Zihuatenejo was one of those places that seemed to widen as you wandered its streets. There was a very large and very busy central part of town with traffic from all parts junctioning. There you would find movie theatres, street vendors, a lot of sweet-smelling portable taco grill stands, shops, a brown leafed plaza park, dust noise and even a few beggars. Thankfully, the day was finally ending, though its warmth kept time moving slowly. Shops had opened after siesta and musics ranged from ballads to charro to rap to clashing cymbals of Mexican rock. The dust raised by traffic kept their notes lingering before dropping. The Guerrero bar looked just as it did when I passed it earlier in the day. The normal sized green door was shut. There was no sign showing hours on the raised grey stucco wall. There was dust stuck to the stucco dabs that seemed very old and embedded. I didn’t know what to do so I went to the door and heard music as I stood there with my hand on the shiny silver-plated door handle. I turned it and heard the soft click of unlocking. I pulled, recognising Green Dolphin Street and Cal Tjader’s vibes, it open to face multi-coloured fly beads draping an interior of darkness and almost cold air. I went in and through the beads, liking their tiny wooden clunking and cool caresses over my upper body. The music was getting my head nodding. ‘You come on a boat, a yate?’ the bartender asked. ‘Yeah.’ I answered a little surprised. ‘The big schooner at the end of the beach. We’re taking it to the San Sebastians in the Caribbean.’ ‘Through the Panama Canal?’ ‘Yeah. Definitely. No Cape Horn for me…’ I nodded slightly, unsure of why I had said that to a stranger. He smiled. ’I always wanted to do that… go through that Canal. Hey, you know Pepe Maya,’ ‘Yeah.’ I answered, referring to the little open bar on the beach and the owner who sat with me when I landed the dinghy. ‘I like Pepe. Interesting guy.’ ‘Hey, he told me this morning about chu. We lookin’ out at that goleta, schooner.’ ‘Really. I’m famous.’ I glanced around the bar. ‘Maybe famoso. No, I eat breakfast with my compadre almost every day. He is partner in Guerrero here.’ ‘Really?’ My lips widened and I shook my head at another surprise from my simple-seeming friend. ‘Yeah. We been open about four years now. The outside was his idea. I like it, and the inside was the other partners. They two of them. No, they, there are two of them. He want, wanted to call this Guerrero Negro after our second presidente but they no not, don’t want that.’ He seemed to take a gulp of air, then looked back at me, ’Lo siento, this English giving me a headache.’ ‘Have a rum and tonic.’ I offered the bartender. ‘Good idea.’ He started to turn when the door opened, the beads parted and several people entered talking rapidly in Spanish. The workday was starting at the Guerrero. The door started opening a lot for the next couple of hours and the evening came closer with each opening until it was night outside and four rum and tonics inside. Tony, the bartender, kept bringing me the things every time my glass, that seemed to grow taller with each serving, reduced itself to one-third. He missed once and I hit ice and lemon wedge, but that was as far as I reached before another appeared. I was talking to a professor from the college about the Aztecs of all things when I noticed the elliptical eyes of a very beautiful woman lazily staring at me. I smiled and she looked away. She was sitting at the other side of the U-shaped bar and was alone. With the small crowd, music, dancing and conversations I thought her being alone was very strange. I studied her and felt she was genuine, but maybe a prostitute. I asked the professor and he said she was no prostitute, but a wealthy mulatta ‘…from your country.’ He winked and confided, ‘She is waiting for her man.’ Was the way he carefully chose his words. And, he chuckled. ‘Before I would have thought that you could tell me what she was doing…’ he chuckled again. It was getting late my drink told me. ‘Tony?’ I called. ‘Hey, Rod, what’s up?’ he eyed my glass. ‘No. Can you give the mulatta Americana whatever she is drinkin’?’ ‘Libby?’ He eyed me curiously, then shook his head, looked over at her and back to me. ‘It is curious but I know you now. She is taken, man. There will be a couple of students in about a half-hour, man. They are hot, too. Libby ain’t gonna even talk to you, man.’ ‘That’s cool but can you?’ ‘I bet chu the drink she turn it down.’ ‘Got a bet, my man.’ Now, I was saying man, I thought, wondering if I had drank too much and dismissing it as how can I drink too much? ‘Cool.’ he nodded with a smug smile. Tony mixed her drink and took it across. She eyed it, him and as he spoke, she eyed me. She nodded her head and demurely waved me over. Tony’s eyes were big as he came back, passing me with, ‘That never happen before, Rod.’ I slid off the stool, feeling a bit unbalanced after sitting for three hours drinking. But, I felt I could still score. ‘Thanks’ she said, as I tried with awkwardness to mount the stool that kept moving.

Finally climbing aboard and seated, I responded, ‘Say. Tony told me you were American, so I decided that since you were African-American, and you were in a foreign land and I am an African-American and I am in a foreign land, and you were too beautiful to be alone and…’ I lost the train of thought, ‘uh, I would offer that small token of my comradeship and adoration.’ It sounded like shit as the last part came out. ‘Shit.’ She began laughing. ‘Was that a sentence? I usually get hit on more smoothly but that, well that, was schmaltzily patriotic enough to warrant at least an introduction. Libby.’ Libby’s hand came from the tall glass of under-lit chunks of ice in liquid and stretched over to me. Her fingers were long with no rings, short manicured nails painted red. The skin was youthful and tanned. I hadn’t thought of her age, but as I took the hand in a shake I studied her face and saw hidden forties, low or high ones and I saw that those years were well hidden. She took care of herself. ‘I am fifty-one as of three days ago.’ Libby answered my study. ‘I guessed wrong. I thought you were too young for me. I’m Rod.’ ‘Now, that was better.’ ‘Happy birthday, Lioness.’ My eyebrows were up, I think, like I was sophisticated or something. ‘I can’t say you’re smarter than you look.’ ‘Oh-oh. Does that mean I look dumb?’ We both chuckled at that. Aside from the obvious beauty she exuded, I felt a warmness coming through her hand that stayed even as she drew it back to her glass. Libby’s eyes studied mine. ‘I don’t usually let this happen’, she allowed. ‘Usually, I have a few drinks, my man shows up and I have a couple more while he socialises, and we leave.’ ‘Your man?’ I looked around. ‘Is he here?’ ‘Naw.’ She looked at the watch on her left wrist. The dangling gold chain links holding it looked expensive. Her tan was only slightly covering the place on her third finger where a wedding ring had once been. ‘He will be here in fifteen minutes, mas o menos.’ She looked back at me. ‘Mas o menos’ she repeated to somebody or herself. ‘Rod, is it?’ ‘Yeah, Rod.’ ‘Very phallic. Look, do you see that woman over there?’ Her head turned and sly eyes directed me to another beautiful woman at the end of the side of the U that I had sat.

I was surprised that I hadn’t seen her, but maybe she was one of the students Tony had mentioned or a teacher. She was blond and deeply tanned. I could see the tan because of the opaque under-lighting of the bar. It made her almost black contrasting the white look of the long thick braid laying between a shoulder and her chest with a simple white shoulder-less blouse. There was a patient smile playing at her lips and she was alone. I started to wonder if this bar was gay. I looked back at Libby, wondering if she was a man. ‘You… I mean, well is this a gay bar?’ She looked at me. ‘You’re not gay, are you?’ ‘Naw, I’m not. I danced with a transvestite earlier without knowing it and there are two beautiful women sitting without men on their shoulders…’ I looked around and saw that there were other good-looking women with men talking and some dancing. ‘Sorry, just got a little freaked. I’m from San Francisco, so you’d think it wouldn’t matter… Anyway, naw, I’m not gay, and all my stuff is intact.’ She was smiling, ‘Too much information. How many drinks have you had?’ Then Libby looked back at the blonde. ‘She is a rich one, that one. And spoiled. A man has to be careful, she would eat you up and spit you out.’ ‘Whoa there, Libby. Who is she and why do you want me to get into her when I am looking at you?’ ‘Because you are looking at me, exactly. I just wanted to help you out. You look like you are on a quest and I thought maybe you could quest her. She is there for the pickin’.’ Quest automatically went to the boat, but another thought pulled into my brain that I must look horny to Miss Un-ringed Libby. ‘Libby, I am attracted to beauty, but I am not ruled by the bulge you’re creating in my trousers. If that is what you mean by quest?’ ‘It is.’ She looked at my crotch, ‘You have a bulge?’ ‘I can.’ She started laughing, surprising herself. When she stopped laughing, with tears in her eyes, she lifted her glass in a toast to me and flirtatiously sipped with her eyes digging into mine. ‘Okay’ lingered, coming from her wet lips. I tilted my head to get an understanding. ‘Okay?’ ‘No, I mean she is looking for a man. I have one.’ I looked at the blond again. ‘There are plenty of men here.’ My mind went back to the gay bar concept. ‘No. She is looking for somebody just like you.’ ‘How do you know that? Woman’s intuition? Do you know her?’ ‘Yes. I might say she is a friend. Her name is Sammy and she is a woman before you question the name.’ ‘Samantha?’ ‘Yes. Are you interested?’ ‘I don’t get it.’ ‘Let’s start with I am taken. Securely taken…’ ‘Okay, got that. Now, what is the next thing? Why?’ ‘Why? Why are you asking?’ She inclined her head toward the bar, ‘There is a beautiful woman and I think she would appreciate you, from what I have seen, and you would probably enjoy her… You have self-doubts, or are you gay? Or, is it a racial thing?’ ‘Hunh?’ ‘Racial thing…, you know, you don’t like white women racial thing?’ ‘Well, actually, I don’t tend toward them but I’m not prejudiced, just they tend to be a little too nice or too naughty, if you know what I mean.’ ‘Actually, no, I don’t know what you mean but maybe I am pushing her on you too hard. Let’s forget it, and thanks for the drink.’ I noticed she had turned slightly toward the bar and her eyes followed, leaving me sitting next to her by myself. I looked over at the blonde and sighed. My mind moved my body with thoughts of rumours that I had been offered beauty but I was a racist, or gay, or just fucked up mentally. I thought of this Sam finding out that I was sitting here trying to get into Libby’s pants and couldn’t, then defeated myself before approaching her. She would see me as a loser. Another rum and tonic appeared sitting next to my unfinished one. I looked at Tony and he looked at Libby. Libby looked at me. ’Now, we’re even in the drinks department.’ ‘I’ll go meet your friend.’ Libby turned back to me, smiling. ‘You’ll make her happy… what’s your name again?’ ‘Rod.’ ‘How could I forget Rod?’ I stood up, feeling off enough to hold onto the stool. To overcome the feeling of a little too much alcohol I reached over and took my unfinished drink and drank it down. I smiled to Libby in what I thought a sophisticated way, though I doubted that it was at the same time and replaced the glass of lonely ice. I left the other drink and walked around the bar and down to the blonde, whose name I had forgotten already. She was facing two or three couples dancing almost next to her. I tried to remember her name but couldn’t. She started to dance suddenly moving from the bar. Alone, she moved round and round making smiles of conversations. Her movement was peaceful, graceful, forceful with traces of African sensuality merged into the ritmo of a new world. Then she was back standing at her chair. With a smile she turned and faced me. There was a concern in her eyes and a curiosity in the tilt of her head, and there was a knowing friendliness that comforted me. ‘Libby sent you over?’ ‘Yeah. Yes, she told me you wanted my company though I don’t know why.’ ‘And you did as she said?’ Her face, beyond the smile was naturally sulky in an extremely sensual way. The face was almost symmetrically perfect. The eyes were a light colour in the beating darkness of the room, sparkling under the light of the bar and a small sequinned ball hanging from the ceiling that I hadn’t noticed before. Her lips tempted. There was a smile beneath her smile, an acknowledgement of her strength of beauty. And softly, she said ’You can go now.’ ‘What?’ ‘You have done as she said, so go.’ She was still smiling but both smiles and the tone was almost pleasant and I was almost surprised. ‘This a game you two play?’ ‘No. Actually, no. Just go.’ ‘Okay. Sorry to stand near you. But, seeing how beautiful, at least superficially, a woman can be was worth even this part of whatever this was.’ Her head tilted to the left. ‘Wait’ she softly commanded. I stopped my about to be leaving movement and smiled. ‘I am waiting for my boyfriend.’ ‘That makes sense. Everybody is waiting for their boyfriend today.’ ‘He will be here any minute.’ Her eyes ran up and down my face. ‘Maybe you know him?’ I just looked back at her. She plastered on a thinking smile. ‘My boyfriend used to be her boyfriend, and she thinks when he shows up and sees me talking to you… he is mixed race also… that he will turn back to her.’ ‘Come on. That’s ridiculous.’ ‘No. He is extremely jealous. He is an artist, so a bit crazy.’ She smiled, ‘He is crazy, actually.’ ‘An artist?’ ‘Yes. I am too. At least I am studying to become one.’ ‘What’s his name?’ I didn’t really want to hear what she would answer. ‘Esteban.’ ‘Just Esteban? Are there many artists around Zihuatenejo named Esteban?’ I must have smiled sarcastically. ‘Then you do know him, don’t you?’ ‘Hunh? Oh, well, just through reputation. I’m a journalist.’ ‘Yes. Yes, he is one of the greatest artists in Mexico. I want to help him get an exhibition of his work in Boston… Where are you from? A journalist? Where are you from?’ She was contentedly smiling now. ‘San Francisco.’ ‘San Francisco? Wow. Why are you here?’ ‘Uh, I’m assisting the return of a historical schooner to the San Sebastian Islands.’ ‘That’s a tax haven, isn’t it?’ ‘Yeah, they have that too, but you want me to leave before he gets here, don’t you? I think I had enough to drink for tonight anyway.’ ‘No. No, please stay. I think Esteban will really like you. Look at the way I am talking to you already. And Esteban has a lot more to say than I do. I know he’d really like you. Not too many mixed-race people around here. I mean there are Mexicans who are mixed Indian and Spanish but not many Blacks and Whites here.. ‘I’m not really Black and White.’ ‘You know what I mean.’ ‘Not really. Anyway, I don’t really want to be a part of this love game thing.’ ‘No. It’s okay. When he finds out you’re a reporter he’ll probably want to show you his work. And, anyway, I’ll probably have to share him with her again tonight, so that part is no big deal.’ I shook my head, said good night, turned without waiting for a response. I went over to Tony to pay my tab. I don’t remember going out the door but I was walking along the sidewalk, breathing in the warm night air with the moon splattering light on the bay. A man came walking toward me and I looked up to see myself. His mouth was open as mine probably was looking at my physical body only with dreadlocks. He smiled at me and I know I was smiling at him. ‘Esteban?’ ‘Yeah.’


There came a time when silence fell. But before that, there was noise. Explosions and screams and cries for help that were never answered. Grating metal screeches as corporate buildings fell, collapsing under the weight of their own lies. Children of children killing children. Yet, remarkably the sun still came up the next morning and shone down over the cold metallic remains. No cries. No screams. No breaking glass. Just silence and sun and an iron-like tang at the back of the throat. You would be forgiven for thinking that this happened in a different place, at a different time. It didn't. And that's when I awoke. "Hello?" I heard you call. "Hello!" "Where are you?" The voice was faint, thready. "I'm here!" I began to search. "No." A belligerent statement of fact. "No, I'm here. I'd see you if you were too. Don't you know where you are?" But we found each other, eventually. Together, we took off our clothes, and walked 'round our little town. We tore the paper from the walls, the carpet from the floor. We burnt those framed photographs and ripped out the wires. We returned all that oil to far underground, where it belonged. We took it all down, every building, brick by brick, until only scrub-covered ground remained. And then we sat, and compared notes on what it means to exist. And in a thousand years time when the aliens finally discover this lonely blue dot, they'll see us and they'll know that you and I, we didn't destroy ourselves. Or they won't, because we will be gone.


“I’m bored,” Tina said, her thirteen-year-old face expressionless. “How long we gotta stay in this house?” She leaned against the refrigerator. “I miss Massachusetts.” Karen Miller sighed, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “Sweetheart, we move every year, you know that. And how many times do I have to keep explaining to you about the damn virus situation?” “But this is stupid.” “Until the virus shit is under control, we have to avoid unnecessary interaction with other individuals, understand? We don’t want people to ask questions, right?” “Who cares,” Tina said. “I’d be better than staying in this house. In this stupid state.” The coronavirus known as COVID-19 was responsible for keeping Tina out of middle school and her mother home from work at the college, her position deemed nonessential by the powers that be. In fact, most of Naperville was on lockdown. However, the virus hadn’t affected her dad’s job because he worked from home anyway; he was a computer programmer for a software company based in Silicon Valley. “I’ll tell you what,” Karen said. “When Dad finishes his conference call, we can ask him if he would like to play a game.” Tina’s eyes grew wide; she jumped, her long, blonde curls spraying in every direction. And the moment her socks touched the kitchen floor, she asked, “Monopoly?” Karen frowned at her daughter.

I hate that fucking game , she thought.

Why not drive a dull knife though my eye?  “You know your father does not like to play that game. So . . . maybe we should let him pick. What do you think about that?” “But Dad always—” “Dad always what?” Mike said, stepping into the kitchen. He had a Bluetooth earpiece attached to his left ear and was still dressed in New England Patriots pajamas—even though it was almost six o’clock in the evening. “Daddy,” Tina squealed, “you wanna play a game?” “Sure, squirt. I’m done with work for the day.” Karen tapped a wooden spoon on the edge of a big pot that was simmering on the front burner of the stove. “After we eat dinner, that is. The stew will be ready in about fifteen minutes.” She looked her husband up and down. “You smell like death. Take a shower and put on some real clothes.” She placed the spoon on a ceramic spoon rest shaped like a pineapple. “Maybe an outfit more appropriate for your age.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You are not a college student dividing his time between frat parties, drunk sorority girls, and bong hits.” She locked eyes with him. “Once, just once, I would love for you to act your age.” “Are you guys gonna fight again?” Tina asked. “No, sweetheart,” Karen said, “I’m just having some fun with your father.” She looked at him with disdain. “Right, Mike?” Through clenched teeth, he said, “Yeah, right. Just a little fun. Your mother is quite the comedian.” He turned and left the room. To her daughter, she said, “Go wash up for dinner.” Tina cocked her head. “But I already—” “Now, young lady.” Tina plodded off without uttering another word, for which her mother was grateful. And now the room was quiet, except for the soft bubbling sound coming from the stew. Karen closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in soft circles. She said aloud to herself, “Take a deep breath. At least the day is almost over.” She opened a cabinet door and removed a glass. “And you have plenty of wine.” After a lengthy and uncomfortable dinner, they all gathered in the living room, seated on the carpet around a rustic wooden coffee table. The room was lit by two lamps on either side of a brown leather sofa. The cream lamp shades cast an eerie glow that created ghostly shadows around the room and etched hard lines on all of their pallid faces. “Dad, what game do you wanna play?” Tina asked. “Sorry, Life, or . . .” “Anything but Monopoly, right?” Karen said, taking a drink out of her third glass of wine. “Let’s see . . . decisions, decisions,” Mike said. “Hey, I got an outstanding idea.” He pointed one index finger toward the ceiling. “How about we play my favorite game?” He glanced from daughter to wife. “What about that?” Karen took a gulp of wine and said, “Obviously, you have forgotten what happened the last time we played that game.” “Yeah! And you tried to cheat, too, Dad,” Tina added. He lifted his head in a theatrical manner and sniffed loudly. “What is that smell . . . it smells like . . . chicken.” Karen drained her wineglass; her ruddy cheeks were now even rosier. “Fine with me. If you’re ready for your funeral, then so am I.” She smiled at him sadistically. “Chicken it is,” Tina said, raising both fists in the air in a symbol of victory. “But you two can’t fight, okay?” Ignoring his daughter’s comment, he said, “I’ll get the knife. You grab the sand timer, sweetheart. Not the one from the Boggle game, but the thirty-second timer.” “I know, I know. The red one.” Karen lifted her glass and said, “I’ll pour some more wine.” Mike narrowed his eyes and said, “Darling, you might want to stay sober. Don’t want you to have an excuse when you lose.” “Darling,” Karen said, “you might want to plant your thin, chapped lips on my big, white ass.” Tina tittered. And a few moments later, they were all back in the living room. A large butcher knife and a plastic hourglass with red ends now lay in the center of the coffee table, kitty-cornered to a glass of merlot placed in front of Karen. “Who’s going first?” Tina asked. “The same person that has gone first for the last fifty-plus years,” Karen said, then took another gulp of wine. She hiccupped, swallowed hard, and added, “If nothing else, this family is mind-numbingly consistent.” Mike picked up the threatening weapon by its black handle. “Okay, remember the rules.” He stuck the tip of the blade into the surface of the wooden table, dead center, butt of the knife jutting upward. “Once the timer is started, you have thirty seconds. The other two have to keep their hands flat on the table—fingers spread.” He looked at his wife. “And if you pull your hand away . . .” Karen stuck up her middle finger at him. “How ladylike,” Mike said. “Now, as I was saying. If you move your hand, you lose. And if the timer runs out, it’s the next person’s turn—in a clockwise rotation.”  “Come on, Dad,” Tina said, “let’s play sometime tonight.” “Okay, okay, take your positions,” he said. Tina and Karen placed their hands on the table, fingers splayed out wide. Tina’s hands were directly in from of her, pinkies almost touching, but her mother’s hands were left and right of the wineglass placed in front of her. Mike rubbed his palms together. “Here goes nothing.” He flipped the timer over; sand began to spill from the top bulb into the bottom bulb. His eyes fixated on the butcher knife. Several seconds later, apparently concentrating so intensely his entire body trembled, the knife began to vibrate. “Move dammit!” “Times’s up!” Tina said, nodding at the hourglass. “Nothing for you.” “Shit, I almost had it. I was so, so close.” Karen leaned over to her husband and whispered into his ear, “Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and stories about women you almost fucked.” “Umm, you said a dirty word.” Tina clasped her hands over her ears. “No fighting, guys, please.” “Your turn, Dirty Girl,” Mike said, flipping the timer over. Tina and her father placed their hands on the table. Karen concentrated on the knife, focusing her ice blue eyes first on the blade, then the handle, and finally the tip—which was partially embedded in the wood.

Move you piece of shit.  The knife wobbled back and forth. Her eyes widened, and she clenched her teeth. The knife jumped into the air, hovered for a second, and shot downward, sticking into the surface of the table halfway between her husband’s index and middle finger. “Damn! That was close,” Mike said, yanking his hands from the table. “Thought I had another hole in my hand coming.” “Way to go, Mom,” Tina said. “My turn, my turn.” “Your precious hand would heal by morning,” Karen said. She took a sip of wine and then under her breath, “Unfortunately, you insignificant prick.” Tina took her turn but wasn’t successful in moving the knife. “It’s not fair. I never win at this stupid game.” She folded her arms. “Why can’t we ever play Monopoly?” “My turn again,” he said. After his wife and daughter had positioned their hands on the table, Mike began his turn. This time, he managed to get the knife raised into the air; however, it flipped on its side and zipped wildly to the left, piercing Karen’s left eye. “Oops, my bad.” “You are a bumbling, worthless, sack of shit,” Karen said. Blood now oozed from her eye and ran down her face in tendrils. “This is the last time I’m playing this damn game. Do you hear me? The last fucking time.” She grabbed the knife by the handle and pulled. There was a wet, squishy sound as she removed the blade. “That shit hurt.” She tossed the knife onto the table. Tina reached over and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “You’ve been saying that for years, Mom. But it’ll be healed by morning—like you told Dad, right?” Karen looked at her daughter with the only good eye she had at the moment. “This game is over. Time for bed, smartass.” Tina started to appeal to her father, but he shook his head. “This isn’t fair. I hate both of you. I wish you guys would have died in that car accident.” She stormed out of the room. “Me, too,” Karen said, covering her bloody eye socket with one hand and guzzling wine with the other hand. “Anything would be preferable to this horror that never ends.” She thought about crying, about screaming until she felt better, but what was the point. “And you, dumbass, get me a towel.” She put her glass down on the table. “And fill that up, too.” “At least we have each other,” Matt said. “Sure, we have our problems, but at least we’re all together.” She smiled at him with an exaggerated lovingness. “Sweetheart, I’m bleeding all over my clothes. Get me a damn towel and some wine. Now!” And they lived happily ever after, and after, and after . . .


Once upon a time, there was a girl named Jenny. She was a very beautiful girl. She lived with her father, who worked two jobs just to keep her comfortable. Jenny loved her father very much especially when he brought her toys. When it was time for Jenny to go to school, her father sent her to a private school in their village. Jenny was so happy that time since she was going to the best school. With Jenny's happy attitude, she quickly made friends in her school, in fact, so quick that she haven't even met her teachers yet. The class started and Jenny and her classmates introduced themselves. During Jenny's introduction, all of her classmates were delighted to see her smile. Some of them even shouted that they found their class muse already. Jenny was flattered and was very happy to be well-welcomed. As the introductions finished, the teacher gave school requirements for the students. Jenny was shocked to see the amount of notebooks and other things she must have to buy to complete the whole academic year. She was worried that her dad might not have enough money to buy all the requirements. After last period, Jenny walked with her friends outside of school and noticed her father waiting for her. He called out to her and Jenny rushes to his side. Her father was riding a bicycle and told Jenny to hop on so that they can go home together. She agreed and said goodbye to her friends. All of her friends were surprised of how Jenny was riding her dad's bicycle instead of a car but shrugged it off their shoulders and went home soon after. At home, Jenny showed her father the list of requirements. Her father looked down and took a long breath. He calmly said to Jenny that it may take some time for him to buy all those school items. Jenny understood their situation well enough and reassured her father that it was okay. Her father smiled and hugged Jenny that night. Jenny woke up early the next morning and excitedly prepared herself for another day at school. She kissed her father goodbye and went to school. She saw her friends and greeted them then walked together to the classroom. Her friends started showing their new notebooks and bragged about their cool designs. Jenny suddenly felt out of place because she doesn't have a single notebook with her. One of her friends asked her where her notebooks were and she hesitantly said she does not have one. They smiled a little bit and asked why. She looked down and said that they don't have the money right now. One of her classmates jokingly said that she should sell her old and ugly bicycle to buy notebooks and everyone burst into laughter. Jenny kept her head low all day, until it was time to go home. Jenny didn't wait for her father to pick her up from school, she just went home by herself. The dinner of Jenny and her father was silent. She didn't tell her father what happened to school that day and just said she was fine. As Jenny was taking the trash out, she saw a black notebook with pink-colored text. She grabbed the notebook and saw that the text spelled out as Genie. She immediately fell in love with the design of the notebook and its expensive looks. She scanned the notebook to see if all pages were already used but to her surprise, only one page had text on it. She noticed it was a poem and she read it. "Write your wish,Your hope, your desire;Then behold it appearWith magic and fire." Jenny brought the notebook to her room and was happy knowing she now has a notebook of her own. She didn't mind the poem at the first page so she just kept it. She read the poem again and decided to write her own wish in the notebook, a box of pencils. To her surprise, something fell from the notebook. It was a box of pencils. She was shocked and she quickly let go of the notebook on her hand, confused of what just happened. Her confusion later became happiness when she realized it was her wish that gave her the box of pencils. She slept with a smile on her face that night. Next morning, Jenny was back to her old self. She was excited to go to school again. She met her friends in the classroom and showed her new notebook to everyone. All of her classmates were amazed at how beautiful the notebook was. One of her friends joked about her selling her bicycle to buy the new notebook she has but she quickly lied that it was a gift from her auntie back in France. Everyone became more amazed and started to be more friendly to Jenny. As classes started, the students were asked to draw the thing they loved the most in life. Jenny started to draw her father but before she could start, someone asked her if he can borrow a pencil from her because he lost his. With the box of pencils she had, she quickly let her classmate borrow. It made Jenny very happy she could be someone her friends can depend on. At home, Jenny started writing different school items on her notebook. She started writing coloring materials, papers, couple of notebooks. Then, one by one, it all fell down from the black notebook, slipping from the pages. She was so happy to have all the things she only wished for before. The next day at school, as she was about to meet her friends, she noticed that one of them was crying. She asked her what's wrong and her classmate replied that she lost all of her new stuff. Her classmate didn't know what happened because all of them was in her bag the whole time. As Jenny's classmate enumerated all the stuff she lost, Jenny recognized that all of the things mentioned by her classmate were in her bag. She was silent the whole day in school. Jenny went home as soon as classes ended and examined her school items. She realized all her notebook's gifts were actually stolen items from someone else. She felt guilty of what she did. She thought that the best thing to do is to give back the items she received but she also doesn't want her classmates to think she's a thief. Few days past and Jenny was still in dilemma. She didn't know what to do and to make things worse, she was starting to desire more things from her notebook. Everyday, her classmates would brag about their new stuff to class. She felt out of place every time. One day, as the teacher was sharing stories about her life to the class, one of the students asked if she achieved all her dreams in life. The teacher replied that she didn't but it did, however, gave way to much better things she didn't hoped for. She then added that maybe it was destiny that made her life better than what she originally planned. Jenny then realized something. Maybe, she was chosen to take hold of the notebook. Maybe, she deserved to be happy by making use of the notebook. Maybe, it was her destiny to be its owner. And just like that, she decided to own the notebook. Weeks passed and Jenny was demanding more and more from the notebook. She wished for a new bag, a new watch, even a new pair of underpants. Her father was starting to be suspicious of how Jenny was able to have all the things she had. He asked Jenny but she assures those were gifts from her classmates for being such a good friend. Her father believed her and let her be. A few days later, a police officer came by their house. Jenny's father asked what the problem was. The officer told him that there has been multiple reports of missing items and they were asking around the area if anyone noticed any suspicious activity. He replied that he didn't noticed anything. The officer then let him look at a list of all the stolen items, hoping he could be of some help. He recognized the watch but was not sure where he had seen it so he didn't say anything to the police. The officer thanked him for his time and went on his way. The next day, Jenny woke up late for school. It was the day of her test and she overslept. She skipped breakfast to catch up with the exam. Because of her rush, she forgot to bring a lot of things with her, including her watch. Fortunately, she was able to take the exam. She realized after the exam that her watch was not with her. That watch was one of the things she wished in the notebook. It was originally her teacher's. She became paranoid and looked around her bag, however she couldn't find it. As soon as the classes ended, she ran to her house. She looked everywhere in her room but the watch was nowhere to be found. As she was about to go out of her house to retrace her steps, her dad called out to her. Jenny looked back and saw her father sitting in his chair holding her watch. Jenny asked her father why he's wearing her watch. Her father asked why would her daughter steal. Jenny looked guilty however she said she didn't know what he was talking about. Her father's face continued to look pale and told Jenny that he couldn't recognize the daughter he loved all his life. Jenny started crying asking for forgiveness and tried to explain about the notebook. Her father raised his voice, asking Jenny to stop her lies. He, then, stand up and said he would go tell the police and Jenny should take responsibilities for her actions. Jenny begged, trying to convince her father's mind, asking to understand her needs and wants that her life cannot afford. Her father cried but was firm to his decision. Before he left, he told Jenny that the greatest thing he can give her, is the gift of understanding. In life, you just can't have all but that doesn't mean you'll go around hurting others because of your own limitations. Jenny fell to her knees while watching her dad go and change her life forever. Jenny rushed to her room and looked for her notebook. The black and pink notebook ruined her relationship with her dad. She thought that if not for this notebook, her father would've loved her forever but another thought came to her mind. Maybe, it was her dad who's in the wrong. Maybe, they weren't compatible in the first place and he would never understand her. Jenny grabbed her notebook and stared at an empty page. She made up her mind and wished for a better father. Suddenly, all her crying made her tired and she fell asleep. The next morning, as she was getting ready for school in the living room, she remembered that the police should've been at their house, looking for her, but fortunately, none came. She thought that maybe the notebook changed her father's mind and called out to him to thank him. As she was calling her father, an unknown man walked in the living room. She screamed and demanded to say his name. The man explained that he is not a bad man, in fact, he is her father. She was shocked but was not convinced and threaten the man that she will call the police. The man was confused and told her to stop with the nonsense. He then told her that they have been a family a long time and asked her to remember. Jenny looked at the family photos and she was even more shocked and scared. All of the pictures have the man's face in it instead of her father's. She asked what happened to her original father and the man replied that he recognized the name but if he remembered correctly, that man lived long ago but was killed by her own daughter. Jenny went to his room and swept through her notebook. Every page has her one wish written, a better father. She cried and teared each page from the notebook. She shouted and cursed the notebook while tearing it apart. However, as she tears one page, another page appeared. She was mad and violently asked the notebook what it wants. Slowly, the notebook writes unto one of its pages, the notebook wished for Jenny's death. At this point, she was very scared. She looked for the man in the house and told him what the notebook wrote to itself but the man can only see an empty page. She went outside the house, finding the village trashcan where she can throw the notebook. Out of nowhere, a car hits her and she was thrown into the air. Jenny's head hit the ground. Everyone around the area tried to help her but she died immediately. The notebook fell into the trashcan, waiting for its another victim.


Once, and never again, Death did not come. Everywhere was blackness. Faces blotted through the shadows like inky letters bleeding from one page to another, staining layers of the King’s miasmic manifesto who sat upon his throne surrounded by the darkness as if afloat a pond reflecting stars betwixt a forest shrouded in night, entranced with fear by the hellish play twinkling in the sky above that plagued his sleepless mind with paranoia. Every rasping breath bulged his milk-glass eyes wide in terror of what lies beyond the veil of light. He dared not to move, fearful that the star-stippled surface would shatter like glass, casting him into the unknown darkness below. The stillness whispered,            It is coming,            It is coming,            It is coming. ¥ The Prince laid across his bed drenched in dappled sunlight, lazing the day by wont of One Hundred delicate fingers feeding his every pleasure in wait of wake for him to rule a million fingers more that would mould his tomorrow. On this day, like any other, where deliciousness has lost its meaning in monotony, this day would offer medicine and pride would name it poison, spreading its sickness to every soul until wellness has become a festering idol. The Prince ventured from his palace and so crossed the threshold from paradise to not, his stare hardening to stone in the lowly place, casting indifference to the filthy mouths espousing pathetic pleas for little things. What a pity, he thought, to waste wishes on practically nothing. Suddenly, the Prince’s wrist was seized by a beggar, whose bright stare smoldered the prince’s stony gaze unto great obsidian mirrors, evoking within their reflections a pestilent demon there to drag the Prince to the fiery pits. The beggar spoke, You do not have tomorrow, for you are already dead. Even this moment is beyond your grasp. So, what will you do now, when you have nothing left? The royal guard pulled the beggar away and the Prince shouted in his trail, Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! ¥ Strung by foot and hanged before the court, above royal flagstone and below the sunken eyes of the King’s throne, the beggar stared into the void of his damnation. Yet his smile never faded and instead the grave visage was crowned, shaking in horrific wait of their dark angelic guest who haunts the peripheries of his waking nightmares. No words were said at the beggar’s trial, but the King’s tremored hand signaled,

On with it And the hand of the executioner dragged his ceremonial blade across the beggar’s throat. The Prince at his father’s right could not stifle his mirth at the sight of what he created. The beggar’s life flooded over his face, raining upon the earth, and death flashed before his eyes. At the King’s left stood a great sorceress. She watched the hanged man fade into that great, mortal slumber and in that moment saw the one who travels in between falling grains of sand, the one who gives meaning to the space between where things once were, the reaper of souls sown by the other one, and its name is Death. The beggar’s smile only stretched further, his hands struggling in knots tied behind his back as he yearned to take Death’s sweet kiss in full embrace, like a lover returned from war. And then- he was gone, all but his rapturous grin. The Sorceress flinched and all the wind left her lungs as Death turned and looked into her, only to disappear within the next instant. She looked down to the seated king, whose eyes remained peeled in trepidation. Only then did she notice the bubbles floating around his head. Lowering to her king’s ear, she whispered,            My lord, I can help you. ¥ The next day, the Prince laid amongst his usual pleasures, sorely in need of celebrating his retribution. With the last bite of his mid-day feast, his two most loyal guards dragged him across the palace to a hidden cell well beneath the court. He was allowed to scream for help along the way. The torch-lit cell cast monstrous features that writhed across the faces of the King, the Sorceress…       …and the executioner.

Father? Asked the Prince. Silver chains were shackled into place around the Prince’s ankles and then everything was upside-down.

Why? Asked the Prince, and the King stared with a terrible intensity into the Prince’s panicking eyes. The Sorceress said something nearly inaudible over the Prince’s exasperating breath.

No! Squealed the Prince, as the executioner traced the Prince’s neck from ear to ear. His scream collapsed and gurgled until the short breath evaporated into a numbing warmth that spread across his throat. He watched the shadows flicker like unholy masks over the faces familiar to him since birth. His gaze followed the blood streaming from his head, dripping to the floor atop some newly painted glyphs and symbols that had begun to pulse brighter with every weakening pulse of his heart. He became aware of the Sorceress still speaking some babbling language that fell on his cold ears. Her thumb wiped blood from his eyes, and he watched her anoint the King’s vision with his death. The Prince felt the last beat of his heart and the tears that striped the red stains upon his face, but most of all, he felt fear as deeply dark as the forever night of which he hanged in wait. Below the Prince glowed a pool of black light, glittering along the cavernous walls like smoky reflections through rose tinted dew. Those anointed by blood given and blood taken froze upon the sudden appearance of the hooded one who stood before them. It observed the Prince with deep reverie and the Prince stared back into Death’s loving regard, unable to scream. The Sorceress drew a sharp breath and declared the King’s petition,            Death! We offer you the most valuable life in the land,            The Prince’s years for the King,            To live and to rule,            His royalty commands it. The dripping from the Prince’s throat ceased to pitter against the stone floor and out rang a steady trickle through the silence as the King shuddered in incontinence by primal terror, for there stood the star of his shadowy obsession. But, the King of all specters would not face the King of the living, and Death did not take the Prince away. Bubbles filled the cell from beyond Death’s hood, bursting as quickly as they appeared, and with them, Death was gone. Once again, the Prince had begun to breathe raggedly through his mouth and sputtering throat. ¥ Death did not stop the King and the Sorceress. Every day, the tortures descended deeper into hellish visions lived by a prince who Death refused; and every day, the Prince cursed the King through bloodshot eyes charred with hate and doused with sadness, meeting the faded gaze bared wide in desperate horror and madness. His fingers, gnarled to the bone from clawing at his ankles to relieve the silver manacles grasp, would trace the scar that smiled across his throat as a nightly parting gesture, releasing his father from his cell as the bubbles would once again appear like hundreds of orbs of divinatory damnation. Perhaps, Hell can only exist without the promise of Death’s kiss. After countless nights of anguish, the ghost of the beggar appeared to the hanged prince. ¥ The King sat in grief, watching his hands crumble to dust with the world he shaped sinking through his grasp, growing heavier and heavier, all around him nothingness. He thought of the Prince, a pulp of a man whose cause was lost the moment life persisted. There was nothing left to do but free his son; and so, the King decided to free the Prince¾ after one year of fasting, lest the Prince seek revenge, his strength would be given back by the father. What to do about Death? Surely, it would not refuse a kingdom. What happened next would start with those whose life is most pure, the ones with the most potential. And if they are not given to the King, the sea will wash away any trace of stubborn bloodline stains, for the mighty will not be refused. ¥ A specter, given form by the Prince’s last wish, like the birth of some Djinn cursed to exist by curse for curses sake, haunted the hanged man who breathed his fate and wasted away in silver chains, linked like devil’s tongues, locking the gate to paradisal gardens and licking one’s feet with blood drawing laps in every step to the place beyond salvation’s rainbow. The Specter spoke,

What will you do now?            Knowing tomorrow is dead, as is yesterday, and indeed so are you            now?            What will you do, knowing life is also there, that the kingdom is            laid within you? The Prince held the image of the ghost as it faded into surrounding darkness, his evaporation punctuated with a smile. ¥ Chariots arrived at the King’s gate. Adorned in jewels atop silk cushions were served babbling babes, their milky breath cooing and stirring the pretty bubbles that always seemed to float throughout the palace. The executioner’s blade would never dull by so tender the flesh. Still, he sharpens while his body shakes. ¥ A family with nothing held fast to one another as they walked into the thunderous twilight sea, its great maw foaming, without ever a scream. ¥ In the shadows beyond the bars of his cell, the Prince could feel the form of something watching him.

Father He said, slipping into unconsciousness… He was a boy. The halls of the palace seemed larger than ever, as if he knew there were rooms he had never been before but must go to now. Yes, that’s right, he needed to recite vows of servitude to an awaiting ceremony crowded with all the royal family and with father’s allies so that one day he may receive the crown without tumult. But he could not recall a single verse, nor whenever was the last he practiced. Without this speech, he could never become king. Wait, someone was following him. The Prince ran down hall after hall, this mysterious man, no, men , in quick pursuit. There was a secret passage within a storage closet that opened to rooms behind rooms. The Prince desperately crawled through the hidden entrances, only known to him for as long as he could remember. But he made too much noise, no matter how quietly he tried to move, and once again they were right at his feet as he crawled through chute-like tunnels that snaked their way from floor to floor, up and up, from platform to platform, men barely more than an arm’s length away, crawling as fast as possible, arms and legs burning with exhaustion. Finally, he reached the top of some spire with nowhere else to run and nothing else to do but fight. As the men piled out of the miniature service tunnel onto the small spire balcony, the prince pummeled them with heavy fists that died on impact, landing seemingly without any effect. The men towered over him, surrounding the Prince with statuesque expressions of horrible apathy. He cowered before them and put on a mask of peace, bargaining to placate the awful strangers. Forgive me, all is fine. Said the prince, backing away from the convocation of dangerous men. It seemed to be working, and the men only stood, appeased by his submissiveness. He spied a broken section of the balconies guard rail and positioned himself opposite to it, allowing one of the men to stand between himself and the impossibly high drop. The prince pushed him with all his might, yet the man was like a wall and all that fell was the Prince’s mask. He stood inflamed with dread upon his bare self, shame and fear fuming from his burning soul exposed to the audience who saw his core. He ran for the passageway, pulling himself from their grips, and crawled like a rabid fox between cavernous rocks, clawing deeper and deeper, exasperated breath, into a hopeless pit of pain and insanity, to be devoured in the grips of beasts or entombed within forgotten walls. … The Prince awoke breathless and searched for the scream that burned within. Silver cuffs around his ankles prickled with the numbing reminder of Hell lost. A voice was at his ear.            When was your last meal? Asked the ghost. ¥ No matter how much blood the King spilled day after day, he withered more and more to the persistent spell of time. All he was left with in his bargaining with Death were iridescent bubbles, unobtainable spheres of existence that reflected his failure and reminded him of the mass grave of expended youth, a choking sea, and the ever-present last breath of the ensuing black angel’s departing gift. He sat atop his throne, trembling over a silent kingdom of ghosts, his mind a boiling pot of cries burrowing through his skull that strangled his throat and heart. The King did not realize the Sorceress had entered the court until she was right before him, and in her hands was a basket with a loose hanging cover with something quietly mumbling beneath. The Sorceress drew the blanket aside, revealing the newly born prince of a neighboring kingdom. ¥ Four seasons had come to pass. What remained behind nothingness was madness and a king whose reign washed away the innocence that could have stayed. All that is young has gone, drowned in a flood as red as the anger that flowed through the man who lost what he had taken. The world did not crumble, but the hands that held it so tightly have become a ruined wonder atop a cathedra. Armies from every neighboring kingdom surrounded the decrepit King’s palace, pounding upon his door for revenge of a generation lost, like the heart of wrath in the heat of battle. The King’s guards carried him to the Prince’s cell amid the blazing pandemonium to deliver him into freedom on the anniversary of imprisonment. Laid atop the carved sigil, the Prince looked as if he were some preserved ancient corpse, skin and bones, but with rasping breath cursed never to cease. In the year of emaciation, the Prince’s skeletal feet had slipped through the silver cuffs. He was heaped in a pile like a severed marionette beneath the chains that had become home. Pain was a transient thing¾ the sole of his existence, for in its venomous hiss was the song of bliss, a fire crackling to birth and to raze. The King looked over the Prince and fell to his knees.

Why are you killing me? The King cried to the Prince. He continued. We are a dynasty of blood and dust. I leave it to you, for I am afraid I must be going now. With his last bit of strength, the Prince stroked his father’s cheek, then his arm collapsed to the stone floor. Tears ran down the King’s gaunt cheekbones as he was carried from the cell. The gate was left open. All that was left for the Prince to do was stare at the portal to his impossible freedom and listen to the fall of his kingdom. The King’s guards placed him atop his throne as the palace doors splintered with every huff and puff of the peoples’ fury. His bones quaked in the deafening cacophony of the fallens’ trumpet blares, crying revolution without salvation. The Sorceress stood before the door, chanting incantations of protection, her words mute against their coming perdition. Bubbles floated from the dark corona of the King’s crown, his eyes were fog suffocated torches bulging red and white. His mouth hung open like a puddle quivering in a storm. Every nerve was exploding with terror for the demons were here for him and they carried torches anointed with the fires of Hell. And then, the door was felled in a final release of carnal rage, flattening the Sorceress as if she were a grape. Hordes of villagers and soldiers rushed the throne. ¥ Unable to move, the Prince could not pull his eyes from the open doorway. He listened as the people stormed the palace, their shouting and crashing knotted together. It sounded like the world was being born. There was a scream that drowned out all other noise and then the finale of applause and cheers. In the delirium of revolution, the Prince watched as bubbles floated in from the hall.            What will you do now? The Prince heard. He took his last breath, completely and utterly in love with the beauty of the dancing light flashing so delicately before him in those bubbles, and all that was left of him was a smile. In Death’s kiss so too is there God’s breath of life. Air filled the once-prince’s lungs and strength surged through his body. The sudden wind shocked him into a gasping awareness of newly born eyes and his flesh electrified in every brush he experienced for the first time again. He re-learned how to stand and took his first step across the threshold of his prison, emerging from a cave into ruins. The halls stretched on seemingly forever and he loved every step before stopping at the throne room’s entrance, seeing the remaining carnage of an idolized kingdom. He saw the royal crown laid mangled near the charred remains of the throne and the headless man who occupied its seat. The once-prince left the palace for the last time and chose an old road he had never traveled, picking figs along the way, and smiling as the juice ran so sweetly from his lips. The End


The unbearable thing about living is not so much being but being oneself . God put billions of us into the world and gave us all, as a joke, our own life and morals. The universe never planned on me, or you, only some specimens based on the original model. Like a car, each made of the same essential central engineering. The only difference being the license plate. For a human, the license plate is their face, the accidental and unrepeatable accumulation and assortment of features which reflects neither character nor soul.

My face is a particularly ratty one, with big yellowish teeth. My eyes are quick and clever, like a rat's, and my ears are slightly pointed at the top. The few hairs left on my scalp are grey, again, like that of a rat, and when I am not in costume, my clothes are usually of a similar color.

Everyday for the past fifty-something years I’ve analyzed my visage through my small tabletop mirror, referring, with some slight aesthetic modifications, that very rodent face back onto a canvas. Throughout my years as a professional artist I have painted some twelve-thousand works. Despite the monotony, I can’t say I love it any less than the first time I picked up a brush. There is a constancy to it that is extremely comforting to a person of routine and habit such as myself. I wake up early every morning, at precisely five-thirty, and make myself a strong cup of coffee. No sugar, no milk. As soon as the sun is up I go on my usual walk through the woods behind the house. I have done this for sixty years and at the age of eighty-eight, I can say it has done me some good. There's nothing like regularity for maintaining one's peace of mind. Whenever I am forced to exclude or exchange something out of my routine, such as with bad weather, it causes a certain upheaval within my body, like a new bird in a cage of canaries.

At eleven o’clock Caroline, my one and only friend — or better said, former friend — comes by to talk and make lunch. She is a very short woman, at least twenty years my junior, with an ashen face and a frosty, determined look which I used to appreciate. The lips are always pressed together and her large chest sticks out like a plump, ruffled bird. A week before she ruined our relationship with that self-obsessed character of hers, and sent me rushed to the hospital, she was making soup. I watched her put the pot on the stove and stir it with my long metal spoon until it came to the boil. As it simmered on the fire we spoke, per usual, about my work. I confess, for however long it lasted, she was excellent company. The bird-like creature was just as lonely as me. Just as desperate for human contact. And, had we met not four but twenty years ago, perhaps we could have been more than simply friends. But I diverge. As I said, Caroline was my only friend, and for a man such as myself, brimming with bright ideas and equally interesting theories, I was quick to tell her everything, despite my otherwise secretive nature. Secrecy was, after all, pivotal to my line of work.

On that particular morning, a day before she handed me her so-called “present” and promptly destroyed our friendship, I was telling her about my most recent painting.

“I have positioned myself on a deck chair in front of a big, sloping hill in front of my house in Chianti. The grass is freshly mown, a nice parakeet green. On my right,” I say, closing my eyes, envisioning the piece, “on my right stand two rose bushes in full bloom. The scarlet begonias are out too, and so are the hybrid lupins and the irises. Somewhere off in the distance stands a mysterious figure. The gardener. Or, no, I think I’ll call him the Messenger of Death. An artist, Caroline, must always be contemplating their death.”

“Lovely,” Caroline said admiringly, her small bird like eyes opening and closing quickly, like wings in flight, “you’ve been very fond of your house in Chianti lately, haven’t you?” As I said earlier, Caroline was excellent company. She instigated where I wanted to be questioned, expelled the things I did not want to address. And, most importantly, she was ready to believe anything.

Of course, I do not have a house in Chianti. My entire body of work is a fraud and a lie. To those who knew the truth anyway. Which was nobody. That is the small price to pay for a lonely existence. You can mold and remold yourself however you please, and create your own immortality accordingly. For the past fifty years a secret plan had been brewing in my mind. After all, I live in Austria, the country of Freud. Like him, I wanted to create my own, distinctive causa-sui project. A personal stepping-stone towards inevitable success after my death. Like Van Gogh, Egon Schiele, Paul Gauguin, Amedeo Modigliani, Jean-Honore Fragonard. And in the process, give my life meaning beyond my life, and transcend my human limitations.

To be mortal is the most basic of human experiences, and yet, if one is really truthful to themselves, we cannot accept it, grapple with it, and behave accordingly. Man simply does not know how to be mortal . Can we be blamed? Every day our bodies show marks of our forthcoming demise. My obsession with immortality began when I was thirty, when I figured live wasn’t worth the living anymore. Instead of killing myself (despite everything my Wille zum Leben was incredibly strong), I decided to simply stop existing, and start preparing for my reputation when I was no longer around to defend it. Immortality, to me, meant being loved by strangers while I could not even love myself. It meant living in the admiration of women, children, men, yet to be born.

Since then I have lived an isolated existence, alone in my small house here, in the outskirts of Vienna, and changed my name to Günther Von Neumann. I sign all my paintings with the initials GVN, and the false letters I write to myself all start with that name also. Günther the bachelor, Günther the artist, Günther the generous socialite, Günther the flâneur, the philosopher, the Austrian Gatsby.

Caroline, the antisocial house cat, was the only person I shared my posthumous desires with. After all, we spoke everyday. As the broth sat on the stove, we made our way to the veranda, where I worked during the spring and summer months. The room was warm and clean, the curtain wide open, four easels each baring a canvas stood in every corner. Two were practically finished, two had strange red brush strokes painted on them, like Chinese characters. The art of painting is simply putting some strokes on a blank canvas. It’s like having a drink before a date. It breaks the ice.

Leaning up against the walls, some vertical, some horizontal, stacked on top of one another, were my canvases. At least three-hundred in that small room alone. Upstairs in the attic are another three-hundred, in my storage room, which is full to the brim, another four-hundred. Günther is as generous in daily life as he is with painting. Gestural, quick, unsparing, slobs of paint cover the otherwise flat surfaces, none of which take me longer than a day or two to make.

From my long veranda windows, one can see the garden. It is a fine garden, with a small pond and two rose bushes. The wind is strong during the spring, making the leaves hiss and crackle as if on fire. Though I rarely sit outside, I have two deck chairs, and a small white table for reading.

“This is the Chianti piece I was telling you about,” I told her, pointing at one of the four easels.

“It’s very beautiful. It fits perfectly with yesterday’s pool scene.” “That’s what I thought as well. I wrote this postcard to go with it,” I told her, handing her an envelope, with a stamp and everything, “from Günther to Rosalia. Never sent. I suspect people will wonder why he never did. Could it be a change of heart? A sudden bout of uncharacteristic anxiety? Did he hear a rumor? Was she getting married to someone else? Is there a new person in his life? Really, the options are endless.” “It’s incredibly romantic.” “It is, isn’t it? Tomorrow I plan on taking Günther and several of his male friends to a party in Florence. That night he will return home entirely drunk, and create a very fun, quick little canvas of his evening.” “Incredible.” In a small journal Caroline jotted down everything I said. Her thin fingers darting from one side of the page to the other, like a mouse trapped in a small room. Though at first I had been hesitant, the written word was a dangerous thing if used against you, I also knew she was just as lonely as me, even more so. At least I had my cat.

After speaking for some twenty, thirty minutes, she got up and went to the kitchen while I put the finishing touches on the Chianti scene. I could hear her cutting the vegetables and putting them into the broth. Some onions, a few potatoes, a handful of carrots. I was incredibly grateful for her presence, and found myself missing her dearly whenever she left.

After lunch we said our goodbyes. I slept for some two, three hours, legs neatly placed on my ottoman, both arms crossed on my chest, snoring. Then at four I made myself a strong cup of whisky to get myself ready for Günther’s party scene. After three hours of concentrated work, I signed the piece, ate the leftover soup, and went to bed, satisfied. The next morning I awoke at exactly five-thirty, made myself a strong cup of coffee, no sugar, no milk, as always. As soon as the sun came up I went on my usual walk through the woods behind the house, and waited for Caroline to arrive with her groceries.

She was in an especially chipper mood, she chirped about this and that, and practically flew from one spot in the kitchen to the other. For the first time in four years she hardly let me speak. I admit, it was she who had, again, reminded me of my birthday. I liked Günther’s birthdate more, which was in the colder, more romantic autumn months. Far better than June. But Caroline preferred keeping to my own, and throughout our friendship she always came with a cake and made my favorite dish: Käsespätzle, which was simultaneously the clogger of my arteries and the reason my heart beat. The strong odor of cheese and onions hung in the air and made me salivate.

“I have a present here with me. I can hardly wait to give it to you,” she said. “What is it? A canvas?” The package was small and rectangular, wrapped in some newspaper, and had Caroline not given it such importance I would have overlooked it entirely.

“Of course not, you have enough of those. No, this is something I created for you .”

From then onwards I forgot about the small box completely. For one, I had the Käsespätzle on my mind, and two, she simply wasn’t the creative type. That was me. In my mind, anything she made had the same appeal as a cat with a dead bird in its mouth. Lunch was excellent. For a short moment. She had mellowed down, how I liked her, and I was pleased to finally get some stage time to talk. I told her a long, and if I dare say, riveting story about Günther’s evening, and subsequent morning, which I read to her from his diary, like a snooping wife. The night before he had met a woman with a round, tanned face, tight and glimmering with subtle inward strength that was beautiful beyond words, and at which he stared all evening.

I spoke for a long time. All the while Caroline seemed to coil into herself, as if jealously safeguarding a secret. In hindsight, I should have known her light grey eyes moved too quickly about the room, without her usual diligence and attendance, never settling on one thing for more than a moment. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed those small, faint upturned lines of anticipation placed neatly on both sides of her mouth. “Oh, I simply cannot wait any longer,” she said, as soon as I was done reading, “please open the present.” “Right now?” I said, annoyed. What could possibly be more important than Günther’s love life? “Please.” “Well, alright then.”

I weighed the gift in my hands, then shook it. It was light, but not too light, flexible, but not too flexible. It was almost definitely a book. Perhaps she thought I could find some inspiration in it for my next work. I opened it slowly, trying not to break the wrapper, though it was only newspaper.

The cover bore one of my own paintings. A long dining table, laid out for a feast. Tall candles stood at equidistance from one another, becoming periodically smaller and less detailed as they disappeared into the distance. A great magnitude of shining silverware, three wine glasses per person, white table clothe and silk serviettes.

The title of the book was Günther Von Neumann: The Story of a Fabricated Existence. Under stood her name in shining white letters: Caroline Bauer. I reread the title several times over before the magnitude of the situation settled on me. A fabricated existence? Now everyone would know. That weasely, inhuman, rat of a woman. She had stolen my immortality from me. She had taken it with both hand, threaded it, then day by day unraveled it, and spun it into a web of her own. There I stood, at the age of eighty-nine, my death bed calling my name, stripped from the very thing keeping me alive for all those years. I was incredibly upset, I felt my breathe escape my nostrils in angry whiffs of air. At the same time, I couldn’t help but laugh. A strange cackling noise which scared even me. For as long as I could remember, I had tried to outrun my existential fears by painting a life which was not my own. In reality, all my work would have meant nothing more than a dinosaur’s distant cry anyway. Tears no one would remember. Perhaps I should have focused on living instead of dying while I was still alive. “I wanted to wait until your birthday to give it to you. It’s been in circulation for the past five months. It’s a best-seller! You’ll never have to worry about being forgotten again! I am writing the sequel as we speak.”


Since my trip to the center of the island, I found new questions creeping into my discussions with the traders by the shoreline. An old inquisitiveness was reemerging. I could feel a tweak of jealousy that they were going out again to see new places and I’d ask them the same things that had gnawed at me back on Kadear. *What’s the geography like? What’s the system of government? What’s the culture? What do they eat? What are they like?* I was sitting on the Deer Drum boat. The pole beans were now a metre high, small buds growing from the stems, soon to be harvested. Novak had borrowed Lachlann’s guitar while he was off exploring the island and was showing me the new tunes he could play. He hadn’t mastered it yet. Often the top string would be missed on the down strum, or his fingers gripped that fraction of a second too long, delaying the note. But he could play. The tunes were enough for others to recognize and hum along to the melody. I listened to Novak play, being an attentive audience. He was just finishing a rendition of an old nursery rhyme when Mirai walked up beside us. She looked out to sea with a smile on her face. “Oh, I’d recognize that boat anywhere." I pulled myself up and looked over the edge of the boat to see Alessia sailing towards us. Xander stopped attending to his plants and ran up to join as the boat pulled up alongside. “Well, if it isn’t the greatest merchant in the Archipelago returning to grace us with her presence.” Alessia scoffed. “Just throw us a rope.” We tied the boats up and lowered a ladder so Alessia could join us on the deck. “I thought I’d meet you later at the apartment,” I said as she clambered aboard. “I figured you’d be here. Anyway, I only really came to say I’m heading off again.” “Already?” Mirai pouted. “‘Fraid so,” Alessia smiled. “Arrived here this morning and met a guy immediately. Asked if I could go take some goods to Sneppath Head. Practically threw money at me to do it.” “You got to leave immediately?” I asked. “I figured I could stay here for an hour or two. Cargo’s already on the boat. Gonna be a good week’s sail to Sneppath Head.” We sat down on the quarterdeck and discussed the latest island she had been to. Soon though the conversation turned though to Talin Barier. “You still going back to that town at the center?” Alessia asked. “Yeah.” I replied, grimacing slightly. “Soured this place a bit for you hasn’t it?” Her tone was somehow both sympathetic and smug. “This whole island is meant to be about choice. But, they have none. Or at least… whatever they choose, the options end up terrible. They can never earn enough to escape.” Alessia leaned back in her chair. “Freedom to choose your own poison.” I nodded as a silence briefly took hold. Xander broke it. “Alessia, any news of Sannaz?” Alessia shook her head. “He’s vanished. I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead; drowned or angered the wrong person or something. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not making any noise.” Xander looked down at his feet. “I still just want to know why I guess. Not that it’ll make the pain better, or go away, but at least it’ll make sense.” “We’ll get answers.” Alessia leaned forwards and patted Xander’s knee. “I promise you.” \ Two weeks passed. I left the apartment around mid-morning, aware that Alessia was due back today. I looked forward to seeing her again. Her recent stops had been only fleeting visits before she disappeared again. As I closed the door behind me. I saw Eda heading to her office at the far side of the courtyard. I remembered Maia and how she longed to get a job that would give a better future for her son. It wasn’t an escape, but working for Eda would improve their lives. I decided that perhaps, I could try and make a small difference. Put some positive into the lives of two people living in that cruel slum. I walked around the upper walkway that overlooked the courtyard to Eda’s office. I knocked on the thick wooden door, the sound immediately muffled to a dull thud. “Come in.” I walked inside to find Eda standing behind a desk. It was a large wooden construction of deep mahogany that took up near two thirds of the room. The gap between the edge of the desk and the wall was so small that Eda would have to shuffle sideways just to get to the other side. Across the desk were strewn towers of papers, and while at first glance it seemed chaotic, they seemed to have been organized into specific piles. It was an organization system clinging onto structure, always on the verge of toppling over. Eda grinned upon seeing me. “Ferdinand. What can I do for you today?” I took a small, uncertain step forward. “I was hoping to speak to you about a job.” Eda laughed. “If you need to work for me you wouldn’t be living here.” I smiled and forced a small chuckle. “No. I know I’m only a tenant, but I know of someone who wanted to work here. And I wanted to say that I knew them, or have gotten to know them. They’re a very good person, kind, hard-working…” Eda looked up from the notes on her desk. “And who is this islander?” “Maia,” I took another step forward. A sudden moment of stupidity hit me. “I’m afraid I actually don’t know her last name.” “Certain she’s worth employing, but don’t know her last name. Quite the reference.” Eda folded her arms. “Sorry. I know it’s strange I just-” “-Relax,” Eda grinned. She flicked through a set of papers on her desk as she spoke. “Your lady came in last week. Contract signed. She’s employed. ‘Fraid she won’t have much time for you anymore though.” She lifted up a piece of paper and passed it across the desk. I read the first few lines, glancing at the name, position. Then I read a field that was titled “length of employment”. *Permanent. Life. No resignation.* I stared at the line, trying to ignore it and let it go, but it scratched away at my brain until it burrowed out. “This bit, ‘no resignation’, what does that mean?” “Well, it means she can’t leave. I paid her a lump sum up front, and now she works for me, for life.” “Doing what?” I squinted at Eda. “Whatever I tell her to,” Eda shrugged. “For the rest of her life, she now does whatever I tell her she can do.” “That…” I cut myself off. There was an emotion rippling away under my skin that I was trying to understand, trying to control. It grew, rising up, until I could recognize it clearly. Rage. “That sounds like slavery.” “Don’t be daft,” Eda chuckled as she waved her arm. “Slaves don’t choose. She chose this.” “So that her kid would make it to adulthood she sold her life.” My tone was flat, my eyes static. Eda’s face look confused, as if I were speaking another language. “And that’s her right to choose to make that decision.” “She had a choice between death and slavery-” “-No.” Eda cut me off with a snapped tone. “She could choose whatever she wanted. Get whatever job she wants. If she had the money she could buy her own courtyard and become a landlady like me. She came to me asking for a job, any job, I gave her one, and she *chose* to accept it.” “And now she’s locked in for life. To become your servant.” Both of our voices were slowly rising in volume. “Her choice.” “And if she later regrets that choice.” I leaned my head forward with the tilt of an angry bull. “We all have to live with the choices we made in the past. I do.” Eda pumped her chest with an odd pride. “Not like this,” I shouted. “She chose this. She signed. It’s done.” Eda smacked her hand against the desk, as the papers rustled slightly from the force. She shifted her gaze back to the papers on the desk and spoke to me out of the side of her mouth. “And now get out of my office before I kick you out of your apartment.” I could feel my cheeks burning red, my teeth gritting so tightly it felt like my mouth would be welded closed. I turned and left the building, walking down the courtyard steps as quickly as I could, desperate to get away from the apartment, away from Eda, away from whatever I might want to say next. I turned a couple of corners and marched down towards the harbor. My feet darted passed slower pedestrians as I walked down to the coast. My elbow occasionally brushed against them, the anger transferring briefly as they hollered after me to be more careful. Maia was trapped. Eda had used Maia’s desperation, her needs, to create a slave. The contract that was signed had never come from a negotiation. It was a hostage taking. The crisp morning sun brushed against my fiery cheeks, sweat leaked from the pores. My face felt suffocated, drowning in its own heat, my mind racing as I tried to understand how Eda could make such a decision. It felt that the rage wouldn’t quell, that it would just boil over until I screamed it out. I wanted to get to the ocean, stand on the shoreline, and shout my anger at the sea. I wanted the entire Archipelago to hear how angry I was. But as I reached the shore, I looked out, saw a boat, and all the emotions disappeared, replaced with something new: fear. The boat was a trading vessel, perhaps a tiny bit longer than Alessia’s. However it was ruined. It limped towards the shore with half a sail intact. The bottom half of the red sheet was completely torn away and there was a gash in the top corner of what remained. The front half of the hull was charred black and I could see a large section where the wood had been ripped apart, allowing larger waves to roll over the side and onto the deck. There was one man aboard. He held the wheel in his left hand. His right arm dropped by his side, the lower half of his sleeve painted red. He leaned against the wheel, using it to prop up his tired body. I walked around the beach, heading towards where the boat was destined to land. Others, seeing the same site, had begun to form a small crowd as the boat rolled onto the sand, coming to a complete stop. Two women immediately rushed to the man’s aid, placing their hands under his arms, and carrying him back down onto the beach. “What happened?” Someone in the crowd asked. “Attack. The harbour.” The man muttered between pained breaths. “There were explosions. Gunfire. I’m lucky I lived.” The man sat down on the sand as one of the women ripped off his shirt to inspect the wound on his arm. The skin had been ripped away and all that remained was a mess of sinew, muscle and bone. “Where did you come from?” A man from the crowd asked. The man braced his body, his face contorting, as the woman pulled the shift fabric down past the wound. He paused, regaining his composure before he replied. “Sneppath Head.” \ Next chapter published December 19th.


Wrote this short story, wanting some critique and thoughts.  Kyle is a mouse. Small, easy to miss, insignificant. All mice look alike, it’s only when they’re in a spot they’re not supposed to be, is when there’s an uproar. Swatted, stomped, shot, screamed at, very unpleasant events occur when mice aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Kyle had just got done with his chores, taking what little nuts and berries he could find, placing them in a small pile where they kept the food. He sighed knowing it will be empty before the sun sets. He glanced out the hole, seeing the wide, vast, empty landscape. Often he wondered if the haven his father raved about was just beyond the forest. That’s when he noticed his three friends huddled in discussion. “What’re you guys talking about?” Kyle inquired. “We got a plan to get more cheese!” squealed Piggy, the fattest yet smallest of the bunch. His tail was the shortest of them all, and in a rather unfortunate screwdriver accident, it was twirled like a spring. “But it requires us working with the rats,” Arnold, the smartest of the group, explained. “Why would the rats need our help?” Kyle asked, confused now. “They want the ‘good stuff’ in the cabinets,” answered Charlie. A clear displeased expression populated her face. No one was happy to work with the rats, you can never trust them. Always an angle with them. “Yeah, the stuff that’s also in the most dangerous area, the humans or the guard animals would spot us a mile away,” Arnold explained, “which is why they want us to draw them all away from the kitchen, long enough for them to grab what they need.” “They said it would only take a minute or two at most,” interjected a desperate Piggy, “Plus it will be at night, when they’re asleep! Plus they had some stuff to keep the cat out of the picture!” “It’s too dangerous Piggy,” Charlie concluded, “It could cost us our lives, and for what? Cheese? We have plenty of food here.” “No we don’t, we barely have enough for the burrow!”“That’s cause you eat for three mice,” Arnold snided.“We should have more than what we get! Why are they so adamant about not sharing it? They have plenty! It comes so easy to them!” Piggy’s face got red with frustration and disappointment. “It’s not worth our lives Piggy,” Charlie explained trying to coax the young one. “...Are we even living?” Pondered Kyle.The three looked at him. Charlie’s expression perplexed, Piggy glad someone sided with him, and Arnold concerned where he was going with this. “We get nothing but scraps from the pigs. Everyday we’re out there busting our humps just to have one meal, maybe. Meanwhile, they have enough food for us to move out of the burrow! If we had all that food, and cheese, we could make a pilgrimage to the Haven!” “Not this again Kyle,” sighed Arnold, “The Haven is nothing but nonsense the elders raved on for you to sleep peacefully.” “All of them were crazy? Your dad spoke of it too! How everyone has a hole of their own, eating like kings for every meal. Not having to worry about snakes, owls, cats, or humans. We all have it great!” “If it exists why did they run from it?” Charlie asked simply, crossing her arms. “They never got to it because they had children here,” Kyle explained, “Children that sometimes get eaten by our own for survival.” Piggy squealed in fear, remembering such tragedies, hiding behind Charlie. “Winter is soon you guys, if we don’t get food, the burrow is going to look like a blood bath,” Kyle concluded, “I say we risk it. For us and the burrow.” Charlie and Arnold looked at each other, hoping one of them would have a good argument against it. But it never came. “...alright, we’ll do it,” Arnold concluded, defeated by Kyle’s logic.The four got ready and rendezvous outside the farmer’s house as the sun set. In the distance, three large shadows approached them. The first of the rats, Iggy, stood out amongst them. His crooked mouth, eyes working independently of each other, and the shortest of the three. Next was Ziggy, tallest of the three, paying more attention to her nails than where she was walking. She looks at their leader, Scar. No one knows if he was born with that name or if he gave it to himself, either way one large scar ran down his left eye. Some say it was from a cat, others a snake, but whenever asked if it hurt, he always said that they should have seen the other one. “Alright, let’s talk business,” he began. His eye wandered to Iggy first, “You put the cat nip out?” “Yeh yeh yeh yeh,” Iggy furiously nodded, a wide green pleased with himself, “Right by its food, just like you said boss, just like you said!” “God stop repeating yourself,” Ziggy complained, annoyed at the ravings of the lunatic. “Sorry,” Iggy frowned, shutting his mouth. “Alright, so you mice need to split up and get to different parts of the house, and cause the biggest racket you can. Two minutes is all the mischief needs to get the food out. Think you can handle that?” Scar asked the four. “As long as you keep your end of the bargain, you can count on us,” Kyle concluded, determined to come out of this on top with his friends. “Let’s get to it,” Scar said simply. And with that, the parted ways and made their infiltration into the house. The house was of simple structure. One big kitchen, with one door leading outside to the back, and an arch that led into the living room. In the living room were the restroom and a set of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Inside the living room was an old television, standing on a sturdy short table, hanging so low only a mouse or cats toys could get lost under. A tall pole lamp stood next to the couch, barely balanced on its own. Kyle reached his spot first. Up near the ceiling rested a long series of shelves, housing decorative plates that the wife treasured as much as her marriage. Kyle knew this would be perfect. Charlie was next. Up on the counter laid some kitchenware. Most notable, a large cutting knife most likely used for separating meat. The smaller ones would make quite the ruckus, but the knife she knew to save for later. Piggy and Arnold both had the brilliant idea to climb up the lamp. A few swings would surely bring it crashing down. Piggy however was unsure of these actions. He looked to his elder and spoke, “Do you think the Haven exists?” Arnold had to stop and think for a moment, “Honestly Piggy, I don’t know. They say that if you do right, and work hard enough you can get there. But I have yet to meet someone who had truly come from such a place.”Piggy was silent the rest of the climb up, knowing that was the best answer Arnold could give him. As the clock struck 10, Heath, the guard dog, started his patrol of the house. While it was a small house, it was his, so he made sure to protect it. If he failed, he could never face the master again. He peeks out the little cat door where Mittens usually enters, only to see the cat on quite the trip. “Just what are you doing?” Heath interrogated. “I see all the stars, they are so wonderful Heath,” giggled the fat cat, “I hope the masters let us touch them soon.” “Quite being silly and get in here! You’ll get hurt tripping out there! Plenty of opportunists come at night.” “Oh fine, oh fine,” yawned Mittens as he slowly squeezed his way into the house, passing out as soon as he got his tail inside. Heath shook his head and continued his patrol. Kyle saw him enter the kitchen, sniffing for trouble. This dog may be sharp, but his nose was worthless in his old age. Kyle grinned and went to the furthest end of the plates, and whoosh. It fell in a flash, and made such a loud crash. Heath jumped and let out a loud bark. “Who goes there?!” Bellowed the old dog. Kyle snickered and began the tirade of pushing the plates down, one by one a crash could be heard. The old dog tucked his tail back, backing up and barking until his hind legs were all but pressed into the counter. Charlie saw this opportunity and pushed the knife down. SHHK!Heath cried out in agony, as the knife had slid into his leg. Blood spewed out all over the floor, he howled and squealed for help. “MASTER! MASTER HELP ME!” The old dog begged. A booming downstairs could be heard, the two farmers saw in horror the scene before them. Charlie quickly tried to hide, but the wife was too fast and grasps her by the tail. “Damn mice!” the wife screamed, “In my house!? How dare they!” She carried the squealing mouse toward the sink. Kyle screamed at them, trying to get them to let go. The wife was too disgusted to think. A switch was flipped and she dropped charlie into the garbage disposal. A loud shredding occurs, blood and gust splattering around. The wife puts the lid over it to contain the scene so it not get all over the sink. Kyle’s eyes were filled with distraught at the cruelty of the humans. Just being here and causing a racket warranted that kind of response from them. Was it because they were mice, or because the humans were just that cruel to those they think less of? The husband was more pissed at the dog getting stabbed. He yanked the knife out, but the damage was done. The leg was limp and useless. He sighs as Heath only whimpered in shame. He looks at the cat, pissed that it slept on the job. He grabs him and shakes him sober, screaming, “God dammit what do I keep you for?!” Mittens awoke now, his pupils the size of dinner plates. He looks and sees the mess left on the floor, knowing what creature could have done this. Mice. The husband drops the fat fuzzball and orders, “Find the mice and kill them!” Mittens obeys, for he knows disobedience gets you the gun. Just as he made way to the kitchen is when the two mice rocked the lamp down into the floor, shattering the glass. Mittens jumps hissing as the two scatter. Piggy runs for the couch, just barely putting his head in, dreaming of the food they will enjoy, the long winter sleep, only for Mittens to stab through his back with his claws. Piggy’s mouth leaked and sputtered blood as the cat lifted him up slowly, letting his body drag through the claws opening the wounds wider. His entrails began to slowly fall out like pink warm noodles. Mitten slurped them up, drinking him from the inside out until Piggy was but a severed head on the floor. Arnold had made it under the TV cabinet, screaming in horror at the young ones fate. He hears a snicker only to see Iggy cackling under, witnessing the entire ordeal. “You rotten rat!” Shouted Arnold, “You could’ve helped! Piggy didn’t have to die! You worthless bastard!” Iggy frowned and loomed over the now miniscule mouse. “You favor yourself to be smart,” Iggy responded, his demeanor much more sinister than before. “Yet all your smarts couldn’t save your friends from the game of life. Nor will it save you from your fate.” Iggy showed his sharp teeth, prompting Arnold to run for the kitchen. If him and Kyle could escape they could at least try and repopulate the burrow for more help. But the husband was not going to have it. A loud and quick STOMP. All of Arnold organs were shot out of any hold available. His eyes shot like billiard balls into the wall, his organs out of his sphincter, and his once proud brain nothing more than a stain on the rug. Kyle was in ruin, he screamed in fury at the fate of his friends. He shouted at the humans to take him too, for he couldn’t stand life without them. It was his decision to bring them here, and their deaths were on his hands. However, Ziggy had other plans. She grabs the distraught mouse and drags him outside. He fights and squirms but she was much stronger than him. Scar simply watched the mischief get the food out as the family cleaned up the mess that was left. By morning, the mess was done, but the damage was irreparable. Kyle was exhausted. Scar has some of the rats bring him their fair share. Enough for him and the burrow to survive winter, but he didn’t want it. He looked as Ziggy had met with Mittens outside the barn. A gunshot goes off, and a dejected mittens scowls at Ziggy. “Wasn’t my fault the mouse stabbed him. You should’ve thought ahead,” teased Ziggy. “You win this round, but next time I will be the one on top,” Mittens mused. “Yes well the rats this day get to live the high life for the next few months. Who knows, maybe the mice will go somewhere else, but I doubt it will be any better. All I know is that it will be an enjoyable show.” Kyle realized what had really happened. All this food was simply a consolation prize. He glares at Scar, knowing the cheese meant nothing. “I will tell them all about this, I will make sure they learn the truth about you!” He declared. Scar smirked and looked the mouse straight in the eye and only responded with one, cold sentence: “Not like it will change anything.” With that, Kyle was left alone, all the food to eat, and no friends to share it with. He sits down, and the first snowflake of winter begins to fall.