In the suffocating confines of an office tower, where the air pulsated with the dissonant symphony of ringing phones and clicking keyboards, I found myself immersed in a world of concealed machinations and sinister undertones. Amidst the labyrinthine maze of cubicles and flickering fluorescent lights, I prowled with silent intent, my long auburn locks a flame in the dimness. My light blue eyes, like frozen pools of uncertainty, held secrets buried deep within the recesses of my soul. As I meandered through the shadowed corridors of the office, the whispers of unseen forces echoed in the recesses of my mind. Each fleeting encounter with Sarah, the gossiping receptionist, and Marcus, the brooding IT specialist, sent shivers down my spine, as if their very presence threatened to unravel the fragile facade I clung to. But it wasn’t the petty squabbles of office politics that gnawed at my sanity; it was the gnawing weight of a legacy I could scarcely comprehend—a legacy woven from the strands of ancient sorcery and unspeakable power. For I was no mere mortal bound by the chains of mundane existence; I was a vessel for the legacy of my bloodline—a lineage steeped in the dark arts and veiled in obscurity. And it was this legacy that ensnared me in a web of deceit and treachery, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred into oblivion. Within the labyrinth of my own mind, I unearthed fragments of a forgotten history—a history shrouded in darkness and steeped in mystery. In this alternate reality, a profound absence loomed—a void where knowledge and enlightenment should have flourished, but instead, ignorance and superstition reigned supreme. Armed with the weight of this revelation, I embarked on a perilous journey into the depths of my own soul—a journey fraught with peril and riddled with uncertainty. Each clue unearthed and obstacle overcome brought me closer to unraveling the enigma that bound me to my fate. But lurking in the shadows, a malevolent force conspired to thwart my every move—a force driven by insatiable hunger for control and domination. As I delved deeper into the heart of darkness, I realized that the true enemy lay not in the shadows, but within myself—a manifestation of my deepest fears and darkest desires. With my very sanity hanging in the balance, I faced off against the specters of my own mind, my auburn hair aflame with the fire of desperation. And as I teetered on the precipice of oblivion, I knew that the fate of humanity rested in my hands. As I walked to the kitchen, I accidentally stumbled upon Annie, our new Intern. I tried to steady her as the box in her hands tumbled out from her grasp and thumped to the ground. With the fall, the box’s lid shuffled over to the side, revealing a rectangular object with a sturdy cover and thin, flexible sheets bound along one edge, adorned with colorful designs. I couldn’t believe my eyes. As I stretched out my hand to reveal the object within, Annie hesitated, her expression unreadable, torn between conflicting emotions. Before I could decipher her reaction, she forcefully shut the lid back on and sped away with the box, leaving me with a befuddled ache and lingering questions about her sudden departure. The encounter left me with a haunting sense of unease, as if I had glimpsed a fleeting glimpse of a truth too dangerous to comprehend. Later that day, while passing by Marcus’s desk, I casually asked him about Annie, hoping to glean some insight into her mysterious past.

“Hey Marcus, have you noticed anything unusual about Annie?” I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.

Marcus glanced up from his computer screen, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I see what’s going on here,” he teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve got a little crush on our new intern, don’t you?”

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I stumbled over my words, trying to clarify that my curiosity was purely professional. But Marcus just chuckled knowingly and went back to his work, leaving me to ponder the mysteries of Annie’s enigmatic persona on my own. The following month, as I delved deeper into the shadows of the office tower, the whispers of unseen forces grew louder, echoing in the recesses of my mind like sinister sirens calling me towards the abyss. Each step I took felt like a battle against an invisible tide, threatening to drown me in a sea of deception. But it wasn’t just the weight of my own legacy that burdened me; it was the knowledge that others were watching, waiting to pounce upon any misstep or revelation. I could sense the eyes of unseen adversaries boring into my soul, their intentions as murky as the depths of the ocean. And then there were the whispers—hushed conversations in dark corners, fleeting glimpses of figures disappearing around corners. It was as if the very walls of the office tower were alive with secrets, each one a dagger poised to strike at the heart of my quest. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing remained clear: Annie held the key to unlocking the mysteries that shrouded the missing invention. Her sudden disappearance only fueled my determination to uncover the truth, but it also raised alarm bells in the recesses of my mind. What dangers lurked in the shadows, waiting to ensnare those who dared to seek the truth? And what role did Annie play in this deadly game of cat and mouse? As I passed by Marcus’s desk, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. His playful teasing masked a deeper understanding of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding secrets of his own. But I had no time to dwell on his enigmatic demeanor. The clock was ticking, and with each passing moment, the shadows grew darker, threatening to swallow me whole. I had to find Annie, no matter the cost, for only she held the answers that could save humanity from the abyss of ignorance and superstition. And so, with determination burning in my heart and uncertainty gnawing at my soul, I plunged deeper into the labyrinth of the office tower, ready to confront whatever darkness lay in wait.


A little back story, I hated my creative writing teacher in highschool because she wouldn't let us be creative. As a result I would write really stupid stories that made no sense just to piss her off. I found this old assignment in my Google doc's today. Without further delay I present Howard's New Shoes Howard was a young boy who lived in poland, in the year of 1926. He lived in the city of Radomsko with his Mother, Father, and beloved pet tortoise named Kip. Ever since he burst from his mothers loins Howard had stinky feet, the local children and adults took to calling him "Stankfoot". No doctors could Diagnose the cause of his stinky feet, he was told his feet would always stink. Years passed and Howard had gotten used to the name stankfoot, he thought about changing his name perminately to stank foot. When Howard was about 12 years old a wizard came to the town of Radomsko, although he looked more like a bum everyone had a gut feeling he was a wizard. The wizard was named DeMarcus he claimed to be from the country of Jamaica. DeMarcus spotted Howard walking along the street one day, and he knew he was "The one". DeMarcus thought of a plan to lure Howard into talking to him, after a week of brainstorming DeMarcus decided that he would hit Howard in his van. DeMarcus hid in the weeds of a vacant lot across the street from Howards home, DeMarcus sat in the weeds for so long he started to feel funny. The weeds he was sitting in released a spore when disturbed and he had been breathing in the spores for so long he didnt get enough oxygen to his brain. DeMarcus spotted Howard and his beloved Kip out for a walk. DeMarcus got into his van and took off towards Howard and Kip, It hadn't occured to DeMarcus that walking Kip was quite the task given that he was a tortoise. DeMarcus did a lap of the block to give them time to get farther away from home, as he rounded the corner to get back onto Howards street he spyed Howard, and Kip who had only moved a few inches. DeMarcus did many more laps to pass the time. Howard had noticed the van with the seahorse on the side pass him many times and became frightened, he picked up Kip and took off running. DeMarcus saw his opporotunity and took it, he sped up and hit Howard head on, Howard flew up in the air and landed in a bush nearby. DeMarcus hopped out of the van to finish his plans with Howard, as DeMarcus approached he tried to act worried. Howard was left unharmed but convinced he needed to call the police, DeMarcus insisted he didn't need the police involved, because of his many misdemeanors. After a long and drawn out argument DeMarcus's plan had worked, DeMarcus was elated. DeMarcus Recovered a box from his van, he presented it to Howard. In the box was a pair of shoes that would cure Howard of his smelly feet. Demarcus had generously offered them to Howard for the price of 185 Zloty's which equals 50 dollars and 21 cents in U.S. Dollars. Howard was oblivious to the scam because of his desire to not smell. He foolishly accepted DeMarcus's offer. Howard went home to his worried parents and explained how he bought new shoes that would cure his stinky feet. His parents asked where they were and he pointed to his feet. The shoes did not cure Howard, but made him smell worse. That was the day Howard was known as "Stanky Howard" and the day DeMaracus Johnson became the most succesful con-man in the Polish and Jamaican wizard community.


This story contains references to violence and mental health issues, and mentions of blood. I take my mother's axe from beside the door. It's heavy in my hands, the wood smoothed from use and yet still rough enough to cause blisters. The blade is dulled, like my reason. We’re about the same age, this axe and I. It makes sense that we would be a little worse for wear.

I'm not used to the idea of weapons, especially in my own hands. It's not a thought that's crossed my mind until recently. Momma would not have categorized this as a weapon. It was for chopping wood, that was all. In a fight, she would have preferred a gun. My empty hand flies to my pocket. I find the cigarette packet in my overalls and breathe a tiny sigh of relief. I don't use them–never have–but even if I did, I wasn't going to be the one smoking tonight. It was Momma who used to smoke. She'd sit in that old plastic porch chair, in her overalls like mine, huffing and puffing away. Entertaining visitors with exaggerated stories narrated by a husky voice that only years of huffing and puffing on cigarettes can bring about. I can hear it now as I stand in the driveway. Not audible words, or even individual ones. Just the sound of her voice. The cracks and creaks of it. No one can stop me from what I am about to do.

There is no one left. It's sort of comforting. Mostly, though, it makes me ache in a hollow place, and when I start to feel that ache I give the ax a little toss and catch it again in my hand. It almost falls to the ground, but I do catch it. The leaves whisper as I shuffle over the gravel driveway. Because it is summer, they are soft and green. I can move fairly quietly. Not that I need to. There is no one around for miles. Momma would have stopped me from leaving. Would have made me do the dishes, probably, and then told me to get gas whenever I took the old truck to town. Gasoline. Why didn't I think before? Here I am with a lighter and some cigarettes when I can really start a blaze with gasoline. I stand still for a minute, contemplating whether or not to grab the full can, which I know is sitting in the shed. That's when I realize how quiet my brain is. I listen closer, lean forward a little even though that makes no sense because my thoughts are inside my own head and not out in the woods. Silence. May's voice is not there to reproach me. Maybe the echoes of her tangents have finally died out forever. Just because I can–just because they don’t come on their own, and I have the power to summon the words–I imagine what she would say if she were here. Sammy? Where are you going? Immediately I regret it. Now the memories of her will come flooding back. I had known it would happen. Playing with fire will get you burnt. May, with long chestnut hair and deep dark eyes. Clacking away at her typewriter–the one she bought from a thrift store–sweeping the floor to soothe Momma's bad moods, nervously bringing up getting a boyfriend for the first time at dinner one night. Momma's fork had clattered to the plate. Where are you going? Rich, I thought to myself, and I might have said it out loud, too. I had said the exact same thing the night she left– “Where are you going, May?” “Not really sure right now. Don’t worry about me,” she had said, pulling my forehead towards herself to plant a kiss on my hair. For once, I let her, and didn’t fight. May left. Momma left. I am alone. I decide against bringing the gas. Don't really need it. When I reach the road, the darkness has grown heavier, and the stars are peeping out of the sky. A clear night. No cars pass me by as I go along. No one drives along these roads at midnight for no reason, unless maybe they’re characters in a horror movie. A flash of headlights would be an anomaly right now. For some reason I don't feel chilly in the evening air, and the idea of wild animals never crosses my mind. Even if it did, I doubt I would care, now that I have the axe. Their house isn't far. Only a mile, maybe a mile and a half down the road. Don't do this, Sammy. As if May could ever understand anger. That must be what this is–anger. It does not light me on fire the way it used to. It courses coolly through my blood, as though it has been with me so long it is now part of me, inseparable from my existence. I don’t even notice it’s there until I identify it for what it is. Momma wouldn't want this. As if May could ever understand loneliness. Momma understood that, at least. Did she die lonely? I was by her side, but was I enough? Maybe Momma would want it. I don't know what she would have wanted. May doesn't know.

She has no right to talk. Doesn't matter, May. This is what I want. You don't mean that. You left. You don't get a say in this. I was going to leave anyway. You don't have to do this, Sammy. I'm doing it for you! My impatience leaps up and I repeat it, whisper-shouting out loud. "I'm doing it for you!" I can see it now, May's ashen face at the news of Sarah's death. The tears that fell behind closed doors. She was always afraid to cry in front of people, even Momma. Probably the one thing we had in common. I can see it now, the police knocking on our door. May, interrogated, because some blonde girl at school reported seeing her with Sarah that night and the news had spread like wildfire. In a small town, people talk. May was innocent, of course. I knew it, Momma knew it, the police knew it. The blonde had lied. Jealousy, I think. Lying Dahlia. Monstrous Dahlia. The gossip flew out of control and May was left to deal with the consequences of it, until finally she couldn't anymore and she left town. As I walk in the darkness, surrounded by the looming shadows of trees and the hum of the crickets, I watch her pack the car. I watch her kiss Momma goodbye. I feel her lips against my hair. I watch her disappear down the road in the station wagon, kicking up dirt as she goes. Innocent, but exiled. Finally I arrive at my destination. Here stands Dahlia's house, at the end of a much shorter driveway than ours, one made of real blacktop, pavement, whatever it’s called. Not gravel. No car there, but that's the way I planned it. The Beaufords are away, visiting their oldest daughter somewhere in another state. The house is empty, its windows dark, its whitewashed porch gleaming in the moonlight. My footsteps don’t crackle over the gravel pathway like they do at my house. I stop once I have reached the top of the porch steps, which don't creak under my weight like the ones at my house. Figures. Everything here is new, expensive, well-kept. The lighter flashes to life, and I watch as the little flame dances in the breeze, casting shadows across the siding of the house. Now is the time. I light a cigarette and resist the urge to put it to my lips, just to see what it's like. Arson is not beneath me, but for some reason I draw the line at smoking. Probably because growing up the smell made me feel sick. Sammy. I groan. She's back. Please don't do this. I drop the cigarette. All I have to do is light another, and another, and another, till the pack is empty and the wood begins to burn. I can plant them inside, too. The axe will help with that. Sammy! No! It is her fault. It is her fault the porch is beginning to smoke. Dahlia's fault. Momma's fault, for leaving me alone like she did. It rises in the air, quicker than I expected. I should have started inside. I hear Sammy screaming at me as I crash through the front door, and pieces of wood and plastic and glass go flying.

Then, real screaming. Audible screaming, coming from upstairs. Momma’s axe drops to the floor. "Mom! Dad!" No. They're not home. I planned it that way– Smoke stings my eyes. My arms smart from splinters and bits of glass, and in the flickering light of the fire outside I can see little drops of blood trickling down my legs. Dahlia screams again, and that is when the worst fear comes to mind, the one that makes me seize up like a statue. I will become what May never was. I scream, too. "No!" The tears are falling in rivers, all of a sudden, all down my face. I race up the staircase, fumbling around looking for her. There–an open door. It’s hers. Into Dahlia's room, where she cradles herself on the floor beside her bed, dead cell phone in hand. The smoke has driven her downward.

It spread so fast, much faster than I had ever imagined. "Dahlia, come on. Let's get out of here!" Her eyes are wide. She does not know who I am.

For a moment I stare at her. This is the girl who drove May away, who caged me in an empty house. Every bitterness I held against her disintegrates and flies away like the ashes past the windows. What have I done? "Help me!" she begs. "Help me!" I grab her arms and pull her off the floor. Clutching one another, we fly down the staircase, sobbing into each other's hair. Down the stairs, out the back door, around to the front again where we can see the massive wall of fire that is Dahlia's house. I fall to my knees, burying my face in the grass. Snot mixes with dirt and I try to hide it from Dahlia, but she only stands with tear-streaked cheeks as she watches her home go up in flames. "I'm sorry," I choke, over and over. To May. To Momma. To Dahlia. Everything blurs. Eventually red lights flash and I know the police are here, the firefighters, the ambulances. I sob to them as they patch up the cuts running down my limbs. Dahlia is silent. And then, as the sobs have finally begun to cease and every tear has been racked from my body, there is May in the old station wagon. She takes me in her arms and for a moment, I see myself again, like I used to be before everyone disappeared. I smell the autumn scent of her perfume, the cinnamon spice of it. She whispers in my ear, comforting words, apologies, when really I should be apologizing to her. The anger is gone. The fire flared and died.

I am truly empty now. She leaves me–only briefly, just for a second–to wrap Dahlia in her embrace. And Dahlia clings to her, just like I did. I don't dare hope for forgiveness from her, the blonde, the one who lied. She is crying, calling her parents, explaining to them what happened without knowing how it happened. “It was me,” I tell her. My voice is raspy. She stares at me, blinks, and then turns away to say something to her family on the other end of the phone. No, I don’t dare hope for forgiveness from her. I will forgive her, though.

I know May did a long time ago.


“Now.” He would not disobey his father. Even if he was no longer a child, even if it clearly not his fault, he was willing to accept that he was going to have take responsibility. “Yes, dad.” * The best thing about this time of the day was that the house was usually empty and quiet. His younger sister was with her friends at someone’s house (always late for dinner most days; she got permission for this when their mother saw how quickly the tears came); his mother was still at work (pick-up was around 4 pm; another hour to go and then she would fill the house with her cooking and favourite soap opera of the day). The house was free to him. * His father had done this before, but this time was different. It had nothing to do with teasing his sister, being out late, bad grades (not really a problem with his report cards), or not listening to someone older who pretended to be wiser. No this was different. * His hands were on the edge of the wooden kitchen table. He noticed how dirty his father’s fingernails were, even as he noted the thick gloves on the chair that he needed for work. He also noticed a stain on the table that was not covered by a placemat. It was something from a breakfast that he had not eaten. But he had washed all of the dishes and cleared that table when he got home. Why hadn’t he noticed…? * It was a simple issue with his parents. He was now nineteen and everyone was calling him a man. He had done well in school and his grades would guarantee that he would get into the university that he knew would make them proud (Sterling was a day’s trip away by car, and his mother promised to see him when he enrolled and lived on campus). They had let him borrow the other car for school and to see his friends on weekends. He had some part-time work that did not affect his grades (just tutoring others in math and science). He was an adult, they said. A very simple matter. * It was all about desire. * It was his father’s magazine. There was nothing special about the hiding place. It was not even that private (the hallway closet was where he found it, under some towels that he had put away for his mother; real smart move, dad). How silly did his father have to be to do that? Maybe it was an accident… * She was not that beautiful, not by any standard that a teenage boy with limited dating options could see. He had seen girls at the mall and the nearby running lanes who were much more attractive. But she was smiling. She was confident enough to have that photo taken outdoors on a sunny day in an open plain. And she was only a few years older than he (if the biography she supplied was correct). Where did girls like that come from, he thought. They were not in his neighbourhood, or school. Even the attractive ones did not seem to be that confident. What was it that she…? * “Are you even listening? Do you know what you’ve done now?” * What year was that one? 1981? 1982? 83? No, maybe earlier. He remembered how dog-eared some of the pages were and the dress of the girl on the front. He thought about it all now with his father yells and the hand coming down. * She liked gentlemen who hold the door open for strangers, strawberries, science-fiction movies and books (Asimov and Bradbury), and suntans. She disliked rude people, B.O., and junk food. * His father did not stop at the moment he expected it to end. All he had done this time was look at the pictures, nothing else. He had known that his father would be home soon and if he had heard the car in the driveway; if he had heard the front door open… * No, this was different. He was almost done being a teenager. He had saved enough money to move to an apartment with a friend (that would cover at least two months, right?) He kept being told that he was an adult now (hard to see it at times). No girlfriend that mattered; just friends and his education… * Education…this was an education. His father was an education. This was pain and you could learn from this. * He was a man now. He remembered old tears and his whimpering at these kinds of moments. And now…there was nothing there. No, he was no longer feeling it; no tears or whimpers or moans. No, he could no longer feel this. A real discovery. * If he remembered correctly, the next one would be the last one. The last blow. Then a speech and some time apart to think about what he did. He was already thinking about things as his father slammed the front door and started the car. There was something else that needed to be done. * Was this unusual? * He had not really heard the last words. His father’s face had been close and he had smelled the cologne dying on his beard. There was a warning and threat of more pain and his weekend was now gone (again, not really a problem)… “Yes, dad.” * His father had left the room with the rolled up pages, straight down to the kitchen. He made another calculation. * He left the magazine in the kitchen. He did not bring it with him in the car. Now that made sense. He would not want to have it in the car and he would expect his son to return it where he found it. * “Clean up in here, too.” “Yes, dad.” * He heard the car leave. Kevin needed pen and paper for his plan. As he went through his dad’s side of the bedroom, he thought about it. His mother had a routine when she came home and this would work. * This would work. But, he would have to do this carefully. * His mother would be home and she would go right to the kitchen to get dinner ready. There were the pots and pans right under the counter. Yes, that was right. And his father, after checking up to see that his son had put things away, would be stuck in front of the TV waiting to eat. * This would work.

It would be better with the letter. * “Mom, Dad tried to hide this from me by putting it in the one place neither of us would look. I found it when he told me to clean up the house before you came home. I could not leave it in its hiding place without making sure that you knew about this, so I decided to leave it in the place where you would have to handle it.

My apologies, but you needed to know. And I think that you both have a lot to talk about.

I am done talking.” * In his room, Kevin locked the door and began to put things together in his suitcase. He knew that they would be home soon, but his noise-cancelling headphones would block out most of the noise, but he really wondered if he wanted to be around for this. He wanted to acknowledge this and take whatever came his way. Something was finished, and he was ready for it.


“I like you,” as he said this, he studied how the warm light reflected off her face. Her brown eyes embellished the burning light in a way that made them look like they belonged in the depths of some form of royal gold. Her expression was both wide-eyed and blank, she turned her face away looking back at the street with all the people dancing and laughing. Her profile looked more regal with the lights of the festival and the music giving way to her. “It’ll go away, believe me,” she tried to distract herself with the music. Her heart thudded in the bottom of her chest, as she felt his eyes study her like an old diagram. If she was ever good at hiding things, it was not in this moment. In each step she had taken with him, there were both guiding beams of sunlight that led her forward, but also signs that the sun would set on the affair between the two. Summer would be over soon and they would return to their normal lives. He moved closer and guided her face with his hands to look into his eyes. She would have jerked at this a few months ago or pulled away like a feral animal that was disturbed by human touch. Behind the hardened glass cover of her eyes was a softness that sat like a leaf on the surface of a pond. “It won’t,” he muttered in an attempt to prevent the argument he knew was coming. She grabbed his hands and lowered them away from her face gently, “I promise it-” “No. I told you it won’t.” His hands dropped to his side abruptly, a snort echoed out as his nostrils flared slightly. He felt agitated with her avoidance of his feelings, it was callous and chilling. “Why are you being so needlessly combative about this?!”

“Why are you being so needlessly pushy about this?” She shot back in retort to his former comment. The sparks that started between the two upon first meeting were now more apparent than ever. The push-and-pull dynamic of their bickering was something that became a draw for both of them, but held shines of a nuclear bomb ready to ignite and go off at any time.

“Because I-” “You what? You’d be deprived of another notch in your belt, another conquest?” She had memories flushing into her mind of the way he spoke about former lovers and the person he was previous to the situation, he was like a small fire that was too stubborn to be put out, even in the harshest of conditions. In all her attempts to escape what had developed within her, she found herself further entrapped in her struggle. A fight between her judgment and passion, wishing providence would allow safe passage. “Stop it!”He cried at her, she never understood how deeply her words cut and how brazen they were to his ego. Spending your entire life in comfort causes the first touch of a metallic and cold scalpel to truly be felt. Even if one’s intention were good, the words of the higher will were still the most terrifying reflection to see without preparation or appeal. “You clearly stated your history in early conversations, why wouldn’t I make some form of a judgment on it!” The young woman shouted, her eyes staring into his with depth and frustration before averting them once again. His gaze was still as burning as it had always felt in these past few months, whether it was out of frustration or bliss. He pulled her close to him, his eyes stared into hers, “I don’t want to be that way with you.” She could feel that small, unseeable, thread connect her to him. The steps and movements taking place in both their psychologies were all too apparent in eyes of the fighting half-couple. Bystanders across the street looked at them and without knowing the words being said could see that for the two people arguing it felt like a bomb was being dropped in their small world. “You say that now, but before too long you’ll get bored and go back to the way you were,” her heart broke as she said this, wanting to believe different. “So you can just judge me?” The boy asked, feeling accused and dismayed at the idea that he could never fully please her or meet the standards she set. The chasm between the two only seemed to widen at this realization and he felt something in him tear while another fought to mend it. “Everyone makes judgments, we make them every day of our life,” she said knowing it would be milliseconds before he snapped back. She wished it was easier to forget this happened, to feel his finger untwine from hers for the last time, for their gazes to no longer meet and her not desire him. In months, she would find herself falling asleep and saying small prayers to forget his face, at this point, it was like ripping a band-aid off. A painful task that needed to be done. “And why do you get to judge how I’ll behave in the future, why don’t you think I would change?!” His heart swelled, and rose-like thorns constricted at the constant analysis of her words. Whatever sensitivity that was covered in words of body counts and verbal ego boosts, was rearing its ugly head in face of her chastity. If she could take it away from him she would, and if he could remove her doubts he do so as well. The young woman finds herself on the verge of tears, in pain at the words coming from both of them. She found herself utilizing every muscle in her body to restrain it. “I don’t know if you would change! I don’t!” She wanted to take back what she said, but it was too late. Her sharp words had carved into him, far surpassing their usual level of playful banter. They probed him into a venom-laced act of pleading that everyone did when they were about to lose something. “But what if I will?” His eyes softened again, and the harsh voice in him ceased. He loomed over her as he could fall into her arms, his eyes begged her to stay and not leave him. It was painful that they were both here, but at least for him, he knew he would have done the same thing again. Approach her from across the room, bother her on the day-to-day, ask her questions and slowly feel a warmth between the two develop. A cycle of pain that he would choose to let happen even if given the chance to change. She allowed herself to lay a gentle hand on his arm, she avoided his glance at first and then looked into his eyes. “Listen, I like you, and I hope you will, but there are legitimate obstacles here.” “Like what?” He leaned closer, wanting to kiss her as she backed up a step. Her nerves felt wrecked in both a signal of affection and disdain. “A difference in temperament, a difference in the worlds we were raised in, a difference in relation to family, a difference in theology (in your case a lack of it), and most of all, a chasm between us in terms of spirituality.” Her list left part of him detonated, she had felt as if her intestine was being slowly pulled out of her body as she methodically listed each point. The lights in the back setting of the streets drew the gold tints out of her sad eyes, and he took notice of this. It stung him because the golden color they elicited would forever remind him of her. The warmth and proudness that was simultaneously displayed in her. She would sit with those big eyes gazing at you and also smugly take you down in a verbal battle. She was such a strange and otherworldly creature. One who was outside the bounds of what he had considered beautiful before this. His hands held her wrists as his thumbs made small circles around them. He looked back at her only to see those eyes taking him in as he was now. “I wish I could give you a reply that showed greater understanding, if I could bend you to see things my way, I would,”

he sighs. “If I could guide you with tenderness to see things on my end, I would.” “Can I believe that?” “I would walk that canyon to show you good if you would see it,” she said with longing behind her eyes. No tears were shed at the moment but that night they would be. He took her hand as if imitating the small thread that would link them together in a chaotic cross of paths. “I can't believe we’re arguing over this,” he said out loud, looking into her eyes with pleading earnestness that could emerge amongst long hours together and summer heatwaves. I can’t believe I let this happen


Jay stared at the illustrious NY Times Crossword Puzzle. Besting one of these bad boys brings all the glory, gold, and girls that should come with such an accomplishment, and Jay was especially interested in the lady part (and their lady parts). Of course, using pencil is what the lesser heroes did. Finishing a genuine NY Time Crossword Puzzle with all the smudges of hundreds of mistakes and second thoughts smeared across every square, garnered no respect whatsoever. Jay would be spit on, literally by the Spit Brigade, if he were to finish such a glorious and powerful etymological challenge like the NY Times Crossword Puzzle using something as pathetic and limp dicked as a pencil. It makes me want to spit just thinking about a man, or someone who dares to call himself a man, to actually go through with such an act. Disgusting coward. Pitiful wretch. Imprudent rat. That's why Jay uncapped his good pen, the pen gifted to him by his grandfather for his timely passing into the afterlife. Oh, Jay's Grandfather, completer of over twenty NY Times Crossword Puzzles in pen, and boldly, a few of those puzzled were marked with perfection with an ultrafine tip Sharpie marker in the devious shade of crimson twilight. Yes, Jay's Grandfather was lauded for that accomplishment. In his hometown, he never had to pay for another spaghetti dinner again, a perk passed down to his progeny. Jay's belly was freshly full of spaghetti, grandfather earned spaghetti, as he inhaled deeply the still potent fumes of that crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker. A giddiness washed over him, and he couldn't help but giggle with boyish excitement. The rush of adrenaline filled his loins like a spilled bowl of spicy chili soaking into a pair of grey sweatpants. He gathered himself with a sharp exhale of pure focus, whistling slightly. *Mathematical relation like 2:1 or 4:3* "Ratio" *Growing older* "Aging" *Small, to the French* "Petit" With each correct answer, Jay became more confident. He was standing now, hunched over his kitchen table with his shirt unbuttoned. The clues were practically solving themselves now. He felt like a genius savant with some sort of divine birthright to solve and conquer any and all NY Times Crossword Puzzles with ease. Unbridled laughter escaped his open mouth and wide grin. *Framework of wood strips* "LATTICE!" *View from Toledo (2 wds.)* "LAKEERIE!!" *Political cartoon, often* "SATIRE!!!" Jay was feeling bold now with so many clues solved. He recklessly picked and chose clues at random without even considering acrosses and downs and the relationships between. There was no need for other clues to help with future clues. Jay could solve this entire puzzle completely uncrossed. The dark red ink soaked into the paper page as if each word were a blood pact made by Jay. A pact, perhaps, that wagered his very soul for the glory of completion. In his fervor, Jay completely tore loose his shirt and discarded it in the trash where it belonged. The sleeves only restricting his possessed arm. Sweat glistened on his increasingly more toned and muscled body. Was this the rush his Grandfather felt each time? Was this what it felt like to be a God amongst mere mortals? Yes, it had to be. The powerful, knobby knuckles of his Grandfather’s ghost hands cupped Jay’s burgeoning shoulders, squeezing with them with an ethereal strength of familial pride. He had left a VIP Heaven Party to descend into the mortal realm in this incorporeal form to watch his grandson, the boy he left behind, no, not a boy anymore, but a full grown man, burly in intellect and whip quick of hand. Yes, Jay’s grandfather smiled and whispered encouraging vapors into Jay’s burning ears. Jay hardly gave pause to the next clue. *Kitchen item* "PAN!!!!" As he stroked the last vertical line of the "N", something didn't feel right. Jay quickly scanned the other clues. His stomach dropped. "If 46 across is *One who gives up* 'QUITTER' then that means the kitchen item can't be 'PAN'... No... no, no, no..." Jay's knees gave way and buckled. The weight of the moment quite literally got to him. He collapsed onto the cold, so much colder than he remembered, tile floor of the kitchen. He stammered to himself, "I should have put 'POT'... I should have... I... No... I couldn't have..." His grandfather's pen capped itself in a sudden show of sentience. Obviously, Jay was deemed unworthy, unfit, downright undeserving of wielding such a relic. The kitchen rumbled and hissed. The table legs exploded, sending wooden shrapnel in every direction. Jay shielded his eyes, but his shirtless body caught a bevy of splinters. They sunk into his skin, stinging mockingly. The puzzle itself glowed harshly and emitted a high-pitched alarm. Jay held his ears in pain until eventually the blaring was enough to destroy his ability to perceive that particular pitch ever again. Just moments ago, he felt fit and strong, but now his muscles ached and weakened. The kitchen fell silent aside from the clattering of dishes from the rumbling. The friendly apparition of the Grandfather himself then twisted into that of an agonized demon and was swiftly ripped to hell, but not before cursing Jay with vile inhuman speech in tongues unknown, in which he made sure Jay’s final image of his own highly-regarded, well-celebrated hero of a Grandfather was that of one of pure contempt and hatred for the boy, a man no more. Encumbered by the weight of his own hubris having fallen so far, sunk so low, Jay crawled out of the kitchen. He apologized to his grandfather, to his father, to any all generations that may follow him. He made a mistake. He foolishly played with forces he could not control. The sirens were outside and fast approaching his abode. The NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force. The death squad smashed open Jay's front door, sending more splinters into Jay's naked and withering body. Their stately dress of corduroys and cardigans betrayed their cruel and relentless nature. Their punishment for incorrectly answering clues in pen in their puzzle was swift, vicious, and absolute. Before the tip of Jay's crimson twilight ultrafine tip Sharpie marker even finished Jay's foolhardy answer, the death squad was already gearing up. A large slab of beef, a man as thick and imposing as they come, adjusted his thick turquoise shell glasses so that the glare obscured his cruel eyes. He raised a very clean shotgun to Jay’s pallid, scared face and boomed a statement. "Citizen 06191114: JAY, For the reprehensible and audacious act of attempting to complete a NY Times Crossword Puzzle using a Class 1C writing utensil, and for committing such act with egregious error in answer, we, with the power bestowed upon us by Supreme Emperor of the NY Times, sentence you to death, effective immediately. You may scrawl your last words here before execution." The leader of the death squad tossed a simple sheet of copy paper and a newly sharpened pencil at Jay, who was kneeling pathetically on his knees. His head was hung low. The execution may very well have been a welcome release from the shame and misery his wallowed in. Jay feebly grasped the pencil which snapped under even the slightest of pressure. The death squad opened fire on Jay, relentlessly emptying every shotgun shell in their fully loaded guns into his wilting body. His flesh and bones and face and limbs were blown away utterly and completely. With their work done, the NY Times Crossword Puzzle Police Force marched out Jay's home and back into their tank. A peaceful breeze blew the unmarked sheet of paper over the pulpy remains of Jay. Such is the risk we all take when we do the NY Times Crossword Puzzle in Pen.


November 21, 2022 I’ve got a theory I don’t like. What if there’s a very real chance that the powered flyby we’re doing today could have something go wrong with it. Alarms sounding, the ship burning too slow and falling ever closer to the lunar surface, or burning too hard or too long and flinging Orion, and just as importantly me, on a course out towards deep space. What if NASA did yesterday’s training just on the off chance they needed to get me a little used to alarms going off, and following Mark’s instructions? That’s a big part of my thinking as I make my final preparations before the burn. The moon’s getting really big, really quickly, enough so that there’s actually the impression of “falling” towards it - which is super cool. The most dramatic part or the burn ends up being the view. I’m only 80 nautical miles away at the closest and it’s literally right there. After seeing the moon as a thumb sized ball your whole life when you’re this close it really looks like you could just jump down. I’m going to lose radio contact with NASA as I pass into the lunar shadow and can hear the smile in Mark’s voice when he wishes me a safe 2 hours 36 minutes of radio silence. He had a joke in mind but decided not to say it. It’s a long time to just sit and feel like you’re alone. I’d never really thought of space as “lonely” but there it is. Basically, since day 2 of this mission I’ve been further away from any other human being than anyone has ever been. On the far side of the moon, radio to Earth blocked, it is like being lost at sea. The view keeps me occupied for about a half hour. I take a look for Webb, not that I expect to see it. The James Webb space telescope is, on any pen and paper diagram of the earth and moon, just a few inches further off beyond the moon from earth. In practice that’s more thousands of miles than I can see. But still, it’s “right there”. I eat a Skor bar, using my precious - only get one set in my adult life - teeth to grind caramel and sugar into small enough chunks for me to swallow. And then I read a book. It only half helps. Starship Troopers is an interesting read though - especially when contrasted with the movie. Should people have to demonstrate a willingness to put the collective good ahead of their individual benefits in order to vote? Or are we all on this ship of state together and so it’s important for everyone to get a say in its operations? 2 hours 35 minutes later and the master alarm hasn’t gone off, and I’ve got radio back. NASA’s crunching the numbers to see how it went, but they seem happy with heir first set of readings. “We’ve got a good insertion Alex!” Mark’s got a gentle drawl, like his tongue is in no real hurry to get the words out. “You watching the video upload from radio shadow? The moon looks amazing. I half expected to spot Webb.” I leave out the intentional self-distraction. I can hear the engineers buzzing in the background of the radio. It sounds like each and every single one of them just got a promotion, a bonus, and a text from a crush telling them that they loved them. “Hell Alex, between you and me, right this second, I’m jealous as hell of you,” Mark said. Ouch, that hurt. I honestly thought I deserved this. It was all I’d ever wanted since I was a little damn kid. I’d spent my summers at high school at science camps and dreaming about space, I’d gotten a damn degree in aerospace engineering with damn honors, I’d given NASA three years of my life working for them instead of founding a tech start-up (btw. It would have been called Clarity. An online science repository where studies are organized and cross posted and tracked by topic. Say coffee. You open the entry, and the first thing is the most compelling meta analysis of coffee’s overall health effects, then sub articles about its most significant individual effects. Someone writes a new study about coffee increasing the risk of colorectal disease? It has to “beat” the other studies already up about that in order to get posted. The idea is, you want the state of the art on coffee and you’ve got the top articles right there, and you can zoom in with greater and greater detail revealing more, and more, niche studies, but all of them the leading ones. Science “news” can happen when something in that top line changes.) Anyways… I hadn’t done that. Instead, I’d tried for this. And I got a form letter saying that unfortunately, due to the “keen interest in the astronaut program, many well-qualified applicants such as myself,” didn’t get in. But Moonikin did? An empty seat on the one trip I ever wanted to take. I did, honestly, think I deserved it. Now all I can think about is how Mark must feel exactly the same way, except he got even closer. Yet here I am, and there he is. I cheated and got what he wanted. Everyone at NASA must feel like that. I’m such an asshole. I give things a few hours back at NASA to calm down. They’d be having champagne and enjoying the win. Mission control might not even be too crowded. “Mark?” “Yeah, how’s it go’in up there buddy?” He didn’t sound like he’d been drinking. Probably on shift. I couldn’t hear much in the background anymore. “Can you do me a favor? I’m going to need a lawyer for when I get back. Think you could find me someone?” There’s a long pause at that. “NASA wants to keep you being up there kind of close to the chest for the time being. This is kind of their moment in the sun, and they’d rather not have clouds right now.” “Yeah… No problem.” If NASA were asking for a favor, I definitely owed them a few billion. “Hey, look on the bright side. So far the mission’s been going off without a hitch. You’re due a mission glitch, and maybe it saves you the worry of a trial.” The funny thing about the radio, if you say something, then cringe at having said it, the person on the other line will have a hard time knowing. I very much heard Mark cringe. He must have had a couple of glasses of champagne after all. But hey, I don’t believe in bad luck or jinxes. You hear that God? I dare you to do something to me! Smite me! See? Still alive and unsmitten. Smitted. Whatever, I’m an engineer not a linguist. Still… I’d kind of deserve it. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). *Artemis I Has A Stowaway* is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


With every sound of the door opening, Emily’s heart stopped for a second. Every time she lifted her head and stared at the door with the hope that the person for whom she was waiting for finally came. But then with a deep sigh, she continued reading the menu while hesitating if she made the right decision to come. She hasn’t seen her dad since her parents got divorced, she stayed with her mom, and her dad left with another woman. She ordered a big cup of herbal tea to get warm. She came earlier so she didn’t want to sit there without any drink, food, or company like a freak. Her feet were getting cold from the frosty breeze crawling from the door. It was a snowy winter morning and the only thing glowing through the snowstorm were shop signs, traffic and street lights, and last but not least, thousands of little shiny Christmas lights surrounding the city. The snow was creaking under the legs of people courageous enough to step out of their houses in such weather. „Hi Emily, “, said the man standing on her left covered in clothes as if he was headed to the North Pole. Emily didn’t even notice him coming while she was gazing through the window adorned with rime. "You came… Hi” Her dad joined her by the table. They were both looking around the place and trying to think about something that wouldn't sound dumb to say at that moment. He was tapping his fingers on the wooden table when Emily interrupted this endless and excruciating silence "So why did you want to meet after all this time, dad?". He knew he deserved that harsh and confused tone of her voice. “I…” his voice cracked “I want to be a part of your life. But, of course, only if you want me to”. It sounded more stupid than in his head. He didn’t know what he was doing when he decided to call Emily and ask her to meet him to talk. And he was almost completely sure she wouldn’t even answer the phone, not to say that she would agree to come to this vintage café. And she had all the right to do so. He knew he screwed up their relationship badly when he left with Josie when he and Emily’s mother got divorced. Emily was just 11 years old. At first, he was visiting her every weekend, then every other weekend, then only once a month and at some point, he stopped seeing her completely. The only thing he kept on doing was sending her birthday and Christmas cards. He watched her and he could tell by her face that her brain was on fire. “I’m sorry I’m confused. You know, it was a long time ago that we even spoke.” She took a sip from her tea and got her tongue burned a little but she didn’t even notice. Every kid wants to spend time with their parents. But what should anyone do in a situation like this one? To run out of the place and slam the door? To reproach him for what he did, for all those times she cried because of him? To refuse his offer and not to let him in her life when he finally wants to be there for her? Or … To forgive? “Are you sure you want this?” she sighed because she remembered vividly how many times his actions caused her sorrows “Because if you are not completely sure about this then there is no point in even trying” She predicted what he would say. Of course, he wants to become a real dad now. That’s what he’ll say. But will he keep his word or will it end the same way as it ended 6 years ago? Nobody can tell her what is going to happen. Nobody can predict if her dad will truly change. But it isn’t right to not even try because she is afraid of a letdown, tears, anger, or sadness that might come. She looked at his dad, but he could tell by her eyes, her beautiful amber eyes, that she is willing to meet him again. He pulled himself together and answered decisively “I moved back here to Prague. Me and Josie. We got an apartment just a few minutes by bus from here. Yes, I’m sure. I wouldn't come here if I wasn't.” He caught a slight smile on her face and that made him even more determined. Never could he lose his little girl again. The guilt for abandoning her was ceaselessly expanding. He tried to chase away those thoughts, waiting for what she was going to say.

“One chance,” she said and started putting her coat on. “If you’ll screw it up again, that’s it, no more excuses”. She pulled out an agenda from her bag, asked her dad for a pen, and quickly wrote something. Then she said the last thing and walked out to the snowstorm “Friday, pick me up at 7 p.m. Don’t be late.” She came back from the door as she forgot something. "And Merry Christmas" she added, now with a soft smile on her face and danced away. When she got lost in the tangle of people rushing with their heads pressed to their chest, he just sat there for another 10 minutes with his mind full of hope. He put his cap on and walked down the street. There was a family, parents with two kids, one girl and one boy, all holding each other’s hands. The girl was almost too alike his daughter, Emily. All these memories from her childhood started to come back. Her first words, their first Christmas as a family, him trying to teach her how to ride a bike …

A big tear flew down his cheeks red from the cold. But it wasn’t a sad tear. At least not completely. Even though he was walking in the opposite direction than her daughter, he knew that soon their paths will cross again. And everything will be okay.


Harold Nussbaum, a jeweler, has spent the last fifty years of his life running his jewelry store. He had always imagined retiring to a life of luxury, traveling the world on his private yacht, and sipping tropical drinks on sandy beaches. Serafina, Harold's wife, got increasingly impatient and restless over the years, eventually convincing Harold to retire after years of nagging and threatening to leave. But there was one problem: he had never invested, and his business was constantly teetering above the brink of insolvency. His wife had no idea how bad things were. She would spend her nights fantasizing about vacations, cruise ships, and winters in Florida, whereas Harold could barely afford winters in Trenton, New Jersey, where his house mortgage would be underwater in a matter of months. With his last day approaching, the business was certainly his most valuable asset. Unfortunately, he had begun discreetly replacing some diamonds with glass and some gold with imitation gold plating over the past five years. This was another reason he wanted to retire; it was just a matter of time before he was caught. Harold was sitting in his store, staring at a bank account with such a low interest that it didn't even round up to a cent, when he got an idea. He'd stage a fake robbery, collect the insurance money, and make up for all his cheating with one large final payday. Harold was excited with his idea and set about putting it into action. First, he needed to cast actors in the roles of robbers. He advertised on Craigslist for actors for a short film. It didn't take long for a band of wannabe thespians and hopefuls to knock on his door. He wrote "Grand Heist," a short screenplay with a final heist scene to take place in the store in front of all the security cameras. To keep up with appearances, he also rented lights, audio equipment, and cameras. Harold chose three actors from a group who agreed to work for free and not ask too many questions. They would gather after hours in the store to rehearse their lines and plan the shoot. "What is my motivation for robbing the store?" One of the performers inquired. "You're after the jewels," Harold responded. "Yes, but what is happening with my character beneath the surface?" “Nothing, you don’t have jewels; you want jewels, so you rob a place with jewels.” As he moved about the set, the actor kept his fist under his chin. “Are we feeling a Sidney Lumetesk heist like Dog Day Afternoon or a more sophisticated trickster vibe of the Thomas Crown Affair?” Harold is confused and replies, "the idea is simple: you burst into the store, demand all the jewelry, and leave." "I don't think my character would rob this bank," said a female actor. "It's a jewelry store," Harold said. "Will this film be listed on IMDB?" The third actor spoke out. "Yes, that's a valid question; will there be a make-up trailer?" The female actress chimed in. “Make-up? You’ll be wearing a mask for the robbery?” Harold responded. "Yes, but under the mask, I want to look my best because you never know who will see this," she replied. Harold shook his head and sighed. This was not going according to plan. He had assumed that hiring some actors, practicing a few lines, and then collecting the insurance money would be simple. However, these performers seemed more concerned with their characters and IMDB credentials than with actually helping him with the heist. Despite his reservations, Harold continued with the rehearsals. He knew he had to get this right. The insurance company would never pay out if the robbery did not appear to be genuine. They were finally ready to shoot the film after a few more rehearsals. Harold's heart was beating as he waited for the actors to arrive on the day of the robbery. When they arrived, he gave them a pep talk in an attempt to boost their confidence and get them ready for the big scene. "All right, guys," he began, "we've practiced this a hundred times. Everything will be fine if you just stick to the script." When they finally burst into the store, guns, and masks at the ready, Harold couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. However, things immediately went wrong. When one of the actors slipped and fell, he knocked over a display case and shattered a collection of real, rare, and precious diamonds. Another actor began talking incoherently about his unsuccessful acting career after forgetting his lines. In a panic, the third actor snatched one bag of costume jewelry instead of all the genuine jewels and made a clumsy escape. His plan had completely gone off the rails, and he knew it was only a matter of time until the insurance investigator uncovered it. Harold devised a different plan in order to save this cluster of a plan from disaster. He would steal the remaining jewels and attempt to convince the investigator that the robbers stole much more than one bag. He put all of the bags into the store's basement, where there was hidden room behind a false wall. Harold paid the actors and told them the film would be released in a couple of months, even though he never planned to release anything. They invited him to the rap party, but he had to contact the police and the insurance company first. Donnie Williams, the insurance investigator, logged all of the stolen jewelry and noted that he should receive a check after completing the investigation. Harold also offered the police an edited version of the film in which the actors robbed the store. Detective Morris, a basset hound when it came to solving crimes, was on the case, but Harold wasn't worried. As Detective Morris got closer to the truth, he confronted Harold with discrepancies in the heist video. Harold had no choice but to bash him in the head with a hammer and put his body in the basement with the jewels. Donnie Williams, the investigator, overhears one of the actors talking about the heist film at a bar one night. Donnie plays it coy. The actor tells him about the short film and describes the intricate narrative and connected character development written by the director Harold Nussbaum. Donnie is more interested in the final robbery scene described by the actor. Donnie pays a visit to Harold after speaking with the actor. Harold panics with all the jewels and a dead body in the basement and reveals that the film will be ready by tomorrow. Donnie returns the next day to attend the “movie premiere.” Despite some good editing, Donnie detects similarities between the final robbery scene and the jewelry store heist. Harold becomes scared and chokes the investigator with a gold chain. Harold places the dead body in the basement alongside the other. Harold's world is closing in on him. The police searched for missing detective Morris, leading them to Harold's jewelry store. Harold had only wanted to make a few dollars to retire, but it got out of hand, and he turned into a serial killer. He admitted what he did, and the police arrested him. Tuesday night is movie night in Davisville Penitentiary, and the award-winning short film "Grand Heist" is playing this week. The director is in cell block D, so everyone is looking forward to this one.


This is chapter one of a prompt from the writing prompt subreddit. I hope you enjoy it :) \ Pono screamed, pulling her hair as she gripped it tighter and tighter, her disheveled hair covering her eyes. She looked down at the pentagram on the floor. It was a mess. The lines are not straight, and the candle wax leaks into the cracks of the hardwood floor. She tried everything and every single god she could think of, after mindless amounts of gods and goddesses. Pono was going to give up. What she wanted wasn’t that bad either. Her wish wasn’t even that selfish at all. It was for the betterment of humans or animal kind in this case. The wish was simply to talk to animals and be able to read minds. She hated seeing people sad or upset, even angry sometimes. The world should be a better place, instead of this insane world we live in. Insane, Insanity? She reached out for the book of gods and goddesses that lay on the floor, covered in her own blood. Rapidly flipping through the pages, it landed on the page that she needed. “Lyssa, Goddess of Insanity.” her last hope to achieve her harder-to-reach dream. The instructions were the clearest compared to the other deities, and Pono followed every last instruction to the tee. After a couple of hours of cleaning up the room, she gripped the book and looked down. Cover the walls with bloody smiley faces, and add teeth to complete the smile! A knife gripped her opposite hand, and she stabbed into her fingertips. She winced in pain as blood dripped down her fingers. Then she started painting the smiling face across the room, a simple twin parallel line. After a couple of minutes, a grinning mouth with shark teeth littered the room. The book mentioned something about having twenty of the five on each wall. Pono’s fingers left the mouth, the last one done. Admiring her work slightly, she heard faint laughing. Draw on the floor with black wax, a large circle with two lines—one slightly longer and the other. Then draw a mouth with no teeth, it’ll do the rest. What will do the rest? No matter, Pono thought to herself as she grabbed a black candle. She lit the wick of the candle and gripped it. The wax leaked. Her hands moved on their own, following the first step of drawing it in a circle. Then, a parallel line next to each other with a mouth underneath it. The wax started dripping from the circle. She saw nothing wrong with it. Then the room spun. She lost her balance and collapsed on the floor. Teeth started growing from the mouth and clanking together. Grinning, the mouth laughed, laughter. Constant laughter filled the room as she gripped her neck, tears rolling down her eyes. How is she supposed to finish the rest of the steps? Spinning and spinning, her hand reached out for the book and pulled it close to her. Her eyes read over the page. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood. Blood, Blood.  What is this? Blood? Do what with the blood? She fell on her back and gripped her hair and screamed, her voice aching as she panted. The knife, Pono needed the knife. Her hand reached out and gripped it shakily before ritualistically slashing her hand. Blood gushed from her hand and poured over her mouth. The teeth seemed realistic as they seemed to absorb into the teeth. Everything went silent as the laughter and spinning slowly stopped. Pono puffed, her breath heaving as spit escaped her mouth. Her vision steadied as she looked at the blood-covered floor, the mouth opening on the floor as the blood drizzled down the hole. Hole? Why is there a hole? Why does it smell so pungent? What’s floating in the air like that? Why is a lady floating up in her room? The lady had silky black hair with yellow and red strands in her hair. A dress that flowed down to her legs, a beautiful dress the color of red with black broken hearts decorating the dress. Her face was beautiful, perfectly sculpted, like the deity she is. “Oh my, you actually summoned the great Lyssa. Now, what do you wish for? What shall I grant?” Pono’s eyes went wide. Her bleeding hand seemed non-existent as she stared at the deity in front of her. “It worked, it actually worked.” She broke out in a mutter, gripping her hair. The insanity was still present in her body, slowly gaining control of herself. “I” she paused and breathed in. “The ability to read minds and talk to animals, I just want to help people out!” She shouted with the little conviction she had left. Was it even worth it in the end? Lyssa put her finger on her lip before staring down with a smirk, “Sure thing! I’ll glad a follower of mine would already ask me for a power!” Her lips curled up into a large smirk, she hovered towards her new devotee. Stabbing a finger into Pono’s head, yellow energy crackled down her fingertips as it entered her body. This same energy crackled across her body, and Pono screamed once again. Then she heard everything, the voices of everyone and everything. Nonstop chatting, the voices already won’t stop. “Take it back..” She lowly muttered to the goddess, grabbing the arm still attached to her forehead. “I’m sorry, what would make me think I can handle this?” Maniacal laughter escaped the mad goddess in front of her, loud laughter. The laughter made it even worse, voices growing louder and louder. Crying and shouting, so many emotions ran rampant through her mind. “I got an idea. What if I make the voices stop?” she shakily grabbed the knife and raised it in the air. Pono reeled across the room and threw open the door, leaving her spare room and walking across the apartment. Lyssa was puzzled by this reaction. However, she silently hovered behind one of her only followers. Narrowing her eyes, she watched her leave the room. Looking around, she watched as she banged on the door, muttering the name of the occupant. Said the occupant threw open the door and Pono lunged at them, stabbing them through the heart. Then kept stabbing and stabbing into the body, tearing it apart. “One of them stopped talking! If I keep this up, I can stop all of them around me!” Pono shakily shouted, looking at Lyssa with disdain. “I’m going to murder this entire city and leave your mark at each.” She muttered, her eyes glowing a slight yellow. Her fingers were dipped into the victim's blood and painted the enormous mouth she used to summon earlier. “All of this for little old me?” She smiled evilly and reached out a put two fingers into her neck. A smaller smiley face appeared on her neck. “Now go get started, my acolyte! I’ll be watching you.


“I am Cap’n Cutlass of the ship Golden Plunderer, an’ I’m in the mood for mischief.” The ale house fell suddenly silent at the large, bearded pirate blocking the only exit from the building. “I have conquered the seven seas, outfought the English Navy, and outrun the fastest of Spanish galleons. Who here can challenge my prowess of the sea?” Drinking, eating, cavorting suddenly ground to a nervous halt. Cutlass was notoriously unpredictable. Rumoured to have once cut a man’s ear off for not listening to what he had to say, added to the pirate Captain’s cruel reputation. “ If he could cut the ear off a man, what else is he capable of doing? ” Clandestine conversations would play out in quiet murmurs behind closed doors. The consensus was that if you ever found yourself trapped in the company of Captain Cutlass, you’d better have a good story to earn your release. Unsheathing his swashbuckling sword from his side, the irritated pirate waved it in circular motions above his head. “I say it again, I am Captain Cutlass of the ship The Golden Plunderer…” Just then, a voice from the back of the room mockingly shouted out, “That be better known as The Golden Blunderer , I’d say,” the male voice taunted. “Search for gold, but find only wasted time,” the gibe added. Without any noticeable command, a parting wave of the ale house’s clientele created a clear path directly from Cutlass to a heavily bearded and long-haired man of advanced years, sitting at a booth in one corner of the room - vociferously masticating on a meaty leg of some misfortunate cooked beast, and slurping down a flagon of ale from a pewter-coloured tankard. Immediately, the two wiry-looking bookends standing next to Cutlass made a straight line to intercept the insulting drunkard. Ignoring the two henchmen, the man casually continued his meal, unaware of the approaching Captain Cutlass. “Who be you, then?” Cutlass menacingly enquired. “I be no-one,” was the dismissive reply. “Then who be your ship?” The drunkard responded with, “The Harpoon.” A few gasps of incredulity filled the surrounding air, as Cutlass’s cynical laugh pre-empted his real thoughts. “The Harpoon, ye say. How be you here - when the Harpoon lies at the bottom of Skeleton Island?” Glugging down a wash of ale, the drunkard retorted, “I’m a good swimmer.” A few moments elapsed before Cutlass burst into a roaring laugh. “Harghh! Ye be funnier than an English Navy officer pissin’ his britches while walking the plank.” Nodding his head in agreement, the drunkard added, “Not all of it sank.” “Say you,” Cutlass suspiciously noted. “Aye, say me.” “Pray tell how a ship that sinks, does not sink.” Whatever shock and awe Cutlass had created upon his entrance to the ale house, was quickly replaced with a highly inquisitive, almost nosey air of intrigue among its customers and staff. “As the crow flies, so does its nest,” the cryptic answer intrigued Cutlass. “Say you a riddle?” Cutlass confusedly thought out loud. “Nay, you inexperienced scallywag,” the drunkard insulted. “High above the swabbed deck on the main mast was where I clinged desperately onto – after the Leviathan took out our lower decks, while everyone slept.” “Leviathan, you say… Why such a monstrous name, you old salt?” “As God is my witness, this abomination of nature had two heads .” Another round of gasps filled the captive audience of enthralled malingerers wanting to hear more, as they slowly crowded around the booth. “Ere, What was a whaler ship doing in these waters, far away from its hunting grounds?” Cutlass doubted the incongruity of the drunkard’s story to the point of impulsive irritation. He felt there was only one way to get some form of definitive answers from the obtuse man, so he decided to invoke an uncommon old pirate decree. “Under God’s witness and those of you within range,” he began. “I call on the pirate’s creed of seek and thee shall find . This scurvy riddler has a tale to tell and I swear that if he does not abide by our pirate law, then I will run him through with my dagger, mount him on an open spit-roast and cook him alive.” The rule of truth-be-told being cited in public, raised a few eyebrows among the crowd. A rarity, it created a murmur of questionable integrity within the room. However, the pursuit of bounty in the waters surrounding the pirate enclave of Nassau, made obscure demands, a necessity of wayward seafarers sailing on the wrong side of maritime law. “If any one of you grog-snarfing swines try and leave afore I be told what needs to be told, come the morn, you’ll find yerselves kissing crabs at the bottom O’ the bay.” Turning to the drunkard, Cutlass reiterated his question. “I ask you again on the threat of grievous harm, what was a whaler ship doing so far away from its hunting grounds?” Mulling over the consequences of not answering, the drunkard thought long and hard before capitulating. “We were chasing the infamous gold of Davy Jones,” he continued - much to the chagrin of Captain Cutlass. Like a weaving raconteur, the drunkard beckoned everyone closer. “Gather closely, my friends, for this is no imaginary fable of sea monsters. This is a first-hand account from the man that survived its angry jaws… You see, this whale had been talked of far and wide in the northern hemisphere. Of how it migrated south and west on its journey to its breeding grounds. Along the way, Davy Jones’s ship, The Flying Dutchman, encountered the abhorrent beast and took a fancy to capturing it for posterity’s sake. But being equipped neither with harpoon, nor sufficient means to catch it, all Davy’s makeshift spikes did, was enrage the beast beyond reason, and it angrily turned the ship over, sending Davy and all that sailed under him, to a watery grave. In its duplicitous anger, it swallowed whole; several chests of great fortune plundered from the Spanish. It was said that salvage crews looking for the booty never found it and thought it lost forever. However, a merchant ship later spotted the whale, and its crew relayed later, that when it spouted water from its blow hole, the ship was showered in doubloons and pieces of eight. From there on, the legend was born, and any whaling ship not dutifully engaged in hunting, headed south in search of the treasure held within the belly of that two-headed giant.” Slamming the flat side of his sword onto the wooden table, Captain Cutlass had heard enough. “Belay that yarn, you blabber-mouthed seadog. Why, I’ll run you through just to shut you up from spouting your elongated lies. How did your whaling ship get destroyed by something it was built to kill?” Undeterred by the captain’s threat, the drunkard continued his story. “It was on my watch,” the drunkard explained. “Whilst my attention was on the crashing surf beyond anchorage, below the water line, he exacted his premeditated revenge on the ship that stuck him so penetratingly deep. You see, we all thought he was lost to us, but undetected to anyone aboard, he remained unknowingly tethered to us, and had continued to craftily swim directly below us. It was as if he knew that we would not realise he was there. Then, after we anchored for the night, just beyond the mouth to the island, he exacted his revenge upon us all, dragging us onto the jagged rocks, where all but one soul on board… me … perished beyond resuscitation. The break-up of the ship freed him to swim away, but mortally wounded, he finally succumbed to his injuries, and washed ashore in one of the watery caves of the island.” “If what you say is true,” Cutlass’s unconvinced tone asked. “How can ye prove it?” Without hesitation, the drunkard pulled a leather pouch from inside his coat and plonked it onto the table. To everyone’s amazement, several gold doubloons fell out beside the bag’s draw-stringed opening. “Marooned, I was, on that island for three long years. I had swum to shore the morning after the sinking and made my way up the cliffs to seek out help. But the island was uninhabited. Fortunately, there was plenty of water, fruit, fish, and firewood to be had, so I survived on my wits alone. After nearly ten months unchallenged by adventure, curiosity took me back down the cliffs toward the caves. Over several months, I had observed a high level of shark activity and knew they had found the whale’s carcass. When the sharks no longer mingled, I took it upon myself to answer the legend’s question. To shorten this story, what you see on the table before ye, is a small sample of what I found.” “Where be the rest?” Cutlass menacingly demanded to know. “Hidden, still in the cave where I found it. But if you insist on pointing that cold, sharp steel at me then heed my words and listen closely, for I alone know the way to the treasure.” Running out of tolerable patience, Cutlass slammed his fist hard onto the table. “You will tell all, you long-in-the-tooth Picaroon. Seek and ye shall find has been invoked.” Disturbed by the captain’s threat, the drunkard answered in the only way old seafarers could. In dramatic rhyme. “Hear ye, hear ye, ahoy, I say! For I tell this only once to be remembered and recalled once over to not be forgot. This be the law of the pirate creed.” With all ears straining to hear his words, the drunkard began his soliloquy.

“ I shall tell ye a tale Of the two-headed whale That swallowed a treasure of note It died on a tide Trapped perilously inside Of a cave where it started to bloat Its carcass ripped bare By sharks with no care All that remains are its bones And inside that tall frame I discovered a chest, with a name That said property of old Davy Jones Though tall and farfetched This tale is not stretched For there’s only one man that knows where Treasure abounds below stone icicle surrounds On an island one hundred yards square Neither North nor due South This chest of great douth Will blow the great wind that you need Head not East but sail West Navigate at your best You fowl stench of inbred dickweeds For at precisely ten bells When you hear the death knell Of Skeleton Island cry out Hug the shore of the sound Go straight - not around Not once, but twice come about When the mouth is agape Reel in your main cape Drop anchor then cast off your oars Look not up but see down When the tide starts to frown Then row as the false tide withdraws But beware the sixth wave That deceives the fooled knave It will pull you so hard till you burst For your lungs cannot keep Enough air for that deep Ne’er you fatally succumb to its curse A point on my map Shows the cave’s narrow gap Get through it and tales will be told Of the pirate that sought And back he did brought The legend of Davy Jones gold Should you fair live and well defeat the cave’s spell and come upon what you so seek Beware the sharp bite Of a low stalagtite So bring lanterns that light for a week Only one soul before Can say that he saw The contents that locker contains And to stay undisturbed Its location unheard He buried it wrapped up in ship’s chains A crow that flies not and a sail full of rot marks X as the place of the chest dig there under foot for the gold Spanish loot lies under the washed-up bird’s nest Naysayers will mock That there is no such rock Nor an island that shelters such riches but the wind that blows west I wholeheartedly confess Will grant your desires and blind wishes .”

The total absence of movement or chatter among the room’s inhabitants, demonstrated the intensity of the drunkard’s words, leaving everyone but the pirate captain in a daydream of finding treasure. Cutlass, had absorbed every word and confirmed this by asking one straightforward, single question. “Where be your map?” Emptying the remaining contents of the pouch onto the table, the drunkard slowly removed the leather stitching that held the purse together. Flattening it out on the sticky table, he faced the inside of the pouch up for everyone to see. Captain Cutlass’s eyes lit up when he realised that on the inside of the pouch was a detailed sketch of a map depicting the location on Skeleton Island, where the cave system was that held the buried treasure. “Do you believe me, now?” The drunkard arrogantly demanded. Plucking the map from the table, Cutlass examined it closely. Realising the weight of the convincing evidence presented to him, his temperament grew slightly darker. “What be, if I just take this from you and still mount your head on a spike?” “Please take it,” the drunkard surprisingly replied. “I have all I need from that cursed box. My life was a living hell of loneliness on that island, so I never want to return there. If you want to risk your men, your ship, and yourself, then go now, before the ship that rescued me, realises the source of the payment I gave them for bringing me here. All I ask is that you leave me unharmed to finish my meal and let me enjoy a quiet life amongst my new friends.” Still not completely convinced, Cutlass had one final question. “What if you have emptied the chest and there’s nothing there when we find it?” “I am bound to your pirate oath,” replied the drunkard. “I cannot tell a lie. The treasure lives still, in those caves.” Pondering the drunkard’s words, Captain Cutlass hesitated for a moment, before ordering all of his crew to action. “Will, Tim, Bosun, we set sail immediately. Thar be doubloons to find. Onwards to The Plunderer, we go.” An additional ten or so pirates jumped up from their concealed seated positions to join the exiting crew, while Cutlass lingered an extra few moments. “If what you say be true, old man. Your freedom is hereby granted. But be ye warned. If that chest has been plundered, you best be nowhere near these waters when I return.” “Aye, Captain,” the drunkard acknowledged. “Go claim your golden future.” Sheathing his sword, Captain Cutlass turned, then hurried from the ale house. From his seated position, the drunkard watched through the open door, as Cutlass hurried to catch up with his crew, tightly holding his sword from swinging wildly in its harness with one hand and pinning his hat tightly to his head with the other hand. His sheer excitement was evident as he picked up his pace, heading toward the distant mainsail being hoisted slowly up its mast. With the remaining revellers in the ale house transfixed by the scene playing out down the sandy path, small conversations broke out discussing the situation, and what they would spend Spanish gold on, if they found it. However, all conversation came to an abrupt halt at the slamming of the ale house door, diverting everyone’s attention to the new figure standing large and proud, hands on hips, yelling like a pirate. “Aargh!” Shouted the imitating drunkard. “I am Captain Swordface of the pirate ship The Blunderer !” He mockingly yelled to a chorus of boos and cheers. “I have sailed seventeen seas, out-hid the Spanish, and fled from the English Navy.” A more vociferous outburst of laughter responded to the drunkard’s ridiculing declaration. “I accidently cut the ears from a deaf man, plucked an eye from a blind man, cut out the tongue of a mute, and won a sword fight against a peg-legged, hooked-hand, eye-patched, midget.” “Aargh,” returned the male and female voices of the room. “I invoked a pirate’s creed of truth-be-told , that I made up myself to sound like a real pirate.” Fits of laughter filled the room, as he continued his parody. “An, I am off to claim the lost treasure of Davy Jones, using a map that an old seadog gave me, drawn up by his nine-year-old granddaughter at play.” “Aargh, Aargh,” shouted the room to the accompaniment of derisive howls. “What happens when he realises it’s all just a tall tale, Cap’n?” A young ship’s hand asked. “Well, I reckon, The Blunderer , will have joined ol’ Davy himself by then. There’s no way through that gap without hitting jagged rock.” “Was there really a two-headed whale, Cap’n?” The same young sailor innocently asked. It was apparent that he was not the only one needing to know, as the room fell completely silent. Filling his tankard, the drunkard downed its contents, spilling some of it through his thick, long beard. Using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the residue foam from his lips, he commanded the full attention of the room. “If there be a two-headed whale anywhere, then all I can say is… the one who saw it was just drunk out of his mind from spending his gold on ale!” A cacophony of cheers, whoops, whistles, and laughter flew out of the ale house and travelled at the speed of sound down the path, overtaking the delirious pirates - now onboard their ship. Captain Cutlass stood authoritatively on the Quarterdeck issuing instructions and commands, as the anchor was hoisted. Hearing the noise emanating from the ale house, he turned to his men, and shouted as loud as he could, “Ye see there, men? That’s what a little pirate persuasion can do to any fearful man of Captain Cutlass. The relief of those lives I spared in that ale house is so strong, they’re giving us an early sailor’s soft farewell. Yeo, Heave Ho, lads! For we are bound for Davy Jones’s locker…!


The migrant maiden was stirred to life by the avalanche of pumpkin spiced air spilling out the coffee shop’s open back door. Her dullened mind was shaken into clarity by the consecutive quakes from one plastic bag after another being flung by a disinterested barista into her dumpster. Unfolding her wings and stretching them wide, the hopeless beetle elected to abandon that frosty trash in search of one last meaningful day. She chose the name Randi, which she had gotten from a used sedici -size cup that did not make its way into the garbage. Randi took flight heading into the aroma, crossing the threshold a second before the door was pulled closed. After a few dizzy twists and turns, she finally landed on the neck-strap of a green apron hanging from a peg. It was a good place to reconnoiter. The room was cozy warm and filled with crated delights. As she licked on a sweet stain in the apron’s fabric, Randi noticed, from the tops of her eyes, a brighter light pouring from deeper inside. Though her wings also folded into a shiny curved shell with symmetrical black dots, she was not the round red ladybug that most humans adored. Randi was browner, more oval than the ladybug. Different enough to make the humans sneer. There were no rhymes written about her kind. When ladybugs gathered, the humans called it a loveliness . When her kind gathered the humans called the exterminator. She had nothing against ladybugs. In fact, her descendants were sent over to help them do battle with the invasive pecan and soybean aphids that threatened to overwhelm her precious cousins. Being the bigger beetle with an equally bigger bite, her species completed their mission with great success. Yet they were never treated as the heroes they were commissioned to be. It was as if the humans wanted the war to end with some tragic tie, no more aphids, no more Asian Ladybeetles, just cute red sweet-smelling ladybugs. From the coat rack the inquisitive insect coptered to the top of a refrigerator. The back of the chest purred with cold wet coils that offered the most refreshing sips. From there, Randi’s six synchronized legs carried her across a stretch of dry cardboard, then over a landscape of smooth tile spangled with aromatic grindings and bits of delectable biologicals. As the bitty beetle nibbled, she pushed ever toward the light. The great hall was immense, flowing with preoccupied people of all shapes and sizes, each pushing past another to claim their sumptuous, cupped prize. No one noticed Randi, so more than once she nervously skidded to a petrified halt, barely avoiding a catastrophic crush from an unwitting sole. The worried invertebrate finally found safety near the counter’s edge. To calm her nerves, Randi licked the mites off her tiny tarsi. The soothing music that filled the room also relaxed her some. Randi regained her composure and reacquired her bearings. That’s when she spotted it, the light of life beaming through the blinds of the windows to the south. And from that side of the great hall also came a scent so alluring, it pulled at her with a force even greater than the one currently luring the humans to that very store. Randi knew the quickest way to end her search would be to fly. And she could make it that far, she knew that. But the gritty beetle was practical if not beautiful. Even at frenetic full-throttle buzz, on wing she could muster little more than an ungraceful slow-rolling corkscrew flight pattern. That kind of riskiness got noticed, got many of her siblings swatted to death or eaten by birds. It would be a long crawl, but Randi had the discipline for the journey. Asian Ladybeetles, also called Harlequin Beetles were good at three things: eating aphids, using their smelly yellow secretion to ward off enemies, and climbing. So off she went, tenaciously traversing the wall, clinging to the smallest vertical occlusions, paying no mind to the pry of gravity. At midday, Randi stopped to feed on the carcass of a housefly that had lost a run-in with a spider. Even as her hungry mandibles pinched off a bit of desiccated thorax, the adventurous arthropod could not stop thinking about that hairy murderous spider. Truth be told, Randi wished she were feasting on its eggs, rather than the remains of its prey. And where was that killer beast now? Why in the world did she stop within its killing field? Randi secreted a little, wondering how she could be so daft, then promptly resumed her lonely quest for something meaningful. The resolute beetle spent every bit of the next hour climbing up and onto a dark lacquered table. All that exertion dried her out (she always seemed to be dried out lately.) Still, the brave insect soldiered on. And her prayers were soon answered when she discovered a moisture ring left by the butt of a human’s icy drink. The satisfying moisture filled Randi with hope again. But as she pivoted to continue her crawl, her world suddenly went dark. Was she dead? Did she finally succumb to some stomp, or swat, or maybe that spider’s pounce? She rubbed her eyes, opened them wide- nothing. The blackness persisted. But that music was still there, she could hear. Then came the sound of muffled voices. “What was that, a ladybug?” “No. It’s one of those damned oriental beetles. The kind that’ll bite you, that stink when you squash them.” “Well don’t kill it here.” “Hold on a second, I’ll be right back.” Randi relied on her antennae to evaluate her dark enclosure. It was as high as she was long, with perfectly circular edges. Randi soon realized that she’d been trapped under one of their precious cups! Trying not to panic, the astute sub-creature reasoned that humans lifted their cups frequently. When this one did, she would run for her life. She pressed against the bottom’s edge, waiting for her chance to escape. But the drink was not lifted evenly, or with the human’s usual languid rhythm. It was tilted, and quickly too. Before Randi could bolt, she was pinched under a squeeze of napkin. Despite her secretions, she was carried away. It was Randi’s near precognitive sense for danger that saved her. Just before the pinch, she clenched into her shell. The quick defensive maneuver, coupled with the force-dampening quality of the padded tissue, was enough for her to avoid the deadly crunch. Randi emerged from the wadded paper to find herself in the bin marked for the landfill. Once again, the lonesome bug found herself in the garbage. But she had to admit, it wasn’t all that bad. The inside trash was warmer and more sweet smelling. But she knew it was only a matter of time before inside trash became outside garbage. And these days, it was just too cold outside. So, she climbed. She ascended paper sleave bags and wax-coated cups. At the top of the heap, then scaled a straw that seemed to point the way. When she reached its tasty tip, Randi realized life was too short to overdose on patience. The time had come to take to the air. Scanning the room to confirm that all the humans were otherwise engaged, she unfurled her wings and started her body humming. As ridiculous as it was, all that commotion lifted her from the mouth of the human’s sipping tube. Randi leaned toward the light. Growing up an uncoordinated twerp, Randi had grown used to clumsy landings. When she hit the invisible window, her exoskeleton acted as a sort of crash helmet. She dropped to the sill but stuck the landing, shaking off the sting before surveying the new surroundings. That alluring fragrance was so strong now, she could see it. Like fuse-wire pulled from sand, she began following the scent line to its dangerous destination. As she scuttled, the smooth glass cooled her outer belly, while anticipation heated her inner yolk. Randi’s antennae spread wide when she came upon the source of the fragrant tendrils. It was a convocation of her kind hidden by the blinds at the corner of the pane. Dozens of Asian ladybeetles, all enthralled, all abustle, like remote-controlled micro bumper cars, all brushing and nudging against one another. No one ever taught Randi how to dance. But somehow she recognized these moves. Their final celebration of life. She pushed her way into the jubilation. The late autumn sun cast an orange glow through the glass that highlighted their pumpkin-colored shells. While the deep raspy voice of Louis Armstrong sang about leaves of green and their wonderful world, she bathed in the luxurious aroma of acceptance and love. And she danced. For her, it was the perfect moment. Then, sifted from the mosh frolic, came a beetle as fresh as she could imagine. The M marking on their back was sharp and stunning, and that white pronotum only enhanced those smiling eyes. That alluring scent that compelled Randi to make the arduous journey across the great hall was deliciously excreted from this exceptional one. From the point of encounter, Randi could no longer maintain her defenses. She was unable to stop herself from connecting with her counterpart, who made the most of Randi’s abandoned doubt. As they danced, Randi thought about the strange day she had, that started with her cold surrender to death. Now, she was chosen by one of their finest, and in that glorious instant, was gifted with their potent concentrate- a fourth thing at which Asian Ladybeetles excelled. As the sun set on their encounter, all the strength she had built from her travails melted away. Or more precisely, all her impetus was replaced with a new kind of strength, one of blissful understanding. Randi knew what she needed to do. With fear no longer in the equation, Randi fluffed out her wings and took to the wind one last time. With so little strength she flew, and when she could buzz no longer, she glided, then fell to the edge of the door. She found a gusty fracture just big enough for her to slip through. Outside, everything was coated in frosty crystal. She folded her antennae and retracted her legs, to allow the wind to blow her dry curved body like a tumbleweed, over the cold hard ground. She rolled over gravel, briefly caught against a cigarette, before ending in a lovely patch of tall dead grass. Those eggs she felt activate inside her thorax, that exquisitely drained all her strength on the windowpane, she deposited one by one along the last two inches of her final climb. Then she dug her six tarsi claws deep into the brittle brown blade of grass, so she would still be there, to feed them in the spring. It was a good end to things, she thought; though she wished she could have met a ladybug.