Memories are forever, that’s what they say. Another visit to my childhood home reminds me of those sweet memories. The grass is green and full; the tree is fruitful. The covered porch still provides protection from the rain and is home to a great spot to pull out a book on a cool spring morning; a morning like this one. Walking up to the front door allowed for plenty of time to let it all sink in. The happiness, the sadness. The good, the bad. It feels real. The screen door greeted me with its groaning. This sound became the norm when I would run out to play with friends, as long as mother approved and my homework was done, of course.

I reached into my purse and found the key ring. The square one would do the trick. I inserted the key and felt the deadbolt move as I rotated it… Voila! Home sweet home. The warm air embraced me as I walked through the door. The fireplace kicked on as if I had just caught it slacking off. From the entryway, I peered into the kitchen aka my second classroom. Many tears stained my 8th-grade math homework at that table. Mother always dried them by serving up a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies. The flooring groaned beneath my feet as I loitered in the entryway, taking it all in. The stairs looked remarkable. The hardwood tread remained untouched. Despite its supposed perfection, I knew where its scars were. Third step up from the bottom of the staircase, next to the banister, there was a sliver of wood missing. Barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. But I was because I did it. I was a little girl when we had discovered the joys of sliding down this staircase. You see, back then there were thick strips of fabric that ran up the center of the staircase. Mother said it was to help us not slip as we walked up and down the tread. Little did she know about our newest endeavor. We slid down the stairs for hours. Laughing, crying, feeling the soreness in our backsides from the smack of the tread as we passed over. One day we got the urge to go faster. We wanted to go so fast that we could open the front door and fly out onto the porch. My brother Tim found a cardboard box left over from Christmas gifts. We tore it up to make a cardboard sled. Tim, being the risk-taker, volunteered to go first. He planted himself firmly on the base of the cardboard and held onto the front to prevent his feet from sliding off first. I positioned myself behind him and on the count of three, he went. And boy did he go. That cardboard moved over each tread as if it were levitating. He made it out the front door in 2.5 seconds. He made it look so easy! I was eager to give it a go. He returned to the top of the stairs and gave me the sled. I positioned myself and gave him a thumbs up. Three, two, one… I was off, but not for long. Halfway down my left foot came off the cardboard and caught traction with the tread. My body did a 180 and next thing I knew I was taking a chunk out of that 3rd step with my tooth. One dentist trip later, mother found out what we were up to and removed the fabric that lined the steps. Something about not being able to afford our mischief. I gazed at the framed photographs lining the wall as I walked up the stairs. Mother and father. I don’t remember him much. He left us when I was still in diapers. She said someday we’d be together again. I waited and waited, but it never happened. Later I matured enough to understand that he’d passed away. Got sick. Tim and I were all Mom had worried about after that. We were all she needed in this life, she’d say. Tim and I hung three steps up. We were all dressed up, him with his comb-over and me with my perm. The distressed backdrop didn’t help us out at all. I hope Mother didn’t pay too much for these. Once at the top of the staircase I peered down the hallway. Walls lined with more pictures. On the left side, a small table still sat outside mother’s room. It really just caught plants and however much gum I could muster in a day. To the right was my room, and down at the end of the hallway was Tim’s room. I consider myself lucky. The bathroom was right next to my room. I was able to sneak in there before Tim every morning before school. Made him late a few times. I took a deep breath as I grasped the doorknob to Mother’s room. I opened the door and found that everything was exactly as I’d left it. It was cozy, inviting, and had a fresh floral scent just as it did when I was little. It was her hobby as a florist that brought this smell here. Roses, tulips, buttercups, and chrysanthemums. You name it, she grew it and cared for them with love. She garnered quite a reputation as the community florist. People didn’t just buy them because they were beautiful. They could tell the care that she had given to them and they respected and adored that about her. She gave that kind of love to everything and everyone she cared about. Her heart had no limits. I took one last breath and shut the door behind me. I made my way down to the kitchen table and pulled out my laptop and a notebook. No other place gave me the comfort and security that allowed me to work freely without interruption. After all, this book wasn’t going to write itself. A month goes by and I’m back for my routine checkup on the house. The screen door greets me once again. The house welcomes me with its usual comfort, but something felt off. An unexplainable chill. A glance confirmed that the fireplace wasn’t turned on, not that it needed to be. The summer heat was keeping it plenty warm outside. It should be nice and comfortable in here, but strangely enough, I wouldn’t mind the fireplace kicking on just to give me its familiar comfort. As if on cue, a hint of life shows and the fire begins to glow. I begin my usual rounds. Glancing at the chip in the 3rd step, I make my way upstairs. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. I switch on the lights and watch the hallway come to life, except for Tim's room. The light flickers just outside his door, barely hanging on. Well, light bulbs don’t last forever. There should be more bulbs in the storage room next to the kitchen. Walking past the living room I could see the fireplace barely keeping on. One problem at a time, I tell myself. Moving past the refrigerator I find the old storage room where mother used to hide our Christmas presents. It wasn’t a very good spot if you ask me. I crack open the door, dust everywhere. Looks like I found my next task after that pesky fireplace. Wooden shelves line the walls. Three shelves over and there they are in bulk packaging. Sixty-watt bulb: check. I quickly replaced the light bulb and returned the hallway to its former glory. I put my hand on mother’s door for a brief moment. Yearning to look inside I grasp the knob and turn it. To my surprise, the door remains shut. I try again… nothing. I look down and feel my heart skip a beat. A lock is more visible than ever. We’ve never had locks on our bedrooms and I know for a fact that this door has never been locked in my entire existence. Still trying to process it, I move to the storage room to see if any sort of key is hidden away. I rub my hands together as I pass into the kitchen. The fireplace is out. After a good ten minutes of searching, I reach my hand onto the top shelf and feel around. Dust, dust and… a key. I return to the door and insert the key into the lock. Mechanisms turn and the door greets me with a groan as I open it. I peek in expecting some grand change. To my surprise it remained untouched, but it’s colder. Much colder. Even with everything in its place, there’s still a sense of emptiness. I reach my hand along the wall to turn on the light. The bulbs barely muster any light. They are dim, ready to burn out at any second. Great. At this rate I’ll need to buy a whole year’s supply of bulbs for each visit. A quick trip to the storage room and two packs of bulbs later, mother’s room shines with life. The boxes remain on the table as I move on.  Feeling accomplished but disheartened by the unexpected repairs, I returned to the kitchen table to work, donning a sweater in the process. The leaves begin to turn; orange and yellow cover the street. I return to see the tree has lost most of its leaves. I make my way to the door, loosening my scarf in the process. The usual screech is accompanied by a subtle ‘crack’. I finish opening the screen door and witness a piece of the hinge fall to the porch. I turn the key and open the door to the house, preparing to take off my coat as I feel the warmth of the fireplace welcome me out of the crisp fall air. To my disappointment, I kept my coat on, and re-tighten my scarf. I quickly run over to the fireplace to get it going. The gas turns on, but no flame. The tread began to moan under my feet. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. As I reached the top, I see Tim’s light was out again and so was mine. I became disheartened as I glanced over at mother’s door and saw that her light was flickering. The bulbs sat on the side table. After mother’s light the box was empty. As I placed it back on the table I couldn't help but look at the lock on her door. It felt different. I pulled the key from my keyring, moving with hesitation. I insert the key and begin to turn it. Stuck. Confused I turn it in the opposite direction. Stuck. Overwhelmed I step back from the door, leaving the key in what used to be its home. I don’t understand I repeated to myself over and over, feeling tears of frustration well up in the corners of my eyes. I sat on the top tread with my elbows propped on my knees, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it. That key had worked last time in the lock that wasn’t even supposed to be there. It had never been there.  A sense of loss began to fill inside of me. There must be another way. If there’s a lock then there has to be a key to open it. I just have to find it. Determination propelled me down the stairs and straight into the storage room. I began rummaging through the shelves using more and more force as time went on. Behind the box of spare nuts and bolts? No. What about the old key box on the wall? Of course not. I searched high and low only to come up empty-handed. The more I look for what seems to be a figment of my imagination, the less time I have for why I come here every month. Deep breaths. One, two. In, out. I’ll figure this out. I always do. But for today, a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s favorite, will wash away the anxiety. I sit down, begin to type away, and lose myself in my notes, trying not to worry about the issues that plague me. Those lights outside of mother’s room would burn out without me noticing, and that would be the last time they were ever alive. Months pass now. A blanket of snow covers the streets. The sidewalk hadn’t been cleaned since first snowfall. On the slow, methodical trek to the porch, I notice the paint chipping on the east corner of the house, next to the living room window. The house begins to show its age. The screen door made its usual complaint, also reminding me that I still haven’t fixed the bottom hinge. I remove my thick mittens and retrieve the house key. Shivering, I finished opening the door, only to wish that I had brought a bigger coat. My breath danced away from my face. The glass on the face of the fireplace was frosted. The storage room held no solutions. I’d have to call someone about this. In the meantime, hot chocolate will warm me right up. Just the way mother made it. I retrieve a pot from the cupboard, fill it with water and place it on the stovetop. I turn the knob to find that the pilot light won’t even show. That memorable clicking sound from breakfast with mom won’t even sound. That’s dead too. Of course it is, just my luck. I grabbed a pack of light bulbs from the storage room anticipating what awaits me upstairs. I carry on, bringing my frustration along with me like a dear friend. Mother, Father, Tim, myself. The lights over the staircase began to dim as I moved along the tread. Darkness engulfed me as I reached the top of the stairs. Every bulb was out. Only natural light from downstairs was able to find its way up, providing enough light to avoid tripping. Approaching Tim’s room brought a sense of calmness and warmth. Something this house was missing too much of. Once I reached his door, the good feelings washed away and were replaced by more frustration. It’s done. The light socket is completely fried. I groan and begrudgingly move to my room. More frustration. Then disappointment fills my heart. I’ve loved this home. What’s happening? Turning to mother’s room, I test the durability of the box of bulbs on her door. A loud crunch answers that. As the box crashes to the ground, my hands begin to shake with anger. This door. Why… I stopped short of the door, acknowledging the lock. The key… I left it in there last time. I know I did. Where.. Where did it go? I grasped my head, trying to maintain my balance as the room spun around me. Why do you keep me out? A sense of desperation fills my voice. The answer lies hidden; a memory surrounded by fog. I regain my senses long enough to reach out. I turn the knob. It’s still locked. I turn it again, breathing faster and faster with each attempt. Come on. Come on…Come on! The fog begins to swirl. Why won’t you let me in?! Fists meet the door as my emotional pot begins to boil over. Why can’t I come in?! Fists louder now; eyes swell. Why can’t I see you?! Fists throbbing, my foot meets the door with equal purpose. The fog begins to dissipate as the tears fall to the floor. Why can’t you just remember? Why can’t we be normal again? The desperation turns to pain. Not physical pain. The pain of losing someone even though they are still with you. Knowing that you’ll never have them the same again. I rest my head on the door. Knees weak, heart heavy. A sense of hopelessness fills my heart as the fog clears. I remember now. A hand rests on my shoulder. It’s Tim. His eyes are red and rest in dark circles. “You can do it. You’ve always been the strong one.” His smile gave me comfort in knowing what came next. I returned my gaze to the door, only it wasn't the same. The lock remained, but this door was fixed to a hospital room- room 428. The door was metal, the knob a handle. I grab it and finally felt the door release, letting me in one last time. Our family is gathered around the bed. People I hadn’t seen in years. They began to part as I inched closer, one foot in front of the other. As the crowd cleared, I saw her. She was hooked up to life support. Had been for some time now. It felt like ages, really. She wasn’t exactly conscious., not that it mattered. She wouldn’t remember me now. She forgot my name about three years ago. Tim’s five years. No, she wouldn’t remember us at all, no matter how hard we tried. I leaned over and grasped her hand. I shivered as I felt her skin, cold as ice. I spent what felt like an eternity staring at her face. Burning it into my memory, wanting it to be as detailed as possible. I broke out of my trance and leaned into her side. I whispered in her ear: “I’ll always remember.” My heart sunk as I watched my mother take her last breath. The machine beside the bed relayed a steady tone. The grass looked greener than usual. Tim says he hired one of the neighbor boys to take care of things when we weren’t able to. The tree looked as alive as ever, shading my walk to the porch. The screen door opened without a complaint. I pulled out my key ring and held the key that Tim gave me in my hand. I inserted it into the door and turned, reading the inscription engraved within the door: Memories are forever. -THE END-


It is calm. Nothing else. She’s alone. Castaway on a remote island in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the world in the middle of the universe. Everything is so far away. Everything is being cradled on the waves all around her. She can’t look away. But she is not scared, no. Because all the waves break and collapse before they can touch her shores. She is at peace, watching from a safe distance. But sometimes. Sometimes she hears distant echoes, echoes on the wind and on the waves that pierce through her skull directly into her thoughts. Terrible, terrible sounds. Screeching of the past. *“It’s a completely safe and routine procedure, completely and wholly, yes. Very simple too and very effective. Yes, yes.”* *“It can’t be like this my dear. Look at yourself… Trust me, this will make you feel better.”* Oh, such horrible noises. They take her back. Back to reality. She’s looking around. White walls. White sheets. White people. It’s all white. She starts to feel uneasy. She feels lost, crushed by the overwhelming lack of colour. She doesn’t know what to do. Her muscles cramp. She is terrified. The warmth begins to trickle down her inner thighs. That’s when the white hands touch her and lay her down on the bed. *“Daddy, is this really necessary? I feel fine, I swear.”* *“No, my dear. You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything. This is not normal… You are not normal. There is no other way.”* *“Trust me, no need to worry. Completely routine procedure. And it works like a charm. Yes, yes completely routine. And wholly safe, did I mention that?”* The hands are all around her. They are pulling her upwards. She sits up on the bed. They force something into her mouth. She doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it at all, but before she can react they flush it down her throat. A thick coat of dust swallows everything in the room. Everything loses its edge. It itches. *“Daddy I’m scared.”* *“Don’t worry, my dear, don’t worry. Tomorrow it will all be over. You will feel much better, trust me. Much better.”* *“Yes, yes. Routine, completely routine. And completely safe too. We will insert the scalpel into her brain just like this and we will keep on cutting until there’s barely anything left. It’s routine. Like we always do. Completely safe and very effective. Can’t have a bad personality if you don’t have any at all.”* *“See, darling? There’s no reason to worry.”* She’s screaming. Screaming and crying. Everything is so blurry and it feels so numb. She’s choking. She can’t breathe. So she cries and screams and kicks the air but there’s just way too many hands that push her down. She tries her best but in the end she stops resisting and everything fades to black. She wakes up after a long time on her island. She is happy again, because the world is simple. Everything is far away. She is watching from a safe distance. For a while at least. As long as it’s quiet. \ H.


Pinocchio was born into the simulated universe on a Sunday.

This was an exceptionally good day to greet the universe, and his parents were in awe that The Great Program had shown such favor to them.

What a profound addition to the code he would be, they were certain of it.

But also if he wasn’t, well these sorts of things were really out of everyone’s control, so no one would feel too poorly.

Above his bed was stitched a personalized creation story that his mother had sewn.

It read: :function (create new) if CycleTiming == IsNow Andif ParentObject(Male) == True Andif ParentObject(Female) == True Andif function (disease) == False Then create function (Pinocchio) Endif :Add function (Pinocchio) to Code She knew that it was a very simplified representation of what the real Code must look like, but still she cried in joy as she hung it above his crib.

He was a marvelous boy, his eyes had the same code as hers, and his face was coded like his father’s. Pinocchio grew at a rate that was well within toleranced bounds of a generic bell curve fit, which made his parents glow with satisfaction.

He was a happy baby, and cried an amount considered statistically average.

His first year passed without issue, at each developmental stage he showed signs of progression at the appropriate moment.

But when he spoke his first word into the world, the perfect childhood came crashing down around them. “Real!”

His squeals of laughter after saying it rang through the house, but it left his parents frowning at each other. “Where did he hear that from?!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me, I don’t use that kind of language in the house!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me either, could he have heard it at one of those protests?” They both stop and think then, but neither of them can remember a time that he’s ever been near those people .

“The doctor, we’ll have to get him seen immediately.” – The next morning, after a night of troubled sleep for his parents, Pinocchio sits on a table at the Pediatrician’s.

The doctor shines lights in his eyes, in his ears, and takes his temperature all while conversing with his parents. “Has he had any other signs or symptoms of being a realist?” “At his age?

Surely that’s not a concern.” The doctor tuts absentmindedly; “One can never be too certain, some areas of study are now suggesting that Realism is a psychological disorder.” Both parents gasp and look at each other.

Not our perfect boy! Their eyes scream.

Pinocchio, watching this exchange, thinks that now might be the appropriate time to try his word again. “REAALL” He exclaims. “My word!”

The doctor turns around sharply again to stare at him.

“What a positively curious case!” His mother does not find this positively curious, and instead it sends her crying inconsolably into his father’s arms. – On the way back to the safety of their house, they pass a protest on the street.

Protectively, Pinocchio’s mother shields his eyes from it.

She watches through the window as they cruise slowly by signs that read I FEEL REAL, and PINCH ME, I’M NOT DREAMING.

She shudders at the ugliness of it, at the implications of what these people believe. It was entirely self-evident that this world was a simulation, and pretending otherwise was abhorrent to her.

When philosophers and scientists first discovered this, there was large scale outrage against it.

What a silly, backwards time .

But over time it was accepted, and then it was triumphed.

To think that her own child might grow to be one of these miscreants, why it was positively wretched!

We will get him the best tutors, the best therapists, and make sure that he doesn’t. – Even with the best tutors, and the best therapists, Pinocchio’s interest in the real only grew with him.

And with a great access to knowledge, his understanding of the world grew at a rapid pace.

As a child, he’d ask the most confounding questions, so that his mother and father had to take to studying philosophy to answer him. “But mother, if this is really all a simulation, what’s even the point of existence?” “Would there be a definitive point if this was real?

We make our own meaning, sweetheart.” “And if it is a simulation, are we in charge of our own actions?” “No one knows that dear, it’s unknowable.

Determinism can’t be proved either way, but I certainly feel in charge of mine.

Don’t you?” He’d nod slowly after exchanges like this, staring off into empty space for long stretches afterwards.

Although his parents maintained a calm, loving appearance with him, each conversation increased their dread.

“No matter what we do, his interest is only growing!

Maybe we’re taking the wrong approach?”

His father would say. “Maybe there’s nothing we can do, dear.

The Great Program has made him this way, who are we to try and alter his code?”

His mother would respond, for she had become very religious over the years.

Every Sunday, she would attend a gathering to celebrate the simulation and praise The Great Program that held everything together, and created all things. It was a time of great growth for Pinocchio, who was surrounded on all sides by bright thinkers.

Even if they tried to persuade him to believe in the simulated universe, it never felt right to him.

But he heard all their arguments, and turned them over in his brain again and again like shiny toys. – His parent’s fears were crystalised the summer he turned sixteen revolutions.

They knew this was a time of great rebellion, and had feared his increasing temper and impatience with their views.

It had led to several heated exchanges where his father had reproved him, screaming things like; here in this house we believe in a simulated universe, and in moments of great despair; your ideas will lead you down a dark road, son. They woke on his birthday to find that he had left.

There was a simple letter on his bed. Goodbye mother and father, I love you, but your life is not for me.

I want to be a real boy, and I want to be around others like me.

You’ve taught me well, and I will cherish my time with you always. – Over the years, they’d see him occasionally from the car window, but never approached.

He was their greatest shame, their most obvious failure.

He’d be at a corner protest, or on the television leading a march.

He looked happy, thrilled and alive in the moment, and it only deepened their embarrassment.

What a sad thing to believe in something that isn’t real.


Nobody was safe from the sun. Today was no exception. It shot rays of heat down to the small town of Brinaville. In a small shop full of sweating customers, it melted a fresh scoop of strawberry ice cream almost immediately as it touched the cone. A red stream dripped down Cliffords glove. He tried his hardest to lick it up, but the ice cream only redirected down his chin and into his shirt. “No refunds,” the cashier muffled behind his mask, pointing to the sign on the wall behind him. “Really? But, you saw what happened,” argued Clifford. The cashier stood with his finger pointing to the sign, his eyes glaring at him from behind his worn goggles. “Next,” he said, shrugging Clifford away with a glance.

Clifford walked out of the shop. A cloud of dust blew by, covering every piece of exposed cone in his hand. Clifford lowered his head, crushing the cone in his hand and throwing it to the ground. He had traveled far for this, only to have it end up covered in dust, just like everything else. “Hey! No littering!” Shouted a small voice. A very angry little girl ran up to him, two women standing on either side of her. Based on her height she looked no older than 11. Her mask was green with a pattern of ducks on it. She wore a vest that looked like it was from an old costume shop, with a worn badge on it that he could barely make out as the word: SHERIFF. “Are you going to just stand there or pick this up?” she snapped. She stood toe to toe with him, looking up with a sharp stare. “Sorry, ma’am.” Clifford dusted off the cone and picked up the pieces, throwing them in a nearby trash can while the girl and the two women followed him closely. “I’m going to guess that you’re new here, so you won’t get arrested this time. But if you plan on staying in my town then you better keep it clean, got it?” She pointed a finger up at him, her hand resting on her belt. A broken water gun was stuffed in the holster. “Got it.” Said Clifford. “This…is your town?” “Yes sir, it is. I’m Sheriff Brina, you can call me Sheriff Brina. Welcome to Brinaville.” He couldn’t see her face, but can tell that she was smiling behind her mask, very pleased with the name of her town. She held out her hand, and he shook it politely. "Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I'm Cliff." “May I ask what brings you here?” “Ice cream. I came here for ice cream.” “That’s it?” She laughed. “Yeah. That’s it,” he said. The end of his sentence trailing off in almost a whisper. The sheriff noticed the dry ice cream on his glove and glanced at the cone in the trash can. “I’m guessing the first scoop didn’t work out?” “No ma’am, it didn’t. The sun ate it before I could, and I’m afraid I have no more coins for another. So I’ll have to get going.” “Sorry about that. We have plenty of jobs around here if you want to earn more and get another scoop. Ms. Loretta at the salon could use a hand if you’re good with scissors. I’m sure she’ll throw in a haircut, which it looks like you could use.” Clifford ran a hand over his greasy hair. He hadn’t seen his reflection in a long time and forgot how long it had become. “Or, if—judging by your age—you’re an educated man, the kids at the school can always use more teachers. We can’t find many books in good condition anymore. And not many people come through here who remember the knowledge of the old world. Would be nice to teach them more than just colors and the names of animals.” Clifford remembered being a kid and having his nose deep in a textbook while his mother tried her hardest to teach him math. “No, Cliff. Try again. You have 7 and a half apples. I give you 5 and a half. How many do you have now?” His poor mom would buy so many apples to help him learn. But, they would all go bad before he could figure out the correct answer.

He used to stress out so much about homework, what he was wearing to school, whether his haircut was cool or not, what he’d grow up to be… and at night he complained if it was too hot or too cold. His mom would always oblige his every need. She was a good mom. Now it was hot every moment of every day. And he ate whatever was there. You’d be lucky if you got your hands on an apple, depending which part of the world you’re in. He thought about the sheriff’s proposition, glancing around at the town. The people looked happy enough. There were only a handful who looked like they were his age. “Who makes the ice cream?” he asked. “Oh, that’d be Ms. Belle and her cow, Ms. Blue. She makes that ice cream from scratch. But since there’s only one cow in town, she only makes a new batch every few months or so.” “Does she need an extra hand?” “I can ask, if you’re interested,” she giggled. “You really like ice cream, huh?” “Yeah.” Clifford spent the next few months working with Ms. Belle to keep the barn clean and the animals fed. She let him keep his horse in the barn, next to Blue, so long as Clifford promised to do at least one lesson a week at the school for the kids. He agreed. The kids all loved Clifford. They loved his funny little stories of the old world. Stories about motion pictures, snacks, air conditioning, pools, theme parks, and grocery stores full of food. He told them about his school, and played games with them just like the ones he grew up playing. He watched as the mothers and fathers of the kids would pick them up from school. He thought about his own mom again. One of the fondest memories he had of her was years ago when they were camping in an old cave. Cliff was crying, saying he was tired of camping and wanted to go home. His mom said, “Cliff, I’m sorry, but this is how it’s going to be from now on. I know it’s hard. I know it’s different. But, I promise you that you’ll find something about the world to love again.” “What do you love about it?” he asked. “Ice cream,” he remembers her saying with a blank stare. “I want to have just one last scoop of strawberry ice cream again before I die. In a cone. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He remembers her staring blankly at her hand as she talked about it, as if she was picturing herself holding the cone. A tear ran down her cheek. He rubbed it from her cheek and gave her a hug. “I promise I’ll find some ice cream for you, mom.” At the time it felt like an easy promise to fulfill. At the time he was still optimistic that one day things would return back to normal. Schools and ice cream shops would open again. The fires will stop, the air will be clean again, and the government will rebuild the cities and restock the shelves of the grocery stores. But he’d find out soon enough that there was no vaccine or government powerful enough to right this wrong. And so he hugged his mom will full confidence in his promise. “Thanks, kiddo,” she said with a smile, hugging him back. She never got her ice cream. It was cooler today in Brinaville. Clifford was going about his usual day, tending to the cow and the other animals. Ms. Belle called him inside. “Everything alright, Ms. Belle?” “Everything’s fine, Cliff. I just wanted to see if you could taste this for me and let me know if it’s alright to send out to the shop?” She held out a cone with two scoops of strawberry ice cream in it. He paused, ,waiting for the sun to strike it down like a bad dream. But it didn’t. He patted his chest pocket where a picture peeked out. He closed his eyes as he reached out, grabbing the cone and feeling it in his hands. Ms. Belle couldn’t see his face under the mask, but could tell that he was smiling. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a hug.


The sail to Stetguttot Heath was the longest I had ever been at sea. It took close to three weeks chasing the variable westerly winds from the southern tip of the Archipelago to its northern reaches. My new, permanent lodgings onboard Alessia’s boat proved invaluable. My own space, and an actual bed, however small, made the journey pass with relative ease. Still, I couldn’t help but feel relief when we finally spotted the landmass of Stetguttot Heath emerging from the oceans ahead. The islands in the north of the Archipelago tended to be larger than those in the south, and Stetguttot Heath was no exception. A series of hills like the points of a crown rose from the ocean. Tufts of uneven wild grass littered the steep banks, broken by pockets of white stone. As we got closer, I could see more apexes rising in the distance, and further back the tallest hills crested even higher. The entire island was a series of peaks and troughs rolling across the land. We began circling the island, looking for a safe place to land the boat; the steep banks and rocky waters proving too dangerous a place to moor. Then, on the south-east corner, we spotted a small wooden harbour. Three high wooden jetties jutted out from the shoreline into the sea. Next to one, another vessel bobbed waywardly in the choppy waters. The third jetty was stunted, its second half having collapsed into the ocean. Broken stalks rose from the water, bent at odd angles, supporting nothing but air. The other jetties looked little safer. As the tide rolled through, they swayed with the current, the joints of the columns creaking, small gaps appearing between bindings. We delicately slid up to one of the jetties, being careful not to bump it too hard in case we should send it toppling into the ocean. As we stepped off the boat, the planks creaked beneath us, letting out a panged ache with each step. “Any last advice for dealing with people here?” I asked Alessia, as she stepped up behind me. “Tell them that they can’t build jetties for shit,” she said, staring down at the ocean between the cracks in the planks. “Yeah. I learned that one too,” I replied, my voice flat. “Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine. I knew how to get here, nothing else.” We took slow steps up the slip until our feet met firm land. A small stone causeway had been built, creating a level surface between the two hills that rose in all other directions. Some twenty metres’ climb up the hill to our right, we could see a large building tucked into the hillside. “Go see who we can find?” I suggested. Alessia shrugged, but nodded for me to lead the way. The wooden structure was probably thirty or so metres across. It was made of plain-brown planks mounted vertically on end, with a steep, sharp pointed roof. On the broad side I could see two small windows seemingly placed at semi-random, their heights not quite aligning. Approaching the building, we found a sign nailed to the door. It was perhaps only fourty centimeters across, and written in simple black font. “Harbour Office. All visitors must report.” I turned to Alessia and raised my eyebrows. “Guess we’d better report then,” she said wryly, reaching past me and knocking on the door. “Come in,” came a dry voice from the other side. Inside, the room was dark and gloomy. Lightless shadows crept across old desks and lopsided shelves laden with books. A few weak lanterns did their best to fight off some of the gloom, but their reach seemed to only cover a quarter of the space, giving colour to select parts of the building. At the far end, we could see three office workers sitting in a circle - two men and one woman. They leaned back in their chairs, their feet propped up on the tables. As we stepped inside, their eyes turned to us, but they didn't stand. "Hello, how can we help. Are you registering a ship?" "Yes," Alessia replied. "We've moored up at the jetti outside." "Excellent," one of the men replied. He stood up with an odd excitement, and began flicking through books on a desk next to him until he found the right one. He turned the pages and settled on a blank page. "What's the ship type?" he asked, while rummaging through the drawers in his desk. "B-Class trading vessel" The man produced a pen and held it up triumphantly before taking down information from Alessia regarding the ship. “And what's the purpose of your visit?" "Well, we were hoping to find out about someone who lives here, or at least did." The eyebrows of the woman still sitting suddenly raised. "Oh, I can probably help you there. We keep records of birth and education here. What's the name?" "Sannaz Lytta" She looked up and to the right. "Don't recognize the name. But we can have a look through the records. They're organized by year. Do you know how old they are... were...?" "No idea, I'm afraid. Adult. Not old enough to stop being active. So... older than twenty, but less than sixty." I winced, fearing how unhelpful I was being. The woman let out a small, sharp cackle. "Not much to work with," she looked over to the shelves of books to her right, "but we'll find them." She walked over and grabbed five thick ledgers off the shelves. "Halifax, get off your backside and help." The last of the workers still sitting rose and walked over as the woman placed the books down on a table under one of the lanterns. "Everyone grab a book and start searching." While the mission of finding the record was bound to be laborious, I was shocked how easy it was to find out more about our target on Stetguttot Heath. Back on Tima Voreef we had had to complete an errand and even then blackmail our way to simply see a record in a book. Yet here, the people couldn't have been more willing to help, almost relieved for a long but arduous task that at least broke up the monotony of doing nothing. Inside the books were a series of columns, each row representing the an islander.. I read the columns at the top. *Name, Section of Birth, TBU, Section of TBU, Occupation at 25, Section at 25, Occupation at 35, Section at 35...* I glanced right, the last column no more than a centimeter across, a tiny "Section at 75" scrawled in the margins. In the book I was reviewing those final few columns were always empty. But all too often, so were earlier ones. Given the years I was looking at, everyone here should be in their forties by now, but way too often only the first two columns were filled out. Whether the blanks were from a mismanagement of records or life I couldn’t be sure. I had gone through maybe twenty pages of names when suddenly one of the men raised his finger to the air. "Found him." The woman leant over and inspected his work. "That's the right record alright. He's thirty-seven, from Section F." She spun the book around and pushed it towards Alessia and I. We both leaned over to the read the first few columns. Sannaz Lytta, F, 17, F, Digger, F, Digger, F. "I assume Section F is a location?" I asked. The woman nodded. "There are fourteen sections across the island. F is pretty far from here, north-western tip, but you can walk there over a day or two across the hills." "What's TBU," I asked. "Test for Better Undertaking," the woman replied. "Everyone at age fifteen takes a test to determine their skill levels. Both general intelligence and knowledge of certain areas like engineering, medicine. Key skills. From there we determine what career people should have." "So one test when you're fifteen and you decide who becomes a doctor and who goes into manual labour?" I asked through gritted teeth that hid my pensiveness. "Yes," the woman replied. "There's a committee in Section C that work at designing the test, revising it over the years to make it the best it can be. Ensuring it has the right variation - not too easy, not too hard" I looked down at the ledger. "And a score of 17?" "Bad. Real bad." The woman shook her head, snickering slightly. "Your guy's a moron. Probably why he was assigned to be a digger." "A digger?" Alessia asked. "Yeah. They dig," the woman said, tilting her head forward. "There's a bunch of mines in Section F. Diggers do the initial brute work of clearing out new routes so the miners can come along and pick out the copper." I looked up to Alessia. The man who had left Stetguttot Heath, had the money to hire an army from Tima Voreef, and then left to murder Deer Drum had spent twenty years underground clearing out tunnels. The background seemed so benign that I couldn't make sense of it. I had expected a scorned island leader, a guerilla fighter, and instead found someone whose own island deemed them an idiot and sent them to a life of digging. Alessia looked back at me with a small shake of her head before turning back to the woman. "We know Sannaz left here. He ended up attacking an entire island, virtually wiping them out. But you have no idea who he is, no idea what may have led to him doing that?" The woman's neck craned back and her eyes widened. "Honestly, with a score of 17 I find it remarkable he would ever have been able to leave. Probably wouldn't have realized you can't breathe underwater, walked right into the sea and drowned." She turned to the other two workers, and they let out a chuckle on cue. "Are there any other records on this man? We need to find him," Alessia said. "No other records. Only thing I can think of is to head to Section F and ask around. See if anyone there knows anything." Alessia looked around the room. "Two day trek you reckon?" The woman nodded. "We can pack some stuff from the boat, a few provisions," Alessia said, turning to me. "Up for a small camping trip?" "After three weeks on a boat, a few days on land sounds delightful." “Oh, I’ll make a sailor of you one day, Ferdinand. But, meanwhile, let’s get packing.


After helping to clear the mine had physically exhausted me and discovering the true nature of the test had left me mentally spent, I fell asleep by the fire. The night air was chilly, but the warmth from the flames, my own body heat, and the sheer exhaustion meant I slept quite comfortably through till morning in the open air. I didn’t wake till the sun had risen, and I was brought around by a gentle kick to my thigh. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” came an aggressively chirpy voice. I opened my eyes to Alessia standing next to me, smirking. A loud yawn contorted my face, as the sun’s rays pierced my cracking eyelids. “What’s the plan?” I said, lifting myself off my back. “Well, unlike you, I’ve been up for a few hours already. I spoke to a few guys, spent a bit of our money, and got us some ropes, mining explosives, and lanterns.” She paused. I could see her watching my face, waiting for my tired eyes to process what she said. “You ever been abseiling?” “What?” “Abseiling? You know. Like climbing, but… downwards?” “You pretty much know my life story at this point,” I said, blinking myself to consciousness. “What part of that do you think involved abseiling?” “Yeah. I thought that’d be the case. New experience for us both.” She reached out a hand, I took it and she pulled me to a standing position. “So we’re going down into the caves then?” I said, as Alessia began leading me through the town. “Seems a bit coincidental there was a random explosion where Sannaz was just before he left.” “True.” “Seems more likely he saw something and didn’t want anyone else finding it, so he covers his tracks.” “And you think there’s something down there?” “I wanna see what he saw. Yeah.” Alessia said, turning to me. “Sound like a plan?” “Sounds good,” I said nodding. Suddenly, an old part of the conversation caught up with me. I stopped. “Wait, did you say we’re taking mining explosives?” “They said part of the caves collapsed after the explosion. Might be a few blockages down there. Gotta clear them somehow.” Alessia shrugged her shoulders. “You want to get past rubble… caused by an explosion… by using an explosion?” I spoke slowly, hoping the idiocy of the plan would come through. “Look. I’m not gonna use it unless we have to, okay? You bury the charges in the rocks and it clears a path through without disturbing the rest.” “That work?” “That’s what they recommended to me anyway. It’s what they’re doing at the mine entrance now that there’s no more people trapped in the rubble.” I sighed. “We use it as a last resort, okay?” “Agreed.” We walked through and out the other side of the town. Quickly the ground turned from grey dust to healthland. Spindly wild grass broke through the compact earth as rubbery shrubs did their best to get high enough to steal the sunlight. We walked straight across the uneven, but hard ground, as a stiff breeze blew. In the distance, I could make out a man and a woman standing in the middle of the open land, various ropes and other gear strapped to them. Next to them was Cameron. As we approached, Cameron called out. “The ground’s solid here, and there are some good rocks for anchor points. But they don’t wanna risk going any further out.” “How far is the sinkhole?” Alessia asked as we arrived. “About thirty metres that way,” Cameron said, pointing behind him. Over his shoulder I could see the ground begin to descend. Thick cracks appeared in the earth, growing wider as the surface sloped down, until I could see the great void in the earth. “Is that ground going to hold us?” I asked, my eyes glued to the black drop. “Almost certainly not,” Alessia replied with a disconcerting grin. I turned to face her as she shoved a small belt into my hands. “That’s why we have these.” I watched as Alessia began tying the harness around herself, looping one knot at the side, and another by her front as a portion of the rope went through her legs. I was slowly piecing together the structure as she finished and looked over to me. “How long have you been on my boat now? How can you still not tie a good knot?” She walked over and undid my own attempts and started rewrapping the belt around me, looping it between my thighs, before tying it in a secure knot by my left hip. “You need something that’s going to hold you in place, firmly.” She gave one last fierce pull on the fabric and the belt tightened around me, clasping against my abdomen. “How’s that? Too tight?” “A little actually,” I wheezed. “Good. Tight enough then.” She walked over and picked up the end of a long piece of rope and handed it to me. I followed the long coil with my eyes. It wound round in a circle on the floor before trailing off to a large rock, a good metre high, where the man and woman were anchoring it in place. With the rope secure around the rock, the woman walked over to me and started pulling the rope through the belt. “You ever done this before?” she asked. “No…” “Okay. Well. It’ll feel weird. But hold on, keep a good grip, you’ll be fine.” She continued relaying specifics to me as the long coil slowly snaked through me. With almost all the rope now on the other side of the harness, she bent down and picked up a small stone, looping the very end of the line around it. She took several delicate paces out towards the drop, watching the ground beneath her for any sign of danger. Then, convinced she was close enough, she hurled the rock through the air. It bounced a few times, before it reached the edge, and plunged into the earth below. The rope shot down with it, the great snaked path unravelling as it fell to the bottom of the chasm. Eventually the line ran out of slack, and it pulled taut against my belt. I watched as the man threw the rock with Alessia’s line down in a repeat. Alessia turned to me. “You ready?” “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She walked over and picked up a satchel from the ground and passed it to me, before she picked up a heavy backpack for herself. Cameron stepped forward. “Hey, that’s mine.” “Rucksack is easier to carry down there.” “What about my book?” Cameron protested, his arms stretched to the side. “You’ll get it back as soon we’re done. I promise,” Alessia paused, watching Cameron’s face remain unmoved. “I want to make sure you’re still here when we return.” Cameron huffed. “If you lose that book down there-” “Not gonna happen,” Alessia grinned. She looked down at her line, holding it one hand as she leaned back, feeling it hold her weight. “We’ll tug on the rope when we need lifting back up. By the end of the day.” Cameron pouted. “Fine. No book, and you can stay down there though.” Alessia and I turned and slowly started heading towards the sinkhole. It wasn’t long before I could feel the ground begin to slide downwards as cracks began to appear in the ground. I watched as thin hairlines grew into centimeter wide black streaks, grass roots poking out the sides. A few paces more, and my body began to instinctually slow down as the ground became spongy beneath my footsteps. I looked over to Alessia. She was tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, taking a small age to transfer her weight across. “It’ll be easier on all fours,” I said. “Spread the weight.” Alessia nodded, and we both sunk to our knees, stretching out our bodies in front of us and crawling along with as many points of contact to the ground as possible. The grass was springy to the touch, the weeds gripping around my fingers with each crawl forward. I stopped as the whole ground shifted, lurching forward. I could feel my body rotate a few degrees, the angle down to the chasm in front now steeper. I took one more creep forward and I heard the inevitable rolling of dirt. “Hold on!” I called out. The ground beneath us gave way. A large chunk of earth a good few metres across snapped beneath me. I watched as it accelerated away, turning as it fell into the darkness below. The rope snared against the more solid ground, and I swung back. I held on tight to the cable by my stomach, as the belt wrapped around my constricted abdomen, yanking me back towards the wall. I stretched out my feet as they landed and my body bounced against the soft clay side of the cave. “You all right?” I called out. A light flickered on, as a lantern and Alessia’s face came into view. “I’m good. Bit bruised, but good.” “What now?” I asked. “Keep heading down. I’ll try and stay level with you so you can see the light.” I nodded as I began slowly loosening my grip on the rope, allowing it to pass through the belt as we descended deeper into the hole. Above me, the small sliver of light was beginning to fade, the circular halo shrinking with each passing metre. As I looked down, the light of the lantern began to reach the bottom of the sinkhole. Piles of soil and debris covered the stone ground. There was a noise too, one almost silenced by the creaking of the rope as it passed through the belt, but it was there. A trickle, the noise of water. I looked over, and saw a small stream running along the bottom of the cave. My feet touched the ground and I took a deep breath - part relief, and part the relaxation of the belt no longer gripping so tightly around my stomach. Untying the harness I inspected our surroundings. It was a wide section of cave that thinned out in either direction, following the stream. “We sure this guy was ever even here? Could just be a random bit of cave?” I asked. “True,” Alessia said with a hum. She took a few steps, treading over the stream. “Best bet we’ve got though.” “So which way do you want to head?” I said, feeling my own voice echo back against me. “Downstream,” Alessia nodded. “Upstream takes us back towards where the mines are, makes sense he would’ve come from that way. And then headed *that* way,” she said, pointing towards the thinning passageway to my left. I followed her lead as we left the thin ring of natural daylight behind and plunged fully underground. Memories of Ringatoy Shires came back to me. I had spent over a week without daylight underground with Kit. Even though the conditions were very different - the rubble of the library replaced with natural underground mazes - that sensation of the Earth surrounding you, pressing in on you from all sides, remained. I wondered for a moment if Kit had ever returned down to the library, or if she had stayed above ground, spinning clients into credits down at the market. I hoped she was doing okay. Then I remembered Kit falling. The brief moment when I thought she had died, holding her still body, already in place in a cavernous tomb. I had nearly lost a treasured companion that day. I looked at Alessia trudging her way in front of me. I would not let that happen again. I struck a couple of paces to get closer to Alessia, my feet slipping slightly against the moist rock. “You okay there?” Alessia chuckled, turning her head slightly. “Yeah. Not used to clambering through caves, I guess.” I looked at Alessia’s slow, but assured footing as she hopped between bits of flatter stone. “You seem… fine down here?” “I wouldn’t say fine,” Alessia said, a hint of hesitancy to her voice. “But I’ve been in enough caves to not be worried, if that makes sense.” “Why have you been in so many caves?” I asked, trying to concentrate on where my feet were. Alessia laughed. “Strange upbringing I guess.” My mouth opened to respond. But I decided to leave prying any further for another day. As we went deeper, the air became stiffer, as though it was stuck to the walls of the cave. However, it remained cool, the water bringing with it an icy touch from wherever its source may be, and so each step became a frosty lick of stagnant air, each inhalation feeling frigid and damp. We’d been walking for the better part of an hour, the cave weaving side to side as it cut the path of least resistance through the soft rock. However, the path looked like it was thinning out, and I became all too aware of memories from the library, of passing through gaps no wider than my shoulders dreading the idea of having to turn back. “How much further you want to continue?” I asked. “Figure we may as well keep going further yet. Still think this is our best hope. There’s a water in the rucksack if your thirsty,” she said, pointing to her own back. “I’m fine. Just trying to make sure we don’t get trapped down here,” I said, trying to force a laugh. “You ever going to give that bag back to Cameron?” “Yeah. Gotta stay true to my word right? Besides, seems like sharing that book around may help a bit?” “Might give the kids of Section F a better chance of passing it.” “Until they change the test again, yeah.” Alessia said, failing to reciprocate my jovial tone. “What do you mean?” “The test is about ranking right? Too many people get that book, too many people do well on the test, then it becomes meaningless. Test’s only useful as long as people fail it.” “I guess,” I replied, turning my attention to the ceiling that was now encroaching beneath head height. I crouched slightly as we snuck along the tunnel in single file. “I’m not sure how much further we can keep heading along like this. Getting a bit narrow.” “Bit further,” Alessia said, pushing round a sharp bend to the right. “Follow it to the end.” I followed apprehensively as the walls began to brush against me, the odd jagged side of cave butting against me like an errand elbow in a crowd. With each step the rivulet kept digging deeper and deeper into the hillside, forcing its way through increasingly solid rock. Soon the cave was not much wider than the water itself, and every other foot was directly into the puddle, the small splash so loud in the dank depths of the mountain that it threatened to deafen us. As we descended, the path became more violent, turning as soon as it found a rock too tough to be moved. We turned another sharp bend to the right, then another to the left. The ceiling was now low enough that Alessia was ducking too, crouching as she pinched through the cavern, her hand held out to the wall for balance against the uneven ground. One more twist to the right, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the route widened out. Quickly it disappeared from our heads and arms, and within just a few metres it ballooned out into a wide open space. I took a couple of paces away from the stream and noticed that the ground beneath me wasn’t clay or rock. It was concrete. Something man-made. I tapped it with my shoe, feeling the familiar sensation of that thud-like noise. Some five metres away a great crack ran across the ground, the floor the other side pushed up and buckled toward the ceiling, torn apart by some great force. In the distance, I could see a column, great steel beams bent and snapped apart like a twig. Then, looking further back still, rotated slightly, maybe some five degrees off-balance, I could see a large metal door. A thick bar ran across its centre, waiting to be pushed. I instinctively walked towards it. \ Next chapter published 7th October.


Little Ina Little Ina has been in an orphanage trying to get adopted for over 25 fortnights. She was finally going to get adopted before the pandemic struck. No one was allowed to leave their houses and there was unrest in society during the pandemic. Ina was devastated because she just wanted someone to love her, to make her feel like she belonged, unlike how she felt for so long. Ina was for so long neglected at the orphanage after her parents died. She was short with warm skin, and chocolate eyes, and hair braided down her back. She had a long thin scar running down her face from when her head slammed against the seat when her parent's car crashed. She had just been an infant. Maybe two or three at the time. She was so young when it happened it seems like a distant memory. She had always gotten teased at the orphanage. She cried herself to sleep every night feeling as though there was no one to love her. When the pandemic struck; no one knew what was happening. She got teased worse, and the adults didn't help. No one could go outside and everyone found it as an opportunity to target the weakest person. They'd play pranks and bully her until one day when they took it too far. They snuck into her room and cut off her hair. She woke up to a shorn head and startled, ran out crying. She passed people who were pointing and laughing in her face. She turned away and ran into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror as tears rolled down her face. A strong presence radiated around her. She felt soft hands wrap around her and pull her face up. She smiled a true smile. "Mom!" And then the ghost of a touch as the presence was whisked away; torn from her. "Mom!" she cried. "Don't leave me!" But it was too late. She turned and saw herself standing in the mirror with red puffy eyes, swollen cheeks, and tears streaming down her face. She turned as two girls walked in and pushed her into a stall door. She hit her head and crumpled to the ground. The last thing she heard was their laughter ringing in her ears. She woke up with a bump on her head. She looked at herself and couldn't see anything valuable. Why would anyone want her? She looked at her short hair and ran her fingers through it. She despised her hair now. She heard all the mocking and laughter in her head and it drove her to the point of insanity. She sheared her hair shorter, into a neat bob. She ran out of the bathroom so she could get to her room. All around her people laughed and pointed, or shoved her into walls. By the end of the night, her body was covered in bruises. She wished there was someone out there to care for her, but the honest truth was that there is nobody out there who could ever love her. She gave up hope that she would ever be adopted. She started slinking around the orphanage with a glum look on her depressed face. Nothing could make her smile anymore. Years later the pandemic passed and no one wanted her. She was still getting teased daily. One day she had had enough. At lunch one day a girl got in her face and started teasing her. Ina got tears in her eyes but wiped them off. "Awe, is baby gonna cry?" the girl taunted. Ina had had enough of the bullying and jumped on the girl. They rolled around and got in a brawl. Ina got some good punches in. Later she had a swollen face and black eye but it was worth it. Ina had a new aura. People respected her. Until she got into trouble for giving that "poor" girl a black eye. Now whenever people would come to adopt, they would stay away from her like she had the plague. No one wanted her, or ever would. She didn't sleep and she did not eat anything. She would stay in her room and avoid the other kids in fear of harassment. No one would befriend her after the accident and that girl became a sort of a celebrity as the innocent victim of the vicious girl who got attacked for no reason. News spread, even outside the small orphanage, and out of the very small urban town. She knew she made a mistake, but why should she get punished? It was only out of self-defense. After that day whenever she looked at herself in any mirror, all she saw was a monster. Someone who couldn't be trusted, and could not be loved. After all: who could love a monster? She wasn't even sure what she was and all the negative voices in her head were telling her to just stop trying. It is not like she'll ever get adopted. She tried and tried, but could not silence the voices. She miserably thought that if she died, so would the voices, and the laughter, and the taunts. At least no one could hurt her if she was dead. But that wouldn't do her any good and it is too soon. Also, what would her mother think? She could see her mother. She slammed her head against a wall. What was she thinking? She couldn't end her life! She walked back to the orphanage one last time as a couple was looking for someone to add to their family. Someone to love! She ran up to them, but they chose the girl who she had earlier punched. The girl who had made her life miserable. The girl who was going to belong and be loved. Why couldn't she be that girl? With the pandemic, she never got adopted and even after the pandemic, she didn't get adopted. So she finally learned the truth: No one wanted her, and no one ever would.


I wrote this story for u/throwthisoneintrash, and for anyone else who wants to read it now that I'm posting it here. The story exchange was great fun btw. Highly recommend joining the Discord server. Constraints: 1) Story must contain a diamond. **2) Magic is used.** 3) A character goes on an adventure. 4) There is a plot twist in the story. **5) Use the word “rescue”.** **6) The ending is wholesome.** **The Witch’s Daughter** Two steps away from Mrs Alder’s front door, Carla whispered, “If she turns you into a newt, I won't rescue you.” I scoffed. “Mrs Alder can't do anything to me. I've got my evil-eye charm and lucky rabbit’s foot.” “Your *brother's* lucky rabbit’s foot.” “Shh!” Everyone knew Emily’s mother was a witch. She lived right at the edge of the woods and brewed potions. That was enough proof for us. If Emily had been anyone else’s little sister or childhood friend, she might have just been quiet and neat and shy. But she was the witch’s daughter and so she was a freak, stuck-up and stubborn. But Emily remained herself. No matter what jabs and taunts came her way, she always smiled kindly and kept silent. Had I been closer to some of the other children, I might have joined them in teasing her. But my best friend Carla was sure that Emily knew magic and she wanted to see it for herself. Eventually, one day after school, Emily gave in. Flowers sprouted beneath her hand in all kinds of wonderful colors. I gasped in amazement, already reaching out to pluck them. But Emily stopped me. "Just let them grow," she said. "That's all they want." It didn’t matter to me. I wanted a flower crown. But Carla shook her head and I understood. Keeping Emily happy was more important, if it meant she would show us more magic later. I took a deep breath. "Okay. But we're friends now, right? You'll play with us?" Emily looked thoughtful, then smiled. "Yes, I'll show you more magic." Carla and I cheered. From then on, we played together every day after school. Emily didn't have her own dolls, but she could make little clay figures from the soil and set them walking back and forth. After a while, she even created little weather spots: a sunny day in the middle of a rainstorm, a patch of snow. Then one day Carla decided she wanted to play a ball game. Emily conjured one easily enough. “What should we play?” I asked. Carla grinned. “Monkey, of course!” We decided that Emily would be the monkey for the first round. She would stand in the middle and try to catch the ball as Carla and I tossed it back and forth. Maybe Carla had known how Emily was never very good at sports. Unfortunately, Emily also had magic on her side. “Okay!” Emily grinned, clutching the ball. “Now you can be the Monkey.” Carla trudged into position, scowling. I knew I had to get the ball back to her soon or she would sulk for days afterwards. I threw it as hard as I could. Unfortunately, I threw it too hard. The ball sailed over their heads and crashed into the window of Mrs Hendricks’ house. Mrs Hendricks came stomping out. “Who did this!?” Before I could say anything, Carla pointed at Emily. “It was her!” she yelled. “She broke the window with her magic powers!” Mrs Hendricks scowled at Emily. “Young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?” Emily stared, eyes wide, and I thought she would use her magic. But she only bowed her head meekly. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered. Mrs Hendricks grabbed her arm. “We’re going to find your mother and you’re going to tell her just what you’ve done.” “But-” I said just as Carla pulled me away. “What are you doing?!” I hissed at her. “Just let her take the blame,” Carla said. “Unless you really want Mrs Hendricks to complain to your mom.” I might have preferred to deal with an angry Mrs Hendricks and an angry Mom instead of a witch. Maybe Emily felt the same way. But I didn’t want to be grounded either. So I let Carla talk me into keeping quiet. The next day, it snowed like I’d never seen before. School was canceled. Carla decided it was the perfect time to build a snowman. “We should get Emily too,” I said. Maybe she could make it come to life. “No,” my mom said. “Emily’s grounded. She broke Mrs Hendricks’ window yesterday.” “Um…” I hesitated, then decided to press on. “It was me, actually.” I explained what happened. Mom frowned. I looked out regretfully at the snow. “Am I grounded now?” “Just go own up to them first, Lucy,” she said. “I’ll decide on your punishment when you get back.” I put on my coat and scarf without prompting for once. I had to hide my evil-eye charm and rabbit’s foot somewhere, after all. Now, armed with my talismans, I knocked on the door. Emily’s mother opened it. She really didn’t look like a witch, I thought. More like an aunt who liked baking. “Can Emily come out to play?” I asked. “Oh no, dears,” she said. “I’m keeping her inside after what she did yesterday.” “That was me, Mrs Alder,” I said. “I was the one who threw the ball.” She blinked. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Emily! Your friends are here to see you.” Emily bounded to the door. “Does this mean I can go to Lucy’s house today?” “Fine,” Mrs Alder said. “Just be home in time for dinner.” We raced back to my house. Just as we were putting the finishing touches on our snowman, my mom stepped out. “I’ve decided on your punishment, Lucy,” she said. “You’re grounded.” I sighed and headed inside. “Not you two,” my mom said from behind me. “You can stay outside if you want.” “We’ll keep her company,” Carla said. “Playing with dolls sounds more fun anyway,” Emily said. “You brought your own dolls?” my mom asked. A noise made me look down. Several ice figurines hurried along beside me. “Yeah,” Emily said. “I guess I did.


1st draft of a short story I finished writing recently. Let me know your opinions. Thank you. \ Joe drove into the rest area at the base of the mountain feeling a bit drowsy, yawning loudly and at once stretching in theatrical displays of lethargy to his wife, Kaylee, who was sitting next to him. At the curt behest of his wife, who showed not the slightest measure of sympathy for those boisterous sounds that he made, Joe resignedly parked the car away from the other vehicles. “We’re here,” he said, with a tiredness in his voice as he looked up at the summit hidden under the exhaled white, frosty breath of the frozen air. His wife sat silently next to him. As if she had made a covenant with herself, she looked the other way seeking instead the attention of her own frigid reflection through which she observed the icy landscape, the snow falling ever gently on to the cold glass. She suddenly began with a silent rustle in preparation of the forthcoming hike. She gathered the whole of her gear: boots, backpack, fanny pack, jacket, pants, mittens for her small hands. Her movements were aggressive, noisy, made in such an angry spirit that she tossed things into her backpack and shoved them as deep as the bottom would allow for a thing to reach; she even felt herself challenged by an innocent zipper of her impermeable jacket that stubbornly refused to zip and close. “Damn it! C’mon you stupid thing!” she quietly exclaimed to it, still unable to get it to move, pinching it harder between her fingers and pulling it with greater force inasmuch as the little metal zipper seemed destined to be torn off completely against its will. “Can I help?” Joe offered. “No… I got it,” she replied coldly as she struggled, but soon thereafter the zipper yielded finally and relief had come to her face with the zipper now drawn up to her neck, yet she did not appear entirely freed from her sudden agitation. Joe ignored his wife’s rejection and looked out through the windshield up at a calm sky of gray clouds. The sun appeared stifled, dormant even, and, for as long as it remained behind that thick haze of the clouds, as a faded, yellow smudge that was weak enough in radiance to look at directly without much damage to the eyes. Joe was thin, and despite his slender form, he was not at all athletic. He already felt the altitude exerting its influence in the difficulty there was to breathe when he first arrived at the park. He had not gone a few steps on the first trail that his head began to feel light and disorientated, but he never disclosed these ailments to Kaylee whom he found, on looking up from his staggered step, mustering on a few meters ahead of him with a red tinge on her cheeks, and her little back muscles exposed and glistening under the frosty sun. The symptoms would grow worse for Joe and they had to stop their advance more often, very much to the disappointment of his wife, and owing to these difficulties therefore decided to quit the hike prematurely and failed to reach the end. This was always the result at each trail that they had visited from that to the current path, each a failure to reach the summit. The trail now before him was a redemption of some kind for him, as he looked at the peak just out there amid the white mist. “Will you get ready already? We’re wasting time.” Kaylee said, tearing him away from the peacefulness of the mountain. Joe quickly grabbed his things for the hike along with his wallet when a wrinkled, little old paper fell from it, and he reached for the slip with great regret for its fall, anxious about retrieving it from the dark abyss between the armrest and the driver seat in which more things are lost than all the mountains that the human spirit ever had the courage to scale. There was nothing of particular importance on it as it was mostly empty in fact except for a heart that had been cartoonishly rendered on it by Kaylee. It was a small gift he vouched to forever keep that she gave to him one night as recompense for abiding yet another long night of intense study during her days as a law student. “Alright, let’s go,” she said to him, bringing the straps of her backpack over her shoulders like a military man throwing the immense weight of his equipment on his back. “This time, we have to reach the top, please. We can’t keep quitting in the middle of it.” “I won’t stop,” he replied, “I’ll try not to stop, for anything.” “You promise we’ll keep going until we reach the end? You keep saying you will, but you never do, and I have to do it alone or not at all in the end.” “I promise.” The trailhead began where a sign was put to mark the beginning that read “Deer Mountain trail.” “There it is,” Kaylee said, marking out the long, dirt path ahead of them that disappeared rather sneakily around a bend. Joe found it a bit of a charming curiosity in his wife that she was as steadfast as yet she possessed no survival instinct; she had no sense of orientation as he knew on the basis of past experience that she would not be able to find her way back to the origin point despite that the trail only went in two directions, forward and backward. Unlike Joe, her big, astute eyes often overlooked the many markings of a forest that can guide a fellow traveler and lead him to his destination even when the forest seems vast, dark, unnavigable for its many possible paths that can lead a hiker astray to frustrating dead ends. She’d often look back whenever the trail vanished before her at Joe to consult with his inner compass for directions, and he relished the smile on her face when he pointed to her the direction in which they ought to continue. Some time later, not half-way up the mountain, it began to drizzle on them as they began to hear the small patter of falling rain droplets against their shoulders, near the ear. “It might get muddy, and dangerous if we keep climbing, don’t you think?” Joe said. “It’s nothing, c’mon! Don’t stop.” In addition to the gentle beginning of the rain, the road began to vanish under a slight haze. The fog was encroaching more on the mountain with the passing of each minute, like some sinister specter come to haunt the hikers. Through the white mist, each branch and each rock and each hill took on the form of a silhouette without any distinguishing feature to speak of. Each object as seen through the haze was a dark outline, fuzzy like television static. Even the people themselves looked identical under the cloak of the mist as everyone took on the same fundamental form, indistinguishable from man to man, from woman to woman, except when it was from man to woman as the former had a noticeably larger build than the latter, and it was under these ghostly conditions that Joe saw someone sitting on a boulder some feet away from the trail. The couple pressed on, but Joe was in sufficient proximity to the stranger to notice that he had a face which was similar to his own, except for a large burly beard that hung well below the neck. His eyes were hidden under the lip of his hat and were impossible to see what with a shadow cast from the same hat over his face. He had stopped to eat, and to do it alone. His eyes were on the trail, yet there was an absent quality in them. As he might have seemed like an apparition to Joe, they might have been viewed as figments by him as they aroused no notice from him as he ate. “So, have you started your IT courses yet?” Kaylee asked. “Not yet, I haven’t.” “Then when?” “Soon. I’ll start them as soon as we return.” “You keep saying you will, but you never do.” “I will, okay? I will. Please, don’t start.” Kaylee stopped; she dug her heel into the ground and pivoted quickly. “Joe, you know the plan! We’ve gone over it many times. We have to earn this much,” she mimed an amount, “so that we can live our best lives while we are still relatively young! Don’t you want that?” “I do, babycakes, I never said that I don’t, but — ” “Well? Or do you want to grow old and feeble and never enjoy what you could have enjoyed while you were young?” “I said I do already, okay? I’ll get started when we get back, I told you. I can’t do it right this minute, now can I? So, can we just keep going?” Scoffing, “Fine…” she replied. When a thousand feet more of mountain had been climbed, Joe requested for them to take a small rest. (name) released her backpack from her shoulders and it fell to the ground in a way that made the gravity on Earth seem stronger than it is usually. Joe was aware of the pain in her shoulders, and the tremble in her legs, the same symptoms that Joe exhibited in his own physique, but also there in a peculiar aspect of her expression he witnessed the firm reticence to complain of her deficiencies, fully formed on her brow, on her stiffened nose and expanding nostrils attempting to catch the faintest air to bring to her panting lungs. She hydrated, she ate small portions of her trail mix, she had done whatever to regain the strength that she perhaps knew had been permanently lost to the commitment that the hike demanded. Joe always admired that she was blindly aware of her limits that when he knew that she could feel herself reaching them, they were only another corner to go around, or another hill to climb, another river to cross. Where an insurmountable barrier to anyone, a red cape dangled over the eyes of a bull. “Do you think we are almost to the top?” she asked him. “Not likely, and what’s more, it’s getting harder to see what’s in front of me with this fog. It’s thicker now than before.” “Don’t tell me you want to turn back.” “I didn’t say that…” “You don’t have to.” On that last word was the moment when the stranger from before began to appear behind them, emerging silently from the mist but for the soft crunch of the ground beneath him as he walked. He continued without a word, as if seeking quick passage to avoid being caught in the middle of their quarrel. This time, Joe was more convinced than before that the stranger was stranger still for the resemblance that he bore to himself. As rapidly and as silently as he arrived, he passed through. His presence came like a shadow, or a kind ghost wandering the mountain. His footsteps eventually faded into the natural cacophony of wind, the rustle of leaves, and gravel and likewise rocks crushed by that heavy tread that belonged to him. “I’m only suggesting that it may get more dangerous as we go. We can hardly see the road below, down there in the valley. A short while ago I was able to see the cars drive by, but now I can’t.” “You always make excuses. Always.” “It’s not an excuse, (wife). I’m just concerned.” “You said we would reach the end.” “I said I would try.” “Well, you aren’t trying hard enough. Damn it, you’re so lazy! What is wrong with you? Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re constantly quitting. You’re so unwilling to make the sacrifice, even for me.” “I don’t know! I don’t know! Maybe it’s because I don’t give a damn about anything, or because the world is one big shitty place and I just can’t fathom doing anything in it. What’s the point? I don’t know, and I really don’t want to talk about it now. Can we go back? Seriously, please?” “You go back. I’m going to keep going.” On that the conversation ended. Kaylee tossed the backpack on her back and continued to hike the trail. The idea of her walking alone so high up, on a narrow path when the ground had recently become wet created a series of terrifying images in his mind, all of which depicted her fall or some other serious injury, and the guilt they produced sprung him into motion. He beckoned her to wait as he ran to her even as she had gained a great distance on him in such a short period of time. Some few hundred feet higher, Kaylee stopped when the path had suddenly ceased to continue. Joe had reached his wife and he too stopped and noticed that the path had disappeared behind them both. “Did we go the wrong way?” She again asked him. “I don’t know. It’s possible. I was getting tired again anyway, so let’s rest.” She sighed, and wove her arms together, and she nodded her head, “we’ll never get to the top at this rate. We should just turn back.” “Now you want to turn back?” “I feel like I’m dragging you up there.” “You’re not dragging me — “ “Yes, I am.” “No, you’re not,” he replied. “Yes, I am. I feel like I drag you all the time, like your IT courses that we paid for. I’ve always felt that I was the one pulling us forward, the mule pulling the cart. You haven’t even found a job yet.” “I’ve started looking.” “Yeah, a month ago. You’ve sent, what, ten applications in that time?” “Twelve…” “Whatever. We aren’t on track to achieve anything we have set out to do, together. I’m the only one giving a shit.” Joe found nothing in his repertoire of prepared speeches that were not prolonged apologies that offered to her thin rays of weak hope which she believed emanated from the promise of something more, so he found it difficult to say anything. He was not deaf to her exasperations of him as he had committed every accusation leveled against him of indifference to memory, and he stood there to listen to them again, and again invoking inevitably the same ponderous weight of guilt that has become an indispensable aspect of their spats, and so, he thought, that he will continue to hear them evermore, again and again, ad infinitum as he gazed into the future somehow showing in the thick foliage of the trees overhead, a cycle that alas culminates only in a self-loathing for which he had no means to end without offering up his mind and body like a bloody heart to the altar of the cruel world that begat him. “I know. I hear you…” “Well, then, tell me why? Why is it so hard to get you to move?” He shrugged his shoulders, and did not respond. There was a brief silence between them. Only the trees spoke of anything when their leaves were ruffled by a wind. “Well, can you get us back to the trail?” “You still want to continue?” “Sure. Why not? Let’s see how far we get, I’ll be happy with that if we can’t get to the top.” “Alright. I think I remember the landscape enough to guide us back. Follow me.” More than half an hour later, the two of them eventually began to notice more areas where the vegetation had been cleared for the trail, and before long the path outlined itself for them and they knew where to steer themselves. In that instant, the vicissitudes of circumstance aligned so that a hole in the clouds serendipitously formed and a sun ray bathed them in an intense white light. They looked up - their skin was lit to a warm touch - and they went to a point a few steps away where they determined the sun was most intense. There was nothing special, nothing to distinguish this little piece of dirt from another little piece of trodden dirt elsewhere since or to come. The rocks were the same as were the branches dangling from the walls of trees, and the shrubbery was no less dry in some areas of where they stood than in other areas. Yet, to there they were drawn by a more clear view of the open green valley and all things revealed therein illuminated by liberated sunbeams. The fog had cleared away mostly and they could see the tiny cars down below driving by without hearing the sound of their engines or the whoosh of their passing as they cut through wind. Joe and Kaylee both looked out at the other mountains from their location, and Joe wondered at the view. She stood by silently next to him, and there the two of them stood in silence. “As difficult as it is, views like these are worth it,” he then said to Kaylee, “this is what I always hope to find when we go on hikes, did you know? This. Nothing else.” “It is beautiful up here, but I like that feeling when you’ve reached the end. It’s satisfying, don’t you think so?” she replied. “I’m sure it is… but I’m happy here…” She smiled at him and returned to silence. To Joe, life seemed rather simple at that altitude. Without the noise and the preoccupations born of the world below, life consisted of very little else that was possible to fathom. Health, love, peace, nature are some of the things indispensable that came to his mind. Just above, Joe saw the stranger walking up the mountain, disappearing just over the edge of the hill where even the whole Earthly firmament disappeared behind the green and rocky surface. They must be close to the top he thought, or at least that was the hope that grew in him when he witnessed the stranger vanish over the cliff. “Hey, if we walk a little more, we might reach the end soon.” “Alright, let’s go!” Footsteps approached the end of the trail until they reached a small tomb a few meters ahead with an epitaph that read “My Eternal Love lies here.” A cartoonish heart stamped to it, fluttering as if preparing for flight. “Hey there,” said the stranger to the stone, “This mountain ain’t so bad now.” He sat down next to the stone. “I have some good news. I finally got my IT certificate, and I have an interview soon. Thought I would share that with you today.” He looked at the sun rising up and an orange diamond glistened on his cold cheek.


Time to Blume Are you there God? It’s me, Manolo. Ever since we moved to America Mama is not the same. Sure she looks the same. She has the same dark hair pulled into a ponytail and the same hands that make my favorite dish, Gallo Pinto, but she is not the same Mama. God, I need your help to get my Mama back. We left our farm in Nicaragua before the first rays of sun one December morning. Mama led the way carrying my little sister Ana. Mama wanted to leave before Ana woke up. Before the crying and whining. We were lucky she was sleeping. We tiptoed past the banana tree heavy with green fruit. If Ana saw bananas she would scream and then hold her breath until mama broke down and gave her a green unripe banana. Afterwards she would pat her tummy and cry. Up in the trees woodpeckers tapped tree trunks and spotted birds chirped. I waved goodbye to the monkeys pinching bugs off each other’s backs, cleaning up for their day. I understood the monkeys and the birds, without speaking a word. Mama told me we were going to a place called Wisconsin and I would have to learn some new things for my new life there. I would have to learn English, no more Spanish. I would get to see my Abuela. Mama said we were leaving and going to America for a better life. What better life did she want? I wondered as I looked at my best friends and the rising sun, a sliver of beetroot in the sky.

Dear God, please come quick Mama is a puddle of tears. I don’t know what to do. Every morning in Wisconsin Abuela turns on all the lights to wake us up. The house is cold and the sky is the color of Mama’s bean pot. This world is silent, no sounds of birds and no chattering of monkeys. I miss my animal friends. When I was on the farm in Nicaragua I always had a few chickens and piggies to keep me company. When I was on the farm Mama would scatter maize for the chickens on the patio and sing every morning. When I went to school I played marbles with my best friend Antonio.

 Abuela has a job cleaning houses. She said that the houses are tall like the colonial houses in Granada, but not painted in happy colors; yellow or orange like in Nicaragua. These houses have second floors and so many bedrooms. These houses have big TV’s and machines that wash the clothes and the dishes and even a little round machine like a stack of dinner plates that cut the grass. And now that we are here Mama has to clean the big houses too. Everything in Abuela’s house is crammed so tight. Couches crowd the walls and a table is piled high with envelopes. Abuela says those are her bills. Abuela uses the word “dollars.” She says “dollars” is a very important word in English, maybe the most important. I don’t know what “ dollars” are but they must be special because Abuela is always talking about them. Is this the English Mama was talking about learning? I wasn’t sure about learning this new word or any other words in this new language. English did not make Abuela happy. I was not interested in learning this new language.

Dear God,Can you send us some “dollars” to make Abuela and Mama happy. Abuela has so many bills to pay and she needs help. At school I sit in the back of the third grade classroom. I can see tracks of braids running down a girl’s back and a boy's short hair sticking up like the coxcomb of a rooster. I watch Edward pull faces behind the teacher’s back. I notice Esther with hair the color of straw sneaking looks at me with her eyes the color of ocean water. I look away, in a trance, watching the snow swirling outside. I fold my cold fingers into the sleeves of my sweatshirt to stay warm. Mrs.Meyer, our teacher, is drawing a corazon on the white board.

“Who can tell me what Valentine’s Day is?” she said. I sink into my seat hoping she doesn’t call on me, but Mrs. Meyer stretches her neck long and calls my name. “Manolo, Do…You…Know…What…This… Is…?”

My face heats up and sweat beads pop up on my forehead. Thirty pairs of eyes are burning me. Everyone is waiting for me to speak. I know what a corazon is, I know Dia de San Valentín, but I don’t know how to say it, not in English. Dear God, I’m having a hard time at school. I don’t think I will be able to stay here. Do you think I can come back to Nicaragua? I think the teacher and the kids think I’m stupid, but I know the anwer I just can’t say it. How can I learn English so I can make friends at my new school? After dinner I play with Ana. I give her a little squeeze and she bites me and leaves teeth marks on my arm.I push her away. I try not to cry but the tears come anyway. Ana winds up like a crazy chicken. She yells and stomps her feet and before we know it she is like a hurricane whipping through the living room. Abuela is trying to scoop up the bills that are crashing onto the floor. Mama is chasing Ana and rescuing a tipping lamp. I don’t know if I should cover my eyes or my ears. When Mama catches Ana, Ana belts out a scream and stiffens her body like a rocket. Mama’s eyes are wet with tears too. I look at everyone in the room. I don’t think this is a better life. I am worried about Ana and Abuela, the bills and the dollars, but most of all I feel stupid because I cannot say Corazon in English.

Mama puts Ana to bed and then she tucks me under Abuela’s fluffy quilt. Mama asks me how my day was at school. I tell her about the corazon and she says it’s time for me to learn English. The next day Mama takes me to the community center. All the kids are playing. Some are throwing a ball while standing in a circle in the Activity Room. I want to play too, but a worker lady leads me and Mama up to a different room with a computer screen and a box of Legos.

“Por favor Sientate” the lady said. I am surprised to hear Spanish from a face that doesn’t look like mine. Inside the computer there is another woman. She speaks Spanish too. “Hola, Voy a enseñarte Ingles. I’m going to teach you English.” I dump all the Legos onto the table. This is my second time playing with Legos. They are new to me. Back in Nicaragua I only played with marbles. I click the bricks together and make boats and houses. Using Legos with the teacher on the computer, I learn about colors and the words above and below and in the middle. I still want to go downstairs to play in the Activity Room in the circle, but I think I will be okay here. I am learning English and I think very soon I will be in the middle of two lands, two cultures and two languages. Dear God, I miss my old home so much. I miss the color of the sunrise and all the animals. Do you think you can take care of everything for me? I think I’ll stay here a while. I think I’m going to be just fine.