A year had passed since Kindling's landing and a small city was forming from the efforts of the folk trying to provide shelter for everyone. In an ideal world, a city that houses a dragon would be built using materials that aren’t easily flammable, like stone, but the limited tools the survivors were left with meant that their choice in material was also limited. Wood was abundant on the island, so that is what the folk were forced to use. On one calm evening, as everyone was settling in for the night, the dragon landed from her evening patrol. She had been flying around the islands daily, looking for the other dragons and survivors. As the firebugs danced against the darkness of the night, the dragon laid down to sleep with the rest of the city. The sky was calm and a light breeze swept across the island. The city of Kindling drifted to sleep. Suddenly everyone was woken up by what sounded like thunder, only a thousand times louder. Folk jumped out of their beds to see their city in flames, accompanied by the harrowing screams of those trapped in the blaze. In an instant the folk sprung into action to try and extinguish the flames. Trying desperately to save those trapped in the fire, the folk realized there weren’t many to save. The fire was so intense and sudden, most of the victims had burned to ashes in an instant. The fire took three grueling days to extinguish. Forty-eight Askissa were lost that night, many more suffered injuries and lost their homes. Two years after the tragedy the damage had long ago been repaired and life had moved on. A sneeze from the dragon was determined to be the cause for the inferno. Suggestions were made on moving Kindling’s pen to the outskirts of the city, but as the island was quickly filling with folk and the land was needed for farming, any plans of moving her fell through. Housing her on another island was also considered, but it was thought to be too inconvenient. Many citizens demanded King Tivriul to do something to make the city safer. Stuck between exiling a beloved icon and savior they all owed a great debt to, or risking the lives of his folk, the King came up with a compromise; he ordered for the creation of Royal Fire Guard, a specially trained subset of the Royal Guard, whose task was to extinguish any fires. Fire safety regulations were also written into a law. It required new houses to be built in a way that allowed to folk to more easily escape in case their house caught on fire. Old houses were modified to fit the new standards. These actions seemed to ease the concerns many citizens had, and the Royal Fire Guard proved themselves to be an effective, as the city experienced fires from other sources. During one bright day in late midtide, a strong gush of wind picked up colorful powder from the flower fields and carried it over to the city, covering it like a blanket. The younglings had a great time crafting balls out of the powder with the help of some water, and throwing them at each other. A few of the folk however seemed to get weird sneezing fits and watery eyes from the powder, but it didn’t seem to be too harmful. Doctors advised the ill folk to stay away from others and the powder, until their symptoms lessened. In her pen, Kindling was becoming agitated. Described by a caretaker, the dragon paced back and forth, huffing loudly. All efforts to calm down her failed and the majestic creature broke out in a panic. Attempting to lift off to the sky, her wings kicked up some of the loose powder, and before anyone could react, a massive fireball erupted. As the flames incinerated the city once more, devouring everything in its path, King Tivriul’s fire safety regulations and the Royal Fire Guard were put to the test. Countless citizens were able to escape their homes, and many joined to help the Fire Guards in fighting the colossal fire. The Royal Palace, Hearth, was opened for folk who has lost their homes. While the city burned for days, killing countless of unfortunate souls and destroying half the city, the dragon had disappeared. Last seen battling to stay in the air as she violently sneezed, she had eventually vanished from sight. She was thought to be dead, if it wasn’t for her haunting cries during the night, coming from one of the neighboring islands. After days, the last bit of fire was finally smothered, and seeing the devastation and destruction of their city, the folk demanded that if the dragon was to ever return, the city must be able to withstand fire. Steps were taken to stop the dragon from sneezing in the first place, with the King ordering the field flowers to be eradicated, and anyone growing them would be harshly punished. Dig sites were also opened, with the hopes of finding stone. With barely any tools available, the folk resorted to using their paws, clawing the ground until their paws bled. Only a few stones were ever extracted, as the ground was mostly soft dirt. While the grown folk tried desperately find solutions, the younglings of the city played in the dug up dirt. Saevi Claypaw, a young mother, was playing with her cub and helping him to make a figurine depicting of his father. When she returned home that day, she put the figurine on a shelf above the hearth, to show to her husband when he came home. As she was cooking dinner, she knocked the figurine off the shelf and it fell right into the fire. Cursing herself, she carefully fished the miniature from the flames, and noted how it had hardened. She carefully examined the miniature, running her claw along every nook and cranny. As she idly caressed the figurine with her paws, she had an idea. For days she experimented with the new material, noting down the optimal time the material should be exposed to fire, how the material wasn’t flammable at all, and how it could also hold liquids, making it an ideal material for bowls and vases. Saevi had bigger plans than just bowls and vases however, she wanted to try and build a house out of the material. In her notes, she wrote down how the material most likely would need supports, as it could be too soft to hold its shape until properly hardened. She convinced her husband to buy her a plot of land, so she could try and build her first house. The family had been planning on moving into a bigger house and after a long conversation, Saevi’s husband agreed to use the house money to buy a piece of land. Excited and full of energy, Saevi rose up early every morning and left to work on building the house. She had drawn up a plan for what the house should look like, together with her husband, as the plan was that the family would move into the house once it was finished. The house looked very practical, almost boring, but Saevi figured the house should be function over form. Many days after working hard, the house was finished, apart from blessing it with fire. She did notice that just the sun and warm air had hardened the material, but not enough for it to be structurally sound. She filled the house with anything flammable; sticks, leaves, old furniture, piling it high around the walls. Before setting the monstrous pyre on fire, she, her husband and their cub pressed their paws against the soft wall, marking the house as theirs. Saevi felt a sense of pride and accomplishment as she watched the house she had painstakingly built be consumed by the flames. Saevi had notified the Royal Fire Guard of her intentions, and while the law did not make it illegal to burn down your own house, the Royal Fire Guard arrived to make sure the fire wouldn’t spread. A crowd on onlookers had also formed, a fire in the city had the folk spring to action to help put it out. Just this time it was not needed. Saevi and her family enjoyed the blaze, to the confusion of everyone. The crowd murmured to themselves, deeming Saevi and her husband insane for burning their own house down. But when the fire died down, much to their surprise, the house was still standing, unharmed. The Royal Fire Guard had to hold back the curious congregation, as they wanted to take a better look. Once the pack had been dispensed, Saevi and her family could move into their new home in peace. The next morning, there was a knock at the door. Saevi opened it to find King Tivriul accompanied by his advisors and the Royal Guard. She invited the King and his entourage in. They had arrived to see if the rumors of a fireproof house were true. Saevi explained to the King and the advisors how she had discovered the material, its qualities and how she built the house. She demonstrated with bowls she had been making how the material could be hardened and even the King himself crafted a small figurine. Thoroughly impressed, the King thanked her and her hospitality. The same evening, a royal messenger arrived at the house to bring Saevi an offer for becoming an advisor for the rebuilding of the city. She accepted the offer instantly. Together with builders and advisors, Saevi drew up a plan for the new city. The plan was meticulous and detailed, taking into consideration current needs, but also preparing for future expansion. The plan also included a rebuilt and improved Hearth and likewise Kindling’s pen, if the dragon was to ever return. The King approved the plan and the work started swiftly. First, houses would be built on empty lots, folk would move into the newly built houses, the old neighborhood would be demolished and rebuilt using “clay,” as the material had been named. The plan however had a problem; the island just didn’t have enough flammable material to harden all the new buildings, even if they recycled the old wooden buildings, chopped down all of the island’s trees and used all of the furniture too. Everyone knew only the dragon could solve the issue, but she had not been seen since the second fire, and her cries had faded long ago. Queen Ygriet, who was very fond of Kindling, had been trying to organize a campaign to get the dragon to return, but due to fear of bringing controversy on her husband, she was forced to plan in secret. Having heard of the problem Saevi and her team were facing, the Queen was able to use her already laid up plans quickly in motion, and the campaign for Kindling’s return attracted most of the folk to help out. Under Queen Ygriet’s direction, folk would cook massive pots of Kindling’s favorite foods, to try and lure her back. Bits of food were also left on the edge of the island, with torches to guide her back. Meanwhile, the builders were able to finish some houses, but mostly work was halted. One midday, as some younglings were collecting dried leaves and hay at the edge of the island, they noticed a large shadow flying past them behind the clouds. The cubs screamed and ran to alert everyone else. Soon all the folk came out of their houses to witness the shadow circling the island, before it dove underneath it, emerging from the other side and revealing itself from behind the clouds. The folk cheered as the dragon had finally returned. She circled around the city a few times, before landing in the middle of the excited crowd. The folk rushed to greet her and she wrapped her wings around everyone. The Royal Family arrived to personally welcome her back and offer their sincerest apologies. Kindling seemed to have accepted the apology and all was well in the kingdom once more. After so long in self imposed exile, Kindling was not in the best of shape. She was malnourished, had cuts all over her, and her nails and teeth were unkempt. She was fed, washed and given some healing herbs to give her her strength back. The next day, after she had properly rested, Saevi approached her to ask her for a favor. The dragon was visibly confused as she listened to Saevi’s request, and despite being shown detailed plans and the effects fire had on clay, the dragon firmly refused, shaking her head from side to side. It wasn’t until Queen Ygriet herself spoke to Kindling, that she agreed. Saevi and her team quickly got back to work. The dragon sped up the process so much, the builder’s were struggling to keep up. New districts were popping up as fast as the builders could build them. The last buildings to be finished was the new Royal Palace, Hearth, and Kindling’s pen. Both sat in the middle of the city, on the opposite sides of the river. Considered to be the most important buildings and the most beautiful, they truly were the crown jewels of the city. With Saevi’s plan being finished, the city erupted in celebrations. She was rewarded with a key to the city in a prestigious ceremony. She would continue to work in city planning until her retirement, ensuring her vision for the city was executed properly. Her house with her family’s paw prints still stand today. Kindling the dragon served the Kingdom of Kindling as a protector, an icon and an occasional helper for the forge masters until her death. A city born of fire, risen from the ashes.


She is looking out of her window in the middle of the night sitting in her window recess. Every night Vaishali, a 21 year old of 5.5 feet height, has a round shaped face with her plaited hair long enough to touch her bum, has a habit of seeing the moon and think of all her problems and the things that happened that day. It soothes her soul. She addresses the moon as her “ Amor ” which in Spanish means “Love”. She feels light after sharing everything with her Amor . It’s like Amor is her Guardian Angel and also her Problem Solver. Her life is not bed of roses. She had faced so many problems which made her to be alone. That night too sitting in her pyjamas she was thinking of that particular day but with different perception. That particular day started like her routine. She got up at 6 ‘o’ clock in the morning as usual. After getting freshened up, she drank her favorite black coffee - sugarless and helped her mother in doing some household chores. When it was time, she went to bath and got dressed up. She wore a white kurti that has floral designs in black which is her lucky one and blue denims with a pair of shoes that matches her kurti and her hair loosely held. She ate her breakfast and went to work without knowing that something special was awaiting for her. At work, she have a crush on this person named Prasanth. Prasanth is her co-worker and her senior from college. From the college time, she had a huge crush on him but he had no idea or she thought it to be so. When she enters her workspace, she has a habit of checking on him. She will see him from distance and admire him. Today too she was searching him but he is nowhere to be found. He is on leave. Whole day at work she wasn’t able to concentrate on her work because he will not be on leave too easy and she wanted to know why. To her disappointment she wasn’t able to find the reason. She felt bad. She had lingering thoughts about him all the way to her home. ‘Why’ is her question she was not able to find answer to. When she reached home all her ‘Whys’ question had answer. To her surprise he was sitting in her home with his family for marriage proposal and all she could say is ‘Oh my Good God!!!’. After all the traditional methods of talking about their families and so on, both the families asked Vaishali and Prasanth to go and talk alone.

The first minute they were alone she couldn’t keep her curiosity more than that and asked, “How did you know that I had crush on you?”. Prasanth then holding back his smile came near her ear and whispered, “How could I miss such a beautiful woman in my life!”. She was stunned. She had this moment of imagination running in her head for thousand times but never expected that it would come true. He then told the story of how he knew from the beginning that she a had crush on her, how she was so beautiful the first time he saw her, how the whole college except her knew that he loved her, how he was lucky that Vaishali too joined in the same company he worked in, how he knows she checks him the first as soon as she enter work station, how he got the permission of his family and hers too. And he said the last thing needed for them to be together is her giving stamp of approval for him to be love of her life. Now that she knew the whole story, she could not see him eye to eye. She is filled with shyness. She wanted to say Yes the very moment but she can’t able to find the right words. The man whom she loves stands next to her and asking her to marry him. It is a dream come true moment and she wanted to make sure that it isn’t dream. So she pinched herself and realized this is reality. Seeing this, Prasanth could not resist her cuteness and told her ‘I Love You’ for the first time. All this while she wasn’t able to stop smiling and now without her knowledge she was blushing. Realizing that he is waiting for her reply, she told ‘Love You More’. After this incident, she said ‘Yes’ in front of their families and their eyes met for the first time all this while. After Prasanth’s family left, her mind kept on playing that one scene again and again and she could never stop her smile. At night while she is having her dinner, her mobile phone flashed with Prasanth’s message that read, “Love you Sweetheart. Sleep Well. Will see you tomorrow at work”. Reading this, she realized how caring he is and replied, “Good night Love! Waiting to meet you too”.

Vaishali was not able to sleep with her overwhelming happiness, so she sat at the recess and looked at the moon. The moon is bright today. She felt like her Amor is smiling at her back. On seeing her Amor she thought of every problems she faced. Every time she faces a problem, she wants someone to listen to her problem, someone who doesn’t judge her but listen, someone who will be there for her inspite of that. And her Amor did exactly the same thing and that’s what made her life easy. Now with all this joy and with Prasanth on her side – to be her forever, she was so grateful for her Amor . Every night being slept with nagging thoughts about her life and future, today to sleep with so much happiness and satisfaction, she believed miracles also happens. She also understood that life is going to give us so many opportunities for being happy, sad, to love, to hate, to accept, to grow and so on. It is in us to wait and get through of hard times with a hope that life will someday give us happiness for sure. She thought it is a apt name for life to be called, “Windows Of Opportunities”. As her thought receded, she slept with a smiling face and thanked life for this day!


My canoe feels like it glides through the water a little easier today. The sun is warm on my face but it’s not too hot out. All I can hear is my paddle creating ripples in the water, the hum of katydids, and the sweet songs of wood thrushes overhead. What I love most about this river is how it winds through the woods and the marshes and gives you a sense that a whole new world could be waiting around every curve. Maybe that’s what I need. A whole new world, I mean. Lunch is peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. I thought the idea of mixing peanut butter and pickles was ludicrous the first time you did it, but I gave in and tried it since you were so excited. I’ve never liked it much, I prefer jelly, but I still eat it now because it reminds me of that smile on your face. Around the next bend in the river, the woods begin to get darker. Long before they come into sight, I begin to hear the panicked cawing of crows. The sound gets louder and louder until I feel as though the sound and increasing darkness might consume me whole. With one more turn, I can see at least 50 crows lining the trees surrounding the river on both sides. They are agitated, and I can see why. One of their own lays on a rock beneath them, wings splayed, lifeless. The trees seem to be closing in around me as I approach the piece of river where the deceased crow lays, and I find myself pondering the universality of grief. Can you call it grief if you are mourning the loss of someone who still lives? It’s been almost two years since I lost you. Everything I’ve read says that I should be over you by now, but I still cry when certain songs come on the radio that I used to hear you humming in the shower. You are everywhere. I see you in the way the sunlight dances on the floor through the window when the leaves on the tree outside flutter, and I am reminded of how you always wanted to dance with me, but I rarely gave in. I see you in the way the wind rustles the grass outside when I haven’t mowed it in far too many weeks, and I am reminded of how your hair always seemed to be blowing in front of your face when the windows in the car were down. Sometimes I leave the cap off my toothpaste on purpose because I know you hated it and I can pretend, just for a second, that you are going to come in the bedroom and complain to me about it. Grief is a tricky beast. The chorus of cawing only becomes more distressed in tone as I continue to approach. The dead crow looks peaceful, blissfully unaware of the discord happening around it. I almost want to reach out and stroke its magnificent feathers. However, me simply being this close has pushed my luck too far and I am now being attacked. The first to act swoops down and just grazes the top of my head as I duck. Three more follow suit, each more aggressively scraping my head and shoulders than the last. I begin to paddle the best that I can, but I am encased in a mess of talons, beaks, and feathers. I try my best to shield my eyes as I feel the skin of my arms being torn. More and more join in on the assault against me to the point where I am nothing more than a grown man in the fetal position in the bottom of my canoe, ready to accept my unexpected fate. Then, as though a force beyond my senses beckoned the crows away, they all shot out of the trees toward the sky in a blanket of black that left nothing but the quivering of tree branches in their wake. In a state of panic, I look in all directions to determine the cause of their hasty departure. I haven’t seen you since that morning you left my apartment in tears saying “I can’t do this anymore,” but you look the exact same as I remember you. On the bank opposite to where my canoe has washed up, there you are. You’re wearing that warm welcoming grin that drew me to you in the first place and that awful yellow sweater you knit. I try to yell to you, to say hello, but you just continue to grin. You wave me over and so I push my canoe back into the river to reach you. The river wasn’t very wide to begin with, but it seems like it is getting wider with every stroke of my paddle. Your lips are moving but I can’t quite figure out what you are trying to say. “I’m coming!” I try and yell, but all I can get out is a whisper. You keep getting farther and farther away, and the current starts to speed up. I’m paddling with all of my strength, but I can’t seem to get closer. You reach out to me, and I stand and stretch as far as I can go, desperate to hear the words coming out of your mouth. I know what I need them to be. I need you to tell me that it’s me. That it’s always been me. That you just got lost along the way, but you see me now. That you’re sorry you left... You begin to look frustrated that I can’t reach you. With a huff, you turn around and begin to walk away. I still can’t scream, and I can’t reach any farther. I see one last glimpse of your hair before you disappear into the trees, and that’s the last thing I see before I hit the water. I’m sinking, and no matter how much I swing my arms and my legs, I can’t swim. The water feels frigidly cold, and the surface begins to get fuzzy. I can see the bubbles rising from my mouth, my life force leaving my body. The cold enters my chest as my lungs are filled with ice. I wake up with a gasp feeling as though I cannot breathe. I am in my bed, alone.


There is a chest shoved beneath my bed that is filled with memories; scribbled crayon drawings done with smaller, clumsier hands, old assignments marked with now-peeling star stickers, even a handful of essays kept because, in my mother's words: "Throwing them away after all that hard work would be kind of a waste, wouldn't it?"

I am visiting home for the first time since leaving for college when I decide to heave the chest out from its hiding place. The first thing I notice when I am actually looking at it is that it is far smaller than I remember it being. Once upon a time, I'd been able to lay down inside of it, not quite tall enough for my toes to touch the end, but now, I am quite certain that attempting that particular trick would end in nothing but embarrassment and a cramp in my legs. In that moment, I am struck with the realization that I don't just miss being small--I miss her , that version of me still wrapped in the warmth of childhood, entirely comfortable in her naivety. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, adamant that I will not start crying before the chest is even open. I scoot closer on my knees, pushing the lid open with slightly trembling hands. There, right on top, lays Sunshine. Sunshine is a pink-and-white stuffed tiger. The friend who had gifted her to me all those birthdays ago had faded into the back of my mind, but one look at Sunshine, with her mismatched eyes and pink patches so sun-bleached they might as well be white, and a name rises in my head: Faye. Faye, my best friend from kindergarten all the way through third grade, when she had moved away. Faye, who had once beaten a kid up for daring to insult me. Faye, who always seemed so much older than she really was, already world-weary at the ripe old age of nine. My eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. I scoop Sunshine up, pressing my nose into her side and inhaling the barely there scent of strawberries. Of course. Of course Faye, more tuned into the people around her as a nine-year-old than I am even now, would find me a gift so perfect. I am so overwhelmed with love and appreciation for a girl I haven't seen since before I hit double digits that my throat constricts and the tears begin in earnest, spilling down my cheeks and leaving damp spots in Sunshine's fur.

I'm sure that anyone who happened to peer into my room just then would be thoroughly confused by the grown woman sobbing like someone has just died, clutching a stuffed animal like a lifeline. It feels like hours before the tears finally begin to slow, leaving me with a congested nose and tear-streaked cheeks. Suddenly exhausted, I flop backward onto the carpet, still holding Sunshine to my chest. I can't help but laugh a little at myself--the biggest meltdown I've had since I was a kid, and it was over hazy memories of a girl who might not even remember my name. I miss her, as silly as it is to miss someone when you haven't thought them about in years. I miss sitting on my porch, fingers sticky with melted popsicles and shoulders pressed together despite the heat. I miss sleepovers, trying to stay awake through a movie only to look over and see her drooling into her popcorn. More than any of that, though, I miss the quiet moments we would spend together, just sitting and enjoying each other's company.

I eventually remember the chest, sitting up with a sigh as Sunshine slips from my chest and down into my lap. I pull things out one by one until I come across something that threatens to make the tears start up all over again: a picture of me and Faye, protected by a bright yellow frame. I have my arm slung across her shoulder, our cheeks pressed together as we flash matching grins at the camera, both of us missing one of our front teeth. I pry the frame open carefully, sliding the picture out to read the text on the back: "What a pair! Faye and Naomi, June 16th, 2013." I smile despite the renewed burning in my eyes, tucking the picture neatly back into its home. The rest of my visit home passes quickly, and, before I know it, I am standing outside my car, nearly ready to head back to school. My mother stands in front of me, clutching my hands. "It was so nice to spend some time together," she says, her voice quivering like she thinks she'll never see me again. She presses a gentle kiss to my temple, lingering there for a while before she finally pulls away and bids me a rather tearful goodbye.  I arrive back at school two items heavier than when I left. The front pocket of my backpack bulges with Sunshine's stuffed form, and the picture sits nestled very delicately in a nest of tissue paper that Mom had insisted I needed to "protect such a precious memory." I had rolled my eyes at this at the time, but as I move to place the picture on my desk, I can't help but feel grateful; without her advice, such an old frame might not have survived the hours-long journey. Next comes Sunshine, who I place at the top of my bed, right next to my pillows. I never would have considered having a stuffed animal out in the open like this when I first moved in, but seeing her there, sitting as comfortably in my college-issued bed as she had the one at home, I find myself not caring whether my roommates think it's silly. I lay down in bed and press my nose into Sunshine's fur, my chest warming at the gentle scent of strawberry.

I am not small, anymore. But, as I lay there in bed cuddling a stuffed animal, I think a part of me still is. A part of me is still the little girl who squealed upon unwrapping a pink and white tiger and promptly gave it a name that did not fit at all, and was delighted by the new gap in her smile because it meant her and her best friend were now matching. I will take care of that little girl as long as have to, because, despite my initial annoyance at all the childish thoughts and habits she left behind, I have learned to love her. I love her, and I love me, completely and entirely.


If they knew what I was. If they knew what I was and could understand it, then maybe that was something that I could do to help me. There was something in the air on the night of Christmas Eve. There were trees that littered the streets. I was struggling. My body was going against me, it was eating me alive. I didn't know what to do. One second I was standing up, the second second I was eating a person. The third second I was awake and alive, filled with adrenaline. Blood was pouring all over me. I didn't know what to do- because I didn't existed. There was nobody else on the streets that was with me that passed through the alleyway when I transformed. There was not a soul that heard me either, or if they did, they were deafened. There was nobody else that helped me, and if they did, they'd probably be dead as well. I. Am. A. Werewolf. My story is not a fantastic romance. I am not Jacob Black from twilight. I am a werewolf cursed, born, and made. A werewolf from conception and a werewolf from the second conception. When I struck my hand against tendons. The blood littered the street. They called it a murder. Every night on Christmas Eve I was made to transform. Every night on Christmas Eve I lose a day of my life to kill people. One life for three or four or five. I wasn't made to bargain. They did. There was nobody else with me when I transformed. I was always alone. Until I met a girl. My nose was transformed into a snout. Halfway through my transformation I inched towards her. Cravings was already taking me over. I knew nothing of what to do to help save the girl. I barely thought as well. I only knew that if I never ate I'd never be satisfied. I'm not poor. The streets didn't *allow* people to be poor. They allowed only people to be rich and healthy. There was nothing to do about that. And no one wanted to do anything about it either. Life here was perfect-ly and perfectly made for everyone. The girl stands there and I'm shocked. She has not moved an inch. This is a primal rage which is stunned and frightened. I'm perhaps even frightened at what I'm about to do. Maybe this girl will die tonight and that will be the end of it. Of my hunger. Chad knows what he is doing. He comes around and picks up the girl. I am barely transformed as they leave. I sigh on the cursed pavements. A bit of my mind comes back to me. *What?* That is all I can say. The streets pick up and vibrant colors fill through the pavement. Loud sounds rock my ears and I am left to coil over. I am so sensitive to it. Then the sound ends and I can finally fulfill my transformation. Tonight on Christmas Eve, I will kill again. There will be no soul that can stop me without a gun, and if they did, where would they shoot? On the head? I would be too quick and I'd eat them up alive. I feel threatened. A police officer comes into view and he says, "Stop." I turn around and kill him as well.


Kayla Johnson and Ashley Hawkins hearts were racing as they packed their bags for their sleepover. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson believed that the girls were staying with Claire Mitchell, which was not the case. They were going to be spending the night at a graveyard, not just any graveyard either. It was the graveyard where Amber Blakely's ghost was said to roam. It was six of them: Kayla Johnson, Ashley Hawkins, Claire Mitchell, Xander Mitchell, Hexicah Pittman, and Nehemiah Reynolds. The group of friends wanted to test this myth to see if it was real or not. ******* On the way to the graveyard, everyone was walking in pairs, about three feet in between each one of them. "I'm actually kind of scared," Claire expressed to Hexicah. "Ain't you like the adventurous one?," Hexicah asked her. "At first Ashley was the crybaby now you are." "Just stop talking to me," Claire said suddenly annoyed. And why was Hexicah suddenly bringing up Ashley so frequently? Last time she checked, they couldn't stand each other. "Miah?," Ashley asked to get his attention. "What?," he asked giving her all of his attention. "Can you stay with me the whole time?," Ashley asked him. "Of course I will," Nehemiah told her, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Any specific reason?" "I just don't feel comfortable," Ashley replied looking at Hexicah before looking back down when she realized both he and Claire were looking at her. "Did he do something to you?," Nehemiah questioned her. "Can we talk about it another time?," Ashley inquired. Nehemiah nodded and they moved on to a happier topic. "So when are we going to tell them about us?," Kayla asked. "As soon as you're ready," Xander replied. "I think I am," Kayla told him. "I just told my friends that I'm never going to be with you, now look at us." "You're worried that they're going to judge you?," Xander questioned with raised eyebrows. "This is my sister and Ashley we're talking about. To be honest, I think Ashley knows already." "Me too," Kayla laughed. "I see y'all back there boo'd up," Ashley told them. "And yes, I took a picture." "So we're sleeping right beside her grave?," Nehemiah asked once they arrived at the graveyard, The Cursed Cemetery. "I think," Ashley replied, "but I'm scared." "Just stay by me," Nehemiah told her. "Look at the cute wittle couple," Kayla cooed. Ashley blushed while rolling her eyes and walked off with Nehemiah. "Still not cuter than us," Xander stuck us tongue out at the pair before giving Kayla a peck on the lips. "Okay so it will be two people per tent," Claire said. "Everybody better hurry up and partner up." Quickly, everyone partnered up. Nehemiah and Ashley, Hexicah and Claire, Xander and Kayla. They began building a fire and toasting marshmallows. Everything was going very well for the group until about half past midnight. I'm comiiinng. Soon, scratching noises could be heard from the general direction of the grave where Amber Blakely lay. Almost ten minutes later, the noises stopped. Suddenly, a black figure could be seen in the distant shadows. This surprised the group of teens as they knew Amber Blakely was a white woman. They expected to see a pale person, if anything. Upon knowing this, they originated a plan to see if this was really the ghost of Amber Blakely or not. "Amber!," Claire yelled out. The shadowy figure slowly began to turn making Claire run away. If it was really Amber, she would not chase after Claire as she only chased after homophobic people. If it wasn't Amber, they had a trap set up. Not only that but she also didn't respond to her name. She only responded to Mrs. Blakely. Claire hid and the ghost began looking for her. Except the ghost was met by the drop of a net. Immediately, the three boys went to tie down the net which trapped the false ghost inside. Pulling off the hoodie the "ghost" had on, it was revealed that the ghost was none other than the biggest bully at their school, Brad Chapman. "Brad, you've got a lot of explaining to do," Ashley said crossing her arms. "I ain't telling you jack," he spat. "You ain't going nowhere either," Kayla retorted. They waited for a moment but he said nothing. "Alright, time to go!," Claire said brightly. "Okay okay," he mumbled. "I'm related to Amber and all people keep talking about is her. Ain't none of that stuff y'all saying true either. She wasn't transgender, she just believed in gay rights. And she didn't only respond to Mrs. Blakely, she only responded to Amber. That's why I started coming here at night and scaring people away. Don't nobody wanna see they relative's gravesite be turned into a tourist site. I used a sound record to make the scratching noise. It lasts by itself for 9 minutes and 47 seconds, which gives me enough time to get into costume. Which is why you see me wearing black cause she ain't white. Basically, I was just trying to give people the right information but nobody wanna listen to me." "I can't believe I'm saying this," Kayla started, "not to you anyway, but I'm actually very sorry." "Wait a minute," Hexicah interrupted abruptly. "You never told us how you made that I'm coming noise." "What are you talking about?," Brad asked, genuinely confused. I'm comiiinng. "That!," Ashley cried out. The group of teens began running out of the cemetery, leaving behind all of their belongings. They would come back for it sometime, maybe. Meanwhile, back in the graveyard, Braylin Chapman laughed to himself. He was the culprit of that noise. Like father, like son. "Wait until I tell Joanne about this," Braylin murmured to himself. He knew it would give his wife a laugh although at first she would do a little fussing. Braylin was about to pull out his phone when he got the strangest feeling someone was watching him. Quickly, he turned around but saw nor heard anyone or anything. "Kids?," he called out thinking that the kids were still here but they were long gone. The only reply he got was the sound of the wind picking up a bit. Although Braylin wouldn't admit it to anyone, he was feeling very spooked at the moment and believed that he should go ahead and go on home. As he walked out the graveyard, a black woman in her mid 30's hovered in the air above him, disappearing right before he looked up into the sky. Picking up his pace, he got home in five minutes flat.


The first time I saw Jen, she was coming down the path from Loorsey Hall just after second bell. She was laughing at something another girl said when they were passing, and her joyful smile and bouncing dark curls caught my attention. I smiled back as I approached her. When we made eye-contact, she recoiled and stepped off the path to give me a wide berth. I was used to the older girls looking at me like that because I was a freshman and a scholarship kid, and I knew just how to handle it. “Good morning,” I said, not losing the smile. “Do I even know you?” she snapped. “Who are you to look at me like that?” Absolutely no one, that’s who, and I knew it. No one at all. And that might well have been the end of it, only Marci saw it happen. I was still defiantly grinning through my hurt when I looked up to see her standing outside Loorsey Hall, waiting to walk with me to geometry. “Hi, Jerry!” she said, looking as always like she wanted to hug me, which I wished she wouldn’t. She was my best friend so far at this place, but a girl shouldn’t tease boys like that. “Hey, Marci,” I said. “Did you finish the homework?” “Took me three hours, but it did,” she said. “Sorry you had to meet Jen.” “Who?” “The girl you just passed outside,” she said as we made our way up the stairs to the math hall. “She lives in my hall, and she treats all the freshmen like that, Jerry. It was nothing personal, all right?” “It sure felt that way,” I admitted. “It’s like, yeah, I know I’m –” “Don’t say it, Jerry! You’re not a loser from the slums!” I swallowed hard and smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re right, my neighborhood isn’t a slum, it’s about four blocks out of the bad neighborhood. But that’s a lot closer than most people here ever get.” “Oh, you’re not kidding!” Marci was a full-ride kid like myself. She got it. “But that doesn’t make you a loser, all right? You ought to be proud you got here. You’re not a bigshot like the other boys!” I was sure I felt my face flushing as we made our way to our seats. “Thanks, Marci.” Now I did kind of want a hug, but Ms. Rawlings stepped in at that moment and anything like that was off limits. Two months in to my first term, I had a wonderful coping mechanism when it came to people like Jen: blind fear. I’d been an underachiever when I was younger, but the misery of public junior high school had quite literally beaten some sense into me. I wanted out of that nightmare, so I’d worked my tail off and made almost straight A’s, and ended up with a full scholarship to the snootiest boarding school in the state. It was stuffy and snobby and I got a lot of dirty looks from the likes of Jen who somehow knew I really didn’t belong there – and for all that, I loved it. Losing my scholarship meant going back home and public high school with the same kids who’d made my life so miserable before, so I’d never once been tempted to slack off. That day was no exception, and I had no trouble focusing on the latest proofs and theorems. Math had always been my weakest subject, but I was holding my own in it for once. It helped that I had a free period just afterward when Marci and I could go work on the homework together while it was all still fresh in our minds. When that day’s forty-seven minutes in purgatory were over, I didn’t even have to ask. “Please tell me we’re going to go get a coke and work on this!” she said as soon as Ms. Rawlings set her marker down. “Yes, please!” I said. “You know, I was looking at my average last night, and it looks like I can swing a B in this class if I get at least a seventy-five on all the tests left.” “Oh, stop, Jerry!” Marci said, hugging her books and grinning at me. “You’re not going to lose your scholarship! You’re doing great!” “You’re sweet,” I said, wishing it were warmer out so she wouldn’t have to button up her coat over her uniform. She’d told me more than once she hated skirts and tights with a passion, but she looked great in the preppy getup all the same. Of course I hadn’t told her that – she was my best friend and there were lines you never crossed – but I couldn’t help looking forward to enjoying the view when we got to the grill. “So are you going to the dance on Saturday?” Marci asked as we made our way through the late-autumn morning. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I was just reminded of what the girls here think of guys like me.” “Don’t let Jen get to you!” Marci said. “I told you, she’s a creep and a snob!” “I guess,” I said. “But look, I know where I stand in a place like this. What’s the point in looking for romance, you know?” “No.” Marci sounded as close to angry as I’d ever heard her. “No, Jerry, I don’t know!” The grill was crowded as always, but we welcomed the bright light and the warmth and I welcomed the surprise of a booth opening up just as we came in. “Wow, our lucky day!” I said. Marci handed me her books. “You grab it. My turn to pay. You want to split a bagel this time?” “Sure,” I said, and I had all but forgotten the morning’s angst as I staked our claim to the booth. I had just enough time to take my coat off and get settled with my geometry book open to today’s lesson when I heard the barely-familiar voice. “Yo, dude, this is our booth!” I looked up to see Jen, looking even more disgusted with me than last time. “Excuse me?” “It’s our booth!” she repeated, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at two of her friends, who were looking just as annoyed and superior as she was. “Well now, I don’t see your name on it,” I said with the politest smile I could muster. “And I was here first.” “I was here first,” Jen mimicked. “You’re a freshman and you look like you take a shower maybe once a week! I don’t know what ghetto you came from, but if you won’t go back there, you can get out of our seat anyway. Upperclasswoman’s privilege!” “I read about that in the orientation booklet,” I said. “It doesn’t exist! It’s just a prank people like you always play.” “That’s right, Jerry,” came Joe Ralston’s voice over my shoulder, and I was relieved to see my dorm president approaching. “Jen, he’s called your bluff.” “Who asked you, Joe?” Jen said, just as Marci arrived with our drinks and the promised bagel. “Marci?!” Jen added. “What the fuck are you doing with this drip?” “This drip is my best friend, and all he did was smile at you this morning,” Marci said. “What’s your problem?” “Oh, you like the charity boys, do you?” Jen said. “What did you just say?” Marci had just sat down; now she jumped back up. Jen laughed. “Oooh, a freshman girl’s threatening me! Marci, you don’t know who you’re fucking with, you know that?” She gave me another glare, and when I didn’t budge, she finally turned to go. But at the last second, she swiped at our tray and turned it over, spilling pop and ice all over my geometry book and notebook. “Happy studying!” she chirped as she and her friends strutted off. “Oh my god, Jerry, I’m sorry!” Marci pulled as many paper napkins out of the dispenser as she could, and helped me mop up the mess. We were still dabbling at my damp book when Ms. Toscano, the faculty chaperone, turned up. “Jerry!” she snapped. “You’re going to have to pay the school back for that book, you know! Scholarship kids never respect property around here!” “It was me, Ms. Toscano!” Marci said. “I slipped and spilled our drinks. It wasn’t his fault!” “Oh!” To my disgust, Ms. Toscano looked a lot less upset. “Sorry, Marci, but do try to be more careful next time, all right?” “Yes, of course.” As soon as we were alone together, I opened my mouth to say thanks or sorry or both, but she waved me to silence. “Don’t mind her, French teachers are always weird. But I’m sorry about your book!” “Looks like my notes’ll survive once the paper dries,” I said. But of course our study session was put off for the time being. Rumors travelled fast on our little campus, I’d already learned that. So I wasn’t surprised when I arrived at lunch after fifth bell and my roommate, Kent, greeted me with, “You and Jen, huh?” “Heard about that, did you?” “Heard you thought you could be friendly with a junior girl,” teased Jesse from English class. “Who the heck do you think you are, Jerry? Forget you’re a charity boy?” “Dude, don’t use that word!” snapped Kent. “And what’s wrong with being polite with a girl anyway?” “Nothin’, as long as you remember your place in this school,” Jesse said. “But you’re no good at that, Jerry,” said Matt from the next floor in my dorm.  “Don’t you know who Jen is? Honor roll, drill team, orchestra – she doesn’t need you nipping at her heels!” “Just what do you assholes think I did, anyway?” I asked. “I heard you asked her out,” said Jesse. “And I heard you stole her snack at the grill,” Matt said. “That’s no way to treat a lady, Jerry.” “Guys, leave him alone,” Kent said. “He’s had a rough morning and it’s none of your business what he said to Jen.” “That’s just it,” I said. “I didn’t say anything to her except good morning, and no, you can’t take my table.” “Sure, dude, sure,” Matt said. One thing about being the humiliated one of the moment in that place: it never lasted long. By the end of classes that afternoon, some boy I didn’t even know had started crying in algebra class and that had taken over as the hottest news of the moment. I bought a new notebook at the campus bookstore and met Marci in the common room of her dorm – where boys were welcome under the watchful eye of the housemother – and we got through the homework after all. My math book was wrinkled and still a bit damp but still readable at least.

Neither of us mentioned the morning’s altercation, even when Jen herself put in an appearance just as we were finishing up the last problem. She gave me a dirty look, but then looked at the housemother and spun on her heel and left. For all that had happened, she was cute. I hated myself for thinking so, but she was. “By the way,” I said as we were packing our homework away, “I forgot to ask, are you going to the dance?” “Well,” Marci said. “No one’s asked me. I guess I might go on my own, but…” “Hey, no shame in that!” I said. “Maybe I will, too.” “You mean you are going after all?” “Well, you’re right,” I said. “I ought to stop telling myself I’m a loser, you know? So maybe I will. Maybe I’ll see you there?” “Hope so, Jerry.” For some reason she looked sad as she said it. As much as I told myself I didn’t want to go to the dance, the idea got more appealing as the weekend approached. On Thursday I went to town and got my hair cut. Jen’s comment about how often I showered had been eating at me. I showered every day, thank you very much, but somehow I never felt as clean and beautiful as the others. The haircut helped a little with that, anyway. So did ironing the blue suit my mother had insisted on buying me, and which I hadn’t had occasion to wear yet. When Saturday afternoon rolled around and the dance committee was at work, I’d given up on pretending I wasn’t looking forward to the dance. Maybe I’d even dance with Marci if she didn’t think that was too weird. That thought had me too worked up to go on studying by mid-afternoon, so I put my sneakers on and ventured outside for a walk in the brisk wind. Plenty of others were out and about on the quadrangle, but I didn’t feel like chatting with anyone – after all, what if I let something slip about Marci and she heard about it? – so I walked around the dorm and down the hill to the End of the World, as the woods on the far edge of campus were known. All too appropriate given where my mind was wandering, for rumor had it most of the students only ventured into the woods to fool around. Of course I’d never do that to Marci, but it didn’t hurt to imagine. Imagining is just what I thought I was doing when I first heard the shrieks. “No! Stop it!” I had just long enough to wonder what I was imagining being told to stop doing, before I realized the shrieks were real. “No! I said no! Get off me!” It was real, and I knew that voice. Jen. Once I knew it was her, it only took a second more to spot her. I spotted the two guys first, since one of them was standing over her and the other was kneeling on her back. Thirty feet or so ahead of me and well off the path, they hadn’t spotted me. They looked like her class or maybe even seniors, either of them easily big enough to take me. I didn’t give that a second thought as I broke into a run. The one who was standing saw me first. “Get lost, kid!” he growled. “You leave her alone!” I shouted. “The fuck’re you gonna do about it?” demanded the other one. He got off Jen’s back, and I had just enough time to see her pull her skirt down and scramble to her feet before both guys rushed at me. I don’t know which one of them hit me first, but he easily put me on my back. One of them pinned me there and was just about to punch me in the face when Jen grabbed at his arm. “Get off him!” she shrieked. The other guy grabbed her and threw her aside, but not before she kicked the first guy in the balls. He rolled off me and curled up, and I reared back and kicked his friend while he was focused on shaking Jen off. I got about halfway back to the edge of the woods before they tackled me. Then I don’t remember anything but a lot of unholy pain until a few other guys got there and pulled them off me. Next I remember Jen saying, “Thank you,” as the others helped me off to the infirmary, and the dean of students interviewing me in my bed while the nurse cleaned my scrapes up. I remember apologizing for not knowing their names, but I guess the dean did know them. Naturally I decided against going to the dance after all, only the guys at dinner told me I just had to go. “You’re the hero today, if you don’t milk that for all it’s worth, you’re crazy, dude!” Ken told me. “Girls like a guy who looks a little roughed up,” Jesse agreed. As I stepped into the auditorium in my blue suit, my wounds dressed but visible, I wondered if Marci had heard about what had happened. She had. “Jerry!” I heard her squealing at me, but didn’t get to see her right away because she buried me in her arms. “I am so proud of you!” “Well, thanks,” I said, pulling back to see she was in a lovely blue dress I’d never seen before. “I just – I hope anyone would’ve done what I did, you know?” “I hope so too, Jerry. But you did it!” “Thanks. Listen…I’ll understand if you don’t, but…do you want to dance?” “Of course!” She grabbed my hand and led me out onto the floor. We’d barely made one round when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, Marci.” It was Jen, looking miraculously immaculate after the afternoon’s mishap. “I’m cutting in. Upperclasswoman’s privilege.” The look on Marci’s face just about broke my heart, but she did let go of me and back off. I said, “No, you’re not cutting in,” and I reached out for Marci’s hand, which she gladly took. “Jerry, you’ve got to be kidding!” Jen said. “After what you did for me this afternoon, you won’t dance with me?” “That’s right, I won’t.” I tried to take no pleasure in the look of outrage on her face as I waltzed Marci away. Tried, but failed. “Thank you!” Marci said. “I hope you don’t mind me saying I’m surprised!” “I don’t blame you,” I said. “But you were right. It’s not me who’s the loser here, is it?”


Sandy had made himself a den that the sunlight couldn't reach. He filled it with an old projector, a DVD player, and the old DVDs from his parents' youth, which still worked and gave him a feeling of connectedness with the world. The whole enterprise was quaint—old films, old technology, staring at moving pictures on a wall. Not just Disney, but also old classics like Fawlty Towers , Allo 'Allo , and other politically incorrect shows. He wasn't bothered about political correctness. He wouldn't have known what quaint was, in his 10 years of life experience. Sandy had lived all his life in the little seaside town known as "Baia del Mirto." "No better place anywhere on Earth," his mother was wont to say. "Sandy, go out and play!" shouted Dewy. "Get out there and enjoy the sun while you can! Once school starts again and the weather turns bad, you'll regret not making the most of these long summer days!" Dewy was the only family Sandy had left, as far as he knew. He called her "Dewy" instead of "Mum," which he recognized as a bit unusual, especially since it wasn't even her real name. Before having him, she had lived in various cities and villages. She had held office jobs and had a close-knit circle of friends and a loving family. Sandy didn't really know why, but by the time he came along, all this had changed. Dewy wanted to keep away from most people. In an effort to escape the fast-paced lifestyle of the city and reconnect with nature, she made the bold decision to leave her busy life behind. "Ok, Mum," replied Sandy, yawning. "But this year, can I go to a real school? In Portomarino?" Sandy had spent all of his life in Baia del Mirto, a tiny seaside village that came alive in summer when beach-loving tourists increased its population fivefold. Sandy had never left Baia del Mirto, not even for a shopping trip, not even on holiday. The village was tiny but dependable. The outside world was unknown and scary… or so he had been led to believe. Despite being sheltered, he was far from ignorant. He had old DVDs, school textbooks, and his beloved iPad. It's not that there were no people around, but mostly that the people he saw in the village might as well have been aliens. To start with, they spoke a different language. His mother explained that local dialects could change radically every few kilometres. Not that they didn't speak the official language, Italian. It's just that they didn't see the need around him. He was simply not one of them. In summer, he had both company and entertainment. Facilities for tourists included boat and surf rentals, restaurants, bars, and even a concert every once in a while. He loved meeting people from other countries who spoke different languages. He was only fluent in Italian and English, but this didn't stop him from playing with the tourist children, making the most of it while he had company. The warm weather would last well into October, maybe even November. But as Dewy kept reminding him, school would be starting soon. A grim prospect. Not that he went to school. That's why he had been allowed the iPad. Sandy himself had been very happy with this arrangement until now. Just recently, however, the usual landscapes had started to make him feel constricted, like a pair of shoes two sizes too small. He understood people would believe him crazy. Constricted, when surrounded by the infinity of the beach, the sea, the sky, clouds… the Milky Way at night. He understood he couldn't talk to anybody about it. They'd think there was something wrong with him. His sense of unease had started early that morning. He was out on his fishing boat at six in the morning. He didn't think anyone else would be out at this ungodly hour, but there she was, a girl on a stand-up paddleboard, and she could handle it like a pro. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft pink and orange glow over the horizon. The gentle lapping of the waves against the boat and the rhythmic splashing as the girl expertly manoeuvred her paddleboard were the only sounds that broke the peaceful silence of the early morning. She had chestnut hair tied up in a messy bun, and her tanned skin glowed in the early morning light. With her dark complexion and muscular build, she could have been his twin… but she wasn't from here. She was so happy to have found someone to play with that she invited him for lunch on her parents' yacht. "I'm glad our Allegra has found a nice friend to play with," said Lara, her mum. Soon she was asking him, "Which school do you go to?" "I don't go to school," he replied. Allegra looked puzzled at this answer. "Surely everybody goes to school? How come you speak English? And you can steer the fishing boat and catch fish!" Her dad interjected, "Tell me, Sandy, do your parents have you home-tutored? It is certainly unusual, but not unheard of." "Well, we can't afford a private tutor, and my mother doesn't like schools, even though I think they must be very different now from what she remembers. I take online classes, I watch tutorials, and my mother checks if I'm doing enough and maybe explains things if I find them a bit too hard. It's lonely, though. I'd prefer to go to school." As he recounted his usual routine, Sandy realized that he was not happy with his current situation. The freedom to get up and go out and swim and run whenever he wanted, but the lack of real-life experience due to his mother not letting him leave Baia del Mirto, suddenly felt stifling. He'd never had to explain it all in such detail to anybody, and as he explained it, he was overcome by a sense of unfairness. Only then did he realize that something had to change. He was effectively trapped in a prison masked as a perpetual holiday. Allegra described her beautiful Lake District boarding school with such relish and detail that she reminded Sandy of an artist trying to capture the essence and the feel of a place, brush stroke after brush stroke. It seemed to Sandy that she must be very happy, always having other children for company. School wasn't all about dusty books and libraries. She had plenty of opportunities to play sports or use her free time as she wished. His imagination was stirred. Faraway places. Foreign lands. Places where there were other children, some as friendly, beautiful, and diverse as his wonderful new friend, Allegra. At home, he looked for a landscape picture of the Lake District, so different from home. Different quality of light, different vegetation, and a distinct sensation of mist that contrasted starkly with the dry weather and droughts to which he was accustomed. The next day, Sandy spent the morning at home. He decided to look for pictures of the Lake District, and with the help of some painting tutorials, he was attempting a watercolour rendering of a landscape. He made sure it included a building that could be a boarding school. It was his way of wishing and fantasizing. insert picture _ When Allegra dropped by in the afternoon, she saw the picture Sandy had painted and was both amazed and flattered. It was just as impressive as the artwork created by art students at her school. She found it impossible to believe her friend was self-taught! It depicted a countryside landscape with an overcast sky blurring the confines of hills in the distance. A farmhouse was enclosed within a stone fence, and in the distance was a white building with a steep roof, reminiscent of the lodging houses at her school. "You know," she said, "I think you should show my dad this picture. He is on the school board, and I think he may persuade the school to display it, maybe in the headmaster's office." "Sure! I was painting it for you anyway! We can go out fishing and take it to the yacht so your dad can see it!" Allegra's dad was in his mid-forties, with welcoming, dark eyes and a warm smile. The previous day he'd been distracted during lunch, but now he was giving the children his full attention. He looked at his daughter with pride and at Sandy with keen interest. Not having a father himself, Sandy was flattered whenever any of his friends' dads showed any interest in him. It helped that Arthur was passionate about art, and both children hoped he would be able to secure Sandy a place on the trip to Rome that Allegra was taking as an elective activity during the holidays. Unbeknownst to them, Arthur pleaded for the chance to submit Sandy's painting to the yearly art competition that Allegra's school held. The first prize was a full-tuition scholarship to study art in the next academic year. If the painting won, the experience would be life-changing for Sandy. That evening, after dinner, Sandy and Dewy were cleaning up together. They'd had their meal on the veranda, which was small but offered a panoramic view. It was furnished with a white plastic round table and matching chairs, with a large parasol in the middle. It felt like sitting al fresco at a beachside café, with the warm breeze providing comfort. Cleaning up after dinner was a chore, but not an unpleasant one, as it gave them a chance to talk. "Dewy, the children I play with at the beach travel all over the place, and nothing bad has happened to them. Why can't I travel too? I would like to leave this shoebox of a village and see other places!" "Sandy, you know I can't take you! I have work to do, and you have your studies…" "That's it, Mother! I met this super cool family from England! They're going with their daughter and her schoolmates to an art exhibition in Rome, and they're happy to take me with them! It's only a week, and it's already paid for!" A look of panic flashed across Dewy's face. "How do we know we can trust them? You know there are lots of dangerous people abroad. They offer a favour now without mentioning what they want in return… and then you owe them…" "That's the point! You think everyone has bad intentions! I don't know why you think that, but it is not my experience! I think they're genuinely nice people!" "Well, it's my fault, Sandy. I've kept you in the safety of this village to protect you, and now you don't believe there's anything to fear in the world. Trust my experience, please, because you don't have much!" "So I'm not going?" "No." That very evening, Dewy's relaxing bedtime routine was interrupted by unexpected news. She opened the window, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore brought her tranquillity, encouraging her to breathe deeply. The salty aroma of the sea filled her nostrils, mingling with the scent of seaweed and brine. A gentle breeze came in, dissipating the stifling heat of the day. She couldn't help herself; she knew she wasn't supposed to look at her phone before bed, as any work-related messages would keep her awake. That night's message was sure to dispel any hope of sleep she may have had… but it was great news. She was buzzing with excitement. "Congratulations! You've been selected as an extra for the forthcoming filming dates from the 16th of August to the 16th of September. Please confirm your availability." It had been about a year since Dewy had sent photos and a resume to a company that looked for extras and non-professional actors to take part in films around the island. It wasn't an unusual location for filming, and such a long time had passed since her application that her hopes of being cast in a TV or cinema production were waning. She'd only sent in her application for fun, thinking the producers might like her because her looks were a bit unusual: tall, with dirty blonde hair at shoulder length, and green eyes. Her physique was certainly not athletic, but she was in good shape for her age. And the pay wasn't bad either. She made up her mind—she would give it a shot. For a month, she would have to relocate to the bustling city of Portomarino, where they were filming the scenes that required her presence. All of a sudden, Sandy's idea of keeping busy with art didn't seem so bad. They could both be away from home, doing different things. She needed to speak to this English family. Sandy had spoken about one week; she needed a month. Dewy arranged to meet Arthur and Lara and thanked them for taking an interest in her son. They were sitting on her veranda, looking out at the sea. Arthur explained that he was organizing a school trip to Rome to take the children to an exhibition of Mirò's works. It still needed some planning, as Allegra's school and her classmates needed to be contacted and brought together. However, Arthur was keen on the idea of letting Sandy spend a month or so with him on his yacht while Dewy was busy with her acting. Arthur went on to explain that Sandy had shown him some of his art and that he was impressed. "Whenever possible, talent and passion should be encouraged," he said. The very next week, to Sandy's amazement, his mother left for Portomarino. It was only about 50 kilometres away, but for him, it was the first time he'd been away from his mother. Being able to live with Allegra's family for one month was an unprecedented adventure! He was so excited that he had to continually remind himself to behave normally, as all he wanted to do was giggle and jump around. Sandy was flattered by the extra attention his art was affording him, so he decided to spend a couple of hours painting every morning, still following any online tutorials he could find. To Sandy's chagrin, another boy came to stay with Allegra's family. Rupert was the same age as Sandy, 10, and he already attended boarding school with his cousin, Allegra. They were both two years ahead of him, and their parents thought it would be good for the children to spend some carefree days together before the official start of the school year. Rupert was a budding artist himself and was attending the school on an art scholarship. The two boys didn't hit it off—Rupert resented having to share Allegra and her family with a stranger, and Sandy felt dwarfed in his artistic efforts by having to live with someone who was already ahead of him in his art education. Sandy couldn't believe it. The 2nd of September at last. They got up at 4 a.m. to catch the 6:30 plane from Portomarino to Rome. His excitement was slightly dampened by having to share a room with Rupert, but as they were not officially students in the art class, they had to make do. One hour by plane, one hour by train, and a short ride on a coach ensured that they were all safe and sound at their countryside lodging. The countryside lodging was at the centre of a working farm. The countryside was neither idyllic nor bucolic, but absolutely real and true to life. There were no manicured fields of grass and shapely bushes, just fences for the animals, mud, fruit trees, and vegetable patches. The scent of the place was quite distinctive and not altogether pleasant: smells of manure and butter croissants mingling by the horse stables. It was a popular place for many creative schools. An acting school had just left, and some of the buildings were still occupied by a music school. The exhibition hall was a large gazebo where art students set up their displays, carefully arranging their paintings and sculptures. In the countryside, children played outdoors and helped feed chickens and collect eggs. They were allowed to ride the ponies and were taught how to milk cows by patient farmers. With so much to do and see, boredom was never a concern. And if they did need a change of pace, Rome was just a short drive away with endless opportunities for adventure. "I never knew art could make me feel so liberated, like I'm finally breaking free from the predictability of village life," Sandy mused. "I don't think I will ever forget where I've come from, but I'm certainly glad my horizons have expanded."


I was 10 years old when I killed my first butterfly. I’d been out on the balcony, my mother standing overhead wrestling with the hair clippers, when it perched itself on the railing beside me. My mother was occupied, her back turned. So I watched it. It’s beauty was distracting. Wings of black and blue. So calm and trusting. Perfect. The patchiness of my hair felt, suddenly, unimportant. For a moment. Black and blue. It was beautiful for that moment. So beautiful, I didn’t want to say goodbye. I reached for the jar on the table. The peanuts inside spilled out of it without a second thought. I flicked back the lid, and held it close, awkwardly. It accepted my invitation and I closed it in. It was beautiful, and it was mine. My mother finished shaving my hair, and smiled at me. She told me I looked beautiful, which was kind. My scalp felt cold in the crisp night air, so I took my jar with me and rushed upstairs. I wanted it to sleep next to me tonight - and it did. * When I was 11, I killed my second butterfly. Black and yellow. A hot day. A tired day. I was playing with the hose on the grass. My parents brought out a plastic chair for me, to help with the tired. I’d like to wave the hose back and forth towards the sky, playing with the patterns and the rainbows caused by the mist and water droplets. Like a lasso. As though it was some kind of trick. As though I might join the circus one day. But then I’d feel tired again. And I remembered I couldn’t join the circus. But I could capture a friend. Black and yellow. He fluttered his wings, and I held him close. His glass prison sparkled in the sunlight. Beautiful. I kept him beside me through dinner and while I watched TV. He fluttered patiently up until bedtime when we went to bed. The next morning he didn’t wake up either. I started to believe that beauty and I weren’t meant to be friends. * On my 12th birthday, my parents bought me a puppy. You don’t have to worry. The puppy’s fine. I wasn’t though. Not when I woke up, nor when I came downstairs. But when I saw her, I felt something. I don’t know what. But then she licked my face and I knew I still wasn’t fine, not really. My mother suggested we go for a walk, and I hadn’t been sick yet that day. I was worried. It was only the morning. But maybe, I thought.

Then they went without me. * That evening, I named her Snowflake. Mother said I shouldn’t. That her name didn’t match. She wasn’t white, she’d say.

“You can’t name a black dog Snowflake.”

I could though. Because she was one. Unique. Beautiful. Not what she seemed. Probably. I don’t think anybody is, but not her and definitely not me.

I wasn’t sure if she liked it, but I like to think she did. She licked my face again, and I felt something. * When I was 13 years and 6 months old, I killed my second butterfly. Snowflake was there, but she didn’t say anything. She was good like that. It happened on my run. I liked to go on out in the early mornings. The doctors said I could now, so long as I double knotted my laces. So that’s what I did. My hair, finally long enough to secure, sat just below my shoulders. I tied it back. Snowflake wore her best harness. She smiled at me, though I’m not sure why. I loved her for it though. When Snowflake and I went running, I liked to play a game.

It was innocent enough. Where there was a leaf, preferably a dry crunchy-looking one, I’d step on it. So simple. That crunch. That feeling. Snowflake loved the leaves too. Her face, already smiling, would light up in the autumn. She’d dive for the nearest pile if I let her. And so I did. It definitely made me feel something. Something good. We’d go by the creek by my house. My favourite place. We ran, and we walked, and we ran, and leaves crunched beneath my feet and her paws. I was flying, as though I were an athlete. For a little while. I saw a leaf. Yellow and brown. It was perfect and dry. Folded partially in a particularly crunchy-looking way. A prime target. But when I stepped on it there was no crunch. And when I cried, Snowflake said nothing. She didn’t need to. She was there though. She didn’t care that I’d killed another butterfly. When I got home, my father told me that it was common for insects to land on the ground before they died. It meant that it was it’s time. It was okay. I felt a bit better. But then when I Googled it, the internet didn’t seem to know anything on the subject. Odd. It said other things though. Like butterflies sometimes like to land near puddles to take in salt and minerals from the soil. IT also said that male butterflies would use these minerals to create healthy sperm. I stopped reading there. Mostly because of the sperm thing. I know my father was probably right, because his explanation made sense. We never think about where the dead butterflies go. We never see them, do we? Well, most of us don’t. I’ve seen a couple. I hoped it was true. Because the important thing was: I wasn’t that girl anymore. I would never kill a butterfly. * When I was 15 years old and 9 months, my mother came to visit me in hospital. Don’t worry, I’m fine. There were no dogs allowed in the hospital, but she brought Snowflake anyway. I don’t know how she got away with it. Who she sweet talked or bribed for me. But I didn’t ask. My mother plopped Snowflake on the bed. She was so small, and excited to see me. I didn’t even mind the jumping, or the licking, or the gentle nibbling at my fingers. I chuckled a bit. I was happy, somehow. It was a nice feeling. Snowflake rolled on her back. A sign it was time for her hourly belly rub. I admired her. So joyful. So loving. So trusting. So perfect. My mother ran her fingers through my hair. It was thin now. Uneven. And I minded that, but it was okay. So we sat in the stillness… the clock ignoring us. Deciding, I suppose, that we were not worth the hassle. And in spite of everything… in spite of the pain and the guilt, my winglessness and all of the leaves that were in a place that wasn’t there, I was okay. And I felt that thing again, and for sure this time. Beautiful. Strong. Loved.


The juicer sat down and looked at the crates of citrus before him. Boxes of oranges, grapefruits, and limes had been neatly arranged on the floor of the rectangular room. He walked in and sat down in the giant seashell chair, breathing deeply and surrendering to its aura. He noted the crates. He noted the floor. For a moment, he let himself be swallowed up by the shell’s enormity, feeling the weight of each muscle and limb push against its coldness. It was seven o’clock that morning and he had already started searching for salvation. The day’s work had begun while he was still asleep. At five o’clock that morning, a delivery truck had delivered sixty boxes to the small shop, (thirty orange, twenty grapefruit, and ten boxes of blood orange). They were counted, unloaded, stacked, and then counted again before the truck disappeared into the night. The seashell chair waited for its company in the dark room while a single streetlight shone through the window and cast a shadow on the immaculate floor. Even the Sergeant, who walked by and peered in each day would notice the chair’s brass legs gleaming in the predawn light, reviewing in his mind the day when the juicer had come to him for advice about insuring it as a relic. Every day began at seven o’clock when the juicer entered the shop, sat down, and then weighed the crates. He calculated the exact number of fruits they contained from a constant he had derived years ago. The daily orders varied little. He knew, for instance, that 30 bottles were due to the elementary school by nine o’clock; that Miss Q would arrive somewhere between ten and twelve with dog in hand for a weekly subscription of three bottles; and that the Sergeant would appear—in fact, probably had already appeared—for one bottle before ending his night shift. He should have sold the business by now, but the temptation of his product extended far and wide. His business card was still embossed in black, stating only his title, address, and hours, which hadn’t changed for the past thirty years. By 7:15, he had sliced the first orange. One by one, they descended the metal chute and stopped on the cutting board. A line of citrus formed, patiently bumping forward, and was sliced before wobbling into the enormous metallic bowl that covered the table. He smiled as he tossed each halved orange into the bowl. After the oranges, it was time for the grapefruit. The first few always felt clunky, but after a dozen or so, his work descended into that familiar, rhythmic patter he craved. The collection of halved oranges, grapefruits, and limes grew, piling on top of each other, ready to be pressed by 7:30 at the latest. The shop smelled thick with an aroma that became the juicer’s uniform. It came and passed in heavy swaths as you walked by the front door, beckoning you with the tantalizing pursuit of citrus. A sign above the door said all it needed to say: *Let’s Get Juicy*. He stepped back for a moment to admire the tower of rinds growing in front of him. It rippled out at its base and covered the entire table in a bright canvas of color. He smiled, puffing his cigar in approval. The metallic bowl seemed to have disappeared, swallowed up by a mound of grapefruits that were growing all over the room and it quickly became difficult to distinguish the man from the fruit—both occupied one space in their rounded joviality. Those who walked by and peered into the enormous window were greeted by the tower of rinds and the image of a man at work. Once the mound had grown sufficiently, the juicer chopped a few limes. He tossed them on top of the pile and walked over to the machine on the nearby table, flicking its switch as it buzzed and then settled into focus. He proceeded to juice in silent fury, translating fruit to rind and rind to pile. He looked out onto the boulevard to watch the foot traffic by the subway entrance and watched pedestrians come and go. Looking into the shop window, the Sergeant, who always arrived before his order was ready, stood calmly and sighed to himself. He watched the juicer continue in his characteristic rhythm, lifting the machine’s clamshell, placing a halved citrus underneath it, and pressing down with both hands as the foamy liquid appeared. Just last year, his friend could open the machine with one hand—time had afflicted him since. The juice bubbled and frothed in the bowl, turning a variety of shades before settling on one hue. The juicer then siphoned it into the glass bottles he had lined up on the table. From outside, the clinking of glass was inaudible, forcing the Sergeant to complete it in his imagination. As he juiced each halved fruit, the juicer tossed its rind on the floor, painting his image in shades of white, gold, and pink. By now, the daily crowd had formed to watch, spending their mornings in the Juice District to watch the pile of rinds growing by the man’s feet and rippling out like exploded clouds sunken on top of the ocean. They watched him lift the clamshell, secure the citrus, and juice slowly while calmly puffing his cigar, which had grown a horn of ash that he refused to tap. He pretended not to notice them and continued to work in silence as his audience grew. And they watched. Greedily, in fact, as they translated between the juicer and the fruit, between the chair and the metallic bowl, between the cigar and the horn of ash in a frenzy of consumption that refused to abet. The Sergeant could have watched for hours—in fact, he once had, observing a sea of rinds gather at the juicer’s feet and ripple out across every inch of the shop’s floor, one by one filling the bowl and the seashell chair and then covering it entirely. He remembered that aroma escaping through an open window, cutting into the putridity of the city. By the end of that day, the only empty space remaining was a small patch where the juicer stood, the outline of a man who beckoned with his machine in silent fury. Some time passed. The crowd outside knew that come ten o’clock, the juicer would stop, having measured his time in the length it took to finish two cigars, pick up the first few bottles of juice from his heavy worktable, and ritualistically bring them outside for them to enjoy with *Good morning, good morning, very well, thank you*. This time, they watched the ash on the second cigar fall to the floor. The juicer interrupted the process to marvel at the mess at his feet. He looked from corner to corner, admiring the waves of rinds that had inundated the entire store. He looked at the seashell chair and saw a glimmer, a glint of the past reflected back onto him. Two minutes before he was due to arrive, the Sergeant slammed the door and startled the juicer who had fallen into his deep rhythm. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the store. He motioned at the ceiling, but by now, the flames had begun tugging at the walls, cascading over the shop’s roof until it squeezed in on itself, taking the pine boxes and the machine and the metallic bowl in one giant helping of smoke. The crowd had scattered backwards and now the two men watched, mesmerized by the absoluteness of it all. It was the most pleasing a fire had ever smelled, they concluded, as they greedily inhaled. \*\*\* Since then, the juicer has streamlined his operation, citing old age, but remaining as we remember him, seated in the seashell chair—the only thing to survive the fire—a man so engrossed in his work to the point of danger.


It had been a month, and my face was starting to itch. I was sitting in the car, waiting for the opportunity to strike, while rain poured and thunder bellowed outside. I reviewed the name and the address on the package. John Smith, the resident of 565 First Avenue, was a divorced parent and a woodcarver. When the clock struck 1, I went outside with the package under a black umbrella. Water splashed under my feet, as I reached the blue porch and knocked three times on the door. “Who is it?” A voice shouted from the inside, almost drowning in the sound of rain. I remained silent and knocked three times again in continuous succession. The door opened, and I saw the familiar face of John smith. “Are you John Smith?” He was roughly the same height as me, though a little skinny. In many years of experience, he had the perfect face I had ever seen. His broad but taut face, acne-free skin, flat nose, and skinny lips were rare for a 33-year-old man. Still wearing his dirty pajamas, he was the embodiment of Sunday noon laziness. “Yes, I am John Smith. How may I help you today?” “May I come in? The rain is killing it today,” I said with a broad smile. His eyes showed hesitation, so I stretched my smile a little more. He saw the package in my hands and said, “Come on in.” He welcomed me into his lovely house, which was equipped with a cramped kitchen and a spacious living room in the front. The passage in the middle made way for the two bedrooms and bathrooms. It was an ordinary house for an ordinary man. The sharp smell of cigarettes was in contrast with the earthy smell of the rain outside. “I have a package for you.” “You came to deliver a package in this storm?” “What can I say? We pride ourselves on doing the best in any condition.” I handed him the wrapped box. He raised his eye and looked at the package, inspecting it with his observant eyes. After being satisfied, he shrugged his shoulders and threw the pack on the sofa. “If you could give us feedback and sign here.” I handed him the clipboard. “Do you have a pen?” I checked my pockets and lied, “I must’ve accidentally left it.” “No worries, I’ll bring it.” He left for his room, enabling me to accomplish my intended task. Seeing men and their habitat up close always gave me a new perspective, and this situation was no different. I envied seeing pictures of him and his family laughing and enjoying vacations together. My eyes scanned around, absorbing as much information as I could about him. I saw a mirror right outside the kitchen and grew self-conscious of my slacking face. A black Bombay cat caught my eye as she strolled towards her bowl. She locked eyes with me and displayed the flehmen grimace, as though she had seen a ghost. I ignored her and examined John’s work of wood-carved animals. He came back with the signed form and said, “here you go.” “Thank you for your time. This is a nice owl,” I complimented John with a thin veil of resentment. My wood carving skills, which I had been practicing for weeks, were no match for him. “Ah, got an eye for art, I see. What’s your name?” He asked while glaring at my neck. “Robert Williams,” I replied as I massaged my neck to hide the scratch mark. “What a coincidence, your last customer’s name was the same.” He caught me off guard. I had underestimated his eye for the minute details. No, I had to remain calm. He couldn’t know, or it’ll all fall apart. “It must be a common name.” “Hmm, yeah, I suppose so,” he said, displeased with the excuse I gave him. Lightning struck outside, which made John a little jumpy. I went to the window and pulled the curtain to see the ominous clouds and the raging storm. “The rain isn’t pulling any stops, is it?” “You can stay here as long as you like,” he said to fulfill a mere formality. Thus began his lazy Sunday routine of watching TV. He opened the package while I leaned against the window, observing him. The package comprised a blood orange clock, with the hour hand pointing at 13. There was also a note wishing him for his birthday, which was last week. The late present from somebody anonymous did not thrill him, so he put it on the desk and surfed through the channels, at last stopping for a breaking news broadcast. “There has been a disturbing development in the missing case of Luke Orwell. The police recently found his brutally mutilated body-” Power went out, possibly because of the rain. The entire room turned bleak and silent, except for the roaring of the unstoppable storm. The cat hid under the sofa where John sat, paralyzed from dread, still gawking at the black screen of the TV. He must’ve gone through the signature list and read the recent names. I had to do something before I lose the chance because of my foolish mistake. “Do you have any candles?” “Uh… yeah… sure.” He scoured for the candle and match sticks. In a moment, I heard a match strike, and the pale skin and uncertain eyes of John shined under the burning orangish glow of the candle. He was stepping away from me, scanning the exits to escape. His mind was starting to doubt the decision of letting in a stranger. I had to improvise the plan. He couldn't know that I knew what he was thinking. “If you allow, I would love to see more of your beautiful wood carved animals.” He thought about the decision, and announced, “They’re in my bedroom, I’ll bring the collection.” I couldn’t let him be alone, or he could call someone. “But first, I should contact my employer and tell him that I’ll be late because of the storm. Can I have your phone, mine’s dead.” He clenched his jaws and unwillingly snarled, “Sure.” I stretched the phone, searching for the bars, at last getting one in front of the passageway connecting the bedroom and the bathroom. I kept glancing at the door, making sure John didn’t shut it close. He walked towards the living room with a big box as though possessed by dread. I followed him and gave him back his phone. The entire box was filled with diverse animals, each more distinct than the earlier. "You're the most creative man I've met," I flattered him. "Yeah, thanks," he mumbled absent-mindedly. "Isn’t it wonderful, you can morph a block of wood to this," I picked up a figurine, “this little animal. Giving it a new shape, a new mask, a new life.” “Not a mask per se,” he relaxed a bit, talking about his beloved creations. “I like to think that what I carve out was already hidden, deep beneath the surface. I don’t change the essence, just bring it out to the world.” “Forgive me, but I disagree. Everybody wears a facade these days, helping them to be what they want or have to be. From a perspective, that mask they carve out becomes their essence. Live a day in other person’s shoes, and you’ll see that everyone’s the same underneath the flesh. It’s only our mask, what we show to the outside world, which makes us unique, like these animals.” “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” he was afraid of opposing me. “I don’t want to impose any longer, but may I have a glass of water.” In an instant, his eyes showed hopes of escaping me. “Just a moment,” he said in haste as he bolted for the kitchen. I stood up to follow him when he turned back, and reassured, “Stay there, I’ll bring the water.” “That’s polite of you, but I am afraid of being alone in the dark.” He went to the counter and filled the cup. He kept on glancing at me over his shoulders, preventing me from getting close to him. As he turned around, his arms knocked over some salt. He couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. He had connected the dots. The game was up. “I am sorry, clumsy hands, I suppose,” he gulped. “It alright,” I said as I bent down and helped him. He stepped back and maintained his distance from me. The longer I waited, the more chances he had of escaping. “If you aren’t feeling great, you should lie down,” I urged in an attempt to search his bedroom and unmask the hidden secrets. “Uh… yeah”, he cleared his throat and announced, “I’ll be back in a minute.” “Where are you going?” “Um… I uh… I’m going to the washroom.” He spun around, pacing away from me as fast as he could. This was it. This was my last chance before things escalated. I grabbed him from his back and threw him in the mirror. His head banged against the mirror, breaking the mirror into shards. “What-” I jabbed him in the gut, and he stumbled back to the wall. "Stay away from me!" He brought out a concealed kitchen knife. "I know how to use this." He swung the blade towards me, like an amateur. I stepped back and evaded his attacks. The shock from the mirror was making him sloppy. Thunderous lightning lit up the room, and I saw John clearly, determined to live and fight, plunging towards me with the knife. I held his wrist, twisted it, and struck below his elbow, making him let go of the blade from his broken arm. I kicked him in his legs, and he collapsed to the ground. He used his other arm to crawl away from me, but I stepped on his arm making him howl with pain. “Shh…” I bent down and put my finger on his hot, burning lips. I held his chin and brought the candle a bit close to measure his jaws. The skin was soft with a bit of oomph, just how I liked it. His eyes had a creepy similarity to my mother, in terror of thinking about what was going to happen next. “Stop trembling,” I threatened in a stern voice, like my father’s. Yes, it was perfect. I made him sit against the wall. I took one of the largest and sharpest shards of the mirror. “Who… Who are you?” “I told you already. I am Robert Williams, though I am thinking of changing the name.” “Why?” He asked me in a shrill, shaky voice. I didn’t pay heed to his question and took his arm. With the shard, I sliced his arms and legs to immobilize him. He winced in pain, and he asked again, shaking with fear. “Why? Please… please let me go.” “More you shake, more imprecise I will be. Believe me, you don’t want me to be imprecise.” “Please, I have a son,” he pleaded, trying to reach for the humanity robbed from me. “I hated my father.” I sliced his arms again, and he shouted in pain. But the deafening storm drowned out everything. I took out my knife, which I had since I was a kid, from my pocket and put it on the ground. John whimpered at the sight of the blade. Sweat trickled down his messy hair. “Take the money, it’s uh… it’s in my bedroom, behind… behind the-” “Shut up. I am not here only for your money.” I held onto his neck and inspected the back of his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said after seeing tiny shards of the glass in the back of his skull. “I shouldn’t have hit you this hard. But I wouldn’t be a professional if I couldn’t do a challenge.” I took some wet cloth and cleared his face from the neck up. “What do you want? Take it… take everything. Please… just leave me.” “What I want is not yours to give; it is only for mine to take. I am almost ready. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon.” I took the shard and dug it in his thigh. His eyes bulged out, and he screeched in excruciating pain. I took it out and cleaned it with a cloth. “Are you one of them? Those sick… savage… cannibals? Are you going to eat me, you monster?“ “Please, don’t think so low of me. I am nothing like those insane and inhuman criminals. I appreciate the human body and mind, especially the face.” He swung another punch at me with his frail arms in vain. “Being courageous, are we today? Tell me, how’s your wife, John?” He broke down crying, “Please don’t… don’t hurt her. Take my life… my life instead. Don’t hurt her.” “You’re a good man John. How’s John junior handling the divorce? It’s much harder for a kid, you know? DO YOU KNOW?” I cut a massive line across his stomach. Blood gushed out of him and turned his clothes red. Ah, the familiar, sweet smell of fresh blood. “Don’t hurt him,” he whimpered like a dog. “I beg of you. I’ll do- I’ll do anything.” “Stop worrying. Everything will be fine. If anyone has to worry about this situation, it is me.” With the knife, I stabbed his other thigh. But by this time, he had suffered enough. “I don’t enjoy doing this, you know,” I confessed, “I didn’t dream of doing this when I grew up. But, they say what they say, a good son follows in his father’s footsteps. If anything, I am the one who suffered more than you. I was a victim then, and I am the victim now.” I took a moment to consider how much I sounded like my father. He croaked like a dying frog, “No, I don't want… I don't wanna die." “Hey, hey!” I slapped his face as he was losing consciousness. “I like you all to be awake when I do my work.” I clutched his blue face and squeezed his cold cheeks. With a sudden surge of strength in him, he grabbed my collar and whispered in my ears. “You will pay for this. You will suffer for the rest of your life.” I pushed him back and said, “I already am.” I dug my fingernails under my neck and showed him my red, juicy flesh underneath. John averted his gaze and shut his eyes. I peeled away the month-old face and threw it on the floor. “Not a beautiful face, I know. But my mother loved me or at least tried to. My father couldn’t suffer the sight of me, and how did that end up for him,” I momentarily became nostalgic for my messed up childhood. It had been decades since I had seen my face. That ugly, coward, helpless little boy who couldn’t stand up for his mother or himself. “Let’s come back to the present, shall we? This is the last step now, John. Stay with me. Do you have any regrets?” “Letting a sick man like you enter my house.” In his last moments, his fear of me turned into hatred. It was hard, stopping myself from stabbing his helpless self in the chest right there. “Stop saying I am sick. I am nothing but a victim like you are right now.” I took the knife and carved a thin line across his hairline on his forehead. He tried to pull away, but cuts and bruises on his arms and legs were sapping away his strength. “You know, you are the first person who knew what was coming to him, and I admire that. It certainly made things interesting for a change. You can find peace in this that I now know you better than anyone has in your entire life. Your sacrifice will help me endure my trauma, and I will be eternally grateful for it. Do you have any last words, any unfinished task you would like me to complete?” “Go to hell.” He spitted blood and saliva at me. I took a deep breath and remained calm. I wiped the blood off my face. “Very poor choice of words.” With the help of my hours of experience, I carved the entire face and took the face’s flesh with precision. John exhaled his last breath while his eyes stopped moving. Underneath the flesh, everybody looks the same. The stiffness in his body remained. I stood up, admiring possibly the finest work I had ever done. I put his naked body in a bag and started cleaning the house. While I tried on the skin in the bathroom, I heard a phone ring. I grabbed his phone out of my pocket and answered, “Hello. Yes, this is John Smith talking.