TW: Suicidal thoughts We were coming back from a day trip to Fallingwater and stopped to swim in a river that cut through the low-slung hills. After an hour of driving, our stepdad, Mark, a native to the general area, pointed out the windscreen. “Here! We can picnic just on the side.” Mom dropped her feet, from where they'd been sunning on the dashboard. She offered one of her signature, premeditated smiles. “How nice.” Beth, my sister, drab and dreary, huffed. Lately, she spent her mornings expertly patting her face ghostly with pale creams and taking over half an hour detailing her eyeliner. She often matched an assortment of striped, fingerless gloves to her Converse high-tops and JNCO jeans. Today, however, she'd been forced to subject herself to khakis and a blue sleeve capped shirt with sunflowers stitched on one side. This was because mom started the morning off wrong by tossing the 'dreadful Gothic trash' out the bedroom window. With nothing else but a cotton nightgown packed in the suitcase, my sister rolled curled into her knees, refusing to cry or leave the room. When I told her that she could wear anything of mine, she spit. A massive, green loogie landed in my stringy pigtail braids. I was saved from another flying gob by our Step-brother, Penn. He tossed his blue corduroy bear at her face, shouted, “GANGWAY!” and yanked me out by the wrist. He and I waited outside of the apartment, the summer morning was fusty and damp. Penn gave me a tissue for my hair and laughed at me, but I didn't mind so much. We both knew his bear was now at risk in Beth's hands. We made tiny fairy huts in the neighbor's flower box, waiting for retaliation or for the day to proceed according to Mom's meticulous itinerary. In the end, Mark and his mother silently went up to the attic to find clothes that had once fit his sister, back in 1977. With that, the issue was declared settled. Mom was the first to appear at the threshold. She clutched her new grass woven handbag, and stared at us, but spoke to me. “Look at you. Nasty and getting dirty when you knew we had plans today. I expected better from you.” Her spiky eyelashes fluttered so wide, they left pockmarks of mascara in her orange skin. Her long, pink nails plucked a bit of tissue that had stuck to my braid. “What have you done with yourself?” She didn't wait for an answer but marched toward the rental van with a huff and became agitated when Penn and I didn't immediately follow. After that, much of the morning passed by in stilted silence. Occasionally, Mom attempted to force games on us. “I spy with my little eye –” Penn spent the journey to and from Fallingwater, with his face pressed against the window. The ends of his bright red hair stood damp from the failed attempts to brush it into place. He wanted to see an Amish person. Mom kept snapping, “It's inappropriate to sit in your seat like that! You look like a gorilla-ape! Sit proper!” He would, but, inevitably like a puppy too wound up with expectations of the day, Penn's nose would find itself smudging the window once more. During the Frank Lloyd Wright tour, we managed to behave. Penn and I both taking interest in the architecture and the story of how the house was built. I was enamored with the iron gray water as it ran through the floors and how the windows opened into the hills. I wanted to point out that the trees claimed every inch of the sky and rooted deep into the slopes and curved over exposed stone like lazy snakes. But I didn't know the words. Instead, I tugged on mom's silk sleeves. She was preoccupied by Beth's movements, how she swanned like an anemic Victorian, around the house. For some reason, I'd thought if I could grab Mom's attention, Beth would have some breathing room and might actually start to like me. Or, at least, she would appreciate my sacrifice. “Mom, look at the robin!” Again. “Hey! Mom!” “Shhh,” she shook her arm free and moved away, closer to the attractive tour guide. “Don't interrupt. You're too loud.” I imagined myself with a considerable amount of wealth to afford such a place, so far up that a draw bridge would be needed to get to the front door. I decided I would close the bridge to everyone but Penn. Maybe Mark could visit, too, but he'd have to learn to get a spine around Mom. Otherwise, it'd be as good as inviting an enemy to dinner. Mark's decision to picnic by the river must have been inspired by the house, with its dining room hanging off the cliff and seamless windows to give the appearance of living in the canopy. “Like Robinson Crusoe!” he'd said. “But with the modern conveniences.” Either that or he wanted to free himself of the static prickling around all of us. Penn kept moaning about the lack of horse drawn carriages. Beth only responded to direct questions by quoting ICP lyrics. Anytime I tried to say something, I was far too loud and causing Mom to develop one of her headaches. We found a decent parking spot, nosed in toward an overlook, where we could see a handful of other families wading into the mossy green water. Beth and I were instructed to use the far back of the van to change into our swimsuits. Three times she angled her knee or elbow into my floating ribs, all the while announcing it was an accident. Then, it was Penn's turn and Beth pushed me out, declaring that I was always in the way. I spread my arms out for Mark to spray me down with sunscreen and he made sure to get the wide part in my hair. I was all fat and gangling legs and arms that struck at awkward angles from my swimsuit. Beth, in her spotted bikini, looked like Jhonen Vasquez's interpretation of Twiggy, and she made a point to walk ahead of us. She stared at the group of teenage boys but when they looked back, she rolled her shoulders in catly disinterest. “Want to look for frogs?” Penn asked, grabbing my hand. “Or a tide pool?” “I think that's just for salt water,” I said. He shrugged. “We can still look.” Mom flicked open a thin, cotton blanket and stationed herself on it with her coltish legs gently curved. Her large brown sunhat concealed the better parts of her face so that she was only a demure smile. She knew people liked to look at her and posed herself to be featured, however briefly, in strangers' thoughts. Mark had his camera out and his attention turned to a fraction of sunlight gathered in a dipping part of the stream. He smiled and waved at us, lifting his camera. Penn and I wrapped ourselves together and stood for pictures, before growing restless and darting off to explore. Our plastic sandals slapped against the shards of honey-brown rock, rising above the bubbling river like the scales of fish darting between the sunspots. We picked up flat stones, attempted to skip them, but didn't talk to each other. Sometimes, I didn't know what to say to Penn. He was half my age, but I felt so dumb and incapable of keeping up with his interests. I liked him and I figured he must have known that, even though there were times when he found himself tangled in a stiff sadness that I carried around. A sadness I was unable to name until well into my adulthood. I followed him, nodding as he pointed out different plants and types of rock, naming them with authority. I wished the water was strong enough to carry me away. I didn't want to die, or drown, or maim myself unrecognizable. I just wanted to be gone. We found a patch of river that was knee deep and sat in it. The current meandered like the southern heat we aimed to escape. Penn spread his fingers, watching the green water bounce and cap white ahead of us. “Am I red?” “No,” I squinted and cupped a hand around my eyes. “Not anywhere. Me?” “On your shoulders but just pink.” I shrugged. It didn't matter. I was always getting burned, despite the layers of sunscreen sprayed on me, and somehow, I survived. I lifted my hips, pushing my hands down into the silt, just to see how far I could go before the lip of rock trapped me. I wished I wasn't fat, then maybe I could swim or be carried. And then. I was floating down river, unshackled from the rocks and the slow turn of the waves. The current became faster and the bright red plastic balls the marked the drop off were framed by my legs. My mind cleared and the sun was warm on my already burnt skin. Oh bliss! Oh God in heaven wrap me into your arms! Take me from this unnamed pain! My plastic sandals disappeared over the edge, and I waited patiently for my turn. I nearly made it, too, but the rocks came up again, smooth and mossy, shredding the water into separate trunks before it dipped below the plastic barrier. Now, no more than a speck upstream, Mom let loose a horned owl screech and flung her arms into the sky. “SOMEBODY HELP MY BABY!” “Mom!” I shouted back and rolled my eyes. “There's a path right here.” To make a point I stood and began to shuffle forward, mindful of the tender points that were slick and precarious. “DON'T MOVE! YOU STAY RIGHT THERE!” I did not imagine the knife edge of danger in her tone. I looked at Penn, twelve feet away from me, and shrugged. He offered half a smile and began walking parallel to me, reaching the shore, where Mark stood, peeling off his socks. “Dad!” I pointed down. “it's a clear walkway!” “Okay!” he called back, unhooking his camera and setting it in the pebbled shore. “HELP MY BABY!” Mom shouted again and I watched, in horror, as she flung herself around one of the teenagers Beth was pretending to ignore. “Deb, it's fine – ” Mark began. He was already in the water, coming to meet me halfway, but Mom shoved him aside. His bad knee buckled and he fell backward, water and mud splashing around him. “GO SAVE MY BABY!” Mom kept screaming and the boy she'd abducted, took several startling steps out to me. I began to walk toward him but Mom let out a demonic bellow, “DON'T YOU DARE MOVE!” It rooted me to the spot. The boy, too, seemed unsure about the safest course of action. What was more deadly? My mom, or the edge of a cliff? I waited and eventually, he splashed toward me. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, then kept repeating it when he put his back to me to lead me to the shore. My sunburned legs chaffed. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” For the inconvenience. For wanting him to tell me that it was okay. For not being cute enough that he'd want to brag to his friends. For walking so slow. For Mom's dramatics. For wanting to die. The boy escaped from us at the first opportunity. Mom had the decency to wait until all our things had been gathered, and we were in the shadow of the rental van, before she removed her sneaker and slapped it around my backside. “You ruined a perfectly good afternoon! How could you be so stupid?” “I don't know,” I lied. “It was an accident, Barb,” Mark grumbled, folding a towel in the driver's seat. His right knee was swollen. “She's safe. That's what matters.” Mom huffed and flung herself into the van. “Well, it's the last time we listen to you about going for a swim anywhere that isn't a pool!” On the drive back, I sat in the third row by myself, not permitted to change out of my swimsuit. Beth plugged in her yellow Walkman and pretended to sleep. Penn stared out the window. Silence, anger, disappointment, all bundled into the van as it made its way down the twisting back roads. Eventually, we came to the point in the river where the drop off had been. Fifteen feet, or a little less, where the green, glassy water turned into a tumble of white foam and mist. Mark whistled low and I wondered if hitting the base would have hurt. At the next, sloping turn, Penn burst the tension I had unwittingly created. “Look!” Ahead of us was a black, two wheeled wagon. The horse that pulled it was broad and dark. “Don't stare,” Mom warned. Penn ignored her and rolled down the window. Mom tapped her knuckle against Mark's forearm. “Speed up. Let's get around him.” “I like your horse!” Penn shouted, his words getting lost in the loud hum of our tires. Mom rolled up his window and put on the parental locks. Penn, ever resourceful, unbuckled his seat belt and spider crawled into the backseat with me. We pushed our faces against the rear window, eyes wide. The bearded driver was weather-worn. He dressed for church: black pants and suspenders, shirt so crisp and white that it glowed in the sunset. His buggy whip snapped in the air and the horse's head bobbed, clopping its hooves in a dance along the shoulder of the uneven road. The man laughed and tilted his wide brimmed hat to us as we waved goodbye. A calm passed through me. I felt soothed like a damp cloth had been placed on my fevered forehead. Then, the man and his horse were gone, hidden behind the trees, as the van slipped downstream.


See the pinned comment for links to the full serial \ As I lay on the ground exhausted, sleep came and went. The need to move wrestled with fatigue and relief at dry land, until I woke up trembling. Icy spasms ran down my spine, spots where the cold gripped the muscles and tried to burrow into the bone, my body fighting back in shivers. It was a battle I was quickly losing. The island didn’t guarantee survival. Water, heat, food. Without those three I wouldn’t make it. I pulled myself up, and stripped down to my underwear. A westerly breeze, cooled by the night seas, ran across the beach. It scratched at my nipples, nose, elbows - stabbing anything remotely exposed, as though it intended to sand me down like a piece of wood. Still, I was better off exposed to the air than being surrounded by the sea in my clothes. Next, water. Looking around me, the island was small. It was maybe only a kilometre across by a few hundred metres wide. Too small for any chance of finding a freshwater source. However, the good news was last night’s storm had left the island drenched. I headed towards the thicket that covered the centre of the island. The web of trunks and bushes cut off the breeze, and my skin gave thanks for the protection. Inside, water covered the ground. Large puddles filled every dip in the woodland floor, and my trek meant keeping to thin inlets of land between the ponds. The water was plentiful. It was also brown. Clumps of dirt floated along its surface, and the borders of each pond had turned to a dun clay as insects hovered above the surface. Thye water was plentiful, it would also kill me. Further into the forest, trees and bushes competed for the most protected space. Soon, every step meant pushing past various branches and fronds that tickled or scratched at my skin, until I reached a clearing where a large bush took advantage of a gap in the canopy. Its huge leaves were each the size of my torso and grew out from the stem in a frilled circle, the end rising in a curve. My lips were sticking with hope and hypotheses as I walked towards the plant. I was in luck. Each leaf had acted like a basin, capturing the night’s downpour. Any that had been able to hold the weight were filled with perfect clear water, the shimmering green below the surface made all the brighter by the sun’s refracted light. I closed my eyes as a dry gasp of relief left my chest. I bent down, and, clasping the ends of the leaf, sipped at the water. I gulped the thin pool, sucking until all I could taste was a rough waxy surface. Leaf by leaf, I worked my way around the plant, quenching my thirst. As I bent down at the last one I looked up. Fifty or so metres away, sunlight broke through the trees, and in the halo of light, I could see another one of the plants. No doubt it too would be full of clean rain water. Water was found. I was rehydrating as my core burnt off the damp seas from my skin. Till now, my walk through the forest had been a haze, but now my synapses were beginning to lubricate and thaw, as the minutiae of my surroundings became clear. The sound of seagulls floating in the sky above, the way the light pierced through gaps between the leaves, and the strange smell of smoke. Smoke. On an uninhabited island in the middle of a forest. I turned to the sensation, and began tracing it like a hunting dog. The smell grew stronger, till I could hear crackling and the sound of wood popping. There was no mistaking it. Fire. Warmth. Heat. An old tree, one of the tallest in the forest but long dead, stood alone. Its leaves had fallen years ago, and the great trunk had been hollowed out, rotten and emptied through wind, rain and animals. But now, at its core, was fire. Somewhere in the storm lightning must have struck the former chestnut, and despite the rain, the strike had been enough for the centre of the trunk to catch light. I watched in awe as the holes in the trunk bled yellows and red. Gases swirled inside the bark, the wood crackling as it withered from fever. I was alone, surrounded by damp woodland, and yet here I was staring at humanity’s most important technology. It was as though Prometheus himself had taken pity on my plight. I moved closer to the heat and bathed in it, sitting down on the forest floor, as my torso and arms soak up the glow. Closing my eyes, I let the warmth cleanse me of the remaining slick seas from my skin. A blast singed the hairs on my chest, and embers floated down to land on my skin, leaving a momentary sting. I didn’t flinch. Each one felt like an anointment. Half an hour or so passed with me kneeling before the flames, until, with my body re-hydrated and dry, I could move on to more long-term survival. Who knows how long this old tree would survive. I needed to save the fire and control it. Besides, I wanted the fire near the water’s edge so Alessia - a stray \**if Alessia*\* crossed my mind, I buried it… - or another ship might more easily see me. I needed a campfire. I wrestled back through the woods towards the coast. At the edge of the treeline I began looking for kindling. I picked up what the evergreen forest offered me: damp pine needles, or waterlogged sticks. They wouldn’t light easily, but they would have to do. I built a small pile of leaves and arranged a small cone of twigs over the top. Loose and wet bark peeled away as I worked, and soon my hands were covered in sap and flecks. Still, after adding another layer of larger twigs on top, I had what felt like a good base. Back in the forest, I tried to recall the route back to the burning tree, following my nose and ears. Upon arrival I noticed the fire was already beginning to diminish. The top of the trunk was charred black as the tree peeled away one lick of flame at a time. Settled among the dirt, I found a good branch. Long enough to last the walk through the forest, thick enough not to break. I brushed off as much of the caked-on mud and dirt as I could, then thrust the end into the fire, watching the yellow flames flicker around the makeshift torch. I waited for the branch to catch alight. Seconds ticked by, the tree slowly withering. I thought I saw a flame and withdrew, but it was merely an illusion. Still, the wet flakes of wood at the end had peeled away, exposing the porous, and hopefully more flammable, parts beneath. The branch returned to the fire. I stood as close as I could as the flames continued to lick at my skin. The sensation that had felt like heaven was now beginning to burn, my skin telling me to step away rather than towards the heat. But I ignored the instruction. My eyes remained fixed on the branch, waiting, pleading. I gritted my teeth and poured my mental energy into the stick, demanding it light. A flame. I pulled out my torch. A grin grew across my face as I watched the small candle dance. This delicate flame would save me. Treading carefully, I trekked back past the trees and out into the open. A gust blew along the beach, and the flame waivered. My chest seized, as the flame struggled, before glowing once more. I reached up a hand and tried to cup my fingers around it. The beat of the fire steady once more, I walked over to my campfire, gently lowered myself to the ground and leaned the flame towards the kindling. I watched as leaves curled to the heat, the moisture escaping from the surface with each lick of the torch. Then, finally, one leaf burned yellow. I gasped with joy, as the leaf crisped and folded, its atoms transformed into warmth. It rolled over to the leaf next to it, and it too caught fire. I waited for the chain reaction to continue but instead the two leaves burned bright, flickered to ash, and then extinguished. Muttering protestations and denial at the kindling, I turned back to my stick, then let out a louder curse. In the moment of elation I had completely forgotten about the torch and now it too was out. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its tip. My fists bound up into balls and I let out a long shuddered sigh. I gritted my teeth, and let all the self-pity slip from my body through the tensed muscles. Then, I picked up the torch, and returned to the forest, just like I had to. I had no matches, no oil, no flint, no lighters. I knew vague concepts about how to make fire with just wood, something about rubbing two branches together, but the mechanics were a mystery, and I would be long dead before I fathomed them out. This fire, the tree, had to work. As I stood next to the tree, waiting for the branch to be relit, I thought about how little I knew. People could make salt water drinkable, but I had no idea how. I couldn’t create a drinking flask or cup to carry any drinkable water anyhow. I didn’t know how to hunt, or how to fashion tools to hunt with. I didn’t know how to make bricks for a home or how to use wood to build a shelter. I was alone, and all the information, all the knowledge that comes from others was lost to me. The branch caught light again. This time I tilted the stick down, allowing the flame to creep up the wood, giving it more fuel. I pushed my way out of the forest as fast as I dared, returned to the campfire and placed the torch by the pyre again. This time I didn’t relent, I kept the branch close to the kindling forcing every pine needle and every leaf to be overcome by the rising temperature. The fire spread. Leaves passed on the heat to twigs, who in turn passed it onto sticks. The campfire was beginning. I stretched out my arms in triumph, and tilted my head to the sky. My thirst quenched and a steady fire going, I would survive my first day here. Then I remembered I was still completely alone. Out to sea, on the horizon I could see some of the other Anmanion isles, thin lines of land poking up from the flat waters. But there were no boats and no rescuers. I wondered how long it would take for Alessia to find me. Would she find me? I remembered how I watched her be pushed into the ocean from a falling mast. I didn’t see her resurface. She had to be alive. She had to be okay. She \*had\* to be. I wouldn’t accept any other option. I realised then that my desperation for Alessia had nothing to do with her coming to rescue me. I would live as long as I could until I was rescued or I perished. But I didn’t want to be part of an Archipelago without her. The emotion ran so much deeper than my own safety. With a good rhythm of crackling wood; smoke and embers drifting up into the sky, I could relax at least until the fire needed more fuel. This would be my spot. This patch of stony beach where I would wait for rescue. “I’m here, Alessia,” I muttered to the sea. “Wherever you are, I will wait for you.” \ See the pinned comment for links to the full serial Publishes every Wednesday.


"THAT'S IT! THERE'S NO WAY YOU CAN STOP US NOW!" - said Beans, laughing - our Goddess will now come to your world and once again the cats will reign! I looked around in absolute terror. The last star. A bacon of hope. Now taken down by my little Beanie. The cat I found at the market. Now the bringer of doom and darkness upon mankind. God, charity does suck after all. Had I left him there to die, I'd be home right now, choking on a delicious turkey. But no, I'm in this goddamn mall, once again. After a whole week spent shopping for Christmas gifts, the End of the World will start, and I'm once again in this twice goddamned mall. "Beanie, stop it! I thought you loved me! I love you! But instead of retributing my love, you chose this crazy cult! You betrayed m..." "SHUT UP, YOU!" - impaciently meowed the cultists, in unison. As they said these words, the earth started to shake. Much like when you want to drink juice from a box and you start shaking it furiosly trying to blend everything into a nice mixture. Turns out I was the orange in the box. While the cats laughed in supreme joy. "Finally! The Great Ball Returns!" And from the sky it came... . . . . . It looked like my grandma had restarted doing croche. There was thread everywhere, mixed up like guts, with a huge red ball on the otherside of the hall. Except, you know, unlike guts, the strings were moving on it's own, controlled by the ball of thread, like puppets obeying to a master. The cats gathered around the ball, and started chanting praises: "Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu", echoes filling the hall. And the ball responded, in its own terrible language. Meanwhile I, terrified, tried to keep hidden as long as possible. The adrenaline rush I felt back then was so strong I could barely feel fear, only the need to solve this. Looking around, I tried finding anything that could help me. Guitar store, some expensive designer clothing store, cotton candy machine, a Starbucks, and lots of Christmas decoration. That's what I had against the huge wooly thing. I went to the guitar store and broke the glass searching for anything I could use to cut some loose strings. However, as soon as I entered the store, Ygharhtu moved his wooly tentacles in my direction, finding my legs, taking me down and dragging me towards him. Terrified, I grabbed whatever I could to stop his deadly pull. That whatever was the cotton candy machine. Kicking the tentacles against each other, I was able to get my legs free. And, after some effort, I could get up. Ygharhtu, however, wasn't happy to see me free. It started to attack me with its tentacles. Having no other choice, I focused on dodging them. Until an idea hit me. Pressing a button, I turned on the machine. And, when the next thread of that thing approached, I grabbed it and smashed against the spinning candy, and Ygharhtu released an otherworldy roar of pain. The cultists passed out, their magical link taking the pain felt by Ygharhtu to terrifying levels and redirecting it to their minds. Now, knowing the thing could get hurt, I took another of its tentacles and tied it to a cotton candy stick I found on the surface of the machine and put it inside the machine. Ygharhtu once again raged, and I took the opportunity to do this to another of his tentacles. Now he began to slowly pulled. And the machine started to crank, 3450 rotations per minute doing their best to sweeten the moment. Meanwhile, I kept dodging and tying tentacles to each other and sticks and putting them inside the rotating bowl. Now little sparks came out of the machine, that would probably not be able to hold much longer against such power. I needed something to distract Ygharhtu. And then it hit me... What I needed was music. I ran inside the guitar store once again, looking for a guitar, an amplifier and some pedals as fast as I could. Turning on everything the store had, plugging my guitar in and doing the setup took some time, and it was enough for Ygharhtu to find a iron grid to hold onto. But it would be worth it when my plan unfolded. It was time for some vibration. For pulling some strings. Quite literally. While I played, Ygharhtu commanded its remaining strings to hit me. But they failed, as they were thrown to the ground by my music. And Ygharhtu met its demise when, using the wool that held it to the grid, he went kamikaze trying to take me with him to the bowl. However, I was able to get out of their range, and Ygharhtu howled as he got closer and closer to the machine. Whose potency couldn't handle such colossal weight anymore, and so it caught on fire. Fire that burns wool. Epilogue: -No, officer. I don’t want to take them with me. - I sighed, his insistence quickly putting an end to whatever patience I still had in my mind after this night. -Look, kid. If you don’t adopt these cats, they’re heading straight to the animal control truck. And, explain it to me once again, where is this burnt sugar smell coming from? -Just come with me to the Northern Mall, and you’ll see. And keep these cats away from us. As I entered the police car, I noticed Beanie held something on his paw. He waved to me as the car got away from him, and I could see his fur was slowly becoming red. Ygharhtu red. Author's notes: * First post here yay * Please please please give me constructive criticism. There's only one way to improve, and that's getting other people to criticize whatever you're doing * My main language isn't English. If you find any grammar errors that could be easily corrected by an edit, please let me know so I can fix it ASAP * Thanks for the read.


Lex Luthor IV comes to in an old , dark, and cobweb covered chemistry classroom. He can’t see anything but he can tell he’s tied up. Suddenly the lights go on throughout the building. (???) “It’s totally not suspicious right?” He turns his head to find a redheaded woman in overalls, a t-shirt, and combat boots standing in the doorway. (Luthor) “You’re one of the women that brought me here correct?” (???) “Correct! My names Chrys Isley-Quinn and I’ll be your lovely tour and exposition guide!” She grabs the back of the office chair he’s tied to and starts pushing him through the school. She explains everything that she knows and rolls him into the teachers lounge where another black haired woman is sitting behind an old desk. (Chrys) “And that concludes our tour. My partnah here will explain the rest. (Luthor) “Shes certainly got a lot of energy.” (Kelly) “If you only knew. My names Kelly by the way Alex. I trust my partner has explained everything sufficiently up to this point.” (Luthor) “Sure, except for why you needed to abduct me?” Kelly smiles and leans forward, folding her hands. (Kelly) “Let’s talk about Red X…or better yet the man behind the mask.” *Back at the apartment building* Teagan slowly comes to. She immediately notices the bomb and wraps it in an energy ball. She brings it closer and inspects it. (Adrian) “I’d be careful with that, they’re sensitive. I had to use one of those platter lids to take care of the one in the hallway.” (Teagan) “Adrian, you’re ok.…” (Adrian) “Eh, a little beat up but nothing I can’t handle.” Teagan smiles briefly before returning to her natural stone face. She explodes the bomb inside the shield and lets the gas dissipate. (Teagan) “What was that?” (Adrian) “Not sure, judging from what I saw of my assailant it’s some kind of Scarecrow gas. The one she hit me with was order less, colorless, and it sent me into a blind rage that her friend took advantage of. “ (Teagan) “Scarecrow…I knew that mask looked familiar but…she wasn’t built like Dr. Crane nor did she sound like him which means-“ (Dexter) “I’m not bleeding! Teagan you’re not bleeding! Kim you’re not bleeding! Adrian-“ He dry heaves and reaches back into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper. He holds it out towards Adrian. (Dexter) “Please fix your nose…” They take the roll as Teagen stands up, and Kim enters the room. (Kim) “Did I hear someone say Scarecrow?” (Adrian) “Yep, pretty sure we’re dealing with another great granddaughter. This is starting to get absurd.” (Teagan) “There’s a tear in the fabric of space and time just be thankful we aren’t dealing with dinosaurs…yet.” (Dexter) “Bigger issue, Dr. Cranes long deceased in 2090 and wasn’t his research sealed off in a maximum security vault?” (Teagan) “That was the official sorry but there’s rumors that they never actually found his research or at least not all the copies of it.” (Adrian) “So then that’s how she knows what she’s doing. She can’t be as bad as him though, Dex didn’t need an antidote to come out of his fear spiral.” (Kim) “It’s possible she could only do so much with what was readily available to her.” (Teagan) “Which might explain why it sent you into a rage instead of activating your worst fear.” (Adrian) “I just want to go home…” They sit down next to Teagan and lean their head on her shoulder. (Kim) “About the person you sensed in here today, they were a Luthor right? I thought I heard the name before I passed out.” (Teagan) “Yes, Lex Luthor IV. He’s not the genius or villain his namesake was however.” (Dexter) “So what do they want with him? How did they know he was here? Are they physic too? And who away their accomplice?” (Teagan) “I can’t answer all of that but I think I know why they want him…his best friend is Aleister Drake.” (Dexter) “Red X…” (Kim) “Why is he so important anyway?” (Teagan) “Aside from being highly skilled, he’s also the only one of us to take any kind of action towards getting home. Me and Adrian have been here as long as he has and we’ve just been focused on getting everyone that comes through the rift together.” (Adrian) “He’s also engaged to Wonder Girls granddaughter and family to multiple descendants of the Batfamily, you know people you kind of want on your side instead of the other.


For the past couple of weeks my mom has been sending me flight deals to my email. She'll see a sale, and send it to me. New promo, it's in my inbox. Great deal on flights to Vegas, you bet it's coming my way. Trip to Cuba? I'm getting that too. It started as a few sparse emails here and there, but its become an every other day kind of thing. At first, I was really confused. I didn't understand what brought this on. I travel somewhat frequently for work so I just figured she was trying to be helpful, but to be honest, it kind of annoyed me. I'm the co-founder of a start-up and my inbox is flooded every day. I unsubscribe to mailing lists that don't add value like its a hobby, so a constant torrent of flight deals really wasn't doing it for me. In addition to that, deals from airlines aren't really useful because we book our business flights through a business account on Expedia anyways. But there's a lot more to it than just emails, I think. My mom is disappointed and sad. I spend time with her and I know I'm a good son, but there's nothing that can be done to change this. I know her life didn't turn out the way she wanted it to. Sure, her and my dad live in a beautiful house, but when you peel things back a few layers, things aren't all that great in her mind and from her perspective. Her parents, her best friends for the longest time, are ageing significantly and her mother is unwell. My grandparents aren't the same people they used to be. My dad, despite being the greatest dad he could have been, isn't the smartest man and made a number of financial decisions that he wasn't honest about and kept things from my mom. He never could live up to her hopes that she'd find someone like her father - successful, stoic, family first always, a real man's man. She's always been disappointed in that. To top it all off, my siblings have left the house, and at 27, I'm the only one left. Half my foot is out the door already; my girlfriend closed on a condo a few months ago. The one thing that my mom has poured herself into are her kids. She was a stay at home mom and invested in us like her retirement was banking on it. She's the go-to for our family, even with my brother and sister out of the house. If something's wrong, mom is one of the first calls. Feeling unwell? She knows all the signs and symptoms of every disease (both discovered and yet researched). Need financial advice? She's a tax master. Need a special type of doctor? She's got you covered. She's the glue that brings everything together. Sure, she's a classic helicopter parent, always wanting to be involved, always engaged, and always disappointed as her kids age and they pull back into their own lives and families, but she's never stopped loving, and she never will. I remember a year ago I got my truck stuck in the mud, and I ruined this pair of fancy suede boots I was wearing while getting unstuck. I threw them in the trash, and unbeknownst to me she took them out, got them cleaned by some magician shoemaker, and they looked almost new. That is who she is; she's our family's fixer. Last night I was staying at my girlfriend's talking to her about the flight emails. I hadn't thought twice about them, but when I told her I asked my mom to stop sending them, I burst into tears. In that instant, I came to the realization that the emails weren't about the flights. They were a sign. They were a flash of love. I'm thinking about you. I care about you. I hope this helps. I love you. Despite her life changing before her eyes, despite everything she knows falling away from her, despite her sadness, she just wanted to show me she cared. I messaged her last night to tell her to keep the flight emails coming. She asked if I was sure. I said I was. I got one this morning.


I would never have thought that Mr. Arnold was a meathead back in the day. That’s the thing about time. It’s like an Instagram post you’ve run through a hundred filters. It gets to the point where you wouldn’t even recognize where that final image started. I believe the film buffs call the story that is about to unfold a ‘romp.’ Buckle up. You’re not gonna believe where this one is going. I sure didn’t. Our story begins when the substitute English teacher drops the “C” word. The tea is that they caught the cancer late—like Stage 4—and spread to the brain—late. Oof. Everyone turns to their phones and gets to work. Albie, our resident snoop, digs up the 1994 high school yearbook from the library in no time flat and strikes gold. The picture starts trending on social media and immediately goes viral—at least by Bayside High standards. “Billy Biceps,” the caption reads. It is unmistakable. It is Mr. Arnold alright. A teenage version. Flashing that double bicep pose like the Austrian Oak himself, except while sporting a bad eighties mustache and shaggy do. Something needs to be done. Mr. Arnold can’t go down like this. Not on my watch. Gear is a bitch. A real ticking time bomb. If only he had never started juicing. He probably would have never got cancer. Let’s back up. Mr. Arnold isn't just our High School English teacher; he's much more. He’s the one who wrote out Jay-Z lyrics in the style of E.E. Cummings. The one who assigned us “A Wrinkle in Time.” And explained how time travel a/k/a tessering worked in the book—sound being transformed into light and warping space to transport you where you need to go. “All you have to do is close your eyes and hum,” Mr. Arnold said. And in typical Mr. Arnold fashion, he started humming out “Sweet Home Alabama.” Mr. Arnold is a real one. The cool teacher. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!” All that. Everyone in our class comes to him first before their parents with any life crisis that comes up. He's the one our parents complain about. And for me, he is “The Dude.” The Dude who said, “Does anyone else think they can catch lightning in a bottle like Aiden, just did” while reading the poem I submitted to the student Lit Mag aloud to the class. And Inaya heard him say it. Inaya, you could say, is a Heather. If you know what I mean. Inaya snaps me, with the Bitmoji of her face in a Spider-Gwen costume popping up on my iPhone, and the text comes in saying, “I was tired from a late-night pre-cal sesh. Then I was bored during AP Bio. Now I’m tired of being bored. So, I’ve spent the last half hour breadcrumbing my Stanny-Stan-Stan. Anyway, you hear about Mr. Arnold?” Stan is a fan. But like a fan who is obsessed. Eminem. Marshal Mathers. Bueller. Is anyone getting this? I snap her back instantly, telling Inaya to meet me in the library. Inaya’s already there, waiting by the circular stacks, wearing a fire ensemble. Shit, to be honest, her whole vibe is fire. I pull her into one of the study rooms. “We’ve got to find one of the teachers who went to school with Mr. Arnold, stat,” I say. “And what good is that gonna do?” “Intel. We need intel. If we are going to help Mr. Arnold, we need to get the real tea. Find out how this started and how deep into the sauce he was. Like, was this a summer of love type of thing, or was he like a genuine, Jersey Shore, GTL Gorilla?” “No cap, Aiden. Mr. Arnold gives off strong GTL Gorilla vibes.” “Facts.” “Is it just me, or was young Mr. Arnold dripping with rizz? Talk about a Glow-up. Minus the stash. The stash has to go.” “I didn’t think you were into buff dudes?” “Teenybopper Mr. Arnold is a whole meal. We could smash.” “Jesus.” “I’m kidding! It’s Mr. Arnold. Don’t be so salty. Besides, I’m saving myself for Timothée Chalamet.” “Timothée Chalamet is a bad meme. An AI composite. I mean, really. What, did Timmy ask you to Homecoming?” This isn’t idle chat. I’m trying to work up the courage to ask Inaya to Homecoming but feel like I’m choking on my tongue. “No. Still waiting on Timmy. Sigh. A girl can dream. Let’s go find that yearbook.” She didn’t take the bait. So, that’s an L. “I’d go with Mr. Arnold though,” she teases. “Or some young stud that comes up with an ingenious plan to save his… manly bits?” “Done and done,” she says, smiling. Maybe there's a chance after all, I think. Inaya and I scour some old yearbooks and finally realize that Ms. Paino was a classmate of Mr. Arnold, back before the button-downs and sweaters and the spectacled readers. I find Ms. Paino in the teacher’s lounge. I’m on the AP track and in the running for one of the runners-up slots for valedictorian. Therefore, I’m grandfathered into barging into the teacher’s lounge unannounced. “Aiden, what are you doing here?” “I need the tea on Mr. Arnold, spill it,” I say. “What do you mean? About his illness?” “About the nineties. How did our resident Mr. Rogers lookalike get on the gear?” “Oh, that. So, you saw the Billy Biceps pic that’s going around, and you think…” “Think. I know. Now spill it.” “If you really want to know... I suppose it's harmless. It all started when Billy's high school girlfriend dumped him for a jock right before Homecoming. What was her name? N-Nnn-Na. What was it? Nad-ee-ah. Nadia. That’s it. How could I forget? A tall drink of water. Came over with her family from St. Petersburg, and she had that husky, deep, Russian accent. All the boys were eating it up. Climbing over one another to get her attention. They were all jealous of Mr. Arnold for punching her dance card. Nadia, though. She was looking to trade up. Looking for someone buff. That’s how she ended up with Slater. Captain of the soccer team. I mean, he was a bit of a snack. Isn’t that how you all say it?” “Wait, what’s a ‘dance card?’ No, never mind. What happened when this e-girl ghosted Mr. Arnold?” “Billy ditched the Homecoming Dance. Ended up at the Blockbuster Video in the Taunton Strip Mall instead.” “Blockbuster?” “Think Netflix, with physical tapes you bring home to watch, then return.” “Tapes?” “VHS cassettes.” “Cahh-sets? Okay. Whatever that is.” “You had to rewind them too. ‘Be Kind. Rewind.’ That was their motto!” “Rewind?” “Well, it’s a physical tape, like a movie reel, so you had to put it in the VCR and press rewind or else it was a real pain for the next person. And sometimes when the staff was rewinding a tape a customer didn't rewind before returning, they’d put the wrong video in the case. That was the worst.” “VCR? Never mind. What happened?” “Anyway, they gave Billy the wrong VHS tape. A real, ‘Be Kind. Rewind’ faux pas. Instead of getting ‘Adventures in Babysitting,’ he ended up with ‘Pumping Iron.’ The rest was history. Billy hit the weights hard that spring and summer. Hard, hard. And he got… swole… as the kids would say. Then it became kind of like an addiction. Before you know it, he’s greasing himself up and entering competitions.” “So how does this ‘rewinding’ of the tape work?” “Uhhh, it is like a movie reel. There are little spools on the tapes and a spinning grip in the machine. The VCR uses a little motor. The wheels just turn in reverse. And the tape rewinds.” “Interesting. So, we’re talking, the fall of 1993. That’s when the big yikes happened.” “I suppose,” Ms. Paino said. “Shouldn’t you be in study hall?” “I’m on my way – right now – thanks!” * * * I walk through the hallways at a brisk clip, dodging the other kids and swearing revenge on Nadia, that no-good ratchet Russian cheater who left Mr. Arnold for Mr. Beefcakes! Now I know why he always sneered when referring to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov. The Russians , he would say, with emphasis, as if twisting his mustache in derision. Everywhere I go, I keep noticing a creepy 40-something dude in the hallway, looking like the only clothed person in a nudist colony. He is wearing a vintage Metallica T-shirt with white lettering on black. His bleach-blonde hair is styled in a mangy bowl cut. The first time I see him he’s cutting through the gym scuffing the coating on the laminate floor. Not two minutes later, I spot him down the hall coming around the corner to the cafeteria. The chances this guy has a hall pass are slim to none. This time he walks right up to me, grabs me by the shoulders, and says, “Aiden, it’s you.” “Uhh, yeah. And who are you?” “Eddie Edge,” he says, placing his hands on hips. “What is a… am I supposed to be impressed?” “You need to come with me. It’s about Mr. Arnold. There isn’t much time.” “Okay boomer.” “Follow me.” He starts speeding off toward the bus lot behind the cafeteria before I can catch up. “We’re going where? To do what?” “Look kid. I owe Mr. Arnold. I was a kid in his class years ago when he first started teaching. About twenty years ago now. What an inspiration! It’s something I’ve got to do. For all our sake.” “You have any proof?” “You could go back to the 1998 Yearbook and check me out on this. But there isn’t any time. The rift will only be open for about ten more minutes. By next period, it’ll be gone forever.” “So, what are you suggesting we do to help Mr. Arnold? Humor me.” “What else? Isn’t it obvious? We have to return to 1993 and make sure Mr. Arnold checks out the right flic at Blockbuster Video. Everything depends on it. If he never gets cancer, Inaya never dies...” “Inaya? Dies? What does she have to... Whoah. For real. Are you mental bro?” “I’m telling you right now that I’m here to take you back…” “And who, what exactly are you supposed to be?” “We’ve been over this. I don’t have time to explain. Try to keep up. We have to ride the short bus.” “That old relic in the bus barn? That hasn’t been used for years. What does that have to do with Mr. Arnold?” “Well, I’m not saying we ride it literally. We need to catch a vibe.” “A vibe? It’s giving… let’s see… an ’07 shaved-head Britney Spears vibe. Is that an old enough reference for you? You getting me, bruh ?” “We need to channel a time rift. A musical one. A real nineties vibe. And bridge that rift through space and time. Shred that wave until we clear the barrel and come out the other side 'Gleaming the Cube' style without getting ragdolled in the process. It is all vibrations. All thrumming strings. Like on a record. And you can rewind it. That’s how it works. Taking the short way around. Pun intended. You ever read ‘A Wrinkle in Time?’” “I’m shook. You are like, literally, the second person today explaining rewinding to me.” “Trust me. It’s easy. To get back to the fall of 1993 all we have to do is start playing ‘Linger’ by the Cranberries on repeat in the short bus. Works every time.” “Wait. You are saying time travel is sound based? Mr. Arnold told us something about that. Tessering. Are you saying that’s a real thing?” “You think it’s a coincidence, bruh? Come on kid. Or should I start calling you Meg? There’s no time to waste.” “Wait? You read Madeline L’Engle?” “Read it? I inspired it. Do you think she just made up Charles Wallace? I go by Eddie Edge, but obviously, that is not my real name. It’s copyright infringement, kid. Plain and simple. That girl should be in time jail.” Okay, okay. The explanation slaps. My mind is officially blown. Low key. But I am no fool. I text Inaya and Albie to hunt down the 1998 Yearbook. Stat. * * * Don’t ask me how this dough-brained cringeasaurus finessed me into accompanying him onto the short bus. When Inaya hadn’t even gotten back to me yet. Using a YA novel no less. Might as well have been dangling a bag of Skittles in front of a Highlighter Kid. Just saying it out loud sounds highly sus. But that is what’s happening right now. When we get out to the school bus graveyard, the short bus with its four rear windows is grinning at us. It is covered in hot pink, electric blue, and lime green stripes, and checkered with pastel graffiti. There is a pink baby elephant, a mint green alien in a flying saucer, and a lavender chimpanzee dangling from the top of the rear bay doors. There’s also a bright orange giraffe by the automatic door, giving boarding passengers the side eye. And the grill is painted like a grinning carnival clown. Eddie Edge steps inside first and sits in the driver’s seat. I come in and sit directly behind in the first row. He pulls a black rectangular thingy out of his pocket and sticks it into a slot next to the steering wheel. He turns his head back to me and says, “You ready?” I shrug. A haunting humming sound gives way to a catchy melody. It reverberates around us and the bus starts gently shaking. A haunting voice takes center stage, singing, “If you could return… do you have to… do you have to.” It was a vibe. It was giving me a headache. The bus was glitching now. The air was filled with static. I was getting a bit dizzy, like the way your eyes unfocus when you’re staring too long at a picture. “You know I’m such a fool….fooo—oooool.” “Jusss waittt. Close your eyes. The dizzzziiiinnneessss will fade. Just count back from ten.” By the time I reach one, all is silent. Solid. Still. As it should be. I open my eyes and we are at the Taunton Strip Mall. “Come on. There isn’t much time,” Eddie Edge says. And as we walk out of the bus, I notice there is no graffiti anywhere. A big blue sign on the front of the biggest storefront reads “Blockbuster Video” in bright block letters. “Alright, kid. You’ve got to head in there. The task is simple. Swap out the ‘Pumping Iron’ VHS that is in the wrong case for ‘Adventures in Babysitting.' Easy peasy. Got it?” “Oh, is that all,” I say. And I run up to the glass doors. * * * As I enter the store, I hear a jingling from a bell over the door. I take stock of my surroundings. Rows of cases line the shelves. There is a candy display at the counter. A popcorn popper going like gangbusters. A red curtain behind a section at the far end. There is a dopy stoner-looking dude at the counter, and a perky girl with an up-do next to him, chewing bubble gum, popping bubbles, and smacking her gums obnoxiously. And they are playing some movie on a weird boxy screen above the register. Some old flic with a gofer running from some guy in a bucket hat. I quickly try to problem-solve this bitch. Step 1. Find the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ tape. Step 2. Distract the lip-smacking candy girl. Step 3. Make the swap. Step 4. Get the hell out of dodge. Turning my head I see an aisle that says, “New Releases.” That must be where ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ is. But what about ‘Pumping Iron?’ That’s an older film. I make a b-line for the curtained room and pull back the curtain. Oh boy! The second I open the curtain I realize that I am in an age with no internet. It never occurred to me the lengths people had to go to back in the day. Jeez Louise! “Hey kid!” the stoner dude says, “Adults only. Can’t you read the sign!” I take the L, sulking back to the counter. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for ‘Pumping Iron.’ You know where it is?” He shakes his head in disapproval. “Come with me, kid.” I follow the gangly dope head back to the stacks on the back wall. There is a sign indicating this is the ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’ section. He immediately finds the cassette and opens it up. “Sorry kid, it looks like somebody checked this one out.” “Could you check?” I ask. “I really was looking forward to watching this one. Oh wait. What about ‘Adventures in Babysitting?’ I want to check that out too." We go back to New Releases section and he hands me the case. While the dope head checks the computer, I ask the Chewing Gum Girl for some popcorn. “How much do you want?” "Do you take ApplePay?" “Apple, what? It’s free with a purchase kid,” she says, angrily filling a tub and plopping it down on the counter. Spotting the rewind machine on the counter behind her, I knock over the tub. Chewing Gum Girl curses under her breath, comes over with a broom, and starts cleaning. I sneak around and spot the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ cassette in the rewinder and make the swap and I am back in the short bus in no time flat. “Not bad, kid.” “Thanks, Eddie. Or should I say Charles? Where to now?” “You’re riding solo, kid. Just pick any Taylor Swift song. You’ll be back in no time.” “Hey, you know what happens with Inaya and me?” “At Homecoming?” he asks. “Bussin!” I say, grinning ear to ear.


I read all the horror stories about being lost underground, and have seen all the movies. I always said that they were dumb as heck, it was their own fault for going down there. They should have known better, and I vowed to never put myself in that silly situation, yearning to breathe free above the surface. It didn't help that we lived near a huge cave system, literally at the bottom of a local mountain and an ancient river had cut holes all through the ground. People came from all over to explore, and we even had a minor celebrity or two lose their lives in our soil. Most of the town worked year round in the businesses of serving tourists. Highly prepared, generally, and with an air of self confidence and athletic builds (those all seemed so unafraid of the business in which they were engaged- diving into the pitch dark, squeezing through narrow corridors hundreds of feet beneath our toes). I would have moved to get away from the whole scene, but my house was cheap, and the neighbors were nice, I'd lived in the town my whole life. Nobody ever fell into a sink hole and ended up in a cave there at least. My friends, I'd likewise known for most of my life, and we enjoyed frequent drinking, and it led to a couple nights where I woke up without any memory of the evening before. I always ended up safely in bed, or sometimes passed out on my floor (with the sunlight streaming in directly strong and causing a full brain pounding headache), or in strangers porch (twice), or in a the town jails drunk cell (on one fateful Friday) when we stayed past last call at the neighborhood bar and upset the staff. My friends were likewise heavy drinkers and they also had nights where they blacked out drunk, we just took it as normal Fridays, and laughed about our debauchery as we regaled each other with stories of past weekends. I felt that the ground was calling out to me for a couple of weeks before the incident. I would hear whispers when I was driving by the parking lot to one of the most visited caves (which opened into a complex system), and I dreamed that I was walking near the mouth of a great cave, with stalagmites bearing out like giant teeth. I thought nothing of it, not believing in prophecies like any logical 21st century man, but one dream was so bad I couldn't fall asleep the rest of the night. I had a flashlight in that dream, and I walked into the cave, and it was full of monsters. I awoke in a cold fright, and felt them in the room with me, I had to turn on the lights, and when I closed my eyes I felt their hot breath and heard their ragged breathing. The next Friday, I planned to get extremely drunk, to get a good nights sleep (the monsters had been in my room, in my mind, again the night after, and the night after that). I certainly met that goal, and we were all three sheets to the wind by ten thirty, a rare evenings indeed. I wandered out of the bar for a smoke, and felt the chill of the November air. I heard the whispering again. It was plaintive and real, it was calling my name. I couldn't have resisted, as much as the rest of this might have been my fault, could you resist someone calling your name? I didn't realize it was the voice of the cave. The monsters. They knew I would be here, close enough. Just close and unaware enough tonight. They called my name, and I followed.  Edit: Bad idea. just survived..


Henry doesn’t remember how he ended up here, walking in a forest at night, without a phone or anything. Being led by an orange tabby cat, with the sense he should follow it. He was going somewhere; he knew that much. Where or why, he has no clue only that he needs to get there, urgently. He scans his surroundings, pine trees stretching over him menacing, their branches giving off shadows that resemble hands reaching out. No moon in sight, but the shining stars in the midnight blue sky, with enough light that he's not walking blindly in the dark. And able to see the cat clearly to notice the whites of his paws and chest leading to his under belly, his dark orange stripes on his body and around his face. The cat is not his; he knows that too, he also knows it's a boy cat. The forest and the orange tabby are not familiar to him. The cat struts ahead, his movements fluid and dainty, as cats are, with an air of superiority and in no hurry. His orange tail is down, swaying back and forth. Henry wonders if he died or is hallucinating to be expecting a cat to rescue him out of the forest. He tries to rack his brain for information, but comes up blank, can't even remember when the cat first appeared. He blows out a sigh, running his hands through his hair, glancing around him. Henry shakes his head, chuckling to himself, wondering why he's still following this cat. As if he's in a child's fairy tale, on a quest to save the world. He stops, turning back around- Stop. Henry spins around, searching, but finds no one. He cast his eyes down, blue eyes staring back at him. The orange tabby tilts his head, unblinking, the black pupils thin vertical lines. Henry frowns, squinting back up into the forest. He heard someone; it was male's voice, it sounded close by. The person said stop. "Hello? Anyone there?" Henry asked, walking past the tabby. "Can you help me? I'm lost." Yes. I can help if you follow me. Henry doesn't need to look back to know who’s talking to him. His stomach drops, his blood turns to ice, and his heart speeds up. He closes his eyes, telling himself he's not crazy. That this must be a dream. Yes, surely a dream, or he had too much to drink and passed out. Except he's never been a big drinker, or does drugs, besides eating a few laced brownies as a teen. Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want me to lead you out of here? Henry gets the overwhelming feeling he should keep following the cat. But why? He holds in the urge to shout, to burst out laughing, and slap himself. He's gone crazy, or maybe he was already crazy. Either way, he decides that if he is crazy, or this is a dream, he might as well follow the orange cat. The orange talking cat. Before he turns around, Henry inhales, clenching his hands, his feet scraping the dirt as he turns. Two sets of glowing eyes stare back at him. The cat is sitting on his hind legs, his head still tilted, unblinking. An irrational sense of fear and danger hits Henry straight in the chest. Henry feels as if his soul is on display, being judged by a cat that doesn't blink, unnaturally still. Henry shifts from foot to foot, unable to tear his eyes away, the tabby's own sucking him in. The blue glowing eyes unnerve Henry, causing him to take a step back, but then tells himself that it's normal. The darkness makes it seem like they're glowing, but it's just the light reflecting on them, because the cat is a nocturnal animal. Nothing creepy about that. Yet, the feeling doesn't leave him, and he doesn't understand why he has the feeling. The tabby gets up, blinks once, twitches his nose and makes his way towards Henry, who is holding his breath, still as a statue. The cat rubs against Henry's leg, from his head to his tail. His tail wraps around Henry's ankle before letting go. He glides past Henry, staring straight ahead. Follow me. Henry unlocks his muscles and follows the cat, shaking his head for being freaked out by a damn cat. But, he keeps his distance between them, half of his brain telling him the cat is dangerous and the other half, that the cat is helping him. If only he knew how he got here and why. Henry rubs his temple, a headache coming on. Great, he thinks, what else could go wrong? Passing by a tree, he stretches his arm, knocking on wood. At least it's not cold, wearing only jean pants and a t-shirt. He frowns, realizing he should be, it was autumn. Henry stops in his tracks, eyes wide as he remembers something. It was autumn; the leaves should be shades of brown, orange, and red, not green. He looks around him, seeing green everywhere. The leaves, bushes, and grass. The air is warm and filled with fragrance from flowers that have bloomed too. It's springtime here. Something else, he realized, spinning back to the cat. He wasn't talking out loud. The cat was talking in his head telepathically. Henry groans, shooting pain exploding in his head. He shuts his eyes, pressing his hands to his forehead. Don't stop. Keep walking. Henry opens one eye. The cat is watching him, unblinking, the pupils of his eyes becoming thinner against the sparkling blue. His left ear twitches, turns his head and continues. Henry goes after him, the heel of his palm on his forehead, pressing down. Henry squints in the forest, keeping his eyes down. It's darker in this part of the forest, he could barely see the trees. Nothing more than tall dark shapes. He glances at the cat. The urge to run from it still yells at him. "Where are you taking me?" Henry asks. The cat keeps walking, not acknowledging Henry as he steps over a twig. Henry watches his tail flicking back and forth, getting distracted. Does it matter, as long as he gets out? Goes home, to his one bedroom, small, expensive apartment in New York City. Noise from all directions, honking and shouting in the streets below, footsteps above him, and the muffle sounds from his neighbor’s next door. To walk down the corner of his street, avoiding getting trampled by a hoard of people in a hurry, oblivious to others around them, their mind set on arriving at their destination. To wait in a line in a coffee shop to buy an eight-dollar cup of coffee. All he wants is to go home, to the city that he loves. Henry halts, his heart increasing. He lives in New York. In the city, miles from a forest. Something shouts at him to run from the cat. The cat will only lead him to danger. The pain comes back, hitting him like a boulder. We're almost there. Don't stop now. Henry clutches his head, almost collapsing from the pain. He gazes up; the cat sitting and staring at him again, his tail curling around his legs, lifting and falling. His yellow eyes unblinking. Doesn't his eyes ever blink, Henry wonders? They just stare at him, through him, luring him. The cat sits up, studying Henry, before he bolts. His shape disappearing in the shadows. Something compels Henry to run after the tabby. The cat will bring him back home, he's sure of that. He runs after it, before a feeling tells him not to. Henry screams, standing still, looking between where the cat went and behind him. Henry doesn't know what to do, who to trust, where he is. He knows nothing. He just wants to leave this place. Henry burst out laughing suddenly, running his hands through his hair and tugging them. He's insane, that's it, none of this is real, it's all his imagination. He's in a coma, this is a dream, he's high, imagining this all. Follow me. I will lead you to safety. Henry twists his head to see the cat walking away from him, his orange tail swaying. Henry numbly goes after him. He follows a few feet, narrowing his eyes to see the ground in front of him. He trips on a rock, catching himself on a tree. Henry rights himself, and stares into the dark. He gasps, realizing the forest has not just become darker to see from the trees blocking out the sky, but that the forest is darker. The green from the leaves is the color of ebony, the trunks are blending from brown to charcoal, the brown dirt grows darker. And they changed not only the color, the forest is morphing into an empty pitch black space. Follow me. The cat is standing in the middle of the darkness, the orange and cream color of his fur sticking out, calling Henry with his eyes. Henry's feet inches forward, his left hand drops to his side, but stops. He steps back, his face pale, the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He bumps into the tree, gripping the trunk, his chest rising and falling. The cat walks forward, his eyes burning through Henry. Henry turns away, running. He looks back to see two pairs of yellow eyes chasings him. Yellow eyes that were blue. The cat had blue eyes. The pupils are gone too, only yellow glowing eyes. Henry pumps his legs faster, twisting his head back every often, dread washing over him. The tabby chases after him, paws pushing him forward, his movements agile. Henry trips over his feet, hitting the ground hard, his right shoulder taking the blunt. He lifts his head, watching behind him as the orange and white of the fur turn jet-black, his limbs disappearing, losing the cat shape of his body. Transforming into a shadow, growing and becoming solid. But the eyes stay the same glowing yellow. Unblinking. Holding Henry in place. Henry shakes his head, breaking the hold on him, and scrambles to his feet. Eyes darting around, he watched in horror as the forest transformed into an abyss. Henry screams, but they get swollen up into nothingness. He looks over his shoulder in time to see the shadow reaching out, scratching Henry's left leg. Henry falls over, crawling to his hand and knees, getting up. He runs faster and faster, not looking back anymore. He could feel the shadow on his hills, he could feel the intensity of his eyes locked on him. Henry is in an abyss, running with nowhere to hide and no way out. Tears fall down his face, mixing with his sweat, his legs burning, panting for air, shouting that he wants to go home. The shadow lashes out, shedding his shirt, and nothing else, missing him. Henry loses his balance, though, falling over again. He keeps falling and falling and falling, darkness all around him, yellow eyes glaring down at him. Henry wakes, taking a sharp intake of breath, jolting up. A car horn blares in the street below him. Henry gasps, rubbing his face with shaking, clammy hands. He glances around him, running his hands through his sheets, gaining comfort, and slows his accelerated heart rate. He breathes through his nose heavily, searching for the shadow or cat in his bedroom. Morning light coming through his curtains banishes the shadows, easing the nerves in Henry. With his adrenaline slowed down, he finally notices the stinging pain in his left calf. He pulls his sheet away, twisting his leg over to see three deep scratches. **** There is an orange tabby cat with blue eyes that turn yellow. He lives in people's dreams, in their nightmares. Leading them deeper into a forest to kill them. A way to survive him is not to look into his eyes, which is how he tricks people, or a fast runner.


Keith liked to watch the fish. To see them shoot through the water like silver bullets was always captivating. Their streamline forms so elegant and beautiful, the water parting before them with a graceful bow as they twirled and danced in their private watery world. To be admired such as these fish was Keith’s dream. Sadly, Keith could never be on the receiving end of such admiration and desire. How could he? Keith is a banana. A lowly, rather typical, dull, banana. There was nothing special about Keith, and he knew it. He was much the same as any of the other bananas in his bunch where they sat squarely in a wicker basket in the food court. The only thing to set him apart was his rather peculiar dream of becoming a fish. Or at least to be seen as a thing of beauty much in the same way he saw those wonderful fish. To be craved and envied as much as those slippery angels that torment him with their lustrous figures and tantalising performances. He’d watch their lithe bodies dart back and forth, envying their grace and slender frames compared to his sluggish rounded curves. The other bananas didn’t seem to care much for the fish, or of anything at all for that matter. They didn’t spend their days longing to be something they weren’t, something they never would be. They didn’t do a whole lot of anything, Keith thought. They just sit there in silence, blissfully unaware of the magnificent splendour taking place right in front of them. Oh how they were missing out on nature at its finest. This was a good thing, Keith thought. It was a good thing that he was the only one capable of appreciating the finer things the world has to offer. It contented him to know that the spectacles of the fish were for him and him alone. If only he could venture further, beyond the confines of the bunch, beyond the food court, beyond the barrier that separated his mundane existence from their splendour. To join them in their watery performance. To be seen as something as remarkable as them. But alas, he was not destined to penetrate the firmament which held back the briny heavens that those beautiful fish lived in. He would just have to live with the fact that he was nothing but a simple banana who would never be seen as anything more. It was a shock when, one day, while enjoying the show, Keith felt a sudden rush of air as he was hoisted into the sky. A great being held him as if he was nothing, a tiny insignificance in its mighty grasp. His stomach dropped as fear crept up his spine and filled his heart with dread. The ground swayed and tumbled in a dizzying display of colours as he was lofted ever higher until he was staring into the face of God. Then he saw it, in the eyes of the deity that swept him away. Staring back at him was a look of joy and of lust. A warmth seeped throughout his entire being as the opulent diamond blue eyes drew nearer, a smile forming across a widening maw. This warmth was what Keith had craved all this time. The feeling of being wanted and appreciated for just being himself, a banana. He couldn’t believe that God had chosen him, an average and clunky fruit, over that of the silvered works of art swimming behind them. As his outer layer was slowly peeled away, despite the pain it causes him, Keith closed his eyes with a smile on his face as he welcomed what was to come and basked in the delight of being desired even more than those remarkable fish.


I was walking, and she was walking. I was running, and she was screaming. I was crying, and she was bleeding. A crowd formed around me, holding her. I couldn't call the ambulance, I was so in shock that all I could do was hold her as I sobbed. I screamed her name several times, shaking. *Shaking, shaking, shaking.* Blood trickled down her head, taking two different paths as it reached her nose. My thumb smudged the blood that found its way to her right cheek. Sirens could be heard from a distance, getting closer. Soon, paramedics took her away and I followed. *"What happened?"* One paramedic said to me. *"What?"* I said, confused, no not confused, *scared.* *"I-I don't know what happened. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!"* I couldn't believe what was happening. What if she dies? No, I can't think like that. I can't *afford* to think like that. Losing her would be like losing my heart. I can't live without her as much as I can't live without my heart. Before I knew it, I was in her hospital room, sitting beside her body. I wasn't sure if she was even breathing, she had to be, though. Her heart rate was there, barely, but it was there. I held onto her hand, hoping she'd live, *knowing* she'd live. "I love you." I whispered. I swear she mouthed it back, her lips moved, *she moved*. *Beeeeeeep.* Silence. Panic. My heart stopped. *Her* heart stopped.


Lynette wished that people would stop telling her, “Of course we would understand completely if you didn’t want to go through with this,” and then promptly, in those bright well-meaning voices, try to persuade her exactly why she should . I know all about persuasion, she thought, and you’re not even very good at it . She hurriedly reminded herself that it was to their credit, and to her benefit, that they weren’t very good at it. Only Gran-Jan seemed to genuinely respect her views. Even long after putting aside childish things (many of which she had taken up again later one) she had carried on using that pet name for her Grandmother Janet. Lynette was a person who didn’t give her trust or affection easily, though she was not as chary of either as she used to be, but she trusted Gran-Jan completely, and loved her dearly. It hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time when she hated her and resented her and screamed and flailed and called her the cruellest names she could think of, and when you had been one of the Witnesses of the Dawn you had a pretty good repertoire of cruel names. Yet she had borne it all, from two-faced whore to Satan’s Lackey with equanimity. Though of course, as Lynette realised later she must have been in despair and inner turmoil. Lynette was, effectively, a motherless child. But she could honestly say it had never bothered her, and in that instance, it wasn’t cruelty. She had never known her mother, who died soon after she was born of a strain of septicaemia that people thought was more or less resigned to history in Western Europe. She had now read books, and articles about real life, where a grieving husband in those circumstances turned against the baby. But her Dad hadn’t turned against her. He adored her, and she was his solace and hope. He was also sensible enough to know that she did need a female presence in her life, and she didn’t lack for that. Gran-Jan only lived a couple of streets away, and her Auntie Glenda in the next town. Though she didn’t see her Dad’s mum, Grandma Elaine, as much, she knew that she cared for her and thought of her. So she grew into a happy and confident little girl. Though she was an early and fluent reader, her Dad carried on reading aloud to her, and her nickname, his special name for her, was rooted in one of the favourites from her early childhood. She had loved Henny-Penny and he called her Linny-Pinny . Gran-Jan told her later that she had been pleased, to start with, when her dad started spending time with Joyce. “I was sure your Mum would never have wanted him not to know a woman’s love again,” she said, “She was a generous and loving woman.” But even at eight years old, Lynette heard a note in Gran-Jan’s voice that made her wonder. She doesn’t really like Joyce , she thought, and it’s not because she minds anyone going out with Dad ! It wasn’t long before she began to notice subtle little differences in her dad. Though she had never been spoilt and was expected to behave, he was a tolerant man and an easy-going father. For instance on the subject of bedtimes. She was nominally supposed to be in bed at 9, but he knew full well she often kept the light on and read long after that, and as long as she didn’t seem over-tired and kept up with her schoolwork he turned a blind eye. But one day he told her that there was to be no reading after bedtime, and that he wasn’t sure the books she was reading were suitable either. The next day she found that at least half of her books were removed, and in their place were some books with pictures of children praying and oddly menacing angels, not a bit like the ones in the school Nativity play. She told Gran-Jan all about it, and she was put in a difficult position. She had always maintained that though she worshipped the ground Lynette walked on, and would always help out when needed, and be delighted to do so, on matters of discipline she would never go against Lynette’s dad’s wishes. But this time she went so far as to say, “Joyce is very religious, I think.” Later she told Lynette that she realised that was probably the worst thing she could have said, and yet she didn’t regret it. “I don’t want her to be my Mum. EVER.” “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, lovey. Just mind your manners and make sure your dad carries on being proud of you.” Lynette had never gone to church very often, but when she had, she hadn’t minded at all, whether it was for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve (oh, how grown up and magical it was!) or for her little cousin Archie’s christening, or for the school Harvest Festival. She thought she wouldn’t mind going more often. Well, when Joyce entered their lives, she changed her mind about that. Joyce didn’t go to a nice church like St Anthony’s with beautiful stained glass windows and a kindly vicar like Reverend Jack. Joyce took her and her dad to a place she called a House of Mission where there were no beautiful windows, and no lovely music, and no kindly vicar. There were endless sermons, and endless warnings. Then came the day when her Dad said, “Lynette, Joyce and I are going to get married. Will you wish us blessings?” She remained mutinously silent. He went on, “And we’re going to live in a special house out in the countryside.” At that Lynette perked up, just a little, just for a few minutes. She loved the countryside. But some precocious prescience told her that this wouldn’t be at all like the countryside on holiday or in story books. She knew that Gran-Jan wasn’t happy about it. She said she was in two minds about going to the wedding, but Joyce “solved” that problem anyway by saying, “We mean you no disrespect, Mrs Anderson, but only members of our congregation are allowed to attend our services. We make exceptions for under 10s who are close relations of members, though of course we expect them to join us.” Lynette had never been to a funeral, but she knew what they were, and were pretty sure that they were more cheerful matters than this wedding. Her dad and Joyce wore sombre coloured every day clothes, though the former was wearing a long skirt, and there seemed to be nothing but warnings and condemnation. Except, curiously, right at the end, there was something the minister (a whey faced little man with a voice that reminded Lynette of paper being crinkled up, but paper with rocks and glass in it) called The Rejoicing . There had been no music in the service, and she had noticed that there wasn’t an organ, nor even a piano, but now everyone burst into some kind of wild, discordant song, something at the same time discordant and monotone, and that was the worst part of all. “Your suitcase is packed,” Joyce told her, “You are coming with us to our House of Mission, like we said.” “But I want to say goodbye to Gran-Jan!” “You will obey! And the sooner you are taken away from her malign influence, the better.” Though she had a good vocabulary, she wasn’t sure what malign meant, but it obviously wasn’t something good. You’re the malign one , she thought. She had been allowed a glass of orange squash after the wedding, though normally only water was allowed, and much later on, it dawned on her that it had been drugged. She drifted off into a deep, restless sleep in the back of the car, aware of turning round endless corners in a vague, stupefied way, time playing tricks on her. A whole night must have passed, because dawn was breaking when she woke up in a hard little bed. She was rousing of her own volition anyway, but another girl shook her awake. “Hurry! The first act of worship will soon be beginning.” “I’m hungry!” she exclaimed, and her stomach rumbled as if on cue. “You had best see if you can tame that!” A new recruit (which as she thought after, was hardly the right word as it implied something voluntary) at the House of Mission was given no leeway or time to slowly get accustomed to things. Later on she told Gran-Jan, “I suppose in one way it wasn’t like Lowood or those other schools you read about in books – the food wasn’t great, but there was enough – usually – and it wasn’t rotten or anything. But I didn’t have much appetite, even though I thought I was ravenous.” She had the sensation of being force-fed though, and not with nourishment. She learnt, in one single day, great chunks of what being a child at the House of Mission meant. There must be no singing, apart from The Rejoicing, and they didn’t call that singing. They were to read no books except the Bible in the Witnesses of the Dawn’s own version, and tracts of the kind that had replaced Harry Potter and even the Narnia books on Lynette’s bookshelves. Birthdays were forbidden. “That sounds like the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Gran-Jan said, “I wonder if they’re some kind of off-shoot.” “I don’t think so,” Lynette said. And in some ways they made the Jehovah’s Witnesses seem positively liberal. As Lynette understood it, JW families were allowed to keep pets, though there was some debate as to whether they had a soul. Such things were strictly forbidden for Witnesses of the Dawn. They were strict vegetarians, but it wasn’t because they loved animals. All animals except humans (and most of them) were evil and to be spurned. So Henny-Penny would have been ruled out on two counts! They did not play any games, and even an impromptu race up the corridor was immediately stopped and condemned as sinful. Naturally they didn’t go to school. They were required to be literate and numerate, but that was as far as it went, apart from a chosen few who went on to study the group’s own brand of theology. Now she was older, Lynette knew the phrase “Convert’s Zeal”, and her dad was a prime example of it. She told herself he must still love her, but it often didn’t feel as if he did. He had a weird look in his eyes – it was somehow empty and obsessive at the same time. But she was sure he MUST have his limits. One day she spoke of her mother – of her real mother. She rarely did, and was no hypocrite who pretended that she missed her when she had never known her, but now she thought about how different her life would have been if her mother had lived. Her dad had made sure she had seen plenty of pictures of her – a smiling young woman who looked so kind and full of love. She was pretty, too, and though Gran-Jan had always told her pretty was as pretty did, she couldn’t help being pleased about that. She wanted to think Joyce was ugly, but she wasn’t. She had even features and dark eyes that might have been nice if they hadn’t had that perpetual expression in them. The same expression as in her dad’s – except sometimes there was downright malice. “I don’t want to hear that talk ever again,” she told her. “The woman who bore you is now burning in hell.” Her Dad was going to say something. SURELY! But he didn’t. Not one word. And the thing was, she became one of the community. She went along with things. She never liked Joyce, but on the surface she stopped hating her, and blessed with a quick memory, she even became one of the best Bible students in her class, though there was some dichotomy here; they could hardly mind a child knowing her Bible, but being too clever for your own good was frowned on, especially as she was a girl, though they were in the process of reluctantly accepting some girls to theology classes. She did not have even the vaguest clue of where the House of Mission was. The Countryside could have been anywhere in the country. As the weather was generally relatively mild, she supposed it wasn’t in the far north of Scotland or anything like that, and she didn’t think it was near the sea. Not really near the sea. They were generally never allowed to leave the House, though some of the adults had to, on occasion, but as she knew, still, from fading memories of seaside holidays that faded though she didn’t want them to, in the quiet of the night you could hear the song of the tide, even if it were several miles away, and she didn’t hear it. Nor could she see the contours of any distant hills. When she was 11 she was accepted as a full member of the Witnesses of the Dawn. The ceremony was as joyless as the wedding, and even the Rejoicing didn’t last long, and she didn’t see it conferred any especial advantages on her but she didn’t mind either. She had stopped minding, or thought she had. That was also the occasion that she went through the rite of passage of being told what happened to a woman’s body around this time. It was biologically surprisingly frank and accurate, but the dire warnings about losing your purity were far more important. She was sweeping the hallway when a woman surged in through the open door – she had been sweeping out the dust. This woman, though quite conservatively dressed, was wearing what they called harlots’ clothing in bright colours. I know you thought Lynette, and yet she knew better than to take her eyes off the floor. I know you , the voice nagged at her again. And the woman stopped by her, and put her arm round her shoulders, and Lynette recoiled – public demonstrations of affection were forbidden at the House of Mission. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you know me!” she exclaimed, “Don’t you know your Gran-Jan? I never gave up trying to find you, you know!” Well, there was a battle, of course. And Lynette’s dad wanted her to stay at the House of Mission. But Gran-Jan was a determined woman, and didn’t intend giving up now she’d got this far. Lynette wasn’t drugged when she drove her away from the House, but she supposed after that Gran-Jan may have wished she had been. She howled and howled, terrified at leaving the House even though she had never come to love it. When she reached Gran-Jan’s home (and how could a place be so familiar and so bizarre at the same time) her howling intensified as she saw a cat – a little tabby called Twinks, whom Gran-Jan had got for company. “That’s a creature of the devil!” she wailed accusingly. “No, she’s a dear little thing, but you don’t need to pay her any heed if you don’t want to.” That was all eight years ago now. Lynette had been to all kinds of counselling, but her best help was Gran-Jan, whose unwavering love and patience brought her back into the world. Oh, and Twinks! She was a dignified elder states-cat now, still with her gentle way and air of dignity, though she had never stopped loving her games with her catnip mouse. She was sitting on Lynette’s lap now, and was the first to hear her decision. “I will go and meet Dad,” she said, “Everyone tells me he is completely free of the House of Mission and the Witnesses of Dawn, and he’s divorced Joyce, but I still don’t quite trust him and don’t know if I want to. But I expect this means I’m properly grown up now.” It was agreed they would meet on neutral ground, at a local café at a quiet time, and Gran-Jan would be there, but discreetly in the background, only intervening if necessary, or if Lynette used an “alerting” phrase they had agreed on to signify that she wasn’t comfortable with the situation. Not that she was comfortable anyway. He has grown older, she thought, and it shows. She was still at the stage when she was growing up, but he was growing older. He had lost weight, and the first traces of grey were in his hair. He stood up as she approached. “It’s been – a very long time, dad,” she said, speaking first, and keeping her voice, though not hostile, neutral. “Too long,” he said, plainly fighting his tears. “Thank you for agreeing to this. I would have understood if you hadn’t, Linny-Pinny.” No, she wasn’t someone to be softened up by the use of a childhood nickname. It wasn’t that simple. But even before she realised it, she had thrown herself into his arms, and both of them were sobbing.


“Stay right there, Lindsay,” she said, moving strands of my wild red hair from of my face. “Yes, Mama.” I reassured her with a smile when she glanced back at me from the hot dog line. She didn’t like being apart from me, even if I was only a few feet away. It’s been just the two of us, inseparable, for as long as I can remember. Mama’s friends or family never came to visit, and she said my father died when I was very little. I don’t know much about him - Mama always gets tears in her eyes when I talk about him - but apparently he wouldn’t let go of me the last time I saw him. I guess that’s why Mama doesn’t like letting go either. This is the first time Mama has ever taken me to the carnival. Now that I’m here, I can see why my friends at school love it so much. The smell of deep fried foods, the bells and chimes of carnival games, and the twinkly lights made me feel like I was in a fairy land far away from here. Mama was slowly moving up the line, shuffling her feet and twirling her curly blonde hair between her fingers. I think she’s afraid of people; she gets very nervous in big crowds. I was startled when I noticed the clowns in the booth next to me, their heads moving side to side, staring blankly at the crowds. People were shoving ping pong balls in their mouths as fast as they could to win an absurdly large plush unicorn or panda. It reminded me of toy frog I cherished as a child, but lost many years ago. Its legs were frayed from being dragged along the ground all day. Across the walkway was another food stall. This one was bursting with every type of candy you could imagine. There were giant balls of cotton candy and every flavour of popcorn neatly displayed on a shelf behind the cashier. My mouth watered and I checked the hot dog line; Mama nearing the front. If I hurried, I could look at the candies and return to this spot before she noticed I was gone. Mama didn’t often say no to me, so I’m sure I could convince her to buy me something after dinner.

Crossing the walkway proved harder than I first thought it would be. I jumped over puddles left from the afternoon’s rainstorm, and dodged strollers and young children who were not paying attention. I felt like a spy navigating a room full of lasers set to trigger an alarm if I dared touch them, and the candy stand was the treasure. My eyes narrowed on my target as I spun and pranced my way through the crowd, expertly dodging the invisible traps. That was too easy , I thought as the stall celebrated my arrival with some bouncy music. I looked at the products on display, searching for the perfect dessert. My eyes finally settled on an enormous blue and yellow lollipop at the back of the stand. The colours mingled and swirled in a never-ending circle. The entire lollipop was larger than my head! Mama was at the front of the hot dog stand now, ordering one with extra ketchup just the way I like it. I begun planning how to ask Mama for the lollipop as I turned to head back to my place next to the clown booth. But there was someone standing there, watching me. He was tall and lanky, wearing a blue and green striped polo shirt. He slowly rubbed his hands together as he eyed me from across the walkway. He must be the evil spy, I thought. I dashed behind a nearby garbage can to plan my next move. I had to be careful not to be caught by the evil spy. Who knew what plans he had with me? The mud under my feet was slippery and the hem of my dress wicked up the muddy water. With any luck, Mama won’t notice that. My eyes frantically searched my surroundings for an escape plan. The lights atop the ferris wheel twinkled against the black backdrop of the starless sky. That’s it! I can lose him on the ferris wheel. I scurried out from behind the garbage can and squeezed through the narrow alleyway leading to the next row of stalls. The carnival worker across from the alleyway was helping a young girl around my age select a rubber duck with a fishing pole. The bottom of the duck revealed NO PRIZE in bold letters. I made a note of the location on my spy map inside my brain so I could return with Mama later; I was sure the prize was hidden behind the duck with squinty eyes. But for now, my best chance of making it to the ferris wheel undetected was to blend in with the crowd. I slunk into the middle of the flow of traffic before I spun to check if the evil spy was behind me. He was easy to spot - his head bobbed over the top of the crowd. He quickly averted his eyes when I saw him, trying to hide that he’d been watching me. You’re going to have to do better than that! I picked up the pace, skipping to dodge the booby traps laced throughout the carnival. I jumped over a large puddle that I was sure hid a deep hole beneath its surface. If the evil spy caught me, he probably would have left me there for years until I died of starvation. I could practically feel the evil spy breathing on the back of my neck as I dove into a small building to the left. The dingy wooden cladding made the building look abandoned, but there were lights on inside and someone was just leaving with a giant ice cream cone.

As I stepped inside, the noise from outside faded and I was left facing a cramped stage and several rows of plastic chairs. There was a man - no, a woman - on the stage balancing China plates on wobbly sticks. I slid into an empty seat in the middle of the crowd between two very large men. They each had their own buckets of buttery popcorn and I could barely hear the music over their chewing. The evil spy was sitting in the back row, watching me out of the corner of his eye, not daring to make a move in the crowd.

My feet dangled from the chair as I settled to watch the woman spin the plates and balance on a unicycle that I hadn’t noticed before. The evil spy had me cornered here. I couldn’t see another exit, unless I risked a dash for backstage. If I got up to leave now, he could snatch me from his seat next to the door. My mind whirred as I tried to think of a new plan. Perhaps I could join the performer on stage for a better view or just run very fast past the man. It was too risky; I needed a distraction. The performer was losing the audience. The crowd was getting restless, no longer impressed with her balancing act. A burly man in the front row finally cracked and yelled out, “Get a real job!” The performer’s focus shattered along with her dozen China plates. Her face turned red as she scurried off-stage. I was embarrassed for her, but grateful for the distraction; it was exactly what I needed. If I was going to get out of this building alive, this was my chance.

Down on all fours, I crawled under the seats amidst gasps from the audience. My knees were now as dirty as my dress. The evil man stood up to get a better view of the performer, taking his eyes off me. One final dash got me through the exit and I was among the noisy crowd outside once more. I melted against the shabby cladding of the wall to catch my breath.

The audience slowly started leaving the theatre, clearly confused by what they had seen. The evil spy was surely right behind them. I had no idea where I was but the top of the ferris wheel was peaking out from behind the stalls to the left. My feet carried me as fast as they could toward the towering lights. My mind was so focused on getting to the ferris wheel that I didn’t notice the elderly woman up ahead. I crashed into her at full speed, knocking her sideways. “I’m so sorry,” I panted.

She had that gentle aura about her like all grandmas do. Her cheeks were rosy and she smelled of dust bunnies. “Are you lost, dear?” she asked. “No, I’m not lost,” I said, “I just need to get to the ferris wheel before the evil spy catches me.” I don’t know why she chuckled at that. “Where is this evil spy, sweetheart?” I pointed to the tall man in the striped polo shirt headed towards us. “He’s been following me all night.” “Oh, I see…” Her voiced trailed off as she turned to tap her husband on the shoulder.

The short stop had given the evil spy enough time to catch up; he was closing in. I broke away while the old woman’s back was turned, and raced towards the ferris wheel once again. It wasn’t long before I found myself in a large clearing at the base of the ferris wheel. There were people milling about and a man at the ticket booth yelled, “Grab your tickets here! Three turns on the ferris wheel! Grab your tickets!”

A line quickly snaked its way out from the small booth. I ducked through the legs of a tall man in corduroy pants before blending into the crowd once again. I spun around, searching for the evil spy’s tall figure or striped polo shirt. I stood as tall as I could on the tips of my toes to get a better view. My heart raced as fast as my eyes darted around the crowd.

“Yes!” I shouted to no one in particular. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. I had finally lost him. A smile painted my face as I danced with triumph.

But my celebrations were short-lived as panic quickly overtook. I had no idea where I was. No idea where Mama was. Not even my mental spy map was telling me which way to go! “Mother?” I whispered. People seemed to move faster. I couldn’t keep track of the blur of faces. My palms were sweating. I sat in the mud, tears welling in my eyes. My dress was ruined. “Lindsay!” “Mama!” Her curly blonde hair practically glowed in the shadows in the alleyway she stood in. She proudly held up two hot dogs, far too big for either of us to finish. She smiled with relief but her eyes wear red and puffy from crying. I was about to be in a lot of trouble. I bent my head and shamefully made my way across the muddy clearing. I took no more than three steps when a hand reached out and grabbed my arm. Its grip was tight enough to stop me but soft enough to know it meant no harm. I looked up at the strange man who had been following me all night. He had a familiar smell, like a mix of freshly cut grass and campfire smoke.

“Emily?” said the evil spy. My hand instinctively jerked away, my eyes fixated on his, and my feet cemented in place.

“My name is L-Lindsay,” I stammered, trying to place this man who was now so familiar. My eyes found Mama’s across the crowd. She gasped as she saw the man and dropped our hot dogs into the mud. She turned to run, disappearing into the thick black night beyond the carnival. Did she just leave? “It’s okay, Em- Lindsay. I’m here. I’m your father,” said the man. My knees buckled as he spoke. “Father? No. My father died many years ago,” I replied. “Lindsay, you were taken from us when you were only three years old. Here,” he said, reaching for a faded leather wallet in his back pocket. He pulled out a small photo with jagged edges and crease marks from the many hands it had passed between. It was a photo of a family. The man had his arms around his wife, and a young child sat on his shoulders. A child no more than three years old. A child with my freckles on her nose. A child with my crazy red hair. A child holding my favourite toy frog that I thought I had lost many years ago.