For the sixth time that day, he was sitting there again. Staring out the window at the chickens within the wired fence. I could not imagine what it was he was finding so fascinating about the chickens he had spent his whole life taking care of.

This was only his second week back and I had been hoping he would be overjoyed to see the family he had not gotten to see in four months. Hawaii was a dreamy place and I knew that. But you have to come back to reality at some point. I asked him earlier, “Are you happy to see me and Ma again Freddy?”. He, still staring out the window, responded in a melancholy tone. “Of course, I could never not miss you after so long.”. Something about his response seemed distracted. I moved on with my day. He would tell me eventually. He always did.

Another week went by. Then another. He still would not explain his sudden loss of presence in our daily activities. It was a Saturday evening when I was entering into our living room that I finally gained some idea of what was bothering him. He was on his phone talking to someone. “I wish we could. It’s just not an option to leave right now.”. He hung up. I tried to escape before he could spot me there in the corner.

“Don’t tell Ma what you heard.”. This was clearly not an optional request. I just nodded and escaped from the tension. Who could he have been saying that to? And why was he only now, at 24 years old, hiding things from us? We had always been a close family, close and open with each other.

The next few days were spent with the fear that I was going to lose my one and only brother. He was one of the two people I had in this wide, scary world. Who could he have talked to that would make him leave us? I am not sure I could stomach the truth. I saw one of my biggest fears become a possibility on that Saturday evening and I am not sure what I could possibly do to prevent this harsh reality.

I stopped and gave myself a mental smack. What was I thinking? I had heard two sentences. It could have been nothing. I had other things to focus on. If I didn’t stop, Ma would realize something was off and confront us. Not that Freddy was working to make sure she couldn’t notice a difference. He would sit in the same place every day, solemnly staring out the window towards the chicken coop. Something in him had changed. In a very scary way.

Throughout the next week, I would catch him on his phone more times than not, texting or calling with his anonymous acquaintance on the other side. I was not sure what to make of it, but I remained uneasy.

One Monday morning about three weeks after I had heard the end of the first conversation, I noticed he had left his phone on the coffee table in the living room. He was nowhere to be found. I tried to access it. No luck. He was not using his usual passcode. It killed me. I had to know. I had to know who he could have been talking to that would make him want to make such a radical change. I heard footsteps behind me and quickly put it back. He walked back in and sat down, while I avoided his gaze. He said nothing.

A week later, I was bringing in the groceries with my Ma. I was focusing on getting the vegetables out of the bags in the kitchen and chopping them up for my mother to make her special stir fry for dinner later this week. The chicken had to go into a sweet marinade. It was one of my favorite meals. As I was reaching for it in the pantry that was the furthest towards the living room, I saw Freddie headed to the bathroom with a towel. This was my chance to try again.

I quickly entered the living room where his phone was and started attempting to enter passcodes. His birthday, special dates, the last four of his social. Nothing was working. I gave it one last ditch effort. I heard it click. It was my birthday. My chest became warm as I realized how much I must have meant to him. Suddenly, the phone was ripped out of my hand and I spun to the right to see my brother standing there angrily. “What gives you the idea that it is okay to be going through my things?!”, he exclaimed angrily.

“I wasn’t! I mean, I was. I mean…. You are just so distant and off lately! Can you blame me for being so worried?” I responded loudly. He stopped and looked at me, then sat back in his chair. He took a deep breath, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Do you really want to know why I have been so upset lately?” he asked me. I nodded, eager to hear his reasons.

“I fell in love while I was gone.”. He stated. I blinked. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. He was acting like this over a girl? How strange for him. He had never been the type to lean into romantic relationships. “The love of my life just happened to be in Hawaii when I went on my trip. Now they’re gone and there is just no way to continue to have this relationship for any longer.”. I suddenly felt horrible. He had been sitting in his pain for weeks now. Instead of asking him how he was truly doing or why he was being so distant, I had been waiting. Hoping it would disappear. Now I knew that it would not. “I am so sorry Freddie.”, I said sympathetically. I knew he must have really fallen in love to have been this upset for so long. “What was her name?”, I questioned. He smiled. A sad, hollow smile.

“His name was James.”.


Dear Diary, Have you ever had to grieve the loss of something you never had? I’ve been trying to. For months now. I’ve been so caught up in this loss of mine that I’ve never truly experienced before, it's finally driven my roommate, Georgia insane. She bought me one of those small, spiral bound legal pads from Food Lion and told me to write my crap out so I could finally put it somewhere that wasn’t the air. So, this is it. These are letters to Sam. Things I’ll never say to him. Things I wish I had. Dear Diary Sam, The first time you kissed me was July 18. It was dark in your apartment; a movie was playing in the background. I could feel you looking at me. Last time I was with you, you looked at me that same way. I looked away, then, because I wanted you to kiss me so badly, I was sure you could hear it in my thoughts. This time I didn’t look away. Dear Diary,     Here is a picture of Sam. There is a weight behind his eyes that presses down on me when he catches my eye. Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I can feel it anytime he looks at me. It’s not an unpleasant weight that burns the muscles and pulls you through the floor. It’s not dragging or even heavy per se. It’s just noticeably present. I can feel it, wrapping around me tight like an embrace he’d given me once. It’s a feeling I like, being looked at by him. It’s laced in his gaze, in the crinkles by his eyes and the hints of brown caught in the blue. I have been looked at before, but never has someone’s eyes caught me off guard like his. I want him to look at me forever. I don’t know how to ask. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make my eyes speak the same language as his. I can’t make them say what I think. That I think he’s beautiful. That I see the way he holds himself, so still, so carefully. That I see the hesitation in his stance and the careful way he laughs. I see you ; I think. I don’t say it out loud.

Dear Sam, The fourth time you kissed me was on March 1. I didn’t think that would be the last time. Dear Sam,     “Look at me,” I say, because you won’t. “Do you see me?” I ask. “I see you, but I don’t think you see me.” Dear Sam, Remember how we used to argue, speaking paragraphs of words but actually talking in circles?     “It seems to me that you’re more focused on the later than what was happening right in front of you,” I say, with more heat behind it than I mean. You say nothing back.

Dear Diary, He didn’t leave me. I never had him to begin with. Dear Sam,     I don’t know what it is. It’s a knot or a lump or something round, I don’t know. I can’t properly describe it. But there is something lodged in my chest, behind my sternum, between my lungs. It’s hard and solid, and I can’t make it move. It hurts. Dear God, it hurts and sometimes the pain goes away and I forget about it. I forget it’s there through distractions and noise and people talking at me but when I’m alone, I can feel it. I can feel it burrowing inside of me and it won’t go away. You put it there. I helped you do it. I don’t know how to remove it and I want it gone so badly that it makes my eyes burn. I felt it on the bus, with my headphones in and a game on my phone, failing to hold my attention. I felt it in my shower, turning the water as hot as it could go. Because I couldn’t stop shivering. I felt it when I tried to go to sleep last night, pulling me awake and reminding me that it was there because of me. I can’t get rid of it. Getting rid of it would mean getting rid of you. And I don’t want to do that. I foolishly can’t. But this thing lodged in my chest, it hurts me. Dear Diary, Lonely people find lonelier people and then they eat pasta together and tell ghost stories of past experiences that don’t let them sleep. But these relationships never work out because in reality both parties are just using each other, so really, they were better off alone. Dear Diary,     Here is a scenario: He walks up to her front door. The porch light is flickering, because no one’s bothered to change it. He raises a fist to knock, but he hesitates. All the lights are off in the apartment except for the glow of a lamp. He knows exactly which. It’s the little yellow one on the end table next to the couch. She always leaves it on at night because she doesn’t like the dark. He knocks. Footsteps rattle the walls from the inside and the door opens. She has been crying, a balled-up tissue in her right hand. She looks surprised. She didn’t expect this. It wasn’t like him to show up without warning. “Hi,” she says, and her voice is thick and slightly nasal. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks. He takes a step through the doorway, and she backs up to let him in. It’s familiar, the process. “Uh, I’m fine. You know, sad movie.” She wipes her eyes with the tissue and quickly throws it away in the too full trashcan in the kitchen. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on mix-matched hooks by the door that are already weighed down with coats, rain jackets, and two umbrellas. She goes to turn on the other lamp in the corner, while he leaves his shoes by the door. It was a habit he learned from watching her at his place. She hated when people wore their shoes in the house, but she would never ask people to take theirs off. She wasn’t the type to ask for things. Favors, love, food. She was a giver who hated to take. “Everything alright?” she asks. She has already sat down on the couch. The couch has witnessed them in their entirety. There are some things that it hasn’t seen, the sweetest parts in particular, but it has watched. It has seen them laugh a lot, but it also saw the time he made her cry for hours, days, weeks. The couch is wary, yet it welcomes him as she did. He wedges himself into the corner closest to the yellow lamp. He wants to hold onto one of the cushions bunched up behind him, but he resists, choosing to cross, uncross, and cross his arms again. “Are you okay?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. He sees the twitching of her fingers, knows that she is holding herself back. She always tries to hold herself back. He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He just looks at her. For a moment he allows himself to look, to really look at her and take in every aspect of her face. The shape, the moles and freckles, the tiny creases by her eyes from smiling, the twitching corners of her mouth. Her eyes. Her big, searching eyes that seem to look into him and through him at the same time. He’s startled out of his staring by her blinking and looking away. She does that sometimes, breaking eye contact that she herself starts. But she has too. Because if she looks at him for too long, she feels a pain start to rise up inside of her chest and settle between her lungs. “What?” she asks, looking back at him. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a lie, and they both know it. His head is so full that he fears the weight of it will crush him. She can see that weight and how it has settled into his shoulders and seeped into his bones. She’s pointed it out to him before. How she could see this weight holding down his very soul. It scared him that she could see it when he himself had tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t there. He avoided her for a bit after that. Right now, she could see he was being weighed down by words he couldn’t bring himself to say. She wants to reach out to him but again, she stops herself. There were many conversations they never had. The ghosts of them hung in the air around their heads, teasing their minds with the possibility of events that couldn’t or wouldn’t occur. Both of them were too incapable of using the words that they had to say, what they were truly thinking. To themselves—in the privacy of their own minds—they could guess, or make things up, but the silence, that constant thing that sat between them on the couch, that watched them, mouth open and ready to drown them out with its screams. The silence was deafening. It drowned them. She felt like it was suffocating her. He felt like it was boiling him from the inside. “Please,” she says, forcing herself to smile, hoping he will read it as teasing. The ‘please’ says much more than one word can. It says, “talk to me,” and “I don’t understand you,” and “I think I love you.” He doesn’t hear any of it. “It’s nothing,” he says, smiling back, but he can see through the cracks of her face that she’s begging, that she needs him to talk. But he can’t. So, he doesn’t. He misses the whispering of the words not said as they brush past his ears, completely unaware yet still, somehow, feeling their loss. He feels it in his chest, a pain that is familiar, that originally came from a different source. He doesn’t recognize it as heartbreak this time so that isn’t what he thinks it is. Still, he rubs at his chest and waves off the question he knew she was about to ask. “We always do this,” she says, leaning away from him to put some distance between them, because being this close to him makes her skin ache in a way that reminds her of being ill. “I know, you’re right.” And he laughs, because it is funny, but it’s only funny because it’s sad. He’ll leave her soon. And when he does, he will be weighed down further with the regret of not saying any of the things he planned to. And she will turn off the lights and lay in the dark. And she will cry, because that’s the only way she can empty herself of the feelings that he creates inside of her. Neither of them is aware of what the other is feeling. Neither of them will ever know. Dear Sam, I wrote this when I was twenty and so desperate for you to look at me the way you did the first, second, and third time you kissed me. There was something about your eyes then, that made me believe you would look at me forever. I wanted you to. Now the memories are fading, and I can’t remember what your hand felt like in mine or how the timid way you kissed me felt. I can’t remember your laugh or how you lit up over a topic that interested you. The fading of these memories does not dull the pain of losing you. It only makes it sharper. I imagined saying goodbye to you a thousand and one ways. I knew it would come, sooner rather than later. I had to leave, and you had to stay but this was going to be more than your standard moving away goodbye. The permanence of it was on the tip of my tongue. I was afraid to do it, but it had to be done. Not for your sake, but my own. You see, I thought if I said goodbye it would add a period, a proper “The End” to our story. Let’s face it, everything is a metaphor to me. It’s the way I understand the world around me. I needed to finish you in order to begin a much happier sequel. I imagined phone calls where you would answer the phone all surprised to hear from me. You would say, “Hey! How are you?” And I would pause to collect myself because hearing your voice would make me feel like I was about to cross the ocean in a canoe. I would fail to fake the composure I needed, and I would blurt out, “I’m leaving.” And I would start to cry. Softly. You wouldn’t notice. Or you would, but you wouldn’t mention it. Because you were decent like that. “When?” You would ask, bewildered because you weren’t expecting that. Of all the things—me asking you to dinner, again, or just wanting to say ‘hi’— ‘goodbye’ would leave you floored. “Tomorrow,” I would say, having to wipe my nose with my sleeve. It runs easily, you would know, in theory. I could’ve called you sooner, but I wait until the day before to shock you. To make you panic. To force you to realize what you’re about to lose. And all you would say is, “Oh.” Because you don’t use your words. You lock them inside of your brain and you don’t share them with anyone. Me, my words spill out of me so much that I have to keep diaries and journals and Word Documents to collect the ones that escape. I used to say I spoke enough for the both of us. You prove that is still true. We would be silent for a moment, waiting for the other to speak. I would, taking my cue, say, “I just wanted to say goodbye, if that’s alright.” I don’t know what you would say back. I’ve made up scenarios to help me sleep at night. But they are wildly inauthentic. Because they aren’t really coming from you. And if they aren’t coming from you then what’s the point? I’m deceiving myself. That’s the point. I’m pulling at loose threads, searching for something deep down I know isn’t there. Hoping, praying, begging—mutely, silent. Because these are all the words I never said. Couldn’t say. Because I had no right to. And I wouldn’t force that on you. I don’t ask for things. It’s a well-known characteristic of mine. I love you, but I will never tell you. I need you, but I will never ask you to ask me stay. I want you, but I know you’ll never chose me. So, I’ll save us both the embarrassment by keeping my mouth shut. Dear Diary, It starts to hurt less, after a while. The pain. It dulls from a throb, to an ache, to a soft pulse. It’s still there; but don’t think it will just leave one day. Don’t think that you’ll wake up free. No. It will just hurt less. Dear Diary Sometimes, things just don’t go according to plan. Mistakes are made. Things are done with good intentions, or bad. There are misunderstandings the size of mountains and words said without any meaning behind them—these can be good and bad as well, based solely on context and whether or not you’re actually paying attention when they are said. Feelings are hurt. No one apologizes when they should, even when asked. People are left behind—usually in pieces. You grieve. You grieve for however long it takes. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You call your best friend and cry because your body can’t produce the right string of words to describe how that knot in your chest won’t go away. How it throbs at night when you’re all alone—so, so alone. You take long showers—sitting down—that eventually go cold. You smile like everything is just fine when you are around people who don’t know. Who were never informed. Who you will never explain anything to because of the overwhelming shame of your own stupidity. Internally, you’re screaming. You’re screaming so much it becomes its own form of white noise in your mind. Every moment of your passing days begins to resemble a checklist. Don’t snooze your alarm. Brush your teeth. Think about eating breakfast. Settle for coffee. Make it strong. Get dressed. Catch the bus if you have to. Thank the driver when you get on and off.            Go to class. Or work. Or wherever it is you need to be. It doesn’t matter what it is, just get there. Think about eating lunch. Drink water and have some yogurt instead. Go home. Cook dinner. Even if it’s instant mac n’ cheese. Talk to a friend if you can. Cry. Cry and cry and cry. Watch something that you enjoy. Something on YouTube or TV or Netflix. Anything that you can draw some kind of joy from. Go to bed. Even if you’re just lying there in the dark for hours until the sun starts to come back up again. Repeat the list until it becomes a habit. And don’t be mad at yourself if it takes “too long.” There’s no such thing as taking too long to heal. A wound is a wound is a wound. Sometimes you have a good wallow for a day. Or two. Or five. Other times you go to dive bars with friends to watch them sing karaoke while you struggle to drink a beer you don’t even like. That knot in your chest, that all over pain that seems to be holding you down against the floor, it will fade. Slowly. Count the days until it does if you have to. Mine took 119.


At ninety-two years old, Herman Barrett had been through a hell of a lot in his life, and complained about it a hell of a lot more. In his mind, however, he’d earned that right. Those kids today, those yuppies, those whippersnappers, just didn’t know how good they had it. The things his generation had gone through to give them the cushy, oversaturated lives they blasted shamelessly over the internet. He’d make sure they knew it though. Darn sure. Herman was born on the cusp of the Great Depression. His father slaved away in a rubber factory to put food on the table of their ramshackle apartment, earning a fatal cancer as an end-of-year bonus. By the time Herman finished high school, he faced death himself, serving in a little thing called WWII. Barely able to fend off his local bullies, he was placed against the might of the Jerry army, promptly wounded when he misfired his own artillery shell. He woke up screaming on the boat back across the Atlantic, his searing side loaded with shrapnel. The war hadn’t been all bad though. Without it, he wouldn’t have been forced to recover in that dreary Toronto hospital, his bedpan emptied by a pretty nurse named Cordelia Robbins. Once he’d been deemed ‘healed enough’ to leave, he took the opportunity to marry her. Though he wanted to stay in the city, times were tough, so they left for Cordelia’s sleepy hometown of Day’s End, where he could work in her father’s metal shop. They moved into a small two-floor home on the corner of Swindon and Bristol, where they spent some seventy-odd years together. There they raised three boys and a host of dogs, celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases- a barrage of happy memories. Times had changed though. They’d certainly changed. Now Cordelia resided in a brass urn on the mantle, and Herman’s only regular human contact was with Juanita, the caregiver his eldest son hired to maintain his fragile longevity. Herman had convinced himself that Juanita was more for his son’s peace of mind than his own wellbeing. At the very least, her daily visits meant that he didn’t have to be locked up in a home- he’d take a second load of shrapnel before he let that happen. Currently, Herman was seated at his kitchen table. He was flanked by the usual fare- orange pill cups and bowls with hardened-on oatmeal residue. Juanita was across from him, watching the blood pressure monitor that gripped his forearm like a chain. “Hold still” she instructed, voice professional despite her shrinking patience. “This is stupid!” Herman spat back. “Thing’s so tight it’s gonna chop my arm off!” Juanita rolled her eyes as the rubber cuff swelled, the gauge arrow rocking side-to-side until it finally settled on a reading. “One-forty-five, Mr. Barrett. Still high” she reported disapprovingly. “You need to lay off the cupcakes.” “What cupcakes?” Herman asked, brushing a rogue sprinkle from the tablecloth. His caregiver sighed heavily, pulling off the monitor with a crackle of Velcro. She placed it in a bulging grey case of what Herman saw as further instruments of torture. “Are we about done?” he grumbled. “The Wendigos are on at 2. Although a lot of players have stupid hair nowadays, you ever notice that? What happened to just a nice, short Sunday cut? Now you’ve got mohawks and dreadlocks and hipster beards and all this crap.” “You still need to do your exercises.” “Exercises?!” Herman gasped. “Oh no, I’ve got things to do. Important things. The exercises can wait. I’ll just double it up tomorrow.” Juanita frowned. “No arguments, Mr. Barrett. This is your health we’re talking about. You refuse to use a walker, so your legs need to be in tip-top condition.” She always said that. *Tip-top*. It drove Herman insane. Juanita lifted a rolled-up mat from her bottomless chest of supplies. “I’ll get this set up. You just stay here and relax…and that means *stay*.” She flicked on a nearby radio, the Glenn Miller Orchestra swelling from nothingness. Herman scowled, watching as Juanita disappeared from the kitchen. He didn’t *mind* her company, truth be told. She was someone to speak to. Someone who would listen to his long, meandering stories. But she was certainly no Cordelia. Cordelia wouldn’t have forced him to do exercises or have his blood pressure taken or swallow pills the size of his head. She would’ve wrapped her arms lovingly around him from behind, whispered sweet nothings in his ear, her red locks brushing the side of his face. She certainly wouldn’t have made him stay in any one spot, that was for sure. Gripping the chair-back, Herman hoisted himself up, vertebrae cracking like pistol shots. He’d been warned not to move too much on his own, especially up and down the stairs. One morning Juanita arrived to find him lying sideways by the bottom step, hip bone jutting out like a dorsal fin. He was admittedly not as swift as he used to be, but an old war wound plus being almost a hundred basically guaranteed that. He headed defiantly to the den, with a stride resembling Frankenstein’s monster. Rather than a cane or walker (“what do you think I am, some kind of old man?!”), Herman had set up an elaborate trail of chairs throughout the main floor of the house, allowing him to grapple his way around. It also gave him quick places to rest, which he needed every few feet. He was already out of breath by the time his slippers sunk into the den carpet, the Orchestra but a muffle of brass. He collapsed into his favourite armchair, a thin sunbeam slipping through the musty drapes. The chair had been there over fifty years now and, though stuffing burst from the seams and it groaned and creaked just as much as he did, to Herman it was the most comfortable thing in the world. It also gave him a perfect view of the fireplace, the inside blackened with soot from blazes long ago. The mantle was covered in old volumes and trinkets, his wife’s urn resting in the centre, on eternal guard over the house she once kept. Beside it was a yellowed photo of the couple from the day they’d moved in, standing on the front lawn over a wooden “SOLD!” sign. His arm was around her, their sparkling ’46 Ford in the driveway. Looking into his own younger eyes, Herman saw himself as almost handsome. He had thick black hair rather than the grey weeds that now sprouted from his scalp. His skin was clear instead of liver-spotted, he stood tall and at attention rather than hunched over like Quasimodo. Cordelia looked even better, though she always had. Despite the black-and-white of the image, he could still see her fiery red hair, the blue of her eyes, the smear of pink on her lips. He could hear her laughing as she told her father to keep the Kodak steady, the smell of wet paint wafting from the new garden fence. “Mr. Barrett!” echoed Juanita’s voice, interrupting his memories. Herman grumbled. Maybe if he pretended to be dead she’d leave him alone. However, his caregiver was already leaning in the doorway, wearing an arm brace. “What are you doing in here? The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. You know that.” He took a longing glance at the photograph. A young Cordelia was smiling at him. “Fine” Herman murmured. It was best not to argue with the woman who controlled his medication. Hoisting himself out of the armchair, he ignored Juanita’s outstretched arm for support and headed down the hall, using seatbacks like stationary crutches. He soon arrived, gasping for oxygen, in what had been a rec-room in its infancy, when the boys were growing up. Back then it was home to a train set and a ping pong table. Once they went off to school, Cordelia transformed it into Herman’s gently-used office. Now it was filled with junk. Towers of cardboard boxes lined the walls, nearly blotting out the overhead light, each crammed to the brim with mementos from ninety-two years of life. The old ping pong table hid behind it all, cobwebs strung from the legs like a second netting. When Herman did bite the big one, his sons were going to have a terrible time sorting through it all. It brought a wry smile to his face. “Alright, Mr. Barrett, easy does it.” He groaned as Juanita slowly lowered him onto the rubber mat, laid out on the dusty tile. He was on his back, as helpless as a turtle, staring up at the plaster ceiling. Juanita tightened her arm brace and rolled up the hem of his corduroy pantleg, exposing a near-skeletal limb. She slowly stretched it upward, trying to combat the stiffness, knowing what was coming. The leg had been raised barely five degrees when Herman started barking in agony. “That’s enough! That’s enough!” As his face contorted, Juanita gently returned the leg to a resting position. The left was always more tender, though probably not as gut-wrenchingly painful as Herman made it out to be. Ignoring him, she went to work on the right. “So, I was speaking with Charlie this morning…” she reported. Charlie was Herman’s eldest son, now a senior himself- he was also the one who paid her to routinely torture him. He had escaped Day’s End for the city the day he turned eighteen, a lifetime ago. “He said you need to finish the final draft of your will.” “Isn’t that some punk lawyer’s job?” “You still have to write it. Charlie just wants to make sure that all your…assets” she glanced around at the looming boxes “…end up where you want them to, and not an estate sale.” “Estate sale? They’ll have to pry this stuff from my cold dead….” Herman clenched his teeth as Juanita gave his leg another jolt. She’d learned how to shut him up when she had to. “He also suggested you leave something to charity. Maybe the Salvation Army?” “Not that thieving cult.” “Well, think about it then. It’d be nice to leave a legacy.” As he stewed over the thought of his will, she suddenly wrenched his leg up a full ten degrees. Herman screamed. “Stop it! Are you trying to kill me woman?! You’re fired! You’re fired!” Juanita let go of the leg, and it flopped to the mat with dead weight. She knew her job was stable- Charlie had assured her as much, no matter what his father said. Herman ‘fired’ her at least once a week. “I can tell you’re tense, Mr. Barrett. Why don’t you try some of those stretches I gave you in your chair tonight, and we’ll give it a second shot tomorrow? *Tip-top*?” Herman sighed. “*Tip-top*.” Juanita smiled weakly, sympathetically, and gathered her equipment. Herman stomped back to the den, and simmered in his armchair until he heard her car back out the messily-paved driveway. Then the silence of the house overtook him. \*\*\* Slowly, Herman hobbled out onto the front porch, a steaming TV dinner in his unstable hand. He wasn’t sure what it was- beef, maybe chicken- but Juanita had left a whole pile of them in the freezer. Must’ve been on sale at Costco. Keeping his free hand on the doorway, he lowered himself into the plastic chair that lounged atop the steps, bordered by a rusted railing. He heard a small crack extend beneath his weight, and prayed he wouldn’t fall through. However, he needed a change from the drab interior of the house, and from the ghosts that lingered there. The front porch was the furthest he could go without needing another new hip. The summer street stretched out before him. It was a row of near-identical suburban bungalows, bathed in the shade of maples and ashes. Sprinklers waved lazily across blooming lawns, catching the late afternoon light. The tire swing across the street twisted in the breeze, and from nearby yards he could hear dogs barking, underscored by the rumble of a distant passing train. A car hummed by- it wasn’t a ’46 Ford, but an ’18 Toyota. Day’s End was picturesque, sure, he couldn’t deny that. Perfect small-town Ontario. But it wasn’t his. It was Cordelia’s. He preferred the facelessness of the big city, while this community- a *damn commune* as he labelled it during their rare spousal arguments- was all hers. Whenever they used to sit out on that very same porch together, as afternoon melted into evening and evening faded into night, she would strike up conversations with whoever passed by- the dogwalkers, the mailman, the mothers bringing their children home from school. They all greeted her with an enthusiastic “Hello Mrs. Barrett!”, as if Herman was just part of the scenery. She gushed as though each was her own child, asking them about their day, their feelings, their cousin’s wedding, everything. Even during Cordelia’s last days, people from all over town brought cards and flowers and homemade chicken soup to try to cheer her up. They were always surprised when Herman answered the door, as if expecting Cordelia to leap out of her bedridden, near-death state to come greet them- which she certainly would’ve, had she been able. When she finally passed, people stopped visiting. Stopped coming to converse. Herman was a pariah, the eternal outsider. He had always wanted to leave- he was a city boy after all. But getting his wife to pack up and move would’ve been like wrenching a child from its parents’ arms. Although he was now ‘free’ (he hated saying things like that), he was long past his expiry date in being able to set up a life elsewhere. So he would die in Day’s End, he assumed, in Cordelia’s shadow. His own passing wouldn’t be the local tragedy that hers was- people would only remark, “oh, the house on Swindon and Bristol is up for sale”. The only prevalent reminder of what had once been was a wooden sign staked in the dirt of the front garden, declaring ‘*Two Old Crows Live Here*’. Cordelia had seen it at the garden centre shortly before Herman’s ninetieth, and thought it was cute. The One Old Crow hadn’t gotten the nerve to remove it. The One Old Crow disliked Day’s End. He took a deep groan when, suddenly, a foam projectile flew from nowhere. It bounced off the porch railing, careened off the chipped doorway, and knocked the TV dinner from Herman’s hands. It splattered to the floor, trails of meat juice making their escape from the plastic tray. “Ah! Look what you made me do!” Herman shouted, despite having no idea what happened. “I’m…I’m sorry mister.” Herman turned his head. The voice had come from the young boy next door, standing on the lawn at the edge of the Barrett property. He was six or so, with hair like a mop and a t-shirt with the logo of a rock band he was much too young for. *Everything wrong with today’s Day’s End*, Herman thought. The kid’s Nerf football sat in the remains of the TV dinner, smeared with gravy and mashed potatoes, slowly shuddering as it came to a rest. “I’m sorry” the boy said again. Herman was about to lay into him, when the thought of Cordelia gave him atypical restraint. “No, it’s…fine” he muttered absent-mindedly. He prepared to hoist himself up, intent on grabbing another dinner, when he noticed the boy was still staring at him, wide-eyed. “What do you want?” “You’re so…” the boy said slowly, as if knowing his comment was inappropriate, but not being able to put his finger on why. “…old.” Herman was slightly stunned. “You bet your butt” he muttered, almost out of nowhere. He nearly said a different word, but maintained his restraint. It was just a kid, after all. “Why do you walk so funny?” the boy asked. It was the type of question only acceptable when it came from the mouth of a child. Herman had seen this particular child before, running around his front yard screaming, playing with his football, forcing Herman to crank up his radio inside. It struck him that he had no idea what the boy’s name was. “I was hurt in a war.” If he was going to answer the kid, he might as well make it interesting. “A war!?” the boy exclaimed, his jaw nearly striking the grass. The inevitable question came next. “Did you ever kill anyone?!” Herman frowned. The closest person he’d come to killing was himself. But the kid didn’t need to know that. “Oh yeah, a *lot* of people. Tons of bad guys. I once had Hitler himself in my sights.” The boy probably had no idea who Hitler was (Herman doubted the town’s education system), but it blew him away nonetheless. “That’s so cool!” he gasped. “Then what happened?!” What did happen? He met Cordelia, moved to Day’s End, had some kids, grew older and crankier. Then he thought of something the boy might like. “I worked at a metal shop. Made all kinds of stuff. I got to use a blowtorch.” That was enough to send the kid spiralling into awe. Herman felt awfully good about himself. Maybe his young neighbour was more curious than he assumed. “Ryder!” called a woman’s voice from the screen door of the adjacent house. The boy glanced over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Suppertime.” Herman was about to nod his head goodbye when he felt a…strange sentiment. “If you ever want to hear some more of my stories, you come back to my porch at anytime, you hear? I can tell you about the time I sailed across the ocean.” He quickly added, “as long as your mother says it’s okay.” The kid lit up. “I will mister!” “Herman. My name’s Herman.” “I will Mr. Herman!” Herman leaned down and lifted the football, wiping off the gravy with his handkerchief. “Go long!” he exclaimed. The boy, in fact, had to rush forward to catch it, but caught it all the same. At least he was still playing outside, Herman thought. He wasn’t one of those drone kids he pictured, glued to the screen of some iThing like a B-movie zombie. Herman watched the kid run off with the energy he wished he still possessed, bounding over the toys scattered across the lawn. The One Old Crow smiled. “See you soon.” \*\*\* “Mr. Barrett!” Juanita called out, her keys fumbling in Herman’s lock. “Mr. Barrett, are you awake?” The door creaked open, and she kicked off her shoes. The house was eerily silent, as if completely abandoned. Juanita hated mornings like this. It was just like the one where she found the old man lying at the base of the stairs, comatose in pain from his shattered hip. On one hand, he could be fine, gently napping in bed. Or there could be something horribly wrong. She walked up the thin, carpeted entryway and turned into the den, worried by what she might find. The scene, however, appeared relatively…peaceful. Herman was lying in his favourite armchair, feet up on the ottoman, slippers pointed towards the ceiling. A NASCAR race blared from the static-y TV, the rapid colour flashes reflected in his reading glasses, which drooped low on his nose. At first Juanita began crossing herself, thinking he was dead, but then she noticed the slow rise of his chest beneath the wool sweater. Herman gave a snort-like snore, turning his head side-to-side as if troubled by whatever he was dreaming about. The war, maybe. Juanita walked over and switched off the TV, plunging the house into total silence. Admittedly thankful that she wouldn’t have to put up with an *awake* Herman for the time being, she tip-toed into the kitchen to set his pills for the day on the counter. That’s when she noticed a printed document lying casually on the tablecloth, beneath an antique lamp. Its letters were blocky and all capitalized, as if drafted on a typewriter. She felt a wave of surprise at the title stenciled across the front- *Last Will and Testimony of Herman Barrett*. Feeling almost voyeuristic, she began flicking through the still-warm pages, hole-punched and bound together by a thick paperclip. She reached a section labelled ‘Endowments’. Herman’s physical and financial holdings were to be split three-ways between his sons, with Charlie gaining ownership of the house. She was surprised to see her own name listed, as the lucky recipient of his wife’s old clothes and belongings, still jammed in boxes in the spare room. *Typical Herman*, she thought. She was probably the only other woman he knew. However, Juanita was most astonished by the last item listed. It was a significant financial endowment, made out to the town of Day’s End. Herman had scribbled beneath it in red ink: *For Cordelia*.


Ned lives in Dusk Island, Australia. He thought he was a superhero. It ruined his normal life, and turned it around and around, until it became a withered heap of nothing. One boring rainy night Ned ducked under his small splintery wooden framed door. *Today something fun will happen.* He thought. He had just read a book about superheroes. He had liked it so much, that he had wanted to become one. *I’ll be super Ned!* He thought as he skipped across the cool damp lawn. It was lit by a faint tall lamp post that stood by the beaten road. He sloshed across the lawn with his wet leather shoes. He thought leather was cool. Infact, he thought it was so cool, his whole outfit was made of it. He was outside at nighttime, because he had wanted to catch a criminal. He should have known it wouldn’t work. He ran across the wet pavement, his leather shoes thumping on the beaten pavement. He ran all around until he reached a bridge. This bridge stretched across the ocean. It led to Sydney. He could see the tall skyscrapers up in the sky. The Sydney Opera House lit up the dark sky. The moon was covered up by thick wet clouds. He came to the end of the bridge. Then he ducked under the toll booth. He ran through the loud city, looking for crime. He ran all around the city. His lungs felt like they were on fire. He wad hurting all over. His skinny body was not used to such exercise. He sat on a bench next to an old man. He instantly felt better. The old man was leaning on a small tin trash can next to the bench. He looked pretty bad. *Bad as in crime.* Ned thought. Ned sat next to him and waited for the man to do some crime. He sat there. He waited a couple minutes, then he looked at his clanky old watch. It was midnight. Time for crime. Ned’s back was pressed against the cold metal bench. He was waiting still. The old man croaked, “Whatcha doing?” “What??,” said Ned the old man had surprised him. “Oh! Uhhh… Nothing!!” The old man cracked a smile. His yellow teeth were coated with plague. He smelled like cigarettes. Ned ran behind some nearby bushes. His leather shoes were soaked from the cold wet grass. He had to wait for the crime to happen. The old man had to be alone. After about five minutes of waiting, he saw the old man walk into a jewelry store. *Old men don’t go to jewelry stores at night!* Ned thought. The old man walked out. An alarm was sounding. Ned ran over to the man. The old man bashed him across the forehead, and walked home, back to his house. His home he had owned for years. The one with the small splintery wooden doorway. The one with the beaten road beside it.


I was up at 6.00am as usual ready for my morning run. Standing at the kitchen sink looking out at the back garden, the lawn covered in a film of dew, I downed a glass of warm lemon water, strapped my water bottle to my waist, did some stretches on the bench outside and set off. The forest track was a short walk down the road, our house one of four in a semicircle at the end of the cul de sac.

The forest was in deep shade, the sun not yet high enough to filter through the canopy, the branches were dripping from the early morning dew and as I started my run on the leaf strewn damp path I felt icy drops on my bare shoulders, it was chilly but I would soon warm up as my circulation warmed me. I loved my morning run through the forest and fields beyond and preferred to run solo. I ran a few times with a companion but didn’t enjoy the company of another person puffing beside me or the idle chatter that would inevitably take place between us. I recall one of my friends who was also a keen jogger remarking that they were surprised that I didn’t run with an ipod and earphones in my ears which seemed to be the go to requirement for joggers. To me listening to music or story’s could be done at home or in the car and train to relieve the monotony of the journey. Early morning sounds of birds and insects and my own rhythmic breathing was my orchestra.

The track twisted its way through the forest and now that the sun was higher shafts of light created pathways of light creating stage like spotlights on the track and the small grassy clearings. In one of them I saw a group of rabbits enjoying the fresh grass and a lone deer in the shadows. I reached a fork in the track and decided, for a change, that I would take the one that I normally ignored, I had heard that some logging and clearing had taken place and was curious to see what that was all about, new housing estates were popping up like mushrooms and I wondered whether this clearing was the precursor to a new development.

It was a Sunday and no work was taking place. I stopped and looked at the once alive forest and mighty trees now lying down in rows of logs and waiting to be carved up and made into slabs of wood for furniture and floors, their insides exposed and naked all their branches now small stumps along the length of each tree. The bright yellow machinery looked alien and was scattered over the site of fallen trees, the area was roped off with yellow and black tape. A sign warned that only authorised persons were allowed on the site. Two crows sat on one of the logs cawing as if in mourning for the fallen forest and as if in unison with the crows the familiar sounds of insects and birds had fallen silent.

Half hidden in the trees behind the devastation I glimpsed a small log cottage, my curiosity got the better of me. I skirted the clearing and came in behind fighting my way over fallen branches and through vines to the cabin. Moss and lichen was growing on the outside log walls and on the slate roof, many slates had broken and shards were scattered around the building. The windows were covered in spider webs and creepers that had started to take possession of the small cabin. A small deck of rotting and broken planks ran along the front of the cabin and an old bench stood next to the door which in its day was painted blue judging by the glimpses of peeling paintwork that could still be seen. A rusty hasp and staple hung loosely from the slightly ajar door. Climbing up the rotting steps to the deck and minding my footing at the same time I reached the door. ‘Anyone there?’ I asked, feeling a bit stupid for thinking that this wreck would have an occupant.

I pushed the door gently, somewhat afraid of what I might find inside.

To my surprise the inside was swept clean and the floorboards were all in good order. In front of me there was a passageway leading off the front room and I tentatively made my way down the short passage calling as I went ‘anybody here?’

I went into the first of two rooms leading off the passage. A rusty iron bed stood under the window, woven spider webs draped from the corner of the ceiling and window, a perfect trap for insects seeking the light from the lone window. A wooden crucifix hanging crookedly over the bed was the only other item in the room. This room was not as well kept as the front room and my running shoes left prints in the dust covering the floor. The opposite room was a different story. The floor was swept clean but the window was boarded up, only slits of light came through to give the room some light. A large picture in a gilded frame was leaning against the wall and as I looked around I noticed a number of other paintings, some with dust sheets draped over them lined around the wall. I bent down to take a look at the one closest to me, I couldn’t see much but in the low light there was it looked like an old masterpiece much in the style of Claude Monet, I moved closer to the picture but the light was not good enough for me to see the picture clearly, let alone discern any signature on the painting, but I pondered, I knew that worldwide many famous artworks had been stolen and never recovered, could this and the others lining the wall be some of the lost masterpieces. My eyes were adjusting to the light and now I could clearly see light coming through the gaps in the floorboards near the area behind the door. I could see that it was a trapdoor as I bent to see if I could open it I felt someone behind me. Suddenly I was grabbed by the shoulders and a cloth placed over my nose. I awoke shivering, the only light in the room was coming through the cracks in the door facing me. I was propped up on what appeared to be an old leather settee. My head was aching and the cable ties around my hands and ankles were digging into my skin. I tried to get loose but had no strength to struggle, I tried to take stock of where I was and how I got here. My mind was fuzzy and I felt totally disoriented. I remembered the log cabin and the cloth over my face. I was shivering with cold and fear of the unknown. How long had I been here? I noticed for the first time that my running shoes were missing but I still had my socks on. My running shorts and T-shirt the only other clothes on me.

I called out weakly, my throat was dry and I had to swallow several times to get my vocal chords to work. Silence. I tried again but was too weak to waste energy, I leaned into the soft leather and tried to collect my thoughts and must have dozed off. I was awakened by a bright torch shining into my eyes. ‘You awake’ the gruff voice questioned. ‘Can you hear me?’ the voice pushed me on the shoulder. ‘Yes’ I said ‘who are you’. ‘Never mind, I am going to release your hands so that you can drink some water. Do not talk to me, just drink the water and shut up.’ I spilled water down my front as I hungrily drank the cool liquid.’ That's’ enough, give me your hands.’ I lashed out but the voice grabbed my wrists and thrust them onto my lap as he tied them up. ‘You will sleep now’ he said with a chuckle. I could hear another voice whispering something to him and then they were gone. The door slammed and I heard the bolt slide into place. I could hear voices on the other side of the door and was straining to hear what was being said. ‘We’ve got to move fast and clear this place today.’

I was aware of being carried on a stretcher with a blanket over my head, ‘Shit’ I heard a man’s voice ‘this guy is heavy’ ‘shut up’ the other voice said. I felt myself being lifted higher and worked out that I was being loaded into the back of a vehicle, I was on a gurney and the blanket on my face had slipped enough for me to see that I was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. The vehicle took off with a jolt and after a few minutes of rough road the vehicle turned and the ride was smoother, the sirens were now blaring as I felt the ambulance travelling at high speed. I was confused, had I been in an accident? I tried to recall what had happened to me. I remember being tied up and the voice, the same one loading me into the ambulance. The large Monet painting, and the others stacked against the wall, was that a dream?

I tried to speak, I could feel that there was someone beside me. I caught a whiff of perfume or powder, it was a woman. A hand on my chest. ‘Don’t try to speak, we are nearly there.’ A soft Irish accent I thought as I once again fell asleep. I am staring up at a moving ceiling and rows of lights, ‘he is not injured, just shocked. ER 2 and we’ll have a good look’ a jumble of words and orders were being said by the medical team, my mind spinning in confusion.  I am propped up on white pillows, a tube in my arm. My wife Cynthia sits beside me holding my hand ‘Hello Love, how are you feeling.’ I smile at her. ‘What has happened to me, the last I remember is that I went for my usual run, ended up in a log cabin in the forest and now here I am in a hospital, what is going on?’ ‘You were found alone in an ambulance outside the hospital’s emergency department, luckily you had your ‘dog tag’ on so they could identify you and contact me. You hadn’t been checked in by the paramedics and had just been left there. They have examined you and given you something to settle you down, apart from bruising on your wrists and ankles there does not appear to be anything wrong with you.’ ‘Except for a bloody sore head’ I replied. The police want to question you but there does not seem to be any crime except for a stolen ambulance which was used to transport you to hospital. You have been missing for most of the day and I was getting worried when you didn’t get home this afternoon but thought that perhaps you had taken a change of clothing and showered at the club and met up with some of your mates. You will remember that I had a breakfast meeting with Cindy and needed to take an early train so I wasn’t far behind you when you left for your run. The police have asked if you wouldn’t mind going in to the station sometime tomorrow to answer questions’ ‘I need to talk to them now, I was held captive in a cabin in the forest and the weird thing was that there were large paintings in one of the rooms that looked like old masterpieces. This could be a hideout for a gang of thieves.’ Cynthia smiled, ‘you must be imagining this.’ ‘But what about my wrists, look at them and my ankles, bruised.’ I gave the police a detailed statement that same evening, they told me that they knew of the cabin in the forest, it used to be a haven for druggies but had been cleared out of them some years ago, a developer had purchased the parcel of land with the cabin and was now developing it for a housing estate, the cabin was the property of the developer they said and needed to get permission or a warrant to search and follow up on my statement. A few days later I was curious to know the result of the police investigation and called the assigned constable. He told me that they had gained access to the cabin, it had been cleared by the developer as a site office, the cellar had also been cleaned to be used for storage, there was no trace of any other activity and they were unable to proceed except to record my claimed kidnapping.


Princess Aoi awoke from her deep sleep and stretched. She rose and walked toward the balcony where, only two weeks prior, she encountered the glowing orb that aided her in appreciation of life and the people she loved. Taking a deep breath of the dewy morning air, she headed to her wardrobe and got dressed for the day. She left her room and walked down the large corridors to her office, where she found Giles, Alyn, Leo, and Louis waiting for her. They bowed as she entered. The princess grew cautious at the unusual sight. “Is something wrong?" “Your Highness,” Giles began, “we have just received a letter detailing an official request from the King of Stein.” Princess Aoi’s eyes widened at Giles’ words. “He would like to meet with you and visit the palace.” Alyn sighed in frustration. “Not only that, but His Majesty King Byron also requests a tour of the castle town with the princess who’s a mere commoner.” Princess Aoi frowned at Alyn. “Was it phrased that way in the letter, or are you being sardonic, Alyn?” He looked away, a harsh expression on his face. “It was clearly implied," he huffed. "I don’t trust this at all." Leo looked at his twin brother and sighed. “I agree with Alyn that it is suspicious, but I don’t think His Majesty believes you’re incapable of upholding your duties to your country.” Louis stepped forward and spoke reassuringly. “It’s likely nothing to worry over, Your Highness.” “Although,” Giles cautioned, “it’s not a stretch to be wary of this request. Stein is still fairly secluded and has only recently began to sign trading contracts with neighboring countries. And only two weeks have passed since they opened their borders.” Giles lifted the letter from the princess’s desk and walked toward her. “Ours and Isharui are the only two countries which Stein has not opened its borders or engaged in trading agreements with.” Giles handed the paper to the princess and she began scanning its contents. “But why would he request a meeting with me?” Princess Aoi looked up from the letter at the men. “Why not our King? Wouldn’t that be more appropriate or beneficial for King Byron?” “Not quite,” Leo said, leading the princess to her desk. “You are now the ruler of our country, so it’s vital that you begin making important decisions in His Majesty’s place.” “Leo is correct,” Louis said. “And there may be more to this request than negotiating trading contracts.” Princess Aoi tilted her head in confusion. “What do you mean?” “He means,” Alyn sighed, “that King Byron may be planning to propose a unification of our countries” “Since you two are closer in age than any other nearby rulers, it makes perfect sense. And after all, who could resist a smile like yours?” Leo’s suggestive tone made the princess blush in embarrassment. “Enough, Leo.” Alyn pulled his brother away from her desk by his collar. Leo shrugged at him. “If that is what the meeting is centered around, agreeing to Stein’s request to visit is entirely your decision, Your Highness.” Giles gave her a reassuring smile. “However, I believe he is only asking to discuss trading between our countries. What would you like to do?” Princess Aoi looked down at the request document and smiled. --- Princess Aoi stood by the gates with Alyn and Giles on either side and a handful of guards as the dark blue carriage came to a careful stop in front of them. A tall man in regal attire stepped out following his aide. Princess Aoi took a few steps toward him and curtsied, bowing her head low. “I welcome you, King Byron.” She met his steady gaze with a smile. “I am the ruler of this country, Princess Aoi.” King Byron’s aide stepped forward and bowed to her. “His Majesty is humbled that you graciously accepted his request to visit.” Giles moved to stand at the princess’s side and bowed before speaking to the King’s aide. “You are Captain Albert, are you not? His Majesty’s advisor and captain of Stein’s Royal Military?” “I am,” Albert said, placing a hand across his chest and bowing again to Giles and the princess. “We have a traditional dinner being prepared tonight, Your Majesty. Our country’s national dish, in fact.” King Byron nodded. Giles turned is gaze to the princess. “Your Highness, would you like to escort His Majesty into the palace?” “Of course,” she said, turning and motioning toward the palace behind the open gates. “If you would please follow me, Your Majesty.” The King nodded and fell into step behind the princess with Albert at his side. Alyn walked next to Princess Aoi protectively as they headed up the brick path. Upon entering, Giles guided King Byron and Albert upstairs to the rooms they would be using for the few days they would stay at the palace. Princess Aoi sighed and walked to her office, followed by Alyn. There were documents she and King Byron were to look over and discuss in their meeting the next day. Giles informed her earlier that the King would rest from the long journey until their dinner in the evening. She sat at her desk and began reviewing the trading documents once more, making sure every detail was correct and looking for any overlooked mistakes. Though she was well prepared, she still felt anxious. Alyn sighed next to her. “You’ve reviewed those at least a dozen times, Your Highness. You don't need to go over them again.” “Just one more document,” she said, picking up three. Alyn reached over and pulled them out of her hands. “You should go rest. You’ve had an exhausting past few days. Tonight’s meal won’t settle in your stomach well if you’re worn out.” She sighed at Alyn and reluctantly rose from her chair. She walked over to the windows and looked at the garden below, only to find King Byron carefully inspecting a bed of flowers at his feet. “Alright, Alyn. I’ll go take a walk.” Alyn nodded to her and watched as she quickly walked out the doors of her office. He shook his head once he couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore. “You’re already doing great, but you’re so unsure of yourself.” He sighed to himself as he walked toward the doors to leave the room. “Maybe King Byron will help you find the confidence you need.” --- Princess Aoi walked slower once she reached the garden grounds. She looked around and found that no guards or servants were present. King Byron had been looking at a large willow tree that sheltered a bench underneath it. The princess took a calming breath and walked towards the tall man. “This is quite a beautiful tree,” he said quietly in a deep, smooth voice. She looked up at him in shock. It was the first time the princess ever heard him speak. She turned to the old tree, still a more than respectful distance from the King. “It is.” Princess Aoi carefully walked to his side and looked up at the tree with him, only just then appreciating its beauty in a way she hadn’t before. She then looked up at King Byron’s features. He was a handsome man, only a few years older than herself, with striking dark blue eyes. He looked down to the bench under the tree and began walking toward it. As he sat down, he calmly gazed at her. The King gestured for her to sit on the bench next to him, and she approached, sitting on the bench hesitantly. “Your country is a beautiful sight.” Princess Aoi’s eyes widened, and she turned to look at King Byron. “I quite enjoyed the long trip from my castle.” She nodded. “I’m glad, Your Majesty.” The princess turned to face the garden in front of them. “I love this country very much. Hearing others speak of it in such a way is heartwarming.” King Byron glanced down at her. “I’ve heard that you are very knowledgeable of your citizens’ ways of life, and that has aided you in trading with other countries. You are aware of what is needed and what is not.” “I simply think of all the times where I visited the market before I was princess and remember what was lacking and what kept coming in excess. I’ve never thought of it in the way you explained it." She met his gentle gaze. "Thank you, Your Majesty.” He gave her a small smile. “Princess, you do not need to be so formal with me.” Princess Aoi stared at his smile for a second before looking down uncomfortably at the grass. She got the feeling that his smile was a rare sight. “I don’t understand what you mean by that,” she said quietly as she looked back up. “Allow me to rephrase.” He turned his body towards her and placed his gloved hand over his heart, bowing to the princess. “I formally request we call each other by our names instead of formal titles while we are alone.” He straightened, giving her a beautiful, gentle smile. “I want you to just address me as Byron, if you’ll allow me to address you as Aoi.” “What do you mean ‘while we are alone?’” “Well, I don’t believe Al and Giles will like it if we were to be so informal around them.” Aoi giggled with Byron at the thought of their advisors’ reactions. “Alright, Byron.” They sat in silence for a while, watching the garden and sky and equally appreciating the calm moments they knew they would not experience again for a long time in their busy lives. Suddenly, Aoi spotted a familiar light at the far end of the garden. She watched the glowing orb travel from the ground to the side of the palace, heading in the direction of the balcony outside her room. A thought occurred to her. “Byron, have you ever wished that you could know what it is like to be a citizen of your country instead of royalty?” He nodded. “Yes. I find it difficult to know the needs of my citizens and make decisions that will benefit them.” He let out a long, melancholy sigh. “I love my country and would do anything to protect and aid my citizens.” Aoi gave him a smile. “I feel that way too. Though I do have experience as a lower-class citizen, I still find it hard to know what is best for my country. I want to do my best for my citizens and will do everything in my power to keep them happy.” Byron nodded and gazed up at the willow tree. “I know many bureaucrats of this country oppose the princess system, especially when a citizen of the lower class is chosen.” He reached down to the grass and picked a small blue flower. “However, I think they are wrong.” Aoi stared at him in awe as Byron carefully reached over and tucked the flower behind her ear. “I have more respect for you than I do any ruler in the world. I believe a perspective like yours will cultivate a much happier country than a leader who only lived in luxury and knows nothing about their citizens’ needs.” She gave him a beautiful smile and he returned one that could almost rival hers. “Aoi, I am here to unofficially ask you for your guidance in making decisions for my country.” He stood and offered his hand to help her up. Aoi placed her hand gently in his and rose. “I’d be honored to help you, Byron.” They exited the shade of the willow tree and entered the sunlight illuminating the garden around them. As they walked the path to the palace, Albert approached them in a rush. King Byron’s smile disappeared. “Your Majesty, I’ve been looking for you,” he said with a bow. “There are items that need your attention, and we must get you ready for dinner this evening.” The King showed no emotion. “Very well, Al.” He nodded to Princess Aoi and she watched them walk away and enter the palace. “Your Highness,” Louis called as he walked across the courtyard to where the princess stood. Leo waved from Louis’s side. “How’d the King treat you while you were alone, Your Highness?” Leo wore a teasing grin. “Shut up, Leo. She’s anxious enough without your teasing.” Louis stopped in front of Princess Aoi and looked down sympathetically. “His Majesty didn’t say anything to upset you or make you uncomfortable, did he?” “No,” she said, shaking her head quickly, “nothing like that. His Majesty told me that the journey over here was nice and he thinks our country is beautiful.” Leo's eyebrows furrowed. “I suppose he’s saving important conversation for dinner and the tour around the town,” Leo pondered, folding his arms. “Or our previous suspicions are correct,” Louis whispered, “and His Majesty is-” Louis stopped speaking when he noticed the princess’s ear. “What is it, Louis?” “Your Highness,” Louis said quietly, “what did you two speak about, exactly?” She tilted her head in confusion. “Yeah, Your Highness,” Leo said, pointing at what he and Louis noticed with a smirk. “If it was only about his journey here and the scenery, then why is there a flower tucked behind your ear?” The princess’s eyes widened and her cheeks reddened. “It’s just a flower, nothing significant or worrisome,” she rambled. “Anyway, I need to get ready for tonight’s dinner, so if you'll both excuse me.” She rushed past the two men and hurried into the palace, heading in the direction of her room. Leo and Louis looked at each other with astonished expressions, then walked into the palace after her. --- Princess Aoi rushed the door closed when she entered her bedroom, breathing heavily from running through halls and up many staircases, desperately wanting to scold whoever gave her the farthest bedroom in the palace. The orb she noticed earlier was dancing around her room as she walked to her vanity to get ready. “I thought you only came around to grant wishes,” she said as she sat down before the mirror, watching the familiar gorgeous glowing man approach from behind. “Well, I couldn’t aid my newest client without coming to see my favorite,” he said with a mischievous grin. The princess turned around to face him. “Newest client?” “You haven't realized?” She shook her head. “A man wished he could marry the woman with the most beautiful smile." The princess blinked as he gestured to her. "I told you not to underestimate your smile, little one.” “You mean King Byron made that wish?” He nodded. “But what about the trial period? What did you take from him?” “I took what others deem most important about him.” The man’s smile dropped into serious expression. “He is the son of a tyrannical king. The most important thing his citizens believed about him was that he would rule the same way his father did.” “But he seems so kind,” the princess whispered. “He is truly kind. I never changed anything about him. I merely erased his citizen’s negative assumptions about his abilities and values. A blank canvas for his actions to paint on." “And no trail period?" “He said if he did a poor job, his citizens had every right to hate him. He wants them to form their opinions on his actions, not his father's.” The man smiled at Princess Aoi and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Now, I believe you are needed in the dining hall, Your Highness.” She stood and raced to her bedroom door. Just as she began to open it, the glowing man spoke up “Oh, Princess?” “Yes?” “Smile for me.” She gave the glowing man one last beautiful smile filled with gratitude and happiness. “Never underestimate your smile.” “Thank you,” she whispered before hurrying down the corridor. She stopped near the entrance to the dining room where Giles stood waiting with Alyn. Giles gave her a stern look of impatience. “Where did you run off to? His Majesty will be here any second.” Suddenly, Princess Aoi heard the doors from the opposite hallway open and she moved to stand next to Giles, facing King Byron as he entered the room with Albert. Giles bowed to the King as Albert bowed to the princess. “We thank you for joining us for this evening’s dinner, Your Majesty,” Giles said. “His Majesty was glad to accept the offer,” Albert said as he straightened. Giles gestured toward the dining hall. “Please, follow me.” Alyn opened the doors and bowed as they walked in. The table had been set ahead of time as usual, though the two settings weren’t at opposite ends. Instead, a certain meddling bureaucrat had the settings across from each other at one end of the table. Princess Aoi looked over her shoulder at an annoyed Giles and the bureaucrat outside the dining room. She watched Leo wink before walking away from his scowling brother who closed the doors on him. She let out a quiet laugh and turned forward when she realized that King Byron had noticed too. Giles and Albert kept their distance and stood near the door behind King Byron. As he and the princess sat across from each other at the same end of the long table, King Byron gave Princess Aoi a wink. She caught her breath, remembering the smile he showed her in the garden that was absent while others were around. They were silent as the formal dinner was presented and their plates were set in front of them. The servants bowed and stepped away. “I hope Your Highness will accept the trading contracts that Stein will be proposing during this visit,” he said, lightly emphasizing the word ‘proposing.’ Aoi smiled beautifully at Byron. “We’ll see.”


Alessia had anchored her boat in a small cove on the northeast corner. The space was too small for any larger vessel, and the tides meant she was grounded much of the day, but the boat and her home were safe. That night I walked back to the boat with her. I told Xander and Kurbani I was going to keep her company, but in reality it was so we could talk more about the island and how we would convince the islanders to leave. Spring was slowly arriving. For the first time since I left Kadear, the night air didn’t feel bitter and cold. The sky was clear, and we walked under a blanket of stars and a waning moon that gave just enough illumination to the fields in front of us. “How do you think they’ll react?” Alessia asked. “Have they discussed needing to leave?” “Back when we first met, Sirad said something about some islanders not being ready to give up,” I thought back to that moment lying on the floor of that abandoned room, my ribs aching with the memory. “I reckon some are ready to go, though.” “So we’ll have some who agree and some who disagree,” Alessia nodded in thought. “The bigger issue is how they’re going to leave,” I shrugged. “There’s no boat big enough in the harbour to survive the seas, and they won’t all fit on yours.” “One passenger on my boat’s enough anyway, thank you.” She forced another smile. “But yeah, you’re right.” We continued to walk down the long hill towards the cove. As we descended, the sound of light winds rustling in trees was replaced by waves lapping on the shoreline. Alessia opened her mouth to speak, she took a deep breath in before finally saying the words. “You still got any artefacts left?” “Yes. Why?” “I’m going to need you to trust me… a lot.” “I already do,” I replied. A large beaming smile crept across her face for a brief second before she tried to smother it with a more stern expression. “I don’t think you know how much those things are worth. If you have enough, we could buy a boat - a big one. I could sail off, find a suitable ship, and come back.” “How much do you need?” I asked. “If you still have some of those lighters left. Maybe eight or nine of them.” I tallied what I had in my head. I’d be left with a shadow of what I started with. I hadn’t been living in luxury since I left Kadear, but I had never had to worry about how I would sleep or eat. This would change that. I would no longer be self-sufficient. A brief doubt crossed my mind. That selfish part of me that wanted nothing but to travel, to jump from island-to-island exploring - it begged me to refuse. But my conscience won out. I swallowed the id down into my stomach. “It won’t leave me with much, but sure. I can give you the artefacts.” “Great. Can any of them sail?” “In a dinghy by the harbour? Probably. Coping with an unexpected ocean swell with no sign of land?” I shook my head. Alessia tutted. “I’ll have to teach them - but we need to get to Tima Voreef. They’ll have to learn as we go, so we sail in tandem, at least initially.” “We can tell them tomorrow. I’ll get everyone together in the evening. Then we can explain it to them and hope they see sense.” Alessia stopped and looked back between me and the boat on the beach. The ship lay on the sand, listing to one side, the anchor stretched along the sand in front of it. “This is going to change things. For us both.” “What do you mean?” I looked to the side and let out a dismissing chortle. “Until this gets sorted, you can’t just travel for fun going off wherever you want now. And I can’t go taking whatever trading routes I want. Sure, I gotta make a living still. But…” she paused, and looked out to the sea. “Like it or not, the second we leave this island we’re taking on a responsibility. To the people of Deer Drum. The living and the dead.” “I know,” I said. “Good.” Alessia furrowed her brow. I took a long deep breath and waited for Alessia to catch my eye. “I’ve been running around chasing things since I left Kadear. This is the same, just more focused. But you… are you okay with this?” “No,” Alessia chuckled. “But... I don’t see any other way of this ending without blood on my hands. I’m not prepared for that. Sometimes what’s right comes before what you want.” “You sure?” She rolled her head from side to side. “I like being able to sleep at night.” She looked up at the stars flickering in the sky. “Speaking of which, it’s been a long day. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” The following evening we gathered the residents of Deer Drum to discuss our plan. All sixteen adults and the two older children all sat around in a large circle as Alessia explained their options. “The boat won’t be huge. You won’t all be living in luxury. But you’ll be comfortable. We’ll teach you to sail on the way to Tima Voreef. From there, you can sail to whatever island in the Archipelago you want to. That’s your decision.” “How long do we have to choose?” asked one woman. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Alessia replied. “Are you telling us what to do, or is this an offer?” Sirad shouted from across the circle. “An offer,” I replied, sensing the tone in his voice. “Look, we can’t force you to get on a boat,” Alessia replied. “So it’s not an order. But I’ll tell you bluntly; if you stay here you will most likely die.” Silence fell across the circle. There were no further questions. “They’re right. We have to go,” Xander said, his eyes staring his hands, as he slowly tore up a piece of grass over and over. “You want to leave?” Sirad replied. “No. But I want to live. I want them to live,” he nodded to his daughter sitting beside him. “We can’t just give up, abandon Deer Drum,” another woman replied. “Like it or not, Deer Drum is already dead,” said Xander. “We’re here, but the island... Who we were. It’s gone.” Xander’s bluntness hit a few members of the circle. One man bucked, his head falling into his hands as he covered his face. “He’s right,” said Eir. Her voice seemed even thinner than when she had inspected my injuries when I first arrived. “We have to move on.” “What?” Sirad stood up. “This is our home. I’m proud to be from Deer Drum. I’m not letting our island name die.” “Sirad, we have to.” Xander said. “And Eir, you’re listening to him. You didn’t study leadership, Xander. We’re supposed to do whatever a farmer says now.” “And you were a naturalist.” said Kurbani, standing to meet Sirad. “Were. You’re not anymore. None of us are what we were.” “So Xander is our leader?” Sirad pointed his finger at Xander, who was still hypnotized by the shredded grass in his hands. “No. We were farmers.,” Kurbani interrupted, raising her voice to cut him out. “And I’ll tell you what farmers do know. How much food people need to survive. So I’m telling you, with all I know, that if we stay, we die. And you can be nostalgic all you like. Spend weeks being so. You’ll still die. Your loyalty to Deer Drum won’t feed you.” “Please. Calm down.” Eir interrupted, she lowered her hands, trying to simmer the mood. “We’ve all been through more than anyone should ever have to. But we all want what is right.” Kurbani and Sirad heeded her point and sat back down. Once they did, Eir continued. “One thing’s for sure. We all go one way or another *together*. If some of us leave, those staying behind stand even less of a chance. So, are we all in agreement that whatever we decide, whatever the majority choose, we’ll all abide by?” She looked around the circle. Hums of agreement or nods met her gaze. “Good,” she continued. “There’s eighteen of us here. How many of us have already made up our minds?” “We’re letting the children vote?” Sirad replied. “They’re members of this island too,” Eir replied. “How many have made up their minds?” Hands rose as Eir counted. All but five had already decided. Xander’s daughter, Mirai, the other child, and three others. “And of those that have already decided. How many say we should leave?” Eir replied. She counted again. Xander and Kurbani’s arms were raised, as were seven others. “Nine. One more for a majority.” Eir declared. She looked around the circle, she was about to open her mouth when she was interrupted. “We go,” Mirai said, raising her arm firmly into the air, her face hardened. “Are you just doing this because your parents did?” asked a man on the other side of the circle. Mirai laughed. As the laugh faded, I could see dampness on her cheeks, and water in the corner of her eyes. “You don’t know how much I loved living here. You will never know that. I would shout at my parents till I died of exhaustion if I thought they were wrong and there was some way I could keep living here. I’ve lost so much. My best friend is buried in some pit outside of town, my uncles and aunts are there too. And I’m going to have to leave them, and their memories, and every good thing that ever happened in my life behind. I would give anything to not have to lose something else... But we have to face loss. We have to try and build something else, somewhere else.” “The best things grow from the worst disasters,” said the musician who I had seen playing with Novak earlier. “What?” Mirai asked. “It’s a line from a song I was taught once. ‘The best things grow from the worst disasters. The best things grow when we begin again.’ There will never be a point in any of our lives lower than this. But, from that - all that loss and emptiness - we can build.” He raised his hand from the elbow. “I vote we go too.” “That’s eleven for, four against, three undecided.” Eir said. “It’s done. We go.” There was silence across the circle. A few members stirred, wanting to dissent. But they bit their tongue. Everyone stared into the space, processing the moment in solitude. At least a minute passed before Eir spoke again. “Alessia, Ferdinand. Tell us what to do and how we can help. We are coming with you.” Alessia nodded and slowly stood up as she explained to everyone what would happen. The next day Alessia set sail. I stayed behind with the islanders as they packed up whatever goods they couldn’t dare to part with, and any food they could carry. It was a long wait for Alessia to return, but two weeks later one of the kids spotted the ship on the horizon. A handful of us rushed down to meet her as we watched the boat slowly sail towards the shore. The vessel Alessia had found was at least five times the size of her own. In reality, it was too big for one person to manage, but with a loose sail allowing a slower pace, and a lot of patience, Alessia had managed successfully. We watched the boat crawl towards the island, Alesia’s ship tugged behind by a long rope. Eventually, Alessia weighed anchor and rowed a smaller boat ashore. It was time for the people of Deer Drum to leave. My own island had turned out to be a lie. It had imprisoned me and tried to kill me. And yet, I still missed it. I was still from the Kadear Coalfields. Our homes hold identity over us. And I could see each survivor mourn as they stepped into the boat, and their feet left the sand of the island. They left in groups of three or four in the small rowing boat. Some stared straight ahead, refusing to look back lest long-cherished memories reappear. Others watched the land the whole time, hoping it would call them back, beg them to stay. With everyone on board, we set sail away from the island. For the first time in many hundreds of years, perhaps since the Archipelago was first formed, Deer Drum was uninhabited. Its purpose was now nothing more than a geographical reference. Its population, nil. We all travelled on the larger ship, Alessia’s boat towed behind. As Deer Drum disappeared over the horizon, Alessia was resting in the cabins, while I was helping the survivors get used to the seas. I knew enough of the basics to be of use in calmer waters. Eir was the first to take the helm. She seemed at ease, slowly turning the wheel as the gusts of wind caught the sails. I stood by her for the first couple of hours. Behind me, the man with the guitar was sitting on the edge of the boat, plucking a few chords. He stopped. Paused. And then began playing again, now with a more resolute purpose. After a few bars of plucking the chords, he began to sing over the top, serenading his fellow passengers. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* *For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale,* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* He stopped for a second, thinking, before starting the second verse. *My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail,* *Safe home to a harbour we’ll go.* *You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* I looked at Eir, making sure she was okay by herself, before turning to speak to the man. He stopped as he saw me approaching. “Did you write that?” I asked. He laughed and shook his head. “No. That song’s older than the Archipelago itself. I was trying to switch the lyrics up a bit. Make them more relevant to our lives.” “What’s the original about?” “Guy trying to schmooze a woman. Same as most old songs,” the man grinned. “Thank you, by the way. You’re saving us all.” “It was the right thing to do,” I said. “Good to meet you…?” I offered out a hand. “Lachlaan,” he said, returning the handshake. Once he was done he picked up the guitar again and started plucking a few strings, playing with the melody of the song. “You seem pretty relaxed out here,” I said. “There’s been a lot of pain lately,” he said over the chords. “But maybe for the first time since everything, it feels like we’re moving forward. We might be sailing into the great unknown, but we’re moving. Sometimes that’s a victory. We’ll just have to see what’s over the horizon.” As I turned and headed back to the helm, he picked up the song again. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* I looked over the bow of the ship, as we cut through the crisp winter waves on our way to Tima Voreef, and hopefully answers to what happened on Deer Drum. “This seems easier than I expected,” Eir said to me over the singing in the background. “It gets harder when the weather isn’t so kind,” I chuckled. “I’m sure, but for now.” “For now, just keep pointing at the horizon,” I said. “Point to the horizon, and see what’s on the other side.” # END OF BOOK ONE. \ The Archipelago will be taking a brief hiatus before returning with the start of book two on Thursday 22nd July.


This was from on r/WritingPrompts, but I wanted to put this here too because I think it's one of my favorite stories that I've ever written “If you are hearing this message, then the human race is dead. The information I am about to tell you is crucial, and it is imperative that you listen closely. I can’t say what our future may bring. I can’t say who or what will receive this recording, and under what circumstances that will happen, but there’s one thing I can say: this will be all we have left.” Adam picked up the device with a metal arm, and turned back to Eve. “Eve, take a look at this!” “Where you are standing used to be our home planet, Earth. We sent out a manned space vessel, the Ark, into the deepest regions of space carrying the last of our kind, in case those on Earth were wiped out by our interstellar neighbors. At the time this will be found, we expect that the mission will either be successful, or every single person on that ship will be dead. But it gives me peace of mind to know that, maybe someday, we’ll be found.” The two androids stood dumbfounded at the creature who was delivering the message. From nothing more than a small box, the creature was projected as a hologram. Two legs. Two arms. Bipedal, yes. A head on top that seemed to be where the thought processor was. It was built similarly to the android observers, but it was very organic, no metal parts anywhere. “They call themselves humans, then” Eve said, waving an arm back and forth through the hologram, finding that the human wasn’t in solid form. “It’s just an image,” Adam said. “I’m not sure if there are any real ones left” “It’s an interesting finding, nonetheless. If they built these ruins, I’d be pretty impressed” “Must’ve been the place the ship was launched. Maybe a military base” The human continued to speak over Adam and Eve. “In this ship you can expect a library of the stories we’ve written and the history we’ve made. I hope you can find solace in knowing that we didn’t waste our short time in this universe. The stories are ones of triumph and suffering, of good and evil, and of a species trying to do their best. Myself and the other members of the crew, if we live to see this day, await your arrival with anxiety and eagerness. If you encrypt this message, you can find the estimated coordinates the ship will be at on the date you receive this. I hope we can meet each other sometime soon. I hope whoever is out there will see that we are kind, and mean no harm. May the Gods be with you. Signing out.” The androids stood in silence for a second before Adam began scanning the device. “What are you doing?” Eve asked. Adam finished his scan and turned around. “We’re finding the Ark. The people aboard that ship might be the last organic lifeforms in the universe” “It’s the human’s own fault that they let their planet die. I mean, what’s the point anyway, if they’ll be gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only what they destroyed” “They made us” Eve sat down on a rock. “We don’t know that. You’ve said that about every other lifeform we’ve come across” “No-you don’t understand. We didn’t just come from nothing. If we really are the only ones left in the universe I at least want to know who gave us that opportunity” “How is Earth any different? How is it different from the hundreds of planets that we’ve searched?” Adam started to pace around the ruins. “Stories. They said they tell stories. And they kept them on the Ark, an endless vault of information both real and imaginary. If they made us, we’re the stories they’ve made, we’re the stories that they passed on to stay here long after they’re gone. We have a wealth of knowledge as expansive as the universe itself, and that's what they would have wanted. I just want to know that we’re not chunks of metal. I want to be the universe. I want to be infinite.” “Fine, we’ll go. You know, it’s ridiculous that we contain the entire wealth of knowledge in the universe and we can’t even find who gave it to us. You’re right, we owe them a debt. Did you get the coordinates?” Adam nodded. “It transmitted radio waves that I downloaded, and you could find the numbers in the code. It’s only a few light years from here.” “Great” Eve eagerly marched back to their ship. “Let’s meet our maker” \~ Adam slowed the ship to a stop as they reached the coordinates. “It should be here. That is, if it kept going on the intended trajectory.” Eve pointed at a gray blur in the distance. “Look!” They flew closer to find a massive, box-like ship that was about 50 miles long. Atop it seemed to be a city- or what used to be one. Massive skyscrapers with hundreds of glimmering windows dominated the area. Once it must’ve been full of light, but now, there were just occasional flickers behind the windows. Eve’s excitement turned into melancholy. “They must’ve done so much here. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Adam approached a landing pad that was coming into view. “I hope someone’s still in there. Even Earth isn’t like this, at least not anymore.” The exit ramp lowered and released a puff of gas. Carefully, Adam and Eve both stepped out and surveyed the surroundings. “There’s an entrance in that building over there. And- an elevator” Eve rushed to the elevator, Adam trailing behind her. The doors closed, and they began travelling to the lower levels. It was pitch black for the first few minutes. The tunnel was probably a mile long. After some time of silent anticipation, the glass doors slid open to reveal the bottom levels. Right away it was clear that the Ark was no more. The halls were barely illuminated by only a few flickering lights, and sparks flew out of some machinery on the wall. A loud ringing sound filled the room as they stepped onto the unstable metal floors. Something had happened here. Perhaps the extraterrestrials they were trying to avoid caught up with them. Perhaps they ran out of supplies. Or were killed off by a disease. But no matter what, Adam and Eve were now the only remaining inhabitants of the universe. Eve led the way through the winding, almost labyrinth-like halls. “Typical organic beings. They could never get along. Always out for blood. It just makes me sad that they had to end like this.” Adam stopped to look at the chunks of metal that were scattered across the hallway floors. “Everything has to end eventually. You can’t have a beginning without an end.” “Who’s to say you can’t begin again?” “There’s no way we can do that, Eve. Come on, let’s find that library” They turned right to find a massive chamber that was several stories high. Along the walls were hundreds of pods, each one carrying a human. “Cryosleep. They must’ve been kept in suspended animation. They’re alive” Eve barely smiled, but she knew this was wishful thinking. “No. Look at the pods.” They observed the bodies more closely. Many of them seemed to be in the middle of a scream, or were writhing in pain. Some of their skin had started to decay, and frost had built up inside the glass shield. A few of them had bones that were exposed. And every single one of them had the same cold, empty, dead eyes. One full of life, once full of pride, once full of the wonders of a species that was determined to make their mark on the universe and reach beyond the night sky. “That’s what happened, then” Adam said. “The pods were turned off, and everyone in them suffocated. The aliens- whoever or whatever they were- then looted the ship” They stood in silence, almost in mourning. Mourning people they never even knew. Mourning the death of organic life. “I need to see the library,” Adam said, turning around to continue exploring the ship. “I just need to read what the humans had to say so I can have peace of mind.” Eve didn’t say a word, but she continued on, and Adam followed. They were dead silent as they continued down the halls. Windows to either side of them gave a stunning view of the realm outside, of the infinite void of space. A reminder of what the universe represented. Discovery, survival, possibility. The creatures of the cosmos working in harmony. That chance for universal peace, that began its path to destruction the day the Ark was attacked, would never come back. The hall only led to a dead end, with access to only one room. As it came into view, it was clear that this was the library. It was nothing like the rest of the ship. Instead of metal, it was built with wood. A winding staircase circled the room and kept going up, beyond a point that was even visible. Shelves lined the wall- bookshelves. Physical manifestations of the human legacy. Each packed with a book, a book tirelessly constructed by one person, with nothing but a pen, and a dream. The creators of the Ark had chosen to abandon a modern digital storage system, instead opting to pay homage to the work of the authors who had written about and documented the legacy of a species. Adam and Eve began browsing the bookshelves and flipping through every title. Historical books like *The History of the Roman Empire* or *The Renaissance*. Works by great thinkers who were long gone. *Romeo and Juliet. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Great Gatsby. War and Peace*. New worlds, new universes, completely sculpted by thought alone. It was like a chance to start over, to construct the universe in your own image. “The humans sure told good stories” Adam said as he browsed through the works of Shakespeare. “I guess the only way to cope with the fact that you are alone on a ship in the middle of nowhere, and you’re the last of your kind, is to start over” Eve smiled at the thought. “Who’s to say we can’t start over too?” “What?” “The only thing you need to create a new universe is thought. We contain every thought there is to know. Who’s to say we can’t give these humans another chance? A chance to start over in a new world, where the only thing they need to enter it is a thought.” “So we put them in a simulation?” “It’s the least we can do. And then they can keep writing stories, and they can keep sculpting their own universes. We can’t die. These people can. But their thoughts don’t.” Adam nodded in agreement. Then he spotted a single table in the middle of the room, with only one book on it. *The Holy Bible.* Hesitantly, he came down the stairs, opened to the first page, and read. “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters” The world around him began to dissolve, and Adam began to feel like he was floating. “Then God said, ‘Let there be light’” Everything went black. And there was light.