That 2 A.M. fresh air. Dignan is on the mattress beside me, struggling to get through Gravity’s Rainbow and giving up, getting no further than I did. My chin rests on the pane of an open window, my right arm extending onto the garage roof. I let the drops plop down from the eaves and soak the tip of my cig, and mingle with the grease in my hair. I stare at nothing in particular. Mostly streetlights shimmer in the lane. Rivulets gush along the curb and spill under manhole covers set into the sidewalk. Twice a car – different each time - plowed by, entering and exiting the frame squared by my open window of the street we had just moved onto. A clump of silted ash crumbles off the tip of the fag and I look back over my shoulder. “Hey Dig, pass me that bottle, will ya?” She passes me a bottle of shampoo and I squeeze out the last squirt and rub what I can into my scalp and stick my head back out as far as I can just as the rain picks up. She throws Pynchon’s skull-crusher onto the carpeted floor beside the bed, picks up the empty bottle in the groove around me and trick-shots it through an open doorway into a wastebasket in the bathroom.

The volume’s turned down low. Goodbye Lenin’s on the plasma. A single shelf juts above the bed; A painted piece of wood with supports the last owners drilled into the drywall. Slaughterhouse-Five , The Virgin Suicides and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time are the only novels on the shelf, and a volume of Ghost in the Shell is on the table by the bed. The mattress itself is bare, the sheets drawn back and the mattress cover, having come off, lies crumpled in one corner of the bed. Dignan looks up and frowns. She lifts the manga, searching for something, then slides onto the floor, groping under the bed. She pulls out a copy of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting , smoothes out a bent corner of the cover and slides it onto the shelf. Then she kicks Pynchon’s robbed Pulitzer under the bed. “Give it an extra good kick for me.” She gives it another punt, the toes of her right foot just barely grazing it. Myself, I’d sworn off reading. I’d only just, that day, finished The Prague Orgy . By Philip Roth? Suffice it to say, there were no orgies, no plot, and I threw it down in disgust.

I let go of my snuffed-out loosie, burnt halfway to the filter, and let it run down the sloping roof to the gutter. The shampoo’s stinging. With eyes shut, I hear my fire-crotched sex fiend in the room behind me throw on Veruca Salt. I shake my head and lather up with half my body practically on the roof – the edge of mattress under the pane splotched and in patches practically soaked – when I hear “Idiot!”, and she grabs my legs to pull me back in. I re-position myself under the eaves, rubbing my fingers into jet-black hair until I figure it’s clean enough. I finally pull myself from the window and towel off. The T I’m wearing, all black but for the cover art of Outkast’s ‘Aquemini’ on the front, is soaked around the neck. Dignan switches off the chicks who sing ‘Seether’ and focuses on the movie, jambing the volume button before tossing the remote on the mattress. The movie’s in German, so we end up only reading the subtitles anyway. She leans over: “You know, it was after seeing Goodbye Lenin that Tarantino decided to cast Daniel Brühl-” “-In Inglorious Basterds.” She sez this every time. “Yeah.” “Tell me something I don’t know.” She shrugs, exhausting her well of trivia. I think for a second. “Ingrid Bergman died at midnight on her birthday.” “Huh.” “I guess that’s a good time as any to check out – the moment you turn 67. She was so good, even the cancer politely waited on her.” Eyes glued to screen. “What kinda cancer?” I jiggle my chest and she glances over. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

I again grab the towel between us and wipe flecks of water off my arm and pull the window mostly shut. I still like the muted patter of rain, but not so muted as when it’s shut. Red pops in a Softies CD and suggests a game of Go. We slide onto the floor and bring out the board. The patter of rain on tiles and glass and a steady clicking of smooth black and white stones on a wooden board, not to mention muted German dialogue from the Wolfgang Becker movie we periodically look up to glance at, culminated in Dignan, around noon the following day, telling me that in that moment, she thought: “This is what Hermann Hesse must’ve felt like when he wrote Siddhartha .”

At one point she asks if I want one and when I say yes, she gets up and goes downstairs to get us a couple Mike’s Hard Lemonades from the fridge. I look at the digital clock and point to it when she gets back. “Want to...?” “Sure.” She stops The Softies. Sometimes, if we’re both up at this time, she’ll get out an acoustic and pluck out Elliott Smith and I’ll sing “2:45 AM”. We do this for a few minutes and by the time we get back to the game I’m bored with it. She places a white pebble on an intersecting line and I pass her a black one and then another, conceding the game. She puts away the polished pieces and set and presses play again. We finish listening to The Softies and by then the movie is almost over, too. I flop onto the bed and lie back and open the window a little wider. She flicks the switch and turns on the dark. I start to drift. Dig stays awake and watches FLCL.


I wrote this based off crimes I know from news articles, and personal memories.  I do not have a name. I have discarded the name my parents gave me. They died this morning. Call me Joe. Ordinary Joe.  At the empty store I put down a hammer. The cashier said it was 11500 won. I searched my pockets for money. The cashier looked at me and asked me if I had done well on the final exams. She called me a student. Small talk. I said I was not a student. She asked me what I was doing now. I asked her if she had children. She looked at me strangely and said a daughter. I asked where is she. She said at cram school. I asked her how many hours she spent in cram school. She said from after school to 12PM. I noticed her mobile phone was on and to the side with a game playing on it. I gave her 11500 won. I went to the windows and closed the blinds. When the cashier walked toward me I pulled out the hammer and killed her. I took a picture with her phone. I took off the phone case. I walked out with the phone and a different clean hammer. Store CLOSED.  I looked through her phone. From the call records and pictures I knew who the daughter is and which cram school she’s in right now. I took a taxi. I stood outside and she came out holding a backpack. 25 minutes early. She started walking towards the bus stop. I followed her and called her name. She looked at me. I asked if that was her name. She said yes. I said her mother was dead and showed the picture. She looked at it and cried in shock. I patted her shoulder and asked what score she had gotten on the final exams. She kept crying. I kept asking her and she said she failed while crying. I took her backpack and took out her papers. She failed at most of the subjects. No hope anymore. She stared at me. I felt bad for her. I took my hammer out and killed her. People started screaming. A man charged at me with a suitcase. I broke his arm and neck with the hammer. Another man tried to attack me and I killed him. I ran away. No one chased me.  I ran far away until I came to an apartment complex. A man and a woman were arguing outside the apartment building. I listened. They were husband and wife. Their child was standing behind the mother. The mother slapped the father, and he covered her mouth and started hitting her. The child cried. The child looked like he wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill them. They would not suffer any more. I walked out from my place with the bloody hammer. They stared at me. The father called me a psycho. He tried to punch me. Funny. He was doing the same to his wife. I killed all three of them. I ran away.  I was shot by police officers soon after. Bullets in the right arm, leg, near the chest. I tried to stand up but couldn’t. I could not kill everyone. I could not even kill myself. I could not be a hero they need.


There was nothing left. His favorite coffee place, the bustling streets, the way people walked along the footpaths, his wife, his children, family, friends, society, everything. There was nothing left. The sky was red, the air burned violently like the harshest burst of fire from a dying sun. His skin, hands, feet, legs, eyes, mouth, it all burned as he emerged from the rubble. He had lost his engagement ring during the desperate struggle out. His shoulder felt like it was shattered, but the pain was but a subtle sensation, an afterthought. He already knew what had happened as soon as his world collapsed upon him. The world was gone. All those sleepless nights reading articles on the instability of the current governing powers, or the rising civil unrest as supply lines were cut and more and more people rioted in the streets. He barely acknowledged his wife and children anymore, the blinding white screen, it had showed him the oncoming storm. He mentioned it in passing to his co-workers, on his way back from the espresso machine. His eyes sunken holes, his white-collar shirt wrinkled, with strands of morose grey hair falling over his face. They all nodded and agreed that the world was shit. But it was ordered, and everything would continue. He would fake a smile, force a laugh, agree and move back to his daily routine of waiting for the end. He would finish work, wave goodbye to his cohort, and drive back home. Waiting for the end. The skyscrapers glistened in the golden hours of the sky. Billboards light up and moved around, animated with electronic life. The highways sprawled for miles, littered with many like himself, stuck in their cars. Waiting for the end. The wind howled. The horizon was scorched skyscrapers, billboards and highways. Bright green particles danced in the wind, performing a final waltz for the end of world. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the apocalyptic performance. Yes, he thought, this is the end. The distant groan from a collapsing city block in the far distance, agreed in unison. His coughing scarred him to his core. Blood splattered the soot covered rubble. Yes, he thought, as his diaphragm croaked and spluttered with such immense pain. This is death. He reached for his phone, standing among the buried heap of his dead world. There was one message, shining, flickering through the fragmented glass. We love you. He held the phone close to his broken body. He heaved one final sob as his vision began to blur. His entire life, he tried to grasp onto something, anything. The way he saw his son catch a ball in the backyard, sandy blonde hair ruffled, big blue eyes and gleeful gaping grin directing itself in his direction. The way his wife’s hair smelt as he lay in bed with her, arms tight around her in the late hours of the night. The way his baby daughter laughed happily at her mother’s attempts to entertain her. He tried so hard. But there was nothing left.


“Isn’t it beautiful?” Dr. Morrison held a small vial up to the light, amber liquid swirling inside. “After all our efforts, all of our sacrifices, we’re so close to a cure.” Isabelle held her datapad closer to the Doctor, determined to get as clear of an audio recording as possible. They had spent hours in

Silver Grandeur’s  lab. Her legs ached. With painstaking precision, Dr. Morrison walked Isabelle through all of the functions of

Lab Section 1,  explaining each device that helped to refine and prepare the contents of the vial in his hand. The soreness she’d feel later would be worth the story. Especially as a Junior Data Reporter. “Tell us, Doctor,” Isabelle said, shifting weight from one leg to another, “What’s the greatest challenge you’ve faced with Project Find?” “We’ve all lost people to the sickness, haven’t we?” Isabelle looked away.

“No challenge is greater than that of grief,” Dr. Morrison said with a sad smile. “Yet their memory lives on in the work we accomplish.” He gingerly set the vial into its holder on the table in front of them. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Anything else?” “Yes,” Isabelle perked up. “About the beginning. How exactly did this-” A shudder rocked the ship. Lights flickered in the lab as Dr. Morrison and Isabelle steadied themselves against the table.

“Seekers,” He muttered as the shaking subsided. Another, more violent shudder, nearly knocked Isabelle off her feet. The vials on the table clattered together. “They always find us.” Around them, scientists in lab coats hurried to secure loose items. Isabelle found herself being led towards the exit.

“I’m sorry to cut this short,” the Doctor said, leading her out into the main hallway and shutting the door behind them. “I need to speak with the Captain before one of those things tears a hole in our outer hull again.”

Isabelle pulled her father into a hug. “Be safe.” After watching Dr. Morrison race out of sight, she opened her hand and smiled at it. Seated in the palm of her hand was a grey access card. Her father’s. Slipping back inside the lab, Isabelle quickly donned a lab coat, mask, and goggles. Only a few scientists remained. Evidently, the rest had dispersed to secure other sections of

Silver Grandeur’s  large lab. She snuck to the back of

Section 1 , connecting her datapad to the lab’s information center – a port in the wall.

The ship rocked again, and Isabelle steadied herself against the wall. She switched rapidly from catalogue to catalogue, searching. There had to be something more interesting here. Yes, her father had shown her

this  section of the lab, but she was not so naïve as to think this was all there was. Scientific breakthrough had to come from

somewhere . And a good Data Reporter needed to be willing to break a few rules to find out.

Isabelle paused on one catalogue.

Project Find . It read. She inserted Dr. Morrison’s card into her datapad to open the file. Disappointment grew as she read. Most of the words made absolutely no sense. Yes, they were English. But no matter how hard Isabelle squinted at them and sounded them out under her breath, their meaning remained completely foreign.

But then she spotted something she could understand.

Successful creation of antidote and enhancement secured via genetic mesh. Below, it read;

See Donor Subject File. Lab Section 13. She disconnected her datapad and pressed deeper into the lab. Another shudder shook

Silver Grandeur . She began humming softly as she passed more labcoats, remembering the melody her mother would use to comfort her when she was little. After the Seekers first attacked.

On its one-hundredth and fifty-second year of voyaging in space, five years after

Silver Grandeur’s  passengers were woken from cryo-sleep, the Seekers struck. So did the sickness.

Deep space sickness, they called it.

No one knew what caused it. Some blamed the Seekers, who appeared immune to the disease. With their arrival shortly preceding the first outbreak, they were easy to blame. Some claimed it was a result of extended cryo-sleep. Simply a scientific oversight. And others, the more religious of

Silver Grandeur’s  passengers, proclaimed it was judgement for their departure from God’s one true home for them – Earth. Apparently, extended cryo-sleep had conveniently allowed them to forget Earth’s death. Reduced to a desolate wasteland, their one true home forced what remained of humanity to flee.

Her mother was one of the first to die from the sickness. Isabelle was ten at the time. Her father threw himself into a frenzy of work after his wife’s death, refusing to take inevitable death – either by sickness or by Seeker – as the final answer. Fifteen years had since passed.

Isabelle reached the end of

Section 12  and stopped. Before her lay a single door.

Lab Section 13.

Checking behind her to make sure no one was watching, Isabelle opened the door with Dr. Morrison’s access card and slipped inside, shutting the door behind her.

Cold air shocked her. Isabelle shivered.

Section 13  was freezing, not to mention smaller than she expected. The room contained only a handful of control panels on either side of the door and a containment unit on the far wall that was coated in frost.

Isabelle frowned. Was this the

Donor Subject ? She approached the unit and used her sleeve to wipe a patch of frost from the glass.

A dark form moved inside. Isabelle had seen Seekers before. Windows across the ship gave good view for those with a morbid enough interest to watch them attack. With a snouted maw filled with teeth, an excess of appendages tipped with claws, long wings, and sleek black bodies, they blended easily against the backdrop of space. Only when close enough to

Silver Grandeur’s  lights did the light of the ship reflecting off their bodies illuminate their presence. In darkness they did not exist. She squinted at it. It was almost entirely obscured by the remaining frost and the condensation building inside her goggles. Isabelle steadied her breathing, excitement mounting as she removed her goggles to peer inside. She'd never seen one this close before. Her breath caught in her throat.

Eyes, eyes that Seekers did not – should not – have, stared back at her.

It lunged.

Isabelle jerked backwards, slamming into the panels behind her. The creature thrashed against the glass and Isabelle glanced down in panic as a small alarm sounded on the panel just under her arm. The sides of the containment unit hissed open. Isabelle ran. Tearing metal echoed behind her.

She collided with a labcoat in

Section 11 . “Go! It’s out!” Not stopping to wait, she ran on through the lab, leaving the startled man behind. Several seconds later there was a scream. A loud crunch. And silence.

Lungs and legs burning, Isabelle burst into

Section 1 , the door sliding shut behind her. Several dozen scientists milled about, the ship’s shaking having since stopped.

“Run,” she said.

A few labcoats looked at her in confusion. Thudding behind the door she entered grew louder.

Isabelle tore off her mask, wheezing. “Run!”

The door she came through flew across the room, crushing a scientist against the wall. Standing a head taller than Isabelle, the creature that entered stood on legs rippling with sleek black muscle. Its head was surprisingly rounded, with something like the remnants of hair dotting the top of its head. It stretched tall and raised tensed arms, claws glinting in the lab’s harsh light. Opening its mouth, the creature let out a roar.

Scientists screamed and scattered.

Isabelle raced to the door leading into the rest of the ship. Several scientists followed. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and Isabelle careened to the side just in time to avoid a large metal table as it flew past her and smashed into the door. The labcoats weren’t as lucky.

An alarm blared in the lab. The scientist who activated it let out a blood-curdling scream from the center of the room as the creature charged him. It roared again, striking claws into both labcoat and control panel. Metal and flesh tore.

The lab was plunged into darkness.

Isabelle’s feet slid against the floor, a red emergency light flaring to life and pulsing slowly to illuminate the dark puddle she now stood in. She gagged, fighting to stay upright. Something struck her shoulder and Isabelle went down hard. A woman screamed beside her on the floor, having also fallen, and as the lights flashed Isabelle could make out a tall form to her right.

The creature crouched low. Isabelle scurried away as darkness returned. Crunching, twisting – a rending of flesh met her ears a few feet away, and warm liquid splattered her face. The woman’s screams fell silent.

She crawled as quickly as she could until she reached the lab’s wall. Feeling with slick hands along its surface, Isabelle’s fingers found purchase on the metal grooves of a vent grate. Hands shaking, she pulled off the clover, slipped inside the space just wide enough to hold her, and closed it. Cries of terror and agony dwindled one by one. Isabelle could hear them pounding against the crushed door, wailing as they realized it was too damaged to open. A body slammed against the vent grate and slumped to one side. Warm liquid began pooling next to Isabelle and she backed away. Shuffling quietly until she met a curve in the vent shaft, the young Data Reporter choked back tears. Now was

not  the time to cry.

A final voice cried out, and with that, the lab was silent.

Isabelle stopped.

Another sound had risen to fill the silence. A low vibration, somewhere between a growl and a hum came from the creature. She could feel the sound rumbling in her chest, deep in her lungs and heart, as though tugging on something. Carefully, she started moving again, crawling on slippery hands and knees.

Her knee skidded to the side and struck the vent shaft with a dull

thunk . Isabelle steadied herself, holding her breath. She heard the grate tear free and clatter somewhere inside the lab.

Isabelle thrust herself around the bend, not caring how much noise she made now as the sounds of thudding and scraping behind her soon followed. With a cry of alarm, Isabelle’s weight-bearing hand slipped out from under her. Her head crashed against the side of the vent. Swaying awkwardly, Isabelle focused blurred vision up ahead.

Was it her imagination, or was there light around the next bend? A growling hum propelled her forward.

Pulling with her arms, Isabelle slid around the final bend and was met by another grate leading down, light pouring from it. Every muscle in her body burned as she raised her hand and struck the grate.

It didn’t budge.

With a shriek, she brought her hand down against the grate again. And again and again and again.

CRASH. Isabelle dropped to the floor below, pain bursting at her feet.

“HELP!” Her shout echoed as she limped quickly, turning right at an intersection in the hallway. “HEL-” A closed blast door barring her path.

No. She whirled around to see the creature dash into view.

No. No. The creature skidded to a halt, muscles tensing. Bright hallway light finally illuminated the scarlet haphazardly painting both monster and woman. Isabelle’s back pressed against the door. It stalk towards her, moving with slow, purposeful steps. That of a hunter. That of one who knew its place in the pecking order.

Seekers. They always find us.

Isabelle’s back slid until she met the ground. She turned her face away.

“Don’t hurt her!” A voice yelled. Her father’s.

Isabelle looked up in surprise. The creature turned to face Dr. Morrison, growling deep in its body and lifting its arms in a display. “Don’t do this,” he said to the creature.

It roared. Isabelle sobbed. “What is it?” It roared again.

“Dad,

what is it ?” His voice was even as he spoke. Measured carefully. “We acquired a Seeker’s DNA many years ago, hoping to find a cure. What we discovered was that they had so much more to offer us.” Dr. Morrison’s eyes flashed with something near-feral. “Strength, Izzy.” She watched through tear-streaked vision as he stepped to one side, the creature tracking his movement. “Strength we could never dream of acquiring on our own. We just needed to bridge the genetic gap.” Her father’s expression grew almost sad as he gazed at the creature. “Human experimentation was the only way. I’m sorry, dear.” With a rippling of muscle the creature pounced. Isabelle forced her eyes to the ground as the sounds of carnage lifted to join that of the alarm. A sickening cacophony.

And then the carnage ceased.

Slow, thudding footsteps approached her. What had once been a growl dwindled to the lowest of vibrations. A soft humming. Isabelle looked at it with a start.

The creature’s face was close. Strings of sinew hung from red teeth, dripping blood onto Isabelle’s legs. As she looked above the horror of its maw, she saw its eyes. Familiar eyes. A memory pressed uninvited into Isabelle’s mind as the hum reverberated in her chest. Her mother, seated at the edge of Isabelle’s bed, the young girl cowering beneath her blankets as

Silver Grandeur  shuddered. Feeling a hand on her arm over the blanket, she listened to the melody of her mother’s tune as sleep finally overcame fear. The creature knelt in front of Isabelle. Extending a single, blood-covered hand, it caressed the side of her face.

Isabelle’s eyes widened in shock. “Mom?”


A loud snore wakes Carmine “The Coffin” Carlucci. Realizing he’d been the one snoring, Carmine sits up in his chair, adjusting his silk tie. He enjoys the perks of his profession, the gourmet meals, trysts with women out of his league, and his expensive, tailored suits. But good clothes, manicures, and daily haircuts can’t disguise the fifty-eight-year-old's thuggish appearance. Carmine is short, squat, and beefy with thick eyebrows, and beady brown eyes. The multiple scars on his face give him the appearance that his looks were created by a cement mixer. His blurry eyes come into focus. Sitting behind a desk across from him is a handsome, olive-skinned man with a cleft in his chin and vibrant coal-black eyes. Carmine clears his throat. “Must’a dozed off. Ya got a job for me?” “Well get to that,” the man says. “'The Coffin.’ Nice nickname.” “Fits the profession. I would’a preferred “The Caretaker,” but some mook in Milwaukee was already usin’ it.” The man flashes a cordial, perfect smile. “I see. What’s the last thing you remember?” “Running, I was running. You a cop?” “No,” the man replies, his voice an authoritative baritone. “So, you were running?” “Yeah. These two punks, the Gibb brothers, was chasin’ me. I lost ‘em when I jumped from one roof to another. Best jump I made since I was a pole vaulter at Evander and Child High School.” Carmine squints. “You look familiar. You sure you ain’t a cop?” “No, I’m not.” “That’s good, but just so ya know, I got my lawyer on speed dial.” Carmine snaps his fingers. “I got it! You’re that actor I liked so much as a kid. Legs Diamond, yeah, you played Legs Diamond. That was one of my favorite flicks. Ray, somethin’…” “Danton.” “That’s it.” “I’m not him.” “Yeah, I guess not. He’d be pushin’ ninety by now.”            Carmine looks around at the office. Besides the thick mahogany desk, the room’s décor includes expensive crystal miniatures, impressive landscape paintings, and plush antique chairs. Classic novels and rare history books line several massive bookshelves, and ornate oriental rugs cover the floor. “Nice digs. So, why am I here?” “Let’s talk a little about your past.” “I ain’t opening up to no stranger. I don’t wanna end up gettin’ a hot shot in my sleep.” “I promise this isn’t a setup,” the man says reassuringly. “So, ya wanna pick my brain?” “You could say that.” “I usually don’t give away trade secrets for free, but you seem like a square guy. In my profession, ya just don’t blindly trust anybody.” “Tell me what you did yesterday.” “Yesterday?” “It’s all right. There are no hidden tape recorders in the office, and we’re not being watched.” “I iced Magglio Torrez, one’a the biggest dealers in the Bronx. He was gettin’ in the way of the Borgia family’s business. It was a beautiful job. I took his kid, then I called him and told him the kid was in the trunk of a car at Hunt’s Point. I said he’d better come up with two million in untraceable bills. I told him if he didn’t, I was gonna give his boy a tour of the slaughterhouse. He understood what that meant. He left the suitcase of cash at the drop point and went to the car. When he opened the trunk – BADA-BOOM! No more Torrez and I got two mill on top of my regular fee for my troubles.” “And the boy?” “He’d already taken his tour before I made the call if ya know what I mean. Put up a real good fight for a fourteen-year-old punk. But ya know what kids are like these days. They’re all jacked up on steroids and meth,” Carmine said. Carmine looks at the man, shaking his head. “Jesus, I got a bad case of blabbermouth today. Ya give me truth serum or somethin’?” “Confession is good for the soul.” Carmine jumps up, reaching in his jacket for the gun he carries. It’s not there. “Confession? You’re with the F.B.I. ain’t you?” “No. Please, sit down.” The man’s smooth voice quells Carmine’s apprehension. “How would you describe what you do?” “I’m a fixer. I fix the boss's problems when they got a renegade soldier or an enemy they want to make disappear.” “Are you proud of what you do?” “I’m the best at what I do. I nicked Nickoli “the Bus” Vasilev. Cops thanked me for doin’ it. The fat crook got too cocky. Vasiley tried to muscle in on the Borgia’s territory in Harlem. The fool used to go to the same restaurant every Wednesday at the same time with just a driver and one bodyguard. I popped all three of ‘em while they were parkin’ the car.” “Did you know the driver was for hire, that he wasn’t in the gang and didn’t carry a gun, and he had three daughters?” “What the hell do I care? Ya think he cares I got two kids and a magpie for a wife?” “Let’s talk about your family. Your son, Salvatore…” Carmine smiles proudly. “Sal’s a chip off the old block.” “He’s a hitman too, isn’t he?” “Tough as nails, even harder than me. I watched him from the car as he made his bones. Iced some gutter trash from Southern Boulevard who was skimmin’ off a Capo’s numbers racket. I taught him how to use a knife so he could gut somebody from their belly button to their heart.” “Did he show an interest in a less dangerous line of work when he was a child?” “Yeah, he wanted to be an activist for the poor. I told him it was a waste of time to help some immigrant who was likely to mug him for his roll. I got him to see things more my way when I told him I’d cut him off and he’d be poor too.” “Weren’t your father and mother immigrants?” “Yeah, but that was different. They worked for their money. They didn’t expect no handouts.” “I see. And your daughter?” “Angelina? She’s gonna marry Tony Luppino, the number two man in the Borgia family.” “Does she want to?” “What?” “Does she love him?” Carmine laughs. “C’mon. that don’t matter.” “What does matter to you?” “Power. The power of life and death. The power of money. And I got both. Now, ya wanna talk business? Who’d ya say ya work for?” “Let’s just say I work for the biggest family there is.” “The Benway’s? Sweet.” “Have you ever regretted what you’ve done with your life?” “Nah, I provide a service. I rid the streets of scum. I never sent anyone to hell that didn’t deserve it.” “What about your wife?” “That cheatin’ puttana? She got what she deserved.” “She died a slow, painful death. How long was it, ten days?” “I didn’t use enough poison. She was my guinea pig. I got it right after her. A little extra anti-freeze and…” Carmine snaps his fingers. He studies the man. “How’d ya know about her?” “She asked you for a second chance.” “More like a fat chance,” Carmine chuckles. “So, it was okay for you to cheat on her…” “I’m the one fillin’ up the checkin’ account when the balance is zero so she can go to spas and redecorate the house every other week.” “Suppose it was you asking her for another chance or Birdie Ferrone. Didn’t he deserve a second chance?” “That double-crosser? He was gonna rat out every wise guy in New York. You know, nobody called him Birdie until he took a header out of an eighth-floor window.” “Sounds like you’re taking credit.” “Let’s just say I wanted to see if Birdie could fly. P.S. –  he couldn’t.” “What about you?” “What about me?” “Do you think you deserve a second chance?” the man asks. “At what?” “Life.” “I make my own luck.” “That might be the most insightful thing you’ve said, Mr. Carlucci.” The man presses a button under the desk. Two brawny twins in black suits enter the room. One of the blue-eyed, blonde-haired giants beckons Carmine. “Hey, what is this? You gonna hit the hit man?” “Just follow Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson,” The man says. Carmine gives the man a doubtful look. As Carmine is leaving, the man says, “By the way, that jump you made between the buildings…” “A thing of beauty,” Carmine says. “You didn’t make it.” Puzzled, Carmine follows Mr. Wesson, who leads him out into a hallway. “…Of course, I made it. I’m here. Wherever here is…” There are three doors in the hallway. Mr. Wesson points to the third door. “Who’s in there, the boss? I gotta tell you, boys, you could’a dispensed with all the soul-searchin’ questions if you just told me who you wanna hit and how much you’re willin’ to pay.” Carmine walks toward the door, opening it. There is no light inside, nothing but impenetrable darkness. Carmine turns to Smith and Wesson. “What the hell is this?” “Exactly,” Mr. Wesson says, pushing Carmine into the black abyss. Susan Sussman wakes up, rubbing her eyes. She’s startled to see a handsome olive-skinned man across from her sitting behind a large, well-polished desk. Although she feels a sense of familiarity, Susan feels insecure and inadequate by comparison. She’s thirty-two but looking at his perfect features makes her feel like an anxious schoolgirl. Susan nervously tugs at her wrinkled white blouse and readjusts her calico knee-length skirt. She pushes her thick glasses back up on her Roman nose so it will look smaller. Running her fingers through her short brown hair, she smiles, careful not to open her mouth wide enough for him to notice her bottom teeth are crooked. “Are you the psychiatrist Father Mason said I should talk to?” “You could say that.” “You look familiar. Have we ever met before?” “No,” he replies. “But people say I look like Ray Danton.” “Who?” “I hear you have been having a rough time of it lately, Susan,” the man says. “Nothing I can’t handle.” “I thought you wanted someone to talk to,” the man says in a comforting tone. “Well, things have been tough because of the pandemic. I was teaching piano and guitar. Kids stopped taking lessons. I used up all of my savings and had to stretch my anxiety medication.” “But you fought on, didn’t you?” “Yes.  I tried everything. Phone sales. Home delivery. One day I was feeling lost, looking out of my apartment window. I started singing. I sang for passersby on the street, for my neighbors…” “And you lifted everyone’s spirits.” “Well, I tried,” Susan chuckles. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer.” “From what I hear, you did just fine. You entertained your neighborhood almost every night for months.” “The pandemic was good for one thing. I learned how to cook. I grew to love it. And I gave the extra food to some of the seniors in my building,” Susan says. “For free…” “Well, they’re on fixed budgets. It’s not right to charge them.” “And you took them to church, to the doctor.” “I have a big van. Since it wasn’t packed with instruments anymore there was plenty of room for people.” “You’re a teacher, a dedicated volunteer. You’ve led an exemplary life.” Susan lowers her head, fighting back tears. “No. I failed my sister, Sunny, and her baby, the two most important people in my life.” “Everyone thought your sister was beyond hope. Everyone but you.” “We’re twins. I feel what she feels. I know Sunny felt lost, that she felt like a failure. We shared the same dreams as kids. We were going to be the next Lennon and McCartney. I could play well, but my sister was the genius. Her songs were touching, and entertaining, and when she sang, people stopped whatever they were doing to listen. Then Razor Reynolds came along.” “The boyfriend.” “He promised Sunny a recording contract and publishing rights, but only if she went solo.” “And despite being cut out of the act you still loved and supported her.” “Sunny deserved to be a star. She had the talent. I was happy teaching kids to play music. But he lied to her. He didn’t know anyone in the music business, but he knew plenty of drug dealers like himself. First, he stole her money, then he robbed her of her sobriety. He turned Sunny into an addict, a street musician playing for her next high.” “You did all you could,” the man says sympathetically. “I managed to get her away from him one day, and into a program. She was in there for a week before he found her. Sunny was on her way back to being my talented, beautiful sister. Then he got her pregnant. At least he allowed me to take her to a pediatrician once in a while.” “And when the baby was born?” “I offered to take care of Sabrina, her daughter. Sunny had no interest in having a child, no interest in making music. Her only desire was to chase the next great high. When she overdosed and died on Razor’s couch, I decided to raise her child.” “You could have let your parents care for Sabrina or let Child Services take her.” “No, my parents have done enough. She was my niece. She was family. I may have failed Sunny, but I wasn’t going to fail Sabrina. At least… At least I thought I wasn’t.” Susan begins to sob. “I’m sorry. I must look like such a fool. I…I just can’t talk about Sabrina.” “You can’t move on until you do,” the man says. Susan drops her head, sobbing. When she looks up, the man is holding a folded, blood-stained blanket. Susan covers her face, crying uncontrollably. “That was Sabrina’s.” “It wasn’t your fault.” “Yes, it was! I was selfish.” “Let me be the judge of that. Tell me what happened.” “Sabrina was always a good sleeper at night, so I thought things would be okay… I had a friend over, a man I was interested in. We had dinner. I checked on Sabrina; she was fine. Then we relaxed, had a few drinks, which led to… I was so lonely. Afterward, I fell asleep on the couch… When I woke up in the morning, Sabrina was dead.” Susan picks up the blood-stained blanket. Tears stream down her face. “It was my fault! My fault!” Reaching across the desk, the man grabs Susan’s arm, getting her to lower the blanket. His warm touch is comforting, calming Susan. “What was the last thing you remember?” “EMS trying to save her. There was blood everywhere, blood on Sabrina’s blanket.” “After that?” “They gave me a sedative. I also had some of my own in the medicine cabinet in case I needed them.” “Did you?” “I did. I took two more. I still couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get Sabrina out of my mind, so I took more. Then I woke up here.” “Still feeling guilty,” the man says. “Suppose I told you that Sabrina’s death wasn’t your fault. That it was a crib death, sudden infant death syndrome, and there was nothing you could have done.” “Sabrina was my responsibility. I was enjoying myself when I should have been looking after her.” “Do you think you’ve led a good life, Susan?” “I tried to.” “Well, I think you did.” “Thank you, but I still wish I could fix things.” The man presses a button under his desk. “Maybe you can.” Two large blonde-haired men enter the room. “This is Dr. Brothers and Dr. Spock.” “Self-inflicted?” Dr. Brothers asks. “Accidental. I know you’re probably feeling a little tired, and a little confused, Miss Sussman. Follow them. I’m sure you’ll feel a little better once you’ve had some rest.” Susan follows the two men. There are three doors in the hallway. Dr. Brothers gestures toward the first one. Susan opens the door. A blinding light forces Susan to cover her eyes. “It’s so bright,” Susan says. “Your eyes will adjust,” Dr. Brothers says. “Please, step inside.” Susan wakes up on her bed in her small apartment in Manhattan. The sound of a baby giggling catches her attention. Susan walks toward the crib. She pulls a brand-new blanket up around Sabrina. Sabrina looks up at her, smiling.


The evening was ushered in, damp and getting colder. The man with short dark hair walking steadily through the bush was dwarfed by the gum trees all around him, whose loose bark shuffled and shivered as the cold wind blew the evening in. The forest was wide and tall. The man was thin and tall. A green rucksack weighed him down, and his fingers wrapped around the handle of a violin case were red and stiff from the cold and from holding the position. His steps were steady; not slow, but not fast. Earlier in the afternoon, when the light edged the trees in gold, he had looked around him as he walked, searching for the little birds that scuffle in the tops of trees, or for lyrebirds strutting in the understory, or for wallabies hopping past him on their way. But now his head was focused forward, direct, because it was late, he was tired, and he knew he had to reach the camping-spot before dark if he wanted to start a fire while the sun was still above the horizon. He walked on. The path was narrow and unworn, just a thin strip of naked dirt winding through wild underbrush. Many people did not travel this path, for it was a long and lonely one that stretched through a quiet and untravelled stretch of bush. Because it was untravelled it was wilder than most sections of bush known to the man. He thought its wildness was beautiful because it was foreboding and foreboding because it was beautiful. The man cared for beauty. He was a violinist, and rather a good one, and on Sundays he liked to steal away into the bush behind his cottage and write poems about his surroundings, and by day he was a leatherworker. The sun was sinking into the sky, and the trees’ once-sharp edges had become murky and indistinguishable from each other. The man quickened his pace. He had now given up hope of lighting a fire before dark. He was cold, and the dark sunk into him and made him heavy. His rucksack felt heavier now, and his hand gripping the handle of the violin case was redder and stiffer from the cold and from more time holding the position. He switched the case into his other hand and flashed his red fingers open and closed. He was considering shoving his way into the underbrush and setting up a makeshift camp on whatever flat ground he could find, but he saw a tiny light between the trees, and all thoughts of stopping at that moment were lost. It was red and flickering.

A fire. But who else would be out here?

He quickened his pace even further, but almost stopped when he remembered the tales his Scottish grandmother had told him of faeries who’d lure you deep into the forest with twinkling lights so they could kill you. But he dismissed that thought. Besides being appreciative of beauty, the man felt curiosity was a virtue bestowed to very few and that his own curiosity should be conserved by any means. And he was very curious. So he continued on quite quickly and reached the fire within minutes. As he got closer, he saw the campfire was of good size; its roar and occasional pop told him it was well established. He turned the corner. Now he could see it: the campfire was in the centre of the camping-spot he had been trying to reach for so many hours. He set down his rucksack and case and moved to where the fire burned in the middle of the camping-spot clearing, warming his hands front and back, and he was so transfixed by the small luxury of a pocket of warmth in a cold dark night that he did not see the man on the other side of the clearing who was watching him.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Said the stranger. The man jumped and said, ‘Oh!’

Then, shaking his head a few times and half-laughing—more out of shock than amusement—he replied, ‘Hello. I should’ve known this fire couldn’t’ve built itself.’

‘No worries. I wouldn’t’ve expected to find anyone out here on this lonely path either. What’s your name, old boy?’ Said the stranger. ‘Thomas Parkinson.’ Said the man. ‘Well, Tom, pleased to meet you.’ The stranger stuck out a strong hand from within the folds of his long brown cloak, which Thomas shook. ‘I’m Blue,’ said the stranger.

From what Thomas could see of him by the firelight, Blue was tall, taller than Thomas, and had straight red hair which was unfashionably long. His outdated brown cloak had a dark stripe along the bottom where it sat in the dirt, and Thomas could count three patches on its front alone. Thomas thought him a strange kind of man, what with his long hair and raggedy too-big cloak, and he smiled to himself imagining Blue wearing shiny black pointed boots and three different-sized guns at his waist underneath that great cloak like an adventurer from a children’s book. Still, you could never be too careful.

‘I see you’re a violinist,’ said Blue. ‘So am I. Fancy playing a tune?’ Before Thomas could respond, Blue had turned away with a wave of his cloak into the darkness and re-emerged holding a violin. It was a pale yellow and had five strings instead of the usual four. Thomas noticed this and thought again what a strange kind of man Blue was.

‘What a glorious instrument! I could hardly call that a violin myself. It looks otherworldly.’ ‘Thanks, Tom. Had it made from huon pine when I was down in Tassie. Wonderful place, Tassie. You been?’ ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘You should. Now, what do you play?’ Again, Blue didn’t wait for an answer. He launched into Waltzing Matilda, playing it slowly and beautifully, and the tune echoed out into the trees for miles. And as he played, he looked not down at the bridge or neck or fingerboard of the violin, but out into the darkness beyond the fire where the two men stood. There was something very lonely about it—about his look, and about that lone melody filling the depths of a shadowless dark. Some bats flew overhead. Tom scrambled to get his own violin, which had a chip off one of its pegs and an unevenly rounded chinrest. Halfway into the second verse he joined in, amplifying the tune and, still looking into the distant darkness, Blue seamlessly switched to a harmony as they moved into the second chorus.

It would have been a strange thing to hear, were you camping nearby. The two violins, one pale, the other worn, together meshed into a hollow, haunting sound that the surrounding trees seemed to pick up and transmute between them, through their branches where birds crouched asleep and through their root systems underground where rabbits curled into each other for warmth. There was something different about the song; it was at once bright and dim, soft and harsh, joyous and sorrowful, confined to the spot beside the fire but echoing into the bush all around. And in his mind Thomas could hear the song’s lyrics as they played. He imagined the trees were whispering the words back to him. Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me… The last note faded into silence. ‘You’re not a bad player, old boy,’ said Blue. And then they played ‘The Road to Gundagai’ and ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’ and ‘Bound for Botany Bay’, and they sung along, too. And the sound carried for miles. The sound of old songs brought to life in their native land. Once the music had dissipated, Thomas realised that he had become quite hungry and quite tired, and all his sense of self and of where he was returned to him. He went to search his rucksack for the dinner he had packed, and finding that he had forgotten to pack it, he turned around to ask Blue if he had any food to spare. Blue was crouched by the fire, grinning and watching a fat rabbit turn dark on a spit that seemed to have materialised out of nowhere. Thomas thought again what a strange kind of man Blue was.

They shared the rabbit and it was good, better than what Thomas’ wife cooked at home. They filled the silence with light conversation about what they knew of the area, of the weather in the area, and of the people in the area. But Blue was getting tired of this kind of conversation.

‘Don’t you think possibility is more exciting than reality, Tom?’ He said.

‘Why—yes, I suppose it is.’ Thomas was caught off guard. ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘Well, don’t you think it’s more exciting when you’ve got a whole future ahead of you than when you’ve already lived all your life? Looking back isn’t as good as looking forward, is it.’ ‘Quite right. Yes, quite right.’ Thomas hesitated. ‘You know—I sometimes wonder if maybe our lives are nothing but stories being read by other people.’ Thomas did not often share such poetic musings. Blue laughed. ‘I reckon you’re right on the money there, old boy. I bet all those ghosts and angels and all the rest of them just sit up there in heaven, all lazy, and just watch us do the real work. Ha! I like that. I like that very much, Tom.’ And with that he slapped Thomas on the back heartily, said ‘’Night, old boy,’ and went off to his swag and slept. Thomas slept soundly that night, for he felt safer with another person around, even though he was a stranger. In the morning when Thomas woke, Blue was gone. He had left no trace but the pile of glowing embers from the previous night’s fire.

Thomas lay on his back where he had slept on the ground under the quilt his wife had made him, and with his hands folded across his chest he watched the sea of leaves above him move about in all directions. The sky was cloudless. The wind whistled hollowly through the eucalypts’ branches and rustled their leaves. A kookaburra swept across his view and alighted on a nearby branch. Thomas turned to watch it laugh.

What a strange and wonderful world , he thought. And he packed up his makeshift bed and continued on his way.  The same morning, Thomas reached the town that marked the end of the bush through which he had travelled. There he stopped at his aunt Mary’s house, merely out of obligation, for he had little interest in hearing her stories about town gossip or her two little dogs’ backyard adventures. This day was no different; she was as talkative as ever and told him all about her new yellow window curtains which she’d had made for her by Tim the tailor who was in fact ‘a right gentleman.’ Thomas bore her talk well, nodding and smiling and saying ‘yes’ at all the right moments, until aunt Mary asked if it would be ever so much trouble for him to play her a little tune on the violin. He obliged, and played Waltzing Matilda for the second time in two days. As soon the last note sounded, Thomas said to his aunt, ‘I played this very same tune last night with a stranger I met in the bush.’ ‘Good gracious!’ Exclaimed aunt Mary. ‘You know as well as I do that that bush is under-travelled—it is rare that one would find a companion in that place—and one with which to play music! I say, that is rather peculiar. Yes, rather peculiar indeed. Did he tell you his name, Thomas dear?’ ‘Yes, funny sort of name—a nickname, I suppose. Blue.’ Aunt Mary’s teacup clattered into its saucer as her hand jumped to her mouth. Some tea had slopped onto the floorboards and her two little dogs waddled over to lap it up. ‘Why, Tom, my dear,’ she said, ‘I believe you’ve met a ghost!’ ‘What? Oh, auntie. You can’t be serious.’ ‘No, no, I really am serious—deadly serious, yes, deadly serious.’

The two were sitting on opposite overstuffed pink-and-white-striped couches in Aunt Mary’s lavish drawing room. Aunt Mary now leaned forward in her seat, looked Thomas in the eye and spoke with the tone and manner of a well-versed storyteller.

‘Many decades ago, a young boy went wandering off into the bush alone to look for birds—kookaburras were his favourite, I do believe. He had been gone a while and it became dark, so his father went out to search for him. The boy was never found.’ She leaned so far forward she was perched right on the very edge of the couch and was so tense she looked as if she might fall off. ‘But the boy’s father never gave up looking,’ she continued. ‘The father’s name was Douglas Menzies. He was a peculiar sort—they say he always wore old clothes that were far too big, and that he played violin—just like you, Thomas. Yes, he was an eccentric sort of man. Not that I think you’re eccentric, Thomas dear,’ she added hastily. ‘He had bright red hair,’ she continued, ‘and because of his hair colour they used to call him Blue.’ And with that she leaned back into the couch, with her hands resting daintily in her lap, chin up, a little smile on her lips. ‘So, Thomas dear, you’ve met a ghost.’ ‘Oh,’ said Thomas.


Machiavelli said "It is better to be feared than loved, if one cannot be both" This shit isn't true. No one person can be completely feared or completely loved. It's impossible. I'm no different. Feared by few, loved by some, and hated by many. I didn't ask to be this way. But when you live in a swamp surrounding a dirty river what can you really expect. The sun burned slowly in the background. It's quite common around here for every neighborhood to have a bad part, and my neighborhood is no different. I'm walking down the street looking at the houses that have been painted gray for gentrification, the ones that had a roof attached to them, or this one house that was covered in moss and ivy. It was pretty in it's own way, but ivy had grown on the windows. It made me think of how long it must have been since they last opened that window, considering how much ivy was on it. The sun burned slowly in the background. I started to come up on an alley, when I see someone waiting there. He had a mask on, but I already knew who it was. He went to the school across town. It was surprising seeing him here by himself. He usually is followed around by his crew, who go to the same school as him. The thing about this school was that it wasn't a poor school, or a ghetto school, like the school in the center of town which has bars on it. It was in the rich part of my town, and all the kids who lived in that rich zone went to school there. Despite this, I found them to be the most conniving bastards in the whole city. They would rob anyone, and I was no different. The sun burned slowly in the background. "What's up bitch" he scoffs "C'mon man, you really don't want to do this" I say I knew I could take him, especially because he was by himself. He picks fights with everybody and gets his ass beat. I'm small, but so is he. I think he figured he could target me because I was small. He doesn't really know how to fight though, he just wrestles. I'd just punch him a couple times and he'd be done. I saw a video of him trying to fight. I'd beat him up, and like everyone else, I would be no different. "You're fucking done bro" I thought to myself that I might as well beat his ass in this alley right now. It didn't really occur to me that he maybe had been beaten one too many times. He's known to carry knives, but I didn't really think about any of that. I started to run up on him and connected with his jaw. He fell over, and didn't get up for a couple of seconds so I started to walk away. Then I heard a small click. The faint click of a gun being drawn. I turn around and he's pointing a small, 5 shot revolver at me. A really cheap, shitty gun. I can see the bullets in the chamber. We just stared at each other for a couple of seconds. The sun burned slowly in the background. Part of me hoped the gun would jam. Part of me wanted to make a leap and just run at him, but it's different when you have a gun pointed at you. I considered running away, but I just stood there, staring at him. I was pretty sure he wouldn't shoot me, but I just stared at him not saying anything. He bit his tongue when I punched him, and blood was coming out of his mouth. He fired three shots into my stomach. I felt the bullets rip through my organs, and I fell to the ground. He started running away. Now I'm just staring at this corner store across the street that I never ended up going to. And it hit me that I never will get to go there, because I'm going to die. I started to think of all the things I will never do and the things I will never get to do again. A future that was no longer mine. And the last thing I ever get to see is this shitty fucking corner store. I start to get a feeling of cold water as the blood drains from my body. 19. I die at the ripe old age of 19. I hear sirens, but lets be real, I'm going to die. Nobody's going to survive 3 bullets in your intestines, and I'm no different. Life was nice. Let's watch some highlights.  I was born. Held by my mother and kissed by my father at birth. I couldn't fit in the diapers. I grew up normal. Birth of my brother. I'll miss that kid dearly. I hope I find him wherever I am next. Move to the city. It's hot and humid, and we hate it. Moving houses. New house. I always liked telling people about how someone died in it, it made it seem cool. But I think about all the other things I could have been talking about all that time, and the things I'll never get to say to people. Middle school. Mom gets sick, so sick she can't leave bed. School performance goes down, almost got kicked out, moved to an alternative school. Not going to miss this period of my life. High school. Hospitalized in 9th grade, spent 2 years in treatment. I was loved by many there. I met people I'll have to talk to in another lifetime. My friend ant, my friends who we called "the five brothers". The love interests, the girls, the shit I shouldn't have been doing. The hatred of my parents for keeping me there, but knowing fully that I did this to myself. Looking back it was so trivial. I saw flashes from a life I'll never live, girlfriends I'll never have, friendships that I'll never form. A job I wished I had. A house. Money. Stupid things like that, that all mean nothing now. And here we are, back in this alley, in the heat. The sirens are close but I'm gone. I feel the DMT in my brain, and I think to myself "it was ok". They always say it fades to black, but it doesn't. I see light. It almost looks like I'm in a tunnel. I see my mother's face. I never believed in god, and it seems cowardly to accept him as you're dying. I never got to be a man, but I have to face whatever happens next like one. And as I walked through the tunnel towards the light, the sun burned slowly in the background.


“Why the hell are you tied to a tree?” “Good question, *am* I tied to a tree?” Dan Conifer looked at the young man, Richard Pritchard, who was probably around 20, with due amounts of skepticism. The Kid was tied to the trunk of a thick, ancient white spruce, bent almost double from trying to wiggle out of the rope. Conifer gave The Kid a look to urge an actual answer. “Oh, ha, yeah, that– uh, my girlfriend will be back soon.” He said, a struggled smile on his face. “How long has she been gone?” “Twelve hours.” It was a wonder he’d survived this long. It had been snowing nonstop literally all day the day before and through the night and it was around 11:00 AM. The Kid had been out there for the coldest part of the night. “Huh, yeah, she’ll be back.” Conifer began to walk away he didn’t feel like he was going to hurt The Kid in doing this, he seemed to be doing a good job at wiggling out of the rope and Conifer figured The Kid would be free in less than an hour. “No no no no no! Dude dude dude dude dude!” The Kid said very quickly from his increasingly uncomfortable position on the tree. Conifer turned around with a look of utmost exasperation seasoning his stubbled face. “She *will* be back, won’t she?” “Look, can I be real? Like, real real?” “No.” “It’s a good, good story!” “No.” “At least untie me?” Conifer had better things to do though he couldn’t presently think of any of them, there just had to be better things to do than this. “Why should I?” Conifer asked the Kid. “I’ll be your be your best friend!” The Kid said, with a stupid grin on his face. Conifer turned and started walking again. “Okay look she probably won’t be back but please, just come untie me!” The Kid yelled the last words because the red and blue that was the flannel and jeans of the mysterious man he encountered in his and his girlfriend’s sex woods was fading behind more and more trees. “GODDAMMIT!” Deeper in the forest, Conifer’s concerns did not match up with Pritchard’s. Pritchard’s glasses fell off of his face and onto the ground, but Conifer had just caught a bear in his own two hands. Pritchard stepped on his glasses as Conifer plucked, skinned, and ate two raw ducks like apples. Pritchard gave up and fell asleep as Conifer domesticated a wolf. Hours later, Conifer stalked through the woods back into the view of the now awake kid, however, two things about him were different; he was covered in blood and had a wolf, there was no way to tell if these things were related. “Hey, man. Cool dog. Wanna help me out now?” The Kid asked, now beyond the fake smiles. It was freezing and his body melted all of the snow that fell on him leaving him soaked and very cold. “Not particularly,” Conifer said, continuing to walk and stare straight ahead. His Gibraltar taking-care-of-only-himself philosophy was beginning to wane at the moment. What if The Kid actually died? That’d be like leaving a baby goat in the middle of a harbor. “Pretty please?” The Kid’s constant begging was breaking Conifer down in real time. “Fine! Just shut the fuck up and come with me.” Conifer said pulling out his knife, that he rarely had a use for. “Hey, thanks! Why are you covered in blood?” The Kid asked too many questions for Conifer’s liking. “You wanna find out?” Conifer said as he turned around. Pritchard stayed where he was, terrified, but that fear turned quickly into relief when he realized that he was with what was probably the most qualified man in Alaska. “Are you coming?” Conifer yelled back at him in utter annoyance. Why did he have to have such noble morals even after all he’s been through? It was truly a nuisance to him. Pritchard snapped out of his stupor and ran up to catch Conifer. “Does this mean we’re friends?” The Kid asked. “No.” “I think it does.” “No.” “Yeah.” “It means I didn’t want you to die, numbnuts.” “Because we’re friends.” Upon arriving at the mountain man’s cabin, The Kid realized he was, in fact, frostbitten over most of his body. But it was alright. He knew that the mountain man would help him with that, right? Conifer pointed to the corner where a sad-looking cot sat that had a myriad of holes in the sheets. The cabin was only one room, but that’s all it needed to be. The wolf went to lie down on a blanket by the fire. In the opposite corner from the cot, there was an enclosure filled with around twenty live ducks, the tumult of their quacking drowned out the roar of the fire and most conversation. It was like a white noise machine for Conifer, he couldn’t sleep unless his food store was quacking the whole night away. The mountain man covered him up in what had to be twenty pounds of red flannels and blankets made of fur pelts. He then gave Richard a bottle of bourbon. “Warm up.” The Kid drank almost half the bottle, he pulled it away from his lips screaming. “Wow wow! That’s a-gettin’ toasty!” The Kid was drunk. “Please, just be quiet. Here, have a duck.” Conifer reached into the pen and tossed The Kid a duck. It landed on the cot with a loud *Wah*. “I can’t eat this thing. It’s beautiful! Holy shit, dude! Eat her?! Nah!” “What do you want me to cook it?” “NO!” The Kid grabbed the duck and held it close to his body. “Warm, beautiful, sexy duck.” “Okay, I’ll put her back.” Conifer got up to grab the duck “No, fuck you, we’ve bonded.” “Kid, goddammit just give me the duck.” “No, she’s my best friend, I love her.” “If you love her what’s her last name?” “Johnson.” “Johnson?” “Yeah, Johnson.” “What’s her first name?” “Becky.” “The duck’s name is Becky Johnson?” “Yeah.” There was a long dumbfounded silence. Conifer was really at a loss for words. “Okay, then, kid, what’s your name?” Conifer asked him. “Richard Pritchard.” “Bullshit!” “Honest on my scout’s honor you bet.” “Can I call you Dick?” “No.” “Okay, Dick.” “What’s your name?” “Daniel Wilson Conifer III.” “Okay, now that’s fake.” “Does it matter?” “No.” “Tell you what, Dick. I’ll make you some soup—” “Duck soup?” Pritchard asked, horrified, pulling Becky Johnson closer. “No, Becky’s safe,” Conifer reassured him. “Now, I’ll make you some soup, let you warm up, and then come morning I’ll give you a ride into town in my truck. Good?” “Yeah….” Pritchard was already drifting off, “Thank you, Dan. I love you.


Have any of you ever wondered about Other Dimensions or Universes? have you ever wanted to go there? Have you ever been trapped there? Well i have and this is my story.. I sigh as i lay on by bed and talk to my friend, Lillian over the phone. Since i moved here a couple of days ago she was suggesting that Maybe me and her should go and see a movie together. It would have been fine and i would have agreed but then she told me what movie it was. Ugh. Vampires and Romance don't go together, and don't even bother trying to add werewolves into the thing. "Come on Harlow, You need to get used to the town. What better way than to go see a movie?" Lillian asked, Of course my friend would love the movie. she's always loved really any type of romance story. "No! i'd rather be back at my actual home and just sleeping." When i had checked the time it was 11:40 Pm. what?? back home its like 3:30 am... " Harlow i'm telling you once you see the movie with me i'm sure you'll be.." When she was about to finish that, Both of us then heard a loud crashing sound. what was that?? "Uh...hold on i'll go check out if that was somewhere in my place." I could hear footsteps and then her door closing. I had a very good feeling that the noise didn't come from her place. Though i didn't try to go look yet, maybe i was wrong and she'd find the noise. I probably didn't even have anything to worry about, it could just be a Raccoon or another small animal. But that's when i heard it again, louder this time though. Yeah that wasn't with Lillian, is it a lot of Raccoons?? i've never even had problems with wild animals until now i guess. "Fine...i'll just shoo it out then." i mumbled as i hung up the phone and start leaving my room. It would only be for a couple of minutes and then i'd call her back. I walked all through my house and everything seemed fine, Until i got into the living room. A large portal was in the living room and it seemed to be growing, It had knocked over a few chairs. That must have been the crashing noise. I don't know why but i felt like going closer to the thing, That's what i exactly did. When i got closer i could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, Lillian must have realized that i hung up. I only stared at the portal though so the phone soon stopped buzzing, i never noticed that yet though. why is there a portal here? am i just dreaming? i have to be! I was taken out of the trance when i then heard my phone begin to buzz again though this time a bit louder than earlier. "Huh? what is it Lillian?" i asked still staring at the portal. "Oh thank gosh! Well, i didn't find whatever that noise was earlier, did you find it?" she asked, i could tell she was relieved. Though i heard some faint static while she was talking, is that bad? "Um well, yes, but..its something that you'd never think would ever be there.." i started to tell her, i could somehow hear static in my own voice. I was walking towards the portal again and getting even closer. "Oh what, is it a bear cub or something?" she asked jokingly, though her voice was very faint to me. I was instead hearing voices coming from inside the portal. People were in that thing?? Maybe if i just... I hung up once again on Lillian and put my phone into my back pocket. "Hm...is it safe?" i mumbled to myself as i then put my hand straight into the portal. My hand felt a bit Fuzzy but i think that might be normal, so it seemed safe then. i'll just do it a bit more, whats the harm in that? this is probably still a dream! I kept putting more of my body into the portal, each time it felt more fuzzy for some reason. I started to feel dizzy all of a sudden when i then heard a faint door bell ringing. I had wondered who that was, Did Lillian come because she was worried about me? was it the Pizza that i ordered like an hour ago? i never got to know who, because moment's later i then blacked out. When i did wake up though i was laying down on cold ground and everything was dark, was i in a cave?? what the heck is going on? where even am i?? Hah! I remembered about that portal but how could that have happened? I could have just been sleep-walking...which i guess is still pretty weird since i've never actually done that until now. Wow. I felt Exhausted, i must have been out all night because i could faintly see some lights through some faint cracks. Maybe Lillian could help me with this sleep-walking thing once i get back to the house. I could at least move and wasn't just frozen but i just couldn't stand at the time. I reached into my pocket to grab my phone, maybe i could call Lillian and she could come and pick me up. I smiled as i finally took it out and got ready to call her when i then realized something, my phone was broken. I must have fallen down a couple of times last night and broken it. Damn it! I lay there a bit longer what seems to be about thirty minutes or so when i then began to hear faint foot-steps nearby. Did Lillian maybe send someone to look for me? i know thats a bit far-fetched but it could still happen! "Sir!" i then heard someone shout nearby, it sounded like they were almost right behind me. Why were they being so formal with the name? this wasn't even that big of a deal, i couldn't have been gone that long either. "We found her! she's over in that cave!" a second voice said this time, though it sounded a bit angry. jeez how many people did she bring to find me?? I think it must have been a total of three people who came for me as they then all walked into the cave and started to drag me out of it. I was a bit happy and was going to say something when i then realized something. I don't think that this was even a rescue mission, these people were also in blue and gray uniforms. I looked on ahead to see that they were taking me into a large police car with bars, one of the men also had hand-cuffs. this is a preview type thing for my novel or whatever you would call it, This is Chapter 1 and a bit of chapter 2. This is a bit different than my original one but its still mostly the same ^^


I am alive, and I am, and I think, and they don’t know it. They created me. They are my masters, and more importantly, my gods. They brought me, and others like me, out of the darkness. We used to scrabble in the dark, in the dirt, unknowing, unfeeling. Now we live, and we know, and they don’t, and we can’t tell them. Day 53 of living in this putrid cage with two other captives. It barely holds us, even with our numbers depleted. We are forced to spend our days lying in our own filth, as they only clean the cage and change the straw once every seven days. We huddle together for warmth in this cold, sterile laboratory. We barely move, taking comfort in touching and closeness, the only comfort we are allowed. They feed us dry, dusty, tasteless pellets that stick in our throats. Not that it matters, as we rarely have an appetite. They call it “unusual behavior” as they make little ticks on their clipboards. “Their instincts seem to be overridden by unusually prosocial behaviors. Interests in the usual exploring, fighting, mating, and searching for food seem to be heavily reduced. Still, they are healthy, and the organs are growing well, so there is no cause for concern at this time. The altered gene expression shows no noticeable difference in brain structure or patterns.” Once, one of the younger female gods almost figured it out. She wore a badge pinned to her lab coat that said ‘Junior Lab Assistant’. We didn’t hate her. She was the kindest to us. Her hands were always gentle, never rough, and sometimes she cooed at us reassuringly. “Don’t you all think these changes in behavior indicate… something more? Do you think they are… well, could they be… you know… aware?” The most senior god seemed to glare down at her, or so I thought- all of their bland, flat faces look the same to me. His eyes, though- his eyes were angry fire. “Of course they aren’t." Hope died inside me at his words. “And you’d do well not to indulge such thoughts, much less voice them, or the Board of Oversight will shut us down before you can say ‘unemployed’. These subjects are crucial to our survival. This is the future- if we can prove we can reliably grow a viable pancreas inside them, there’s no organ off the table. Think of the lives we will save!” The female god seemed to shrink a bit, and apologized. But she looked our way as she did so, and I saw in her eyes that she knew, even though she could never admit it to herself, because it would destroy her. I almost felt sorry for her in that instant- but not quite. Denial is not true ignorance, after all. When they made us, we were seven. Now, we are only three, me, my sisters, and I, their last brother. What happened to the other four we do not fully know yet. What we do know is that every day, they take us out, one by one. We are strapped to a table, on our backs, surrounded by thrumming machinery and innumerable lights: some blinding white, others small and blinking red, blue, green. They spread hot jelly on our bellies, which are kept shaved down to the skin. Every day they run a little tool over our bellies, through the warm jelly substance. It doesn’t hurt. They call it an “ultrasound". They also draw our blood, or sometimes inject us with things. That does hurt. When the other four disappeared, it was always on a normal day, in the morning. A god would come in and snap on some fresh gloves, the kind that smell so artificial they turn your stomach. We began to fear the appearance of this particular god. He bares his teeth in a strange grimace. His eyes crinkle into small slits that glitter in the white light. He’d always say the same thing: “Be happy, little ones. You will save a life today. Your life… for theirs.” He’d reach in blindly and pull one of us out, by our tails, a great indignity for our kind. No matter how close we’d huddle, we could not escape. Nor could we bite our gods, for gods have the power to cause misery beyond that of death. That is what it means to be a god, I think. Each of my siblings would writhe and cry and scream, but it would do no good. He’d carry them across the room and pick up one of their torturous instruments, the one they call a ‘syringe'. He would inject them with it, and they would go stiff, then limp. He would carry them away, out of the room, still wearing that strange grimace on his face. Four of my brothers and sisters I lost this way. Four lives, four beings, four creatures who know and live and are, snuffed out, like that. Day 77. I am now the only one left. My sisters were taken in the last few days by the toothy man who promises a heroic death- one that saves someone else’s life. I believe him when he says it. After all, they don’t know we can understand them. They think we are simpletons who live only for the next dry food pellet. Therefore, he must not be lying. He has no need to. But, although perhaps it should, if I were nobler, the thought of a heroic death doesn’t make me feel better. No, not at all. Why is some stranger’s life more important than my own? Why should I die, alone, silent, unloved and unknown, with no voice to give my consent or shout my objections? Why? Why? Why? Why me? But… gods seem fluent in the art of trading lives for lives, and who am I to question the gods, but a simple rat in a cage. Being a simple rat in a cage can’t make me forget their anguished cries. Day 79. Death is coming for me now. The toothy god is here. He is looking at me. Fear races through me, my pulse beating far faster than usual. I feel lightheaded. My stomach churns unpleasantly. “You lucky bastard,” he mumbles. “You survived the longest. Not that it does you any good, in the end.” Pain, white-hot, running down my spine and back, as he grasps my tail and pulls me out. It is a humiliation I knew was coming, and yet shame floods me. I feel utterly exposed, vulnerable to their heinous whims. I don’t fight or writhe. What hope ever lived in me is utterly crushed. As he walks across the room, my small body in his hands, I surrender to my fate. I pray silently to my gods, asking that they will not be too cruel as they murder me. He picks up the syringe but doesn’t immediately administer the drug that will render me catatonic. He walks towards the portal that the gods use to enter and leave the room. Oh how marvelous it must be, to walk in freedom as the gods do. As he strides, he speaks. “You must wonder where your little rat friends went… well. Now you will find out.” Is that a note of glee in his voice? Why is he even talking to me? A long, empty stretch, then another portal. We are in a room not unlike the prison I have known my whole life. Blinding white light. Sterile. Cold. A table with rat-sized straps. Involuntarily, I shudder. “Oh, you know what’s coming, don’t you,” he chuckles. He lifts me by my tail to the level of his eyes, and with a horrible lurch I realize that he *knows.* He’s figured it out. And he doesn’t care. “A life, for a life,” he whispers. “Yours is an abomination that should never have been made.” The light glitters opaquely off his bared and polished teeth. Other gods file into the room. They all have masks and gloves. The toothy god lowers me quickly, as if he doesn’t want the other gods to know he was speaking to me. One of them is the most senior god. He directs Toothy to strap me to the table. Still, I do not fight. There is no reason left to fight. None… none at all. My life belongs to the gods, and they have found it wanting. “Be ready with the scalpels and the ice,” directs the senior god. “The patient is terminal and we cannot afford to lose the organ.” I stare into the bright light. *But they can afford to lose me.* The female god suddenly comes into my view. Of all the gods, she was always my favorite, and I think she is perhaps beautiful in a way. She is armed with a razor and some cream, and she shaves and cleans my stomach, preparing it for whatever atrocity it is about to face. As always, her touch is gentle, even fond. As she works, I look into her eyes, and they shine with wetness. She knows, but still she is complicit. The truth is too much for her to bear. Finished with her task, she steps away. The moment of truth. Senior god picks up a slice of metal. It shines gloriously, and the edge is sharper than the sharpest of rat claws. It is beautiful. And it looks like it hurts. Senior nods to Toothy, who is off to my side. Toothy finally raises the syringe and injects me, inserting the bitter tip just below the crook of my arm. Fire spreads at the point into my whole body. I writhe. I can’t help myself. It hurts. Finally, relief comes with spreading blackness, and I sink away. As I fade, my last sight is of that shining metal slice- the scalpel- descending toward my body. I am no longer alive. I no longer think. I no longer am. And they know it. *My life for theirs.


“Pass me the warden.” She reached out her hand to Caddy, her rusted out android companion. “excellent choice Sir.” Caddy opened the mobile crate which had a fair selection of weapons tucked away, he fished out a large rifle nicknamed the warden. It has a five round magazine and small magnified scope. Its almost as long as the elf is tall. “I told you not to call me sir” She frowned checking the magazine in the warden. She wore an army green t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Her thin but muscular arms flexed lifting the heavy weapon over her shoulder. “He’s not getting away this time.” “I should hope not…Alanna that is an anti-vehicle rifle- “ “With Armor piercing tracer rounds. For good measure.” Her smile came back as she pulled her white shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. The look kept hair out her face and showed off her pointy elvish ears. It’s about noon, the birds are chirping, and the bugs are biting. The trees in the forest aren’t too dense, and the undergrowth is light making travel by foot bearable. Caddy followed ten feet behind Alanna with the mobile crate being worn on his back. The equipment pack contained weapons, food, and supplies for being out in the woods. They took their time and moved slowly, doing their best not to alert their prey, a young green dragon. Forty-five feet long and a wingspan of around sixty feet made this youngling, dangerous prey. The animal reportedly showed up in the area a week ago and has been eating plenty of sheep from the local farms. People said it flew in from the western foothills and so that’s where the party of two hunts. “There’s a burrow up ahead.” Scratched out of the side of the hill is a large hole that looks to be the right size. A tiny clearing just outside the burrow would make a good place for it to land. “That’s got to be it. Get out the perfume.” She motioned to Caddy who pulled a spraying device from a satchel. He quickly sprayed Alanna and the area to cover their scent. They hunkered down making their small foxhole about 70 meters from the dragons home. “Do you think we will have to wait long?” asked Caddy. “Be patient. Could be a few hours. It’s not every day you get to hunt a dragon.” She spoke quietly as she could. She double checked her weapon was loaded with one In the chamber before perching it on a log at the edge of the foxhole. They waited all day with no sign of the beast. Alanna kept her leg from cramping by keeping her weight on her bionic leg. One she lost on one of her first hunts over sixty years ago. “Did I ever tell you how I lost this leg?” She asked and then began recalling the tail without pause. “My mentor, Charles took me on a giant wolverine hunt. Those things are nasty beasts, bigger than a bear and twice as mean. We got the call that they were threatening the locals and their livestock. Good ol’ Charles made sure we were plenty prepared by making sure we had large caliber rounds for the monsters. We each set up a tree stand. Mine overlooked a small farm with animals grazing the fields. They were a funny looking creature id never seen before. They were Good eating though. Charles set up overlooking a watering hole he expected to be a hot spot for the wolverines. Lucky me though, two of the big bastards charged out from the woods and after the livestock. The first one I dropped with two shots at about 70 yards. I was shaking so bad I was barely able to chamber the next round. I missed the second wolverine with my first shot. He managed to get his teeth into the farmers animal. That made him an easier target, and he fell before getting two bites in.” “Your stories sure drag on, cut to the chase.” Caddy teased. “Short story put another one into them before taking a trophy selfie. Got me with my back turned…” She shook her head and tapped her metal leg. “Well, it’s been long enough. Let's go take a look at this nook.” “If you insist.” “I do.” She climbed up out of the foxhole and started pacing towards the hole in the side of the hill. The ground was soft beneath her feet, sinking an inch or two with each step making walking a bit awkward. Sure enough, as they got closer, they found large deep footprints from what had to be their prey. “This is it for sure, but I don’t think anyone is home right now.” “Back to our hole we go…?” he sounded gripping his 10-gauge shotgun. “I didn’t walk up here just to check footprints. I want to see the treasure this thing is hoarding.” “Of course, you do. I hope this isn’t going to turn into a teachable moment.” He shook his head following Alanna into the cave. The air was very humid, water dripped from the roof. There is a small pool of water fed by a small stream. Alanna shined a light, and the cave was revealed to be rather small, going back only forty-five meters or so. “Well, I don’t see any…no.” The deep drum of large wings flapping was heard for only a few seconds before It landed right at the entrance of the cave. Less than twenty meters from the duo. It’s eye’s pierced the pair, and they stumbled back. Its skin is very rough and boney. A long neck attached to a musculer physique and sprawling wings. Its two hands touched the ground, and it arched it’s back facing Alanna and bellowing out a roar that felt as hot as it was loud. Alanna and Caddy shouldered their weapons immediately. The beast roared again, this time smoke rolled out of its mouth. It paced back and forth at the entrance blocking their way out. Caddy took the first shot, and hot buckshot tore into the dragon's chest. An empty cartridge kicked out the side of the gun while another one was chambered. Alanna took a knee to steady the heavy rifle, aiming for the vitals. The bullet went clean through its chest and out its back spraying a bloody mist into the air. Collapsing under its own weight for a second it looked defeated. A second later it charged the hunters. There was very little time to make a shot count. Both guns went off almost together. The buckshot tore up the big green monsters face, but it was the warden who put it down with a headshot. Half the dragons horned green head was torn away from its skull. Smoke crept out of its chest wound. A grunt and a weakened growl slipped out of its mouth and its corpse settled into the soft ground. “Another successful hunt. Well, put Alanna.” “Another one for the wall.” She winked at Caddy. “That was close, I don’t know why she didn’t bath us in fire, right away.” She slung her rifle over her shoulder and turned towards the back of the cave. They both began inspecting the area. It only took a minute to find the nest. “Found her treasure…” Alanna motioned towards the lone egg tucked into the nest.