Day 1:

So, a gratitude journal is supposed to make me feel better? Fine. Here's my first entry: GO FUCK YOURSELF!! Day 2:

Seriously? Writing instead of talking during therapy? Feels like a punishment. Great, another reminder of how much my life sucks right now. Day 3:

So now, daily prompts? Whatever, it's easier than pulling this shit out of thin air.

Today's prompt: Describe a random act of kindness you saw.

Val, the therapy dog, knew who needed her today. She sat with the quiet girl, who smiled for the first time since I got here. Guess that's something. Day 4: Prompt: Describe the funniest moment from your day.

Funniest moment today? A nurse totally wiped out trying to dodge Val's toy. It felt weird to laugh again like I was laughing at a funeral, but it happened. Maybe things aren't all bad here, or maybe I'm just getting used to the chaos. Day 5: Prompt: Write about your outfit and why you chose to wear it.

I'm wearing my oversized Nirvana shirt again today. My mom's from the '90s. She loved them, and honestly, wearing this shirt comforts me. Dr. Wade noticed and said he saw them live back in the day. We chatted about music for a while, and it felt surprisingly good. Day 6: Prompt: Describe a place that makes you feel calm and content.

The garden here is my escape. It's quiet and peaceful. Today, I just sat and felt... normal, like I wasn't trapped in this place. Day 7: Prompt: What skill do you have that you're proud of?

Today felt different. I showed the group some American Sign Language, and they truly got into it. It was weirdly uplifting, like I was actually good at something. I know ASL because my older brother is deaf. Everyone got really excited about learning more.

Day 8: Prompt: Reflect on a conversation that changed your perspective.

Dr. Wade got deep about my mom’s Nirvana shirt, saying, 'Memories can be sanctuaries or prisons.' That hit me hard. I've been clinging to the past, but maybe it’s time to start living for now. Day 9: Prompt: Write about something you're looking forward to when you leave.

I'm looking forward to teaching my friends ASL. It's part of who I am, and it feels good to share that. I’m also looking forward to spending more time with my brother. I miss him. He’s all I have left.

Day 10: Prompt: Describe a moment of accomplishment today.

When I taught Val a new command in ASL, she nailed it! Everyone was impressed. The handler said I have a gift. Getting that nod made me see things differently. Like, maybe I’m not just a mess of problems. Maybe I’ve got something real to offer.

Day 11: Prompt: Describe someone who inspires you.

A therapist here, who's also battled depression and came out the other side, talked about how working with animals helped her heal. It's inspiring to think I could turn my pain into something that helps others. It made me think that maybe there's a future in combining ASL with animal training. Day 12: Prompt: Discuss the most challenging part of your day and how you handled it.

Group therapy was tough today. It cracked something open in me. We talked about why we're here, and I shared a bit about my mom's death and how alone I felt after. Talking about my mom was painful, but it also helped me realize how much I've bottled up. Needed to use some breathing techniques to stay calm. Dr. Wade keeps reminding me that sharing might be the only way through my grief. It was hard, but I survived.

Day 13: Prompt: Consider a new hobby you might want to start.

Been toying with the idea of starting a vlog about ASL. You know, showing what it’s like living with my deaf brother. ASL isn’t just a skill for me; it’s part of who I am. Starting this vlog feels like I’m taking all the crap I’ve been through and flipping it into something big that could actually matter. Day 14: Prompt: Write about a moment today when you felt hopeful about your future. Dr. Wade suggested volunteering at an animal shelter or joining a program that trains therapy dogs. Merging my ASL skills with my love for animals could really be something. I never really thought about what I wanted to be when I grew up because I wasn’t planning on growing up. But this could be a plan. This could be something. Day 15: Prompt: Reflect on how you've changed since arriving here. I've changed a lot since I got here. This journal started as a punishment, but now it's helping me see a future where I can use my experiences to do something meaningful. Who would have thunk it? lol Day 16: Prompt: What's something new you've learned about yourself? I've discovered I'm stronger than I thought. I can handle a lot more than I gave myself credit for, like facing tough talks, finding reasons to laugh, and learning to share parts of myself. Before I came here, I couldn’t even function, and now I have a routine, therapy, and the tiniest sliver of hope.

Day 17: Prompt: Write about a fear you've overcome. Taught the group basic ASL today. I was nervous they'd laugh, but they were super into it. It feels incredible to share something I love and see others appreciate it. Day 18: Prompt: Reflect on a moment today when you felt connected to someone else. I connected with a younger girl in the garden today. I shared some ASL signs with her to help her express her anxiety when she can’t find the words. And, you know what she did? She thanked me! It's moments like this that make me feel like I could really make a difference. Day 19: Prompt: Reflect on a moment of laughter today. Laughed out loud with others over lunch today. It felt good to really laugh. Some kid made a joke about the

"mystery mush," and it felt like it was a typical school day with friends. Later, I started thinking about home and mom and how it used to be, and it made me feel lonely and sad. I let myself be sad for a little while, and then I got up and went to dinner with everyone else. I know I still have far to go, but baby steps. Day 20: Prompt: What did you do for someone else today? I helped a new patient understand how things work around here. Remembering how lost I felt when I arrived, it felt good to make her first day a little easier. She sat with me at lunch, but she didn’t say much. I hope she’s okay. Day 21: Prompt: Write about advice that has helped you. Dr. Wade's advice today hit home: "Change means finding new reasons to live." It's got me thinking about all the reasons I've found here to live.

Day 22: Prompt: Describe a challenge you faced today and how you dealt with it. Faced a tough session today without losing my cool. Using breathing techniques, I talked about my hopes without anxiety taking over the conversation. Day 23: Prompt: What are you grateful for today? I'm grateful for Val today. When I was feeling down, she just came and sat by me. Her presence is a constant comfort. Day 24: Prompt: Write about a moment you felt proud of yourself. I led part of today's group mindfulness session in ASL, making it accessible for everyone. The positive feedback was overwhelming. I love to see how much this can help. Day 25: Prompt: Reflect on a lesson you'll take from here.

It hit me today. This therapy stuff, the breathing techniques, the journaling, it all seems to be working. There was this moment this week when I would’ve totally lost it before. We were in group, and someone brought up losing someone they loved. Old me would have shut down or stormed out, but I stayed. I used those stupid breathing techniques, and it helped. I even felt calm enough to share something about my mom without flipping out. I'm starting to handle things that would have wrecked me just a month ago. Day 26: Prompt: Discuss a realization you had about yourself. Realized today that my difficult days don't define my whole story. I have so much to offer, and I'm ready to use my experiences to help others. It’s like I’m not just the girl who lost her mom or the sister to a deaf brother. I’m someone who can make a difference. Day 27: Prompt: How do you feel about your progress in therapy? Looking back, I can see how much I've grown. Remember when I could barely sit through a session without wanting to scream or bail? Now, not only am I sitting through them, but I'm contributing and helping others open up. It’s weird, but sharing my stuff about losing Mom and dealing with everything at home has made me stronger. I used to think this place would keep me away from my problems, but it's given me ways to face them head-on. I’m ready for what’s next, and that’s something I never thought I’d say. Day 28: Prompt: Discuss how you might continue your journey after leaving here. Thinking about volunteering at the animal shelter and taking some animal behavior classes is kind of exciting but also a bit nerve-wracking. Is this really going to be my thing, or am I just fooling myself? But hey, learning to train service dogs is worth a shot. I can’t think of anything else I want to do, so why not. I can take risks. I am tougher than I was before. Day 29: Prompt: How do you feel about going home tomorrow? I'm so nervous but also excited about going home tomorrow. Initially, this place felt like jail. But now, it's like I'm taking off my parachute as I'm about to jump out of the plane. I've changed a ton here and figured out things about myself I didn’t even want to admit were real. I keep imagining walking through our front door, seeing all the old familiar stuff, yet feeling totally different inside. And then there’s seeing my brother. We’ve texted, but F2F is going to be different. I’ve got so much to tell him. I really want to make him proud and show him I’m okay. Day 30: Prompt: Write a letter to yourself about your hopes for the future. Dear Me,

You made it through this mess and found something you’re passionate about. Remember how far you’ve come, and keep that fire inside you. The road ahead might get bumpy, but you’re more able than you think. Stick with it.

You've totally got this!

Love, Me Day of Discharge: Today, my brother couldn't stop talking about how different I seem. The ride home was all about the future: starting an ASL club at school and volunteering at the animal shelter. It feels good to have plans that aren’t just about getting through another day but sincerely looking forward to tomorrow.

I've decided to keep writing in this journal—not because I have to, but because I want to. It's my way of remembering where I've been and seeing where I'm going. I started this journal with a big 'fuck you' to everyone, and now here I am, not wanting to stop writing. Shows how much someone can change when they find the right reasons to.


Redesigning people A lot of people say stupid things. Possibly because they don’t think before they talk, but more likely because they just can’t think that well. Stupidity takes a heavy toll on our economy and slows down scientific progress, because a lot of time has to be invested in trying to explain these concepts to people. Stupidity might even be increasing in numbers, because anybody can breed as much as they like. Stupid people are equally good at survival as smart people, and they often have more babies because they can’t think about consequences that well. Go visit a trailer park and see it with your own eyes. As a result, scientists have been retreating to their labs for many years already, to desperately search for a solution. And thank goodness they did. It’s called CRISPR, and because of CRISPR we may soon never have to face stupid people again. CRISPR is the technology of modifying genes and changing gene expression. Because stupidity is often embedded in our DNA, there is hope that we can soon apply this technique to patch up human kind. Some people may only need a bit of DNA polishing, others some chromosome cutting, whereas yet others might require complete gene destruction. CRISPR technology cannot only make stupidity past tense, but could also cure laziness, ugliness, or even smelliness. The possibilities are endless. Imagine that, never having to share an elevator with unpleasing people again! Even though CRISPR is still in it’s infancy, I’m gonna go ahead and thank the scientists. We owe them bigtime. Genetic modification has thus far only been applied to cure diseases. It can circumvent blindness, allergies, Alzheimer and many horrible illnesses that are currently untreatable. A very noble cause of course. But whenever it’s suggested that we can also use CRISPR to improve people who are perfectly healthy, it ends up in protests. It’s to do with ethics or something. But even though these protests can be loud, it’s nothing but background noise that will be silenced over time. History has always dealt with resistance, whether it was against machines, internet, democracy, or racial equality. Some individuals will always be afraid of change and rebel with a cause. Hopefully we can genetically filter that trait out too. Meanwhile, scientists quietly carry on while waiting for legislation to catch up. Once the path has been cleared for redesigning people, a bright future lies ahead. Depressed people will be happy, fat people will be slim, and untalented people will be successful. We will no longer waste our neurons on astrology and fortune tellers, but enlighten ourselves with logics instead. We will think quick, read fast, and remember thoroughly. By the time we’ve all become smart, we can finally agree on things and make collectively good decisions. There will never be another Donald Trump in the White House, no more Justin Bieber on the radio, and no longer El Chapo’s spreading fear. We will stop having lots of babies and start looking after our environment. Religion will be replaced by humanism, coals by solar power, and factory farming by animal rights. We will also agree that it’s best if women start ruling the world. Once women have taken over, the future will be even brighter. They will make the smart decision to genetically improve themselves slightly more than men. They will also adjust men to become less hairy and more submissive. Scientists might even find a gene that will allow men to understand emotions, although that may be a bit too far-fetched. What is realistic though is to start altering our electric brain waves. This technology already exists and is called transcranial magnetic stimulation. There is, again, some ethical jabbering going on, but once women have taken over they will give it the go-ahead. By altering the magnetic fields in our neurons, emotions and mood swings will no longer be a nuisance, and women can turn the men they have dealt with into the men they have dreamed of. They will cook, do the dishes, and forever be faithful. Despite all this greatness, there might be one pitfall. If we modify ourselves too successfully, or too extensively, we could unintentionally create a new species. Species designation is based on genetic distance, meaning that a tiger is different from a lion because the last time they shared an ancestor was 4.5 million years ago, and lots of DNA mutating went on since then. Chimpanzees ain’t humans because they’re genetically different, by only 2 percent. Point being is that it probably won’t take very long before redesigned people turn into a new species. Another tricky side to that is that not everyone will be able to afford CRISPR, or be given access to this technology at once. So realistically, there will soon be a time where redesigned people have to coexist with human people. This may raise a few complications. First of all, redesigned people could get irritated with human people because they think too slow, have a strong body odour, and illogical beliefs. They might start disassociating themselves and think of humans no different than gorillas and orangutans. Luckily for humans, redesigned people strongly believe in animal rights. Nonetheless, they’re also passionate about the environment, and any ecologist will tell you that overpopulation disrupts ecosystem stability. It’s safe to say that humans haven’t particularly been favouring biodiversity. Compare it to foxes, which were introduced to Australia and almost ate away all indigenous marsupials. Ecologists decided that there was only one right thing to do: the foxes had to go. Genetically modified ecologists might feel obliged to do the same, as long as humans died in a painless and humane way. This might sound harsh, but once redesigned people start controlling the human population, the future will be brightened even further. Because there were once 8 billion humans, that all had to eat, shit and drive cars, the world turned into a dirty and acid place. Humans could never think efficiently enough to clean up after themselves, replant trees, or vote against corrupt leaders. Instead, they ate too many cows, occupied themselves with Kardashians, and cared about designer clothes. There was so much human stupidity, genetically modified politicians had no choice but to intervene. In the future, Gucci bags, and Porsche cars will belong to natural history museums, and history museums only. Soon enough, redesigned people will be able to enjoy clean air, abundant fish stocks and queue-free super markets. They can go on holiday and experience safaris without heaps of other tourists. If they’re lucky, they get to see wild elephants, tigers, and humans. Yes, there will still be humans. They probably retreated back to little villages in the forest, where redesigned people make sure they’re safe and well-fed. Genetically modified anthropologists will have the time of their life observing these humans. They most likely still believe in supernatural things and concern themselves with appearances and something they call ‘love’. But as long as they’re happy and free, living in their own little world and small simple mind, there is no harm being done. Redesigned people can’t take all the credit, but humans will probably be a lot happier in the future than they’ve ever been in the past.


It was a chilly morning for the 9th District. The sun has yet to come up and the streets were still lit up by the streetlights. Amy, a 14-year old girl, was walking with her pet puppy's leash on hand. 5 a.m. walks was their thing ever since day 1. Amy was admiring the morning sky when she felt that their movements were growing slow. "Kei, come here, boy," she called out to the dog. However, the said pet kept on walking, somehow weakly. After a few more sluggish steps, Kei seemed to have fell. Amy rushed to his aid in panic. "Kei! Kei! Wake up! What's wrong?" she shook his body but he didn't budge. "Excuse me, may I help?" A voice surprised Amy as she turned back to see a man in his early 30's, wearing a lab coat. "My dog suddenly fainted! What should I do?!" she cried in despair. "My clinic is nearby, why don't we bring him there?" he offered as he picked up the fainted pup and walked towards a certain direction. Amy followed without any hesitation because her dog's health is her current priority.

After a few strolls, they arrived in a small building which seemed to be a veterinary clinic. The man laid Kei on the table and began examining him.

"Sir, are you a veterinarian?" Amy asked.

"Oh, right. I haven't introduced myself. My name is Toby Lee, and yes, I am a veterinarian." "Thank, God we bumped into you. So, how's my Kei doing, doc?" "Hmm, I'm still not sure yet, but I may be able to treat him properly once he wakes up," the man answered as he kept on examining the girl's pet. "Oh, would you look at that, he's gaining consciousness." "Kei!" Amy called and ran to her dog's face. "Okay miss, when was the last time your dog ate?" the doctor asked. Before she could answer, the dog barked loudly. The doctor stood up, fetched a bowl of water and laid it near the dog. Then, Kei immediately drank from the bowl. "I think it was last night when he ate some biscuits as late snacks," the girl answered. "Haha! What an adorable dog you have. He was just thirsty and probably fainted due to dehydration. You didn't give him a drink before you took a walk earlier?" "Now that you mention it, I haven't," the girl responded while looking back to a few minutes before her current situation. "Well, now that he's all filled up, you can continue your morning stroll," the doctor said as he led the puppy down from the table. "Umm, I don't have a lot, but how much do I owe you, doc?" the girl asked. The doctor could see that the girl really didn't have much. He might've saw her somewhere before. After all, 9th District is a small village. "Thank you so much, doctor!!" the girl grinned at him while she ran off waving with her dog. "Aah, what a cute puppy indeed," the man muttered to himself as he saw the girl off. The sun was now slowly rising and the residents can now hear the birds chirping. Well, except Dr. Toby Lee. Unlike any other villager in the 9th District, or probably the whole world, he could understand all animal languages.

When normal people hear birds chirping, what Toby hears is something along the lines of "Ah, good morning, world! Another day of chirping away!" That's why he became a veterinarian.

When Amy's puppy was barking earlier, the doctor actually heard, "Ah, I'm so parched. I haven't drank a drop of water since last night." That's why Dr. Lee immediately got him water to drink. This was such a small ability, but as an animal person, it really sparked joy within him. Whenever he would visit a zoo back in his childhood, his eyes would glimmer as he could hear and understand what the animals are saying. He once heard a dolphin saying "Look at me! Look at me!" and young Toby just glued his eyes on the sight. Maybe this ability was also the reason why his business as a veterinarian was skyrocketing. He had 9.8 ratings, he doesn't overcharge, and gives really accurate diagnosis. He is the dream veterinarian every pet owner could ask for. Once, a rival wanted to sabotage him and sent over an undercover trying to poison the doctor with a venomous snake. To his rival's dismay, Dr. Lee was able to tame the snake and even warm up to him. To an animal's eyes, he is the best owner they could ask for. However, even though he loves and can understand animals, and animals want and would love to be with him, he can't. Why, you ask? Because his wife is allergic to animals. That's right.

Even though the great Doctor Toby Lee is the epitome of an "animal's best guardian", his wife can't stop sneezing when there's a fur baby within 5 meters. It really made the doctor sad, but he really loved his former high school girlfriend, now wife, so he chose to involve himself in veterinary instead. The doctor's thoughts were interrupted as his phone rang. Without looking at the caller ID, he answered it. "Hello?" he started. "Hey, honey," he could hear his wife's voice from the other line.

"Yes, darling?" "Nothing. I just thought you might be spacing out and lost track of time and didn't se your alarm, but it's time for you to open your clinic," he glanced at his watch to see that his wife was right. "Oh my, you're right. You see, as I walked to the clinic, there was this girl who was walking her dog and her dog fainted so it just made me remember a lot of things. Anyway, I gotta go now. Bye, I love you." "I love you too," then, the call was ended by a beep. The doctor then got up and opened his clinic and flipped the sign that now says "open". "GOOD MORNING BOTH PETS AND OWNERS! THE LEE ANIMAL CLINIC IS NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS!"


C/W: terminal illness

I found him lying on the sidewalk with a bloody smear streaked across his gray forehead. Black rim glasses lay nearby broken in two. Like me, he’d just left the gym on that mid-June day when the cloudless sky and fresh air made me glad to be alive. But the man hadn’t even made it to the parking lot. It had to be a heart attack, I thought, clogged arteries, dying muscle.

The last ashen face I saw was my sister Conni’s on the day she died. Her belly had been swelling for months. It was Hep C the doctors said, from a blood transfusion. Before they knew better.

A guy in a gray shirt with the gym’s logo on the pocket knelt beside the man, said the guy was okay, just waiting for the EMTs. But the man was motionless, not breathing. Leaning close to his ear, hand on his shoulder, I shouted, “Hey buddy, take a breath.” There was no facial grimace, no movement. In under five minutes his brain cells would die.

Conni had six weeks from diagnosis to the end. Less time than most victims of liver cancer, but eons beyond this man.

“Someone call 911!” “Yes, yes, they have been called,”said the man kneeling across from me.

In a matter of days my sister's heart became progressively weaker. her strength dwindled along with her ability to swallow and stay awake. I’d painted her toenails bubblegum pink when she could still get up. Toward the end, her feet became cool and blotchy, swollen like grotesque little sausages.

I moved my index and middle fingers along the man’s neck. Pediatrics was my nursing specialty. I’d never before felt a person's neck without a pulse. I knew what I had to do, but hesitated to begin, and rechecked.

Conni’s bloated figure rested on the Hospice bed upstairs in the front bedroom. That day, my sister missed out on the sunshine and shadows flickering around the room. Sugar maple branches waved outside her window. Bright orange and red against a brilliant blue sky, the leaves were just beginning to let go, pushed against the glass by the wind.

I lifted the man’s shirt.

“I’m scared,” Conni said from where she lay with hands folded over her body.

“What are you scared of?”  She lifted her gaze to mine, imploring, “I don’t know what it will be like. What if it’s horrible, worse than this?” “Oh, no,” I said, “It’s going to be wonderful. You’ll be free. Floating above everything. You’ll be weightless, like in a flying dream, you’ll be in the breeze.” “Do you really think so?” “Oh, yes. Absolutely. It’s going to be wonderful.” She closed her eyes after that. Her face relaxed a little.

Sudden cardiac arrest gives no time to be afraid. Instant nothingness, like a cord pulled from an electrical outlet, life ends without a flicker of fear. The man’s soft skin was still warm under my finger as I traced his lowest rib to the breastbone. I laid the heel of my right hand over his sternum, left hand over the right, fingers interlocking. I pushed straight down.

No one does chest compressions on the terminally ill. Resuscitation on my sister’s chest, unimaginable, painful, prolonging the agony in the cruelest way. After dabbing her face with a cool cloth, I swabbed her dry cracked lips with a spongy lemon-flavored Toothette.

His rib cage and breast bone felt compliant, easily depressed two inches. “Get the AED,” I shouted to the flummoxed observer kneeling across from me. An electric shock to the heart can be the key to surviving a heart attack as the signals are reorganized, synchronizing the muscle fibers.

She was my older sister, but I was taller. Only eighteen months between us, Irish twins. Long ago, on a warm summer evening, Conni and I walked along a country road and came upon a horse pasture surrounded by wire. I intended to step up on the fence in hopes of coaxing the chestnut mare closer. I grabbed a hold, screamed and spun around in circles with the electric shock that vibrated up and down my arm.

A defibrillator jolt is like being kicked in the chest by a mule. The automated external defibrillator pads in place, a monotone robotic voice said, Analyzing data. Do not touch the victim. The man lay flat on his back, both feet splayed out. The machine searched for a rhythm while I knelt at his side, waiting.

Shock advised. Do not touch the victim. Aware of the powerful shock about to be delivered, my breath held, I hit the red button. The man’s body jerked. Suddenly he drew in an enormous breath like a drowning victim gasping at the water’s surface. Perhaps I’d been wrong and he wasn’t dead after all. His face color improved for about three seconds but went gray again. My hands back on his chest, I resumed compressions.

Dying gasps are known as agonal breaths, a sign that the body is not receiving the oxygen it needs. Terminally ill patients near death might take occasional breaths for many minutes before the final one. Conni’s agonal breathing lasted nearly an hour. Her breath stopped before the heart, just a beat now and then. Conni’s time had come. The family entered the room for a final goodbye.

A siren screamed in the distance and wound down at the curb next to us. Black clad EMTs appeared with a tool box of supplies. Splitting away from the man at that moment felt strange. I wanted to stay with him, not ready to let go.

After Conni’s last heartbeat, when we were alone once more, I lay down next to her, holding her and kissing her face until her skin lost elasticity and her body turned cold. They told me I had to let go. The mortician assistants moved her body onto the stretcher. They covered my sister’s face with a sheet.

I walked over that sacred place on the sidewalk three days later. He was a complete stranger but was all I thought about. My hand went to the door and as I pulled hard, I looked up to the deep blue sky.

Just then, a warm breath of wind reached my face and blew the hair from my eyes.

At the check-in desk, the manager handed me a red envelope with a dime store greeting card inside. The man had written in shaky script, thank you for saving my life. On the front, an angel in pink with shimmering wings hovered over the Earth. Below was an inscription written in swirling letters, Angels are real .


Jim extinguished the fire, even though the children grumbled. “Please, Papa Jim,” said a boy with dark circles around his eyes. “Just five more minutes. I’m awful cold.” He wrapped his arms around his knobbled knees and shivered as if to punctuate his point. Several of the others nodded and mumbled their concurrences. Jim sighed. His eyes darted to the ruined city skyline. Nothing but rubble and rebar. “Now, Boy—” he didn’t name them, it made it too difficult when they died “—you know I can’t do that. The spiders are attracted to the light at night, and the dark is fast approaching. I don’t want to be eaten in my sleep, and I’m sure neither do you.” Jim lowered his voice. “You know full well they digest us from the inside out. Drain us dry.” The children looked over their shoulders at the shadows that encroached. A few stretched and patted the backs of their necks, to ensure nothing crawled there. They all scooched closer together, nearer to the orange embers of the fire. Nobody had forgotten the tortured fate of Girl, only a week or so prior. “How about a story, before we all settle in for the night? I’ll even take first watch. An extra long one, so you all can get some nice shut-eye.” Boy curled up on the dirt, his head atop a smooth boulder. He smiled at Jim, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Tell us again, Papa Jim, about how the world used to be.” “Yeah!” said Girl. And then, at his look of admonishment, quieter: “Yeah.” Almost a whisper. “Tell us about the munny and the burds. Tell us about the blue skies.” “Tell us about the nice rain and the treez,” said another Boy. Papa Jim nodded and grinned. A tried and true classic. The Way Things Used to Be. “All right, all right, shh. Settle down, we don’t want them to hear us, do we?” The kids shook their heads — they did not want that. “Okay, I’ll tell you about how things were. What the world was like back when I was a boy.” Another Girl raised her hand. Jim acknowledged her question. “Is this story real, Papa Jim? Only, Boy told me—” Jim glanced at the few different Boys “—that it’s all made up. A magic world. A fantasy. For little kids. It is real, isn’t it?” Her eyes pled. “Papa Jim?” He flashed them a dangerous glare. “No, it’s not made up. It’s all real, and it all definitely happened. I wouldn’t lie to you, now, would I?” The children glanced at each other then shook their heads in denial. “Now, my memory isn’t what it used to be, and I might get a few things wrong. But — to the best of my recollections — everything I’ve told you about how things were, back in the day, is true.” Girl sat back, satisfied that he’d spin no lies. “Now, let us first start with the sky. Settle down, children. Cuddle up, ready for the night. Get close, so the spiders don’t get you.” Boys and Girls obeyed. Jim did a quick headcount, to make sure they hadn’t taken one when he’d turned his back. “Back when I was a boy, before the world was aflame, the sky was a deep, deep blue.” “Blue?” asked one of the Boys. He frowned at the darkened firmament. If it hadn’t been night, the child would have gazed up into a dusty rust-coloured murk. “No way was it ever blue!” “No, no, I promise you, it was! As blue as the ocean. I swear on my—” “Papa Jim?” A Girl. “Yes?” “What’s an oh-shun?” “Oh, um. Ah. It’s—okay. It’s a giant place filled with water. You know how sometimes, after it rains, we see puddles on the ground?” “That we try and get drinking water from?” “Yes, exactly. Well, it’s like that, only huge.” Jim extended his arms. “Massive. Bigger than the whole of this desert.” The children stared at him agape. “Full of water? To drink?” “Well, no, not exactly. It was full of salt water, so you couldn’t drink it.” Boy guffawed. “Don’t try foolin’ me, Papa Jim! No way was there ever such a place.” Jim grinned at Boy. “There sure was.” He placed a hand over his heart. “No foolin’.” The closest thing they had to an oath. “And it was full of these creatures called fish. Some were tiny.” Jim pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “And some were—” he widened his hands “—ginormous! We called the big ones whales.” “Fish,” said Girl. She rolled it around her mouth, to get the full texture of the word. “Fishhhhhh.” She looked at him and giggled. “Fishhhhhh.” “So,” Boy continued to frown, “how did all this water get in these oh-shuns?” “Well, we had a rain cycle. I’m not quite sure how it all worked, but, water evaporated from the land. You know how those puddles disappear by midmorning? Then, they got taken up by clouds. You know how grey our sky is? Well, back then, they were split up — called clouds. And they weren’t always there. Sometimes, the sky was clear. Every now and then, when there was a cloud, it’d rain. The water would trickle into the oceans, replenishing them.” “How did these fish survive in the water?” “Ah. Yes, I see the issue. Well, back when I was a boy, rain didn’t hurt. In fact, it was nice. It was clean. So, the oceans were fine to swim in.” “It didn’t hurt?” Boy grinned. “You’re making a joke, Papa Jim!” “I’m not — honest. In fact, the clouds were so nice back then, we had these creatures called birds. They flew through the skies. They had feathers and beaks, and soared through the heavens.” The children craned their necks to the sky above. Some looked enraptured. Others looked perplexed. One or two looked downright sceptical. “Nah, nothing could fly up there. It would fall down!” Boy picked a rock up and dropped it. It clattered to the ground, and Jim winced at the sound. “See?” “I don’t quite know how they did it, but they did do it. It think it was their wings.” Jim waggled his elbows. “They fluttered and flapped them like this, and somehow they flew. They were delicious. There were chickens and turkeys, and we ate them all. Much nicer than spiders’ legs.” They all looked at the flensed legs, thick as cacti — with thorned bristles to match — and repressed a shudder. “We enjoyed eating, back then. It wasn’t just something we did to stay alive. I miss birds. Did you know, they made made nests in trees?” Jim nodded at the incredulous faces. “No webs, no trapdoors beneath the earth. Nests.” “Treez?” A younger Girl yawned. “Like the things we get wood from?” “Yes, but also very different. Back when I was young, they were beautiful and brown, and stretched up into the sky. They had these green things called leaves, and sometimes they blossomed with flowers. All sorts of colours. Some even made fruit — a sweet type of food that grew from their branches. Very different to the twisted little skeletal things we have nowadays.” “Well, what happened to them?” “So, you see, back before all this.” Jim gestured across the tenebrous landscape. “Everyone was concerned with money.” A Girl threw a fist into the air. “I love hearing about munny!” She laughed. It sounded like the tinkle of a Christmas bell. “It’s so funny.” “Yes, money. These little numbers — sometimes represented by little metal coins, or sheets of paper. The more numbers you had, the more things you could get.” Boy put his hand up. “You traded numbers for things?” “Yes, we called that buying. Everyone did it.” He looked at Jim with quizzical eyes. “And how did you get these numbers?” “We worked for them. In offices, on building sites, on farms. We did all sorts of things for those numbers. The more you had, the better you life was. Some people had almost no numbers at all. And they were poor.” Jim wrinkled his nose. “And some had millions. Billions even. Those people were very special.” “All right.” Jim could tell the kid didn’t quite believe him. “So, how did those numbers make the rain burn?” “Okay. So. To make money, we had to hurt the planet.” Jim shrugged. “It’s just how things were. It’s how it worked, nobody could stop it. Nobody’s fault, really. Just how it was. More people wanted to make more money, so the planet got more and more hurt. Especially when people wanted billions of the numbers. Eventually, it came to a head. And everything kinda—” he looked out at the desolation “—exploded into flames. Some said capitalism was to blame. Said the cockroaches of society bled us dry. Ate us from the inside out. But…“ He raised his clenched fists to the scorched skies. “But at least we weren’t no damn socialists.” “Damn socialism,” said most of the children in unison. They knew to echo this chant whenever Jim uttered the magic words. Those who hadn’t repeated it were the younger ones. A few Boys and several Girls had closed their eyes. Heavy breaths and soft snores. All curled up together, pups in a litter. Safety in numbers. Safety from spiders. Jim smiled at his charges, proud. “That’s right. But—” he stretched and yawned and kicked some sand over the last of the embers “—I think that’s all for tonight. Get some sleep, Boys and Girls. Long day tomorrow, the huntsman mutations are close by.” “Night, Papa Jim.” “Nuh-night.” “Goodnight. “Guh-night, Papa Jim.” “Sweet dreams, children. And remember, if you hear the scuttling in the night, raise the alarm. Can’t let those spiders sneak up on us. At first it’ll just be one, but before you know it, we’ll be overrun.” They all confirmed they would, between yawns and sighs. “Won’t let no insects get the better of us, will we now?”


Annihilating The Bridge Transient      Going under the bridge is the best part of my daily run. This morning as I approached the entrance, I saw a figure in the middle of the path. He was a pale-skinned hobo who appeared to have taken up residence underneath the bridge.

     This worthless pile of filth & disease was sitting inside of a stolen shopping cart, cradling his mucous soaked chicken legs with a set of nimble looking hands. His fingernails were long, black, & unkempt and looked like they could cause serious problems if duke got any bright ideas.       I was getting closer to the entrance but all of my instincts told me to turn back. I slowed down to walk so I could calmly analyze the situation without a racing heartbeat. I was moving closer to the haggardly beast with each step. If people saw me retreat I’d look like a bitch. Not on my watch.

     My mind was spiraling out of control. Was I making the wrong decision? Is this intense & overpowering fear I feel at the sight of a hobo even justified? Fuck that bitch. I ain’t ever scared. I knew if I remained calm and used the logic bestowed upon my gender by evolutionary forces then I could act my way out of this nightmarish hellscape.

      “Rational thoughts”, I mumbled as I entered the passageway below the bridge. The goblin was maybe ten feet in front of me and staggered slightly to my right. As I walked I was doing my best to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to give it a chance to see my eyes and glimpse my emotional vulnerabilities before overpowering me under a secluded overpass. I assure you I had no intention of getting dommed. My movements were turning more mechanical which tends to happen when I become consumed by self-awareness, but I was still making solid progress with all things considered. Walking down the path in that moment it seemed like everything was going to be alright. But of course, as soon as I thought I was free the abomination grabbed me by the arm with an emotionless face ... BIG MISTAKE BUSTER.

     Immediately I put my hand around his throat and lifted him out of his retarded alley-cart with one arm gracefully placed behind my back. I lessened the throat grip and grabbed him by the ear instead. I leaned him in close & whispered, “ever play with dolls guy?” “No”, he whimpered. “Yo ass finna be a ragdoll, MAGGOT! WE DON’T BREAK THE LAW ROUND HERE JACK!” And with that I began violently lashing his frail body against the concrete like he was a human sized whip; slamming him with extreme force and cruelty. Faint cries for help could be heard from his severely disfigured face. “I hope Obamacare covers plastic surgery for terrorists”, I asserted, as I proceeded doing what was right. WHAM! It felt like an eternity but I couldn’t stop, I’m a crusader for justice. A few minutes after the massacre began a small audience gathered around to witness what must’ve looked like the plight of an honorable man with an unquenchable thirst for justice & peace. My excitement peaked when I noticed there was a local media crew in attendance. This made my slamming even more rapid & impactful. Massive cracks in the concrete began to appear. I was drenched in blood. Blushing like a schoolgirl on prom night. “I hope they make me look cute. I’ve always wanted to be famous”, I thought .

     The longer people stayed the more they were soaked in this terrorist’s blood. I’ll never know if this is what triggered the collective vomiting but regardless the entire pavement was a brownish-green color (definitely not cute on camera when mixed with my olive complexion) accompanied by an atrocious odor to it that only got worse as the weather grew hotter. None of it mattered. I was putting on a clinic. I was having an absolute blast! I hadn’t decimated a vagrant in a while and doing it under the bridge gave me a warm feeling of nostalgia. “Just like the good ole days”, I thought as the man’s body started making a new noise after slapping against the pavement. His body was starting to feel loose & sprightly, flexible, as if me liquidating his organs was somehow acting as a massage session instead of a gruesome homicide. “I’ll just send him the bill when I’m done lol..or I guess I’ll have to send it to his estate..LOL🤣”. That made me chuckle….      At that moment everything grew quiet. The birds were no longer lively & bird-like & offered no warning before they started falling out of the sky. Simultaneously, a swarm of locusts appeared out of nowhere & completely blackened out the sky. “Fuck... I hope this doesn’t ruin any reviews of my performance”, I thought as I began wrapping things up.      To help ease me into the present moment I became more in tune with my surroundings and watched as my rage levels quickly stabilized. I no longer needed the assailant.      “EEEK!”, a little girl let out a bloodcurdling scream as she fainted in a puddle of communal body fluid. “If that little drama queen steals my show she’s got another thing coming!” With my senses coming back to me, I looked at the hand I used to pulverize the frail homeless man & realized what made the little bumpkin diva shriek..whoops…..lol.. In my hand was the bridge-troll’s severed arm, completely detached from the rest of his horrible body! I threw the piece of shit’s arm over to the spectators (didn’t get the reaction I had hoped for) & canvassed the area until I found the rest of the murder victim’s mangled corpse. Jesus fucking Christ it was disgusting. His ribs had apparently snapped at some point in the melee and were now protruding through his flabby gut. “Shoulda done more crunches instead of browsing the black cargo pants section of Hot Topic, you fuckin nerd 😂🤣”. Its eyeballs had popped out the eye sockets & were dangling from his skull. His face looked like he had been skinned by Leatherface then set on fire. Its legs had been completely flattened and drained of any blood. I guess his weak bones weren’t meant to withstand the type of trauma I was putting him through. Should have been taking a calcium supplement. I thought about breaking the remaining bones in his body to turn him into a human jump rope which would finally give him a purpose in life, but thinking about the maintenance required for a genuine human-skin accessory made my logical man brain decide to leave it alone.

     As I hovered over my trophy I was overwhelmed by a deep feeling of fulfillment and masculine pride. A single tear streamed down my smiling face as I stared at the lifeless sex-offender’s gooey cadaver. He was built like a Korean female and had the psychology of Hannibal Lecter; just an absolute piece of shit.      When I started my jog that morning I wasn’t planning on annihilating transients. I had no idea I would be dismembering a body in front of a crowd of spectators (accidentally). I never imagined I would have the power to crush the bones of a victim into an extremely fine powder, or captivate a bewildered audience for nearly half an hour as the Book of Revelations unfolded around me... But the moral of the story is this: not all hero’s wear capes. I didn’t wake up that morning with the specific goal of ridding American streets of another insidious scoundrel who refused to pay taxes. I never knew I was going to murder a man in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of adorning fans & local members of the media. But when times get tough leaders step up & do what’s right. Evil comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s disguised as a turban-wearing Muslim shouting “Allah’Akbar!”. Or as an angry little German man with a homosexual mustache. Or sometimes, it can even take the form of a seemingly harmless drifter living out of a shopping cart underneath a bridge in a heavily populated part of town. The point is that whenever evil pops its creepy little head into existence you have to destroy it. Like I did with that piece of shit drifter for touching me on the arm. Or like Seal Team 6 did with Osama bin Laden. Or the allied forces against the Nazis. So unless you think you’re better than me, the Navy Seals, or the Allied Forces from WW2, you need to take a stand for what’s right and leave this existence on the right side of history. 💯


How I became acquainted with young Timothy Preston is from most unfortunate circumstances. A bright and happy boy at the age of 4, Timothy was as energetic and fun-loving as any other growing child. During the day, you could see him splashing around in a puddle, fussing with his mother about the need to put on a sweater, or running around the house with muddy soles. Always making such a ruckus. By day he was a playful, charming little boy. When the sun set, young Timothy buttoned right up. He would become uncharacteristically quiet and when it came time for bed he would happily go to his room to be tucked in by his mother. “Mommy?” he asked this particular night. “Are monsters real?” “No honey, monsters aren’t real.” “Sometimes there’s a monster in my dream. He wants to be friends. He’s a little boy just like Pinocchio! We do all kinds of fun things.” His mother smiled. “That’s so nice of him.” She kissed him on the forehead and began walking to the door. “Remember, you are always safe here baby” The door closed, blanketing the room in a midnight blue. With the dim light coming from a small table lamp in the corner of the room, Timothy turned to go to sleep. It was then that I decided to make my move. I slipped out from underneath his bed and got real close to his face. The little angel was already trying to sleep! “Hey buddy! It’s me!” Timothy opened up his eyes with a face showing no surprise. “Am I dreaming already?” he innocently asked. “Yes Timothy. You are dreaming!” I couldn’t help but to smile. “And I have plans for tonight. We are going to have so much fun!” “I don’t feel like I’m dreaming” Timothy’s face scrunched up as he brought his hand up to rub his nose. “That’s when we can have the most fun! I will be right back”. I went down under his bed and grabbed a kitchen fork for my new friend. “Here take this” “A fork?” Timothy asked quizzically. Always such a curious little guy. “Why can’t we fly again like last night, or save another princess from a bad guy’s castle?” “Oh but this is going to be so much more fun! You have to trust me Timothy. Now get out of bed and go on up to your nightlight. Be very quiet, part of the fun is to not get caught!” Timothy slid out of his bed very quietly like the good obedient boy he is and crept up to the low light of the table lamp. “Ok Timothy, see that spot right under the plug for your nightlight? The little slits in the wall?” He nodded his little head. “I want you to take this fork and jam it right in there. If you think hard enough, your fork will go through the wall and into the most delicious chocolate cake you have ever tasted.” I shivered with excitement as his eyes lit up in anticipation, just as he was about to be lit up himself. For months I had been watching. I had been entering his dreams every night, learning more about him. Learning his likes and dislikes (He LOVES chocolate cake!). Learning his routines. Gaining his trust. It was finally time to bring him back home with me. To keep him forever. Timothy reared his hand back and closed his eyes. “You really gotta jab it in there Timothy!” my voice trembling for the moment to come. He closed his eyes and plunged the fork forward. My wide smile quickly disappeared when I realized he missed his target. In closing his eyes, he went too far up and got his arm caught up in the lamp plug, sending it flying off the table with a loud crash. For a moment, I was furious. He had ruined my plan. Tonight had been the night… But I couldn’t let this be the end. No. It was far from over. His mother came running into the room not 20 seconds later. “Timmy! Are you okay?” She turned on the light to see the broken lamp and her son sitting in front of the wall with a fork. “What on earth are you doing honey?” “I was dreaming Mommy” “Oh sweetie, come back to bed. Here” She picked him up and laid him back down in his bed, taking the fork out of his hand. “I will clean up the glass. Don’t move a muscle mister!” As she headed toward the door, she then spotted me on the floor. She stopped. “Timmy…” She picked me up. “Maybe Pinocchio will keep you safe tonight” And placed me gently beside him on the bed, my permanent, smiling gaze fixed on his overtired little face. Another night, Timmy.


      The mansion was immense, a construct of towers, turrets, and gables linked by mansard roofing, crowned by a railing of black iron. The walls were dotted with windows, a hodgepodge of arch, lattice, and porthole, from small circles to long, narrow rectangles. The exterior was liberally decorated with ornate scrollwork, trimming every edge and border. A sweep of broad steps led up to a large porch, its roof supported by tall columns. The whole place was a masterful study in Victorian architecture, something out a Jane Austin novel adaptation, like it belonged to a different time entirely.            Tonight, however, it was clearly very much in the present. Light spilled out of every window, and the faint sounds of music and conversation drifted through the still night air.            Brent let his gaze wander over the façade for a moment longer, wondering what he was doing there. He glanced down at the invitation in his hand. There was his name, spelled out in elegant script, inviting him to an All Hallows Eve party at the Token House Historic Inn. Guests were advised to dress in black tie or gown; instructions for the party game would be provided.            Heaving a sigh, Brent mounted the steps, crossed the porch, and raised a hand to knock.            The door swung open, revealing a tall man in a somber suit. At the sight of Brent, his long face broke into a smile. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in. Let me take your coat.” His voice was low and gravelly.            Brent let himself be ushered inside, and allowed the man—the butler, he guessed—to take his coat. The entrance hall of the mansion was bigger than any house Brent had ever been in. Wall sconces set into dark wood paneling provided a soft, warm light, illuminating paintings and carved molding, reaching up at least fifty feet to a copperplated ceiling. An immense staircase swept up to a second story, where it branched off into a landing leading to separate halls. Brent shifted in place, twitched his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in the unfamiliar suit he wore. He felt out of place, a little frustrated, though he couldn’t have said exactly what was bothering him.

           “If you’ll follow me, sir,” the butler said. “I’ll show you to the party.”            He led the way across the hall, to heavy door of real oak, varnished to a dark finish, which opened to reveal a short hallway. At the end of this passage, the butler halted before a set of double doors.            “Before we go farther, sir, I must acquaint you with the rules of the evening,” he said, fixing Brent with his mild gaze. “First, here is your mask.” He produced a simple mask of stiffened felt, just large enough to cover the upper face, with a silk ribbon to hold it in place. “All guests wear them. As your invitation implied, this is a game party. Each guest has been given a role, a history of sorts. Here is yours.” He held out a card of soft, thick paper, neatly folded in half.            Brent took the mask and card. “How do you win the game?” he asked.            The butler smiled. “This is not a competitive game, sir. Its goal is something else entirely. Each guest will be evaluated on how well they follow their script, and rewarded according to their performance.”            “Got it,” Brent said, though he wasn’t sure he did. He slipped the mask on, drawing the ribbon tight, feeling the fabric press against his cheekbones, already disliking the way it felt. “How long will this last?”            The butler arched an eyebrow. “Do you have somewhere you need to be, sir?”            Brent gave a quick shake of his head. “No. Nothing like that. Just wondering.”            “It will take as long as it needs to, sir. Besides, you just might enjoy yourself. One never knows.”            With that, he opened the doors, stepping through and to one side, allowing Brent an unimpeded view of the room beyond.            It was an impressive sight. Brent stood at the entrance of a huge ballroom, floored in parquet with walls covered in white marble façade. Mirrored panels covered the ceiling, from which hung a huge chandelier, bathing the room in brilliant light. Along the walls sat tables groaning under a wide assortment of drinks and finger foods. Large floral arrangements sat at the ends of each table, the bone white blossoms of a flower Brent didn’t recognize suffusing the air their sweet fragrance. A bandstand in one corner was occupied by a small orchestra, playing soft chamber music. There had to be at least a hundred people in the room, men in dark suits, women in black dresses. They clustered in groups or wandered alone around the room, chatting and laughing or grazing on the buffet and sipping drinks. Some of them had paired up in the center of the room, where a space had been cleared for dancing, their bodies swaying and turning to the music. The doors closed behind Brent with a soft click, and he found himself standing there with his card in hand and no real idea of what to do next. “Well, look here, a new arrival.” The voice boomed at Brent’s shoulder, surprising him, and he turned to see a tall, beefy man standing there. He wore his suit like he’d been born in it, and his dark, graying hair was professionally styled. A wide mouth was stretched in a smile, revealing perfect teeth. “Just go here, did you?” “Yeah,” Brent said. “You?” “Been here a while,” the man said, as if it didn’t matter to him. “People come, people leave, but the party goes on.” He chuckled. “Say, quite a spread they’ve got. Care for a drink?” Held up a tumbler of thick crystal, containing at least three fingers of amber liquid. Brent hesitated. For some reason he didn’t like the guy standing beside him. Something about him seemed… aggressive, overly self-assured. Like he was so used to pushing people around that he did it on instinct. But he couldn’t think of a polite way to avoid him. “Sure, I could use a beer.” “Beer, eh? Lightweight.” The man chuckled, then started off toward the nearest table. “This way. Name’s Tom, by the way. Say, you read your script yet? Better do that; don’t want to break the rules, now do we?” He gave a sly smile, tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Right.” Brent unfolded his card as he followed Tom. The creamy paper was scrawled with several lines, written in a curling script with dark red ink. Rules of the evening: Guests are on a first name basis only. Conversation is encouraged. For the purposes of this gathering, you will play a recently deceased individual of your name. Only two topics may be discussed: what you did in life, and how you died. The goal of the game is left for each player to decide. Once you feel you are ready, you will be scored and rewarded. Please refer to your script, and adhere to it. Brent looked up to see Tom holding out a frosty bottle of beer, eyebrows raised in a questioning look. “So?” His gaze went back to the card, and the script written there. “I’m Brent. I was a soldier, fighting against insurgents in the Middle East. I… I died,” his voice caught a little, and he coughed. “I died while on combat patrol, when we were ambushed.” He shrugged, took the beer and tilted it back for a long pull. Something about those words felt… weirdly familiar, like he’d read them or heard them somewhere before. “Not really imaginative, is it?” “Oh, it’s fine, really,” Tom said with a snort. “Mine’s just plain boring.” He fished a card out of his jacket. “Let’s see. I was an investment banker and lobbyist, involved in multiple financial and political improprieties. I died by suicide after being indicted.” He gave a booming laugh. “Now is that pathetic or what?” Despite the dismissive attitude, Brent thought the laugh had an edge to it that made it sound forced and desperate. “Yeah, pathetic.” “Well,” Tom said with a loud sigh. He lifted his glass and drained it in two swallows. “What can you do. Rules are rules, am I right?” He reached out and grabbed Brent’s hand in a firm grip, gave it a shake. “Great meeting you, Brent. Don’t be a stranger.” With that, he was off, disappearing into the crowd like a drop of water into a bucket. Brent shook his head. This night just got weirder and weirder. For a while, he drifted around the edges of the crowd, nursing his beer. He hadn’t felt much like talking when he arrived, and his encounter with Tom hadn’t changed his attitude. There seemed to be more than a few people of like mind, looking uncomfortable and out of sorts. Of course, there were others who worked their way through the crowd, stopping and talking to as many people as they could, acting with almost manic energy, as if to show how happy they were to be there. He had finished his beer and was trying to decide if he wanted another when a hand touched his arm. “Hey there, good looking.” He turned to see a woman smiling at him from under her mask, her eyes regarding him with a mixture of interest and amusement. “Care to dance?” Brent shook his head. “No, thanks. Not much of a dancer.” “Oh, come on.” She tightened her grip. “Who’s gonna care with a floor this crowded. Besides, I’ve danced with just about everybody else, and I can tell you there’s no shortage of bad dancers out there.” Before Brent could say another word, the woman plucked the empty bottle from his hand and dragged him to the middle of the room. With another smile, she adjusted his hands to her satisfaction, sidled close, and set off. For a few minutes, they focused on their steps and sway, getting a feel for each other’s movements. Brent had never spent much time dancing, but he soon found a rhythm, and was dancing easily. “Feeling better?” the woman asked, her gaze fixed on his.  Brent gave a shrug. “You’re a good partner.” “You think so?” A gleam of something passed through her eyes, there and gone again, like a shark emerging from the depths as it circled its prey. Brent cleared his throat. “My name’s Brent.” “Oh, right, the game,” she said. “I’m Crystal. I was married to this very rich doctor. Kind of an older man. I was just after his money. Naturally, I was a serial adulterer.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug of her own. “I mean, what could I do? He was always working, always with his patients. Never paid me enough attention.” Brent suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Really?” “Really, really.” Laura looked away from his face, her expression darkening. “I was gonna take him to the cleaners. I got his lawyer to destroy the prenup. I always had a talent for manipulating people. Especially men.” “No kidding?” “Yeah.” Her face took on an even gloomier aspect, and she leaned her head against Brent’s shoulder. “Then one day, I took my Jag out for a ride. To clear my head. I loved that car. But I’d had a few drinks first. I was under so much stress.” Brent felt her draw a shuddering breath. “Didn’t see the light change, didn’t see the other car.” Her breath caught in a soft sob. “I guess it was a pretty sad life, huh? Certainly not a happy one…” “Then why live that way?” Brent asked, the words out before he could stop them. “Why indeed?” Laura whispered. Suddenly, she straightened. One hand lifted to wipe at the corners of her masked eyes. “Oh, well, so much for regrets, right?” She gave a shaky laugh. Then she stepped back from Brent. “It was great meeting you, Brent. You’re a good dancer, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. See you around.” She turned and walked away, leaving Brent staring after her. Before she had gone more than a few steps, the butler appeared, emerging from the crowd. He put a hand on Laura’s shoulder, bent close to whisper to her. She didn’t meet his gaze, but she gave a little nod. The butler took her arm and led her off, the two of them vanishing into the press of bodies around them. Brent was left standing alone, more confused and uncomfortable than ever. He decided that what he needed was another drink. At the table, he paused, considering whether he wanted another beer, or something stronger. Then he noticed a young woman standing nearby, leaning against the wall, an empty glass held absently in her hand. She had a look on her face that said she wasn’t seeing the people milling around her, and that she didn’t care if her glass was empty or full. Maybe it was that he sensed a kindred spirit, someone else who just as well wouldn’t be there, but Brent grabbed a couple of glasses, poured wine into each, and headed over. “Enjoying the party?” he asked the woman. For a second, it seemed she hadn’t heard him, but as he trying to decide whether to repeat the question or give up, she answered. “No. Not really.” She sounded sad and confused, as if bothered by a hurt she didn’t remember receiving. “Someplace else you’d rather be?” Brent asked. The woman frowned, her mouth tightening. “I’m not sure. It’s more like… I’m supposed to be with someone, but they’re not here.” She finally looked at Brent, her gaze sharp and curious. “Do you feel that way?” Brent thought for a second, then shook his head. “No. No, it’s more like there’s something I didn’t do that I really wish I had.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s been a weird night.” “I’ll say,” the woman agreed. Then her lips curled in a small, tremulous smile. “I’m Carol.” “Brent.” “They give you one of those scripts?” “Yeah,” he said. “I was a soldier, died fighting insurgents. It was right outside this little town. My unit was on combat patrol; we were ambushed, scattered for cover. LT yelled for me to take the mounted gun on our Humvee. But I didn’t want to break cover. Guys were going down all over the place. We couldn’t see the shooter. Manning that gun could have turned the tide, saved lives.” Brent sighed. It was all so clear, like it had happened just hours ago. “Finally, LT says to me ‘Get on that gun, soldier, or we all die.’ So I broke cover, went for the vehicle.” He paused, feeling a sudden jolt of confusion and disappointment, like the feeling you get when your favorite character in a TV series suddenly dies. “But… I didn’t make it. I tried. I wanted to do it. But… I was shot. Bleeding out.” He drew a deep breath, remembering the pain. “And I died.” He looked up to see Carol gazing at him, her eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sorry. But at least you tried.” “Yeah, I did try. I guess that’s what counts.” Brent felt as though a weight was slowly lifting from his chest, as if telling his story had somehow relieved him of its burden of guilt. He took a deep breath. “What about you?” “Plane crash,” she said. “First anniversary. My husband and I were on our way to the Caribbean.” She paused, shaking her head slowly. “I wanted to go on that trip so much. But as the plane was going down, I kept thinking about all the things we weren’t going to live to see. Our friends and family. The house of our dreams.” Her voice grew faint, hoarse. “Our children.” She swallowed, drew a shaky breath. “Everything that would have happened in our lives, gone.” Silently, Brent handed Carol one of the glasses he held. They touched rims, took a drink. Then Brent sighed. “We really are dead, aren’t we?” “I think so.” “And this,” he waved at the room around them, “is some sort of… afterparty, for people who aren’t ready to… go on?” “I think it’s something like that.” “Then when can we leave?” “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” Brent looked over his shoulder. The butler stood there, a smile on his face. “Whenever I want?” The butler shook his head. “No, sir. When you are ready.” Brent frowned, confused. “But I am ready,” he said, then he hesitated, as a sudden stab of fear shot through him, fear of leaving everything behind, fear of going into the unknown. “At least, I think I am.” He looked at Carol. “Are you?” “I think so.” There was a slight quaver in her voice. “I want to be. I… want to see him again. I really do.” She glanced around the room, and she smiled. “There’s nothing here for me. Yes, I’m ready.” “Very good, miss,” the butler said. “If you’ll just come with me.” She looked at him, then back to Brent. “Will you come with me? Can we go together?” Brent glanced at the butler, who nodded. “There’s no need to take the trip alone. As long as you’re ready.” Brent took one last look around the beautiful, elegant ballroom, with its lovely decorations and distractions, at all the people there, unwilling to leave, sentenced to wait there for as long as it took. But for him, it was like the mansion itself, a place from a different time, that no longer mattered to him. As a limbo, it wasn’t so bad, unless what you brought with you turned it into purgatory. “Yes, I’m ready,” he said. “Excellent, sir,” the butler said approvingly. “If you’ll just follow me…” Brent felt Carol slip her arm through his. Together, they followed the butler, and left the party.


Stories are written on these walls. Tales of triumph, failures, bonds, and sadness. It's dark in here, black that no light can render. Familiar. I've been here before, many times, not always by choice though. I'm in a prison with no bars, the door is unlocked and I can leave when I please, but I don't, I won't. I've got a sick feeling growing in my stomach. It could be from the other night when she laughed in my face, or when I took a pocket of cash and put it in my nose. But why does there have to be a reason? Why waste my time looking for answers? Maybe I deserve to feel like this. I'm safe in here, it's cold, but safe. I never have to explain myself here, it's nearly impossible if I were to even try. So why bother? You don't always know why you do the things you do, why does there always have to be a reason? This place is empty and lonely, yet it breathes life, creation and hope. Bad things come here to fester and to only be remembered. Why do I keep ending up here? What keeps bringing me to this hollow shell? Because its familiar. But why does there always have to be a reason? This place was molded for me. It doesn't have to be this way, things can change, change is good. Embrace it. Embrace everything. Say yes and open my arms to the world. Live. I will break these chains and walk out the door never to look back again. Yes. I want to live. "Cal? Eh, Calvin!!" "Hmm, wh.. what?" "You okay buddy?" "Uhm, yeah I think so, why do you ask?" "Looked like you were lost in a thought" "Shit, sorry man. I was just stuck in my head again" "All good, just deal the cards" But I know I'll be back. I always end up going back. So I go ahead and deal the cards.


Courtney winced as she stuck the tip of the charcoal-colored feather quill into the underside of her arm. Her blood flowed up through its slit and into its hollow shaft. She placed the tip on the alabaster page inside the obsidian book, and inscribed the name, “Cynthia.” Next to it, she wrote the word, “Cruelty.” She then put the quill down and looked at the words with a quizzical expression, unsure of what to expect. As she put a bandage over the wound on her arm, she recalled the strange conversation she had earlier that day with the customer at the bank where she worked as a teller. The customer was an unusually tall and thin woman who wore a shapeless grey dress and carried a matching grey purse. She seemed to hover a few inches off the ground when she moved. “Hello, how can I help you today?” Courtney asked in her best fake-cheery voice as the woman approached. The woman replied, “Oh, I think it is I who can help you, miss.” Courtney thought, “Oh great, a salesperson. These people are relentless.” Courtney said to the woman, “I’m afraid I’m not the one to talk to about whatever you’re selling. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll call my manager over to discuss it with you.” “I don’t need to talk to Cynthia, my dear. She wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. Besides, you and I both know that you don’t want to talk to her right now.” Courtney furrowed her brow and remembered how she’d made a small mistake earlier that day, and that Cynthia, her manager, had berated her about it in front of everyone, including customers. “How do you know that, and how do you know my manager’s name?” Courtney asked, incredulously. The woman said, “You’d be surprised what I know,” and smiled. Courtney caught a fleeting glimpse of her teeth and noticed they seemed unusually wide and pointed at the end, almost like those of a shark. Courtney felt uneasy with the strange woman’s presence, but maintained her composure and asked, “Do you have an account with us?” “My name is Lilith,” the woman said, ignoring her question, “…and I’m here to give something to you.” Before Courtney could react, Lilith reached into her purse and pulled out a small book with a jet-black binding and a matching quill feather. She then placed them on the counter and slid them over to Courtney as she whispered, “Prick yourself with the quill and fill it with your blood, then use it to write the name of the person who deserves your vengeance along with their wrongdoing on one of its pages. Soon thereafter, they’ll meet a befitting fate.” Courtney was stunned by such a bizarre statement. As she stared at the book and quill that sat before her, she said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” However, when she looked up, Lilith had disappeared. Courtney arrived late for work and braced herself for another verbal assault from Cynthia. However, she didn’t see her anywhere. “Maybe she took the day off,” Courtney thought, hopefully. Courtney’s coworker Shauna passed by and Courtney asked her, “Have you seen Cynthia today?” Shauna stopped and said, “Didn’t you hear about what happened?” “No.” “Search for her name on Google. It’s terrible.” Courtney pulled out her smart phone and typed Cynthia’s name into the search field along with the name of the city where she lived. Links to several news sites came up in the search results and her eyes widened as she read the text of the first one, “Local Couple Killed During Home Invasion.” She clicked the link and it took her to a story that read, “Local woman Cynthia Newsome and her husband, Thomas were killed during a home invasion last night. Police believe that Mrs. Newsome was forced to watch as the intruder killed her husband by slitting his throat before she was stabbed to death. Nothing was stolen, and police are exploring possible motives.” Shauna said, “Pretty cruel, huh? Nobody deserves that, not even Cynthia,” then turned and walked away. Courtney’s began to feel sick with guilt. As waves of regret washed over her, she looked up and saw Lilith floating two feet off the ground in the middle of the bank lobby, smiling at her with a horrible shark-toothed grin. Courtney blinked hard in disbelief, and Lilith disappeared. Courtney dry-heaved into her toilet for the third time that day, then crumpled onto her bathroom floor, groaning. Every muscle in her body ached, and she felt as though she had all the symptoms of a cold, a flu, and food poisoning all at once. The wound where she’d pricked herself with the quill itched intensely, and then burned with equal intensity when she scratched at it. She removed the bandage that covered it and saw that it had turned a sick purple color. Dark red veins spiderwebbed around the wound and pulsated under her skin. “Not feeling too well, are we?” said a voice above her head. “What? Who is that? Where are you?” Courtney asked weakly, looking around her bathroom. “Up here, silly,” the voice said playfully. Courtney realized that it was Lilith. Courtney put her hands on the vanity and slowly pulled herself up as she grimaced with pain. She looked into the mirror and gasped. Instead of her own reflection, she saw Lilith smiling back at her, her shark teeth now noticeably more prominent and menacing-looking. A stream of drool trickled from her hideous maw. “What’s going on?” Courtney asked. Lilith chortled sadistically and said, “Why, I’d say you’re suffering from a bit of… withdrawal. You see, sweetie, if you don’t continue to write names in the book, well… let’s just say things will become more and more uncomfortable for you.” Courtney’s shoulders slumped and she began to cry. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said. “I just wanted to teach my boss a lesson. I just wanted her to be nicer to people.” Lilith smirked and said, “Oh you taught her a lesson, alright,” then cackled evilly. “Who else do you know who needs to be taught a lesson?” “I… I don’t know.” “Come now. How about your ex-boyfriend? What was his name? Oh yes, Brad.” “How did you know that?” “Didn’t I tell you before that you’d be surprised what I know? Want to know what else I know? I know he cheated on you, on your birthday of all days, when you turned 25.” Courtney trembled and said, “Yes.” “That day, you caught him in bed with another woman, didn’t you? And what was it that you said to him?” “I said, ‘How could you do this to me?’” “Ah yes, that was it. Well, why don’t you do something to him in return? It would make you feel so much better, and it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.” Lilith reached below the vanity in the reflection and pulled out the obsidian book and charcoal-colored feather quill, then held them out to Courtney through the mirror as if it wasn’t there. “Take them,” she said in a commanding tone. Courtney hesitated as she looked miserably at the book and quill, then slowly reached out for them. “Yes, take them,” Lilith hissed with pleasure. Courtney opened the book and laid it on her vanity, then pricked herself with the quill a few inches away from where her other wound was. She wrote Brad’s name on the page, and next to it, she wrote the word, “Betrayal.” Courtney curled up on her couch in her living room as she waited for her Netflix profile to load on her television. She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the quill wounds on her arm. Neither itched or burned, and she otherwise felt completely normal physically. The television screen filled with static, and Courtney used her remote to try to change the channel, but it didn’t work. She tried to turn the television off, but that didn’t work either. The channel then changed by itself to a local news station with a newscaster sitting behind a desk. “Good evening,” said the newscaster, a pretty woman in a smart-looking suit. “We bring you a breaking news update. A local man was found dead in his home earlier today after he was apparently killed last night.” A picture of the man appeared on the screen, and Courtney recognized him immediately. It was Brad. She stared in shock and horror as her eyes filled with tears. “Police say the victim, Brad Johnson, was stabbed 25 times in the back as he lay asleep in bed, and that his girlfriend has been arrested on suspicion of murder.” The screen cut to a video of a woman in handcuffs being led out of a house by police. She was thrashing about and had to be forcibly restrained. Courtney recognized her as Jennifer, the woman her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her with. “How could you do this to me!?” she screamed toward the house as she writhed around. “How could you do this to me!?” Courtney sat in stunned silence as the screen cut back to the newscaster who said, “The motive for the killing is unknown, though police say they believe the man’s girlfriend thought he was cheating on her.” The reporter smiled, and her teeth resembled those of a shark. Courtney moaned as she lay in her bed. She was drenched in sweat and felt as though her skin was freezing and on fire at the same time. Even the slightest movement caused shooting pain all over her body. She glanced at the wounds on her arm and saw they’d turned a putrid brownish green color. The skin around them was completely rotten. She’d gone from having dry heaves to throwing up blood, and she wondered how much worse it could get. “Oh, I’m afraid it can get much worse,” Lilith said as she stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. She seemed to have read Courtney’s mind. “Much, much worse,” she continued. “You should know that you can’t die from this. In fact, you can’t die at all. When you wrote the first name into the book, you also entered into a pact in which you must continue adding names until all the pages are filled. Only then will you be allowed to die. Only then will the suffering end, yours and everyone else’s.” Courtney whimpered in response. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you enjoying our little game? Two of your enemies met gruesome fates already, and we’re just getting started. Why don’t you want to keep playing? You know you must continue if you want to feel better.” Lilith floated across the room and held the book and quill out to Courtney. “Take them,” she said. Courtney summoned all her strength and sat up. Pain wracked her body, but she forced herself to take the book and quill from Lilith’s hand, then thudded back down onto her bed. Her hand shook as she laid the book next to her and opened it to a blank page. She grasped the quill in her fist and jabbed herself in the arm. Lilith said, “Yes…” With the quill now filled with her blood, Courtney moved it back over to the open book and weakly scribbled her name onto the page. Next to it, she wrote the word, “Unforgiving,” and dropped the quill in exhaustion. Lilith sighed with disappointment and said, “You’re no fun,” then opened her mouth to reveal several rows of shark teeth and viciously bit Courtney’s heart out of her chest, killing her instantly.


She never went out without a book under her arm. It helped block out the world – and made a half-decent weapon if the need arose. That was what had saved her the day the Poiloogs came, and every day since. \ Madeline blinked her eyes, shielding them from the ray of sunlight that had dragged her from her slumber. She glanced over at the window and was relieved to see the purples and pinks of dawn still hung in the air. As she pushed herself up, the mattress shifted slightly against the hardwood flooring, making her world lurch. Once she’d steadied herself, she climbed to her feet and surveyed the office-cum-bedroom. Everything seemed to be as she’d left it the previous night, with no signs of intrusion or imminent danger, just as it had yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the morning before that… With a heavy sigh, she bent down to pick up a bucket and a set of keys, before heading out into her library. Her fingers traced along the wall as she padded down the windowless corridor. When she reached the fire escape, she felt along the ridges of the keys, selecting the correct one to fit into the bike lock that sealed the entrance. As the door swung open, crisp air hit her face. She stepped outside into the library’s garden, revelling in the feeling of the cold damp ground on her bare feet. While she appreciated the safety of her small, inside world, here, if she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could regain some semblance of freedom. She crossed the garden in a few strides and stopped at one of the large water butts to fill her bucket. Then, she set about the task of cleaning herself. The water was bracing against her skin, causing her pulse to quicken in a welcome reminder that she was, in fact, still alive. When she was finished, she emptied the bucket and refilled it once more, before heading back inside to the small kitchen. There, she slowly poured the water through a clean coffee filter to clear it of any sediment. As she watched the steady trickle she willed it to speed up. The gnawing pit in her stomach demanded filling, even if not completely – never completely. But she had to follow the routine. The routine was what kept her safe. What kept her sane. Once the water had been filtered and sealed in a hodge-podge collection of bottles, she started on breakfast, heating a tin of baked beans on her camping stove. The sweet, tomatoey scent that floated out made her mouth water. When they were ready, she practically inhaled them, burning her tongue in the process. After rinsing the pan and utensils, she took stock of her supplies: a dozen gas canisters, seven tins containing soups, beans, and vegetables, and around a kilogram of rice. While she knew that could last her a while yet, she also knew how long it could take her to find more. She needed to go out today, no matter how much she wanted to delay. She had the store picked out and the route plotted, all she had to do was pack a bag. But for all her yearning for the freedom of the outside world, the idea of going filled her with dread. \ Madeline hoisted her rucksack up a little, adjusting the position until it nestled comfortably on her hips as she walked among the stacks of her library. Holding her lantern in one hand, she ran the fingertips of the other along the neatly aligned spines. Though the towering shelves cast long, dark shadows, she hardly needed the light from her lantern, only pausing to wind it up when she leant in to examine a particular book. Here, she always knew exactly where she was. After careful consideration, evaluating the various volumes on the grounds of interest and heft, she selected a hard-cover copy of *Emma*. While a new story might have been more captivating, there was something comforting about the old favourites. Book safely tucked under her arm, she stuffed the lantern into her bag and headed into the garden, locking the door behind her. She scaled the garden wall with ease, hardly paying attention as her hands and feet found the familiar holds. As she peeked over the top, her eyes darted around, surveying the outside world for any sign of movement. But everything was still. The same empty buildings with the same broken windows stared down at her as always. Her feet barely made a sound as she jumped down, but it seemed deafening in the silence. After a brief pause, waiting to see if anyone had heard, she started walking. She took care to slink along the edge of the street, clinging to the shadows and softening her footsteps as best she could. As she darted across an alleyway, a cacophony of clanging and crashing assaulted her senses. She whipped around, planting her back firmly against the wall as she sought the source of the sound. A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she saw it – a family of foxes rummaging through some of the junk that lined the streets. Her mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile at the persistence of the urban wildlife. The hum of an approaching ship wiped that smile off her face. She dived into the alleyway and clambered through an empty window frame, slicing her palm on a fragment of left-over glass. Gritting her teeth, she managed to subdue the hiss of pain that threatened to escape her lips as she hauled herself through. Safely hidden inside the building, she inspected the wound. Scarlet flowed from the gash, falling to the floor in a steady *drip drip*, but at least the cut looked clean. She clenched her fist in an attempt to slow the bleeding and turned to peek out of the window. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she caught sight of the Poiloog, straddling the craft with its eight angular legs, its pincers working the strange controls as its bulbous head swept from side to side. Ducking out of sight, she leant back against the wall and took the book out from under her arm, fumbling with her good hand in an attempt to keep the volume free of bloodstains. In her hurry, she opened it to a random page and started reading – focussing on the words and nothing else. When she reached the end of the scene, she sidled up to the window once more. There was no sign of the Poiloog, the hum of its ship a distant memory. Madeline let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She closed her eyes and took a moment to collect herself before turning her attention back to the cut on her hand. It was still bleeding, sweat stinging in the wound. She placed her book down and clenched her left fist while she fished around in her bag with her other hand for a bottle of water. Tilting it ever so gently, she allowed a thin trickle to fall onto the gash. With the cut looking clean enough, she just had to bandage it somehow. She couldn’t abide the thought of tearing a strip of fabric off of any of her clothes, or the bags she carried, having no idea if she would be able to replace them. And there wasn’t going to be anything clean enough here. Eventually, her eyes settled on her feet. A minute, and some awkward scrabbling later, she had one foot slightly colder than the other, and a sock wrapped firmly around her hand. It would have to do for now. Makeshift first-aid taken care of, she paused to listen to the outside world. Silence reigned once more. It was time to get moving again. She considered the window frame she had climbed through, the edge littered with shards of glass, glinting with the red of the blood they’d taken. The only other way out was the door, which led onto the main street – a bit too exposed for her liking, but it was better than risking further injury. She climbed to her feet and slowly eased herself across the old floorboards, wincing at the creak each step caused until she reached a window on the adjacent wall. She peered through. Everything looked clear. She tried the door handle. It swung open with a long, subdued *squeak*. But thankfully, there was no one around to hear it. Madeline resumed her careful journey through the streets, head swivelling as she kept her eyes and ears open for signs of danger. She didn’t like being outside for this long, the exposed feeling heightened by every passing minute. But as she exhausted the supplies of more and more stores near her, it was only going to get worse. Unless she moved on from the library of course… but that didn’t bear thinking about. As the tension wound its way into her muscles, she found her pace increasing. She reached her destination a couple of hours later, sweaty and slightly out of breath. After taking a few seconds to survey her surroundings she slipped inside. It seemed she hadn't been the first to visit this particular shop. Most of the shelves were bare, though a few items lay scattered across the floor, and a heavy musk permeated the air. Hoping this wouldn't prove to be a wasted trip, she started scouring the store for anything that might be of use when a voice from the shadows startled her from her task. "Y-you shouldn't be here.


Your cat just starts talking to you one day and you’re amazed at that fact, but after a few minutes you realize your cat is kind of boring and doesn’t have many interesting things to say, which really disappoints you because you’d think a talking cat would have lots of cool things to share. Instead, he spends an hour and a half talking to you about a piece a cheese he found on the floor one day, and the difference between cheese you find on the floor and cheese you find on the rug, and how it took him a while to eat it because he wasn’t sure if it would be good but then decided that it would be but then wasn’t sure but then decided that, yeah, he should eat the cheese and so he does and the point of the story turns out to be that the cheese was kind of stuck to the floor when he did go and eat it but he got it loose. That’s it. And before you can leave the room to do something else, the cat says that he’s working on a screenplay, well not exactly working on it but thinking about working on it one of these days, and before you know it you’ve spent another two hours listening to him talk about how sometimes he likes thinking about it and sometimes he doesn’t and the best times of the day for thinking about it, and how he wishes he had fingers because then he could type it out. Nowhere in any of what he says does he even mention what the screenplay is about. After a while you just stop him in the middle of his sentence and say it’s been really great talking to him but you have to go to the kitchen and eat lunch, but then the cat says he’ll join you, and on the way there he tells you about a dream he had last night where there was a grape but the grape was kind of someone’s house but only a few times and how he kept on eating things in it but it never tasted like grapes like he thought it would, it always tasted like wood. As you put the sandwich together, the cat is telling you about how this one time he thought he saw someone through the window and how he looked out the window and saw that actually no one was there and he had just seen some sort of trick of the light or something. As you eat the sandwich, the cat talks about the different kinds of dust in the house, like carpet dust and under-the-couch dust and corner dust and top-of-high-things dust and how all of them are different but none of them taste very good because he’s tried and no matter what you just can’t make it tasty even though you’d think it would taste great because it really smells great too, but it doesn’t. You have no idea what he’s talking about but once you finish the sandwich you take it to sink and say that it was great having lunch with him but you have to do some homework, and the cat says that it’s summer vacation, and you say you want to get a head start on it, and before he can say anything back you run to your room and close the door. A few minutes later, you hear the cat outside. Through the door he asks how the homework is going and before you can even say anything back he starts going on and on about how cats don’t have homework but that they still learn a lot just being around the house, like how one time he found a cashew and thought it was one big thing but then he swatted it with his paw and it split into two smaller things and how this completely surprised him, and then went into how he began seeing if other things split like that and began swatting things to see. As you rock back and forth on the bed hugging your knees, you have to hear the cat go through a list of everything he tried to split, from flowers to pillows to almonds to chicken bones to piles of dust, and it takes three hours to go over every last thing and you’re just so sick of this cat. Finally you yell through the door for him to please shut up. He’s quiet for a moment. And then he starts to cry. Big, loud, sobs. He says he never wanted to hurt anyone, and that all he wanted was a friend, and that he thought you were his friend but he can see he’s not wanted and that’s really sad. In fact, he spends about an hour talking about how sad that really is, repeating himself often. Eventually you feel bad and say you’re sorry you hurt his feelings and he perks up and starts a story about a bridge and you just kind of go 'uh-huh, uh-huh, right, uh-huh’ as he talks. He never, ever, ever stops.


Today sucks. There are paintings on my walls but they cannot capture my imagination. Sounds come from the radio, but they’re full of static. Behind it I think I can hear a melody, but not a song. I can’t stand being in my house, but I don’t know if I'm brave enough to leave it. The world outside is much too frightening to face alone. After a few hours of staring at the clock, my attention is drawn to a vase; it’s an empty vase. The vase makes me feel better momentarily. Unlike the paintings on my wall, it could be something new, something real. Thinking about what I could put in it offers me an escape from my pervasive melancholy. When night time comes, thoughts of my vase help me drift into my typical fitful slumber a little earlier; And even at night I dream of my vase. When I wake, I look out the window, where I spot something most peculiar. It’s a flower. From this distance, I can’t tell what kind it is, but in the still dim dawn, I can see that it’s glowing. I immediately pull on a shirt and don a mask, as I step out the door to greet the flower. When I walk up to it, I swear I hear it giggle. The flower’s petals are astonishing, unlike any I had seen before. They were purple and blue, and they seemed to change shape and colour at will, sending the shifting rays of light in all directions. All of this creating a scene that would take even a photograph a thousand years to replicate. Almost instantly, I know that I want that flower to fill the spot in my vase; and the flower seems to think that as well, extending a leaf on its stem towards me. I stretch out my hand to pick it, but then I recoil. I'm realising now that the flower has thorns. This gives me pause. Perhaps I should think about the flower a little more, I warn myself. I walk back inside, and finish my day optimistic about the morning’s events. The next day, I am ready to commit to the flower, I take my time getting outside, sure that it will be waiting for me. But when I meander to the place where the flower was, It’s gone. My mind races to explain. Maybe it was taken by someone else, maybe it died, or maybe it just got tired of waiting. No matter the reason, it is absent. “Whatever”, I tell myself, “fuck that flower”. But deep down I know I don’t mean that. ... It’s been a whole month since I found the flower, I've looked at other flowers, some of which, quite beautiful. However, they don’t have the character of the one I met before. What was I thinking? “All roses have thorns, but that flower was willing to overlook mine.”, I think the realisation of my mistake now clearer than ever before. I look around my dark and depressing and awful house, and I get fucking livid. I take my vase, and I smash it on the floor. It shatters into tiny pieces, all glistening and shining across my living room. Remarkably, the bottom remains intact. In it’s undamaged surface, I see my reflection. I drop my burning rage, for I realise now that I’m not mad at the vase, or the flower, or any other stupid thing. I’m mad at myself. As tears well up in the corners of my eye, I fall on my side. I don’t care about the glass cutting me, I just wish I could go back in time.