briefest pause in his stride. A look of surprise and worry flashed across his face before his step continued. He gave his dad a smile and a wave on the way to the couch.

There was definitely more to this story, Dad thought. Later, returning to his sauce, Dad gave it some slow stirs and a few thoughtful tastes. It was thickening. All it needed was some of his secret additions. He gathered the bottles of fish sauce, worcestershire sauce and soy sauce to create the infusion of salt and umami that made his tomato sauce better than anything he could buy at the store. As he estimated his pours with a tilted head and critical eye, his 6-year-old daughter skipped into the kitchen.

He smiled at her. She was playing make-believe as she often did, fully capable of entertaining herself with any combination of toys or sticks or silverware or french fries. In her imagination, anything could become a character in her stories. As he let the last dollop of soy sauce fall into the measuring cup, he gave his daughter a second, curious look. “What are you playing with Molly?” he asked. “This is Jillian. And this is Dipper. They are trying to be fliers but they keep fighting about how to fly.” As she spoke she held up her current story characters.

“Where did you get those?” Dad frowned. Seeing his expression, Molly’s face mirrored his concern, “Jacob and Clayton were playing with them,” she said seriously, “I only took 2, they have the rest.”  	Dad put his hand out with a raised eye-brow. Molly put 2 sharp darts into his hand, then skipped out of the kitchen to find her next makeshift playmates.

Dad looked down at the darts with a clear realization, a little anger, and a lot of worry. Before addressing this, he needed to finish his sauce. He poured in his special mixture and stirred it slowly. The dark flavors flowed deliciously into the crevices and folds of the now perfectly thickened sauce. He took another spoonful and put it to his lips. It’s ready.

With the sauce covered and waiting, Dad picked up the darts and went to find his boys. Having taken a moment to pause, he felt more ready to address his mischievous offspring. This was actually perfect timing, he smiled to himself. Jacob saw his dad walk through the living room with two darts in his hand. He didn’t stop or talk to him. He just walked through. Uneasiness stirred in Jacob’s chest.

Clayton looked up from his legos as his dad entered his bedroom.

“Come with me,” his dad said. Clayton glanced at the darts in his hand and followed without a word.

With Clayton in tow, Dad returned to the living room to find Jacob listening intently to Molly. They both stopped talking when he entered the room. Molly put her hands to her mouth to hide whatever look crossed her face and backed away.

“Boys. What happened to Jacob’s forehead?” Dad asked as he put the darts down on the coffee table.

Neither child offered an immediate response.

“Noone got hurt,” Jacob said defensively.

“Hurt doing what?” Dad insisted.

Clayton met Jacob’s eyes and they both resigned to the inevitable. “I was the dart board Dad,” Clayton said. “We found your dart board set in the closet and I held the dart board while Jacob tried to hit the bullseye!” Clayton’s naive excitement about their game could not be diminished, even by the look on his dad’s face.

Dad considered his boys carefully. So many admonishments, rebukes, reprimands and chides flowed through his head. They were all fueled by the fear of his son losing an eye. His boys waited quietly, unsure what the steady gaze of their father could mean. Clayton finally realized something was wrong. Jacob knew he was in trouble and just wondered how much.

When Dad finally spoke, it was directed at Jacob. He picked up the darts and said, “This was a bad idea, and you knew it.” Jacob lowered his eyes and said nothing. Dad continued, “The sauce is ready. You will help me with the canning. You will do it without moaning or avoiding. You will teach your brother and sister how to do it. And I will supervise.” Jacob hated the canning process, but he loved his dad’s tomato sauce, and he loved his dad. He sullenly followed his dad into the kitchen to accept his consequence, without complaining. Molly and Clayton looked at each other, then quickly followed to be a part of it, just as they had when Jacob had dramatically revealed the dart board set from their dad’s closet.

Dad sipped his wine while he watched his children work together. He smiled. He also hated the canning process, but he loved his sauce, and he loved his children. His wife walked in and quickly observed an uncommon scene. “How’d you pull this off?” she asked. Dad filled a second glass with wine and handed it to her. He shrugged and clinked her glass in celebratory cheers. Sauce and parenting, successfully managed for another day.


Hello, my name is Aiden Mayer. I'm not entirely sure how well this post will work and where this stuff ends up. Blame it on my age. Never mind that; I suppose you'll come to know me soon. My life started unraveling on a mild spring morning. I was in my office working as an assistant physicist at Ametherom Institute of Technology, my Alma Mater. You may have never heard of the city I called home, which would come as no surprise. Ametherom was a quaint, bustling seaside city on the eastern coast of my small but prosperous Island Nation of Igadi. It rose up around the mouth of the Bay of Basir and was divided by the river Manu into the northern densely-packed City Centre and the southern cobblestone streets of Old Town. Ametherom had the heart of a proper city. The streets and buildings sprung up organically around the bay and the river, feeling as natural as the marshes and trees interspersed within and surrounding it. Three large iron bridges crossed over the river connecting the streets of City Centre to Old Town. Beneath the central and most ornate bridge ran a slender white footbridge uniting two halves of a large pedestrian's circle. The circle was paved with a mandala of white and pastel stones and nearly always bustling with street vendors, food stalls, and performers. A city built for community and connection. I love my little city. The older I grow, the more I wish I could visit once again. Unfortunately, I do not believe that is a possibility. I spent my whole life in Ametherom, from the day I was left at an orphanage until the day I was ripped from my comfortable reality and thrust into a war that ravaged everything that made me human. Ametherom was my home—my family. I miss its comfort. I, like most orphans, was raised in a private boarding school. I fit in fine with the other kids with whom I shared dorm rooms and classes. I made it through to graduation with high marks and got accepted into Ametherom Institute of Technology, where, upon graduating, I took a physicist position. This, as you may recall, is where my story really starts. **Broheim McIntosh** Being a researcher conjures the mental image of white lab coats and bubbling beakers, but I am chagrined to say my position wasn't so glamorous. Most of my days were spent poring over abstracts and hacking together lines of code and equations in the modest-sized office I shared with my research partner and long-time friend, Broheim. The morning my world broke started so innocuously, as every other dull, typical day previously had. Bro swung around the door five minutes late, his unruly orange hair bouncing as he ushered in a box of doughnuts. "I got you an eclair, Aiden!" he said melodiously with a bright smile. "Thanks Bro, my favourite!" I chuckled. "Hey, have you checked out the new pub on 11th street yet?" I asked as he dramatically plopped into his chair with a quick spin. "Next month is Cass and my anniversary, and I figured--" "A pub, Aiden? Com'on, this is your third year together. Take her somewhere nice and pop the question already! You do know you aren't getting any younger, right?" he prodded. "Alright then, Mum, sheesh." I rolled my eyes. "And to answer your question, yes. I happened to have met a lovely lass there two nights ago and from what I remember it was a cosy little pub. Not much of an amber selection though..." "Well you know Cass doesn't like going out to fancy places. I'll call them ahead, see if they do flowers." "You're a right lady-killer, eh? Any-who, how are we coming on Project 1183?" "Glad you asked, Mr. McIntosh!" I beamed, "Come and have a look at this." Broheim shot me a quizzical look as he brushed crumbs from his shirt and rolled his chair next to mine to peer at my monitor. "So, I was going over a few results last night, when I stumbled upon this. I think this sheds some light on that photon dilemma, eh?" I grinned unabashedly at my own joke. He didn't say a word as he stared into the black and white text. "Crazy, innit?" I laughed, "Are you at a loss for words, my man?" My laughter faltered and fell as I watched his eyes transfixed to the screen, blank and distant. "Are you OK, mate?" Bro's body stiffened as he fell hard to the floor. I jumped back in shock before crouching down. I carefully grabbed his shoulders. "Bro?" He began to convulse and thrash; his eyes were still distant and blank. "Somebody help!!" I screamed as I raced to my phone, pounding in the emergency line. My stomach dropped as I was greeted with a disconnected signal. I dashed into the hallway, screaming for help and trying doors to my colleagues' offices, but no one answered. For some reason, every door was locked. I started pounding on Professor Mark Stevens' door, yelling that Broheim needed help and the lines were down, pleading for him to answer. I heard a door slam behind me and whipped around to see four stately men carrying a stretcher, dressed in white scrubs and masks. My brief shock at their timely arrival was overwhelmed by relief. "Are you paramedics?" No response. I jogged down the hallway to our office just as they loaded Bro up and started for the exit. "Which hospital are you taking him to?" Not a single one of them acknowledged me, let alone my inquiry. "Hello?!" I followed them out the front doors, still asking them frantic questions, which they still ignored. They loaded Bro up in a white box van that looked like an ambulance without the lights. Tires squealed as they peeled out down the road. I was able to catch the letters "AMM" stencilled in black on the side of the vehicle. Then it careened out of sight. I rushed back inside to confront my boss, and as I burst through the front door, I stopped dead in my tracks and glanced about. Jeananne, who had returned to the front desk, narrowed her eyes at me as she held the phone to her ear as if to say, "quiet down." My other colleagues seemed unfazed. Their doors that were locked tight moments ago now stood open, and the nonchalant discussions I so frequently heard murmur through the walls had resumed. I slowly walked down the hall to Professor Stevens' office, my mouth no doubt agape as I struggled to process this strange event. I rapped sharply upon his door. His voice called "Come in" and shook me out of my shocked trance. I pulled the door closed behind me a bit too hard. "With all due respect, Professor...What the hell? Where were you?! I was calling for help! The phones are down, I couldn't call the emergency services, and you wouldn't even answer your door! Who the hell knows who came and got Broheim! They looked like doctors but they gave me a bad feeling. And--" "Call down, Aiden—take a deep breath and have a seat." I grabbed my composure and calmed my breathing into a steady rhythm. "Start from the top, now...What happened?" "I was going over our progress on 1183 and suddenly Broheim had some sort of seizure. He's been taken away into a van or ambulance. I called for you but--" "Aiden, first of all, who is Broheim?" "Is this some sort of joke, sir? He's my office mate, we started here the same week." "I am positive we have never had a Broheim working here. Also, from what I can recall, due to your outstanding performance you have been entitled to a private office for two years now." My face and chest went cold as a particular type of knot tied up my throat. With barely a croak, I uttered, "Is...Are you playing a joke?" "No Aiden... Are you feeling alright? I know Project 1183 is pretty intense, maybe you need a vacation, that's all." "This isn't funny!" blood flushed my face as I rose to my feet. "Sit back down, Aiden. There is no need to get worked up." I glared at him as I sank back into my seat. "If anyone else had come in swinging like you did just now, I would terminate them on the spot for blatant disrespect. I've known you since you enrolled here at the university and I have seen your exemplary work. I don't want to let you go, but I need you to calm down and get help with whatever...this is." He motioned his hand as if to encompass all of me. I swallowed my protest and pride and cast my eyes to my feet. "Aiden, take this." His tone had softened. I looked up as he passed me a weighty, off-white business card. "Doctor Walsh and I worked together for a number of years. I can certainly attest to her excellence." I examined the elegant golden script embossed into the card. Dr. Alexis Walsh, Psy. Ph.D. "A shrink?" I looked up incredulously. "I would highly recommend you speak with her before returning to work. You are to be placed on paid leave for the next two weeks. Take some time to rest and reset, Aiden." I retreated inward as I walked out of his office. The whispers of my colleagues swirled around as if I was underwater. I walked to my office to gather my things and nearly fell to the floor when I saw that my desk was standing alone. Everything that graced Broheim's cluttered desk and shelves—and the furniture itself—was gone. How did they cover this up so quickly? More importantly...


Content Warning: mentions of assisted dying. The couple sits across from me, her hand in his, and I ask myself if I have the strength to break their hearts. Her face hides nothing: tears already quiver, ready to fall no matter what I say. His fist rests on a rapidly bouncing knee. I tear my eyes away from the screen. “I’m so sorry. There is an incredibly high demand for fertility treatment. You aren’t eligible.” What comes next is painful enough, but not for the first time, it strikes me that I’m more than just another stranger in their lives. I’m not the passerby walking carelessly through a family photo, nor the tiresome subject of a story they’ll tell over Christmas lunch. For the rest of their lives, they’ll remember my face, my words, on the day they learned they would never have children of their own.

I miss the days when a patient’s thrumming heartbeat or the whoosh of air in their lungs meant something. It is all about technology now. Someone who never set foot inside a hospital, who never saw the naked hope in a patient’s eyes, decided an advanced algorithm could determine a patient’s eligibility for treatment. All you need are their symptoms, medical history, and genetic profile. But rising costs of healthcare mean more and more people are missing out. And I’m the messenger.

* Pa calls me on the train home, pulling me away from memories of strangled sobs and tear-stained shirts. His voice is weak. “My belly’s killing me, son,” he mumbles. “And I can’t crap.” “You’re constipated again. Did you take your laxatives?”

He sighs. “I must’ve forgotten. The pain’s too much these days.” I know he’s not just talking about his belly. Two years ago, he tripped and fell down the stairs - often a death sentence for a frail ex-smoker in his mid-eighties. Instead, he somehow pulled through, even if he’s now dependent on a walking frame to get around.

Worst of all, the excruciating pain in his hip never went away. My Pa is a fighter, but he’s not too proud to call me in tears first thing in the morning, too stiff to get out of bed. Once, he pinched me hard on the arm, and when I yelped, he told me he felt that in his hip all the time.

The opioids and anti-inflammatories take the edge off, but they clog his bowels and space him out. I worry he’ll fall again. If he does, that’ll be the end of it. “Son?” “I know, Pa. The pain medication is your best bet. You aren’t eligible for surgery.” “I just want the pain to stop. Can’t you rejig the algorithm or something?” My silence is enough of an answer. He makes a noise that breaks my heart, sniffs, and hangs up.

* A curious pair sits across from me today. She is over ninety and looks it: her skin is tinged yellow and thin as clingfilm, and her back is hunched almost ninety degrees. Even seated, she grips a wooden walking stick to keep herself steady. Yet, she is not the patient. The elderly man sitting beside her in a wheelchair is her son. Seventy, and paraplegic. He is past the point of tears. He has a downcast look about him, as if he knows he’s the kind of patient the algorithm spits out and sticks under the table, discarded and forgotten. “It starts in my hips,” he says, “then it spreads down both of my legs into my feet. Feels like I’m being electric-shocked. Stings something awful. Think I’m immune to the medication, doc. It doesn’t do nothing for the pain anymore.” I nod sympathetically. “That sounds horrible. Yes, you are on the maximum dose. Unfortunately, the scans show that surgery is the only way to relieve your symptoms permanently.” “Please, doc,” he whispers. “I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s too much.” His words remind me of Pa. Chronic pain has a way of exhausting hope, and I wonder if there is any purpose in running the algorithm when we can all predict the outcome. But before I can respond, his mother speaks up. “I know what you’re gonna say. Time for the bloody algorithm,” she croaks. Her eyes fix on me defiantly, as if I've bullied her child at the playground. The screen glows an upbeat green as it waits for me to enter his details. As with every patient, an analysis of his bloodwork has already been made. Once I enter the details of his pain, along with a list of medications he has trialled, the algorithm will estimate his potential surgical benefit, weighing this against the average score of other patients. Unsurprisingly, paraplegia does his eligibility no favours. I look back at them to begin my usual condolences, but something sticks the words in my throat. It could easily be my Pa sitting there without hope.

“Congratulations. You’re eligible,” I say. “I’ll have your surgery booked immediately.” Their faces transform; the walking stick clatters to the floor as his mother almost leaps out of her seat to embrace him. Great, shuddering sobs wrack his body.

He spurs his wheelchair forward and takes my hand. “Thank you, doc. This’ll change my life.” I squeeze his hand back. “You deserve it.” * The algorithm doesn’t look kindly on disabled children. For a tool that is meant to be objective, it seems to share many of the biases of whoever created it - or perhaps those of society as a whole.

The child gamboling before me looks perfectly healthy for a six-year-old with Down Syndrome. Thus far, her development has followed the expected trajectory, and all of her vital signs are within normal parameters. All this despite the lump of cancer cells growing inside her brain. “Why even run the algorithm?” her father asks. “She obviously needs surgery. You need to get that thing out.” “It’s part of the healthcare protocol, sir. There’s a process that needs to be followed." “Screw your protocols. My daughter has a brain tumour. You don’t need a fancy degree to figure out she needs surgery.” “I’m sure she’ll be eligible,” I say truthfully. I don’t voice my suspicion she might be waiting months for her operation, given the absence of any major symptoms. “Every minute we wait is a minute that thing’s inside her head, damaging her brain. I just want her to live a normal life. Please, do it quick.” I run the algorithm. The green screen blinks, then flips to blue. The computer chimes a confirmation.

“She’s eligible,” I tell him. “Good. How long?” I click through several more screens. My heart sinks.

“Eight months.” Preparing myself for a verbal onslaught - there is usually at least one per day - we lock eyes for a tense moment. But then he looks away and kneels next to his daughter, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle. He strokes her hair and wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

“Why be a doctor?” he says finally. “Why do this, if you can’t help people?” I consider saying that I did help. That she is getting surgery. But I don’t, because I know those words are just as pointless as my condolences. “There might be more I can do,” I say. The child’s positive eligibility test has placed her on the waiting list for an operation. The eight-month timeframe is a guarantee, but if another patient loses their place, she could have surgery within a month. I enter her details, looking for a “less worthy” patient for her to replace.

Only one patient pops up.

A paraplegic man who was never meant to be eligible at all. On the train ride home, when I should think of the ecstatic father bouncing up and down with his daughter on his shoulder, whooping and punching the air, instead I consider my Pa and people like him. The ones society always remembers last. * It’s been over a year, and my paraplegic patient is struggling. His pain is severe enough that he over-medicates himself in a futile effort to live a normal life. The electric shocks have spread into his arms, his fingers tingle, and his feet have permanent pins-and-needles.

I book him another appointment to deliver the news about his surgery. Before they even enter the room, I can hear dull, rhythmic thuds under the mechanical whir of his wheelchair, like a heartbeat trapped in a cage of machinery. His mother leans heavier on her walking stick, but it is his appearance that affects me the most. His face is wan and sunken; devoid of colour. The pain has taken its toll. “My boy’s still suffering. Why are we here?” she says without preamble.

My expression must have given it away, because he speaks first.

“Never getting surgery, am I?” His voice is oddly changed, compared to his face. It’s stronger than before. More resolute. I shake my head, unable to meet his eye. His mother glares at me. Her hand snakes across and rubs his shoulder. “Then I’ve had enough,” he says. “What?” she chokes out. Her attention shifts to him, and the hand holding her walking stick starts to tremble. “Can you do the algorithm again, doc?” he pleads.

“It won’t change the result,” I reply. “Not for the surgery. I told you the first time: it’s too much. Can’t live with it anymore. If you can’t fix it - if I can’t stop suffering - at least let me choose a quick, painless way to go. On my own terms.” She's shaking her head now. She watches her son with an intensity I've never seen. As if she wants to memorise every last wrinkle on his face. Two desperate pairs of eyes bore into me as I turn back to the computer. I imagine my Pa in such a position - confronting mortality. I wonder if he would look at me the same way. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I run the algorithm again, this time for physician-assisted dying. The green screen turns blue, chimes joyfully. Eligible. He sighs in relief, all the air rushing out of him at once. A bit of colour returns to his face. For the first time in a year, he smiles. “No,” his mother whimpers. * When their appointment ends twenty minutes later, she pauses at the door.

“Run along for a minute,” she sniffs to her son, waving a hand as if he’s five years old again. The whirring fades into the corridor. “How can I help?” I ask, dreading the answer. She blinks and looks up at me. “I’m ninety-four, dear. Everything hurts, and all of my senses are failing. There’s not much left to live for. Only him.” “I see.” I’m already moving back to the computer. She shuffles close behind, still sniffing. I sit down, open up her file, and enter in her details.

“Are you sure about this?”

Her eyes take on the glaze of long-held memory. There's the shadow of a smile. “Yes. As sure as when I first wanted a child of my own.” I run the algorithm, reminded of what it had once taken from a devastated couple in the same seat. I consider why an equation capable of denying new life can equally save it. How a system designed to preserve lives can easily take them. And I ask myself if I still have the strength to bear the algorithm’s message. It now deliberates the weight of one life - or two. Green turns to blue.


In a place that doesn’t exist, in a time that didn’t happen, eight friends that never met sat around a campfire, telling stories. The topic of their discussions this time was world creation , or how the world came to be . “Ah, that’s an interesting topic indeed,” said an elderly gentleman with white hair and a lush mustache. His eyes were fixed in some distant point inside the dancing flames, as he prodded the question with his mind, squatting by the fire. “Would someone else like to go first on this one? I need some more time to think it through.” “Sure,” said a tall and slender man with long straight hair. “I can go first, if it’s alright with the rest of you?” He looked to his companions. Nobody complained, save for a man in his middle years, wearing a mighty black beard and a green turban cloth, who grumped a sigh. “Somethign wrong, Muhammad?” “Not at all,” the man replied. “It’s only natural that the son of god goes first on this topic.” He raised his palms to reinforce his words. “I’m just a humble messenger.” “Not this again,” sighed another man who sat in a wheelchair by the fire. His voice did not come from his mouth, but rather from a device connected to his brain, which made it sound electric. “Can’t you two just get along? You’re both wrong anyway.” “Stephen!” exclaimed a fifth man, sitting between the wheelchair man and the moustache man. He wore a vintage black suit and had a strong german accent. “Show some respect, will you?” The man in the wheelchair mumbled something. “So, can I begin then? Or would you like to go first for a change, Muhammad?” “Nah,” Muhammad waved his hand. “Is what you get for being nearly 600 years late to the party. Take it away Jesus.” Jesus nodded and cleared his throat. “So, the topic of world creation. As we all know, in the beginning, there was darkness. Then, came a voice. My father’s voice. And he said; let there be light !” The flames burned brighter for effect, sending a column of sparks up to the heavenly night skies above. “It took my father seven days to complete everything. First he divided the light from darkness,” said Jesus, pointing up at the stars. “Then he created the oceans and the land,” Jesus stomped his foot. “He covered the dry ground with plants. Then he went on to create the Sun and the Stars, providing light and energy for his new creations. Next, he created birds and sea animals, and after that he went on to create land animals and all of you, human beings.” He eyed the fellow who sat furthest from the fire, the flame’s shadows dancing on his face. “Well, except for you . I’m not sure how to classify you. But anyway, when all that was done, on the last day, he rested. And it was good.” Stephen couldn’t help himself. “Why did he do it in such an order? Wouldn’t it be better if he created the stars before he created plants? That way photosynthesis could begin uninterrupted.” “I’m sure he had a good reason for it,” Jesus said. “My Father never did anything that would not have a purpose.” “I fail to see that reason.” “Alright,” the man with the german accent jumped in. “You’ll get your chance, Stephen. Let’s listen to Muhammad now.” “Ugh,” Stephen commented. “Your last name should have an extra -ing to it, since you’re so Bohr-ing !” “If you won’t contain your snarky comments until all of us are finished, I’ll turn your voice off!” That seemed to help. “It’s alright,” said Jesus. “I wasn’t offended. Please, let’s not chastise one another here. We are all grown men, having an interesting discussion by the fire.” The men murmured and the atmosphere lightened up again. “I will be next then,” Muhammad said and stood up. He cleared his throat and eyed his audience. “My friend Jesus told a good story. He got most of it right, but there are things where he could improve. Here’s what really happened. “God, which is one and only, Alah, created the whole universe. From a single unity, he made everything, in one cosmic explosion, that Stephen there would call the Big Boom-” “Big Bang !” “Whatever. God said; ‘come together, willingly, or unwillingly’ and they all came together willingly and thus stars, planets and the moon were created, following the natural orders He assigned to the universe. You see Jesus, God only took six days to create the world, not seven .” “That’s what I also said,” said Jesus. “Six days of work. One day of rest.” “Hrmf, fine,” Muhammad sighed. “Well then, God did not create all species separately and individually, as Jesus claims. He created life and seeds for it, and life evolved on its own, following his guide. Only man was an exception to this. God gave special gifts to man and thus made him separate from his other creations.” “What about the Earth?” asked Stephen. “What about it?” asked Muhammad. “How did Alah create the Earth?” “He didn’t,” Muhammad explained. “The Earth came together willingly, following the laws he set for the universe.” “Clever,” Stephen commented, but did not hint as to whome it was aimed at; Muhammad or Alah. “That is all I have to say,” said Muhammad. “Thank you for sharing,” said Niels Bohr. Then he nudged the man squatting next to him. “Ready yet, Einstein?” The man with the white hair didn’t respond, as if completely involved in his thinking. Bohr turned towards the others. “Best to give him some more time. Would anyone else like to be next? Since we’ve started with religion today, perhaps you, Budda? Or Mukutu?” Budda opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t get the chance. As soon as Mukutu heard his name, he stood up. He was a short man with thick black hair, and chocolate skin, coming from a secluded little tribe in Africa, consisting of probably no more than fifty people. “I tell story of how world is,” he said, his accent thick, but understandable. “I Mukutu, from tribe Tukibaka. We believe there be two great Sky Serpents up, in the heavens, one gold and fiery like Sun, the other silver and cool like Moon. They fight for dominance over sky, each night and day. At night, Moon wins, but in morning Sun wins. As they fight, they bleed and make oceans and rain. They cut chunks of their flesh with their claws and make earth and mountains. We, Tukibaka, rose from their flesh and we drank their blood. Once one Serpent kills the other, the end of world.” He then landed back on the ground, legs placed in front of him, touching the soles of his feet together. The rest of them were silent, even Stephen had no comment to make. “Thank you Mukutu,” finally said Bohr. Mukutu smiled, showing his teeth as a sign of acknowledgement. “Buddha?” All heads turned to the handsome young man, who sat cross-legged next to Jesus, wearing a vivid orange robe. His eyes were closed and he wore a serene smile on his face, his hands resting in his lap. “Buddha? Would you share with us how you think the world came into being?” The man took his time, looking as if he was in deep meditation, before he finally opened his eyes. He rubbed them with the back of his palms and yawned. Jesus and Muhammad looked at each other.

“Were you sleeping ?” “I’m terribly sorry,” said the Buddha, smiling. “But the fire is just so nice and cozy. And your voices are deep and pleasant to hear, especially yours, Mukutu.” “We were discussing how the world was formed,” said Stephen, his electronic voice scratching. “Would you care to share? Today , perhaps, so I can be next?” “What’s the rush?” smiled Buddha. “Reality isn’t going anywhere.” He raised a reassuring hand before Stephen could object. “I promise to be short.” “Let’s hear it then.” The Buddha looked at the fire and remained seated, motionless. The reflection of the flames danced in his eyes. “The world is .” That was all he had to say. Jesus and Muhammad nodded and contemplated those simple words, and Bohr also wore an expression of insight. Einstein was still deep in thinking and Mukutu smiled. The figure who sat furthest from the flames, as if not wanting to be illuminated, didn’t show any signs of interest in the conversation at all. Only Stephen had to object. “Yes, the world is. We know that. How did it come to be?” “That is a fascinating question!” the Buddha said.

“Would you care to give your answer?” “But I did.” “That was not an answer,” Stephen objected. “It was just a stupid and obvious statement.” “Stephen, Christ almighty! ” Bohr exclaimed. “Yes?” Jesus raised his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way… Stephen, would you stop insulting people already?” Stephen rolled with his eyes. “Bohr-ing!” “Eureka!” Einstein exclaimed all of a sudden. Bohr jumped up and nearly kicked the old genius in the fire. “Don’t scare me like that!” “I have found it!” Einstein proclaimed, raising a finger up and eyeing the men by the fire. “Found what? Your sanit-” “Gravity! Relativity! The universe is static in time and possesses an uniform distribution of matter on the largest of scales, therefore making it a spherical spatial curvature! It all makes sense! All we need to do now is introduce a cosmic constant, which will serve to determine-” He froze in mid sentence. “No, wait. That’s stupid. I didn’t account for redshift and rate of expansion…” “Well, do you have it or not?” pressed Stephen. “Can I present my theory now?” “I don’t know,” said Einstein. “I just don’t know…” He shook his head and smiled. “The universe is a mystery!”

“Not really,” said Stephen. “Here’s the real version of how the world came to be. Listen closely.” “This is gonna be good,” Jesus whispered to Muhammad who chuckled. Mukutu showed his white teeth, indicating he was listening closely.

“Basically, it’s all matter and energy, randomly interacting with one another, interconnecting and forming into solid objects. At the beginning, as far as we know, there was the Big Bang, a cosmic explosion that sent all matter and energy out into the universe. Slowly, over time, millions and billions of years of it, the matter randomly formed into stars and planets, which arranged themselves into solar systems and galaxies. One of such galaxies is our Milky Way and one of such systems is our solar system. “4,6 billion years ago, our planet Earth was formed from the stellar dust and gas, randomly orbiting the Sun. The conditions were just right for the planet to be big enough to hold an atmosphere, but not too big to become a gas giant. Our distance from the sun is ideal for life to have evolved and the presence of water was also very fortunate, to support life.

“Slowly but surely, as life began, it evolved into more and more complex organisms, totally at random, of course. From small bacteria to the first fish, from fish to the first amphibians, then tetrapods and eventually mammals and human beings. There’s no wuwu or magic involved, just accretion, evolution, and random fluke luck. And here we are.” “But, that is exactly what I have said!” protested Muhammad. “Only, you forgot to mention God, of course.” “I didn’t mention god, because I only deal with solid evidence and facts,” said Stephen. The atmosphere suddenly became very tense and Bohr quickly jumped in before words would become fists. “Thank you for sharing, Stephen. Now, since Einstein stated that he just doesn’t know, I will take the last stand on the scientific frontier.” He stood up. “Like my colleague said, it is a great mystery, this universe. And like Buddha said, it is a fascinating question, how did the world come to be? I spent my whole life trying to find an answer. And here is what I have found. “Everything is a cloud of possibility. Matter and energy, they both exist as pure infinite potential, until a decision is made for them to take one specific and exact form in the universe. I have devised a model that explains this in great detail, called Quantum Mechanics. Our Earth, as well as the whole universe, came to be in the exact same way; it existed as pure potential, until a decision was made and it became what it is now.” “Who made that decision?” asked Jesus, hoping the answer would be ‘your father’. “I don’t know,” said Bohr. “The craziest thing is, that the lab experiments tend to show it is us , humans, or any measuring device, that are the observer. And everytime we look, we cause the universe to be in one way or the other, but not both ways at the same time! Our observations collapse the field of possibility into a certain outcome!” “Yes! Exactly!” exclaimed Buddha and smiled. “I see that science is catching up to this. Good job!” Muhammad shook his head. “I just don’t understand, why does man go to such lengths to try and think up some reason for there to be anything but god.” Jesus patted him on the back. “So basically,” said Stephen, “you’ve joined their camp, Bohr? Talking about some godly decisions and potentials?” “Not at all, dear colleague,” Bohr said. “If anything, I believe I stand somewhere in between the two.” “Balance important,” said Mukutu and nodded his head. “Superstitious ignorance,” blurted Stephen. “Why didn’t we just play monopoly tonight? These conversations never get us anywhere…” An awkward silence fell on the group of eight friends. The fire crackled softly, forever sending its playful shadows dancing on their faces. Then, after some long minutes, Bohr finally broke the silence. “What do you think, Sauron? You’ve been awfully quiet this whole evening.” “I find your lack of imagination insulting, but am amused by your guesswork.” The dark lord of Mordor sat on his black mace with arms resting on top of his bent knees, staring intently at the fire, while remaining some distance from it. “Uh, remember me who invited him again?” commented Stephen. “I could perhaps excuse the others, but Sauron ? He’s a fictional character! He isn't even real!” “No more real than any one of us,” said Buddha, staring at his palm with some deep knowing, and his usual smile. He looked at Stephen. “And yet, he sits there. Just like you do. Would you deny this fact ?” Stephen blushed, caught in his own words. “Stupid zen people, twisting your every word…” “Well, how about it, Mr. Dark lord?” asked Einstein. “Would you humor us with your explanation?” “Yeah,” said Jesus. “We all shared our own thoughts. Don’t worry, we won’t judge you.” He looked at the rest of them, especially Stephen. “ Right guys?” They all nodded, including Stephen, who got a stern look from Bohr. “Very well then,” said Sauron, his voice booming from behind the crude iron helmet. “You are all mistaken in your musing, fools of men. Listen to this. “I am Sauron, servant of Morgoth, who was a servant of Iluvatar, the One who created the Valar. The Valar sang the world into existence and they shaped its lands, seas, rivers and mountains. They took care after the seeds of life Iluvatar had placed upon the world and also sowed seeds of their own. This is the short version. So I know what you are thinking right now; Iluvatar is a god who created everything. But no. This is false as well.” Stephen frowned, no longer able to contain himself. “Wait, you knowingly believe something that is false? Even Jesus doesn’t do that-” “Hey!” “-how deluded are you?” Sauron didn’t speak. He just stared into the flames and as he did, they grew stronger. The men had to back up as it became too hot to bear. And then, shapes began to appear in the flames. Images, and a face of a man, smoking a pipe and smiling benevolently. “Behold, my true creator,” said Sauron in a reverent voice. Jesus put a palm over his eyes. “Who’s that?” “Hey that’s Tolkien!” said Einstein, pointing at the image in the flames. “Look Bohr, the man from our own time!” “We already knew that,” said Stephen. “You are a fictional character, created by an author. This proves nothing.” “Yes,” Muhammad, strangely agreeing with Stephen. “Why do you break this illusion? Why not just say this Iluvatar created the world and let that be your belief? What is the point?” Sauron looked up from the flames and the image vanished. He eyed every single one of the men. “The point is that you all need to go meta on your beliefs,” said Sauron. “You who believe in a god and you who believe in physics. What if you’re also like me? Fictional characters, written by society, parents, education or indoctrination, to believe certain things that are actually illusions?” Buddha smiled and gave a nod to Sauron. The rest of them looked at him with confusion.

After a long and very uncomfortable silence Sauron sighed, disappointed with his friends’ lack of participation. “Where is that damn monopoly anyway? I want to purchase some lands and build my Isengards and Barad-durs on them!”


The wind howled through the twisted, gnarled branches of the ancient trees that encircled the abandoned mansion. As it blew, it whispered secrets of the past, casting eerie shadows on the crumbling facade of the once-grand estate. Alex, Maya, and Jake, united by their fascination with the macabre, stood before the mansion, their breaths visible in the chilly autumn air. They were drawn to the decaying mansion, rumored to be a place of unspeakable horror and secrets. With trepidation, the trio pushed the creaking front door open, which groaned in protest as it swung open. The air inside was thick with a palpable sense of dread, as if the house was alive with malevolent energy. They navigated the long, winding hallways, their footsteps echoing through the hollow chambers as they searched for any sign of the mansion's secrets. Finally, they stumbled upon the door to the room of mirrors, which was hidden behind a tapestry stained with age. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, Alex pushed open the door, revealing a room that seemed frozen in time. The mirrors reflected images of a bygone era, and the musty air was thick with the scent of antiquity. The room was filled with a sense of otherworldly beauty and mystery as if it was a portal to a long-forgotten time. The room was a disorienting labyrinth of mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, the glass surfaces clouded with a mysterious mist. Maya's analytical gaze was drawn to the mirrors' unusual frames—ornate and sinister, adorned with grotesque carvings that seemed to depict twisted faces contorted in agony. Jake, the skeptic of the group, couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as he stared at the mirrors. The reflections staring back at him were grotesque and distorted, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that they were watching him. They seemed to move independently, mimicking their every move with an unsettling delay, as if they were alive and had a will of their own. As they ventured deeper into the room, the temperature dropped, and the air grew heavy with an ominous hum. The shadows cast by the mirrors danced along the walls, taking on shapes that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The hairs on the back of Jake's neck stood on end, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of evil force was at work in this room. As they stepped further into the room, a growing sense of unease began to gnaw at the group's collective subconscious. However, Alex, the thrill-seeker of the group, was undeterred and urged them forward with an infectious excitement that was palpable. He was oblivious to the potential danger ahead, driven only by his insatiable hunger for adventure. On the other hand, Maya couldn't shake the feeling that the mirrors held more than just distorted reflections. She noticed subtle movements within the glass, figures that seemed to shift and sway on the periphery of their vision, just beyond the reach of clear sight. Her intuition told her that something ominous lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Initially, the room was a spectacle of the bizarre and began to transform before their very eyes. The mirrors no longer merely reflected reality; they seemed to have a life of their own, pulling the trio into alternate dimensions that twisted and warped like a fever dream. Every step they took was a journey into the unknown, where time unfolded in chaotic patterns, and reality was distorted beyond recognition. In one mirror, Alex saw a version of himself trapped in a never-ending loop of despair, the reflection's eyes filled with a haunting plea for an escape. Maya witnessed shadows of figures lurking in the mirrors—specters of the mansion's tormented past, their faces contorted in eternal anguish, screeching at her for help. Jake, who had always been the most skeptical of the group, felt a sudden chill run down his spine as he sensed a cold hand grazing his shoulder. He turned around, but there was nothing to be seen except the eerie emptiness of the room. Though he tried to dismiss the sensation as a byproduct of the foreboding atmosphere, he couldn't help but rub his arms, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. As the trio ventured further into the room of mirrors, the atmosphere grew ever more ominous. The reflections in the mirrors turned into grotesque visions, twisting their features into horrifying masks. The trio found themselves trapped in a disorienting maze, with the mirrors multiplying and distorting reality until it became increasingly difficult to distinguish between what was real and what was not. Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging the room into an impenetrable darkness. Panic set in as the friends groped blindly through the void, their heightened senses barely able to make out the faintest sounds. Whispers, almost inaudible at first, grew into a deafening cacophony of disembodied voices speaking in a language that had long been forgotten. Then, as suddenly as the darkness had descended, the lights flickered back to life. What they saw before them chilled them to the very core. The once-filled mirrors now held nothing but an abyss of emptiness. The grotesque carvings on the frames twisted into expressions of malevolent glee, sending shivers down their spines. The room was silent, except for the sound of the group's heavy breathing. Suddenly, a low, guttural growl echoed through the room, causing the temperature to drop drastically, and the air became icy cold. The group shivered in fear as Maya's breath formed visible puffs in the frigid air. As they huddled together, the spectral figures, once confined to the mirrors, now materialized around them. Their translucent, ghastly forms cast long, eerie shadows on the mist-covered floor. The group was frozen in terror as the figures floated closer, their faces twisted in anger and contempt. An ancient, guttural voice spoke from the abyss, filling the room with a sense of dread. "You trespassed into the realm of the forgotten. Now, you shall become one with the mirrors." The voice was so old and deep that the group could feel the vibrations in their bones, and they knew that they were in grave danger. Desperation gripped the friends as they searched frantically for an escape. The room seemed to be closing in on them, and the mirrors multiplied until there was no discernable exit. Panic set in, and Alex, Maya, and Jake felt the weight of an evil presence bearing down on them, suffocating them. In a final, desperate act, Maya's gaze locked onto a particular mirror with an ornate, demonic frame. In that reflection, she saw a sigil - a symbol of protection etched into the glass. Drawing upon her knowledge of the occult, she whispered an incantation, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence. The sigil glowed faintly as Maya's chant grew more robust, and the evil presence seemed to falter. The group watched in amazement as the mirrors cracked and shattered, freeing them from their prison. The shards of glass tinkled as they fell to the ground, and the room was filled with relief and liberation. The mirrors in the room trembled violently, causing the entire chamber to shudder as if struck by an unseen and evil force. The shadows previously enshrouded the room quickly dissipated, and the temperature began to rise slowly, dispelling the icy chill that once had permeated the air. The malevolent growling that had filled the room soon subsided, giving way to an eerie, echoing howl that seemed to be coming from the depths of the abyss within the mirrors. As the three friends stumbled out of the room, they were left shaken and battered by their harrowing experiences. The once-decayed corridors of the mansion now stretched before them, devoid of the supernatural horrors that had recently unfolded within. As they looked back at the ominous structure, its secrets still hidden behind boarded-up windows, the room of mirrors now appeared to be a dormant chamber of nightmares, resonating with the residual whispers of forgotten souls. Over the following days, the friends tried to rationalize their experiences. Still, each night, they were haunted by fleeting glimpses of distorted reflections and the malevolent growls that lingered in their nightmares. The room of mirrors had left an indelible impression on their psyches, a haunting reminder that some secrets are better left undisturbed. The abandoned mansion, a silent and eerie witness to their ordeal, stood as a testament to the fragile boundary between the tangible and the supernatural. Its shattered windows and sagging roof concealed the horrors that lay within, waiting for the next unsuspecting souls to cross its threshold and awaken the evil forces that lurked in the shadows of the room of mirrors.


She took one glimpse at his fragile yet stable face. His crystal, Emerald eyes sank deeply through her unravelling, beaming smile. Her intentions were over the limits of expectation; her hour-glass body spoke the words of her exceptional mind! She knew one detail but he knew every last ounce... THREE YEARS BEFORE... The beginning... It all began on a traditional evening; he would wake up, throw on  his off white shirt and his blood red trousers. He would grab his Raven jet black jacket and sneakily tumble to his faded grey Lamborghini. His name was Vincent. Vincent was mysterious, obscure, perplexing, mystifying and secretive...    Nobody knew his life, his past but only his impression he gave. He was driving rather rapid, he came racing round the corner to find he had to boost his muscly leg right up-against the breaks! He started skidding in circles until he came to a halt. Why did he stop your  probably thinking, right? Well he saw her, he saw her flattering legs, her electrifying, golden blonde hair, the way she strutted, the way her rosy red lips stood out. He knew that's what he wanted and that's what he would get... The entrance of her... She ran as quickly as her heels would let her, she raced towards the car and  opened the door on her left, she sat on the seat. She reached over and gave him the most rewarding hug he could ask for. She calmly whispered in his ear asking if he was alright. He winked and gave a relaxing reply. "Yes but this only happened cause i seen you!" She gave a suttle laugh and opened the door ;  she gave him five words he would always remember, "I will never forget you" and then she fiercely sashayed off... two da ys later. Vincent came across her again, but this time instead of stopping he listened, and that's when his mission truly began... He found out her full name. Vincent quickly searched her and that's when he found her social medias. Her name was so gorgeous and magical. He had to know more! Her name was Tiara-Lee ash Aymara. Her meaning was so powerful and revealing in a way. (princess clears a sexy path for her lover). It is so creative! Then he chuckled. two years later... He knew so much about her. Where she lives, her family, her school. EVERYTHING! Soon he would meet her again and start an extremely fantastic life with her! If only she knew... The day of the meet... She took one glimpse at his fragile yet stable face. His crystal, Emerald eyes sank deeply through her unravelling, beaming smile. Her intentions were over the limits of expectation; her hour-glass body spoke the words of her exceptional mind! He gripped on her smooth bum and pulled her in and said the words she once said, "i told you i would never forget you ..." -this short story is a horror yet romance!