I am a curious skeptic. What this means is that while I am skeptical of a lot of things, I am also curious about the experience. Which is why I agreed to go with my mom when she said she wanted to visit a medium.

             I had never had a desire to do this before. It isn’t something that even crossed my mind to try. But when my cousin was talking about his experience with it, I could see that my mom was completely enthralled. It didn’t take much to persuade her that what he had experienced was the real deal, and she wanted in.              I was interested in tagging along because, to be honest, I didn’t know much about my mom, so I thought that this might be a good opportunity to learn some things about her past. I imagined that she was hoping to channel her parents, who died in a fire when she was twelve, and her brother, who committed suicide when he was in his twenties. My mom didn’t talk much about her past, and I assumed that was because there might not have been much that she wanted to talk about. If that had been my experience, I can’t imagine I would have wanted to talk much about it either. However, she did seem to be excited about the thought of getting to hear from them again, even if it was through a third party. I guess when it comes to connecting with loved ones, we can’t be too picky about the mode of communication.              So off we went. For whatever reason I was a little disappointed when we got to the medium’s house. It looked just like any other house. It was in a nice neighborhood, and it seemed very unassuming. I don’t know what I was expecting. I think I was hoping for something a little more haunting.

The lady who answered the door made up for whatever I felt the house was missing. She was perhaps the thinnest person I have ever seen, and she seemed to smile at us without blinking. “You must be Linda and Jason,” she said. “Please, come in and have a seat. I’m so glad you could make it.” She was very kind and inviting, which I assume is the same way Hansel and Gretel felt about the which who eventually ended up cooking them both in a stew.

             “It is so nice to meet the two of you. Will you both be participating today?”              “Oh, no,” I answered. “I’m just here to support my mom. She’s been wanting to do this for a long time, and I decided I would come along with her.”              “Oh, that’s nice,” the medium said. “You’re a good son.”              “Thank you.”              “You’re welcome. Your grandfather thinks so, too.”              This through me a little because I have never met either one of my grandfathers. Both of them, along with my mom’s mother, had died before I was born. So the only grandparent I had growing up was my grandmother on my dad’s side. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My who?”              She looked at my mom and said, “Your dad is with us right now and he wants you both to know just how proud he is of you. He wants me to tell you that you are a great mother and that you have raised a wonderful son.”              My mom and I looked at each other wide-eyed. She looked to be both speechless and excited. “I… wow,” she said. “Tell him I said thank you.”              “Of course. He said that he’s always been with you and he’s so proud of what you have done for yourself. You have turned into an amazing woman, and he’s sorry for what you had to go through growing up.”              My mom was in tears now, quietly taking in what was happening. The medium turned to me, perhaps to give my mom a moment to gather herself, and told me that my grandfather wanted me to know that he is happy to see how strong I can be for the family, and that my sense of humor has the ability to hold everyone together, and that I am constantly making him laugh. This made me feel good. Then she said, “He is also wanting me to tell you something about a deer. Does that make any sense to you?” The only thing I could think of was a deer that I had hit about a year ago when it ran out in front of me one night on a dark highway. I mentioned that and she smiled and said, “That’s it. He wants me to tell you that he is with the deer and that it is alright. He said that the deer forgives you and that there are no hard feelings.” “Oh, okay,” I said. “You can communicate with animals, too?”

“Yes,” she said. “Our spirits have the ability to communicate across species, and the deer wants you to know that he does not blame you for what happened.” She turned back to my mom because my grandfather had more he wanted to say to her. I knew that was why we were there, but I had a hard time letting go of the deer saying that he forgave me for what happened. I didn’t do anything wrong. He ran out in front of me! My car was totaled because of him, but he’s going to act like it’s my fault and that somehow I’m to blame because he was too stupid to notice my car coming down the road at sixty miles an hour when he decided to cross the street? I don’t mind taking accountability whenever I have made a mistake, but I can’t stand someone deflecting their own blame, especially onto me. I don’t care if it’s a person or an animal, don’t blame me for your mistakes. The medium was saying some stuff about my grandfather wanted to tell my mom something that he felt like she needed to know and that he never got a chance to tell her when I interrupted. “I’m sorry, but the deer said he doesn’t blame me for what happened?” The medium looked at me and appeared to be a little stunned, as did my mom. I assured them that I would let my grandpa finish saying whatever it was he needed to share with my mom, but first I had to clear something up with the deer. “Is he still there?” “Um, no. I don’t see him.” “Could you ask my grandpa to get him, please? Can he hear me? Hey grandpa! Can you please have the deer come back? I’d like to have a quick word with him.” There was silence for a moment, so I asked the medium what was happening.

“Um… he… went to get the deer, I guess.”

“Okay, good. Thank you, grandpa!” I looked at both my mom and the medium, gave a reassuring smile and said, “This will only take a minute. I promise.” I could tell they were a little offput by the distraction. After all, this was about mom, not me, and I fully intended to bring the focus one hundred percent back to her and reconnecting with her parents once I got this little issue with the deer taken care of. In the meantime, though, as we waited for my grandpa to get back with the deer, I decided to try to defuse what had seemed to become somewhat of a tense situation. I think by this point we were all so annoyed with this damn deer for temporarily ruining the moment.

“Would anyone like to see a magic trick?” I asked. They both looked at me as if I had just taken off my pants. I couldn’t tell, though, if it was because they were surprised that I knew magic, or that they were surprised that I had the audacity to ask if they would like to see a magic trick. “No thank you. I’m good,” the medium answered. My mom responded by whispering, “What is wrong with you?” to me. It was clear that they were shocked by the audacity. Thankfully, the medium let us know that my grandpa had returned, which was a relief to us all. “And Linda, he’s brought your mother with him!” My mom covered her mouth in surprise and excitement, which was good because it gave me the chance to ask if he had also brought back the deer before she could start asking her mother a bunch of questions. I just wanted to get this mess with the deer over with as quickly as possible so as not to prolong the distraction in my mom’s moment any longer. She sighed and said, “Yes, the deer is back.” “Good. Would you please tell him that while I’m sorry he got hurt, it was not my fault that he ran out in front of my car, and that he is the one who should be apologizing to me.” The medium sat speechless, which was kind of unprofessional in my opinion given what we were paying her to do this for my mom. “Is there a problem?” I asked. “I’m just waiting for the deer to calm down. He is pretty upset about what is happening right now.” “He’s upset! That ignorant piece of road venison totaled my car! I had to drive around with duct tape holding up my front end for two weeks. And it kept coming apart, so I had to continue to reapply it, which was a pain in the ass.” “SO IS GETTING HIT IN THE ASS BY A CAR!!!” She screamed. “Sorry. That was the deer. Not me.” I looked at my watch and realized that we only had about fifteen minutes left in the hour that we paid for, so I tried to wrap this up so we could at least salvage a few minutes for my mom to have with her parents. “Look,” I said. “All I want is for you, Mr. Deer…” “It’s Donner,” the medium interrupted. “What?” “The deer, he says his name is Donner.” “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” my mom said. “Fine. Donner, all I want is for you to admit that the whole thing was your fault and to apologize to me and then we can move on.” There was a long, tense moment of silence. My mom and I were looking at the medium waiting for a response. The medium was staring blankly like a… well… like a deer in headlights. I assumed she was waiting for a response from Donner. Finally, the medium said, “The deer…” “Donner,” I said, correcting her. “Yes, Donner, wants to know if he apologizes then can he go?” “Of course. I just want an apology for what he did to my car. Then he will be able to spend the rest of his afterlife guilt free.” “Okay, he says he is sorry.” “Tell him I said thank you.” “He’s gone.” “Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’m just glad that we were able to put that behind us and that we can finally get back to why we came here in the first place. Mom, you can go back to talking with Grandpa now.” “He’s gone, too. And our time is up.” “Oh…” The drive back home was quiet. I assumed that my mom was probably pretty overwhelmed with emotions after getting to hear from her parents… well, at least her dad… for the first time after so many years. I don’t know for sure, though, because she hasn’t really talked with me about the visit since it happened. I guess it’s something that she just wants to keep to herself.              As for me, I went into the whole thing pretty skeptical about what we would encounter. But I have to say, although Donner pissed me off a little by his narcissism, he did convince me that there is an afterlife, and that even the most stubborn of us have the ability to change. I have been persuaded.


Campfire Lit. I sit down to rest, replenishing what I will need as I enter what will surely be the most menacing part of the castle. The mage told me this part runs adjacent to the Chasm, which is filled with the soulless undead. I am told the halls are filled with soldiers, roaming as husks of their former selves as they walk aimlessly and kill mercilessly. I stand up and prepare for my journey. I put on my heavy armor and pick up my double-bladed sword. Carefully, I pass through a decrepit archway. On either side is a wall just tall enough to block my view. Once I enter, I see the chasm on my right. To my left, a tall wall runs, with windows and balconies. I say a quick prayer to the gods and soldier on. Already, I am ambushed by the undead. They each wear heavy, but worn armor. Not much of a threat. But one has glowing eyes. I recognize the glow. These ones are the most dangerous. The Corrupted. Like other undead, they will stop at nothing to kill; but these ones are possessed by a presence from the Land Below. A presence that takes hold of all that is hollow. I hold my large sword up with both hands. The blades of the undead clash with both blades protruding from the handle my hands grip with all their might. As the metal hits, I thrust the weapon to knock them back. I spin the blade around me, taking out any enemies nearby. They dissolve in a puff of smoke. I thrust my blade into a few more foot soldiers and watch them disappear. Suddenly, the sword of the Corrupted Undead hits me from behind, knocking me down. I roll over just in time to avoid his next blow. His sword is probably taller than I am. I get up and dodge, narrowly avoiding his next attack, and thrash my sword in his direction, but I'm too far away to hit him. His sword slashes across my chest before he comes back quickly for a thrust. I feel the cold metal run right through my chest and I know this is the end. He pulls the sword out and I fall to my knees. I try to move, but I can feel everything in my body shutting down. I fell backward. Before my vision goes black, I see my blood pooled on the floor. The last thing I see is the purple glow of my killer's eyes... You awaken, renewed. I find myself at the campfire by the archway. My gear is worn and the fragments of soul I collected from my kills are gone. As I rest again at the fire, I repair everything and recognize there is only one way to get those soul fragments back. I need to kill the Corrupted Undead, this time before he kills me. If I respawn without killing him first, I lose the fragments forever. I head into the battlefield once again, prepared for the ambush. I make short work of the regular undead and prepare to face the Corrupted once again. This time, I know what to do. I dodge first, facing him from a distance. Quickly, I try to remember his weakness. The weakness of any Corrupted Undead. Fire. I pull out a fire bomb and throw it in his direction. It catches, causing the large knight to flinch and scream. In the chaos, I strike, fully aware of how quickly his health must be draining, but more importantly, how fast he'll recover. I dodge again, throw another bomb, and strike. I repeat this until he falls. The screams of the undead trapped within the Land Below escape his mouth, filling the area and bouncing off the walls. He falls with a loud thud. I continue, taking out more undead. A few are able to do some damage, especially with long-reaching spears and crossbows. By the time I exit a narrow hallway and enter a large foyer, I am almost out of health potions. The path to this area widens to a platform up some steps, ending with a large door. Still to my right is an outlook to the chasm. I hear the screams of the undead. There are only a few soldiers in the large foyer and I dread to think what's behind the doorway. It was clearly made for someone much larger than myself. Before I can think about what might lie ahead, I hear armor. Someone is running toward me. Someone much faster than any regular undead. I narrowly avoid the sword of a knight. This one is clearly much better at fighting than any undead. I slash my sword toward them and they dodge, masterfully, I might add. As I strike again, they parry my sword with their shield, knocking it away before thrusting a sword deep in my chest. I quickly recover and dodge their next attack and drink a healing potion. "I was saving those," I say, out of breath. "You won't need them in a second," the knight says. She sounds determined and, most importantly, alive. "Not if I get rid of you," I say back. We run toward each other and before she can strike, I slam my sword in her direction, hitting the ground, but knocking her back with the force of the swing before lifting the sword and striking her upward. "So you are a skilled fighter," she observes. "But, methinks, not skilled enough." She slashes me with her sword, doing a little damage. As I strike, she dodges, but I follow, rolling in her direction. She recovers from the roll faster, taking the advantage and waving her sword at me, but I roll again, this time behind her, and stab her through the back. She falls and I take the opportunity for a heavy attack. This final blow does the trick and she finally falls. "You will fall, like the others," she says as she fades. "Maybe in another life," I retort. I watch her body vanish. It's almost a shame. I enjoyed fighting someone like me. With the battle done, I head to the large door and open it. Inside, I see a large lump of cloth in the middle of a giant room. The room itself was clearly built for a king, with different kinds of royal cloth tapestries hanging over the windows. Candles were lit along the walls, but the room was still dark. Around the cloth, though, was pure darkness. It was as if the light, no matter how strong, faded around the lump. In that moment, I had a terrifying realization. "The eater of light," I said. "The Fallen King of Lothbrooke." As if on cue, the king rose, standing so tall I couldn't see his face. All six of his arms came out from under the cloth, each holding a sword at least three times as long as I am tall. His eyes were glowing a sinister purple, marking his corruption. The king who was supposed to save us all. It was clear he was behind the corruption of the kingdom. I run toward him, not yet sure what my plan was. Maybe I'd strike at his ankles, doing enough damage to bring him down. Before I could, though, he jumped out of the way, clearly more agile than he looked, and slashed all six swords in my direction. I couldn't even react. I was dead before I could even register what happened. You awaken, renewed. I sit at the camp fire, once again repairing and replenishing. How can I face such a large, corrupted beast? The king was practically bred for combat, and was at least twenty times my height. Maybe if I had help... Again, I headed into the castle. The Corrupted Undead was gone, but many soldiers remained. I dodge, slash, and run through the area, making it once again to the large foyer. "You again?" I hear a voice say. It was the knight from before. "You? I thought I killed you," I say. "You wish. I can come back just as often as I please!" she says as she attacks. "Need redemption, do you?" We each thrash, thrust and roll, each dealing damage to the other. I have to admit, it's nice to find another soul relatively in tact. "What will it take to be rid of you?" I ask. "Die and never come back," she answers. I don't take her advice, again striking her down. "You'll see me again..." I head once again into the room of the fallen king. I'm finally able to hit him, but it does almost nothing. He strikes, this time with only two swords, but it's more than enough. You awaken, renewed. I rest and replenish. I fight. I make it to the foyer, ready to face the knight. "I tire of this game," I say to her, but not sure if I mean it. "I never tire of the battle," she says as she attacks. I do, I want to say, but maybe not of her. "What do you hope to accomplish? What are you trying to protect?" "My kingdom," she says. "One day the king will rise again and save us all. It is written!" I know exactly what prophecy she was referring to. "The false prophet Tiddles speaks of resurrection," I say, emphasizing false . "Your king is truly fallen." "He will be restored," she says, thrusting her sword at me, hitting my armor. "What is your name?" I ask. "I am Sun Hand Ada," she says, proud of the title. She comes from the Guild of the Sun, a powerful group. "Very nice to meet you," I bow. "Now die!" We fight some more before I strike her and she falls once again. "The gods do not bless thee. You will return..." I head into the battle with the king once again, this time lasting a whole thirty seconds. You awaken, renewed. I rest, replenish, and fight. This time, though, I use more health potions. I feel unprepared, nearly being struck down by simple undead soldiers. I am weak when I meet Ada. "Now the tables shall turn!" she says. I eye the way into the chasm below. There is no way I'll let her kill me, I have a reputation now. "I do not think so," I laugh. "I might not survive this fight. But I will not give you the satisfaction!" I run and jump into the chasm. As I fall, I hear Ada above. "You fool," she laughs. You awaken, renewed. I rest. Replenish. Fight. I reach Ada. "You would willingly take your own life to prevent me from gaining the satisfaction of victory?" she asks. I smile in response. She shrugs and takes off her helmet. Her short brown hair falls to her shoulders. The features of her face are perfectly chiseled, her eyes sharp and her smile blinding. "So be it." She runs to the chasm's edge and jumps, screaming in delight as she falls. I shake my head and laugh. "Who's the fool now?" I eye the doorway to the king. I realize I need fire. But more so, I need someone with me to draw his attention. Moreover, though, the thought of finishing the fight alone paints a lonely scene; that of a warrior walking a path with no one to share it with. A warrior, no matter how hollow, should share their path with one matching their desire for the fight. And once I leave this part of the castle, I might never see Ada again. I have stared into the abyss of companionship and found it warmer than I expected. Looking into the chasm, I take the plunge. You awaken, renewed. "What will it take for you to fight by my side?" I ask Ada. "Me? Fight by the side with the likes of you?" she laughs. "It is a silly thought. And I could never betray my king!" "He is corrupted, and I fear he will further corrupt this land if he continues to live!" I tell her. "Maybe we can be allies in another life," she retorts. "But right now, I will not fight against my king." "We have already spent several lives fighting, and could spend infinitely more, nothing ever changing," I say. "Don't you want to see change? Cleanse the kingdom once and for all?" She thinks for a moment. "Is that your only reason for asking for my sword?" The question surprises me. I have grown fond of our battles. It has been wonderful to fight with one so fierce, and relieving to find one in possession of most of their marbles. I just didn't consider that she felt the same. "I could use a companion like you... on the battlefield, I mean." "Yes... I suppose our skills compliment each other," she says shyly. "In battle, of course." "Of course." We pause awkwardly. "Will you fight by my side? Purge the corruption from this land, and help light the Flame of Life?" I ask. "Under one condition," she says. "You must sacrifice ten thousand soul fragments to me." "I do believe I have them," I say slowly. "Is this a trick to finally kill me? Do you only wish satisfaction?" "I wish to survive this battle," she says. "If the corruption is as you say, those soul fragments could protect me from it." "And me?" "You shall me fine. I could sacrifice my life to save my kingdom. Risk being corrupted. But I suddenly wish to live. To see... what comes after." I think on it for a second. What comes after. Maybe there is more to this undead life. Perhaps we could have a life after. Together. My heart swells at the thought and a feeling overcomes me. Not love, maybe. The warmth of companionship. I prepare the soul fragments before spreading out my arms. "To another life." "To another life," she says before thrusting her sword through my chest. It takes a couple tries, but I finally fall, hearing a giggle as I do. "So this is what victory feels like," she laughs. My vision goes dark. I would smile if I could. You awaken, renewed. When I reach Ada, she doesn't attack. We walk to the doorway together. "What becomes of us once this battle is finished?" she asks. "Well," I say shyly. "I had hoped you might aid me in my journey. Share my glory, perhaps. Maybe..." "That sounds wonderful." "We must survive, first." "Yes, of course," She says. "You keep his attention, I will exploit his weakness." "Fire?" "Fire." We walk in and the fallen king rises. Ada screams a battle cry as she runs to him, dodging his many strikes. She works to simply keep his attention and avoid the blades. I throw a fire bomb at the king and he screams in pain, turning his attention to me. I run, hoping for Ada to get his attention back. I do not wait long before she strikes and he turns away from me. I throw another bomb and we repeat the process until the corrupted souls within the king scream in agony. Several leave the king's body to attack Ada and I, and we struggle to dodge them as the king continues attacking. "This will not be the future of my kingdom!" she screams "I will not submit!" Her sword glows with the light of the sun and the blade catches fire. A blessing from her guild. She nods to me and I recognize the plan. I would draw his attention, she would attack, using his weakness. Still dodging the souls coming from the king, I attack him once and run to keep his back to Ada. She slashes at the king and he finally falls. His head lies next to Ada and she plunges her blade through his skull, dealing one final blow. As she does, corrupted souls fill the room, the force of them knocking me to the ground and blinding me for a moment. When I get up, I watch the body of the king dissolve before me, the souls now gone from the room. "He's dead," I say. "We have cleansed this land. We have claimed victory. Ada, we can link the Flame of Life!" No answer. Her head is still down and she grips the sword that once pierced the king's skull. "Ada?" She looks up and I gasp. Her eyes glow a sinister purple. "Oh, Ada," I say stepping back. She screams when she sees me, but the screams are no longer hers. Whatever corruption was purged from the fallen king has now made its way into Ada. My souls weren't enough. She rushes toward me and I dodge. She strikes me as soon as I recover from the roll and immediately thrusts her sword at me again. She is no longer holding back. I keep moving, striking her where I can, but fully aware that once she falls now, she will never come back. "We would have been so good together, you and I," I say, still dodging her attacks. Her glowing eyes face me and she lets out another scream. This time, it sounded more like her. A scream of agony. A pain worse than any death either of us have faced so far. I realize what needs to be done. No matter the cost. "You finally tire of the battle," I say. "Now, you may rest. Victory is yours." I attack, slashing at her several times, knocking her back and drawing splashes of blood that soak my armor. "Maybe we'll meet again one day," my voice shakes. I thrust my sword through her chest and she screams, her own voice breaking through. I catch her and caress her head. As the souls leave her body, she smiles up at me. Slowly, the life leaves her eyes. Her face is stuck in a permanent expression of satisfaction when she goes. And within seconds, her body dissolves in my arms and I am left only with her sword. "Maybe in another life."


I walk down a dark empty hallway. A familiar hallway that echoes my footsteps as if my shoes were for tap-dancing. My trigger finger dragging against the bumped rough painted walls feeling for the corner of the hallway. Once I get to the corner on my left I turn to my right and fumble around for the doorway. That same doorway I've entered a hundred times before. The door is hard wood, just as smooth as the wall. I knock my knuckles against the hard wood. It never sounds loud enough on such thick wood. You're never sure if whoever on the other side really heard you. So I knocked harder, hard enough to make the bone under my skin throb. I can feel my heartbeat between the knuckles. A light suddenly appears on the door. A pair of eyes peek through the four by two inch box. "Password." Demands the eyes, glaring. "We are all God's children." I say. The eyes chuckle back. "Beat it kid." I reach under my coat and unbutton the sheath on my pistol. It's nothing special, wouldn't kill anyone unless it hit them in the head. I had seen on television that a 22. pistol has enough powder to gain the momentum to tear through the skull, but not back out. The bullet will slide and ricochet through the inside of the skull ripping the brain to pieces. Depending on how they fall, you can even see the goopy substance pour out the torn hole. Some sort of brain stew. Also hard to track. Apparently they're not dangerous enough to really commit any crimes with. Maybe our legislature should do a little research. "Did you hear me? I said beat it!" "Come on, you should know me by now." The eyes widened. Then squinted down in fear. He closed the hole. Quickly. I pulled my gun out to my side. There's no sense in trying to beat them within an inch of their life. They'll come back, and with more force. This particular group is like those punching bags that when you hit them, they bounce back up again. Impossible to keep down, unless you deflate it. Deflation is easy, just a puncture of some sort. A blade would due, however I need something more irreparable. I wait and listen to the scuffling behind the door. Pulling my cigarettes from the inside coat pocket. I pat my self down with my spare hand for my lighter and find it in the pocket next to my pocket knife. The door clicks to unlock as soon as I inhale my first cigarette, ever. They say it's a stress reliever. I could sure use some about now. The door swings open and there he stands. One of the scales on the head of a serpent. "Fredricke? I thought you weren't supposed to come here aymore? You're not a part of this family anymore." Jason, the gruff, tough, merciless fool spoke down to me. Almost preachy. As if to tell me that if I didn't get out of here I wasn't going to go to heaven. I already decided I wasn't, not after what I've done. This isn't for Heaven or Hell. This is not for God. This is for me. I breathe in the tobacco. Coughing it out again. The smoke pours out my nose, burning more than it did my throat. I cough back to him. "We are all God's children." He smiles at me. Swings the door wide open to put me in the light. I lift my hand pointing my pistol at him. I have the power here. His smile quickly fades. "Wait just a se-" His voice cut off, overpowered by the first scream of the pistol in my hand. He dropped. Just as I saw in the video games. There is no more power to the brain to control the muscles and so you have to rely simply on the real world physics to direct a corpse. Two people who until the most recent event were just sitting in the corner bolted up and took off towards a back room. I fired one more of my bullets. One of the two fell to the floor. Sat there for just a moment before realizing there was now a hole in his leg. He screamed. Suddenly there was two shots heard from the back room. Then I could hear another ragdoll dropping sound. Followed by more screaming. That's just too much screaming. I raised my gun and shot my leg injured combatant in the head. "Hello?" I asked. "Who else is here?" Two shots more come flying through the wall. I laugh. Not because anything is funny. Everyone is afraid of a crazy guy. Act crazy long enough and your enemies will lose their cool. I laugh more outloud. Cackling like one of the wicked witches of Oz. More bullets come flying through the wall. I feel a quick tear on my arm. Just a scratch. I hide my painin my laugh. Then I stop. Keep everything quiet. I spit my cigarette around the corner into the next room then I hear several bullets hit the ground. I lift the first body from by the door using the method an old friend had showed me he had learned in the Marines. He was a limp lifeless husk. I pull it up over my soulders and to the corner. Just before the next room. I grunt lifting him over my head, and toss him as far as I can around the corner. Explosions shouted as bullets filled the air and the dull thump of them impacting the corpse quickly followed. Until the shots stopped. My ears rang with echoes of the sounds. I was sure the shooting was stopped because my heart has stopped beating in succession with each shot heard. That fight or flight instinct that told me I was still alive also told me when the bullets were flying. I get my gun ready. The womans words in my head. 'You aren't that kind of person. You can be free of this bullshit.' I take aim. I fire. "It's a shame really. Either way I'm on the wrong end of a gun. I just can't find the right side." I cock the pistol. I hold it next to my skull. I pull the trigger. It's like slow motion. You feel the bullet ripping through your scalp. You feel the cracking of your skull. Then you have a headache. The bullet travels at such a velocity through my brain tissue, I suddenly feel myself losing everything. I remember my mothers birthday, I gave her a drawing. I was six. Or was I nine? What was the drawing of? Or was it a neckace I made? Why was I giving her something again? I remember... What? I feel... nothing. The pain stopped. Everything stopped. What am I? I feel like I'm Nothing.


Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order. Dr. Eleanor Lee stepped outside of the Amundsen-Scott compound and felt the icy wind chill the sensitive membranes in her nostrils. She was accustomed to the cold and although it was -12 degrees celsius, she quickly felt overheated in her thick orange suit. It was a balmy day in January and the sun dipped in the sky, but refused to set at 10pm. Dr. Lee didn’t mind working at all hours. After a few months, night felt the same as day and was only differentiated by the numbers on her wristwatch. As a meteorologist, she tracked the temperatures precisely and was more than a little surprised by the relative heat. It was summer after all, so the increased temperatures were to be expected, but this was exceptionally toasty. She fretted and stressed about the effects of climate change, but Dr. Lee harbored a secret thrill that she was the one witnessing such a dramatic shift. She had already authored more articles than she could recall, but she knew this was the Big One. The coldest place on Earth was much warmer than it should be, and she was there to document it.

“Dr. Lee!” said Dr. Lars Kristiansen. Except for his bright orange snowsuit, he was barely visible leaning out of a door at the other end of the compound. Dr. Lee called back a greeting without raising her voice. Sound traveled excellently at the south pole.

“Green just came back.” His cheerful voice carried across the barren white landscape. Dr. Lee waved her hand above her head in acknowledgment and trudged across the packed snow towards the compound, jotting notes on her clipboard as she walked. She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her shoes, hanging up her parka as quickly as possible. She was beginning to sweat. Dr. Kristiansen buzzed around Dr. Arne Green, who was carefully unpacking an ice core onto a laboratory table. The opaque tube of ice glistened. The delicate sample was just three inches in diameter, but was over a meter in length. The frosty imperfections in the silvery cylinder were striated with debris. Dr. Colleen Carlson, head of the glaciology team, wore a twisted expression of pride at the discovery mixed with terror at its implications. Dr. Kristiansen had been waiting impatiently for this sample to return. For the first time, glaciologists were able to drill into a portion of the Thwaites Glacier that had never been exposed in human history. Multiple teams had been sent to the glacier to explore the melted and thinned area before it sloughed off into the ocean. Dr. Green was grim and Dr. Kristiansen was glowing. “We sent off the larger sample to Argentina,” said Dr. Green. “It’s already on board the plane. This is the secondary sample, of course, for immediate study. Another sample was delivered to the Argentinian compounds. The largest sample, as I said, has been packed and put on a plane to Argentina already. This is only a small sample of the newly exposed area. The temperatures at the glacier have risen so much that this sample is actually much further inland than we were hoping for. The portion my team was sent to retrieve has actually already calved.” Dr. Lee, only marginally interested in the distribution of samples, nodded along. The verbose Dr. Green’s habit of repeating himself wasn’t particularly missed while he was at Thwaites. “Dr. Green,” said Dr. Lee, “what was the ambient temperature at the time of drilling?” “Four degrees above zero,” he replied tersely.

“Above?” repeated Dr. Lee. Dr. Green clenched his jaw and nodded mutely, allowing the words to hang in the air. “I’d like a shaving of this location immediately,” said Dr. Kristiansen, excitedly pointing to a greenish location near the bottom of the sample. He was a biologist specializing in phycology, so Dr. Green was prepared and shaved off a tiny sample. Before Dr. Green could begin rehashing the origins of the sample, Dr. Kristiansen dashed off with the rapidly melting ice.

In his laboratory, he promptly set the sample under the microscope. He gleefully observed the algae-rich ice, knowing his work was groundbreaking in more ways than one. The longer he stared and measured, the less certain he was about the greenish goo. Squinting, he observed that the algae was not preserved, but actually still living and thriving. In fact, cells had begun to multiply before his very eyes. “An extremophile!” he breathed. Dr. Kristiansen began taking extensive notes, working deep into the darkless night. The next day, Dr. Kristiansen woke with a headache. Assuming his late night and hunched posture were to blame, he eagerly returned to the algae sample. To his surprise, the sample had grown significantly despite the proper containment procedures. The overgrowth touched a nerve and Dr. Kristiansen swept his arm across the table, crashing microscopes, files, and samples to the ground. He couldn't understand what had happened. Why the overgrowth? His head ached. What was that green stuff? He felt hot. Why was he in a laboratory? He grunted in confused frustration and stomped out of the room. Dr. Schroeder, a meteorologist on Dr. Lee’s team, poked his head out of the door to investigate the source of the sounds.

“Dr. Kristiansen?” he said. There was no response from his coworker stalking down the corridor.

“Lars?” Dr. Schroeder stepped cautiously from his laboratory and into the hallway.

“Is everything alright?” Dr. Schroeder said just before his coworker smashed a microscope over his head. Blinking with tears and blood streaming over his eyes, he attempted to sit up, but Dr. Kristiansen kicked him in the stomach. Over and over. Curled on the floor, Dr. Schroeder spotted one of his teeth on the other side of the hallway. “Eleanor!” screamed the bleeding man. Dr. Lee flung open the heavy door, took one look at the carnage, and slammed it shut again. She pulled the emergency lever and called for medics.

Dr. Kristiansen, having silenced Dr. Schroeder, roared in frustration and pulled at his hair. His pupils were dilated to black spheres. His skin was red and hot. The medics arrived with a stretcher and emergency kit. Dr. Kristiansen broke into a run. He landed on the military-trained medics and tore into them with his fingernails. They attempted to subdue the biologist, but the damage was done. A trail of broken bodies littered the hallway. Dr. Green burst from his office. His eyes were as wild as his coworker's. He did not glance down at the chaos unfolding. His fists balled and his shoulders flexed as he rushed into the fray.

Inside her office, Dr. Lee had ducked behind a desk and clutched a phone to her ear, the twisted cord trailing across the room. "I don't know! No. He just, he went crazy! No, I don't know what set him off. It was like his brain melted or something. Yes. Yes. I will. Please hurry," she whispered into the receiver.

Dr. Lee covered her ears to block out the shouting and crashing in the hallway. After a long while, all sounds stopped. A pair of heavy-booted feet approached her door. "Eleanor," called a familiar voice. "Our ride is ready. The sample's packed up already, too." "Thank you, Colleen," she replied. Dr. Lee shrugged into her parka and carefully opened the door. "Who else is coming?" "Erik, Denise, Mari, and Sven got out as soon as they heard. Three of the people on Denise's team… tried to help." She shuddered. The doctors hurried through the compound and out into the frigid wind. The emergency plane whirred and stirred up snow.

Dr. Lee complained of a headache as she boarded the aircraft.


The hospital smells like chemicals. I feel a dull ache in my head, the hours I've spent waiting in this room finally getting to me. I look down at my shoes, the mud now caked and dry on the bottom from running here in the rain. I heard the news about four hours ago. I was sitting in my room, cross-legged on my bed watching TV, when the phone rang. "Hello?" I asked. "Hi. Is this Stacy Abrams?" I slid off my bed, the phone still in my hand, as a crack of lightning struck the sky outside. I turned to face the window as the dark night flashed white for a second. "Yes, this is her," I said, my eyes still focused on the storm outside. "Is something wrong?" "You're friends with Allie Jenkins, right?" I furrowed my brows, pressing the phone closer to my ear. "Yeah, I am. Why?" There was a muffled sound, and then Allie's mom talked. "Stacy honey, can you hear me?" My heart started beating faster. "Yeah, yeah I can, what's going on?" Her voice sounded scratchy. "Allie was hit by a car. It was dark and the car slid a bit because of the rain. You should get here." I felt my stomach hit the floor. A sick feeling spread through my body like ice. It was hard to form words. "Is she ok?" I asked, the question shaky in my mouth. Her mom took a deep breath, audible enough that I could hear it through the phone. "She's going into emergency surgery. There's a, a lot," she stuttered. "A lot of internal bleeding. We're all here. It's the hospital only a mile or two from you. It would mean a lot if you could be here." I was already out the door. Allie was the first person to really make me laugh. I met her when I was six, at school, and the rest was history. I wish there was a way to capture Allie and show it to you. Everything about her is infectious. Her laugh, smile, good and bad moods. Whatever she feels, I instantly feel. She has platinum hair. It's always soft, making her the perfect subject of my hair braiding. I like combing my fingers through her hair and feeling it on my bare shoulders when she hugs me and it cascades over my arms. Her laugh too. It's sudden, like a stack of plates hitting the floor. It sort of gurgles out of her. It's so loud, so un-elegant, so un-Allie that it always makes me smile. I used to lay awake at night a lot, wondering if I loved her. The way I look at her is the way someone could gaze at the stars, searching for every familiar constellation, connecting the dots till they see the picture. I studied her. When we read together, I'd look up from my book to glance at her, the way her hair fell forward in a curtain as she leaned down to see the words more clearly. She always chewed her lip when she read. I could be having heart palpations on the floor and she wouldn't look up. Allie was frustratingly perfect. Pretty, and fun, and too smart. I loved that she was mine. I loved looking at her. We have a creek, that we always go to. At least twice a week, for as long as I can remember. You have to push through the woods next to the road until you find a clearing. There's a lot of grass and daisies, as well as the rushing of the water trickling through stones and sticks. When we were younger, we'd sit and make daisy crowns, or splay out on a blanket and listen to the water. We'd make little boats with twigs and leaves and bend down, slowly placing our creations in the water and watching them glide momentarily down the stream before sinking. The creek was our secret. That spot was something we never showed anyone. I hear a scream from the hospital lobby. Nurses look up, their eyes in the direction of my left. I turn to see a doctor with Allie's parents. Allie's mom cries, falling to the ground in a crumple. Her husband is holding her, blocking her body from my view. I get up immediately. "What is it?" I ask, running to them. Allie's mom looks up at me, her face red and wet. "She didn't make it, Stacy." I feel my blood draining from my head. It becomes hard to breathe. Tears well in my eyes, and escape with no warning. I turn to the doctor, hot tears blurring my vision. "She was fifteen!" I cry. My bottom lip shakes. "Fifteen!" He nods solemnly, a sad mist in his eyes. "You couldn't do more?!" I scream. "She was a baby! She'd never even kissed anyone!" He takes my hand slowly. The warm pressure makes me fall to the floor. "She was so young," I choke. Allie's mom moves beside me. I feel her arms around me. They're so fragile I fear they'll break. My shoulders heave and I sink into her. I never realized before how small she was. The next morning, I walk to the creek. The air is warm and hugs me. I've never been alone on this walk before. Every step is loud, every chirp noticeable. The quiet encloses me. I reach the clearing and sit for a second. The flowers around me sway with the breeze. I pick a daisy, rubbing the stem in between my fingers. Allie looked like an impf when she had daisies in her hair. The sunlight streams through the tree leaves, bathing me in a familiar warmth. I breathe slowly, trying to alleviate the heaviness in my chest. I walk past the clearing, pushing through the plants and weeds till I get to the edge of the creek. The water is cold and clear. I take the daisy I picked and lower it, dipping the petals into the water. I take it back out. The petals are now dark and limp from being wet, breaking when I rub them, the pieces falling back in the water with every motion. They go down one by one, creating a trail of yellow. The creek flows the same way Allie's hair did in blonde locks. I picture the same yellow trail, intricately woven in one of her braids, and know this is the first and last time I'll go to the creek without her.


The vagrant had always been a harmless nuisance, Dorothy Ballantyne thought. Old Roger, as he was known in her neighborhood, was lying in the alley between Hocksworthy's Books and Rupert's Delicatessen, his eyes glazed over in an alcoholic stupor and barely aware of his surroundings. Dorothy's mother, Evelyn, tightened her gloved hand and pulled her daughter closer as they walked past him, while her father stared straight ahead and pretended not to notice the pitiable man. The young girl looked up at her father and frowned. Ever since he had returned from the war her father's character had changed almost imperceptibly. Her mother hadn't seemed to notice it but she had, now and again, in little things. Her mother typically ignored Roger, but her father had always acted kindly towards him, giving him a coin or stopping to say hello. She caught a whiff of Roger's foul body odour, and moved with pity, was going to ask her mother if she could give him two pence when the homeless man came alive and shouted the first words Dorothy had ever heard. "Get away from them! GET AWAY YOU FIEND!!" Moving like lightning, Old Roger leapt to his feet and lunged towards them, his right hand clutching a jack knife. Evelyn screamed and pulled Dorothy away while Roger collided with Mr. Ballantyne and wrestled him to the ground. Despite being taken by surprise, Mr. Ballantyne was no slouch when it came to fighting. He still had his quick wits from the battlefield and effortlessly put Roger into a headlock, knocked the knife from his hand, flipped him on his stomach and pinned him there until a nearby bobby ran over and handcuffed him. By now the whole neighborhood was gawking at the commotion, totally out of place for this leafy London street on a quiet Sunday evening. "You're all going to die! you hear?", Roger bellowed at the top of his lungs. He looked at Arthur Ballantyne accusingly. "I see what you really are. You can't fool me! You're one of them! Before, you were few, but now *his* minions are everywhere. I have seen the Yellow Sign in the sky. The Scorpion from the stars! The one whom God did not create and the devil himself fears! The Hyades. *You're from the Hyades"*. Something alien flashed behind her father's eyes again, something she had noticed once or twice in the past few months when he was vulnerable, usually if he was tired or had a bit too much to drink. Roger trailed off in a croak, went mute and jerked his head back like he was hiccuping. Subdued at last, police reinforcements lead the homeless man away in a car. "Are you alright, sir?", the first bobby on the scene asked Arthur. "Yes, yes. He just scuffed me up a bit. Nothing to worry about. Though he did scare the living daylights out of my wife and daughter". Mr. Ballantyne pulled his family close and hugged them. "Do you want to press charges?" Mr. Ballantyne looked down at his wife's tender expression. "No. No. We're all right. It isn't necessary. That poor soul is in a world of punishment as it is. Just get him off the streets and get him the care he needs before he really hurts someone". "Don't worry about that. He's off to the Insane Asylum. I must say, I'm impressed at how you handled that kook. You made quick work of him!" "I've still got it, I guess. Helped me take care of a few of those Nazi bastards". "I don't doubt it. I was in the service myself. Royal Navy, in fact. Sad to say I never saw any action. Anyway, will that be all, sir?" "Yes, I think so. Good night, officer". The bobby tipped his hat and returned to his patrol. "Oh Arthur! Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you want to go to the hospital? Just to make sure you didn't hit your head?" "Evelyn, my dear, has anyone told you that you're becoming a terrific nag?", he teased, kissing her hand and rubbing it gently. "I'm fine, really". "What could've set Roger off like that? I couldn't imagine he'd ever hurt a fly". "Oh, he's mad. Absolutely mad. I couldn't make sense of a damned thing he said. That lunatic should have been locked up years ago if you ask me". "Did he think you were a bad man, daddy?", Dorothy squeaked, still shaken. "Yes, that's it my love. That old bat's a little kooky and must have mistaken me for one of his drinking buddies he's in a spat with", Arthur said with a smile as he ruffled his daughter's chestnut brown hair. "Come on then. It's getting dark. Let's head home before we find ourselves in the middle of any more excitement. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to my two favourite girls", Arthur said as he linked arms with his wife and daughter and started for home. But something bothered Evelyn. "Arthur, he mentioned the Hyades. Isn't that a distant star cluster?" Arthur looked at his wife with his easy, charming smile. "I haven't the foggiest idea, darling". ~ At the Royal Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane the evening wasn't concluding as pleasantly as it had for the Ballantynes. "Poor old codger", the doctor on duty that evening said to the attending nurse as Old Roger screamed himself hoarse on the other side of a thick, rusty iron door. "I heard he was a Great War vet. Probably went crazy from the fighting. Shell shock, the old timers called it. Oh well, the chap's lucky. He's got a room with a view. The night sky will help him relax", the middle age doctor said authoritatively, crossing his arms. "I heard he used to be a literature professor. Or was it history? He specialized in old and occult books, or so I heard when I was in school. Maybe he stumbled across something he shouldn't have", she said cheekily. "OoOoOohhh", the doctor made a ghostly sound. "Oh, that reminds me". The pretty nurse pulled a tattered book from her pocket and handed it to the doctor. "That fell out of his coat pocket when we searched his clothes". "Oh", the doctor took the ancient, dog eared copy of the King In Yellow and slid it under Old Roger's door with a sure smile. "I don't see the harm in him keeping it. It might make him feel better".


"I didn't touch it, Arlin, and you can't prove I did!" Nebula yelled, stabbing Arlin with her index finger.

"I don't care if you did!" He met her intensity. With a breath, he continued, "I just want to know who fixed my tablet." "Even if I did, don't think you could catch me with that lie. You've never thanked anyone in your life." "Not to you. You mess around with everything… what… what is the sound?!”

They walked out of the hall into the main room of HQ. Nothing was there, but the noise persisted.

They took a few more steps, surveilled, but still nothing. Another few, but nothing. And another, nothing. Finally, wedgied in the farthest corner lied the source of the sound. Curled tight, a boy sat, beeping and bopping as he played on a tablet. “What are you doing, Lafayette?” Arlin erupted. From the first sound, Lafayette jumped with the tablet tumbling from his lap. “I...I...I…” he stuttered, scrambling for the tablet and his feet. Arlin snatched the device from Lafayette. “This is the one I threw out this morning!” He scrolled through the content. “I didn’t think you were going to use it,” Lafayette squeaked. “He wasn’t,” Nebula said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “This self-destructed! You shouldn’t be able to turn this on let alone play on it! How did you do it?!” He stepped closer. “I don’t… It wasn’t hard… I don’t~” “You’re the one who fixed my tablet! How did you do it?!” He was only ruler length away now. " I don't know?" “What’s going on here?”

Arlin and Nebula turned. Artemis, the leader of the rebel resistance, was standing in front of them with her arms crossed. “What’s going on here?” As Arlin explained, Lafayette sneaked away and scurried down the nearby hallway. No one saw or heard him. Nebula and Artemis had all their attention on Arlin: the former to know what to call out as lies and the latter to find points of comparison with what she knew.

By the time the talking stopped, Nebula had an eyebrow raised to find her head shaking in agreement. "Is that true, Lafayette? Lafayette?!" she yelled, echoing off the walls. "Lafayette?" Nebula swirled around. "We need to find him." "No. I'll find Lafayette. You need to get on your patrol. And you-" she switched her gaze from Nebula to Arlin- "you need to analyze this before something happens to it again." "But-" Nebula pleaded. "Now!" She boomed. Like rats on a sinking ship, Arlin and Nebula fled to their respective duties. Artemis stayed her ground, making them divide around her. When they were gone, her stern expression slipped into a tremble.  She bit her lip, v-lining her gaze to the nearest exit. It was the best place to start in this maze of corridors and rooms. She hugged the left wall and took the first left. She systematically searched this hall and that one, making sure to open each door on her path. Nothing had been placed on this side of the building as of yet which would make it simple to find something or someone out of place. It should have been simple. Empty halls plus empty rooms should equal one easily found boy. What Artemis forgot in her calculation was before coming to them, Lafayette's life was hiding and running.

That fact donned on her when something touched her head. She patted the top to find a small wet spot the size of a drop. She dashed to the right wall and looked up. Bingo. "Lafayette?" At the top of the wall was a box inlet. A mass was shifting. "Just leave me alone!" he droned with his nose stuffed. "I can't do that, Lafayette. Not with you crying, dear." "Why can't you people just leave me alone. I've already answered all your questions. I don't know how I know these things. I don't remember anything. And I don't want to. So just mosey on." "Just one more question... please?" "If it'll get you off my back." "Why?" "Why? Why what?!" "Why don't you want to remember?" Wiping his nose with his arm, he spun around and let his legs hang. "Why would I? They're all nightmares!"

"Some of them led you to me?" Lafayette slid down the pipe next to his hiding spot. On her level, he started up at her, and she looked down. "You're my aunt, you tell me, was there anything good about his life?" She moved a few steps away and offered him her hand. "Why don't we go for a walk and I can tell you all about your past?"

He started at the hand. His hand twitched at his side. "It isn't all bad. I promise." With those two words, something inside made his hand jump up.

Against the rules, she took him outside to walk in the sand and the sun casting long shadows of cacti. With a brilliantly blazed sunset behind them, she began telling Lafayette's story, starting when Artemis' sister gathered the family to tell them she was having a third child. She continued with second-hand stories from her sister and her tales of babysitting her niece and nephews. "I remember this one summer when you, Eclipse, and Lyra dug up that terminal line. I don't know if your father was madder that you guys accidentally lost four high-profile communiqués or you destroying the yard." "Clip was nearly in tears before mom put an end to it. That was summer before…-" his smile of reminiscences faded into the pain of history- "before she died." "Yeah, I know it hurts and I miss her, too, but I wouldn't trade that summer day for anything." "It's not that easy." "I know. I'm not trying to rush anything. I just want you to know when you remember you won't be any more or less Lafayette nor any more or less Cascade. You are you even if you don't remember your birthday." Lafayette pulled her tight. "When is it?" he squeaked. She was shocked at first: he hadn't done that since he was five. "9th in two months," she said, giving into old ways.


It was a rainy Wednesday morning when Bobbin Bonnet traded his Fiat for a MINI Cooper Sport. It was a nice model; metallic blue with a panoramic roof. Once he had managed to pry the door open, he also discovered it had air-conditioning, an excellent sound system, and colored interior lighting set to blue -- to match the paint. Excited about his upgrade, Bobbin had gotten into his new car and reversed it out of the driveway. He turned right, to take the quick route to the highway and it was then his trouble began. Try as he may, his foot refused to press down on the gas pedal. "Come on, Bonnet," he scolded himself, making sure to add a stern look in the rearview mirror. "Not this again. Just press down on the gas pedal and get out of here." Bobbin's foot did not move. He tried forcing it into action by pressing down on his knees with both hands. And, when that didn't work, he stomped his foot with the other one. That jolted the car forward a bit, but he doubted that driving on the highway in little jolts would do him much good, although it would probably give the cops a good laugh. Frustrated, he slammed both his hands down on the steering wheel as hard as he could, and promptly hit the car horn. The loud honk that followed startled him so much, that he almost shot out of his seat and through the glass panels of the panoramic roof. "Great", he said to himself. "Now you're a sitting duck in a stolen car in broad daylight *and* you've drawn attention to yourself. Good job Bonnet." He punctuated those last words with short taps on the horn. Might as well, he figured -- he was already screwed. Come to think of it, his occupation was probably one better carried out at night. At the last short honk, his head snapped to the side. He heard a door squeak and squeal -- it was quite the dramatic sound for a door to make -- and an old couple stepped out of their home. Stay calm, he thought. They're probably just going out to do groceries. When the old lady settled her glare on him, however, Bobbin shuddered visibly. She looked quite menacing for someone her age. Her hair was cut in a short, spiky style and she wore faded jeans and a black t-shirt. It probably wasn't so much the look in itself, but more the way it punctuated her 'I will fuck you up' stare that made him shudder. Her husband wasn't any better. He was the skinhead-looking type, with a shiny, bald head and a leather jacket. Somehow, he had forgotten to wrinkle as he aged and thus, looked somewhat like a retired baby. Which would've been funny, if it hadn't been for the dangerous twinkle in his beady eyes. "Come on, Bonnet," Bobbin grunted as he strained with the effort of moving his foot, which remained unmoving and stubborn. The swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he would not be able to make this trade; it wasn't a fair one. He would have to throw in at least a flat-screen TV and a gaming system to make up for the discrepancy in value and -- seeing as the pensioners were moving towards him -- he truly didn't have the time to arrange for that. A sharp knock on the passenger seat window interrupted Bobbin's train of thought. "Excuse me," said the spike-haired menace -- she was even more terrifying up close. "What are you doing with my neighbor's car?" Behind her, he could see the woman's husband get in his car. *Think Bonnet, think! The cops are going to have a field day if they catch you again.* Bobbin put on his best smile and rolled down the window. "Morning ma'am," he said cheerfully. "I'm Bobbin from the garage. You know the one, Bobbin's Bonnets..." he had to stop to swallow as the searing skeptical glare that came his way took the moisture straight out of his mouth. The fact that her husband was backing out of their driveway to block Bobbin's new car, didn't help either. "Erm, as I was saying. Bobbin's Bonnets. Your neighbor asked us to pick up her car for servicing, there's a problem with the gas pedal." In a moment of brilliance, Bobbin thought to demonstrate the issue. He stomped on his foot with his other one and jolted forward. "See, it's going to be a long ride to the garage. Would've gotten the tow truck but it's out of commission due to an intern-related mishap." The woman turned to the side, addressing her husband as he got out of his car, his task to block Bobbin now complete. "Says he's from the garage," she started as she walked out of earshot to explain the situation to the man. He could see her punctuate her story with fierce hand movements which made her look like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. The husband nodded as he rubbed his chin. He asked a few questions to his wife and then -- having decided his course of action -- approached Bobbin with a resoluteness to his step that said he was a man on a mission. "You're never going to get to the garage like this," the man remarked, his low voice a rumble. "You can use our car to tow this one to your shop and once you're there do some maintenance on ours as well. The tires need replacing so it seems like a win-win." Bobbin's mouth hung ajar as he tried to process what the man had just offered him. He looked at the car that was blocking his -- a decent SEAT Leon, red, no panoramic roof but no damage either -- and nodded thoughtfully. "Are you sure, sir?" he asked, trying to hide his excitement. The husband nodded and tossed Bobbin a set of car keys through the open window. "She's a good neighbor," he replied. "Wouldn't want her to be inconvenienced because you couldn't get her car to the garage. There's a tow rope in the back." Bobbin got out of the MINI Cooper and got to work. He grabbed the tow rope from the back of the SEAT and knelt in front of his previous new car. As he sunk to his knees to start tying the vehicles together he made sure to make a show of inspecting both cars to make it look like he knew what he was doing. He really didn't. He flexed his muscles as he pulled on the loose knots, pretending to test how strong they were and if they would hold when towing. He knew they wouldn't, they were looser than a drunkard's tongue. The husband and his wife watched him work with interest, but they didn't comment. When he was done, he walked over to his old Fiat and grabbed the keys from the dashboard where he'd left them. He handed them over to the old couple. "Loaner car," he said. "You folks are going to have to share it with your neighbor, but she said on the phone that she wasn't planning on going anywhere for a few days." They both nodded and thanked him and the husband walked with him over to his car to hold the door open for him. "She's a bit finicky on the transmission but she'll get over it once she's warmed up," he said before slamming the door shut. Bobbin looked around. This car also had air-conditioning, but the sound system was a standard edition and there were no fancy lights either. This would be a fair enough trade. Just a bit better than his previous car, but not too much. Satisfied, and the swirling feeling in his stomach gone, he turned the key in the ignition and fastened his seat belt. Then, he gave a friendly wave to the old couple -- they had been quite helpful, after all -- and pressed down on the gas. The car came free with a quick snap and he sped away, ignoring the screams and the frantic motions of the people in his rearview mirror. This had been a good deal, he thought. He was Bobbin Bonnet; a trader, not a thief. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* This story was inspired by a conversation on the WP discord server. We wondered what would happen if Robin Hood had been a fae who had to compulsively trade instead of steal but didn't know it. I wrote a silly story to explore the idea and Bobbin Bonnet was born.


Careful not to scare the floating bullfrog away, Leonia carefully aimed her spear gig behind its ears. In one quick motion she drove the spear down as hard as she could into its body. When she pulled it out of the water the frog was still twitching on the end of the prongs. In the Bayou, early spring was the best time of year to hunt for frogs. The days were starting to heat up and they would come out to sit on the swampy shores or float their heads above the water. They made for easy prey. Now, the last of the daylight was fading and the lightning beetles were crawling out of their rotting logs, lighting up the marsh with their lazy, pulsating glows. “Hurry! Grab the basket Ambrose! I got another one,” she yelled, but when Leonia turned around to place the frog in the basket Ambrose was still laying at the opposite end of the tiny pirogue. His eyes half closed and a goofy smile spread across his face. Minuit, her habitually loafing capybara, was draped across his lap fast asleep. She glared at her companions ‘*how typical,*’ she thought. She let out a loud huff and kicked the bottom of Ambrose’s boots. He bolted up and Minuit let out a startled chirrup. “Hey! What was that for?” he shouted indignantly. “Stop daydreaming you lazy toad and open the basket!” Ambrose threw up his hands, “Jeez, that’s all you had to say.” He grabbed the basket and lifted open the lid, “you should have enough to fry up for supper now.” Leonia’s eyes widened as she realized how late it was and threw the frog in the basket. “Oh shoot, supper! I told Nanette I would come home early and help. I got to get home before she takes a switch to the back of my legs.” She dropped her spear and picked up an oar, not even hesitating before plunging it into the water and launching the pirogue back in the direction of home. Ambrose’s annoyed expression turned into a lop-sided grin. “Slow down Lee. You can’t get out of it now. You’re already late.” Leonia picked up the second oar and heaved it at Ambrose’s chest. It fell to the floor of the boat as Minuit scrambled to get out of the way. “Well, I’d like to be a little *less* late if I can help it. Now start paddling.” ‘*Hopefully I can get out of it,’* she thought. Maybe a feast of fresh frog legs would help convince her aunt to be a little more forgiving this time. Ambrose grabbed the oar and helped her row towards the village. They knew they were almost back home when they spotted the dozens of colorful lanterns that hung low in the trees. They were lit up and flickering all around them. Hundreds of moths and other insects gathered near their flames, singeing their wings if they flew too close. “Hey Lee, you think I can borrow your pirogue tomorrow night? I’m gonna ask Katie to come look at the stars with me.” Leonia scoffed at the idea. ”There’s no way you’re borrowing my dad’s boat just so you can get frisky with some girl. You’ll end up sinking it. It’s all I have left of him and mom.” Ambrose feigned a sad expression and started begging, “Please? I won’t sink it. I Promise. Just this one time?” She pretended to think on it for a few more seconds. “Nah,” She said shaking her head, “can’t do it. You’d have to take me too.” Ambrose crossed his arms and looked away. “Just forget it then. I’m not taking you out with me and Katie.” Leonia shrugged her shoulders and continued paddling. She knew Ambrose couldn’t stay angry for long. After a few more minutes, they reached the edge of the village. It was small, situated in an isolated inlet of the bayou and built on the backs of the giant, floating comb jellies that made their homes in the brackish water. Minuit let out a chorus of excited chirping noises when she caught sight of it. There were about fifty of them in all, but only half of them were occupied by the village . The jellyfish’s transparent bodies glowed blue and purple under the moonlight, their tentacles trailed beneath the waters welcoming them back home. A few people were still milling about outside. Letty was exactly where she was sitting a few hours earlier, fishing for bream, and old man Ducote was whittling his animal figurines by the light of an open door. They pulled their boat up onto the jellyfish’s springy shore. As they stepped out, Ambrose grabbed the basket of frogs and flung it into Leonia’s arms. Their feet made shallow impressions on the firm gelatinous ground as they walked back home. After saying goodbye, they separated for the night and Leonia marched quickly back to the hut she shared with Aunt Nannette and her sister June. Minuit broke out in a trot as she struggled to keep up. As soon as Leonia rounded the corner of their hut, a small figure stepped out of the dark*.* *‘Wow, it’s crazy how* *much June looks like Momma,’* she thought. June’s golden hair ran past her shoulders in subtle waves and her dark blue eyes glistened in the dim light that streamed through the windows. Leonia on the other hand looked more like her dad. Plain brown hair and eyes, and tanned skin from all the time spent outdoors. “Nanette’s been waitin’ on you,” June shouted, grinning. She looked back at the open door of the hut, half expecting Nannette to be standing there. “Hush,” Leonia hissed between gritted teeth, “Don’t talk so loud or—" Nanette walked through the doorway, glaring at Leonia, “Too late ya troublesome child. I been waitin’ on ya all evenin’. Get your butt into this house ‘fore I skin the hide off yer bones, both of ya.” They walked inside and Leonia shot her sister an angry look as June stuck out her tongue. She set her basket of frogs on the tiny kitchen table and slouched into a nearby wooden chair. “Where ya been girl?” Nannette asked, looking down her nose. Nanette wasn’t just their aunt, she was their great aunt, and at eighty-nine years old she was still in good health and her mind was still as sharp as a tack. “I was gigging for frogs with Ambrose,” Leonia explained, “look! We speared over a dozen of ‘em.” She opened the basket to show her, but Nanette looked less than impressed. “I don’t believe for one hot-second that boy lifted a finger in helpin’ you get them frogs. And I don’t like ya running off with him for so long. You know how boys are. Always friskin’ and foolin’.” Leonia’s face flushed bright pink. “It ain't like that Aunty,” she said, avoiding her aunt's gaze and staring at the floor. Nanette waved her hands dismissively, “Mm hmm. Ok,” but she knew better than that. Leonia and Ambrose had been stuck to each other since they were about six years old, ever since they both lost their fathers in that devastating hurricane the same year, and Ambrose was just as sweet on Leonia as she was on him though he would never admit it. June giggled from the corner of the kitchen as she watched the exchange. Nanette turned and pointed her finger. “What you laughin’ at girl? Yer still in trouble for all them skinks you been hiding under yer bed, keepin’ as pets.” It was Junes turn to flush bright pink. Nanette clapped her hands together and nodded at the girls. “Alright then, you two get to skinning and quartering these frogs so we can fry ‘em up.”  \*\*\*\*\*\*  Later that night Leonia woke up in the room she shared with her sister. Minuit had jumped up in the bed beside her shaking and shivering. “What’s wrong?” She cooed, stroking her fur. The haze of sleep still fogged her brain as she looked around the room. June had woken up too and was sitting up in bed. “You hear that?” June whispered as she jumped out of bed. Just then another noise came from outside. “There! I heard it again.” This time Leonia heard it too. It sounded like angry shouting. They raced out of the bedroom and into the small sitting area at the front of the hut. Nannette was awake now too and came out of her bedroom holding a broom. A moth-eaten shawl was draped around her shoulders. She pointed the broom in their direction, “You girls stay in the house. I’ll go see what all the fuss is about.” The girls followed Nanette outside anyway and the smell of smoke hit their noses immediately. Their eyes began to water. Over on the adjacent jellyfish they saw huge flames rising up in the dark sky. A hut was engulfed in fire. Leonia squinted her eyes in an effort to see beyond the flames and what she saw startled her. Standing there were three massive, silvery-white alligators. Leonia had heard peoples’ stories of their encounters with white alligators but had never actually seen one herself. She knew they were much more ferocious than the typical gators they ran into. The ones she was looking at now were saddled and bridled. A rider sat on top of each one. The rider on the largest alligator was wearing pale face paint and shouting at their village headman. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying from this distance but it sounded like he was making demands. Leonia glanced around the village. Just like her, other villagers stood outside their huts watching the spectacle. She spotted Ambrose in the crowd next to Katie and his mother taking in the scene as well. She ran over to talk with them as June and Minuit followed close behind. “What’s happening Ambrose? Who are those people?” His expression was grim. “I don’t know Lee.” Katie frowned and gave the two a disapproving glance. “Daddy says they’re from the other side of the bayou. They don’t want us here no more.” Even though Leonia had never seen them before, she knew Katie meant the Guerrier tribe. They were hostile and dangerous and no one was allowed to go near their territory. But still, Leonia couldn’t understand why these people would want to kick them out of the lands they had lived on for centuries. ‘*Why do they want us gone? What have we ever done to them?’* They continued to watch the Guerrier tribe shout their demands at the headman. No one was sure how much time had passed when the riders finally decided to leave. They pulled on the reigns that controlled the gators and they slung their massive heads around. Their tails whipping behind them as they stomped to the edge of the jellyfish shore and slid back into the water. The tribesmen sat cross legged on their backs guiding them away. Leonia turned her head away to see Nanette and the other elders walk over to the headman. She assumed they had a few things to discuss and hoped that everything could be resolved. All she and the others could do now was watch the departing Guerrier tribe glide away and look on as a part of their peaceful village burned.


The winds whisper softly past my ears as I wander along the derelict passage of road. I stop briefly to gaze at the final goodbyes of a retiring sun. The sky has a funny way of looking depressed, almost sorrowful at dusk. Like someone knows what it has done. I turn my vision away, suspicious of the feeling that has collected inside me. I notice a fuzzy shape in my peripheral vision, my distracted eyes making the decision for my neck. A handful of sheep, 6, or 7, or maybe 8, I count, all seem to be staring directly at me. As if I am somehow more important than the millions of blades of grass that gawk at them, frozen in terror, hoping their stillness and straightness would deliver salvation to a grassy afterlife when their hollow existence here on Earth finally comes to an end. Not that I am religious or anything like that. The 12, or 14, or maybe 16 eyes are fixed intently on me, and to my dismay it becomes painfully obvious I am the butt of their cruel jokes, my listening apparatus unfit for the job of deciphering the incoherent vibrations escaping from their gobs. “Hey! Hey stop it!” I shriek at the ruminants. “Stare at something fucking else, you ain’t got no reason to be staring at me”. The sound of my own voice startles me. It has been what feels like days since any sound has escaped from my sealed lips. I avoid speaking if at all possible, I find the hush of an empty place soothing. I always have. I turn back to the long road that stretches beyond me, and a wave of familiarity passes through me. The symmetry amongst the trees, the unremarkable shape of the mountains further on, the quietness of the world. What was it they called it? Deja-vu? Something French I know that much. I shake it off and carry on along the road. It seems like a lifetime before I see the house on the hill in the distance. Dusk has seized the day, so I think maybe the house could act as a place to find some peace for the night ahead. The house seemed larger from afar. It looks as if it had been neglected for quite some time, as if the residents had left in a hurry. I wander closer to the house, making my way slowly across the deck, the floorboards shrieking in pain as my boots trample upon them. I run my fingers along the walls, flakes of off-white paint dropping to the ground with every scrape. “Oak Noir”, I say aloud to myself. I search my mind to how I know this, but to no avail. The strange feeling of familiarity tickles me again. I give the door a slight tap, it creaks open, and I can now see the interior of the house. A long hallway, which may have been elegant in another life, stares back at me blankly. Cold, dying carpet caked with generations of dust and dirt, which has now turned into a greyish paste. My eyes drift upwards along the hallway. A door at the end of the hall is open, which I see leads to the living room. I drift along the hallway, stopping near the centre to look at a picture on the wall. It’s a family portrait, with what looks like this house in the background. The condition of the house is immaculate, the building looking vastly superior compared to its current state. I study family in the picture. Two parents and a single child, a baby. The father has short blonde hair, and a handsome smile. The mother, with the baby in her arms, stares back at me with magnificent, big blue eyes. I can’t quite make out if the expression in them is sadness or terror, but the feeling washes over me once again. The hairs on my neck stick up, and goosebumps run down my arms. I turn and walk slowly towards the living room. I can’t explain why, but everything in my body is telling me that I know this place, and that I should not go through the door. However my legs keep moving, one after the other, towards the great reveal. I put my hand on the icy-cold door. I close my eyes as I open it, not wanting to see what this feeling of angst in my body will show me. “3, 2, 1” I say to myself, mustering the courage to let my eyelids relax. “Open”. The room is bare. Nothing but a window leading out towards the road. I wonder how long I have been in this house, as the sun has returned to lighten the valley below. I stare out the window, and far in the distance I can make something out. A man, walking along the road towards the house. “Do not fear child, I’ll see you again soon”, says a voice behind me.. The winds whisper softly past my ears as I wander along the derelict passage of road.


Bacon (Feedback appreciated) “Fuck it’s hot,” he proclaimed as the sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down next to his eyes. It was day three hundred thirty, and another routine patrol in the Registan desert of Afghanistan for Three-Charlie. The weight from his pack pulled him backwards so he was in a constant forward lean as they walked. His mouth was parched from the sandpaper air, and his eyes glazed at the sight of the flat dirt that surrounded him. His legs were sore, and the foot blister pinched with pain on every step. “A week. One week Carl. If you could quit being a crayon eating bitch for just one more week,” said Lian as they walked down the side of the gravel road. The sun was baking them like roasted chicken. Lian walked in front while Esha followed him from behind. His helmet was stifling, and the straps caused a rash on the back his head. He wanted to wipe away the sweat but he couldn’t. His rifle was held firmly in his hands, the finger on the guard. The doors opened and the cool air conditioned wind blasted him as he walked in. He picked up a shopping cart and began to walk down the fresh meat isle. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Carl? I haven’t seen you, well, since you left. I heard it was rough overseas,” said the well-dressed man. They shook hands. “I just want to say thank you very much for your service. You’ve done so much for this country.” He smiled back, nodded, and watched the well-dressed man leave looking satisfied with himself before going back to picking his fresh meats. Fish, Poultry, Beef, Pork… “Why the fuck, are we even out here?” Carl continued. “The glorious 33rd Expeditionary force, trained in mountaineering, airborne drops, CQC, and urban ops. Five hundred fifty thousand of tax payer’s money to train and spit each one of us out of basic. And what do we do for a fuckin’ year?” “I don’t know Carl, why don’t you tell us,” said Baptista sarcastically as he swiveled slowly side to side from behind the mounted turret of their truck. It crawled beside them. Two section’s truck followed a length behind as they walked on the other side of the road. “For a year, we walked around this empty fuckin’ desert waiting to get shot at. We move water pumps, generators, and guard absolutely fuckin’ nothing. If isn’t the Taliban, its fuckin’ Americans who can’t tell friend or foe. Fuck, we’ve had more deaths from people falling off the guard tower than the fuckin’ enemy.” he continued ignoring the sarcasm. He left the checkout line and exited the building. The sweltering heat came back to hit him. His knees shot with pain as he stepped down the curb. He groaned on the inside. *Pain is weakness leaving the body.* Luckily, he didn’t have to walk far, he had parked close to the entrance. “This your vehicle?” A lady asked. She looked agitated. “You parked in a disabled spot. What’s your problem? You look fine to me.” She paused as she noticed the car magnet on the side of his car. “Support our troops? What are you a warmonger? You can’t possibly support those babykillers and their rapist tendencies!” She continued to shout at him as he closed his trunk and got inside his car. *Maintain Composure.* He blasted the A/C and drove off slowly, and made sure he didn’t hit anyone… “So you want to get shot at Carl? Is that what I’m getting from you?” said Lian kicking a rock to the side as a miniature dust bowl floated away. “The ‘Stan has been fought over for a millennia. Stopped the mighty Soviets in their tracks. These people know nothing but war. Peace breaks out in the ‘Stan. Not War.” “What’s your point Carl?” “My point is, this is fuckin’ bullshit. I came here for some action. I want to know what our mission is. Our real mission. Why the fuck are we doing all this bullshit? We have enough firepower to level everything and pave it over.” Lian turned around and bashed Carl on the helmet with the butt of his rifle. Carl returned with a shove. Lian swung his rifle to his side and grabbed Carl by the collar and brought their faces close enough together that their helmets clanked. “One Week. We’re on a plane and back home in one week. Shut your pipes and we can all go home.” He opened the packaged bacon and threw four pieces on the pan. It began to sizzle, little air bubbles popping so fast it sounded like static… Light chatter came in through the radio. “Two-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” “Two-Charlie, Roger, wait-ten, out.” A pause. Lian and Carl continued to stare at each other. “Three-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” That was them, Three-Charlie, he pressed the PTT without breaking eye contact and responded. “Zero, this-is-Three-Charlie, wait-ten, out.” “Quit touching each other, boys,” directed the Lieutenant, her long red braided hair flew in between them as she pushed them apart with little effort. Lian slung his rifle back into his hands and rejoined the patrol front. “Walk with me Carl.” “Ma’am – “ “Corporal Carl, recite the mission briefing I gave you this morning.” The sound of his rank being called snapped him to. “Mission: To maintain regular patrols along key MSR’s within the Kandahar Province. Assist locals in their infrastructure building process. Provide security when necessary. Commander’s intent: To prevent the spread of Neotaliban insurgency from spreading beyond the thirty-first Northing in the Registan Des – “A sudden force knocked him clean off his feet, the air out of his lungs, the light from his eyes. Blackness. When Carl came to, all he could hear was his skull ringing in his ears as he coughed and tried to breathe. The smell of carbon filled his lungs, and everything was on fire. There was nothing left of the first truck but the wheels. He stood up slowly, and grabbed his rifle off the ground. He pulled the bolt back and watched a round eject out as he unjammed his weapon. He heard Lian screaming to his right and ran towards him. When he got there, he stared into Lian’s green eyes as if he was trying to ask him what was wrong. “Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Help me up,” rasped Lian as he stuck his hand out. He grabbed it and pulled, but only managed to straighten the arm and lift the shoulders off the ground before it slipped. There was no grip pressure from Lian as the head tilted back and the eyes rolled up. He stared at Lian’s lifeless body. Everything below the waist was disintegrated, pieces of shredded cloth and Kevlar hung over seared flesh that clumped itself on to the exposed pelvic bone. Blood pooled slowly from the cavities, directed only by the force of gravity. He took a step back and fell as his boot rolled over Esha’s dismembered arm. He landed hard as Baptista's helmet, later to be the only thing they found of him, punched his side. Everything smelled like burnt bacon and rusted iron. Someone shouted at him from behind, but all he could think about was how he be dead next to them if it weren't for their argument. The shouting became angrier – “Hey! You’re burning the bacon!” His wife pushed him aside as she took the pan from his hands and dumped its contents into the kitchen sink, hosing it down with the faucet. “No wonder you keep getting fired,” she lectured, scraping at the pan, “if you zone out like that at work, no one, and I mean no one is gonna keep you around!” She ran the pan under the water and steam hissed off the surface. “I thought the Army taught you to pay attention to details or sumthin’, but clearly I was wrong!” she continued. “Why do you insist on using this rusty old pan anyway?” He didn’t answer. She sighed and dropped the pan into the sink, the sudden clunk made the stillness scream. They stood staring at each other. Days passed. She spoke again. “I - I don’t know if I can deal with this much longer.” She said dropping her shoulders. He remained silent. *Show no weakness. It was your fault. Suck it up buttercup. You asked for it. Unfuck yourself troop. You wanted action. Get your shit together. They died for nothing. Sort your shit out. No one here cares. Quit fuckin’ around like a bag of smashed assholes. People want their Starbucks, not foreign policy. Stop falling on your face like a bucket of rusty skidoo parts. A country’s war is the soldier’s fault. Shit heels! Stop feeling guilty. A country’s war is not the soldier’s fault. Don’t be a crayon eating bitch. Tell me why, why did my brothers and sisters have to die?* “Well? Say Something…” She softly demanded as she approached him. Stepped in closer as the tears began to stream. “You can’t keep it inside you forever.” Her closed fist struck his chest, as the weeping began to soak his shirt. He held her, his mouth hung open. He tried. He tried, so very hard to tell her.