“How long since we took them?” Derek asked. Richard looked up to his friend. He was wearing a loose cotton t-shirt with a crudely drawn colorful circle as a print, a black sport shorts and light summer shoes. The sport shorts were a bit ironic as they didn’t look like they had seen any exercise in a long time. The added weight suits him though, Richard thought. He’d gone from a lanky adolescent to a plump and full young man. He’ll have to watch out nonetheless, if he’ll let go too much, his jolly belly might turn into a beer belly. The forest they were hanging out in was known for its beautiful full sequoia trees, luscious green fields in between and full of colorful and vibrant fauna and flora. Especially during spring you could hear the full concert of hundreds of birds and the complementing white noise of the wind rushing trough the treetops. Richard was raised in an Atheist household and was 99.9% sure there wasn’t an afterlife, but if there was one place he’d want to go to when he died, it was this place. “Must have been an hour or so ago”, he replied to his larger friend. Another beautiful thing about the “Forest of Heavenly Songs” as he’d started calling it, was the fact that almost no one came there. Something about not being close enough to the nearest Starbucks. Richard smirked to himself. Better that they keep their Social Media sewage water out of his forest. The fact that almost no one came here was something enjoyed by the rare jogger and hiker. But it was especially useful for another thing. “Should be kicking in then any moment now, right?” It was a paradise for psychonauts. Men, women and everyone in between using ancient herbs or modern, lab fabricated substances to reach different states of consciousness. Richard grinned to himself again. “Druggies” was a more commonly used and less whitewashed term. He looked around in the forest and remembered the first time they came here as young teenagers, to smoke their first joint. They ate through four bags of chips and couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous the frogs sounded. He was glad all of his friends were drawn to nature. He’d met some people who only smoked inside, blinds closed, gaming or watching stupid tv shows. He shuddered at the thought, took a swig of his water bottle and turned to Derek. “Yeah, not too long from now.” Derek nodded and took a swig as well. The thing that should be kicking in right about now were mushrooms. Not just any kind of mushrooms, but magic ones. Or at least that’s what everyone called them. It was actually very scientific, or at least chemical. The active components would bond to certain receptors in the brain and then… something made all areas of the brain work together, that wasn’t entirely understood, then again not a lot of research had been done on it. His face frowned together. No wonder, if it’s still illegal. He sighed and tried to let the thought wash away. Wasn’t there someone who said that any science we didn’t understand might as well be the same as magic. Huh, maybe they were in fact other-worldly. Semantics aside, that wasn’t why the both of them had bought the mushrooms. The description on the website stated that the fungi would “help you view things from another perspective”. A pretty vague description, Richard thought. Then again, he’d experienced something like that in a previous trip. He’d been having trouble with overcoming his overthinking. He’d already made great strides, but there was just something not clicking in his mind. Mushrooms had made that click possible. But like any skill, story or lesson, once learned, can always be forgotten. He looked at Derek staring off in the distance, no doubt waiting for the effects to come up. Both of them were at troublesome points in their life. Derek had changed universities and Richard was still dealing with the after effects of some nasty mental issues. Normally it wouldn’t be a great idea to take psychedelics in these circumstances, but he was stuck, Derek was stuck and a trip among good friends always made for an interesting story to tell. Derek suddenly got up and said; “I’m gonna take a piss and stretch my legs before they start kicking in, be right back.” He walked off to the nearest tree behind them, still a while away from the field they were sitting in. Richard waved him off and laid himself down on the green. He looked up to the sky to see if the clouds would take on any strange shapes. Still nothing, he sighed to himself and closed his eyes for a moment. “What was the name of the mushroom again?” he asked out loud to no one. Psilocybe Sensus , that was it! He smiled to himself as he felt a rush of warmth and comfort engulf his entire being. Speak of the devil… In the darkness of his eyelids, strange shapes began to take form, some geometric figures, some more anthropomorphic. He enjoyed them and let them continue to flow in his sight. After a while the shapes became brighter and brighter, until there was only a white canvas in front of his eyes. This is weird, my eyes are still closed right? He thought to himself, not feeling where his head began and his toes ended. He decided not to fight the visuals and instead stared at the canvas slowly becoming greener and greener. He suddenly could distinguish shapes again. It looks like…. A branch? Trees? But I’m nowhere near around…. He tried to rub his eyes but found his arms not responding. Oh shit, not nice. Was all his fragmented mind could come up with. Just breathe Richard, breathe. He blinked a few times to distinguish more clearly what he was looking at. Suddenly he saw his arms zip his pants up and stare down at the ground. Is that… a small belly I’ve suddenly got? What’s going on? His visage shifted uncontrollably to his raised arms, he was waving his hands in front of him and noticed the tracers of his fingers going in all manners of direction. “Hehe, guess it was about time” he heard Derek say. What on earth… I’m… inside Derek’s eyes. No this can’t be, I’m just hallucinating, projecting what’s happening to Derek. Oh God… Derek, it’s got to be kicking in with him as well, I have to find him! He tried all his might, but couldn’t even try to get up from the field. He just looked on, helpless as Derek was waving his hands in front of him, trying to touch the tree, which all of a sudden looked ten meters away, when he had just peed against it. “Brooo, this is some potent stuff” Derek said again. A branch cracked and Richard saw his vision swap to the right. He felt like Derek wanted to let a little shriek out, but found he could only gasp at what he was seeing. A deer was standing right next to him, eyeing him with a tilt of his head with those big black eyes. Richard could only imagine what was going through Derek’s mind right now, he could barely comprehend his own thoughts. They both knew you shouldn’t pet a deer, something about the mother not being able to recognize its calf’s smell. But this one was too big for a calf right? “I don’t know, I’m not a deer expert”, Richard heard Derek utter to himself. Jesus, their minds were synced now? The calf, or not-calf, didn’t seem to mind Derek, it even came closer and closer to him, even bowing his head in front of him. Richard saw his right hand going up and up, ever so slowly to touch the animal. When he made contact the deer flapped its ears for a second but then allowed Derek to continue. “You’re a sweet girl aren’t ya?” Derek said to the mammal. It shook its head slightly and Derek started to giggle. The deer looked up to see the peaceful, laughing face of the young adult, licked his and turned his head away. Richard saw his vision turn dark as Derek blinked in the first time since what felt like forever. When his eyes came to once more, the deer was standing at least twenty meters away, taking one last look at Derek before sprinting out of sight. The deer hadn’t made a sound, nor crackled any leaves up when Derek looked away. “Impossible” they both said. But the wetness of his hands and the fur on his clothes didn’t lie, he had just petted a deer. “Fuck, I gotta go check on Richard, tell him what happened” Richard saw his vision turn towards the field he was lying on and flashing back to a white canvas again. Suddenly he had control of his body again, and was staring up at the clouds. He got up to see Derek racing towards him with a smile as wide as the grand canyon on his face. “You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me!” he panted to Richard. Richard laughed and replied; “Before you say anything, shouldn’t you wash that saliva off your hands?” Derek’s jaw dropped as far as anatomically possible, at which they both started laughing like they were smoking their first joint again.


The inside of the restaurant made her gulp, standing in the doorway. But the host had already spotted her, and there was no backing out. There were waiters in nice pressed white shirts and black pants carrying covered platters around. She expected them all to have small mustaches, but was disappointed to find they all looked like normal people.

Her phone buzzed again. I’m at the table in the back. It's private. She grimaced a little, but ran a hand through her hair and took a breath. She needed to do this. Striding to the back, she looked around. He had sent her a picture of his face, she wasn’t stupid, but the restaurant was dark and it was hard to make out what people looked like. “Emily?” A man asked, approaching her. He had soft brown eyes and an easy smile. It helped that he was tall, taller than her in her heels, with tousled hair and well put together outfit. The only criticism she could have was that his face felt stretched across the bone, like it was too small compared to his skeleton.

“You must be Richard,” she said, smiling up at him.

He put a hand on her waist, causing her smile to flicker, but he kept it there, an ever steady presence, as he led her to a table tucked behind a half wall. She set her bag down slowly, her hands clasping around it like a safety blanket. He had already pulled a chair out for her, so she sat. “What do you want to order?” He leaned across the table, propping his chin up with one hand. She laughed in pure shock, covering her mouth with her hand. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.” “You seemed like someone who would look it up online to know exactly what to order when you got here.” She hesitated over the menu, her hand posed to pick it up. She had done exactly that. That was the type of person she was. But she picked up the menu and flipped it open, setting it on the table. “What would that say about me?” He had to sit up higher to see her over the menu. “That you’re practical.” “What do you suggest to eat?” Emily asked, trying to move past the analysis of her.

“The cordon bleu is really good if you would like a chicken dish, and the filet comes with an amazing sauce. They also have nice pasta dishes if you weren’t looking for meat tonight,” he said, lowering the menu she had set up and pointing them out.  He was just trying to help. He was just trying to show her the items. Another flash of that sweet smile was ice on her fraying nerves. He rubbed his cheek. One of the waiters pulled away from their route to talk to them. “Would you like the wine list? Or any appetizers to start?” “I would like one bottle of your finest red, ma’am,” Richard said.

Emily felt her face flush as she quickly waved her hands. “No need for that.” “It’s my treat.” She leaned over the table whispering away from the waiter. “But I won’t be able to afford my half of the bill.” “Your half? Where did you get the impression that you had to pay?” “I always pay half my bill on dates.” So guys didn’t think they were owed something from her. “I invited you to a nice dinner, I shall pay. I am not going to put you out this money, that’s not the gentlemanly thing to do.” Emily grit her teeth. “Fine.” The waiter, sensing tension, made herself scarce. Richard relaxed back into the seat, flashing her another one of his smiles with another rub of his cheek, the other one this time. “I must thank you for coming, I know most girls don’t make a habit of going out with their customers.” “It’s not common.” “How is the job? You always seem so chipper when I come in.” “It’s all part of the job.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “So you’re unhappy.” “I never said that.” Emily chose her next words very carefully. “It’s not everything I want out of life, but it gets me through the now.” “I could say the same thing about my job,” he said, sitting back and rolling his eyes.

“Where do you work again?” “Marketing.” “A lot of guys work in marketing around here.” He smiled. “It’s a big market.” The waiter came back with the bottle of wine, displaying it and pouring two glasses. Richard grabbed his glass, swirling it once, then took a drink from it. Emily picked hers up and just watched the dark red liquid floating inside.

“Do you know what you would like to order?” The waiter asked.

“The pasta primavera,” Emily said.

“The filet. And thank you, so much,” Richard said, quickly turning back to Emily. “Where are you from?”

“The Chicago area. Didn’t go to the city a lot, mostly stayed around it.” “And now you’re here? Far trip.” Emily offered a tight smile. “Needed to get away.” “I’m born and bred here. Whole family is still here too. Do you like a big family?” “Never had one, the family was so spread out. I guess it’d probably be fine.” Richard spread his arms wide. “You never need to meet them, a whole bunch of assholes, the lot.” Emily didn’t have a response to that. Richard was plowing ahead before she had the chance to formulate one.

“I guess what I really want to get to is the root of who Emily is. What does she like?” “Well I like cats over dogs, violets are my favorite type of flower, and I prefer tea over coffee.” “Violets are your favorite flower?” Richard asked, tilting his head to the side. “You looked more like a daisies girl.” “I used to like daisies, can’t anymore.” Richard tented his fingers on the table, staring her down. “Those aren’t the roots of you though.” “I guess I don’t feel comfortable sharing my roots on the first date. They aren’t things you need to know.” “Have you ever shared it with anyone though?” His soft eyes sparkled again, but she decided it was in a way that made a chill run through her body. “Friends, I guess.” “Never a romantic partner?” “None that have mattered.” “I think you are scared to open up. To reach out and find love again. How badly did he hurt you?” “What are you talking about?” “I think you have a complicated relationship with your mother, ever since your father died. I think you moved to get away from those feelings instead of facing it. I think you got a degree you hate so kept your college coffee shop job instead of looking for any real work. I think you dated a good man, who you pushed to the side because you weren’t ready for a real relationship.” Emily stared at Richard, where he stood, half folded over the table, panting. She saw red. “What the hell? Did Jared put you up to this? I told that little weasel to get out of my life. I knew it was too good to be true when you asked me out. My friends wanted me to get out there again, and what, you trick me because that jackass put you up to it?” She stood, grabbing her purse. “I’m not going through another second of this abuse. I’m done. Have a goodnight.” The entire way home was a blur. She got in the car and apparently started it because next thing she knew she was sitting in her driveway. She put it in park, tears rolling down her cheeks, staining her face. Three times now. Three dates that had gone poorly. She wondered if the other two had been set up by Jared too, they were both attractive men in marketing, she was just shocked that he had any friends willing to do it, or any friends at all. First the texts he had sent, now this? Maybe it was time to exit the dating scene entirely. She entered her home and immediately fell asleep.

But after a week of crying and throwing little pity parties, she put on a cute dress and dolled herself up, for no one but herself. There was a bookstore that just opened up on the corner that she wanted to go look at.

When she got there, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, there was a man in a sweater and jeans, holding out violets for her. “Can I ask you for a date?” He was a pretty man. Slick black hair and hazel eyes. The only problem she could see on him was his face drooped a little bit, like there was extra skin over the bones.


I was alone in the library when I heard the first scream. I had snuck off to take my own tour of the museum. Don’t get me wrong, the teachers were doing great--it was the students who were driving me insane. Sure, field trips and museum tours were probably lame for a senior in high school, but I was loving it. The museum made me feel like I was in Europe, and since I’d been dreaming to get out of Oklahoma my entire life, I was soaking it up. I had left my group and made my way to the ancient library when it all started. I was browsing through the shelves and admiring the heavy leather texts when I heard the sound that made everything go cold. Quietly but quickly, I made my way out of the library and toward the cafeteria. There hadn’t been any more screams. Is that a good or bad sign? I forced myself to go down the stairwell instead of running away. Everything in my body wanted to sprint the opposite way, but something in my gut was telling me to figure this out. Again, good or bad sign? I had to see where the scream came from. It wasn’t a playful scream like you’d be unsurprised to hear from high school students having a day away from classrooms. It was a scream of pain that slipped into a guttural cry by the end. I’d never heard anything like it, but I imagined it’s what dying animals sounded like. When I found the cafeteria, everything was quiet. Maybe the scream hadn’t come from here? Or maybe I’d imagined it? Maybe it *was* a dying animal- something had probably made its way into the museum from the outside and gotten itself trapped. I almost convinced myself, but that same gut feeling from before told me I needed to stay and watch this unfold. That’s when I understood the danger. There was no screaming, but it was completely silent. When I had walked past the cafeteria on my way to the library, I’d heard the usual sounds of students and friend groups as they ate and hung out during the lunch break. Now there was nothing. I made myself control my breathing as I felt my stomach making its way into my throat. I wanted to throw up, something was terribly wrong, but I couldn’t move from this spot. I had pressed myself against the wall and now I slowly moved to look around the corner into the cafeteria. The adrenaline pulsing through me got stronger and I felt like my entire body was moving with it. I moved until I had the cafeteria in full view. At first, it looked empty, but then I realized that all the students were in the wrong places--under the tables. Except for two. Two students were slowly walking down the center aisle of the room. They seemed...off. They were walking too slow, too calculated. There was something else too, but I couldn’t place it. I looked at the students under the table closest to me. One of them was staring at the two walking students, but the other was looking at me with wide, fearful eyes. I think she was shaking her head at me. *Was this a horror movie?* Suddenly, noise and movement erupted from the center of the room. One of the walking students had flipped a table with incredible ease. The other reached out and grabbed one of the hiding students and lifted him off the floor. Then, as easily as you’d move a bite of food to your mouth to eat it, he brought the student closer. And ripped his throat open. Now it was color’s turn to erupt. Bright red flashed almost instantaneously over the boy’s body. Everything moved in slow motion as I watched the liquid flow over his clothes and onto the floor. I looked up at his face. In the slowest moments in time, it changed from confused and panicked to completely empty. The blood stopped flowing from his throat and his body drooped, only held up by the arm of the attacker. Without so much as a breath, the attacker dropped the boy and his body hit the floor with a thud. Somehow, no one was screaming. The students under the tables weren’t moving. They were staring at the lifeless body of their classmate as it lay in the puddle of blood on the linoleum. I think we were all waiting for what was going to happen next, even though there’s no way any of us saw it coming. The two walking students hadn’t moved since the attack. The one who had flipped the table was standing cooly and looking around, except his eyes didn’t really seem like they were seeing anything. The other student was staring down at the pool of blood on the floor, his eyes also slightly out of focus. There was something extremely off about them, and I was clenching my jaw in an attempt to get my brain to work faster. I know I had noticed something, I just needed to make it clear. Then three things happened in the same instant. The lifeless body on the floor twitched. The attacker’s eyes came sharply into focus. And I realized a piece of what was happening.


“RED SUS!” “Nick you literally always say that! Just because I’m red,doesn’t mean I’m automatically sus!” I chuckled into my mic, leaning back in my office chair as the chaos unfolded in front of me. This was the third time I was crewmate since we started playing together, Nick and Jack always attacked each other with random susses that made no sense. But I mean, hey, it was funny to watch. I heard Kayla call my name. “Hey, why is Theresa so quiet?” My finger pushed down CTRL, “I’m just listening to what other people have to say.” “Hmmmm.” “Nick I swear don’t you even.” Jay laughed, “Theresa is always quiet, we can’t just sus her out for that.” “Thank you.” Their discord icons popped in and out of my screen as the talked. We had a small lobby today, me, Jay, Nick, Jack, Kayla, Mack (who was muted because she died) and I. That meant only one imposter. I was usually a smart player, so I tended to be quiet. Gathering information was critical. As I listened to them bantering back and forth I tried to put the pieces together in my head. Mack's body was in electrical, no surprise there. Who had I last seen coming from there? Nick had reported the body and was, of course, automatically sussing Jack out. I had made my rotation, doing my tasks in 02 and cafeteria. The card swipe had be stuck for a minute, and I hadn’t entered electrical yet, but I know I had seen someone going in there. Think Theresa think. I tried to make my brain work but I could get the image to focus in my head. Coming back to earth, I cracked my knuckles, and did what I was best at. Listening. Nick was the loudest. “I’m telling you, I saw Jack go into electrical in the beginning, the body could be old, it has to be him!” “I went in at the beginning and I was with Kayla for the rest of the round!” Kayla’s voice was overshadowed, but she managed to get a few words in. “I mean I can partially vouch for Jack, but he could just be marinating me.” “EXACTLY.” About halfway through their argument the gears in my head started turning, bits of information clicking together to form some kind of conclusion. Unfortunately for me, Nick must’ve been doing that same thing. “Theresa you believe me right? We have to vote him out it’s obviously him!” I sighed, trying to think. “Do you have any solid evidence?” “Yes! I saw him go in and I didn’t go back to electrical until later and I don’t think anyone else did either so he was the only person that could’ve gone in and killed Mack.” I felt the need to argue. “Unless it was a vent kill, they could’ve easily killed her and gone to medbay, going back to right side, completely unnoticed.” “No, I swear, it’s Jack, he isn’t standing at the tasks long enough, he doesn’t have a visual, and overall he’s just a very naturally sus person.” I hear Jack knock something over. “I take that to personal offense.” They laughed. Jack tried to speak again but Nick cut him off. “Theresa trust me, you’re smart, and you can probably tell when I’m lying, plus we all know that it’s not me because I scanned.” He was starting to convince me. He was right, he had scanned, and he wasn’t lying. My mouse hovered over the voting button, and that’s when I realized how quiet Jay was being. My head finally put the pieces together, Jay never talks when he’s imposter, and he’s ridiculously smart. He would just let Nick and Jack have it out and slip under the radar. I had seen him coming out of medbay, he’d stuck with me the rest of the time, probably to gain my trust. But I knew better. I moved my hand and voted for, “Carl”. “Nick, you know I trust you, but you have to trust me. It’s Jay.” Jays defense was almost immediate, “I was with you the whole time! It couldn’t have been me!” “No actually you weren’t with me the whole time, and you weren’t doing tasks. Which explains it. I saw you coming out of medbay, and you’ve been abnormally quiet, you’re smart, so you thought you could just let us get lost in the chaos. But, unfortunately for you, I’m also smart, and I know how you pay.” He had no words. Nick sighed, “But I really thought that it was Jack, this is so disappointing.” I heard the clicks of everyone voting, smiling to myself. This was probably why people never invited me to play with them, I figured it out way too easily for their liking. We ejected Jay, I was, of course, correct. We all rejoined the lobby, “I hate it when you know things.” I laughed, Jay and I had a running contest of how many times we could figure out when each other was the imposter. So far, I was the one winning. By seven games might I add. “What can I say, you’re too easy.” Nick whispered into his mic, “Y’all I still kinda think red is sus though.” We all yelled at him. “RED IS NOT SUS STOP IT.” Laughing to ourselves I cracked my knuckles again as the timer went off, I was warmed up, and my game was strong. I continued to win the rest of the games we played, much to their hate, I murdered them all, and witnessed murders. Nick calling Jack sus the whole time. As we were about to get off, Jay private messaged me. What’s that catch phrase you like to use when you win a lot of games in a row? I grinned, I hadn’t been able to use it on anyone in a while. I was glad he reminded me, this was going to be fun. Well, maybe more for me then them. Got em.


You’re sitting on a linen sofa, looking at a painting on the wall that depicts a young boy with blond, curly hair dressed in his Sunday’s best, posing against a doorframe. His face is turned to show its left half. Surrounding you are cherry wood cupboards and stands with 19th-century lamps, windows clothed in floral curtains, an electric chandelier overhead, and to your side, a tall mirror on top of the crested hearth.     Voices buzz from the adjoining room, but you’ve sequestered yourself alone in here because you wanted another look at the invitation letter. In your hands sits a brown envelope, sealed with a green wax stamp of the same crest on the hearth, and inside, there’s a single piece of laid paper.     In an old English font, it reads, ‘You are hereby invited to the Whitlock manor for a dinner celebration of the new moon. The doors open at 9 p.m. Please wear your finest clothing, and we hope you’ll enjoy the party,’ signed by Molly Whitlock.     Having lived in Whitlock Hills for most of your life, you’ve heard about this new moon celebration before. Your town sits atop a wooded hillside, sheltered from the outside world, truly alone. Yet, when the night grows dark, and you look out at the mountain’s base, you see lights from other settlements, building towers that reach into the sky.     Many, including you, are curious to see what those places are like, but since the last car broke down forty years ago, there’s no means to escape Whitlock Hills—except for the new moon celebration.     Seeing the youth’s curiosity, the wealthy Whitlock family organizes this event every thirty days and lends its resources to send a few people away on a trip. How lucky you feel to finally have the chance at that.     Your sister participated in the event a few months ago as well, and she’s still out there exploring the world, so it must be a wonderful place out there.     After putting the letter back in its envelope, you rise from the sofa and walk into the other room. Inside, amidst striped wallpaper, a display cabinet saturated by ceramics, and an antique carpet under your feet, is the host of guests. Apart from you, three other people have been invited, and they’re conferring amongst each other. While you recognize their faces, you don’t really know them that well, so you stay off to the side, quietly waiting until the event starts.     Suddenly, unannounced, strangers start funneling into the room. Unlike your casual white T-shirt and jeans, they are dressed in blouses or tunics with tight vests scrunching up the chest, paired with dress pants or skirts based on gender. But even more peculiar are the black eye masks they don while their hair is tucked away in brown coifs.     The other guests go silent, watching the mysterious figures fill the room, cluster into groups, and start their own conversations. None of them address you or another guest. Then, upon the last masked face taking their place, a woman appears in the opening.     Her face looks gaunt, cheekbones poking out and eyes bulging from their sockets. A black boater hat rests just above her brows, a curtain of blond hair combed straight down the back of her head. Her black-gloved hands hang still in front of the pleaded skirt from her blue dress, puffed up at the shoulders.     She bows and says, “Welcome, everyone, to another new moon celebration. I hope you’ll have a pleasant night.”     The masked people suddenly start applauding rapidly and vigorously. The other guests follow along, so you do it as well.     “Now.”     The applause abruptly stops, and you lag behind a second. With a mellow grin, the lady’s eyes find you, then the three guests next to you.     “Some of you aspire to venture out of this town, am I correct? I can understand; there’s a lot to explore, but the world isn’t as welcoming as you might think. So, before you run off into trouble, I want to make sure you’re prepared.”     From a pocket in her skirt, she grabs a red mask and puts it on.     “In the outside world, there are a lot of topics that are taboo to talk about. I know that, within our little community, people like to tell it how it is, but when you’re elsewhere, you must know when to mind your manners and hold your tongue.”     She steps to the side, clearing the entrance.     “Breaking such a faux pas is a mistake you don’t want to make.” Her arm presents itself to her side. “Hereby, I would like to introduce my son, Jonathan Whitlock.”     A young man steps forward from around the corner, blond locks curling from his head, a face much rounder and fuller than his mother’s. He appears to be at the end of his teenage years, yet still wears a sailor’s shirt and shorts, fidgeting from their awkward fit.     “Please treat him kindly tonight, and I will grant you your wish for freedom.”     Someone in the group beside you leans to their friend, whispering, “So, is that Molly Whitlock?”     “I think so.”     Ms. Whitlock raises her arms and shouts, “Let the night commence!” before she booms two claps through the room.     As if rehearsed, the masked people start turning and darting around randomly, scrambling you and the guests apart like debris in a storm. Swept up in the current and pushed around, you end up in a corner, a man and woman flanking you, wrinkled smiles sitting below their masks.     “Do you know how the alphabet goes?” the man says.     “I’m sorry?” you reply, unsure if you heard him correctly.     “The alphabet,” the woman whispers. “Could you tell us how it goes?”     “Uhm… A, B, C…” You stop yourself, feeling ridiculous at having to dictate it out loud, but the expressions of the masked pair don’t change. They stare at you with raptured interest. So, you continue. “D, E, F, G.”     As you hum the melody you’ve been taught as a child, your ears pick up the voice of another guest nearby.     “Four, five, six, seven.” They’re counting numbers, also for a captivated mask duo.     “J, K, L, M…” You stop momentarily when you spot Ms. Whitlock’s son, Jonathan, walking towards the young girl who was also invited.     You stare at his smooth face, thinking about how soft his skin looks, when something strange happens. On his right cheek, a fold begins to appear, then two more above it, right next to each other. A bulge of skin pokes out and grows further until it becomes a slope, and when the slits open, they reveal a row of teeth and two sets of eyes. There’s a face, a second face, on Jonathan’s cheek.     “Good afternoon,” Jonathan says to the girl.     “Uh—h-hey,” she replies, her eyes unsure where to look.     “Do you like it here in our house?”     “Get in my bed with me!” the second face yells. “Can’t sleep anywhere else, only on the floor!”     You and the girl jump, shocked by that sudden, shrill voice. The masked woman of the pair then tilts her head at you and says, “Could you continue the alphabet, please?”     Having forgotten where you left off, you start back from the beginning. “A, B, C, D.” Meanwhile, you tilt to the side to watch Jonathan’s conversation.     “Is something wrong?” he says, leaning forward a little with his neck, which is followed by the other face shouting, “Kiss me, sexy lady! I know you want to!”     “Just uh… surprised,” the other girl says through a tremble.     “What for?”     “Well…” Halfway between a smile and a frown, she glances around the room, looking for something or maybe someone. “I don’t know if I should say.”     “Why not? You can tell me.”     “I think it would be rude.”     “There are no guest rooms, so let me grab those boobs!”     The girl backs away into the wall, and Jonathan immediately pursues, grabbing both her hands and gently raising them up between them. “Trust me. If it’s anything I can help with.”     “The uh…” You see her neck bulge and contract from a gulp. “That face on your cheek, the things it’s saying… they make me uncomfortable.”     Instantly, Jonathan’s face levels out, a hollow expression, before he steps back and mumbles, “That is indeed rude.”     Two pairs of hands emerge from the other room and grab her by her arms. She yelps out, “No!” but then they yank her back through the entryway, and in an instant, she’s gone. You hear her shrill screams fade into the distance—where you can’t make out, just gone.     Your heart starts to race, a loud thumping pushing on your eardrums.     One of the remaining guests leaps back and yells, “What the fuck!” which causes a masked man to face him. He shakes his head, saying, “No, fuck this,” and he runs out of the room. No one does anything to stop him.     The front door clicks open before you hear a loud and abrupt thud, quickly followed by the guy’s high-pitched cries, slowly smothered by a heavy groaning until a wet splat marks a stop to it. The door then creaks shut.     The room is dead silent. You and the last guest exchange glances, his face frozen solid, your own going sore from the high tension.     Breaking the hush, you hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice ring from several rooms over.     “Dinner is ready!”     “Ooo, dinner!” With an excited clangor to his voice, Jonathan rushes out of the room and into another. The masked people calmly follow after him.     Now alone, the other guest slinks to you and whispers, “Do you think we can get out?”     “I don’t know.” You go over to a window and tug at its handle, but it won’t budge. A lump swells in the back of your throat, causing your voice to shake. “I think we’re stuck here.”     “What now?”     Thinking back on what Ms. Whitlock said, you reply, “Be polite… and ignore the face.”     “Oh, dear guests! Will you join us?”     A sudden chill washes over the air following Molly’s words, and you know—instinctively—that you need to arrive at the table. It cannot wait, so you walk over and turn to the left, entering the dining room, red walls on every side while a long table faces you, filled with plates, dotted with candle stands.     “Please, take a seat,” Ms. Whitlock says from the table’s head. Jonathan sits at her side, gorging on meatballs drowned in red sauce, and the only spots left are right in front of him.     Carefully, you sit down, making sure not to draw his attention, placing your arms softly on the table and keeping your eyes on your plate. The same meal is before you, bubbles bulging and popping from the dressing like magma. Your stomach cramps up, struggling to hold everything inside.     “Not hungry?” Ms. Whitlock asks you.     “No, I’m fine,” you say, barely able to draw enough breath. “I already ate before coming.”     “You ate before the celebration?”     Masked heads turn towards you, their eyes shadowed under the sockets.     “N-no, I mean—I-I’m sorry—”     “Fat fuck can’t stop eating!” Jonathan’s other face makes you falter for a second, the pressure of everyone’s gazes becoming heavier.     “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” you quickly blurt out. “My cousin came over, happy about me receiving the invitation. Dad made some soup for us and-and I didn’t want to turn it down, so… I’m sorry if that was rude of me.”     “Not at all,” Ms. Whitlock hums, a smile twitching across her face. “That’s fine, deary. Thank you for explaining yourself.”     Letting your chest sink, you carefully smile back.     “Your dad sucks! Mine cooks way better than yours!”     The little face’s whiny voice attracts your eyes for only a moment, but when you return to Ms. Whitlock, her grin wanes. After glancing at her son in turn, she asks, “Is there something you want to say to Jonathan?”     He looks up from his plate, gawking at you with wide eyes.     “No,” you say. “I was just looking around.”     “Are you sure? It’s rude to lie to people.”     “It’s because I’m tired. I usually go to bed around this time, so…”     “Oh, do you want some rest before leaving for the outside world? That’s fine. We’ll prepare some beds for you.”     “Not my bed!” The little face cries.     “That’s all right,” you say, pushing yourself and the chair back, glancing at the other guest next to you. “I think we’ll go home and travel the world another time.”     “It’s really not a bother,” Ms. Whitlock pouts, shaking her head. “We have a room ready right now.”     “I thought there weren’t any guest rooms,” the other survivor stutters.     You nod along, your jaw rattling. “Yeah, and we don’t want to be a bother.”     Following your words, the table remains quiet while the masked people turn their heads forward. The room becomes hot, and it feels like you can’t breathe—that the air is gone.     “No guest rooms…” Ms. Whitlock’s voice drops to a low purr. “Where did you hear that?”     “From…” The guy stops abruptly, shock spreading through his face right before his eyes jerk to Jonathan.     All of a sudden, your neighbor is sucked under the table in a blur, so fast as if something grabbed his legs and pulled him with the strength to rip open trees. You barely hear the start of a yell when he’s gone from your sight. You look down under the table but only see a dark stain on the carpet slowly withering away.     “What was that about a guest room?” Ms. Whitlock asks.     You straighten and see her gaze latched onto you like a pit bull’s bite, the languid grin constant and unmoving.     “Nothing,” you stutter, barely any strength in your voice.     Sprouting a brighter smile, Ms. Whitlock leans over and grabs your hand resting on your chest, planting it on the table underneath her own. Then, her other hand reaches to stroke across your arm.     “Don’t be nervous, sweetie. You’ve done well and remained polite; just let us get rid of your fatigue, and you’ll be off to new places in no time.” Despite your body wanting to tear itself away from this woman—this house—the gentle touch of her fingers trailing across your skin causes a numbing heat to throb through your body, her sultry whispers tickling your ears. “Won’t you stay over for a quick rest?”     You fail to answer, too swept up by the sudden pleasantness of her presence, a nice, warm fire for the chill you’ve been suffering from.     “Won’t you prepare a room for our dear guest, my boy,” she says to her son.     “But I’m still eating.”     “I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, Jonathan.”     The clatter of a fork falling on a plate scratches at your ears, but you lack the motivation to look over at Jonathan. He must be standing up, retiring to the entrance hall before ascending the stairs. That’s your guess… since you’d rather bask in this hot glow some more.     It makes you sluggish. Listless. For a moment, you forget what happened and think about nothing—true serenity.     Then, someone sneezes, and instinctively—because it’s the polite thing to do—you utter, “Bless you.”     Ms. Whitlock’s hands are pulled back, torn from your arm, leaving you in dreadful solitude, and when you look up at her, you see apathy in its most graphic sneer. It makes your head spin with nausea and constricts your chest until it stings.     “Bless who?” she says.     Her question stirs in your mind until you glance at Jonathan, and it finally settles in. He’s coolly staring at you while his second face is twisted in an evil smirk.     You addressed it.     “Bless who?” Ms. Whitlock repeats. “Remember, it’s rude to lie.”     With each passing second, you feel the space around you wither as if a claw is slowly curling in on you. For a moment, you think about answering, ‘Nobody, I must be hearing things,’ but something tells you it’s already too late.     Instead, you jump out of your seat, run out of the room, and into the entrance hall. Right ahead is the front door, offering freedom so close by, but then you remember the horrible sounds when it was opened and the scream that followed.     You turn and rush up the steps to a hallway of doors.     “Don’t be rude now.” You hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice echo from downstairs, gradually growing louder.     Desperate, you try the first door you see, and it opens without a fight. However, once you step inside, it immediately closes behind you, and when you try the handle again, it's locked in place like stone. With a twist at the bottom of your stomach, you slowly turn around, and… a few feet away, you see a human skull sitting on a wooden stand.     You carefully step closer, noticing that something else sits before the skull. It’s a clumped ball of chains, and once you pick it up, the bundle unfurls into a silver necklace adorned by a star pendant.     The same pendant your sister wore.     A hand lands on your shoulder, cold to the touch like steel, squeezing at your flesh firm enough that you know it could shatter your bones. Then, another one takes your other shoulder, holding you in place with absolute certainty. Gathering what little courage you have, you turn your eyes to the side and gently twist your head to see.     A row of pointed, black fingers drape over you like icicles, their tips nudging at your skin. Unable to sense the beating of your heart anymore, you try to look back further at what’s behind you, but then you are thrust away into an endless darkness, and with the abruptness of a twig snapped in two… everything goes silent.


The window was like a massive painting of a tulip armory in pink and yellow helmets facing their three commanders - windmills made tiny by the distance. The sky blue melted into grey, tinted by tangerine. This eight-bedroom country house inn made of 1900s red bricks oddly stood amidst the vast meadow of endless green, dotted with pink, yellow, and some purple and red bits.

William marveled at the view that he would wake up to for the next thirty days or so and hoped he’d finish his draft by then with the inspiring vista. He arranged his few pairs of shirts and pants into the cupboard and placed his laptop, some books, pen, and notebooks on the working desk, directly facing the natural cinema as the slowly-setting-sun brushed his room golden. He went down to the bar on the ground floor called Harod’s and was welcomed by a pesky fly. ‘Hello?’ He called. His voice echoed from somewhere in the deep. He nervously walked in. Apart from the sound of his breathing and occasional humming of the fridge, the place was silent as a tomb.  ‘Hi, have you been waiting for a while?’ A man darted from the door behind the bar counter. ‘I just came in. Can I have whiskey on the rocks?’ ‘Of course, have a seat.’ William settled on the high stool at the bar counter and watched his private bartender, a blonde guy with very light eyebrows and mustache on his egg-shaped face, pour that mahogany-colored liquid on a rock glass with three cubes of ice. ‘Am I alone here? I don’t see anyone.’ William looked around the bar then back to his bartender. ‘Ah,’ the bartender waved his hand.‘ You’ll see them a bit later. ‘Shall I switch on the music for you?’ ‘Sure, thanks.’ The bartender went to the back of the house, and the music started playing. William smiled upon hearing the first song. He wasn't expecting to hear such a mesmerizing French song in a place where you think you'd randomly see the Godfather. He expected to hear some pop or alternative or even metal music in a bar with red leather couches, wooden elements, a billiard table on one side, and a darts board on the other. Random sports figures portraits hung on the walls and a framed boxing glove stood on top of a shelf, a priceless jewel in an alcoholic museum. La Vie En Rose evoked some familiar feeling, but he could not figure out precisely what. Like a memory of a past life, sitting in the middle of a garden with a transistor radio on, watching rose petals fall one by one, slowly into the ground.  It confused him and raised questions about whether it really happened or it was just a story he created in his mind. It happened a lot with him in the past. He mixed up his reality with the stories he wrote. He looked at the slowly melting ice on the glass and swirled the whisky. He looked at his phone and checked his newsfeed. That’s the last day he could check social media before his phone would be chucked inside a box until he gets his manuscript done. At least that was the plan. He heard people coming in and settling themselves in the bar. The bartender wasn’t private for him anymore. Drinks were poured and served one after the other. Laughter filled Harrod's. The bar was suddenly a happening place. Strawberry and mint-flavored smoke contaminated the air fused with the aroma of sizzling Buffalo wings. William fell into the depths of social media black hole, and by the time he realized this online indulgence, he already had three glasses of whiskey, and his stomach grumbled. He looked at the menu and asked for a beef burger which was served after twenty minutes. He took bites of the juicy medium-well patty tucked between the buns and lettuces and tomatoes. He left social media some time ago and rummaged through the New York Times articles before his subscription ends for no payment in hopes of getting additional ideas for his novel. He wondered what story he would come up with, although his concept was already there—life, death, flowers, and rebirth. The flowers part came in after seeing the view from his bedroom window. William could eat massively, but his interactive metabolic system never allowed his body to show evidence. He felt heavy and sleepy with his skin and bones and burger and whiskey and decided to head back to his room. ‘Thanks, Carl,’ he handed the bill he signed and finally found out the bartender’s name on his bill. He stood up slowly and turned his back on Carl. The brightly lit bar seemed dark. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, thinking he was clouded by the whiskey. He opened his eyes and confirmed what he initially saw. The bar was filled with shadows. Shadows sitting on the tables. Shadows smoking cigars. Shadows playing cards. Shadows playing billiards on the far end of the bar. Shadows wearing suits. Shadows, everywhere. He looked back at Carl, who stood there smiling as if he already expected William’s reaction. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘You haven’t noticed until now?’ Carl asked back. William realized he was sitting amidst the crowd of shadows all those hours he spent with his eyes on his phone. He gave a questioning look at Carl. Carl served him another glass of whiskey. ‘That’s on the house. You might need it. Have a seat, once again.’ He took a swig, and the coffee-colored liquid traveled quickly down. It was warm inside. But his back shivered. Carl leaned forward. He was so close to William’s face he could feel his breath. ‘These shadows,’ he whispered, ‘were the shadows of the people who sold their souls to the devil.’ Carl sounded like a wizard passing down a curse. William felt all the hair in his body stood up. His body froze, but his heart pumped faster than ever; he thought it would pop out of his chest. ‘The shadow is automatically cut from the body once the owner sells his soul to the devil.’ William thought, who sells their soul to the devil? And as if Carl read his mind. ‘A lot of people sell their souls. Those who are in despair and have nothing more to lose. Those who can only think of two things - do or die.’ William thought of his desperate times when he lost his wife to his friend because he was so busy writing his novel that sold not more than a hundred copies while his wife found affection from someone else. On lonely nights he wanted to die in his dark house, wanting never to see the light again. They said when you dream, dream high because it's free. And that's what William did. Little did he know that he had to pay a very high price for chasing after his ambition. ‘They stay here for as long as their owner is alive. And once the owner dies, the shadow perishes quietly and dissolves into the eternal darkness.’ ‘Where do they live?’ ‘Here,’ answered Carl, his arms spread wide. ‘They were here all along.’ William wondered. It was dead quiet when he entered the bar at sunset. Again, as if reading his mind, Carl spoke, ‘you only see the shadows in the night. They are nowhere to be found during daytime.’ 'So, this is like a purgatory?' William asked. 'Hmmmm. More like a waiting room.' Carl's tone was that of a Real Estate Sales Man, showing a property to a potential buyer. ‘But, how can shadows know how to smoke or play billiards or drink?’ He remembered earlier, Carl mentioned orders even before the customers placed them. He interacted with them the way a bartender normally does to human beings hence, William thought the bar was filled with regular 'human' clients. He was just too busy looking at his phone earlier to not notice the bizarre situation around him. ‘They carry all the memories of their owner up until the day they were cut off,’ Carl said. ‘So they do the things their owners did, they mimic them.’ William’s vision started to spin; he suddenly felt vertigo that he never had. ‘And how’d they find their way here?’ he asked Carl. Carl grinned. His face was blurring in William’s vision. ‘Same way you did.’


I am used to the chemical smell in the air. We all are. We all have to be. It coats our throats and hurts when we breath, but we fight through it. There simply aren’t enough gas masks to go around. We don’t have a choice. We need food. We need wood to keep the furnaces going.

Without the precious logs that others bring in, we would all freeze to death in the only thing keeping us safe from the disastrous elements. The bunker.

My red hoodie and black gloves protect me from the dangerous plants. Fungi coated in poisonous slime. Flowers that bite. Countless things that have been forever changed by the damaged environment around them.

I carry an ax in one hand.

A burlap sack in the other.

My mother warned me that I wasn’t old enough to be going into the toxic woods without a mask. That my body couldn’t protect me from the radiation. That I wasn’t strong enough to fend off all the other creatures lurking between the deformed trees.

But today even my mother agreed that I had no choice.

We recently lost two of our people. We don’t know what happened to them. We only know that they didn’t come back.

We are already short on people as it is.

So now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to harvest.

I cover my mouth and nose with the red fabric of my tattered hoodie. It filters out some of the chemicals in the air. Not all, but enough that it makes a difference.

I walk into the woods. Toward the center, where we started collecting years ago. The clearing in the center is filled with tree trunks and felled branches too small to be of any use to us. I approach a tree.

The tree has a greenish tint to it. It’s all sharp corners and jutting branches. Not healthy by any means. I take my ax in both hands, dropping my sack onto the too-bright grass. I swing. I cut into the tree, revealing the live green wood inside. Another chop.

These trees are fragile and weak. Easy to chop through. Within three swings of my ax, the tree is toppling over. It lands with a crash onto the ground. I chop some more, near the base to get the thickest logs, and chop it into smaller pieces.

I leave the leaf covered tree top on the ground to decompose into the soil, only throwing the chopped up bits of it’s base into my sack. Thanks to the poor condition of the trees, they burn through so much faster. The thin branches are no good. We leave them behind to prevent them from taking up precious space in our bags.

I am felling another tree when I hear something. A rustling in the branches. I spin on the balls of my feet, swinging my ax in front of me. My eyes dart side to side, examining the dark spaces between the trees. At first I see nothing. Then I hear it again. Branches crunching underfoot. Right ahead of me.

I press my back against the tree. It groans as I push against it’s fresh cut. I worry that it my fall just from the pressure I am putting on it.

Branches shift and crack as whatever is moving in the trees comes closer. I crouch down and prepare to pounce at the thing. My thighs start to burn while I wait until I can see the thing in the woods.

Finally a shape begins to make itself known. As it comes into view, I let myself relax, standing and letting my ax fall to my side.

The man approaching me is a familiar one. He wears a matching red hoodie, his more stained and torn up then mine. He also carries an ax and a sack identical to mine. He is another member of the group sent out to collect wood today. He startles when he sees me.

“Gosh, Tom, you scared me! Maybe announce yourself next time? I could’ve killed you!”

He scoffs as if I’ve insulted him. “Sure you could’ve. What are you doing out here anyway, Scar? I thought your mamma wouldn't let you out.” I roll my eyes. “Had to. Synthia and Craig didn’t come back last night.” “Poor guys.” He looks sad, but not distraught, although they were friends of his. We can’t afford to mourn in our situation. We simply don't have time for it. “Anyway, get out of here. This is my spot.” He looks like he is maybe going to argue, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply moves on, disappearing in the trees. I can hear him whistling as he walks away, trying in what little ways he can to brighten up the depressing woods.

I finish chopping down the trees. I fill my bag all the way to the brim.

I wipe the sweat off my brow, proud of myself for completing my first harvest so well. I tie the bag closed and try to lift it.

Too heavy.

I can’t, no matter how hard I try, seem to get it more than a foot off the ground. I sigh, the pride I felt for a job well done dissipating as I untie the bag. I cringe with every piece of precious wood that I throw into a pile behind me. I try to focus on the fact that I’ll at least have some pre-cut wood ready to collect tomorrow. That will save some time. I hope.

I end up having to dump half the bag onto the forest floor. It pains me to look at the wasteful pile of wood, even if I know that I can come back and get it soon enough. Maybe even today. I retie the bag and throw it over my shoulder. I am more disappointed in my weak arms then anything else. My mom was right. I’m not strong enough to be doing this yet. I hadn’t spent long enough training for spending any sort of time outside the bunker.

Everyone else had spent twice as much time as I had in the make-shift gym we have in the bunker to earn the right to leave.

I walk through the woods, try to push through my already shaking arms. Pathetic. I’m pathetic. The thought repeats itself over and over again in my head. As I walk. I keep my eyes on the ground, watching to make sure I don’t trip over any roots or branches.

Branches crush behind me. “I’m not in the mood for company, Tom.” I shout over my shoulder.

He doesn’t respond though. He just keeps walking.

“Seriously. Go away.” Still nothing.

Frustrated with being ignored, I toss my bag to the ground and turn, fully prepared to chew him out for not listening to me.

What I see behind me isn't Tom. Not at all.

A rabid dog stares me down. Foam drips from its black lips while it stalks toward me. The ax slips from my hand while I stare the dog in the eyes, trying to convince it to back down. To leave me alone.

It growls. It doesn't seem to like the eye contact. It crouches down on it's front legs, it's tail raised in the air behind it. And then it pounces.


Some people go crazy when they get laid off. A lot of companies see a dip in profits, because the demand for their services goes down. It’s not always in their control. But they keep their heads above water with a simple equation: the number of orders equals the number of staff. So when the demand goes down, turnover always goes up. It’s really that simple. X equals y. Whoever they can afford to lose to keep themselves afloat, they cut. It’s a kind of amputation with no anesthetic for some of the people they let go. They put *years* of time and effort into their jobs and build themselves up. Day in and day out, they prove themselves not only worth keeping, but worth going up the corporate ladder. They believe that enough hard work would give them just rewards. But that isn’t in the equation. A simple x equals y doesn’t care, and the realization hits hard. Imagine this. You get a job in an office like plenty of other middle-class people. You value doing your best every single day. You’re new, so you don’t have a good reputation, or any at all for that matter. But that’s fine. That doesn’t matter because you can *show* people what you’re made of. It’s not a six-figure gig or anything glamorous, but you’re grateful to have it. You’re thankful because it lets you pay the bills, feed your family, and even be comfortable. Weeks of repetitive work go by. The labor gets under your skin occasionally, but you don’t let it become a bother. It’s tiring giving extensive overtime, but the paychecks are worth it. Knowing that life is stable drives you to keep going. Months pass. Having food on the table is never a question. Paying all the bills on time and pocketing a little something for yourself isn’t a problem. People take notice of you. They see your performance is above average, but that’s being modest. They know you’re excellent as an employee, and so do you. After all, the managers share the performance reports with you for your evaluations. You’re there for a couple years now. The quality of your work hasn’t dipped much. Coworkers go to you with their questions when management is right next to them. Talk of a possible promotion goes your way. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s clear that you deserve it. The promotion to lead isn’t something huge, but you’re beginning to step up the ladder. Confidence is growing inside you. You go to work every day with a smile on your face. A goal was achieved: you never stopped proving yourself. It was only a matter of time before management congratulated you on the promotion. The job becomes a piece of who you are. And that because it isn’t just a job anymore. It’s a career, and a future looks promising. You deserve it. Your spouse knows it because of all the overtime given to feed the family. Your kids know it because there’s a growing college fund, and it’d get bigger at a faster pace from here. One morning, the boss comes to your desk with a grin. He shakes your hand. He tells you how happy he is to promote you to a team lead. Your eyes brighten with excitement. There was no way to be prepared for how soon the day would come. The family’s excited. They’re thrilled to see how happy you are. Years go by still. You’re well adjusted to the new role at work. Bosses tell you they can depend on you. The worker bees love you. But one day, not even half an hour after finishing a long shift, there’s a phone call. You don’t know the number off hand but pick up anyway. The voice on the other end says not to go to work tomorrow. The company no longer needs your services. Those words hit you like a brick dropping on your skull. Clearly there’s a misunderstanding. You just didn’t hear that right. The person on the other end confirms. The company no longer needs your services. Do *not* go to work tomorrow. Tears well up. Your spouse hears the sobs and asks what’s wrong. It’s terrifying to process, let alone tell the truth. But what’s the point in lying? You don’t have the heart to put up a façade. Days pass and you still don’t have a job. Bills are right around the corner. You look back at your bank history, realizing how careless spending was. You feel like a failure. You start asking why they cut you just like that. If having you wasn’t worth it, why didn’t they address the problem? But another realization hit. Those slimy bastards never intended on keeping you. They only wanted to squeeze you dry until a little dip in profits showed up. You apply for tens of jobs online every day, but nobody bites. Food is running out, and bills are piling now. Perhaps you see why some people go crazy when they get laid off. I sympathized pretty quickly when that scenario happened to me, but I kept my cool. The best thing to do was keep my chin up and never stop looking forward. Cracking under pressure wasn’t going to feed my wife or kids. It was ironic how one day, a promotion came walking down my path, and just as unexpectedly, so did the threat of eviction. I had to solve the problem, and *fast.* But I realized something else. Some people got taken back to the same companies after getting laid off. So that was my new plan of action. And what better way than prove myself that I was worth keeping? In the morning, I showed up like in the first interview. I wore a crisp, clean suit, hair was well-groomed, and face shaved down to the skin. The one difference? My same briefcase for work was in hand. I wasn’t ready to give up on my career, and the bosses would see that. It felt great to walk down the parking lot and to my building like in the old days. Other staff recognized me and asked how I was. I told them great, because I was coming back. They were delighted to hear the news. The only problem was that I obviously didn’t have my new badge yet. It was against company policy for security reasons, but they scanned their badges to get in and let me piggyback. Somehow, my desk was still empty. I figured they would’ve found someone else to fill the void, but it was nice to know I was wrong. The plan wasn’t even talking to the boss. In fact, it was much easier than that. I set my briefcase on the desk and *clicked* the latches open. And from inside the briefcase, the homemade poison gas emitted, and spread throughout the room.


CASSODAY	40 MILES EL DORADO	60 MILES WICHITA 90 MILES They had been in the car for over an hour already and, besides Jeff asking Adrian if he was ready to go after they stopped for gas on their way out of town, they hadn’t spoken the whole ride. With each passing mile marker, with each destination sign, taunting him with how close they were nearing home, Jeff felt his heartbeat increasing, his palms growing sweaty, his stomach churning. Even his neck was hurting for all the times he had turned to glance at Adrian, waiting for either Adrian or himself to start speaking. But nothing ever happened. The thought that they would arrive in Wichita with nothing to show for all their time together made Jeff want to scream, and he began to doubt if the last hour and a half of the ride would be enough to change his life.

Jeff partly felt he shouldn’t have been surprised at this turn of events, or lack thereof. Although they were in the same friend group, Jeff sometimes felt like he and Adrian never actually talked. Mostly Jeff felt like he didn’t know how to start a conversation with Adrian. Whenever they did have a few moments together to chat, just themselves, Jeff felt the pressure of his unrequited love consume him, pressing down on every word he might say until it was flattened and useless. And Adrian, for his part, rarely struck up conversations with Jeff, which Jeff had desperately tried to understand why, but to no avail.

So when Adrian asked him one day at lunch about the scholarship exam at Washburn, Jeff was taken aback. In fact, he thought he had misheard, thinking Adrian was instead telling him he was going on his own.

“Oh, that’s cool. Well, I guess maybe I’ll see you there,” Jeff said, his voice quavering with disappointment.

Adrian had laughed at him then. “No, sorry, I was asking if you want to go together.”

“You want to go with me?” Jeff asked so skeptically that Adrian began to doubleback. “Well, yeah, but only if you want, or can…”

“Oh! I mean…yeah, sure, of course. That’d be great!” Jeff exclaimed, telling himself to take it down a notch.

“Ok. Cool,” Adrian replied with a small smile. “Do you actually mind driving? I think your car is nicer and my parents don’t like me driving too far with mine.” Jeff’s car definitely wasn’t nicer, but he liked the idea of Adrian depending on him. “Yeah, that should be fine. I’ll check with my parents and we can figure out logistics.”

For Jeff, this was as good as setting up a date. Adrian was asking to spend two and a half hours in a car on a Saturday, plus test time, plus lunch and then maybe a tour, even dinner, and then the drive home, alone together . Adrian was asking for a whole day affair.

Though Jeff knew it was unlikely that anything would happen—Adrian didn’t know Jeff was gay, and Jeff was 99.99999% certain that Adrian was not gay–the chance to spend that much time alone with Adrian made Jeff feel like it was an opportunity for something . Maybe Jeff would come out to Adrian, maybe Adrian would come out to Jeff, maybe they would hold hands while driving, maybe they would kiss, maybe Adrian would declare his love for Jeff, suggesting they get a hotel room and stay the night, having already planned out what they would tell their parents. Maybe Jeff would finally have a boyfriend. Or, maybe, Jeff thought, bringing himself back to reality, he would simply finally have someone to talk to.

WICHITA 20 MILES WELLINGTON 55 MILES OKLA. CITY 182 MILES Jeff tried to time his glances to Adrian’s face with the headlights of oncoming cars, hopeful to catch a glimpse of something, anything , in his eyes.

“Sorry, you don’t mind the music, right? You can choose a CD if you want,” Jeff tried, feeling stupid for asking such a question near the end of their trip.

“Nah, this is fine with me,” Adrian said. Finally, Adrian’s eyes moved away from the road and onto Jeff’s. There was a message there, Jeff knew it, but he honestly didn’t know what it was.

This too was something Jeff was used to. Jeff was constantly in search of some kind of nuance behind everything that Adrian did or said–every word, every look, every movement was an opportunity for Jeff to divine Adrian’s interest in him. And mostly, to Jeff’s dismay, nothing could ever be discerned…until it could. Indeed, what spurred Jeff on, what kept him going down this interstate of infatuation, were the occasional signs, or what Jeff thought were signs, of some kind of mutual interest.

The most recent signs had appeared the evening of the fall homecoming dance a few weeks prior to this momentous Saturday. His friend group had dressed up and met at their friend Brian’s house for pictures before heading over to the school together. When Jeff arrived, he immediately looked for Adrian, and after he scanned the room for a second, he spotted him sitting on the couch with their friend Jason. To Jeff’s surprise, Adrian was looking directly at him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Adrian had been waiting for him, watching the door for his arrival. Adrian smiled at him and then turned back to Jason. For a moment Jeff stood frozen in the room, unable to decide what to do next until Brian’s parents yelled for everyone to head outside for pictures.

Despite this burning look he received upon entering Brian’s house, he and Adrian didn’t interact until later at the dance. Jeff was standing off to the side away from the dance floor studying Adrian as he danced with his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Kara, when Adrian stopped dancing and started to head off the dance floor towards Jeff. Adrian was walking with such purpose that Jeff half-wondered if he was coming to tell Jeff to stop staring, half-wondered if this was the moment they would finally kiss.

“Having fun?” Adrian said with a big, knowing smile. He had to lean in close to Jeff so he could be heard over the blaring sound of early 2000s hip hop music. Jeff felt Adrian’s nose touch his ear before Adrian corrected himself away from Jeff. “Oh, tons. I love this,” Jeff deadpanned over the voice of Mary J. Blige. He hated dances because it reminded him that he couldn’t dance with the person he most wanted to, but he always went because he also hated the idea of missing out on an opportunity to be with Adrian. “You should head out there, find someone to boogie with!” Adrian clapped Jeff on the shoulder. He was teasing Jeff, which Jeff loathed and adored in equal measure. “Did you just say ‘boogie with’?” Jeff gave Adrian an incredulous and disgusted look. “Who are you? My grandpa?”

Adrian laughed and shoved Jeff a little. “Come on! It’ll be fun. You can come dance with Kara and me. And Alicia’s there, too.” Jeff saw Kara and Alica waving vigorously from the dance floor. He really didn’t want to dance with Adrian and Kara and Alicia. But he didn’t want to be a party pooper in front of Adrian either.

Jeff rolled his eyes dramatically. “Geez, fine!” Adrian’s face flashed with genuine surprise. “Really? Nice!” He grabbed Jeff by the elbow to drag him out to the middle of the dance floor. Jeff’s arm burned where Adrian held him, and he didn’t know how Adrian wasn’t pulling back his hand. When they got to the center where all of their friends were, Adrian announced Jeff’s arrival, which again embarrassed but also pleased him.

After everyone acknowledged his presence they all went back to concentrating on dancing. He soon found himself getting caught up in the mood around him. From the outside, he must have looked…happy. And as the music started to move through him, he realized he was having more fun than he expected. Jeff gazed at his friends and pinpointed a feeling of belonging, of non-otherness, that wasn’t usually there. For a brief moment, Jeff felt like he was one of them , and the relief was as palpable as the thumping of the bass. And then the DJ changed the song to a slow song.

He had been mortified to be caught on the dance floor at such a moment and quickly started to make his way off. After a few steps, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and found Adrian pointing to Alicia, who was waving Jeff over to her. He examined Adrian’s face in the colorful dance floor light to see if he could glean any meaning from this, from Adrian’s preoccupation with Jeff dancing with Alicia. But he couldn’t, he could only see Adrian’s encouraging smile.

Instead of risking coming across as rude or drawing attention to his lack of desire, he moved towards Alicia and smiled, “Hey, shall we dance?” Alicia nodded and put her arms around his neck as he put his hands around her waist.

He caught Adrian’s eye one more time. This time, he didn’t have to wonder if Adrian was looking at him because Adrian’s look seemed to barrel into him. Jeff didn’t know how else to interpret the intensity of Adrian’s stare. It had to mean something, right? But the longer he held Adrian’s eyes, Jeff realized that it was his own sadness being reflected back to him. Adrian may have wanted to tell Jeff something, but suddenly Jeff wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. At this, Jeff, almost begrudgingly, turned away. He regretted it immediately. When he looked back a few seconds later, Adrian had already buried his face in Kara’s neck.

Part of him wished at that moment that his crush was on Alicia and not Adrian, that this moment with her could have been the start of something, something that didn’t have to risk losing his family and friends. But he knew it would never be like that for him, and all that rushing happiness that had flowed through the music and into him for the last fifteen minutes was mopped up and wrung out.

Jeff stayed away from the dance floor for the rest of the night and none of his friends tried to coax him on again.

CITY LIMIT WICHITA

POP 355,076 As the car ride stretched on without any semblance of conversation, let alone proclamations of love, Jeff began to berate himself for being so pathetic. One for having thought something would happen at all, let alone of its own (that is, Adrian’s) making, and two, for being unable and too afraid to initiate some sort of chain of events, whatever that might be.

On the way to Topeka, they hadn’t spoken much either, but Jeff had chalked that up to the early hour and anxiousness about the test. And then after the test they had talked a lot, but mostly about the test and the answers they got to different questions and pondering how they did. Both of them felt like they had done poorly, but both of them told the other that they were sure they had done great. And then they had the tour, where they talked only occasionally, trying to listen to the guide, but making time for jokes and comments about what they were seeing or awkward things the guide said. Later they had gotten a quick bite to eat at Wendy’s (Adrian made Jeff choose), where they scarfed down their food and barely spoke.

Now they were alone, really alone, without distraction. Perhaps they were tired from a long day, but Jeff didn’t think this excuse held out for an entire trip from Topeka to Wichita. The more silence there was, the more intensely Jeff wanted, needed , something to happen. This was the time. Every road sign they passed seemed to have been overwritten with the word TALK. Talk, talk, talk. Why couldn’t they just talk? The thought occurred to Jeff that he didn't even know what he would say. Was he really just going to say “I’m gay”? Or, worse, “I’m in love with you.” He pictured Adrian freaking out and asking Jeff to stop the car so he could get out and call someone else, or maybe even the police.

But what if Adrian was waiting to say something? Maybe that’s why he wasn’t speaking. He was too scared, too afraid of the same rejection. No, not just rejection, absolute ostracism. Maybe neither of them could find the words to say the one thing they most did and didn’t want to say, and it was clogging up their throats and mouths until they could no longer breathe.

WELCOME TO CEDAR PARK COMMUNITY Time was both rushing by and stretching out, and suddenly, but not for the first time, Jeff wished he were a different person. A braver one. One that spoke. One that wasn’t shy. One that wasn’t afraid of being who he was. One that could be the stronger person for the both of them. One that could help them cross that impassable bridge. But he wasn’t. And they didn’t speak. With each passing block, Jeff became more and more agitated and yet quieter and quieter, until he was only a sigh and Adrian only the sound of breathing. At last, Jeff pulled into Adrian’s driveway, and in a small moment of bravery, he parked and turned off the car. He felt Adrian’s eyes on him then but neither of them moved and again there was only silence for a few moments, perhaps only milliseconds, until Jeff cleared his throat.

“Thanks for the ride.” For a second, Jeff was confused, thinking he had spoken. But it was Adrian’s voice coming through the silence.

“Um, right. Yeah, no problem.” Adrian grabbed the door handle.

“Um,” Jeff said, clearing his throat again.

“Hm?” Jeff saw the mountain of syllables in front of him and couldn’t bring himself to climb it.

“Did you say something?” “No, sorry. No. I didn’t. Yeah, ok, cool. I guess, um…” Jeff waited at that moment for any kind of sign from Adrian, but there was nothing. Adrian was acting as if this was all normal and expected. “Yeah, I guess I’ll see you Monday?”

Adrian nodded, “Yeah, see you Monday.” And then he climbed out and shut the door.

The rush of air from the door hit Jeff in the face, bringing with it the realization that on this Saturday unlike any other, but somehow exactly the same as every other day, he was ending it the same way he started it: alone.


I was grateful that the tide was now with me. I was near to total exhaustion, well, extremely tired at least. I had been holding station for most of the night, paddling against the tide just to stay the same tantalising distance from the shoreline. Now, I was slowly making progress towards the shore. Dawn had come and the last vestige of the night sky was disappearing. I calculated that I had another hour to keep paddling, then I would have about four or five hours to rest. As I rested, the tide would carry me towards the shore. Then the tide would change again. I had thought to try and paddle hard with the tide, to reach the shore before the tide turned, but I rejected it. There was a slim chance I could make it, but a greater chance that I would not, and then, the tide would draw me back out further than the point I was at now. By resting, now, I could fight against the tide. I would, at its strongest point, lose some of the ground I had made, but, by the time it turned again I would be near enough that the next favourable tide would see me to the shore. There was no notice; the first anyone knew was the two explosions just seconds apart. The first struck midship, the second, caught the prow. If it had been just the first one, maybe we would not have sunk, maybe; but for sure, it would have taken longer to sink, more would have been saved. But we had been steaming at around twenty knots, and with a hole in the bows my guess was that she had gone under in less than four minutes. I have no idea how many others might have survived, not that it could have been many. I could feel the strength of the tide had increased so I stopped paddling and checked my supplies. Not for the first time I offered up a silent prayer to my lucky stars. I had been taking two insulated containers of tea to the Bridge when the torpedoes hit, as the ship came from full speed to dead stop I lost my footing and was thrown into the sea. My second stroke of luck, if you can call it that, was surfacing to find a Charley Float just a few yards from me. Cold tea, especially more than two days old, isn’t anyone’s first choice of beverage, but in the absence of any other potable fluid I was grateful for it. I had finished the first canister and had started on the second last night. There was around two thirds remaining. Although I was fairly sure I would make landfall by tonight, I was still cautious. I allowed myself one full cup, and the settled on to the deck and closed my eyes. I woke with a start, checked my watch and saw that I had been asleep for just over two and a half hours. Despite the hunger, I hadn’t eaten for one and half days, despite the tiredness, I’d had around six to eight hours fitful sleep since the sinking, and despite the fading strength, the habits and reflexes of a sailor in wartime overruled everything else. I pulled myself up and looked around, the nearer I got to the shore the greater the possibility of being spotted. At this point, I didn’t care if it was by a neutral craft or the enemy, both would provide me with something hot to eat and drink, dry clothes and safety. But there was nothing to be seen. Except the shore, closer than when I had closed my eyes, but not by much. I took another drink of the cold tea and settled into as comfortable position as was possible in a Carley. The tide was strong enough so that I was still making headway towards the shore. I tried to remember if I had heard any voices, but nothing came to my mind. Possibly the sounds of a breaking ship and the after shock of the explosion could have made me deaf for a while. I don’t know, and it wasn’t worth worrying about it. Once again I gave a silent prayer of thanks to my lucky stars. My natural pessimism and caution had driven me to study the charts carefully and spend time off duty thinking of an “escape plan”, or should that be “survival plan” in the event we were sunk. I knew roughly how far we would be from the coastlines, and had a pretty good idea of which countries we would be passing, if they were hostile, friendly or neutral; and of course, what I could expect from the tidal waters. I had kept my mind in those first hours. Carley floats are not really designed to be steering crafts; they are what the name suggests, floats. They could hold eight men, and at a push you could cram two more. Then you just floated and waited to be picked up. The theory was great, in peacetime. But in war, you might be part of a convoy with orders not to stop and pick up survivors. A harsh reality, but why present another target to the enemy, especially one that was stationary. Or you could, like us, be a lone ship, a straggler from the convey, engine trouble that meant you cold not keep up. Or on a special mission, it didn’t matter, if you went down, you were on your own. I had searched the water for wreckage, anything that could be used as a paddle. I had pulled several spars and planks onto the float. They had served well. I sensed I was in the last hour of the current tide. Wrapping the rags around my hands once again I took up one of the salvaged planks and started to paddle towards land. We had been hit just as sunset was starting. I had drifted with the waves for a while, until I was able to orientate myself and then started towards land. I couldn’t see it, of course, but I knew it would be there and as the morning sun rose this morning I had seen it. I must have got within sight last night, but in the darkness would not have seen it. looking towards it now was all that was keeping me going. Please, I prayed, let me be lucky again, let this one have been a low and not a high.

Most people, even those who have never seen the sea, know that there are high tides and low tides, but only those who have been to sea understand that a high tide can be a “low-high or a “high-high. The high-high is when the waters come further and further into the land, and are generally associated with greater force when they turn and ebb back. The reverse being true of the low-high, when the waters do not come fully up the shore and are weaker when they ebb. Having no charts or reference sheets or instruments I had no way of trying to work out what the tides might be at this time, but in my weakened state the tide flowing out from the shore was going to push me back and lose some of the ground I had gained this morning, and the stronger the tide, the further I would be pushed back. Although the air was warm at the moment, the night temperature would drop drastically. I was fairly sure that, if I was pushed back to sea, my weakened state, lack of food, and by tonight, lack of fluid, would mean that I would succumb to hypothermia before morning.

That thought was the stick, and the shoreline ahead was the carrot, all I needed to keep forcing myself to paddle. I was ignoring the pain, ignoring the aching arms and shoulders, ignoring the blisters on my hands that once again were letting blood seep into the rags I was using as padding. Time passed, I could see caves on the side of the hills, it meant I was getting closer. There was more detail each time I studies a different part of the land. I forced my self to keep a steady paddle stroke, it would be madness to try and race at this point, I would just bring myself to total exhaustion. The light was fading, I could no longer make out the detail on the shore that earlier had been so encouraging, I fought back tears, I wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Time passed. The plank I was using struck something, it jarred up my arm to my shoulder and I cried out with the pain. Then again, this time the bleeding blisters on my palms protested. In my tired, state I was slow to realise what was happening. The paddle was striking the seabed. I was on the shoreline. The float wasn’t moving, it was aground. I struggled to my feet, not easy after two days sitting and kneeling on the float. I clambered off the thing and stumbled onto my knees. Using the float as leverage, I regained my feet. A dozen paces and I was on dry sand. Once again I sank to my knees.

Raising my eyes to the heavens I looked at the stars, to the right was the North Star and the Plough. My lucky stars. After the ship had been sunk I had just drifted until the stars had appeared. The North Star; that was how I orientated myself and began to paddle, I looked again at the constellations. Their unchanged position on the second night had kept me on track, and now they confirmed I had made it. I was kneeling on the shore in neutral Portugal. As I looked up, I could see, not more that 500 yards away, the light of a fisherman’s cottage. I could make that last bit. Once again, I gave a prayer of thanks for my lucky stars. For me, the war was over, internment beckoned.


It happens in the middle of the night, in a city that never sleeps. Vehicles stopped moving on the newly paved road. Wild and tame animals alike stopped running the streets, yards, and sidewalks. The lights of several buildings went out. Streetlights fell silent. Even the river goes still, its fish burrowing into the muddy bottom and finding rest. A disturbing hush fell across Silver City, a city that now sleeps. A thick fog descends upon Silver City's land, clinging to skyscraper and two-story homes. Its source is unseen by the occupants. The group stands on the edge of the town, adjusting their gear and checking their equipment. Attached to their person is carriers for their chosen tools for conjuring magic. Each one of them has a unique instrument. The leader of the group, a short, stocky young woman with alabaster skin and red hair uses a flat-bottomed orb. She chose to follow the path of the mage, walking the ways of the oracles. Behind her, standing off to the left is a tall, muscular man with dark skin and blue eyes wields a staff. He follows the path of the warrior and walks the ways of the wielders. Finally, there is the elf. He is as short as the leader, but with sun kissed skin. He wields a deck of one hundred and four cards; fifty-two of them cast attack and defense spells. The other fifty-two tells fortunes. Like the leader, he follows the path of the mage, but walks the ways of both the oracle and the combatant. The elves pointy twitches, the tattoos on the forearm of the strongman swirl ominously, and the sphere of the leader glows in its pouch. "Magic," they say in unison. "Evil magic," the strongman says, "I've been with you two long enough to know it as good as I know the back of my hand." "As you should," the elves replies. "My sister is here, in Silver City," their leader proclaims. She clenches her fist and looks at the fog slowly forming around them. "We must find her." "I agree." She looks to the elf as he steps forward. He points out, "whatever caused this is bound to be roaming the city's shadows." "Then we'll just have shine a light." The leader takes her orb from its pouch attached to her belt. She beings to mumble an ancient poem. In our brightest days, out of our darkest souls. Bring us light to guide us. Bring us relief to ground us. By this I ask the gods to aid us. The orb glows bright and flings a field of yellow light around the group and expands until it reaches the edge of the fog. The elf moves his fingers through the air and says a similar spell, though in his people's language. When he's done, the field of light grows wider, fighting the fog. "We need to hurry," he says, "this fog will sap our power the instant it touches us." "Should we split up then?" The strong man asks. The leader nods, "I'll teleport to my sister’s home. It is but a few blocks from the city's center, so we will keep that as our meeting place. Both of you find the source of this unnatural phenomenon. Spread out as far as the city will take you." With their orders given, the elf and the strongman walk forward into the fog. The leader takes in a deep breath, steadying the shaking in her limbs. She clutches her orb and brings it to her heart. She closes her eyes and prepares for the sensation that soon engulfs her entire being. It’s a kind of trembling feeling that comes from being moved across time and space. A lot of mages can’t handle this kind of transportation but those who learn to be one with the slight discomfort are able to teleport to places they’ve been before. In her mind, the leader imagines her home as it was two months ago when she came for a holiday visit. She imagines the living room, with its vintage décor and the shaggy rug laid on the floor in front of the couch, to give comfort to her aging parents while they sit. She imagines it and believes in it, and then She vanishes. When the smoke clears and her green eyes recover from their temporary blindness, she’s in the very living room she imagined. She stands in front of the couch and is shocked to see it overturned. The two windows looking out to the lawn are shattered and the front door has been torn clean of its hinges. Several portraits that hung on the wall above the fireplace lay instead on the hardwood floor, smashed. She walks over and picks one of them up, her fingers tracing the broken glass. Her finger bleeds as it catches a sharp edge and a tear falls off her cheek. Before, when they stood outside Silver City limits, she had a premonition of doom. Something told her to come home, if only for a moment. Never had she wanted her premonition to be false. But clearly, it is not. The leader walks through to the kitchen, though nothing there seems to be disturbed. A single drawer containing knives and other sharp instruments has been left open. She walks over closes it, taking an uneasy breath. Something tells her she needs to go upstairs. Something tells her she must go upstairs. Her premonition is tugging strong towards the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. She goes, putting one boot in front of the other, stepping up the stairs and letting her hand run along the metal banister. Upstairs, she discovers her parents’ room has not been disturbed; everything is in its neat, tidy place that her mother would spend an hour everyday organizing. But her sister’s room is a disaster. She can see it in her head, the struggle. Blankets are torn off the bed, the dresser next to the window has been thrown to the floor, and the window is open. Did her sister managed to escape? She doesn’t know. But as the tightness in her chest spreads to her body, her pale lips form a single question. “Where is my sister?”


My eyes opened slowly, fluttering at the harsh sunlight. I sat up in my makeshift bed and groaned. My lower back was sore. Maybe sleeping on logs was a bad idea. I gathered the materials that I had used to make last night’s bed and stored them in my backpack. While doing so, I realized that I had some iron from mining yesterday. I melted the iron ingots into a sword and attached them using twine to a stick I had found in the forest. I did the same with the rocks I had collected and made a stone pickaxe. I ventured outside and found that there were tons of monsters terrorizing the village. I recognized a few that looked like the one I had encountered in the cave yesterday but the rest were unfamiliar to me. I took my newly-made sword and swung it at the creature closest to me. The sword hit the green-skinned monster in the abdomen. The attack from my sword hit him into the sun’s intense rays. The green-skinned monster, which I would call a zombie, burst into flames as soon as the sunlight hit him. I was so terrified that I ran away to the other side of the village, wondering how that just happened. After calming down, I went back to my home base and organized a few things. I realized that I still hadn’t explored the entire village yet. I explored the rest of the village, both avoiding the terrifying creatures, finding a list written on a dirty piece of paper that seemed to be a to-do list of sorts, and books with topics ranging from transportation using something called a ‘waystone’ and enchanting items with special powers. I read the list I had found. It seemed that the writer’s handwriting got messier as you read on. Almost as if they had written it in a high-stress situation. I spaced out for a bit, thinking of explanations for this. While doing so, I had to attack one of the unknown beasts in self-defense. The monster flashed white and exploded after I swung at it with my sword. Once I got back to my home base, I thought over the different explanations for the weird list. I came up with the conclusion that the list was written right before the writer’s death and that the tasks on the list were never finished. I didn’t really have a guide on how to survive in this world and I couldn’t help but feel that this list would guide me. I soon went venturing out of the village. I found a wide hole in the ground. I saw some more iron and went to mine it. But, there was another one of the monsters I had encountered earlier. I fought the monster off with my blade which was slowly getting duller. After almost being scared to death, I continued to mine in the open cave. I collected more iron and some coal. Once I was done with mining, I realized that the Sun had almost set and I needed to get back to my home base. I quickly ran back. I made a bed the same way I had the night before. I put the items I had gathered in a chest and made sure that the door was secure and slipped under the covers. Even though it took a while, I eventually fell asleep.