It has been five days since the war had begun. I do not know what the word “war” means, but I am too scared to ask Da, because he seems so sad all the time. I wonder what makes him feel that way. The power was cut off permanently and Da says it won’t come back anytime soon. It might be for the best, because then the night would be less scary and my sisters and I wouldn’t have to risk seeing the bleeding people on the television. They might be in black and white, but they still frighten us all, even Ma. Da is sitting in his office, again, frantically scribbling on paper with a gas lamp on his desk, and Betty and Lily are hiding in their rooms. They’re as scared as I am, but Betty told me I would have to become a man if we wanted to survive this. What “this” was, I do not know. Ma is with me in the living room, and she looks as grave as ever since the news broke out. It seems like I was the only one who had no idea what was happening, so maybe it was time to find out. “Ma? What’s a war?” My voice is barely a whisper, but it jerks her out of her thoughts with a hint of alarm on her face. Perhaps her nerves are always on edge now. “You don’t want to know, Eamon. It’s best if you don’t know,” She rubs her temples dismissively, despite the fact that she hasn’t given me the answer I wanted. Instead, I cuddle closer to her on our worn out couch, and in spite of the dust and the cold and the fear, I decide not to voice my complaints or fears. Like Betty said, I had to grow up. “But I need to know, Ma. Otherwise I can’t help you at all,” I look at her misshapen brown curls and her sad green eyes and it fuels me with such determination to banish the misery out of her eyes forever, to find her the solution to all our problems. “A war is when a disagreement happens between two countries, like Durshall and Kringa,” She spits out the word in disgust. “and instead of fixing their problems verbally, in a civilized way, they fight against each other, dragging countless innocent people into their problems for no reason.” Durshall was our country, but Kringa was the country everyone here hates, and I wouldn’t blame them; they were always taking from our country without payback for what they take, but I still do not see why they couldn’t have solved their issues privately. “Is that why the world is so dark all the time? Is that why Da is always so upset?” I am seven years old, and I think of myself a man. However, what Ma said afterwards shook all the hope out of me and dragged me down and endless spiral of nausea and petrification I would never forget. “I’m not sure how much of this you can take,” She pulled me closer to her chest until my dirty hair was on her chest, and my ears could hear her tense heartbeat, slightly faster than it should be. “But everything is so dark for the mere reason of the guns and the lifeless bodies lying around. Everyone feels hate, everyone feels greed, and especially now, those feelings are what’s driving those people to destruction. The sky never clears now because the gunpowder is so excessive it painted the sky black, and buried the last inch of comfort and security under its ashes,” She pauses abruptly, her eyes suddenly on the door behind me, the one leading to Da’s office. “Wait here,” she commands, pushing me gently off her lap and onto the ragged couch. Its color is of faded dreams and lost hope, of all the bad feelings swirling around our neighborhood and how everyone is scared, even when they pretend to be brave. Ma disappears inside Da’s office, taking one of the gas lamps with her, plunging me into the darkness. It makes me realize how the darkness is everywhere, it’s just that we found a way to illuminate it, but we can never make it go away forever. The dark will always follow. I try to smoothen out my blond hair to no avail, and since we barely have enough water to drink and cook with, a shower is out of question. I’ve always been a thinker, but it was fun when I was thinking because I wanted to, not because I had to, and back when everything was still normal and all I had to worry about was not getting caught by Rudy in a game of hide-and-seek, that sort of simple thinking sounds like a piece of heaven. Even though I just learned what the word “war” means, that didn’t mean I had no idea what it meant. In fact, I was asking merely for a confirmation, in case it meant something different, and maybe less catastrophic. A few trips to my mind palace later, Ma and Da show up out of the office, each with an unlit candle and a gas lamp in each hand. It is time to go. The look on their faces says everything. I rise to call Betty and Lily, but Da places a hand on my shoulder and urges me back to the couch. I guess that being a man starts from now. Da looks like he had grown at least ten years older in a span of a few days; his eyes were glassy, rimmed with red around the edges. An unshaven stubble on his chin was a contrast to his sunny face, and suddenly I feel as if he’s five seconds away from tearing a piece of the weight on his shoulder and placing it on mine. Ma and Da share a private look until they’re both looking at me. It’s Da who speaks first. “Look, son. This is the last thing I had ever wanted to have to tell you. If I could, I would have done every single thing I could to ensure you wouldn’t have to go through something as bad as what we are all going through right now, but what needs to be done needs to be done.” I swallow anxiously, the dread slowly inching back into my body and filling every organ of my gazing at me like this might be the last time they will see me alive was unnerving. Ma’s eyes are already tearing up. A loud bang sounds outside. It nearly tips me sideways, even though I had heard it at least ten times in the course of four days, but with my nerves set on a trap wire, it’s hard to control my reflexes. Da is unexpectedly kneeling in front of me, righting my balance and placing me back on that disgusting couch. “You’ve heard a shell strike before, Eamon, now listen closely.” His voice was veering into nervousness, and Ma has taken off up to the rooms and is now speaking in hushed whispers amongst my sisters. That could not mean well. “I hear you, Da.” He reaches for my hand and clutches an ivory-colored envelope sealed with red wax in it, then I am immediately aware of what I need to do, even before he speedily says, “Eamon, you know where the post office is, correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. I know it’s dangerous to go out at night, let alone to the post office, but this could shape our next few months. The army is shelling houses on our same street, Eamon, and we need to leave. The Gerg’s sent Rudy out tonight to do that as well, so when you deliver the letter, we’ll be able to evacuate the city by midnight. After you hand it in, head to that motel next to the office. You should find Rudy there. Both of you will move at midnight to meet us at the docks, where a liner will be waiting for us, understood?” I’m shaking. I cannot feel my hands, and I feel sick by the time Da’s finished. Yet, I still bob my head up and down in agreement. It’s not like I have any choice; I’m technically their only hope. My eyes travel down to the envelope and allow a surge of purpose to overwhelm me. I was getting my family out of this city, tonight. The clock is announcing the tenth bell by the time I’m creeping down my street, head low, shoes barely making a sound. I can’t call me own street The Playground anymore, since all that is left of it is rubble, along with a few sole houses whose residents probably wouldn’t survive long if they don’t resolve to leave the city. The post office is at least three streets away, but now even the neighbor’s house seems far away, which I guess is what happens when impending doom is settling upon everyone and everything you’ve ever known to love and cherish. I nearly halt as I register my thoughts. For once, they don’t seem like my own. It seems as if they were passed on to me, because I would never let myself focus on the dark sides of a situation when I have something to do about it. Perhaps that’s why everything is dark. Even the streets are dark. Every single lamp post is either smashed to crumbs, or lying on the ground. I keep to the shadows as I pass house after house, broken glass after dumped garbage after scurrying rats. I barely recognize my home anymore. Vaulting over a garbage can, I drop with a thud in front of the unlit post office. Anyone who doesn’t know better might have assumed it closed, but it’s perfectly operational. They only turn out the lights so they wouldn’t draw much attention. I take a deep breath before pushing the creaking wooden door open and stepping into the office. My shoes only brush the ground before someone with an air of importance yells out, “Who goes there?” I halt in my place. There is an equally likely possibility that the solider here is Durs as much as Kringan, but they weren’t equally horrifying. The government declared that the last call for evacuation is at midnight today, but in order to claim your place, you had to send a letter with the member count of your family and a small fee, then they would arrange for your transportation. However, word had gone out that they were taking more money than they should have due to the scarcity of boats and liners, despite the high demand over them. Part of me believes that’s because they converted half of the nation’s medium-to-big boats into warships. “I said who goes there!” The voice in the dark yanks me back into reality as I debate my next move. Da had severely reminded me that this is a stealth mission, and that being caught by the wrong person at the wrong place could lead to consequences. I stayed silent for a little more before determining that staying silent could mean getting shot. “I’m here to deliver a letter,” my voice cracks agonizingly, so I repeat louder. “I am here to deliver a letter on behalf of a Durs household. Who is here?” It’s a big risk to ask for identification from either armies, and I know that, so I inch back to the door in case I need to bolt.  “You have no right to ask for identification. This city was put under curfew on August 9 th , 1921, five days ago. You are violating one of the new laws put on the city-” “But I do have a right to deliver a letter.” The soldier’s eye burns into mine, for interrupting him I suppose, if blue eyes could ever be cold. “The government allowed them if you’re evacuating the city…I have a right to deliver this letter.” The soldier approaches me slowly, a predator stalking its prey, and my blood freezes in my veins as he flashes me a sinister smile, the floorboards creaking under his military boots and pounds of body muscle. I take a few, reluctant steps back, unaware of what the man wants to do with me, but I realize that I do not want to find out. He makes his lunge for me just as I swing the door open and clamber outside into the dark night. For a second, I think I escaped. My feet carry me down the streets, unsure where to head. I do not want to lead him to Rudy’s hiding spot, but I also cannot navigate through the narrow streets with all the rubble when there isn’t so much as a gaslight to guide me. His heavy boots are racing after me, and when they seem to slow down a little, I steal a glance over my shoulder, and my heart stops. It’s not the sight of him loading his rifle with a few bullets, it’s not how terrified I am or how breathless, how our hope of fleeing is slipping through my fingers. No, it’s not that, because a few yards away, moving at a pace so slow and without so much as a sound, is Rudy, creeping behind the soldier, his head hooded, his pale face almost translucent. I want to scream at him, ask him what does he think he’s doing, but I can’t, so I keep running until I duck into an alley that gives me a clear look of the street I was just in. The soldier has stopped running, now glancing around with a shadow of uncertainty on his features. Rudy draws closer, and now I notice for the first time the odd glint of metal at his hands. It’s only when he strikes that I know what he is doing. It is only when the soldier collapses that I am able to comprehend that Rudy has just stabbed him. But the soldier is stronger than he looks, and by the time I reach them, the soldier had bonked Rudy on his head, both lying unconscious on the road. My breath catches in my throat, I stop breathing for a few seconds as I try to wake Rudy up. I shake his hood off his head, surveying the welt on his head, blood caking him from head to chin. My muscles ache from the rush of adrenaline, and I’m feeling dizzy, yet I force myself wrap my arms around his shoulders and drag him into the same alley I was in. It’s then that the panic kicks in. His breathing is slowing, and in the lighting, his head looks more badly injured than at first sight. I scramble to tear off a part of my shirt and press it to his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it’s no use. Rudy starts to cough, miraculously, signaling that he’s waking up. My relief turns into distress, however, when I realize that he’s coughing up blood. “ How is this possible?” I cry out to no one in particular, but a part inside me hopes that someone is out there, and will hear me and help me, even when no one shows up. Apparently, the soldier –still lying unconscious on the ground– has shot him at some point. It’s the only way to explain the blood. Or maybe he’s already been hit. Nevertheless, he’s awake, but he can’t open his eyes just yet. I wonder how I got here in the first place; how I’m laying with my lifetime best friend in a dark alleyway while he bleeds to death. Another cough, but Rudy’s soulless eyes are on me now, my heart skipping a beat. Maybe there’s hope for him after all, maybe he’ll make it! “Eamon…” He whispers, his voice coarse and rough, as if it hurts him to speak. Maybe it does hurt him. “Rudy, can you stand? We can get you out of here! We can go somewhere safe, get someone to fix you up. Do not give up on me. I’ll never forgive you if you did.” I’m already getting up, looking for a floorboard or a blanket or anything I can put him on so I can drag him to safety, but he holds my hand and pulls me down to him. There’s blood dripping from his open mouth, and his hands are colder than ice, but his eyes are on me. Wistfully, I squeeze his hand, letting the tears come, letting all the pain wash down, letting go of everything that has ever hurt me. I think Rudy cries too, but I’m too sad to notice. “Listen, Eamon.” He sounds more like himself now, and his voice drags me back to real life. “Go to the post…Give them your letter, and go home…Alright?” I nod frantically, sniffling and hiccupping, for this seemed like goodbye, and honestly, I don’t want to let him go, not just yet, but I know that I have to. “Don’t go to the motel…It’s closed down.” His eyes darken more, and he’s staring me with an intensity that could break. “Take care of them, Eamon. My family, and yours. I did it all for them, you know…Not just my family, but for yours, because they’re my family too. Don’t let me down, Eamon, or my ghost will haunt you in death.” He chuckles, then clutches his side in agony. I laugh a little. Even in his pain, he is still Rudy. He closes his eyes, and waves me off. “Go now. You can’t see me like this.” I don’t want him to be upset, so I turn and walk away, my heart cracking. Rudy was eleven, only four years older than me, yet he managed to save us all, even if it meant he couldn’t save himself.


I sit at the edge of my seat, facing my publisher. “So what do you think? Is it ready?” She looks right back at my eager face and rubs the bridge of her nose as if she is working her way through a headache. “I mean…” she sighs. “Honestly, Moses, what the fuck?” I can’t help but feel a little taken aback. Was ‘What the fuck’ a good thing? Like ‘What the fuck, I didn’t expect something this good.’ She doesn’t look like she’s praising me though. “So, is it… bad?” I ask hesitantly. “I didn’t say that,” she answers. “So it’s good?” I ask, feeling a little confused about her tone. “No… No, I wouldn’t go so far as calling it good either. It’s just… you know… ‘What the fuck’”. “I aehm… I don’t know what that means.” “It means ‘What the fuck Moses?’ As in ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ What’s the point of it?” “I didn’t know it was supposed to have a point.” “Well, usually it does. People don’t want to just close a book after they finished it and go: ‘We’ll that was a bunch of random nonsense. I have no idea why I even read it, I guess I’ll get on with my life now.’ You obviously put a lot of work into this, but who on earth is going to want to read it? You could have at least picked a genre and stuck to it or tried writing something somewhat normal.” “You told me to write something that is fun to…” I start up, trying to find some common ground, but she interrupts me.

“Do you actively want to be broke? You know you’ve got to make money and you have to know that this isn’t going to make any. I mean… Ancient Lizards eating themselves to death, sex pacts with underwater fairies, parallel dimensions that need to be explained in depth using detailed mathematics, Vampires vs. Sociopaths, Ninja Duels, Insane Space Soldiers, Superpowered Yakuza… This… This is just weird. You can’t just throw a bunch of shit at a wall and call it a book regardless of whether or not it sticks.” “I thought it was unique,” I mutter, my confidence shrinking by the second. “It is, but so is sticking a banana in a jar of mustard. Doesn’t mean anyone will want to pay you for it.” “Well… some people might want a banana with mustard. A lot of them are pretty weird, once you get to know them,” I argue. “A lot of people told me that they really like…” “Moses,” she interrupts me again, “you’re not hearing me. I can’t publish this shit. It’s something, but it isn’t something that will have any readers.” I fall silent. “So what now?” I ask. She shrugs. “You could publish it yourself.” I sit there stunned. She knows as well as I do that self-publishing the book would be a death sentence. I might as well stick it in a bargain bin at a local supermarket, only worse. Every day, an endless torrent of self-published books goes out into the world, only to disappear into the void. A lot of them are so bad you can find a spelling mistake on the first page. It’s like an army of mad monkeys typing out an endless stream of random words, sticking them next to each other, printing them out, and throwing them on an ever-increasing pile, where millions of other books already rest. The thought of my book, sitting in that gigantic pile, just another hidden gem waiting to be discovered but only getting buried deeper every day, breaks my heart.

“Please don’t make me do that,” I answer, all color drained from my face.

“I mean… you could have listened to our advice when we gave it to you. Written the things we told you to write.” she says.

I could have, but I hadn’t wanted to. I had considered it, but writing that stuff would have been nothing more than average. Hero is chosen from humble beginnings to do X and has character arc Y as he rises to the tasks ahead of him. The kind of story that has already been written a million times, only with slightly different events and backdrops. Out of my desperation, a small flicker of anger sparks. “Nobody wants to read the mediocre piece of garbage you told me to write,” I suddenly bark, surprising her and myself at the same time. “Maybe so, but it would have been a mediocre piece of garbage that people would have actually bought. A sub-par burger with fries is still better than a banana with mustard,” she answers. There’s some flint in her voice now. I know this is a good time to keep my mouth shut, go back to the drawing board, start over, and see what I can salvage out of this relationship. But I have had enough. I don’t want to be reasonable anymore. “There is another option,” I say, a mad, angry flicker of hope in my voice. She wordlessly raises an eyebrow, wondering what I’ll come up with next. I reach into my hoodie, produce my lightsaber, stretch out my hand, and flick the switch. It turns on with a familiar buzz. I can feel the heat of it almost burning my hands as I raise it into a guard position. She considers the weapon with an emotionless, calculating glare. “Have you gone mad?” She asks, slowly getting up out of her rich leather desk chair. “How much worse do you want to make this?” I answer neither of her questions. When she looks into my eyes, she finds only steel and knows which answer she is going to get.

“Alright then, have it your way,” she says with a sigh. She begins to transform as I step back from the desk. Her torso splits open, and a multitude of long, thin, spidery limbs made of shining metal emerge from it. The human flesh on her face splits apart, and slowly slides off it, hitting the ground with a wet slap. Below her flesh, the face of a machine is revealed, its eyes cold and uncaring. When you look deep into them, you’ll find nothing, only polls, statistics, and money. Those eyes show me an inevitable place, where art must die and mad hope must concede to reasonable thoughts. Where every story must have a point to it to be worth writing. Under the merciless glare of these eyes, everything unique, weird and wonderful must inevitably turn into yet another greyish blob in a never-ending sludge pipe of mediocre books. When she has fully transformed, I am facing a deadly machine almost twice as tall as me. The remainders of her human flesh lie at her feet, like a discarded suit. She stands on six legs, all shiny like freshly polished chrome, and another four limbs protrude from her mechanical torso. Each one of her limbs ends in razor-sharp claws, ready to tear me to shreds. Even though my flesh is weak and easy to hurt, she knows my lightsaber is a formidable weapon that can cut through her as if she was made of butter. We size each other up for a few brief seconds. There will be no drawn-out duel, no long sequence of parries and feints. I take a deep breath, close my eyes to find a moment of peace, and open them again.

In the same heartbeat, we rush at each other. My weapon is raised high above my head and a madman's scream is in my throat. I am ready to die. Her many legs move with mathematical precision, clicking across the ground at an inhuman speed. Her four arms close in on me from every angle. I twist, dodge, slash and scream. We clash and come apart, stumbling toward the opposite ends of the office. A single one of her appendages clatters to the floor between us and I crumble to my knees. The lightsaber slips out of my hand. I can feel the pain of too many stab wounds. I touch my chest and it is wet with blood. There’s too much of it already. “Alright, you win,” I croak, as my sight turns blurry. “I’ll self-publish.” I try to think of something witty to say, something to give a point to this story, but there is nothing I can think of. I slump forward, darkness embracing me as I lose consciousness. She stands above me. Even in my death, she betrays no emotion. Her many appendages fold in on themselves until she has reverted back into a human-sized form. She walks over to her intercom and presses a button on it. “Send in the next one. Also, I need a girl to redo my make-up and a clean-up crew as well. This one made a mess.”


His cellar is dark, but the Bottler knows its cataloged contents better than anyone. He peruses the shelves which contain his private collection of bottles, his fingers carefully lingering on one in particular. This specimen is a larger bottle that has been rubbed and polished enough that the cheap, gold veneer is changing color and wearing through. For a moment, he becomes abstractly aware of the darker emotions he once possessed and their associated memories, but it is difficult to reconstruct them. What remains in the bottles tell the story of how he arrived on a path to perdition.  			He is torn from his reminiscent emotional debitage by the ding of his shop bell ringing upstairs, followed by footsteps on the floor he does not recognize. He is careful to lock the cellar door on his way upstairs. Waiting for him at the front desk is a sleuth of the most amateur sort. Her position is obvious to him from the way her uniform rests flawlessly on her figure, not a crinkle in the fabric nor a stain upon her breast. Her name tag is proudly on display, which he interprets as a clear suggestion she hasn’t figured out that, like the Bottler, her occupation requires both discretion and a bland outlook on humanity. Her hair is pulled back so tightly that he has to wonder if her mind can relax long enough to make a proper deduction. “Can I help you officer?” the Bottler asks. From the look on her face, it’s clear she’s been sizing him up too. “ Detective Kelledy,” she introduces herself, flashing her badge. Pardon me, detective, the Bottler sneers privately to himself, unimpressed by her distinction of the two titles. He neglects to introduce himself, and instead wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent of scrutiny. She is removing a photograph from her inner pocket. “Have you seen this woman before?” He has. Only in the photograph, she is smiling. He ponders this fact for a moment, scarcely noticing her other features. They are insignificant in comparison. “Sure, I perform her extractions and deposit the bottles to the dispensary at the end of every week.” “And exactly what kind of emotional extraction does she participate in?”              Had the knowledge been less common, he might have lied. “Allegra markets in the rawest forms of sexual commodities—pure lust, sexual desire, and orgasmic release,” he answers. He knows the woman in the photograph is troubled. He suspects that her pattern of initiation and extraction is both a cathartic evacuation and a defense against deeper feelings of despair and insecurity.              A slight shuffling of the body is the only indication the detective gives of her discomfort on the topic. “Are you aware, sir, that the reality of this voluntary commodification is the latest evolution of the sex trade, and that despite the anonymization and alienation of solitary sex work, it is fundamentally still a selling of the self.”              The Bottler has enjoyed watching her squirm, but his response is pointed. “Look, I am a Bottler. I only deal in the selling of the self, and I follow all of the regulations set forth by the Ministry and its associated dispensaries. If you don’t like it, fine, but don’t come in to my business and lecture me on propriety.”              Detective Kelledy’s eyes narrow at his increasingly hostile tone, but she has a job to do. This is the only lead she has so far. “Allegra Solt was found dead in an alley not far from here. Were you aware of this sir?”              He snorts. “Obviously not.”              “Sir, I would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”              “This is the slums. People show up dead all the time,” he says casually, but he assures himself he is not completely devoid of compassion. As the only intermediary between Allegra and the end product of pure, bottled sexuality, he shares an intimacy with this woman, whether real or imagined. “But I am sorry this happened,” he adds. It comes across as a tawdry afterthought but, Detective Kelledy loses interest in him for the moment. Her eyes are peering somewhere behind him in the shop, and the Bottler feels a moment of panic. Has he left the door to his cellar ajar? He hopes not, for legitimate bottling is done in specially marked vacuum bottles using proprietary preservatives that can only be obtained from the dispensaries. The bottles in the cellar are...personal.              He continues to stare expectantly at the detective, pondering what it is she is looking at. He notices the cool, gray of her eyes then. They are like stars, weaving in and out of a stellar mist. He wonders what emotions are contained there.              “Who is that?” she asks finally, pointing a spindly finger beyond him. She removes her flashlight from her belt and shines it into the back of the dimly lit shop.              The Bottler turns to follow her curiosity and realizes she is pointing at his apprentice. The corners of his mouth frame into a scowl. “Get over here, boy,” he says gruffly.              The boy, who is more alike in age to a 16-year-old rather than a boy, comes obediently. He never looks up, and the process is slow as one of his legs drags behind him. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s impotent, this one.”              “I’m not impotent,” the boy interjects aloofly. “I was in a car crash, asshole.” He adds this last bit under his breath.              “What is your name?” Detective Kelledy asks him.              “Tobias Reed.”              Detective Kelledy looks to the Bottler for confirmation. He nods, and she proceeds. “Did you know this woman?”              The boy’s cheeks color. “I’ve seen her in the shop.”              The Bottler listens as she questions Tobias. The boy manages to make it to the end before saying something completely stupid.

             “Was there…was there a lot of blood?” the boy asks, raising his eyes to meet hers.              Though his tone remains timid, Detective Kelledy feels something sinister wash over her. There is a calculated intelligence to his gaze masked by cold indifference. She sees a smoldering ember where there shouldn’t be in the bright blue of his eyes. It’s almost as if he is aroused by his own question.              “That’s confidential,” she confirms after a long pause, though it seems to go against her better judgement. He must sense her shift in mood, for his gaze quickly returns to the floor. She notices as a slight, yet rapid twitch develops in the youth’s jaw.              Another ding resounds in the shop, signifying a second arrival and cutting the tension in the air like a knife. “Detective Kelledy, unless you have any further questions, I must insist you take your leave. My three o’clock has arrived.”              Detective Kelledy gives the impression she wishes to stay, possibly to see her own desires unbridled at the prospect of a live extraction, but she needs this job. This promotion is her one chance to prove to her peers once and for all that she matters—that she isn’t just some silly girl wanting to play cop. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was sure to engrain the idea of worthlessness into her brain on multiple occasions. Now He is a memory worth extracting , she decides silently as she heads for the shop door.              “I’ll be in touch,” she says on her way out. The Bottler is left to his three o’clock, a prospect he finds most grim. He is aware of the acute suffering he witnesses in his shop every day and its ambiguous connection to the cynical, hidden manipulation of humanity for profit, power, and control. He is also aware he has developed an emotional detachment to the whole process.              Meanwhile, Detective Kelledy lingers in front of the shop. It isn’t much to look at. The sign reading, “Allinar’s Extraction Emporium,” is outdated beyond the literacy of its title, a thick layer of grime incessant in the woodwork. It is a far cry from the extraction facilities in the Ornate District. The grandeur of their sleek, marble finish and spacious waiting rooms make the entire process seem lavish, and she suspects no one there is even peripherally aware of emotions being dealt on the black market. Nothing there gives breath to the rumors of corporate-government agencies utilizing elicit emotions for conditioning soldiers, public servants, politicians, or a hidden class of pseudo-slaves used in a variety of public and private enterprises. Everything there is exactly how it should be: ornate.

             As if on cue, an ad on this very subject dominates the vast expanse of a nearby slum building. Melissa Merin’s face appears, slandered with portions of the same filth that cover Allinar’s Emporium , but you can still tell it is her. The Ministry of Isolated Citizen Emotions, more commonly referred to by its acronym, M.I.C.E., shines brightly in the background of the ad. Merin is the head executive of M.I.C.E, and it is her job to ease the public's minds about the entire extraction process. Her words echo across the landscape like sweet honey, but in Kelledy’s opinion, the only minds that can be pacified are the ignorantly wealthy, the destitute, and those who have no emotions left with which to form an opinion. Detective Kelledy adjusts the hood of her jacket as a light rain begins to fall, but she knows it’s Merin’s propaganda she is really trying to avoid. Kelledy likes the rain more than most. The rail car arrives a few minutes later, and she boards, taking her place among hundreds of other statistics that use the public transportation system to travel between Districts. Kelledy lives in the Pulse district, which is known for its working middle class and vibrant sense of community. The thought of letting her hair down and snuggling up in her armchair with Sergeant Sly and a good book is tempting. Sly will probably be upset she didn’t leave the gas stove lit and his cat food out, but she senses her next clue is contained in the bottles of Allegra Solt. When she exits the rail car, the M.I.C.E. building appears as an exact replica of the ad she saw earlier. Metal detectors await her at the entrance, and she puts her belongings in the bin and steps through the security check with ease. All extractions are cataloged with a serial number and a descriptive title as to exactly what emotion is contained. This protects the name of the individual while providing a trail of both the bottle’s origins and those who purchase it. Detective Kelledy has already looked up the serial number associated with Allinar’s Extraction Emporium , so it only takes her a moment to cross-check this number with a customer list. There is one name that stands out like a fire on a dark night: Tobias Reed . Next to it are titles of bottled emotional content Kelledy does not care to repeat. She quickly gives her boys over at the Ministry of Justice a ring. It is Officer Bailey who picks up the phone, obviously stifling a yawn. “Bailey, I need you to run a background check on a Tobias Reed. He works as an apprentice at the bottler shop in the slums, and I’ve found evidence he was purchasing goods extracted from our jane doe.” There isn’t much further conversation required. Bailey will take care of it and give her a call when he has the information she needs. For now, she is heading back the way she came, hoping to catch Tobias at the end of his shift. She tries to remind herself that the evidence might be circumstantial—that it doesn’t prove anything—but she knows he is the killer. In her heart, she knew the moment she saw him in the shop, quietly keeping to the shadows.              A few days later, the Bottler is in his cellar once again, fiddling with the bottles taken from his most recent extraction. His eyes read each of the labels, deliciously drinking in their contents. Betrayal… fear…pain… He is far more careful with the contents of these bottles than with the body of their former owner, which he has discarded in an adjacent district. He finds the essence of the pretty, blonde stranger he lured in from the street to be a powerful intoxicant. Allegra had been delectable to be sure, but she made things too personal. He was thankful when they pinned that fool apprentice of his for her murder. Apparently, Tobias had a history of domestic abuse, and he had been purchasing the erotic bottles the Bottler was extracting. This was all it took these days to condemn a man. Well, that and an amateur sleuth. Had the Bottler been a different person, he would have laughed to himself, but like the fog of anger, some lurking, underlying cause for his rage threatens to break through and prevents him from doing so.


Daniel pulled the house key he had carried since he was 12 from his pocket, and jiggled it into the defiant doorknob. Why hadn’t Dad just replaced this old knob years ago? “Doorknob is fine! Helps keep burglars out.” Burglars aren’t using keys, Dad. The lock lost the battle, and Daniel stepped into the foyer. Motes of dust floated in the afternoon sun streaming through the half closed blinds, tiny apparitions in a house that had always haunted Daniel. He threw his keys instinctively on the buffet, scratched in the one area from years of this ritual. The floorboards creaked underfoot, an alarm that had betrayed him more times than he could count as a teenager. He stood silently in the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed with the task ahead. Daniel had tried for years to convince his father to start decluttering, maybe have a yard sale. “Your Mother spent a lifetime filling this house. I’m not giving the neighbors the satisfaction of rummaging through her life’s work.” It’s sewing patterns, Dad. Not the Sistine Chapel. It had been a month since his father had died, and Daniel had been putting off cleaning the house out, but he now had some prospective buyers, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He had decided on the drive over to start with his mother’s sewing room. It would be the easiest. Drag a trash can into the middle of the room, and toss the old patterns and scrap material into it. Daniel wasn’t surprised to find a thick layer of dust on everything; he doubted his father had entered the room since his mother died 8 years ago. The sewing machine was still in good shape. Perhaps his mother’s pride and joy would find a second life in the high school’s home economics department. The guest bedroom was next, and was deemed more difficult than the the sewing room by virtue of being his mother’s catch-all room. Unable or unwilling, she never threw something out that might be useful five years later. Daniel quickly sorted things into two piles: trash and donations. The local mission had better bring a U-Haul. From here on, Daniel knew it would be tricky. For decades, his mother had hidden money throughout the house. When his father drank, he spent. And he always drank. His mother wanted to be certain that the bills were paid and the pantry was full, so she stashed money everywhere. Unfortunately for Daniel, she never drew a treasure map before the Alzheimer’s arrived. He was certain there were thousands of dollars chipmunked around the house. He just didn’t know where. Which meant that, going forward, he had to be meticulous. He thumbed through every book, dug through each drawer, looked for envelopes taped underneath furniture, and ran his hand over every cabinet. He found almost $1,500 before deciding enough was enough. If someone shopping at the mission thrift store bought a lamp and discovered $100 somewhere inside it, good for them.

He had saved his father’s room for last. Three days of sorting through the rest of the house while that bedroom door remained shut. Unable to put it off any longer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and walked in. Daniel swore under his breath as he stopped to survey the room. What a mess. He went to the nightstand first. He had quietly held out hope that his grandfather’s watch was still here, that his father had not sold it or traded it for a bottle of liquor. His grandfather had brought it back from the war, and gave it to his son. It was rightfully Daniel’s now. The nightstand drawer was stuck, and as Daniel yanked it open, the mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey sitting on top rocked, the smell of the bourbon wafting by him. Daniel was late. He had lost track of time at Tommy’s, and had sped home, running two stop signs as he went. He hoped against hope that his father was out somewhere, drunk and oblivious. His heart sank as he turned the corner and saw his truck sitting in the driveway.

Let him be passed out already, Daniel prayed to no one in particular. The creak of the floorboard gave him away. It always did. His father was on him before he could get out of the foyer. Daniel was no slouch at 16, but his father was bigger, and was a mean drunk. Daniel grabbed the tottering bottle. His face was flush, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. The watch was gone. Of course it was.

Pushing himself up off the floor, Daniel crossed the room and walked into the bathroom. Maybe the watch was here. Rummaging through vanity drawers and the the cabinet underneath only confirmed what Daniel had known for three days: that watch had been gone for years. When was the last time he saw it? Not since he was a teenager. Having lost any motivation to continue, Daniel absentmindedly opened the medicine cabinet. Vicks VaporRub, an old safety razor, a rusty tin of bandaids, and a yellowed bottle of Old Spice. Daniel reached slowly for the cologne bottle, and gently pulled the gray stopper from the top. He turned the bottle over, and realized it was empty. He lifted the bottle to his nose. Daniel,dressed in his footie pajamas, was sitting on the floor in front of the television, a bowl of Frosted Flakes in his lap. Always the first one up on Saturday, he would have the cereal poured and the cartoons on at 7am sharp. These independent mornings left Daniel feeling much older than 7. Daniel usually devoted the commercial breaks to his bowl of cereal, but Christmas was around the corner, and each commercial was potentially something he needed to add to his Christmas list. But it was one commercial that caught his eye that morning. A family sitting around the Christmas tree, a fire crackling in the fireplace. A little boy carries a package to his father, who smiles and unwraps the gift. To everyone’s great delight, it’s Old Spice. The father scoops up his little boy and hugs him tightly. The boy turns to the camera and proclaims, “I love the smell of my daddy.” Daniel set the bowl of cereal down and ran to his room. Mom had been giving him some allowance for taking out the trash. How much did he have? $2.50. That should just about be enough. Later that day, Daniel and his mom drove down to Kimball’s Drug Store and bought the Old Spice.  On Christmas morning, before his father could get a cup of coffee, Daniel was handing him the present, wrapped in the funny papers. His father acted thoroughly surprised, and marveled at the wrapping job and the bow. At Daniel’s bouncing urgency, he opened the gift and gasped. “Old Spice! Now that is a manly scent.” He opened the bottle, shook a bit onto his hands, rubbed them together, and slapped them onto his neck and cheeks.

He looked down at his beaming son. “Want some?” Daniel nodded and held his hands out. Mimicking his father’s movements, he slapped his own face and neck, to his father’s great delight. His father picked him up into his arms and gave him a big squeeze. Daniel buried his face in his father’s neck and breathed in. It was the best smell in the world. Daniel leaned back against the vanity in the bathroom, the empty bottle rolling back and forth in his hands. Six months after that perfect Christmas, his father would lose his job at the factory. The drinking started and he was never the same. He was still in the house, but he lost his father that year. His father’s drinking had gone up another level after his mother’s death, an astounding feat Daniel had not thought possible. The increase had completely, irreparably hollowed the man out. He was a shell, and little more by the end. Old Spice and old men both seem to linger, long after they’re gone. Daniel was done. The mission could come in and take whatever was left. Setting the cologne bottle on the counter, Daniel walked out of the bathroom. Standing in his father’s room for the last time, he paused to take one last look around. He took a step toward the door, paused, and turned back to the bathroom. Daniel reached in, grabbing the empty Old Spice bottle off the counter. Smelling it again, he slid the bottle into his jacket pocket and walked out.


Paul Greenberg was the nicest man that lived in Bushwick. No, honestly, he was. The type to possess that supernatural ability to stem the tide of personal disasters before the waves of misery could crash. Whether it took the form of a kind word, late-night phone call, or a surprise present, he lit the path of life with kindness for not only his friends but each soul that stopped long enough for Paul to flash a grin and share a laugh. That's why it was so confusing when you faced his bright, kind, sympathetic face when he printed out your parking ticket. The anger inside you would burn into your guts as it struggled to release itself. Instinctively, your mouth would clamp shut or stutter as some essential subconscious part of you understood there was no malice coming from the man before you. Even worse, you could see in his warm, amber eyes a generous love for each person. You'd accept the ticket with a resigned confusion. A shock that comes from meeting real-life angels. So his energy swept through the boroughs as he continued to hand out tickets, smiles, and small prayers for harmony. Some took it upon themselves to try and muster an angry response or stern word for Paul, but it fell away like autumn leaves as his eyes crinkled with understanding. Life had yet to conjure a wave of anger too fierce for Paul to quell. The day those sweet, amber eyes didn't accompany a ticket, the people revolted. Four different meter maids found themselves at the mercy of enraged motorists as a frenzy swept through the boroughs. The absence of Paul's light created monsters of mere mortals. They stalked the street in a vain attempt to locate their blue vested saint. The last light of goodness to flicker and die in the city that never sleeps. A frenzied chant of "Where's Paul" echoed through the boroughs as the citizens seek their unlikely savior. The status of Paul Greenberg still unknown; the city fell to the riots within two weeks. But his legacy burns through the streets. Soon, every act of kindness met the battle cry of "You're not Paul!" even that quickly reduced to a screech that spoke only of hate. Hate that's born out of loss. The world could only watch as chaos consumed the crown jewel of the United States. Eventually, even the Pope stepped in as he decreed Paul, a saint for his love. Only the crowds wanted more. Being a saint made Paul equal to other saints, and their Paul had no equal. He rose to a God, and with it brought the destruction of the church. The horde tolerated no false idols. No Jesus. not even God was safe from their fires.  "Let there be light; let there be Paul. Without his guidance, we shall fall. We shall fall. We. Shall. Fall."  And so they fell. Upon the land, the people, and the backbone of collective knowledge. Humanity was undone- by the Sinners of Paul.


Murder! Murder! Murder! That is the word I most often hear in my line of work. People come walking through my door claiming a crime has been committed, begging me to solve it for them. They drop their coin on my table claiming they will pay any price, they beg and plead and threaten. Sometimes I say no, Most times I say yes though, I need the coin, it doesn’t pay to be stuck up.

     Many times the case is easy to solve, a loved one turns up passed out in a bar somewhere, sleeping it off in a dirty corner. Or a son has run off to the next town to be with his forbidden sweetheart. Murder, they all claim murder, a way of avoiding the monotonous answers to their own problems, but, as long as they pay it’s no skin off my nose.

     Every once in a while a case comes through that proves interesting, one such case came to me on a dreary day. A tall, cloaked man tromped into my office...the corner booth at Mel's bar and chow. He tracked mud across the floor, adding to the other trails of mud, that's all you ever get in this backwater town, mud. He sat across from me and stared from underneath a travel worn hood, wet from the perpetual drizzle happening outside.

       We sat in silence for quite a bit before I decided to start the conversation.  "Tell me your tale and I'll tell you the price." I leaned back and lit my pipe, the match illuminating a set of yellow eyes staring back at me. I acted casually but I admit his stare was becoming unnerving and I didn't like it, didn't like it one bit.

 "Murder." He growled.  "That's what they all say." I chuckled.  "Murder!" He snarled, slamming a gloved fist onto the table.

"Okay, okay," I placated, holding out my hand, "no need to get riled, tell me what happened."

He settled back in his chair still watching me with a shrouded gaze.

"Three nights ago," he grunted "found my nephew dead, murdered." "What do the authorities say?" I asked.

"Suicide." He sneered. "They don't know."

" Don't know what?" I questioned, he didn't answer.

"Murder." He repeated, leaning towards me and staring more intently. I set my pipe down, feeling a little disconcerted.

"Yes, as you said before. But if the constables have decided it's a suicide, you will have to give me a better reason to why you think it is murder." I told him, leaning forward to match his gaze. "There was a note." He growled, slamming a palm down on the table, underneath it was a slip of paper, he slid his hand back leaving the paper for me to take, I did so and examined it.

     It was a grungy, slip with strange symbols scrawled over it. I stared at it for a while, flipping it back and forth trying to understand what I was looking at. After a moment I slid the paper back across the table.  "What does it mean?" I asked. He didn't take the paper back.

"It means murder. We need you to find out who." He slid a large pouch across the table to me, it's sides distended with coins. "Three days." He stood up,I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

"Why three days? How was he killed? What's his name!?" He stared down at me.

"West Shire, 4th house on Brewer lane." His guttural one line was muttered as he turned from me and stomped his way out of the bar, it was then that I noticed the tail. I admit I shuddered a little, the wolf people are not usually ones who ask for help. Neither are they people you want to cross. I safely tucked the coins under my cloak and stood up,

I had three days to come up with some answers, I knew I couldn't do it alone, it was time to assemble my team.

    First off I headed to the house of my greatest friend and helper. Weasy, an eccentric little goblin who, while a sneaky little asshole, who would steal the cloak off your back if he thought he could get away with it, was the greatest information finder in all the seven kingdoms. I knew without a doubt he would be able to find out everything I needed to know.

    Then I needed a tracker, someone who could follow whatever clues we found at the house of the alleged crime. This was a job for Mira. She talks way to much, and has a tendency towards being a ditz but when you get her to focus there is nothing she can't find.

  Finally I needed someone with connections. A crime scene that has already been inspected by a constable will almost be impossible to get into, and seeing the body will be even more so, but with the right connections you can get in anywhere. That's where Zolo comes in, the worst of all snobs, but like most elves his sense of honor is deep, I saved his life now he gives me his services, which in this case means all his connections.

 With my team together, for better or worse, we set off to solve a mystery.

Day one:  First things first, we needed more information. Such as; who was the victim? how was he killed? And where was West shire?

 Weasy spent most of the day doing what he does, to find out what we needed. He showed up at my place as I was putting supper on the table. He helped himself to bread and stew.

  "What did you find out Weasy?" I couldn't help but feel a tad bit impatient. Usually at this stage of the game I had enough information to start my own investigation, but this case had nothing for me yet, meaning I had to wait on my comrades.

  "A lot." He told me around a mouthful of food. "Our victim died three days ago." "Name?" I interrupted, Weasy glared at me and tore off another bite of bread deliberately taking his time to chew and swallow before answering.  "Charles Lambobby." Weasy said. " That's not a very wolfish name." I speculated. " He wasn't a wolf, he was a Satyr." Weasy told me triumphantly. " A Satyr?" I felt confused, my wolf friend had said the victim had been his nephew, how was it that his nephew was a Satyr. I shook my head, that was further into wolf business then I wanted to go.

"What else did you find?" Weasy had finished his meal and was now licking out his bowl. He paused long enough to answer. "West Shire is the name of Grungs,the wolf town, you can get there in half a day if you ride hard."

  Grungs was what everyone called the Wolf headquarters. Grung being the name of their overlord, a mob type leader who ruled by fear, blood and a constantly changing set of rules. We had all called it Grungs for so long I guess I never realized it had any other name.

" You sure you want to take this case Gwenwé?" Weasy asked me seriously. "Anything dealing with the wolves is shady and bad business." "I don't think I have a choice." I admitted. I hadn't gotten the impression that no was an acceptable response to the interview, in any case, I had taken the coin and started the search, it was too late to back out now.

 "I'm going to head out with Mira and Zolo tonight. You coming with us?" The little Goblin shook his head emphatically.

 "Goblins and wolves get along worse than cats and dogs. There's no way I'm showing my face in a whole town of them."      We were ready to leave in a couple of hours. It was dark by then but the road was pretty straight forward and with the time constraint we were on, I didn't have the time to wait till morning to travel.

Day two:     Dawn had broken when we rode into West Shire. We made our way to a travelers inn, got our horses settled in the stable and went to see about some food.

    The dining room of the inn was nearly empty, a few stragglers hunched over their ale. A tired looking woman came to take our orders, her wolf ears poking up through her hat, a layer of grey fur covering her fingers. When the barmaid had walked away Mira leaned over, "A half breed." She whispered to me her wings quivering a little. "I'm surprised Grung allows such things." She scoffed. I was a little less surprised.    After finishing our breakfast Zolo headed off to visit with his connections, he vaguely mentioned knowing someone in the Mayor’s office. Zolo never gave us details about his connections, as long as I get what I need he can keep his secrets.

     Mira and I decided to visit the house where the crime had taken place, we had little hope that we would get inside. As we suspected the doors were locked, we walked around outside, Mira doing her thing and examining different things in the dirt and on the windowsills.

  “There’s nothing here.” She told me fluttering down from the window. “I’m going to go talk to the constable, see if I can see the body.” She headed into town, I lingered at the house, I had some thoughts, but I wasn’t sure about any of them yet.

    Zolo came through as he usually does, he got Mira access to the corpse, she did her search but didn’t come up with any leads. The only thing she could tell me was that while Lambobby mostly resembled a Satyr with his goat hooves and horns, he also had a few characteristics that showed him to be part wolf. Zolo informed me that the halfbreed was a runner for the Council of wolves, collecting taxes and protection fees from the various business owners around town.   We all reconvened at the tavern and talked over dinner.   “Tomorrow is the last day.” Zolo said, “We have nothing of real value to solve this case. We need more time.”   “We will sleep on it tonight and tomorrow will bring what it brings.” I said, I wasn’t feeling too concerned, “I have some leads, I just need to figure out how they all fit together.” I was fairly optimistic as to what tomorrow would bring. My friends were skeptical but we all headed to bed to sleep on it.

Day three:   In the morning I woke to find the cloaked man waiting outside for us. His hood was thrown back revealing his canine snout.  “That wasn’t three days!” Mira fretted, flitting back and forth from the window to me. “What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?”   “Let me handle it.” I told her calmly, putting on my cloak. They followed me outside.

On the street I stood face to face with the giant wolf man. He didn’t speak, so I took it upon myself to begin. “Goodmorning...” I paused realizing I still didn’t know what to call him. “Zerók.” He growled. “Good morning Zerók, I suppose you are here for answers?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Well we have some.” I told him confidently. “I admit when you first came to me I was intrigued, but then we got here and we began learning a few things that left me a little baffled. Why would a member of the council hire a hick town detective to solve their problems? And why would any one dare kill a personal messenger of the council?” I paused watching Zerók for any reaction, he didn’t give me any, his yellow eyes just watched, a heavy frown on his face. “Then I began to think, it wasn’t a matter of who wanted Charles dead, it was a question of who would dare cross the council. That list doesn’t exist, not in this town anyway, the only ones who would kill Charles Lambobby would be the council itself.    “So the council were the ones who put out he kill order?” Mira asked, Zerók glared at me, I felt a chill move down my spine, but I maintained a neutral face.

  “I think that the council did put out a kill order.” I said, but I think that when they got there Charles was already dead.” I maintained eye contact with Zerók, not an easy thing to do with a wolf man. “He's not your nephew is he? You were his assassin, finding him dead didn’t make you very happy did it?” I asked him. He didn’t acknowledge the question, I knew I was right.

“Why did they hire you f they wanted him dead?” Zolo asked raising one delicate eyebrow, obviously disbelieving my theory.  “The council didn't hire us.” I told him. "Zerók did. I don't think the council could have cared less, long as who they wanted dead was dead. It was Zerók who was miffed that he didn't get to make the kill."  “Who did it then?” Mira asked perplexed. “A disgruntled lover I think.” I said keeping an eye on Zerók. “Satyr’s are known for their promiscuity.” I said lightly. “Doubtful that we will ever find out who.” Zerók growled low under his breath.  “We hired you to find out who.” He threatened.

 “Yes, you hired me to find out who had killed your nephew, but come to find out, he was not your nephew and you were trying to kill him yourself.” I said, my hand clutching the knife I had hidden under my cloak. “There is not enough evidence to find out who killed him. I did my best.” The wolf man stared at me, his brows lowered.

 “I knew this waste of time.” He grumbled. “A waste of money. Our business is done.” He said. “Leave town tonight, never show your useless face back here.” He told me, spitting at my feet.” He stomped away leaving us alone. I let out a slow breath, trying to calm my heart beat.  “Let’s go.” I told my comrades, “before he changes his mind and we are left dead in an alley somewhere.”    It wasn’t until we were on our horses and a good few miles away from Grunds that Mira spoke.   “You know who did it don’t you?” She asked me. I rode silently for a few moments.  “Yes.” I admitted.  “What?” Zolo gasped, coming alongside us. “Who?” “The barmaid.” I told them.  “The half breed one?” Mira frowned at me. “Why her? How do you know?”

“It’s quite simple actually.” I told them nonchalantly. “ She told me.” “Spill it Gwenwé!” Mira demanded. “No more of your cryptic answers, tell us the story plainly.” I gave in and began my answer.  “It was the paper that Zerók gave me in the beginning. The one with the strange symbols on it. I had no idea what they were, and to be honest I had forgotten all about the paper, until we arrived in Grungs. When we went to the inn there were two Satyrs sitting beside us at the next table, I noticed when they got their tab it was written in the same symbols as our mystery paper. The killer left Charles’ bartab on his corpse.”   “How would the council not have figured that out?” Zolo interrupted, he always questioned my answers, always doubted my intellect.

  “I don’t think the Wolves had ever been in that tavern. It was a human establishment, more or less, they collected their taxes and their protection fees, but Charles is the one who collected those, other than him I don’t think a single wolf has ever walked into that place. On top of that the council didn’t care about who killed Charles, they wouldn’t dig around trying to figure out the scrap of paper.”

 "Tell us the rest about the barmaid.” Zolo said impatiently.

  “Well after Mira went to check out the body, and you went off to talk to the Mayor I went back to the tavern, I showed the maid the paper and she confirmed it was the tab, I asked if she knew Charles Lambobby, she laughed in my face and then proceeded to tell me the whole story.”

“Of course I knew Charles Lambobby, everyone does. ‘Nuffin’ ever good came when he was around. He’d come in ‘ere demanding the taxes and other fees for them wolves, then that night he’d coome back spending our coin, getting drunk on the money we worked to make.” She spat on the ground, crossing her arms under her breasts. “He thought he was all that, all because his mother was a wolf, tried so hard to be one of them. He came in here one night, bragging about how he had gotten himself on the counsel, I had ‘nough, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I waited until he had drunk himself crazy, followed him home and did him off. I don’t care who knows it, I tain’t ashamed, I’d do it again if given the chance.” “So how do you figure that Zerók hired us against the counsel’s wishes?” Zolo asked. “Well that is more of an assumption. First of all. Why would a council of Wolf people

connected to every aspect of the town hire a nobody from another town to solve their problem? Second why would they just let us walk away with their coin when we didn’t actually solve their case?” My comrades rode in silence for a little while, I couldn’t help but feel a little self satisfied, this case had tied itself up neatly.

 Murder! They all cry murder! I take what I can get and I solve what I can. Gwenwé, private detective at your service.


Take 1 . Pushing through the throng of suit jackets, the smell of sweat haunted by stale aftershave. The bar was crowded. A typical Dubai drinking hole for advertising and film people. They called it the Red Lion, pretending that it was the same as you find in England. Except it wasn’t. Like the city, it was faux, built on dreams and hopes, rising from the sand of dry dusty life. It was my escape, this city, a haven for a film director. Being busy, pushing for the next job, networking was the way to fill life with money and meaning.

From the hollowness of nothing. But that realization came later that night. After I reached the bottom. When I saw depression. Not felt it, saw it, like a glowering creature that enveloped my body with sadness, a fear that, if this was all life was about, then it was not worth it. As if it saw me, the real me, naked. Tonight though, I played at being buoyant, enjoying the noise of revels, inhaling the camaraderie of the film crew who smiled and offered me my double J@B scotch on the rocks. Any noise. Until there was none. Film crews, like theatre folk, believe the dream they are living. On location, away from family and kids and school trips, they hold onto each other, supporting the excitement of ‘Action, Roll Camera’ life until the next take. And then after the grueling day in the desert near Sharjah, in heat of forty degrees, they bond with alcohol and stories of the day. “Did you see how we nearly lost the camera in that shot of the Land cruiser sliding down the sand dune.” “Ja…I thought we were going to lose the light.” “Did the director know what he was doing?” The driver of the car wasn’t there to tell his side of the story; how I had insisted he breast the sand dune at high speed so that I could get a shot of the car in the air over the sand. “Cheers!” “Terrific day, Sir,” the cameraman said. “Here’s your Scotch!’ I downed it in one gulp. Exhausted, from the day’s concentration and the tension of being the director- the man in charge of the shoot. It is all an act- I must appear to be in charge, that all questions can be answered by me. Major imposter syndrome. They tell you that the best directors choose the most experienced crew to lessen the pressure. I found the reverse. Better people expect better knowledge from the man in charge. And I did not know enough. Constant questions which bludgeoned my creative vision to death. “What lens do you want, sir?” “Where do you think we should put the light. Sir?” “Don’t you think we need to have the car tyres blackened, sir?” “How long do you think it’ll take to clean the sand of wheel marks before the next take, sir?” “What time do you want to break for lunch, sir?” “Can we see the driver if the car in this shot, or do we use a double, sir?” “Time is running short. We will miss the sunset shot, sir.” “I’ll have another one, “I said. The barman nodded and I downed the scotch. The barman was used to film crews who over worked and overdrank. He smiled, handed me my change and I turned to watch the crew, most showing the effect of their drinks. They included me as manners, but not as one of their own. Directors were the people who were papal if they were considered good at their job, but unforgiven if they failed to meet the crews’ expectations. On this shoot I sensed a disdain behind their smiles. I sighed. The scales were falling off, I was beginning to hate this business, my ability to play the game. Perhaps I was just tired. “Reduced crew tomorrow,” said the assistant director. “You handle it, “I said. “It’s just postcard shots of dunes and thorn trees. I’ll begin the edit.” He looked chuffed to be given the responsibility. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He assumed a straighter posture when he told the crew. “The wanker said I will take the shot tomorrow,” he said. Well, that’s what I would have said. I pushed through the sweat and cigarette smoke, the retelling of the landrover flying over the sand dune; again. I left. The street was quiet outside the noise of the pub. It felt safe, away from the pressure of people drinking to enjoy themselves. I was empty. Double scotches had not filled the gap. These crew members weren’t friends; they were, at best colleagues. But the sinking thought, the realization that I did not respect them, that they certainly did not respect me hit me like the humidity fogging up my glasses. What was I looking for? That they should like me? That they should be impressed by my artistic skill? I had no answers. I did not want these thoughts. Another drink. I hailed a cab and headed for a bar in Satwa, where local Emiratis drank and picked up prostitutes.

Take Two It was a fug of smoke and the feeling of being an outsider was comforting. No one knew me, had any expectations of me. The thobes and gutras thronged the bar. Ethiopian and Moroccan women perched on stools glad-eying the men. “Need a friend?” said one to me as I finished my first drink. “La, habibti,” I said. I was not in the market for sins of the flesh.  The crowd was dense, and I caught a young dark man looking at me. Not visible at first, hidden behind customers and smoke I caught him staring again. His face came in and out of the light, as if he was dodging a spotlight. When I got a full view, I saw that he looked familiar, but I did not know him. I peered to see if perhaps he was with people I knew, but he was alone. Then, he nodded, moved. He walked slowly. Carefully. “I’m a student,” he said. “I saw you filming the Land rover. I was part of the crew to clean the car after every shot.” I laughed. A man emerging out of a cloud of cigarette smoke, commenting on my work. “Only brown people can clean cars on film sets,” he said, without irony. He was right. No white people were used as labour on film sets. I sighed and downed my drink. I could not get away from my career, even in this dank bar. “Must be paying you too much if you’re out drinking!” I said. He laughed. “I don’t drink. Don’t have the need.” His voice was deep and warm. Not like the voices of labourers who gabbled, as if the next moment would be their last. This man spoke without accent. At times I thought he and I had the same voice.

He was a handsome man, in a Bollywood way, sweeping eyelashes and dark long hair. He reminded me of the actor from a Monkey King series I had watched on TV. Why was he here?

“Never seen you here before,” I said. “Tonight, I wanted company.”  “Why this bar?”

He smiled. “If I go to a Western bar, they treat me like a waiter. Just like on the film set.” “Drink?” I offered. “Coke, or 7 UP?” He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. We stood at the bar, leaning against the counter, watching the ladies chat up the men, some leaving with customers, others patiently smoking. “Why here? “I said again. “Why not?” There was something strange about this guy. Normally labourer types don’t go into bars and talk to white men. He spoke to me as if we had met before. It felt odd, as if we were in our own searchlight at the bar. “And you? You’re the only westerner here.” He said.

He was right, the only white man in the room.

“An obvious client for the ladies.” We laughed. “I’m not here for that.” I said. “For what then?”

I had no answer for this stranger, invading my space. But I remained silent. He would not know tonight was one of my worst times, doubting the person behind the mask was real. Perhaps he did, which he is why he came over. “You are very patient on the film set,” he said. “I don’t often feel it.”

“I saw that. You work with people you don’t like. Who don’t like you. But you do the job.” “That’s what you have to do,” I said. “Bare spots and darkness.” “What?” “Walt Whitman. He said an artist must know lows and highs.” “I need another drink after that,” I said. “I’m going to the beach” he said.

“Bit late for a swim.” “No swimming. I get peace there.” “I live on the beach.” I said. “I know. I was at your wrap party.” “For the last film?”? “Yes. But in your job, you don’t see people.” I felt stung. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Not me-second unit. I’m not necessary.” He turned and after a pause. “Your river. It’s your bridge you are crossing.” He had left by the time the drink arrived and the heat of the whisky, the promise of rest, eased me as I stared at the crowd; a tourist examining items in a window display he could not buy. “Double Scotch,” I said. Take Three The sand crunched though my toes as I stumbled towards the sea. The waves rippled along like a ribbon, white lights of foam suddenly spreading across the sand. In the distance, through the humid haze, the lights of the Burj Khalifa reached to the sky. The desire to have the tallest, the biggest, the fastest; the signature of Dubai. Using cheap labour from India and Iran, the city is an example of materialism at its best and worst. When I first arrived here, Indian labourers were forced to work during the hottest period of the day, some falling to their death from the scaffolding. Nowadays there are safety nets, and the hours are proscribed. But still they fall. Now into a net. My cottage, more of a lean-to really, overlooked an undeveloped part of the beach front. Built in the seventies as houses for the migrant labour to build the port, they were now occupied by artists and freelance film makers, like me. The rent was a pittance, the cottages were basic, built not to survive, but they did, and we took them over. I loved living there. I could control my expenses and choose which jobs I wanted, without money pressures. But the question would not go away. What would happen if I gave it up? I began to strip. I would swim. I left the bottle of whiskey on top of my clothes to stop them blowing away. I stumbled to the edge of the sand holding the shadow of the ebbing tide. Naked in the humidity was a release and I edged into the water. It was lukewarm, holding the heat of the day. As I waded out, I wondered would I have the strength to drown. It was then I felt, saw, an orange glow, threatening to push me under. Silent screams wrapped around me, suffocating me. Trickles of pain travelled through my arms, my feet, my face. I panicked. It must be the alcohol, I thought. Panting, I grasped a support for a flyover in construction.Bare concrete and stone. I held on to it until my breathing settled. I released my grasp of the pillar and turned to the shore. Soon my beach would be a carpark; my haven would be gone. Perhaps it was all leading to this moment. An attack of fear in the water. I dipped under, enjoying the brief sting of salt in my eyes. Slowly I swam and I stumbled back to the shore. In front of me was a lone figure, sitting cross legged, staring out at the ocean. Cast in shadows and light. The young man from the bar. Was he following me?

I sat down beside him. I thought I would share his isolation. Obviously drunk. Sharing his isolation meant destroying it.

Three more double scotches at the bar took me over the edge. Fear of leaving the comfort of anonymous people in search of sex and booze, of stepping into a real world, fueled my thirst.

The first drink relaxed, stopped me pretending to be normal. It was exhausting to hide trembles of the person behind the mask.

I sat down, cross legged and tried to work out what the man was staring at. Eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the boats. A light from the distance passed over us, like a lighthouse.  There one minute, gone the next.  He did not acknowledge me or react to my nakedness. Most Middle East people would avert their eyes from nakedness. He did not even notice. He was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt with sandals neatly arranged near his feet. This young man had punctured my thoughts, roiled me. We sat in silence. My mind was not. That night, I met despair.

Whether he felt it or not, I cannot say, but he said. “That is my home.”

I looked out over the black waves, every now and then punctuated by the lights of ships queueing for the harbour.

“The ships?” “My country.”

“I can’t see anything,” I said. “You will if you try.” I moved to get up. The man was obviously high or something. “Iran is across the sea from here.” I said. He turned to me and smiled. A gentle smile. “But it’s hundreds of miles away,” I said. “You can’t see it.” “It’s still there.” He said. The waves plashed along the shore, lights flicking, then gone, boats hazy in the distance. I offered him a swig from my bottle. He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said.

“So have I.” We sat in silence again, slowly watching the sky lighten.

“You should dress.” He said."You must choose who sees you naked." Nudity on the beaches was not allowed. I grinned as I slipped on my clothes. “The secret police will think we are lovers.” “In a way we are,” he said. I remember frowning at him. “I was looking for a friend too.” I turned to trudge up to my house in the grey dawn.  When I looked back, he was not there. * “The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor. The point of being an artist is that you may live.” Sherwood Anderson


The wind had killed autumn. It always started that way, cutting the leaves from the trees to fall and dry on the ground. Then came the frost, to turn the world grey. Last came the snow. The huntsman moves through pine and birch and shallow snow towards the clearing ahead, the wind covering any noise he may have made. At its edge, he lowers himself onto the ground. The cold seeps through his jacket. Across the clearing, the rabbit hears nothing. He hefts his rifle – dark wood, steel – into the firing position. The safety softly clicks as he flicks it off. Finger moves to the trigger, and sits there lightly, waiting. His world is now constrained to what he can see through the rifle’s sights. The rabbit hops to another patch of dry grass. The huntsman adjusts, settling his aim onto the rabbit again. Breathes in, then softly out, begins to squeeze- \-the snow near the rabbit erupts, a blur of motion and a shape falls upon the rabbit. Strong jaws and sharp teeth crush its neck. A fox. Deep red fur. The huntsman pauses, then sights in on the fox. The rifle speaks \- Eyes. Brown, no hazel. Soft, kind eyes. They stand together and kiss under the shadow of the bus. Her lips are soft. He can taste salt. He doesn’t understand- \- There she is, across the road. He’d walked into town in the early morning, when the birds were still singing from the branches of silver trees touched with gold, to sell the deer slung over his shoulder. She’d just stepped out of the bakery wearing a sky blue apron, dusted with flour. Seeing him, she shoots him a little smile. Hazel eyes. He’s staring and something in him aches- He quickly turns away down the street. He wants to run. \- A mound of dirt and a headstone sits beneath the old oak tree, twisting on a hill behind the cabin. He lays down next to it, onto the dry leaves. His feet extend beyond the edge of the mound. He is taller. The wind sings soft through the branches above, taking the last of the leaves and carrying them to the woods below. \- There is a song he remembers, sitting in the back of his mind. He hums it as he walks and he smiles. His rifle is slung over his shoulder as he crunches his way up the path towards the hill. Hoar frost covers everything the snow has failed to touch. Everything is like glass. He knows this is the last time he can go out this season. He keeps humming. It’s an old song, for him. The rifle stock gently bumps against him in time with his steps. The wind keeps singing through the trees. \- Now it tears and saws, back and forth, opening a hole ever wider, and the other’s hand has fallen away but the knife still cuts, back and forth and red warmth washes over his hands – \- Oh god. Cradled in his arms, his burden was beginning to cool as he carried it up the hill towards the oak tree. He begins to claw a hole in the dirt beneath it. His hands bleed, but he can’t feel it. He picks up the small bundle and gently lowers it into the hole he has made. His eyes sting. He tries to stand, but for a while he can’t, sobbing into the cold wind. He scrapes the dirt back into the hole, covering the bundle’s red fur. Finding his feet, he stands beneath the tree, unmoving, breathing in time to the wind cutting through the branches, swaying slightly as one who has roots in the earth. Then he severs them. Going to the cabin at the bottom of the hill, he takes his pack and fills it with clothes, a pencil, a notepad and his books. He steps out the door, closing it behind him. He leaves the cabin, the hill, the oak tree and the forest. He walks into town and stands across the road from the bakery, and waits. The hazel eyed girl steps out and sees him. She smiles again at him slightly. He takes a breath, and crosses the road.


I like being barefoot in the cold. People always stare at me awkwardly, when I start peeling off my shoes and socks to walk across a frost-laden pitch of grass, but they wouldn’t if they just tried it. Society only tells you it’s not okay to go outside with shoes on. It’s actually an entirely novel concept, really; I’d rather focus on my feet freezing, than sit back idly as my night travels in reverse. I don’t think I sleep well anymore. I always feel tired; like the coffee I had last night, doesn’t want me to drink the coffee I’ll drink in the morning. And I’ll roll over in my bed, and that sting of the familiar pain in my side shakes me so hard I can’t go back to sleep. And the feeling of my heart, almost burning, with every few beats, scares me enough to get out of bed and drink some water. I’ll go outside, instead of having coffee, in an attempt to offset the ritual that lead to my dismay. Walking barefoot into the yard while I’m smoking, just to let my mind travel somewhere else for a while. And then I stepped on that fucking dart. The serenity of chills is met with the sound of anguish, and my scream pierces the early morning, and I’m left wondering why I ever threw that dart out the window. I hung a map on my wall, and I blindfolded myself; just to throw a dart, and see where it’d land, well, it landed in the yard. I threw the dart to see where it wanted me to go, and through the bitter irony, it ended up being what stopped me from going anywhere. Because now there’s a dart sized whole in my foot. I don’t think I think anymore. If I had been thinking at all, I wouldn't of went into the back yard barefoot; there’s so much dog shit out there. I think, through out the course of the last hundred years, all anyone ever wanted was to be listened to. To know that their sorrow was heard. I wake up, and my side hurts every day; I’m too exhausted to run, because I don’t sleep well anymore. After drinking coffee all day, going to bed, is comparable to sleeping on something incredibly hot and itchy. Yeah, you can manage it, but you have to stand up every forty-five minutes to scratch your balls and cool off. My heart hurts after drinking so much coffee. Sometimes, enough that I contemplate going to the hospital, but then I remember that I don’t like hospitals anymore; that if I walk in there, complaining of heart pain, I’d probably be locked in a room for four hours until I stroked out all together. Yeah, I don’t like hospitals. This is my pain. And I carry it with me every day, along with seven cup’s of coffee and two red bulls. I feel like I’m slowly killing myself everyday, and I’m screaming in torment at the wall; no one hears me, and I don’t feel heard. I feel muffled. The pain in my chest and coffee cup in my hand tells me I’m not being dramatic, but reality taught me a long time ago, that help doesn’t usually ever come. And I don’t know what to do, because this life leaves me feeling empty and void, and in a significant amount of pain. I just don’t want to drink any more coffee. My side hurts.


(Semi-Autobiographical Fiction) The bell rings, and within moments, students pour out of classroom doors. The hallway fills with the echoing sounds of laughter, shouting and squeaking sneakers. Throngs of students move in every direction, all racing against the nine-minute period break. I walk through this chaos, down the middle of the hallway. I’ve got my headphones on, listening to the latest album by INXS on my Walkman. Trying to tune out the world. I keep my eyes downward and make myself as invisible as possible. By being unremarkable, with no flashy clothing, weird piercings or punk hairstyles, I blend into the sea of conformity. Just like any other guy. It’s my survival technique. Next to my locker, two students stand on footstools. They’re fighting against the crowd, trying to tape a banner to a hallway crossbeam. Class of ‘88 Senior Prom, Saturday, March 26th The sight of it makes my chest feel heavy. Prom’s not for everybody. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Stacy Wilson. She’s a pretty girl with long brown hair and amber eyes. Her personality is quirky, which keeps her out of the top tier popular crowd. But she’s cute enough that most boys would love to be the subject of her affection. We’re in the school play together. Oliver the Musical. Last night, we practiced the scene where all the merchants sing about their wares for sale. I play the knife grinder, and she plays the rose merchant. It’s my favorite song in the play, with its beautiful four-part harmony. At practice, it’s easy to get caught up in the moment. I bury myself behind my open locker door and crank up the volume of my Walkman. Trying to be invisible. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I stiffen, take off my headphones and turn. “Hey Gabe.” Stacy hovers behind me, gnawing at her bottom lip, with her hands in the pockets of her acid-washed jeans. “Stacy—oh, uh—hi.” I meet her gaze for a second, then focus back at the contents of my locker. “Rehearsal was great last night, huh?” “Yep.” I nod with tight lips. “Hey—um—I was thinking.” She inches forward. “I guess—I was wondering—would you want to hang out, like after rehearsal on Friday?” “No! I mean—sorry, I can’t. I have a thing.” Really? A thing? That’s the best I can do? “Oh, okay.” She looks crestfallen. “Maybe another time, then?” “Sure, sounds great.” I shut my locker. “Gotta run to class.” I hurry away, avoiding her gaze, not wanting to see her reaction. I feel sorry for Stacy. I mean, I really do . It must have taken nerve for her to ask me out. And singing in harmony with her is magical. But I’m just not interested, and I’m not good at faking it. Maybe it’s cruel to say no so bluntly, but ultimately it would be crueler to say yes. I mean, maybe we could be friends. She could be somebody I confide in or have a laugh with. But friendship isn’t what she’s after, and I know it. After all, I’m an expert in unrequited love. The first awareness of who I really am came in 5th grade. I shared a homeroom desk with Ben Schafer with his puppy dog brown eyes and infectious smile. His goofy sense of humor matched mine perfectly. We both loved old Monty Python movies and would spend hours laughing at the dumb jokes. Every day I would be so excited to see him. Any day he was sick or missed school, I was a wreck. That affection was unrequited, of course. We were close enough friends, but my intensity made it strange. Any relationship so unbalanced is doomed to failure. Fast forward seven years, and I find myself in a sadly familiar situation. Fifth period biology. My lab partner is Tom O’Connell. With spiky brown hair, a freckled nose, and those same deep brown eyes that make my stomach do somersaults every time they look my way. But currently, the seat next to me is empty and the second bell just rang. I keep my eyes pinned to the door, sick to my stomach. David Spencer, a red-haired, loud-mouthed pain in the ass, watches me from across the aisle. “Whatcha looking for, Gabe?” He has this annoying smirk. “Nothing.” I tear my eyes away from the door and thumb through my biology textbook. “Um, hmm.” God, am I that transparent? It took me a while to accept that I’m gay. I went through all the stages of denial, but now I’m firmly in the acceptance phase. But of course I haven’t acted on it, or shared it with anybody. Coming out in high school is social suicide. Last year, Sam Eastman was outed against his will. He was a little effeminate, so even before then, he dealt with a lot of bullying and name-calling. He came out to his best friend under the bleachers at a football game. Somebody overheard, and the news spread like wildfire. The bullying got so bad, he ended up leaving the school. Last I heard, he’s doing homeschooling now. So yeah, this is a secret I’m keeping to myself. Tom comes tearing into the room, breathing hard. His backpack is hanging from one arm, and three textbooks are askew in the other. Basically, a big, adorable mess. My whole face lights up. Red-head David is watching me, and makes a little snorting laugh. He keeps quiet but his eyes clearly say, That’s what I thought. “Sorry Mr. Jacobs,” Tom says as he blows past the teacher’s desk on his way to the empty seat next to me. He shoots me a sheepish grin, walking up the aisle. “You get lost on the way to class?” I tease as he scotches behind me to get to his desk. “Girl problems. You know.” “Yeah.” I force a laugh. My smile deflates. “You see that hockey game last night?” Tom asks, as he slides into his chair. “Yeah man. That goal in the second period?” “It was sweet.” I know almost nothing about hockey. But Tom loves it, so I’m trying to learn. The first game I watched, I couldn’t even see where the puck was. A bunch of random skating and slapping of sticks until a siren goes off, and the announcer yelled GOAAAAAL! But I was getting better at watching it. “Hey, wanna catch a movie on Friday?” I ask. “Beetlejuice is supposed to be funny.” I have a job at the theater, so I get into movies for free. I use this as leverage whenever I can. “Nah, man, gotta date with Kristy.” “Oh. Nice.” My heart craters. I guess what goes around comes around. The lecture is boring. Tom has his head propped up on his arm and he keeps drifting off. It’s so cute that I can’t stop looking at him. My chest is aching. Why can’t I choose who I fall for? When the bell finally rings, we all get up to head out. Tom stops to chat with some friends and I hover around, hoping to walk with him down the hallway for a bit. David Spencer walks up to me. “Why are you just standing there?” He’s got this knowing look on his face. “Why are you so worried about what I’m doing?” I snap back. David shakes his head and walks off. I’d swear he said queer under his breath. My chest tightens and I hurry out of class, not looking back. * * * I’ve got a shift at the theater that night, taking tickets. It’s pretty slow, so my boss lets me go early. As I’m headed out of the break room, I bump into my work friend Johnny Nguyen. “Hey Gabe, party tonight. You going?” Johnny has a big grin. He’s rocking his punky look, with spiked black hair and a ripped blue jean jacket. “Sounds fun. Where’s it at?” “Jessica’s house.” His grin gets even bigger. “You know she’s got a thing for you, right?” “Oh, yeah?” I force a smile. Jessica works at the theater too, behind the concession stand. And yes , I know she has a thing for me. She’s always sending me smiles and acting flirty. “Yup. I saw her checking you out earlier. And she asked me if you were single. I told her you were perpetually single.” “Nice, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Come to think of it, I got a test I have to study—” “Na ah. You ain’t getting outta this one. Jessica is fine , and tonight’s your chance.” Johnny shoves me forward. “I’ll drive. You need to get plastered tonight. Liquid courage.” People always confuse my lack of interest with a lack of confidence. It’s annoying but I can’t exactly correct them. So I use it as my disguise. Sure. I’m the shy one. Only problem is girls seem to dig this more. We pull up to the house-party. Music is blaring, and teenagers are a running around on the lawn. It’s even crazier inside. Drunken people pack the place. My eyes point downward, hoping to not run into Jessica. Johnny’s head snaps around. “Damn, you see that?” “What?” “You telling me you didn’t see that babe who just walked by? Man, you need to open your eyes!” “Oh. Dang.” I put on my best disappointed face. “You gotta give me a heads up next time.” Johnny just shakes his head. We weave our way through the crowd to the kitchen, where guys in letterman jackets are doing shots off the counter. Johnny grabs a red solo cup, fills it from a keg sitting in an ice bucket, and shoves it toward me. “Drink!” I take the glass and chug it. If I’m gonna make it through tonight, I’ll need it. Johnny beams at me. “There’s my man!” After another beer and two shots of something awful, my head is buzzing, taking the edge off my inhibitions. I head out to the crowd. There’s lots of people from my high school, and quite a few I don’t recognize. And then I see Jessica. She hasn’t seen me yet, so I duck into the next room. But in here is a different problem. Across the crowded room is David Spencer, the jerk from biology class. He’s chatting with two guys from the football team. David sees me and says something to them. They look my way and laugh. One of them shakes their head with a disgusted look on his face. Fuck. I run out of the room, a feeling of panic descending on me, and head downstairs. I just need to get away. But drunken teenagers fill the basement too. Down a hallway, there’s an empty, darkened room. I plop down in an overstuffed chair, hoping that here I can escape all the rumors and expectations. I sit in the chair and take deep breaths, trying to calm down. David Spencer is such an ass-hole. But then a female figure stands in the doorway. Jessica. She heads over, zigzagging a little on her way, then plops down and crams in next to me. The smell of sweet perfume and vodka wafts over. “Hey you.” She puts a sloppy finger on my chest. “I’ve been looking for you, Gabriel Fisher.” “Have you?” My heart beats faster again, but not in a sexual way. “Umm hmm.” She turns her head toward me and leans it against the chair. Our lips are inches apart. Here before me is the answer to my problems. I could go to prom. Stop the rumors that seem to be spreading. Not have to worry about coming out to my family and friends. I could have it all, and this could be the start. And all it would cost me is my happiness. The heat of her breath hits my face. Am I going through with this? To thine own self be false? Her lips just barely touch mine. Blinding light comes from above, and I shield it with my hand. Three drunken guys stand in the doorway, one with his finger on the light switch. “Oops, sorry.” “Holy shit! Jessica and Gabe finally hooked up,” another one says. I turn to Jessica with a sheepish look. But her eyes are shut. She’s passed out. I get up and head out of the room. One guy pats me on the back as I pass. “Nice job, Gabe!” So glad they’re happy. But I’m sick to my stomach, and there’s a weight baring down on my chest. I don’t make it any farther than the basement rec room. When it comes to drinking, I’m a bit of a lightweight, and the liquor has gone to my head. I stumble forward and land on an empty couch. I sit there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what just happened. Maybe being spotted “hooking up” with her will be enough to quiet rumors for a bit. But I’d probably need to date her to make it stick. And if touching her lips felt like that much of a lie. God, I'm so sick of this shit! Before I can think further, a guy plops on the couch next to me. I recognize his face. And it’s adorable. Messy blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Button nose. And he’s currently staring right at me, smiling. I’ve seen him a hundred times before. He’s in the play, but we don’t have any scenes together. And he’s not in any of my classes. But I might have a slight crush on him. “Jason, right? From the play?” I ask with his gaze still locked on me. I can feel my cheeks warming, and I have to avert my eyes. “Yep. Hi Gabe.” He knows my name. I work up the courage to look back at him. How can he just keep staring like that? With those tender eyes and that soft smile. “So is the rumor true?” he asks. “I dunno.” I let out a sad laugh. “Guess it depends on which rumor you’re talking about.” “This one.” And he kisses me. My whole body tingles and feels weightless. We separate, and I look into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s true.” Then go back for another kiss. Gasps surround us. And more than one homophobic epithet. But I don’t care. I’m done with the deceit. The thousand lies a day. If you don’t like it, get over it or get out of my way. This is who I am.


Every universe has a timeline, some fail to begin while others fail to end. Every timeline plays out all at once, we experience the "movement". This basically means though every moment repeats itself infinitely, we are going through it in order, "time". In the beginning was time travel. People came back from the future which happens at the same time as the past and created life, dying in the process, thus life as we know it now. Forever guessing how it all began, we find out every time only to forget. How long do we know the truth? What does it do for us? In order to survive as a species we must die and start over. We exist the same life blissfully unaware. When we can shift our actions and blame to a set timeline, all war is justified. We are creators of life but don't want the responsibility. We make religions to make it easier. The true comfort is that we don't die while the curse is nothing changes. How will this effect our lives if we found out? It wouldn't, and you know why.