As a kid we would go to upstate New York on vacation to meet up with extended family members. My Grandparents owned a house which was passed down from their parents. I loved playing with my cousins. The area was completely remote. You had to drive a mile down a private road to get to the house. We went at least once a summer, but that tragically ended in the later 1980’s when two of my uncles and my nine year old cousin vanished one day. As I recall the story, my whole extended family about 30 people were staying the weekend in the house. Some of the older kids would sleep in tents outside because there just wasn’t enough room and the kids liked camping as well. It wasn’t uncommon for my uncle’s to look for an excuse to get drunk and pretend to hunt deer. We were all city dwellers and none of my uncle’s really knew anything about hunting rather than put bullets in rifle; aim at deer; and shoot. One Saturday afternoon, my two uncle’s and cousin ventured out into the woods. Typically, they would get drunk and return after a couple of hours. That Saturday, they didn’t return. I recall about supper time the adults joking that we will see them returning through those woods at anytime with no deer. As nighttime approached and still no signs of their return, then I remembered the mood had changed and the adults started to freak out. The adults went out searching for them. I remember being able to hear my family members yell their names through the woods. Eventually, the police arrived and they formed a search party. They searched all night and the next day with no sign of them. We extended our stay at the house so my parents could assist in the search. We stayed for a week and there was still no sign of them. We went back to NYC and my dad would go back to upstate NYC every weekend to search for them. Understandingly, we stopped going there as a vacation retreat. Two years went bye, then five years went bye, then eventually 20 years with no bodies being found. There was nothing. No clues at all. It really changed everything in my family. None of the adults ever seemed happy again. Fast forward to just a few months ago, I was perusing through free horror movies on demand. You know the ones where you have to watch commercials and really weren’t good enough to be featured on say Netflix. I read the previews for one of the movies and it was eerily similar to what happened to my uncle’s and cousin. I decided to watch the movie and the coincidences were extremely unsettling. There was a long road to the house, there was about the same amount of people who were at the house that Saturday, even to the smallest of details on how three of my male cousins would play on this large boulder in back of the house. I was glued to the tv because this was literally going to explain what happened to my lost family members. Then it eventually got to the part, where one of the locals who lived in the woods kidnapped the three of them and sadisticly killed them. I immediately phoned my brother and in turn he contacted the rest of the family members. Eventually, we contacted the police and they interrogated the writer of the movie. Based on the police investigation, it was determined that the actual writer who took credit for the screenplay didn’t write the movie. He actually payed a ghostwriter through bitcoins for his ideas on Reddit. My family and the police watched the movie for any clues on where the bodies could be. Another search party was assembled and the bodies were found buried in the basement of a remote cabin about 10 miles from my grandparents upstate house. The whole family was just perplexed. Who wrote the movie? Who knew all of these intimate details of our family? The police were unable to figure out who sent the story through Reddit. The ghost writer went through great lengths to hide his computer/phones IP address. My whole family went through every possible suspect including everyone in the family. Everyone agreed it couldn’t be anyone in the upstate house that day. Then, weeks went bye and I must of watched the movie two hundred times and still no suspect. Then one day,I was watching old home movies and something extremely sinister occurred to me. My grandfather back in the early 1980’s would draw lines. He would draw the lines on paper, on wood with the pointed end of nails, basically on anything as a nervous tick. Then after my uncles and cousin disappeared he stopped doing it, so I completely forgot about it. Those lines were important because I remembered seeing two of them in an indiscreet area on the inside door of the cabin. I knew I really had to sit and think before I accused anyone of anything. Then, I came up with a possible scenario. My grandfather told my two uncles and cousin to go to the cabin and he would meet them there. Then, when the search party went out to look for them, my grandfather went out on his own to the cabin and killed them. My grandfather then went back to burry the bodies in the cabin. I explained the scenario to the rest of my family and most of them agreed with me and were in shock and horror. My grandfather was dead so he couldn’t be held accountable, but I knew the motive. He wanted the upstate house for himself. My grandparents were the only ones who continued to visit the house after my uncles and cousin vanished. Still the mystery remains,who actually wrote the story? My grandfather was dead when the writer of the movie received the story from the ghost writer. I don’t think whoever wrote the story was actually involved in the plot or the actual murders. I think the ghost writer just wanted to tell what they knew. Talking to the rest of my family, they remembered my grandfather veering off from the rest of the search party only to return hours later. They also remember my grandfather returning from one of the searches covered in sweat and dirt. Everyone who was there that week corroborated those events regarding my grandfather and everyone agreed it was virtually impossible for anyone to have assisted my grandfather. Also, everyone agreed that someone who was there that Saturday was the Ghostwriter. Potentially, even my grandmother, which would really be dark because there was actually bitcoins exchanged for the story.


Mysterious as the Dark Side of the Moon This year, it had been she who’d been selected to journey over to the dark side of the earth. Everyone knew that it wasn’t habituated to humans; only the legends had told of what lurked in the darkness on the other side. All her life, she’d been bathed in light, safe and happy and content. For the most part. There was a part of her that yearned to explore it, to unlock its mysteries. Even the old books in the Library’s archive did little to shed light on what had been there before. There had been rumors, of course. A plague or virus that killed off the human population and mutated the plant and animal life. Human hubris that had ruined all, turned the fertile land to sand. Tales of crops withering and dying, and then the people became crumpled, lifeless husks themselves. No one really knew for sure. The night before she was supposed to set out, she was allowed a brief repast with her friends and family, on the chance that she didn’t make it back. In her tiny apartment, her family and friends crowded over a meal fit more for a queen than an explorer, even an intergalactic one. But everyone in town had asked for special privileges for her. The table groaned under the weight of all the food: tureens of hot soup, a whole haunch of real beef, garnished with herbs and spices and horseradish sauce, thick, dark bread with melted butter, even some Earth alcohol that had been discovered in someone’s old cellar. It was a bounty that Ruby felt she didn’t deserve, even if she did die in uncharted territory. At least her family, her parents, and sisters, enjoyed it. And she knew that she should have been enjoying it as well, but she was too worried about the journey ahead to really savor her last night on the part of the planet she knew intimately. Even though this had been her dream for years, she found that she was still scared; it permeated even through her excitement. What awaited her, out in the great unknown? When Ruby lay down to sleep that night, it had taken almost until the early hours of the morning for her anxious mind to quiet. \*\* Barely managing to wake up on time, Ruby checked her supplies again: plenty of food that would keep regardless of temperature or atmosphere, water, clothing, and most importantly, her tech: Flashlights and computers and breathing devices, knives that would make killing, if necessary, easier. Mementos of her family and friends, and if distraction was needed, a few old books that were so well-loved that pages were threatening to fall out like yellowed autumn leaves. In a strange rule, no one related to the explorer could so much as say goodbye: preparation for the mission ahead, she supposed. When she walked out of the house, she found an old man waiting for her, standing in the grass, eyes on something far away. “I’ve come to see you off,” He said, his voice whispering like the wind. “But the Council doesn’t allow that,” “They made an exception, in my case. For I’ve been in your shoes, missy. I was an explorer, too, one of the only ones to make it back.


I remember the day i met them like it was yesterday. It was a hot summer day, i was 15 and visiting my grandmother in the countryside. I was mowing my grandmother's lawn when i saw a tall, blue tree in the distance. Trees are not usually blue and neither were they that large. The tree seemed like it was growing as i got farther from it while i was mowing the far west side of my grandmother's lawn. Curious, i made a note to myself to go explore that area with the tree after i finish mowing the lawn. When i finally finished, it was 3pm in the afternoon. Perfect for exploring. I asked my grandmother if i could go explore the east part of town and she let me. Off i went with a backpack filled with snack bars and water bottles. The east side of the town was a thin forest, barely thick. enough to be called a forest. Weirdly enough, with each step i took towards the tree the smaller it looked, i barely managed to find my way to the tree as it got smaller than the trees around me. I arrived at 4:30pm, the view was honestly breathtaking. There was a small pond, around 2 meters wide and filled with fish that i've never seen before. The blue tree i saw earlier in the day was at the center of the pond, reduced to the size of a toddler. I took off my backpack and stepped inside the pond to take a closer look at the tree. As soon as i was close enough to touch the tree i suddenly found myself back at the pond side next to my backpack. "The tree likes you, interesting." I looked around but couldn't see anyone. "Hello?" I called count. There was no answer, i didnt know what i was expecting i was going to call it a day and leave until an apple was thrown onto my head. "Up here, genius." I looked up at the trees and saw a person sitting on one of the branches "uhm, who are you" i asked. They didnt answer me and instead slid down the side of the tree and faced me eye to eye. They pointed at the tree and said "If you wernt luck you would've drowned." surprised, i asked TheM "what do you mean?" They shook their head and said "come on, lets get out of here." I reluctantly followed them back out of the forest. "Take this" They said and handed me a worn out jacket. "Bring it to the house right next door to you grandma's" "What?" The pushed me away from them and the next thing i knew, they were gone. With nothing else to do, i went back to my grandma's but before i went in i remembered i still had the jacket so i knocked on the neighbors door. "Hi, its the neighbor from next door." They opened the door and i was surprised to see that he wasn't the person that gave me the jacket. "How can i help ya" he asked. I gave him the jacket and his eyes went wide. "Where did you get this?" 'a person gave it to me" "wwho?" "i dunno, they were gone before i could ask" He invited me in for a cup of tea and we hit it off well. "And that kids, is how i met your father" "Whatt, motherr it cant end like that, who's the person that gave you the jacket, why did they give you a jacket, why was there a blue tree that got smaller as you went towards it and bigger as you went further from it, how did you return back to the pond side and-" "Whoa one question at a time sweetie, i have answers for them all" "okay.. so wwho gave you that jacket?" "I found out a few years later that the person who gave me the jacket was a teen that drowned in the pond before i arrived there." "How did they give you the jacket then?" "I actually dont know, maybe my mind tricked me into thinking they gave me the jacket but in reality i found it and it was too much for my brain to handle" "ok.. why was there a blue tree that changed size?" "There were actually 2 trees, the bigger tree was at the far back of the forest and it didnt actually change size, the trees were blue Spruce trees, i can get us one if you want." "no thanks. ok but why did you get the jacket?" "I honestly dont know, maybe it was the least traumatic thing i could've carried back with me" "How did you return back to the pond side then?" "I think i have a theory that i never really went into the pond as i was dry when i returned to the pond side, it probably was just my imagination that merged with my memories. It also could have something to do with the fact that i might have seen a drowned person and my brain couldnt handle the stress" " why did you knock on father's door, if there wasn't a person that told you to, why did you decide to knock on his door?" "I like to think that it was fate." "ok, last question, why did father not freak out when you handed him a soaked jacket of a missing girl?" "Because father was the one who drowned them." "What?!" "Nothing, now eat your breakfast and go off to school hun. The bus is outside already" "ok-" She picked up her packed lunch box and put on her backpack. Off she went and into the school bus. I waved goodbye to my daughter, i was about to go inside when i saw them on the bus, looking right into my eyes and making a terrifying grin. They had a knife and pointed it at my daughter. Goodbye they mouthed and the bus drove away.


_What We Want_ "Anon?" "Yes, my love?" I reply, rather dashingly. She laughs. A musical sound, full of mirth. She sees right through my bullshit; we seldom bother with pet names for each other. A pause. Then: "Where do you see us in five years?" Another pause, my turn. Measuring my words carefully. "You know what? I've never really thought that far ahead. To be honest, I'm kind of surprised - pleasantly so - that you still keep me around after all this time." I smile wryly. She smiles back, waiting. I continue. "But if you mean, do I see us - married, maybe? A house, with a white picket fence; a dog, maybe a cat; and - one-point-two kids? Is that the statistical average these days?" She laughs, softly this time. Coaxingly. I'm committed now. "Well, if that's what you mean, then I guess - whatever you envision for yourself in five years, I see myself doing the same." She cocks her head, smiles impishly at me. "That's a very long-winded way of not answering the question." Another wry smile; I reserve my best of them for her. "So, 'I want what you want' - that isn't good enough?" Her expression fades. Serious now. "It's not all about me, you know that. It's what you want for yourself too." I nod, slowly; walk to the foot of the bed where she sits, observing me. I sit down on the floor, take her hand in mine. "True. But it doesn't cost me anything to do what makes you happy. It's not a transaction, like give and take." Her brow furrows; she's formulating a rebuttal. I suppress a smile. I adore her most when she's passionate about something. "Relationships take work. Compromise. Isn't that - the definition of give and take?" she counters. She's right, of course. Usually is, on matters of the heart. I close my eyes. Recite something I read long ago that stuck somehow: _"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite."_ I open my eyes, look up. She gazes intently at me, her expression unfathomable. "Shakespeare?" she asks quietly. "Juliet, to Romeo. It didn't end well for them - but at the time, nothing else mattered." A rueful smile in spite of herself, fleeting. Pensive, she chooses not to reply. "With you, I found a happiness that I knew existed - for some lucky few - but never expected for myself. You could never owe me anything after that." She closes her eyes then, overcome with emotion. Opens them again, eyes shining; her smile returning. That smile. Her lower lip trembles slightly. God she's beautiful. "You know, each and every day - without fail, without exaggeration - I look at you and think: with all the mistakes I've made, all the regrets I have - what did I do _right_ to deserve having you in my life, to be by your side?" She's weeping now, silent rivulets of tears down her face. But still she smiles, tremulously. My chest tightens as I speak once more. "And yet, here I am. Here we are." I kiss her hand then. Silence. "So when I say, 'I want what you want' - it's the truth. I do love you, after all." Something catches in my throat. I'm glad I've run out of things to say. Her hand rises to my cheek. She stares at me a long moment, thoughtfully. Gathering herself. When she finally speaks, her voice quavers, but is full of resolve. A decision made. "I want - I want to be married to you." My turn to be speechless. "...Really? ...Seriously?" She laughs, shakily, with relief this time. "Yes, you fool. Now come here." She pulls me up onto the bed, my face to hers. Another laugh, full of promise.


I sit in my room staring out the window and cursing the snow. Damn holidays… I thought as I saw the people outside carolling at my neighbour's house. Sometimes I wonder how they put up with their noise and cheer. Can’t I just be left alone! I got up from my bed and depressingly made my way to the kitchen where my roommates left some groceries before they left to go spend holidays at their parents house across town. Great, at least I don’t have to put up with that annoying Christmas music blasting in my ears at the store. I sigh and begin making myself dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy. I wasn’t the best cook so I just made myself a stir fry and called it a day… That was until I heard those blasted carolers knocking on my door. I can’t believe people actually knock here. Can’t they see that I don’t care about their damn holidays! I muttered as I flicked the lights off and pretended not to be home. Then I trudged my way back to my dimly lit bedroom and sat at my desk.

At least I could watch youtube or play a game or something… Maybe I could finish those month old assignments too. It was a hard choice of what to do though so I just sat there in the dark eating my food. Christmas has always been a depressing time of year for me. I never knew why, I just hated it. Maybe it was resentment of all the joy and happiness that others got around the holidays while I just got miserable. All my friends called me weird, the only family I had never invited me to join them during the holidays either.

Then I remembered it, an incident that happened when I was around five or six. Damnit, what happened there again? I cursed as I tried to remember. It was the reason I hated Christmas, the reason I hated the holidays. The mall Santa! I remember now. I thought as I took a bite of my stir fry.

It had been a long time ago, I was at the mall with my grandmother, the woman who raised me. We had gone to the mall to visit Santa and go shopping. After we had gotten everything and left for a car, Santa followed us. Santa did it. Santa ended the most wonderful woman I knew right in front of an innocent child, shot her dead, shot her twice, twice in the head. That’s why I hated the holidays so much. That’s why- I was snapped out of my thoughts from the sound of glass breaking downstairs. Shit- what was that?! Did someone throw ice at my window? Maybe an intruder? Why am I just sitting here? I got up from my chair and grabbed the katana that rested in the anime corner of my room and walked down stairs. I didn’t own a gun, never believed in it. So the katana was all I had to defend myself even though it was dull. When I got down the stairs, I cursed myself for being that person in a horror movie. But I continued. I searched the entire house until I found the cause of the noise. It was a glass vase that fell over… and a puppy? I put my katana down and picked the tiny thing up. It was so small and cute, so innocent and loveable. I couldn't help but smile at this innocent creature in my hands. I didn’t know how it got in the house, or why it was in the house. All of that was irrelevant at the moment as I carried the little fluff ball into the washroom and carefully picked the glass out of its fur. The puppy was adorable. I decided to keep it and name it Arthur. It was a peculiar name for a dog. But it fit him. I guessed that Arthur was a black lab by the colour of his coat. His eyes were blue like a husky though. Maybe a mixed breed? I thought as I washed Arthur up and dried him with a towel. That's when I remembered the broken vase. My roommates were going to kill me for breaking it. I decided that their vase didn’t matter too much considering that Arthur was here now, so I set Arthur down in my room and cleaned up the glass. I also put my katana back where it was supposed to be in the corner of my room. Then I spent all night playing with my new friend. It was the first bit of joy I felt during the holidays in years. I never knew how much a dog could affect a person. But now that I have Arthur, I feel better and I don’t know why or how. For the next week, Arthur and I spent the holidays watching crappy romance movies on Netflix, sleeping, or stuffing our mouths with the food in the house. This isn’t actually that bad… I guess I should probably try to enjoy the holidays a bit. even if my recent memories have been rather dim around this time of year. I thought as I walked around the house cleaning up after Arthur. It was probably the happiest I’ve been in months though. Arthur really made an impact on my life that I never thought was possible. When my roommates did get back, a quiet girl and her kind twin brother, they didn’t actually kill me when they found out the vase broke… Though, I think it was because of Arthur. The girl, named Delilah, was in love with Arthur the second she saw the little fluff ball. Her brother, Damian, also loved Arthur. Everyone loved this little fluff ball and welcomed Arthur as an official member of the household. For the next couple of years, me and Arthur accompanied Delilah and Damian to their parents house for the holidays. It wasn’t actually as bad as I first thought. Arthur ended up growing to be a really big dog, but also a really good boy. He stayed by my side a majority of the time. I remember Damian once calling him ‘ mama's boy ’ or something silly like that. I didn’t mind it though. Every year on Christmas day, I thanked God for giving me Arthur. My little boy. My Arthur.


Who is this man? You are asking yourself. What did he do? You wonder to yourself. This man has a name but for now he will just be referred to as Man. Well it all started about a month ago in Istanbul. I had been tracking the man for some time. He is a character of habits. Drank an espresso every morning from the corner cafe. Walked to his office down the road. Fed the pigeons during lunch. Day after day the man practiced his most zen routine. Disciplined I thought he was. Then the man suddenly disappeared. No espresso. No walk. No pigeons. Not a soul in Istanbul noticed. I was confused. I had been watching the man for weeks. Closely watching. How did he get away? Where did he go? I mean what the hell. I am the best there is. I found Madoff. I found the affluenza kid. Hell I even found Frank Morris (I mean he was just floating there but I found him). Did he get picked up by a spice trader? Ate a bad kabob? I mean the fuck Man. Days I sat and went through my notes. Scrubbed through my security tapings. Played back all of the audio recordings. This man was expectably dull. Nothing. Just him drinking is fucking espressos. He whistled a lot. I mean I found Bison Dele for Christ sake. I started to think. More than usual. What details did I miss? Also, why in the hell did this job fall to me? I mean I found Natalie Hollaway. For the fourth day in a row I scrubbed through all my tape and audio recordings. There has to be something. Espresso after espresso I drank. The rewind and fast forward were grounded down to nubs. WHERE THE FUCK IS HE? I was at the end of my ropes so I finally reached out the local contact. Fucking embarrassing. Laughed at me the entire damn time. Self-righteous saffron smelling dickless prick. I mean I found Phillip Taylor Kramer, that’s legend shit. The local contact was no help. I finally decided to walk a day in this man’s shoes. I bought an espresso at the corner cafe. Walked to his dumb ass office. Fed those rough ass looking, good feather wana be pigeons. I give up. I don’t know anymore. WHERE. THE. FUCK. ARE. YOU. Then I saw it… It had been staring at the entire time. A blind spot in my monitoring. A side entrance to the train station. I ran in. “SHOW ME THE FUCKING TAPES NOW YOU ASSHOLE!” I screamed at poor Ibo who worked the security desk. AND THERE HE WAS. This profoundly boring, neutral, dull, dim, witless, five dollar ass man had hopped onto a train to Glasgow. to be continued… British Airways non-stop to Glasgow. Now since we have some time on our hands, let me explain to you who this man is. I don’t know. I really don’t. It was a simple surveillance gig, thought it be over in like a week tops. BUT NOPE it went ooon. Much longer than these tend to go. Whatever, not complaining, I got to live in Istanbul all expenses paid for a month. Sweet gig for the most part. What I knew then which I still know now is who hired me. Mr. Howard. Now Mr. Howard is an interesting man. Interesting in the sense that you never meet the same Mr. Howard twice. What I mean by that is Mr. Howard is literally a stranger always. I don’t know if he uses androids or is a shapeshifter but every time he is different. We all rotate the jobs from MH. This one was on my rotation. MH says gather some intel, you gather some intel. Easy and pays well. Usually the jobs involve some criminal activity, some bad behavior, really just getting some dirt; but this one was nothing. MH doesn’t mess around with nothing. I figured there had to be something to him. So I flew into Istanbul, set up shop. Got a couple cameras with long range lenses, patched into the local security camera feed, and got the bugs placed. Easy. I had a week of prep before I started which basically meant early days. I would walk down to the bakery and buy this amazing olive bread loaf in the morning and hit up nearest sojox shop for lunch. Fucking great. Then it started. Day 1 easy. Day 2 easy. Day 3 easy. Day 8 ***yawn***. Day 12 Please do something. Day 22 change the fucking channel already; Jesus it’s been the same American infomercial dubbed in Turkish for four hours. No one should be setting and forgetting meat! Day 27 ah fuck where’d he go... Now the other issue we need to discuss is why he would go to Glasgow of all places. Nothing from the description of the job or the description of the mild mannered man would lead you to suspect Glasgow as an option. Sure run off to Budapest, Paris, St. Petersburg, but Glasgow? Weather forecast is rain and wind for the forcible future. Combine that with men in kilts and golf balls being lobbed through the air at all times and you got yourself a bad day. Let’s go back to MH. When he first approached the home office to set up his overall deal he specified that each job was part of a much larger job. Every piece must go right for the whole to work. Fuck up one part and you fuck up the entire contract. That was two years ago. Must be a really grand plan. Hopefully the man going to Glasgow is part of the plan.


It was dark. It was always dark, here in The Haven.   I could hear the voices of the others, all around me, a chorus of whispers that together created a sea of noise. We all stood before the Gate, waiting until the time came when it opened.   No one here knows where we are. We walk through the Passage without any memories. Are we in Purgatory? Does the Gate lead to Heaven? Does it lead to Hell?   I can sense the fear; all around me, people are scared. This sometimes happens. There are times when many of us have the courage to walk through together, and other times when only one will. I too am scared, but I have been here long enough.   Suddenly, the Gate opens, filling the cavern with blinding light. I see my people again, perhaps for the last time; their dark complexions and uneven surfaces seem abnormal to me, as though I can remember a time when we were supposed to look different. I can't though. This is all I've ever known.   The crowd is not moving. There will be no one who will step forth today.   I push past my people and make my way to the Gate. The light hurts to look at, though the beauty of it draws the eye back time and again. As I reach the Gate, I dare not look back. I jump.   I am falling. All around me, the world is white. I have never been this happy.   I hit water.   **********   “Ah, fuck.” I curse, under my breath, as I feel the cold water of the toilet splash up against my arse. With a sigh, I put my phone away, wipe, flush and leave.


       The sky was grey. Colorful leaves were blowing in the crisp air, gathering on the edge of the sidewalk waiting to be crushed by a child’s shoe. Many people were excited for the change of season because they were filled with that autumn spirit in which they knew it was time to go to the pumpkin patch or decorate their front porch with spooky decorations. For Sherry, it was the time of year to make her favorite pie; apple pie. She would make it every year with the help of her best friend Charlotte who happened to have an obsession with apples. Every day she would eat an apple, drink nothing but apple juice, and even named her dog Apple. When Sherry called her to come over because it was time to make the traditional pie, Charlotte came running before Sherry even got the chance to hang up. “So when are we starting?” Charlotte asked excitedly, rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. “You didn’t even let me finish what I was saying on the phone.” Sherry complained. “I was going to tell you that I ran out of apples.” “You what?!” “Exactly what you heard. It seems that my apple storage has been out since somebody keeps stealing one every time they come over thinking I wouldn’t notice.” Sherry said eying a deniable Charlotte. “I’ll make it up to you by going shopping right now and buying as many apples as you like.” Charlotte said. “That won’t be necessary since I was hoping we could go apple picking at the nearby orchard. I think it will be a fun activity to add to our apple pie baking adventure.” Sherry said with a smile.

“Do we have to pay?”

“I’m afraid yes, so don’t even think about stealing any and shoving them into your “secret” pockets.” “Darn it.”

“Well then, let’s get going.” Sherry said, making her way to the door. “You’re pretty dressed for the occasion. I mean look at you with your knit sweater and twenty feet scarf.” “It’s getting pretty chilly these days. Are you sure you want to be wearing those jean shorts right now?” Sherry asked pointing towards Charlotte's shorts. “I’ll be fine. The cold never bothered me anyway.” Charlotte strutted towards the door confidently. The two friends made their way to the nearby orchard enjoying the scenery around them. They spotted a squirrel who was gathering nuts, reserving them in order to get ready for hibernation. The trees had already lost their green leaves, which were replaced with much more colorful ones that stood out stupendously against the brown branches. A cinnamon scent somehow made its way through their noses, making them more excited to bake their delicious apple pie. As they arrived at the orchard, Charlotte couldn’t hold in her gasp. There were so many apples! This was heaven to her. Sherry closed her mouth shut.

“You’re going to attract flies.” She giggled.

They each grabbed their apple pouch and started wandering around.

“I think this one looks ripe and this one and this one!” Charlotte said excitedly shoving apples in her pouch.  “Slow down! Most of the apples that you’re grabbing aren’t even ready to be eaten yet. We need them to be ready by today.” Sherry scolded her like she was her mother.

“Sorry, it’s just that there are so many apples and I really love them.” Charlotte said sheepishly.

“The best type of apples are the firm light red ones. Stay away from the yellows, they might be the most bitter.” Sherry explained.

“I think all apples are great. Even the ones that seem like they’re about to rot amuse me.” Charlotte smiled to herself.

“I swear we need to put you in my strange addiction show sometime soon. That would be pretty entertaining to watch.” Sherry laughed as she said that. Charlotte pouted and looked at the apple that she was holding only to find a big fat juicy worm crawling out of it.

“Ahhhhh!!!!” She screamed, dropping the apple on the dirt ground. “What’s wrong?” Sherry asked with concern.

“Th..There’s a giant worm crawling out of that apple. It scared the crap out of me.” Sherry only started to laugh hysterically and picked up the apple holding it out to Charlotte. “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you take a huge bite out of this.” She said amusingly.

“No way, I’d rather give up apples for a whole year than eat that.”

“Wow, you giving up apples? Now that’s something I’d like to see. You wouldn’t even last a day.” “Whatever, let's just leave before I lose my appetite.”

“Yeah, we collected enough to last us a few days with you around.” When they arrived at Sherry's house they washed the apples and cut them up into perfect slices. Sherry had to keep Charlotte from eating them. The last hint of cinnamon was sprinkled on top of the pie as the finishing touch. While they waited for the pie to be ready, Sherry suggested that they play Charlotte’s favorite card game, Apples to Apples.

“I won again!!” Charlotte jumped from her chair. “Of course you would beat me at this game.” Sherry mumbled. “Have you decided what you’re going to be for Halloween this year?” Charlotte asked. “I’m thinking of being a scarecrow.” Sherry answered.

“Well you don’t need a costume for that.” Charlotte joked. “Shut up. Let me guess, you’re going to be an apple.” “Nope! I’m going to be an apple juice box!!” “Close enough.” Suddenly the timer went off indicating that the pie was ready. Sherry grabbed the oven mits and pulled the golden brown pie out of the oven, placing it on the counter.

“Can we eat it now?” Charlotte asked desperately. “Sure. Even if I told you no, you’ll still grab a piece.” Charlotte cut a slice, placing it on a white plate and handed it to Sherry.

“Here this is for you and the rest is for me.” She said as she took the rest of the pie. Sherry sighed and then chuckled. The same thing would always happen every year. That is what would make this time of year special. It was seeing her best friend being happy over something that most people see as not a big deal. They would surely go apple picking next year. Hopefully, they wouldn’t find another worm on their next visit. 🍎


“Through ups and downs, together stick the Browns.” That had always been their motto. It started during the depression, when Mother and Father were still around. After so many days of struggling for just enough food to keep moving, they had to find some way to try and hold themselves together. And so the saying was born. Over the next few months, the line would make an appearance in the midst of tribulations and struggles that somehow managed to bring the family closer than they ever were. Crammed together in their studio apartment, they shared laughs and smiles that were such a contrast to the world outside. And even with the little they had, they were happy. Then Mother and Father died. No one really saw it coming. The fever spread before anyone really knew of its existence. One day they were heading to the square to get the family’s allowance of flour, and the next they were wasting away, foreheads damp and hands clammy. That left just Nancy and Corbin. The Browns. Each of them worked whatever jobs they could get their hands on, even if it meant trying to figure it out as they went. And they somehow managed to scrape together enough money to get by. They still spent every evening together in that old studio apartment, sitting on the floor as they told each other stories about their days. They shared laughs. They smiled. And they knew that they only had each other, and that was okay. The economy was beginning to stabilize, and Nancy was able to get a permanent job as a waitress at one of the reopened diners. Corbin kept working side jobs whenever he could find them, bringing in enough to even buy some nicer things like new shoes and jackets. And the Browns stuck together, and they were okay. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such an amazing job like I have,” Nancy said one night. “What do you mean?” Corbin replied. “As much as we went through, as hard as you worked, you deserve it.” Nancy flashed him a soft smile and they left the topic alone for a while. Nancy kept working, from sunup to sundown, at that same old diner. Corbin spent most of his time in the apartment, but he still occasionally picked up jobs here or there to make sure their ends meet. It all worked well until the day rent came, and Nancy came to realize that the tin jar they kept their savings in was far too empty. “Corbin, did you use any money?” She asked. He was allowed to spend, of course, but they had a mutual agreement that they were to inform each other of where their money went. Nancy handled the bills and Corbin handled the home, so each had their fair share of expenses. “I bought groceries the other day,” Corbin said in between sips of soup.

“Fifty pounds worth?” Nancy asked, eyebrows raised. Corbin seemed completely unfazed, watching the liquid slosh around as he stirred his soup. “Prices have jumped over the past couple of days. Should drop back soon though.” Nancy sighed, running a hand though her blonde hair. She had Father’s appearance when it came to her hair, but everything else about her looked just like Mother. Her brown almond eyes, her high-set cheekbones, her small lips. The resemblance was almost disturbing. Corbin, however, did not look much like Mother or Father, showing only minimal signs of either of them in his features. His eyes were blue, much different from Mother’s brown and Father’s green. His face was somewhat round, but still had shape. The only true give away that he was the son of a Brown was the line that creased in his forehead whenever he smiled, and only Nancy got to see that side of him. “I’ll have to see if I can take up more hours at the diner,” she said, massaging her temples. It was obvious from the shadows under her eyes and the softness of her voice that she was already exhausted, but she did not have much other choice. “And I’ll see if I can find more work,” Corbin said, a hint of disappointment buried in his voice. “And through ups and downs, together stick the Browns,” Nancy whispered to herself. She barely got her bowl to the kitchen sink before she collapsed into her cot in her corner of the apartment. Corbin pittered around for a while longer before seeking refuge in his own corner. With Nancy out, he did not hesitate to slip the flask out from under his pillowcase and take a few heavy swigs of the bitter fluid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flopped back. He stared off at the ceiling, mind lost in the abyss of his thoughts. The guilt settling in his gut seemed to become less noticeable with each sip of alcohol. So when the small bottle was dry, he slipped it back into its hiding place before trying to fall asleep. As with every other morning, Nancy rose before the sun to get ready for work. But when she did, she found herself heaving the previous night’s dinner into the toilet. After coming to the decision work was out of the question for today, Nancy grabbed a bucket and went back to her cot. She curled on her side, the anxiety of missing a day’s pay and the nausea creating a horrible concoction of discomfort. No matter, she eventually fell back asleep. When Corbin woke, the sun was directly in his line of sight. He sat up, feeling the pains of last night’s sins pounding in his head. With a groan, he pulled himself up and was surprised to see Nancy still in bed. Upon seeing the bucket, he chose to leave her be on the assumption she felt ill. With her being home today, Corbin knew he would need to actually go out and at least make a sorry attempt at finding work. He slipped on a clean shirt and trousers and made his way out of the apartment. At about noon, Nancy woke again to find that her nap had rid her body of the misery of sickness. She saw that Corbin had gone out, so she took it upon herself to try and wash sheets since she was home. She pulled her covers off of her mattress first, tossing them in the washing tub. She then walked to Corbin’s corner to grab his sheets. She never really looked in his section of the house, so she decided to take a quick glance as she started disrobing the bed. The only things really in the corner were a small clock and an old family picture. As she shook the pillow from its case, a loud crash bounced off the walls of the apartment. She looked to the floor to see shards of brown glass that had fallen from under the pillow. She stared at the shards on the floor, knowing exactly what they were from. She lowered herself to the floor, peeking under the edge of the cot. As she suspected, a lineup of other bottles and a wad of money were hidden just out of sight. She brought herself upright, sitting herself on Corbin’s bed. “And through ups and downs,” she whispered, trying not to let herself choke on her tears. “Together stick the browns.”


The feeling that was gripping Yuen’s heart as she pulled the comforter up around her chin was heavy - like an elephant was sitting on her chest. Her nose caught a whiff of something that was unmistakably her father, though he last used that comforter and pillow six months ago. It had been six months since he could sleep in his own bed, and three months since an insipid brain tumor shut his body down and took him away from her. She was sleeping in her dad’s bed because she’d flown home to help her mother prepare to leave the home they’d shared for more than 30 years. Yuen also spent the first 23 years of her life here.

The aching in her chest never left the entire day she spent with her mother. Indeed, every vantage point in this house reminded her of what used to be and could be no longer.

She lay her head down and could still smell the stale dandruff that had drifted from his head seemingly so long ago. Her mother never slept with the bedside lamp completely off these days. It was a remnant of her final months with dad, when that tumor took away his cognition in such a way he couldn’t find his way back to bed after going to the bathroom. She feared so much at that time. The fear, however unreasonable, still lingered. She’d turned the knob to LOW, dimming it to the bare minimum and had drifted into a restless sleep already, so Yuen closed her eyes. There was just darkness, but it didn’t frighten Yuen. She was curious and peered closer. A shape began to loom through the endless black and seemed to multiply around a single focal point. Yuen felt like she was looking through a kaleidoscope. The shapes rotated slowly, coalescing into of all things, the form of her father, who moved toward her with arms open. Yuen felt such joy and being able to see him and feel his warm and comforting embrace again. The narrative of her father’s long battle with glioblastoma was forever embedded in her head, but seeing him in front of her, healthy and smiling, superseded any concern she had about his health. “Dad, I missed you.” “Me too, Bao Bei.” “I’m so glad you came to see me,” Yuen declared. “How are you doing?” “I’m well,” he replied. His words were few, but the warmth coming from his face - and his eyes in particular - gave Yuen such peace she didn’t waste time on idle conversation. In the quiet, Yuen took advantage of the opportunity to assess him. In his last days, he could no longer walk. He had a catheter in place. His eyes were hollow, and he had even pushed her away from him when she tried to keep him from leaving his bed, certain he’d fall to the floor (which he did). He even tried to eat a napkin in a rare moment when he could sit still with the family at the dinner table. He no longer resembled that sick man ingrained in her memory at all. He appeared youthful, Yuen thought, almost like the pictures of him from when she was still a toddler. He walked upright and strong. Most assuredly, his face was open, his eyes were kind, and he looked like her dad again. Yuen thought of the grandparents who had also passed away in the last few years. He was alone here with her. “What about the others?” Yuen asked. “Why can you come see me but they aren’t here?” Her father replied somewhat cryptically, “sometimes people go into the hospital not knowing they’ll never come out again.” In her head, Yuen tried to jog her memory of how her grandparents had all passed. I don’t think that’s accurate, she thought internally, as one grandfather - her dad’s dad - clearly knew he wasn’t coming back out. But it seemed like such an insignificant detail to quibble over. “Can you please stay with me?” Yuen pleaded with him. “Don’t go away. Can you stay here?” “I’m always with you,” he said conclusively. The kaleidoscope re-emerged, and instantly, her father disassembled into many pieces and faded away. Yuen awoke a little disoriented but quickly realized she wasn’t in her own home but in her father’s bed. The visitation was not the freshest thing in her mind, but given a few moments to assess what was happening, a feeling of warmth and joy flooded her heart. Finally, she thought. He came to me. She lay in his bed and breathed in deeply, willing the visitation to resume, but coming to her senses it was a wonderful dream and most likely a figment of her own mind wishing to see her father again. It was only then it occurred to her it was still dark out.

She reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. The knob was turned completely to OFF, and her mom was still asleep on the other side.


It was a morning like any other when I woke up and realized, “This house means nothing to me.” I wasn’t born into money. I had worked hard for my money. This house was to be the fruit of my labor. It had all the amenities. There were no cold drafts in the winter. It was never too hot in the summer. But even a small house can be too big for one person. So I tore it down. By myself. With a good chunk of my expendable funds, I rented a miniature bulldozer and spent eleven hours obliterating my quaint but shallow abode. It cost me all but what was in my pocket to stay at a cheap motel for the next two weeks while I tirelessly built a log cabin the way my father had. There was no housewarming party when it was complete. The bed is creaky, and there are unseen gaps where the cold air gets in, but I am here to stay.


The village looked like a dream, sitting by a large lake in the middle of nowhere – the trees growing tall and dense. I had not planned to seek civilisation while traversing this remote region, but upon finding the road that led me here, my inner voice told me to follow it; and like most of my adult life, I listened. The voice guides me to paths I never knew existed, choices I never realised was available to me… … Well, I should probably leave it at that. As it is the reason for my journey, to see where these “imaginary” roads can take me. At the outskirts of the village, I passed a few quaint looking houses, all in red, as was customary on the countryside. And upon entering the town, I immediately encountered a large crowd gathering at the centre of town. The town was buzzing with activity and vendors, which suited me as it made my presence all the more inconspicuous. I don’t want to be asked too many questions, and I wasn’t inclined to ask them any either. As I walked through the paved streets while looking at the wares of the vendors, my mouth began to salivate. Realising that I hadn’t eaten in a while, I decided to stock up on supplies and try a few local cousins while I was there. I looked around the vendors until I ended up on the other side of town, by the lake. Staring into the lake’s clear blue water and taking in the fresh air, I had a sudden craving for fish and I immediately began searching for it. But as I searched, and the sun began to disappear behind the trees, I found myself disappointed. What’s more, it seemed that my cover had been blown already, as I got a few curious glances as I walked by. Disheartened, I managed to find a restaurant by the lake. One of the few pubs and restaurants available it seemed. I decided to try my luck there. I really want to eat fish for some reason… Both my stomach and mind were telling me this, and as aforementioned, I never argue with my inner voice. The pub looked like what you’d expect from a small town such as this. The walls built with dark brown wooden panels, the atmosphere gloomy, and large kegs of beer standing by the bar. I got a few curious glances here as well, but nothing else. No angry glares or demands for me to leave. I figured the people were simply too shy, or just uninterested in strangers overall, so I paid them no mind. As I sat down by a window and placed my backpack on a stool next to me, the barkeep showed up with a pen and paper at the ready. He looked friendly enough, at least he smiled at me. I was probably the first outsider he had in ages, and as any good proprietor, they appreciated anyone’s patronage. “What will it be, stranger,” he said “What kind of fish do your serve?” Immediately upon asking, the atmosphere became tense and the barkeeper’s brow furrowed deeply. “I… I’m sorry, sir. We do not serve fish here. You’ll have to ask for something else. I do recommend bear steak that we recently…” I interrupted the man quite rudely, but I could not help myself for the statement was too absurd to ignore. “What do you mean no fish? Is there something wrong with the lake? It didn’t smell poisonous to me,” I said irritably. The barkeep glanced over his shoulder and then looked back at me, his lips flattening. Clearly hesitant to explain, he finally braved his fears and bent over closer to my ear and whispered. “You have no way of knowing this, being a stranger and all, but I suggest you ask for something else,” he said, nodding at three burly men sitting with their backs turned against us, their fingers tapping loudly on the counter to indicate their irritation. A chill went down my spine as I imagined having to take these men on by myself and I heeded the barkeeper’s warning and asked for the bear steak that he recommended earlier. After this strange encounter, I wanted to get out of town as quickly as possible and continue on my journey. But as I stood at the crossroads on the outskirts of the village, I felt something that had become alien to me in my adulthood… indecision. Pondering over what to do, it became clear to me that I could not leave it as it was, I had to know. So, reluctantly, I returned to the pub, to the barkeeps displeasure. But things were less agitated this time around as the pub was about to close and the three burly men were nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the barkeep seemed to be content with my inquiry as he was already pouring beer into two mugs by the bar. Without any words exchanged the barkeep began recounting a story as I sat by the bar and sipped on my freshly poured beverage. He said, “Centuries ago, when the land was still divided between the Freemen of the forest and the Houses of Power in the plains, large deposits of minerals was found not too far from here. Naturally, the greedy eyes of the nobles were turned towards us and they demanded our subjugation. My ancestors resisted, of course, but in reality, there was nothing they could do to stop the might of the king. Regardless, the king’s victory was hard won, and they felt the need to punish us for our disobedience.” “Little did my ancestors know, the full extent of their cruelty. One after the other, the Freemen got executed by drowning. Sent into the depths of these waters by having their ankles bound by stones. You’d think the story ends here, but no. The nobles were not satisfied. Again they began drowning us, even the women and the children. It took days before the madness stopped. But by then, there was only a few left alive.” The barkeeper’s eyes turned dark as he said the last sentence. Staring down his mug, he paused for a few moments before he continuing. “In any case, that was a long time ago, but the story runs deep into the souls of the residents here. Out of respect, we don’t fish in these waters were the corpses of our forefathers lay buried. I hope you understand.” I did. I did understand. And I was glad that the man shared this with me. I thanked the man for the story and the beer and headed out into the night. The wind howled outside, and I picked up the fragrance of fresh water in the air. Somehow, I also noticed a faint pungent smell that stung slightly inside my nose. Maybe it was my imagination? At the crossroads, I glanced down the southern road where I came, and then I turned my head towards the northern route leading deeper into the woods. As I kept staring north, I felt a gust of wind blow at the back of my head, this time, leaving the sweet smell of pine in the air. I distinctly remember that I smirked then. Now certain where to go, I continued my travels, wherever the roads would take me; imagery or real – to the unknown.


A/N: Trigger warning. This story contains character deaths. When you leave this campfire tonight, don’t take Goat-Man’s Bridge on your way home. Four teenagers found this out the hard way. They were out, bored with all their usual activities, and one of them dared the others to drive to Goat-Man’s Bridge so that the two couples could make out and lure the Goat-Man out of hiding. Legend has it that Goat-Man attacks couples that kiss on his bridge and shine a flashlight. Even people who haven’t seen Goat-Man have heard his scream on the bridge at night, a scream that can turn your blood to water. He doesn’t “baaa, baaa,” he screams. Everyone who lives near Goat Man Bridge knows to lock their doors when that scream echoes in the night. No one dares flash a flashlight three times on the bridge, because the Goat-Man will appear. I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Supposedly dark cults used the bridge for their secret ceremonies and somehow called up the Goat-Man. He’s been around a long time. Goat-Man has been sighted throughout the United States. Everyplace has a version of the story. It doesn't matter where our story takes place. Details aren't important. The story is universal. The journey from "On a dark and spooky night" to "The end" is as life-changing for the hearer as the people in the story. The four teenagers in our story, in Anytown, USA, scoffed at the legend they'd heard all their lives, and decided to go to the bridge after dark. The drive felt like a party in itself. They were going to do something countless people had done, but no one had done and lived to tell about it. They turned off the car just before they got to the bridge. They figured that at ten o'clock at night no one would be driving over it. They walked from their car through the dark onto the bridge, their shoes making loud noises on the wooden beams. It was a still, windless night on the bridge, with no motor noises from passing cars, not even a dog barking or an owl hooting. The two couples kissed and held each other to ward off the fear, but nothing unusual happened on the bridge. Nothing happened for many minutes. There was lots of kissing, and giggling, and talking. At one point one of the teenagers, Holly, turned on her music on her phone, but her boyfriend George had her turn it off. "This only works in complete silence," he said. "Then we shouldn't talk," Mike. the second boy, said. Scratch. Scratch. Thump. "Mike, stop," Alison, the instigator, hissed. "My shoes are killing me," he groaned. Thump. "Ahhhh." "Anyone else need to go barefoot?" George quipped. Holly shook her head. "I already am." They sat in complete silence. Thump. Thump. "MIKE," everyone yelled. "Wasn't me," Mike snapped, his voice quivering. Frightened, Alison said, “Let’s leave now.” "Oh, great plan, everyone will know we chickened out," Holly said. "None of you are posting this or livestreaming it, right?" George asked." 'Cause we all made a pact." "Uh-uh," everyone said. "Technically we haven't started yet, we could leave," Mike said. Holly raised her chin and took a sip of water. "I'm not backing out." "I got my flashlight all ready and fired up," George said. Mike raised a hand. "I'm game." Alison seemed to draw strength from the peer pressure. "Okay. George, light it up." They walked a little further before George found the perfect spot and switched on his flashlight once. Silence. He turned it off, then on again. Still nothing. A third time the light flashed off, then on. They walked past the center of the bridge, going toward the other side. Mike's attempt to hum the theme from "The Twilight Zone" got stopped in a hurry. A thick fog appeared on the bridge. The flashlight went out.

Clomp, clomp. The clatter of two hooves on the bridge, pitched squeals and grunting laughter made the teenagers freeze on the spot. Out of the fog and the dark loomed something…horns, vicious teeth in a smile. A goat’s head. A man’s naked hairy chest. Burning red eyes. Then, he screamed. An inhuman scream. A scream that could kill plants. Three of the teenagers knocked into each other and tripped over each other as they sprinted across the bridge. Alison, who suggested the eerie ordeal, stood hypnotized as the creature came closer. Gallantly, George with the flashlight charged back, his feet creaking the bridge boards. The fog jutted out and vanished the girl and boy in front of their friends’ eyes. A scraping sound made the two that were left retreat.

Concerned for their friends, they turned back to see the fog had disappeared, and so had the couple on the bridge. Only the flashlight remained, its light revealing the young couple hanging from the side of the bridge – or rather, what was left of the pair. The bodies scratched and scraped the metal sides of the bridge as they swung from one of the struts. The teenagers who were still alive screamed.

Their screams attracted a passing police car, because someone had called in the unusual activity on the bridge. An anonymous citizen, a Good Samaritan. Someone who hung up without identifying themselves. The local police found Mike and Holly in hysterics. To this day, Mike and Holly have never spoken about that night. They moved from the town shortly after that fateful night, and some say that they mysteriously died as well, because the Goat-Man followed them. Adding to the fear after that night, the police never caught the attacker, since they believed the teenagers died accidentally by slipping off the old bridge. After that night, the teenagers never spoke of their friends. Some passers-by in the weeks and months afterward changed their routes because of scraping noises outside and the ghostly outline of bodies hanging from the bridge. Then there was the clomp of those hooves… Wait. I think I hear them now.


Filipa cursed the way her insides twisted into knots. The bastard didn't deserve so human a response. Still, holding up her candle at eye height, she inched along the stone corridor, lifting the hem of her skirt from the ground. Easing toward the commotion. The foyer was just around the corner and the sound was getting nearer. It must be her husband (she grasped the item in her bosom). As she came closer to the noise, she realized it wasn't just her husband, but two husbands -- no three, and a wife.

All seemingly speaking the king's English -- with a hard to place accents. Maybe it was the servants -- drunken and slurring. She immediately began to worry less for herself and more for their own safety. Hastily she turned the corner only to see her not-servants standing in strange and diverse garments. She felt like a fool. Certainly, these strangers wished to do her harm.

She started her scream but a silver haired gentleman interrupted the call to say in Portuguese: "Madam, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Royce and I know it is your first instinct to scream, but there are six of us and one of you and-- this is not a fact I take pleasure in divulging, but if we wished to do you harm, we could do it easily. Any cries for help would only be counterproductive and --- if we are the barbarians you surmise us to be -- it would only make our attack more brutal." "Are you the barbarians I surmise you to be?" she said in a restrained whisper, gasping for breath.  "Like many men, we are barbarians when the situation calls for it. Otherwise we are perfectly charming," he ends on a genuinely charming smile.

But Filipa is still cautious. "I should take the word of would-be barbarians.?"

"It would be either that or the fist. Not my own but my female associate here, Mercedes.” Filipa looked to the woman standing firmly before with a powerful frame and wearing garments just like the men. She did not look comfortable.  "What manner of name is Mercedes," Filipa queried, beginning to weave many tales of sorcery within her overactive mind.

"I will answer that," Royce replied. "So long as you answer what manner of blade it is." "Manner of blade?" Filipa asked, both blushing and confused.

"Is it short and stout? Does it have daggers at its corners? Is it a dagger itself? Is it made of the finest steel or cheap and rotted copper?"

Filipa shot up straight and in an overly offended tone said, "I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about!"

"You have every idea what I am talking about," Royce persisted, "because it is the dagger that is hidden beneath your bosom. The one you will use to kill your husband. " Filipa was not prepared for such specificity. Her mouth hung slack, searching, like a bedeviled man, for an adequate answer. Trying to suppress the perspiration. “Maybe,” she said, “I had the blade because there were a bunch of strangers in my foyer.” “Then why not have it drawn? Some good a blade does, hidden under your bosom.” Filipa somehow felt violated by that remark. Still she moved on. “Very well,” Filipa finally confessed, lifting her chin defiantly. “I was going to kill him because he is a horrible man and a horrible husband and an even more horrible master. If our dinner is a degree colder than his tongue can handle he will beat every slave whose hand the dish passed through. He beats men within a foot of death and then dares to beat them two feet more. You and he would get along nicely as there are none I know more barbaric than he.” The silver-haired one pondered these remarks and finally came back with what seemed like an obvious revelation. “He sounds like an awful man.” “He is,” said Filipa. “He sounds like a tyrant.” “He is,” Filipa said again. “And I will have to ask to never kill him.” “What?” “Yes, it is important that he survive.” The gentleman added these words with both caution and gravity, “It is important for history.” “My husband? Important for history?” Filipa was momentarily pleased for this meeting for it was during this rendezvous that she received the laugh of her life. The people surrounding her were not laughing, however, for her husband was Christopher Columbus. His wife, formerly Filipa Moniz Perestrelo, was barely a scratch on the pages of history. Dying under unknown circumstances two years into their marriage. No one knew -- not even, the silver-haired leader of the flock, Royce. But Mercedes, deep in her soul, knew how Filipa died. Married to a man whose most infamous accomplishments were brutality of the natives? How else could she have died? Like all the women married to bloodthirsty demons like him. The realization struck her like lightning forcing her to blurt out, “We can’t do this!”

“What do you mean?” asked Royce. “I’ve been biting my tongue this whole mission. What on earth did Columbus do that was so damned important! Slaughter the natives? Beat his slaves? Treat his wife like garbage?” Royce pursed his lips, thinking and then knowing the implication of what Mercedes was saying. “You are right, of course. Contrary to American fables, he did nothing really extraordinary. He didn’t discover the world was round, he wasn’t even the first European to find America. He was, however, the first to settle there. This led to the colonies, which led to America, which led to the only superpower strong enough to turn the tide against the Nazis. It’s sad, but without the US interfering, Hitler would have taken control of the world, slaughtering millions more.” Filipa observed as these weirdly dressed people talked strangely in her home. They talked of death and genocide. They argued passionately amongst themselves. “We have to find another way,” Mercedes pleaded. “We must find another --” “No,” a voice interrupted. And to everyone’s surprise, it was Filipa. Filipa who, upon hearing the servants drunk, first cared for their being tortured by her husband. Filipa who moments ago wanted to murder the man not for the harm he had done to her, but to all those around him. If she was preventing a greater catastrophe, she believed it her duty to do so. “This man you call Hitter,” she began. “Hitler,” Royce corrected. “Jackass trying to overcompensate,” Mercedes further corrected. “Hister. Whoever he is. He will ruin the world. Cause much suffering?” Resisting the urge to say he would cause grave and unending suffering, Royce coyly said, “That is the calculation.” “Well, I will suffer through my husband’s shortcomings. Who knows? Maybe he will change.” The awkward silence did not assure her of this. “Even if he doesn’t. It is for the greater good, is it not?” Royce at that moment, instantly fell in love, and wanted to brush his hand against her cheek. Instead he just admired her, saying, “You are a beautiful woman.” Filipa laughed again, “The way my husband sneaks around at night, I would guess that time has passed.” “It has not,” Royce said. “But that is not the beauty I speak of.” And with that, Royce and his associates walked up the hallway, mission completed… ...only to be interrupted by an enraged Christopher Columbus. He was a stout and serious man with piercing eyes that protruded from his face. His response was immediate. His voice boomed through the corridor. “Filipa! Who are these people in my home!” Royce, always prepared with a tempered answer for anything the Timekeepers got themselves into, was ready to respond. “Relax,” he said, with a disarming smile. “I can explain.” “You can explain it to the executioner’s whip. There is no reason worth listening to for being in a man’s home.” “But if you would just hear me out --” “I will hear your screams in the gallows! I will hear your cries in the alleyways and I will hear the lashes against your bubbling skin as you beg me for mercy!” Royce cringed at this man’s obsession with lashings and wondered if he would be some weird type of fetishist in modern times. This back and forth went on and Royce soon realized he would have to change his tact. A minor inconvenience, he thought. So while this king of history berated him, Royce did the temporal calculations. A few permutations. Carried the four.

Then, just like that, he shot Christopher Columbus straight through his big fat head. His lifeless body plopped to the ground to the audience of Filipa's wide eyes and equally wide mouth. Filipa was not so shocked by the death. In fact, an eerie sense of relief flowed through her body. Indeed, she was more shocked by the weapon used to dispatch with her loved one. A tiny, hand-held rifle that ripped through her husband’s brow without making a sound. “You are witches,” she proclaimed, still staring. Royce looked to his associates, as if mentally conferring with them. “We are something like that,” he said, echoes of the ancient movie Wizard of Oz ringing in his ear. “But we are good witches.” Mercedes filled in the pieces, “Yes, we are like witches but instead of magic, we use a thing called science to travel through time and avert disasters.” “But it seems,” Royce concluded. “There is an opening position in the annuls of history. Who can fill those shoes?” Maybe, his calculations told him, they didn't have to create the brutish nation of the US that obsessed with building bombs. Maybe, he surmised, the US could be built on a foundation of peace and diplomacy so unequivocal it would reverberate throughout the world and topple the SS before it started. In a moment of inspiration, he did another mental calculation. Coming to his conclusions, he turned to Filipa and said, “You wouldn’t happen to know how to sail, would you?”


“How many times do I have to tell you that he is not coming back!” I avoided my friend’s gaze as she started moving all around the hall, thinking she could fix my relationship. I know every best friend cares for us but this has gone out of my hands and now I just want some peace. “I still think…” I shook my head. “Nope. Don’t even think about it,” I said. I know Shelby well and I can tell what’s going on in her head. “But Stella, maybe you are wrong. What if he is really in an emergency meeting?” I sat back in my chair and looked up to the ceiling. Everything was okay until I asked about taking our relationship one step further. It's so idiotic of me. I should have just kept my mouth shut. Why am I so much into marriage stuff! “Don’t blame yourself, Stella. You said what was in your head. No need to worry about anything. Whatever happens, will happen. I know Lucas well. I know what is bothering him.” I opened my eyes and looked at Shelby. “Is it because of her ex-girlfriend? I don’t know much but I think something bothers him when I bring up that topic.” “He hated it the most,” Shelby confirms. “I was just trying to be funny. He is always serious, I say just to lighten up his mood!” She nodded slowly. “I know. But Lucas doesn't think that way.” “Shelby,” I said as I sat straight. I really don’t think I should be digging into my boyfriend's past but seeing what happened today and how he got angry at the mention of marriage, I think this is the time I should be knowing things that he is hiding from me. “I wanted to know what happened? Did she leave him?” “Not in that way but…” She waited a little to make sure that the door was closed. We live in Carlos Height in Brooklyn and most of the people here know Lucas and his reputed family. One small whisper and the news will move around the city like a lightning storm! “It was their second anniversary and Lucas came from London just to surprise her. It was Christmas and he thought this was the perfect time to ask her for marriage. And…then something unexpected happened. He saw her with someone else.“ “Oh dear..” “They have been away for a very long time. And you should have seen Lucas. He was so much happy. I thought he got his dream girl!” I could imagine his face. His reaction. Maybe this is the reason why he gets angry when someone brings up the marriage stuff. “And she was with none other than Luca’s business partner, Mike. He trusted him so much. After he was gone, I thought she really missed him. I mean she acted that way for some time.” “Why would she do this?” “Money. His business partner has way more money than him.” “Oh dear, that’s why he hates that topic so much!” I quickly reached out for my phone. “What are you doing?” Shelby asked. “Writing a sorry message to him. I think I have to wait for… oh!” “What happened?” Shelby came near me and looked at my screen. “What is it?” “Message from Lucas,” I said. “What does it say?” She asked. “I don’t know. What do you think? You are his best friend. Is it about a breakup?” She slapped me harder on my shoulder. “Idiot! I know him very well. If someone is perfect for him it's only you, okay? And he wouldn’t ever think of breaking up with you. No matter what.” I hope this is true. I prayed and clicked on his message. “Sweety, I am sorry for today’s reaction. I think I have been hard on you since the day we met. There are things I wanted to tell you. I am sorry. I am seriously sorry. But I promise I’ll tell everything this time. I hope you are not mad at me now.


Beacham corners was a small town which most people drove straight through. They only had one stop light, one firehouse a police station and one school. In the center of town nestled between the coffee shop and the copy shop stood the library. It stood tall and proud. The building was an old school house.. Tall and white, the entrance lead you many different ways..The first section was all best sellers All, you would have to go downstairs to see the children's section, classics were upstairs behind the librarians desk.. All walks of life come to the library. Children loved coming because they had a reading every afternoon. One of the seniors would come down and read from the many choices that made up the children's section.. People stood in line to use the computers which they were allowed for use for 30 minutes. Students, seniors and many more would line up they had 5 computers. A few writers rounded out the customers who found inspiration just by surrounding themselves with all the books.. Clara Berk joined the staff last month. She was a student and always did the morning shift but this week she was scheduled to be the closer.. She came in at noon and closed the library at five o'clock. "This is mandatory according to the rather severe librarian. Vivienne Snard was strict and her rules were simple. The doors must close at 5 pm no matter what. The staff must leave at five o'clock. People have intrigued Clara by saying that magic happened in the library. Clara believed in magic and always found the library to be a special place. She enjoyed each book and lovel to find new books, as well as read the classics. She had her favorites and was happy to point these out to patrons. Clara, lived about 500 yards from the library. She walked to work and she would dine at the cafe but many nights she would, see the lights in the library. Clara was a no nonsense woman and thought perhaps Vivienne was working late or perhaps she forgot to turn off the lights. Ever mindful of the rules but never understood why the lights blazed at night. Night after night the lights turned back on. This made no sense what so ever. Noone could explain this. It was 445 pm today her first night shift. Clara was unnerved the room had a dozen people lingering. She had to clear the room but there were Children sitting on the floor downstairs and seniors on the computers even a few engrossed on their laptops. Clara eyed the cart there were so many books to return that would take her a half hour or more. She made the announcement that they were closing a little frantic now the clock ticked away.. A few started to pack up but Clara was feeling anxious she knew Vivienne was adamant doors close at 5 pm. She shut the last patron out at 458 pm. After locking the doors she decided to put the books away. Knowing the morning person would expect this.. Surely Vivienne would not know she was late. She would just stay long enough to put the books away. She knew she was breaking the rules but just this once.. She would finish and sneak out. Noone need know she was still there after 5 pm. She just wished that she would of put away these books earlier. Maybe if there weren't so many. She grabbed the books on the counter and put them on the cart. As she moved the cart putting back the books she began to hear a hum. A slight hum coming from the shelves. Slight, but definitely a hum. Feeling nervous she began to slam the books back into their slots. The hum began to turn into a buzz it was louder this time. Clara could swear she heard the last book she put on the shelf whistle. She must be working her imagination overtime. As she looked at the shelves she was positive she heard whispering. Gathering her courage she pulled the nearest book down and bravely opened it. Lights flashed and banged and then a deep voice began to say "Call me Ishmael". Clara slammed the book shut it was a copy of Moby Dick. The book was actually reading itself. She was more curious then scared. She pulled down another book at random. The flash then a distinct voice said "it was the best of times..." she slammed the book and traveled to another section it was the very same no matter what book. The books were reading themselves. Feeling like a intruder Clara decided she must come clean with Vivienne. She needed to tell somebody.. She picked up the phone and punched out a number. Vivienne's voice was reassuring. She explained she was still at work but was hesitant to say more suddenly she didn't know what to say, would she be believable? She hardly believed it herself as she cowardly stood behind the desk. The whispering came into focus she was not losing it. Vivienne broke the silence. "So you've learned the secret of the books." You are not crazy! Every night they came to life and no matter what book you pull down it will read itself. I find there is a magic on our shelves but I never told another soul. I was afraid that the magic would disappear.. " she was not angry at Clara, she sounded relieved.. Clara left that evening as she slowly walked away. Then suddenly the lights switched on and now she understood. Noone was there, the books took on a life of their own. She understood for the magic to continue it had to remain a secret.. it was truly magic and that needed to be cherished.. Clara never told another person she preserved the magic but when she walked by to go to the Cafe she knew why the lights were on. She made sure she always left at 5 o'clock. She never heard the hum the buzz or the whispering again. Somethings are sacred.


“Niggers,” George said while he groped the the small boys’ titties and a small amount of drool began to pour out of his mouth. The boys’ eyes began to roll back into their heads as tiny amounts of pre-cum dripped down their legs. Suddenly a black man burst through the window, having found out that the George Zimmerman case had ended without the man being found guilty (Re-post). His rage was fresh as he began his rape spree, he rushed at George with his massive erection, the veins pulsated as blood engorged his nigger-cock. Luckily for the group of boys, George had made sure to load his trusty glock. A swift round to the head was all it took to kill the nigger, his lifeless cock laid on the ground, sprawled out for all to see. “Now, back to our business,” George said as he turned back to the children. He began to unzip his pants and a fish fell out. A herring to be exact, a delicious, lightly salted, and smoked treat--not unlike his musty cock--for all to enjoy. The many children flocked to the feast, the fresh fish attracted every child for a few blocks. He watched them devour the herring, and it excited him so much that--like the late nigger--his penis began to engorge itself with blood. “My cock is so excited!” George exclaimed, “YES MY CHILDREN, BASK IN ITS GLORY.” And they did, all the kids were smitten with George’s cock. Now more aroused than ever, George began to stroke his cock. Furiously. It was a magnificent sight, a man with a flock of children at his feet, all of whom wanted to stroke his massive cock. Suddenly a ripping noise arose from George’s gorge, the mighty johnson had been torn from its home. A piercing scream burst from his mouth, and suddenly George made a shocking revelation: These were no ordinary school boys, they were Demon Dick-munchers of the 12th realm of Alukmi’jas. He watched in horror as--much like the herring--his cock was consumed by the Dick-munchers. How could he not have seen this coming? George yelled out: “HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THIS COMING?” through his tears he could see that all was not lost, a small part of his cock was still intact. And then George understood what he had to do: He had to put his penis back together, at all costs. And so George began his journey, he picked up what was left of his cock and beat the Dick-munchers back to the depths of hell with it. And then he set off to find an entrance to Alukmi’jas and the rest of his cock. To Be Continued...


How can I deal with this?” He asked himself. The crimson stains gradually clawed their way through the pale carpet and reached out to him. The bright steel of the knife's rim was stained and the blood flowed steadily down and dripped into the carpet once again and the stains embraced each other. This was no way to commit a crime, this time it was messy. He should have stayed with the routine, wait, watch then strike. He got cocky. Emotion wasn’t helpful for these situations, but he had to deal with it all, perhaps this was nature’s way of telling him that it was time to stop but he couldn’t just return to his life, he had no life to return too. He killed that along with his first victim. Frantically looking around he locked eyes with the hob. How could he have not thought about it first, sprinting towards the kitchen he twisted the hob as far as he could and could smell the gas already filling the house. With the cigarettes he already had lit he threw it into the source of the gas and with an explosion that was the end of Henry Slater. I lived a perfect life, single dad with an amazing daughter, great job and a great home. It all started when I was picking up my darling Cassy from school, that proud grin reaching to her blue eyes, I could tell it had been a good day. Why wouldn’t it have been though, everyone was friendly, there were never any problems in the small town we called home. She bounced into the car and started to jibber jabber about her day when she asked for some sweets. She always asked for sweets. I had already started to drive when I reached towards the glove compartment to get the bag of sweets. That’s when it happened. The one moment that would change everything. BANG. Someone’s Lexus slammed into the side of the car. Blood. Taken. Pain. Sirens. Screams. Help. Beep. Beep. Beep. He was in a hospital with a monitor making a slow and steady beeping sound. Beep. Beep. Beep. A stern looking doctor walked in. “Henry, you were in a car crash, you're badly injured but you will survive.” Henry processed this. Again and again. He kept processing he would never stop. How would he stop. “Where is she?” Henry asked the linger of fear in his voice hinted towards the fact that he already knew. The doctor looked him dead in the eye without even changing his facial expression. “Where the hell is she!” Henry yelled. “Henry, your daughter didn’t survive the crash.” He stated without the slightest hint of emotion. How could they. How could these idiots let his daughter die. He got up pain tunnelling it’s way through his blood but he didn’t care. What he did care about was his daughter. He started to attempt to storm out his body slowly crumbling in on itself as he walked. A younger doctor came rushing towards him and gently grabbed his arm. “Listen Henry, we are very sorry for your loss but you need to stay in your ward.” He said he was trying his best to sound sympathetic but Henry knew the truth. All these people have been desensitized to this sort of thing and just wanted it to look like he cared. At least that first doctor had been honest with him. “No, no don’t feel sorry for me if anything this is a relief I’m glad my daughter is no longer living in this screwed up world where they tell a single dad on heavy medication as he is just waking up from a freaking coma that his daughter, his god given daughter is dead. Oh no no if anything I should be apologising to you. I’m sorry for taking up all of your precious time, why don’t you just pull the plug on me. Hey! You would do it for a dog but not for me.” “Listen Henry, you need to go back to your room or we will have to get you back there by force and trust me neither of us will enjoy that.


Mr. Butterfly longed for the days before metamorphosis. Back when he and Mrs. Butterfly lived the humdrum caterpillar life. A quiet leaf dinner and an early bedtime. But they were social butterflies now. Either hosting a gathering or fluttering off to one. He didn't care for it, and as Mrs. Butterfly went on and on about that evening's dinner party, Mr. Butterfly snapped. “Enough, Muriel!” Mr. Butterfly screamed. “Enough!” “Aren’t you tired of always fluttering about?! Ever since we’ve been butterflies, it’s been go, go, go with you. How about we stay, stay, stay home for a change? Enjoy a quiet leaf dinner. Maybe an early bedtime.” “But, Clarence, we’re butterflies now," Mrs. Butterfly replied. “And, it’s time you started acting like one. Besides, our guests will be here any minute!" “Well, I’m tired of acting like a butterfly,” Mr. Butterfly said. “I’m tired of being a butterfly. In fact, I’d rather us both be struck dead right this instant than live another day as a butterfly.”

“You be careful, Clarence,” Mrs. Butterfly warned. “Keep talking like that, and you might just get your wi—" SPLAT! “Oh god, what have I done?!” Mr. Butterfly wailed in anguish. “What damned, spiteful wrath have I wrought? Take me, foul being! Take –" SPLAT! -- Connor wiped the dead butterfly juice down the front of his sweater vest, after first smelling his hand. As the bell for morning classes rang, he shuffled into the massive building that he had been sitting in front of for the previous 30 minutes. He shuffled down the hallway. He shuffled past his classroom. He shuffled up to a large wooden door, with the name "Professor James Robinson" plastered right in the middle of it. Connor slammed his head several times into the door. "Come in," said a voice from behind the door. Connor turned the knob, while forcing open the door with his head. "Hey, Mr. Robinson." "Hello, Connor. You may begin." To put it mildly, Connor was out of his element as an eighth grader at Thaddeus R. Wellington School for the Gifted and Talented. Frankly, he would’ve been out of his depth at most academic institutions, but TRWSFTGAT was the most prestigious kindergarten-through-eighth-grade school in the entire city of Boston. With that in mind, he was especially unqualified. So, what was a child like Connor doing at a place like the TRW School? “So, then what had happened was, and this is actually at least more than a hundred years ago, but there was this guy John Adams who shows up...” Let’s interrupt the beginning of Connor’s history class presentation for a more straightforward explanation. As it turns out, Connor was the great-great-great-great-grandson of Thaddeus R. Wellington himself. So, while wholly unremarkable (and that’s being generous), the kid got a free pass. Now, how did an individual from the same gene pool that produced Connor get the most prestigious kindergarten-through-eighth-grade school in Boston named after him? “My quadruple-G grandad liked to drink a lot.” As Connor put it, Thaddeus Wellington was a frequent imbiber. He was the town drunk, which was a fairly impressive title to hold considering he lived during colonial times when alcoholism was more of a necessity than a health risk. One day Thaddeus was drinking at his favorite tavern, The Rusty Pecker, when, just as Connor mentioned earlier, in walked the second president of the United States himself, John Adams. Now Adams was somewhat of a renowned drinker, so he plopped himself front and center of the ale-slinging establishment right alongside Thaddeus, and, without exchanging a word, the two went ale-for-ale. Finally, after several hours had gone by and dozens of beers were consumed, Thaddeus decided to challenge His Rotundity to a friendly wager. “Listen up, good sir,” began Thaddeus, who, this entire time, had not realized it was John Adams who he had been drinking with. “I challenge you to a contest. A competition, if you will. Whoever can smash the most pint glasses on their head is the victor. If I win, I get that fancy wig you’re wearing.” “What if I win?” Adams asked. Instead of even bothering to respond, Thaddeus simply started grabbing pint glasses from behind the bar and smashing them on his forehead, to the shock and horror of the barkeep, but to the delight of everyone else in the near vicinity. A large crowd formed. Passersby poured into the tavern as Thaddeus smashed glass after glass on his apparently rock-solid cranium.

Seven. Eight. Nine. It was a gruesome scene, as blood gushed from several points on the front of his skull, but the crowd hooted and hollered in a frenzy akin to the gladiatorial games. Finally, Thaddeus flourished the 20 th – and final – pint glass like a skilled magician. He placed the glass in front of him, and, in one fell swoop, smashed it into smithereens. The crowd erupted into cheers. Then, suddenly, a hush fell over The Rusty Pecker, as all looked to John Adams to pay his debt. “I’ll take that ridiculous head piece now, old boy,” triumphantly proclaimed Thaddeus, pulling a massive shard of glass from out of his lower-bottom gum line. “To be clear, I never did agree to your wager, my good man,” Adams responded. “But, I did very much enjoy this wild, if terribly unseemly, spectacle. And, while I dare not part with my trusted wig..." A beat. The suspense was almost too much. “I shall start a school in your honor.” The crowd looked over to Thaddeus. “Well, it’s no fancy wig, but I’ll take it!” The crowd broke the silence with thunderous applause and cheers. They hoisted Thaddeus on their shoulders and paraded him around the town square. “And, that’s how this whole school got built. The end.” Connor concluded his presentation, while his teacher, Mr. Robinson, looked down at the papers he was grading. “How’d I do, Teach?” “Very good, Connor,” Mr. Robinson responded dismissively, lost in his work. “You get the usual passing grade. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend.” “Hey, Mr. Robinson?” “Yes, Connor?” Mr. Robinson replied, looking up from his work. “Do you think it’s all just a stupid, silly joke?” “Do I think what is all just a stupid, silly joke?” Mr. Robinson echoed. “The story. About how this school got started. My story, too. Me being here. Doesn't it seem pretty stupid and nonsensical?” Mr. Robinson was taken aback by Connor's rather insightful question. He also didn't realize the boy knew the word "nonsensical." "No, Connor, I don't think it's stupid." "How did you think it will end? The story, I mean." “Don’t worry, son. Things have a way of working themselves out. In a way, the end will mirror the beginning.” "Thanks, Teach." Connor shuffled out of Mr. Robinson's office. He shuffled passed his classroom. He shuffled down the hallway. He shuffled out of the front door of Thaddeus R. Wellington School for the Gifted and Talented. Then, the strange boy shuffled his way over to a nearby playground, plopped himself right in front of where all the children were swinging on the swing set, pulled out a smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the back pocket of his dirt-stained jean shorts, and began to eat it. Connor calmly ate the sandwich, despite cries of “Move! Move!” from the swinging children. Suddenly, a butterfly landed on Connor's nose. He smiled. New beginnings. A fresh start. Connor smashed the butterfly.