Trigger warning: suicide

As Beth climbed the thirteen flights of stairs to the fourteenth floor, she rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say to Devon when she broke the news to him that she was leaving him.

With each step, her resolve to finally follow through on this, now 8-month endeavor of ceasing her six-year relationship with Devon, a failed and failed again writer who was never quite able to write that breakthrough novel he always talked about.

Over the course of the six years, escalating fiercely to new extremes in just the past few months, Devon had grown even more entrenched in his dream of becoming a writer, even more than what Beth had grown accustomed to calling “normal behavior”.

She was actually going to do it this time.

No hesitations.

No cold feet.

No backing down, giving in, and sinking into the same depression she had been dealing with for much too long.

I deserve better, she told herself.

Beth reached the final step on her journey upward. She opened the stairwell door into the hallway she was all too familiar with. She walked down, door after door until she reached her destination.

She pulled her key ring out, began to undo his key from her ring. She would give it back to him after she had broken up with him.

Beth took a deep breath in, held it. Doubt arose in her gut. She blew it out along with the lungful of air.

Beth knew she was doing the right thing, but as with most cases, the most right thing never really means the easiest thing to do.

Sure their relationship was strained, and he never seemed to have time for just the two of them - at least not without resorting to mentioning or redirecting the topic of conversation back to his writing.

She really did love him. it just. . . wasn’t the same anymore. He wasn’t in it and Beth could clearly see that now.

She inserted the key, turned it, and pushed through the door.

The scene she stumbled into startled her. She stood in the doorframe, unaware of her inability to move while she gazed at the open window across the room.

The curtains moved about as the wind blew them and the position Devon was currently in, half in half out, made it almost looked as if the curtains were some sort of cape.

“What the hell are you doing?” Beth finally managed to say, unsure of how long she was actually standing there before speaking.

Devon stumbled back out of the window. He held something under his right arm.

“Jesus! You scared me!” he said, holding his free hand over his chest.

“I scared you?” Beth said, moving further into the room. “You scared me! What are you doing hanging out of the window?”

Devon held up a finger to Beth, appearing to try to catch his breath after the scare Beth had supposedly given him.

Beth crossed her arms, felt the keyring in one hand, the unclipped apartment key in the other, and suddenly was reminded of her original intent in coming over in the first place.

She resolved again to follow through, no matter what.

“So, are you going to tell me what you were doing hanging outside of the window on the fourteenth floor of an apartment building?” “Thirteenth, technically.”

“Whatever, answer me.”

“Well, you know how I’ve been trying to write my novel?”

The question was laughable to Beth as if that had not been the topic of discussion for the majority of their relationship.

“Yes.” She kept it short, realizing that being too blunt was just going to make the inevitable breakup all the harder.

“I figured out what I need to do to make it actually work. I know how I’m going to be able to finish it,” Devon said with a smile that made Beth’s heat race.

Ignore it , Beth told herself.

“Ok, what does that have to do with you out on a ledge? And what’s that under your arm?” Beth craned her neck to try to see it better. “That’s not your typewriter, is it? Were you going to throw it out?”

“Yes, and yes,” Devon said looking down at the typewriter under his arm, patting it like it was a pet.

“But you love your old typewriter.”

Don’t get emotionally sucked in Beth.

“I know,” Devon said, as he finally stopped petting the inanimate object. “Let me explain.”

“Please.”

“I realized that all this time I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t being the type of writer that I needed to be to make my work...” he stopped to search for the word. “Pop!” He exploded the fingers of his hand as he said the last word.

Beth squinted her eyes at Devon, cocked her head to the side.

“I need to become a ghost writer.”

“Ghost Rider? Like, that crappy Nicholas Cage movie? I thought you hated it?”

Devon stood there, silent. A few seconds passed and his face didn’t change a bit, he just stared at Beth with a blank stare on his face.

Then, he finally answered her, “No.”

“No, you don’t like those movies or no -”

“No, not a ghost rider,”: Devon interrupted, “a ghost wri-t-er.” He pronounced the ‘t’ in writer harshly, like the clap of a snare drum.

“A ghost writer?”

“Yes, a ghost writer. That’s what’s going to set me apart from the rest. It’s what will release all of my pent up creativity.”

“Ok, sure. You’re going to get someone else's idea, get paid by them for you to write it and then you both benefit from it. I still don’t get what you hanging out of your apartment window has anything to do with it. And why would that require you to toss your typewriter out on the street fourteen floors below?”

“Thirteen . . .” He shook off his train of thought with a frustrated grunt. “No, that’s not what being a ghost writer means.”

Beth was confused, it showed in her face. “Ummm, I’m pretty sure that is in fact what it means.”

This conversation felt all too familiar. She didn’t want to get sucked even further into it. She couldn’t help it.

“Well, that’s not the kind I’m talking about then.” He heaved a sigh, an echo of many of their past conversations, mirrored in this one.

Beth rubbed the apartment ket back and forth between her index and pointer finger.

Devon shifted the clunky typewriter to under his other arm, “I’m talking about becoming a ghost so that I can write my stories that way.”

“You mean . . . like a ghost, ghost?” Beth lifted her hands up to the side of her head, “Oooooooooh. . .”

Devon shook his head, let out another sigh of annoyance, “When you put it that way, it sounds stupid. How do you do that? You always somehow manage to make whatever I say sound stupid?”

Beth felt the rumblings of an argument coming on.

“You can’t be serious right now? I mean, come on.” Beth said, lowering her hands that she didn’t even realize she had kept up. “You don’t honestly think that that’s a thing, right?”

“Of course it’s a thing. I’ve done a lot of research on the topic. This is going to work.”

Then it hit Beth. She knew why he was in the window when she first arrived. He planned to jump out of the window to kill himself. To become ‘a ghost’ so that he could ghost write.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Devon said, turning back towards the window. He raised his foot and put it through. “You never did. But soon you will. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone.”

Beth froze. She didn’t know what to do at this moment. In the few minutes they talked together, she realized she didn’t have the guts to break-up with him, but she also knew that if she stopped him from climbing through the window, she would be stuck in a relationship she hated and despised.

She grappled with a thought that no one should ever even have to possibly entertain.

What if she let him die?

Beth shuddered.

Could she actually sit by and watch idly as someone else ended their life right before her very eyes?

Devon swung his other leg out of the window so that he was now sitting on the ledge, both feet dangling over the empty air just outside of his window.

He’s got to be joking...right? Beth thought to herself. This can’t be happening. . .

She was wrong.

Before she could even react, Devon took a sideways look at her, said, “see you on the other side.” and fell from the window., typewriter underarm.

Since that fateful day in Devon’s apartment, Devon went on to become a national bestseller with critics and fans alike praising his work as, quote, “pure genius!”, “an honest to god piece of art” and “Simply ethereal”.

He wrote such works as “When the Clock Strikes Six”, “Two Tiny Chairs”, “Green Umbrellas”, and “The Snowman with a Gun” as well as such instant classics as his poem, “American Bird” and his memoir “One Flew over One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” where he got super meta about how he stumbled upon his ingenious idea of becoming a ghostwriter.

He collected as many accolades and awards a writer could ever dream of, winning them hands down, left and right outselling the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling and all of Stephen King’s books - combined.

He was dubbed a pioneer in the arts of ghostwriting. A true innovator, willing to go to any length for the love and pursuit of his craft.

Beth was glad that she hadn’t gone through with the break-up and knew she would have grown to regret it for the rest of her life.


It happens faster than I ever thought it would, hits me with the force of a moving train, and pierces me like an unforgiving bullet. "What?" I say. But those words don't come from my mouth, escaping from the confines of my throat. They don't, because this isn't happening. It is all a dream - and a pretty bad one at that. Everything will be fine, I think, everything is, in fact, just fine... "I'm sorry. I should have told you about this way earlier. Before things got so dire." His voice is distant, dry, emotionless. He doesn't even sound human at all. "l don't get it. What do you need to tell me so desperately?" I sound so stupid. My voice soars like a magnificent eagle hunting for prey and then falls, crashes against the ground like a pathetic pigeon with broken wings. "Why can't you just tell me this in person?!" I scream, and I realize, horrified, how psychotic I have become in just a couple of moments. Are things so bad? When did we go off the rails like this? Is this my fault?! There is a cough. Even through the phone, which strips reality of every detail and delivers a naked, vulnerable and warped mess to my ears, I can sense that his mouth hasn't opened at all. There is someone else with him. A woman. She coughs again, as a tear rolls down my cheek. I know exactly where this is going. "l have been seeing someone else lately", he finally lets out, and I notice that he doesn't seem concerned, or sad, but rather relieved, liberated as if an invisible burden had been finally disposed of. That burden, of course, is me. "Look, I obviously didn't want things to happen like this", he says. "I loved you, Liz. I really did. But you drove me insane." Loved. Have I become so soon an unfortunate memory, a sad reminder of his past? "We have been together for a while." He stops. That's it. He isn't going to speak anymore. "So what? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to get up from my chair and clap? Do you want me to praise you for cheating on me?" I'm not even talking; I'm yelling, screaming at the top of my lungs, bursting half my vessels along the way. This is not happening. We are fine. We. Are. Fine. "Please, calm down. I need to you to understand that- " "To understand what, Peter?! To understand that this is magically over? To accept that some random woman just got in your way and bam, there goes our relationship?! Tell me! TALK TO ME, YOU BASTARD!" "Take a deep breath and calm down-" "Don't tell me what to do! I AM NOT A CHILD! You cheated on me, you disgusting pig, and I swear that you--no, she will pay for this!" "What are you going to do Liz, huh? Are you going to pay my new girlfriend a visit and slay her as if she were some pest you have to get rid of? NO! I love her! She does not behave like the venomous, possessive snake that you are! She lets me go out with my friends when I want to! She isn't attached to me all the time as though she were a leech! YOU DISGUST ME. YOU SICKEN ME. Do you not get that? Have you fallen that low?! Listen to this with extreme attention, Elizabeth: the second you dare lay a finger on her, I will make sure you won't get in our way ever again, by any means necessary." Did that just really happen? Did she just call me "a possessive woman"? Am I one?! Of course not. I helped him. I took him in my arms when others spat on his face. It is clear now, however, that I took the wrong decision. I should have left him to wither and die. "Oh. You're threatening me." There is not a hint of emotion in my voice. "So if I try to take away your new bone, you're going to bite me like the rabid stray dog that you are? What a wonderful world this is! HA! Can't you see? You belong to me. Without me, you are nothing." "Are you even listening to yourself? I do not belong to anyone! I am a free human being! You are sick, Elizabeth, perhaps incurably so. This is why I left you alone in the house. You are a parasite." "Don't you dare lecture me as if I were some obtuse--" "Enough, Elizabeth! I have tried to be patient, to be reasonable! I have tolerated you for too long! You are sick. You might be bipolar, delusional, or schizophrenic, for all I know. You keep claiming that I 'belong to you'. You have always told me that 'you made me'. You may be right, since, after all, you made me sick. Every single day with you was torture. It is now when I realize that I only tolerated you because I pitied you. It wasn't love. It was pity. I saw you, alone, troubled, reviled by many. Now I know why. You are vile poison." For some reason, I fail to respond. I just stand there, looking at my own contorted reflection in the mirror. "Tell me, Peter...of all things, why did you let me buy such a hideous mirror?" There is silence. Then, he speaks. "We never bought any mirrors, Elizabeth." That must be wrong. That is wrong. We bought a mirror a long while ago. I remember it clearly. It is the one that now I face. "Of course we did! The one in my bedroom!" "Elizabeth...seriously. I think you might be very stressed right now. And I understand, of course; in all honesty, I could have handled this better. But this is concerning. But know this: there are no mirrors in your bedroom." "You're lying, Peter. I can see my own reflection in it right now." "No. I once bought you a small mirror for Valentine's Day. Your reflection horrified you. You shattered it to pieces, and said: "I'm sorry, Peter, but never, ever buy a mirror again. I hate them." For a moment I stay quiet. I almost yell at him. But then I realize that his words are not lies. I hate mirrors. I stare at an empty wall. The mirror is no longer there. Then there is nothing. His voice fades away. He is far, far away from me. He will never hurt me again. "Elizabeth! Hello?!" The phone wiggles around on the sand. The waves wash it away. "l am at a beach. I love beaches. I love the water." I say this, even though there is no one around who can hear me, even though the phone is actually my fist, even though I am here, trapped on a cell on the psychiatric ward of a hospital, yelling the name of someone who, long ago, put me here 'for my own safety'. "Peter! Let me go, Peter! I am fine!" I crash my fists against the window. What is wrong with me? "PETER!" Nobody hears me. Through this dirty pane of glass I can see other people like me, trapped in these metal cages as though they were dangerous animals. We are not sick. We simply choose to see the world in a different way. "But I still love you, Peter." Those words did not come from my mouth. Of course they didn't. I drop myself against the cushioned floor. Even pain has been taken away from me here. Eight years ago, Peter brought me here. He said I was schizophrenic. He said I saw things that were not there. A psychiatrist told me that I could construct entire worlds, full of people and places, each with their own completely fictional story. Is this one of such worlds? Am I where I think I am? I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't even know if my name truly is Elizabeth. In spite of that, I think they both lied. I think they did, because I can feel the sand in the beach, swim in the warm water, as the nurses look at me with an expression of horror and pity on their faces. If only they saw and felt what I do. I am at a beach. I have always been at a beach. I love you, Peter. Thank you for setting me free.


When I was a kid, all I wanted was to grow up. "Momma, when will I get big?" "Dad, can you build me a time machine so I can be a teenager?" Now I am a sophomore in high school and all I want is to go back. I want to go back to the simpler times, when my only worries were "what should I bring to my playdate with Ryan," or "how am I going to beat Michelle in the toy car race?" I am an introvert, people call me the quiet kid in school. I don't have many friends and I am a huge overthinker. Teenagers are mean, I would know that better than anyone. People will make fun of you for things you cannot control. I am constantly bullied. At first getting made fun of was terrible and it ruined my week, now I am numb. Sometimes the things they say are small, like a rude comment on my clothing or hair. Then things got bigger, not only did people use words, but physical interactions too. I always want to stick up for myself, I really do, but in the moment I freeze and before I know it, the chance I had has passed. After a long day, I come home, do my homework, take a shower, eat, read, anything else to keep me occupied. I used to do extra curricular activities, gave up on that. Maybe I'm just an easy target, since I don't do anything about it. I am actually pretty good with comebacks, it just usually takes me until days after to think of things. "Oh I should've said that!" Is a commonly used phrase, not out loud of course. My mouth gets dry a lot, hence the fact that I tend to not speak. I also have an epic chapstick collection. It is only around my best friend, Leah that I am able to feel comfortable enough to say what is on my mind without being judged. Even then, she has grown further and further apart from me over the years. I spend a lot of time by myself. My parents are always at meetings and on work trips, leaving me home by myself 90% of the time. I bought myself a turtle and named her Smiles. Smiles keeps me company, she knows all of my secrets. She hears all of my clever comebacks and wordplay. School gets out in a couple of days. Everyone is talking about their summer plans while I am sitting in the back of our classroom. It is almost as if I am invisible. I realized that I have not a single plan for the three months we have off for break. It was then that I thought of the perfect idea. Maybe I can do something with my time. Fix myself up. It is gonna be hard, but with the help of Leah and Smiles, maybe I can actually change! Okay, now it is the first evening of summer break! I need a plan. I have tried counseling and therapy, no use. I always thought that I was scarred from the pain that lurks inside.. maybe not? I want to show the people who have hurt me what they have done. I have made a list of names with those who have ruined some part of my day, no matter how small or large. The people who have done the worst, like bullying me constantly, hurting me deep inside, maybe even who hurt me physically, anything like that, are at the top. At the bottom are the ones who only said a harsh comment or something little like that. This list traces back to people from 8th grade, when I shed the first tear from bullying, of many left to come. I will confront them. I will also make it known to others that they have done something wrong. No matter how great this summer goes, I just know that I will never forget the way some people made me feel. Now that my list is done, I feel that I have accomplished something. "Okay, Smiles. I think I am actually getting somewhere with this." I know that she wont reply, but I know that Smiles is listening. "Next step, figure out what the next step will be." I made myself some tea and put on my brainstorming slippers. "I've got it! I can put together a speech. I will talk about my experience with bullying. I will show people that your actions can affect people." Smiles loves the idea.. I think. I decided to call Leah so I can tell her about my plan and maybe we can practice my speech. She said that she is so excited to hang out with me again and that she will be here as soon as possible. I refilled my snack drawer, just for her. About five minutes later I heard my front door open. Leah knows that she doesn't have to knock. Then I heard her somewhat obnoxious, "Hiiii!" "Hey Leah!" "So.. what's up?" I continued to tell her about my plan. "Oh. my. goodness! That is genius. I am so glad that you are finally going to be sticking up for yourself! To be honest, you were kind of being a baby before haha." I wanted to tell Leah that what she just said hurt my feelings, but that would just be proving her point. I gave Smiles a quick look, then brushed it off. "Yeah. Okay, so I really want to confront the people who have bullied me before we do anything else." Leah opens my snack drawer. "Oh I know! Most of the popular boys were pretty mean to you, and they always hang out at the football field next to the bleachers. Maybe you can start there." "Oohhh good idea. I need to prepare something first." I grabbed a pencil and paper and we got to work. Leah finally convinced me to tell off the popular boys. We made a list that ended up being 13 pages long which showed what I was going to say to each person or group of people. I have been practicing talking without chickening out with Smiles the best I can. "Listen here, I am done letting you push me around!" Maybe a little too aggressive. "Hey, could you please quit making fun of me?" Too polite. I can feel Smiles' judgement through her tank. Or maybe that's just me. Leah can drive now, so she dropped me off at the football field on her way to hang out with her new popular friends. "Goodluck girlie! You can do it, remember what we practiced." I hopped out if the backseat with butterflies in my stomach. "Thanks for your help, Leah." "Anytime." She drove away and that is when reality sunk in. I was all of the sudden not so confident, but forced myself to walk behind the bleachers. I started with a simple and soft, "hi." The guy gang turned around with straight looks on their faces. Six boys, all football players. What was I thinking.. The team captain, Bryce said, "Whats up nerd?" They all laughed at his rhetoric. I rolled my eyes and was ready to speak up, "wow. how original, Johnny." Oh my goodness. I just said the wrong name. I cannot believe I just did that. They all were laughing at me. Before the boys could start beating up on me even more, I ran. I failed to stick up for myself again. I came home and told Smiles about my huge mistake. I guess it wasn't that bad, but now they're going to tell everyone. I think. Maybe I will always be this way. I will keep practicing. I cannot keep giving up so easily. That is what led to all of my issues before. The summer went on and I kept trying to write my speech. I need a good ending. I coordinated a date to present my speech. Mrs. Spieth, my art teacher, is the head of the PTO. She said that at 3:00 at our open house, I will be able to present. That is less than a month away now. The big day that I will speak my mind is September 3rd. The summer has been pretty good so far. My parents were actually home for the 4th of July. We had a barbecue. It was really nice. Then they left for a cruise and won't be back until the second of September. My mom and dad don't know what I have going on. I never make the effort to tell them. I ran into a bunch of people over the past couple months who have bullied me in the past. I remembered what I practiced with Smiles, but I always chickened out. At the Library with Heath, he knocked my books out of my hands and I did nothing about it. The ice cream parlor with Madison and her group, they took my strawberry blast, I did nothing. There were several other times. That is why I am so excited about this speech. I finally got some alone time with Leah, three days before my speech. That is when I got another bright idea. It would be the perfect ending to my speech. Leah smiled at me with bright eyes after listening to the end result that I practiced with all of her old stuffed animals. That is when I knew this was `right. It is September third, 2:53pm. I am getting ready to go onto the stage. Smiles is in my purse. I finally got called out and Mrs. Spieth introduced me to everyone. This is what I have needed since the 2nd semester of 8th grade. A fresh start. I looked into the so-called "audience." That is when I saw my parents. They came! I excitedly set my papers down onto the podium. Mrs Spieth whispered, "you may begin." I started talking about my history with bullying. "It started in eighth grade." It feels like I have said that a billion times. I decided to let out everything that was bottled up inside with a bit of improv. I told several stories. "Maybe it isn't me. Maybe it is all of you who are doing this. This story might not mean anything to anyone at this open house, but I know that I am not the only one who doesn't want to go into another school year feeling awful every. Single. Day." I realize how cheesy this whole thing probably sounds, but I don't care. People need to know. "I have made a list of those who have hurt me." I saw scattered glances around in the small crowd. I saw some of my bullies. "I will not be sharing that information, but you know who you are. I hope we can learn as a community, to treat each other like humans. Enough of the bullying." I felt a tear run down my cheek and immediately got embarrassed. "Thank you." I turned and walked off of the stage with my head held high. I wiped the tear off of my cheek. That is when there is an applause. People actually liked my speech. My parents cheered, and I was smiling ear to ear "backstage." The school year began, and multiple anti-bullying programs started. I made a difference, no matter how small. I was even featured in the newspaper! Leah's friends invited me into their group, and mom and dad started working from home so they can spend more time with me. I play soccer now and joined the debate team. Junior year has been amazing so far. The pain I felt the last few years will always be there, but a lot less of it. I smiled at Smiles, and for the first time, she smiled back. This story inspired by the "he said she said" prompt at readsy.com


…..“it's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to carry their souls to their eternal resting place.” For the past two weeks, I have been seeing that message everywhere. First I started seeing it all over my social media accounts. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Reddit. At first, I thought it was someone playing a prank on me, messing with my head. Till last week I was driving my mother to the doctors for her follow up when I heard it over the radio. It was playing over and over again, on every station, I switched to and my mother didn't even seem to notice it. Then it began playing over and over in my head. It was all I could think of. “It's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to take their souls to there internal resting place.” Strange things started occurring when I went places. People started acting funny around me, especially old people. Some would eye me up and down as if they sensed something of me. If I came across a really old person they would come up to me crying begging me to take them. Others would beg me for more time. “More time for what, take them where.” Dogs in the street bark and growled at me, cats hissed at me. Then I woke up to a crow sitting on my window sill and ever since it's been following me around everywhere I go. As I drag myself out of the bed I notice my hand is swollen. It's throbbing and really tender to touch like it's infected or something. The crow that's been following me around is still sitting on my window sill, just staring at me. I thought he was just hungry so I tried feeding him. He wasn't interested. He seems to be waiting for something else. I struggle to put on my clothes, my hand seems to be getting worse. I think it's starting to smell. I decide to stop at the shop to get some painkillers for my hand. Standing at the checkout I point to the painkillers. The guy serving me goes into some sort of trance. I ask him if he is alright, his eyes fixate on mine. “It's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to carry their souls to their eternal resting place. The crow will show the way. The crow flies and the light guides.” As he stands there repeating the same words over and over. I look down at my hand which is now completely black. No pain, no smell, just dead leathery flesh. I leave the shop as the cashier is still chanting the words at me. I get outside and the crow decides to dive bomb my head, narrowly missing me. He keeps doing it, till he has my attention. Then flies off cawing in the direction he wanted me to follow. Then I remember the cashier words. “The crow will show the way. The crow flies and the lights guides.” I follow the crow downtown toward the hospital. As I near the hospital I see a light coming from a window a few stories up. My little friend the crow perches himself on the window sill with the light shining from it. I make my way into the hospital. As I make my way through the halls my presence seemed to go unnoticed. I felt like a ghost haunting the halls of the hospital and the only people who paid me any attention seemed to be the dying. As I Make my way to the floor with the light, I sense it pulling me towards it. I reach the ward and I look up at the sign. “Paediatrics ward” I follow the light to a room and in the room, there was a bed with a little girl lying in it. She looked about ten. She had her whole family around her. Her mother and father were comforting her as she took in her last few breaths. I could still sense the hope radiating from her parents, that by some miracle her failing lungs and organs would kick back into gear and all this would just seem like some nightmare that they could all wake up from. For me, it all felt surreal. I felt like a fly on the wall getting a glimpse of one of the saddest and most intimate time this family will ever experience. I look down at my hand. What was once flesh and bone, was now just a shadow. I know what I need to do now. I know what those signs meant. It was so clear to me, like something inside me woke-up. My presence in this room meant that any hope this family had, I was there to take it from them. I walk towards the bed. The family oblivious to me. I walk over and I stand next to the girl. She looks at me and smiles; I smile back at her. I reach my shadowy hand into her chest and I feel her essence bind to mine and we walk off hand in hand as the noise from her heart monitor rings out through the hospital. As we walk hand in hand towards the light, it begins to dim. As the light disappeared the darkness started to creep towards us swallowing any light in its path. The little girl starts to cry. “I'm scared. I want to go back to my mommy.” The darkness consumes us. I feel the little girls grip on my hand loosen as if someone was taking her from me. She screams out. “Please, I'm scared.” I lose the little girl to the darkness and a thunderous laugh sounds out from its inner depths. “The Ferryman has been paid.” All of a sudden I'm back outside the hospital. My hand back to its black, leathery self. Feeling angry, scared and confused. I think to myself. How can I do this to people knowing where they go when they die. Then I hear that dam crow call out again. Swooping down at my head to get my attention. As I follow him I begin to get a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. As we get closer, I start to get sick with worry. As I near the house I see the light shine from the sitting room window. I take out my keys and put them in the front door. I walk into the sitting room and there is my mother sitting on the couch blue in the face coughing up buckets of blood. I look down, my shadow hand reappears. I walk over to my mother with tears in my eyes. She looks at me and smiles. “I'm a ready son. I'm just glad it's you that's taking me.” I look at her in total dismay. “I don't think you're ready for this.


Rising deliberately from her cross-legged seat, spine uncoiling lazily, the dancer held everyone’s attention. Fully erect, she paused. Then her body began a slow ripple from belly to toe, like a wave caressing a beach. A perfectly poised torso, arms fluttering only to complement the circular movement of her hips, highlighted the stillness of her shoulders. The soft, languid tones of the musicians began to increase pace. The dancer responded, her feet beating out a fast tempo in a call and response to the hollow resonance of the percussion. Stamping down on the parquet floor, she began a steady revolution. As the rhythm grew faster, so did she. Swirling skirts of purple and gold spun in an eddy of delight. The dancer lifted her arms, releasing her delicate hold on the voile veil which rose like mist above a turbulent whirlpool. Graceful arms rose above her head, wrists crossed and rotating against each other as if summoning the forces of the vortex upwards towards the ceiling. Candlelight twinkled, golden beams bouncing off sequins that glittered like stars on the night sea. As if giving a voice to the light the coins on her tightly fitted hip scarf tinkled above the primal boom of the hand drums. Faster and faster she twirled until, with a sudden flurry of staccato beats, the rhythmic drums ceased. The dancer dropped to her knees. Head down, the waterfall of her dark hair hid her face. Her skirts pooled about her. Slowly she lifted her head, one hand on her hip, the other fingertips balanced on the floor, as though she was claiming the earth. Gazing forwards, her caramel-coloured eyes seemed to drill into mine. Her smooth olive skin had a sheen, whether from oil or sweat, that served only to enhance her exoticness. My heart thudded in my chest erratically, as I released my breath. I hadn’t realised I had been holding it. The heat of the evening seemed to portend a tropical storm, humidity rising from all the bodies crammed into the hall. Glasses clinked softly and whispered voices murmured distantly, the sound muffled as though being carried across a great sea. I drew the heavily scented air deeply into my lungs. Revivifying. Resuscitating. Something in me had shifted. It felt like I had stepped into another world; another life. The turbaned musicians seemed to be drumming a message of complicity, the pulses of percussion instruments and the gliding of the cymbals speaking to me on an elemental level. All around me the colours had brightened. Reds popped out energetically against gold fabrics that gleamed like sand and greens spoke of palm trees swaying gently in warm desert breezes. A memory of Arabian tales rose in my mind, long forgotten, but once much cherished with incalculable demands on my mother to re-read them as I snuggled in my childhood bed. I would be transported from the dull cement of London, and the long grey drizzly days, rushing from underpass to underground on the daily walk to school. The surrealness of the moment, an Eastern paradise in an East London working men’s club, made me smile ruefully. I waited at the bar now crammed with the hens all calling for more “Sex on the beach” accompanied by suggestive winks. “As-salaam 'alaykum”, a soft voice spoke beside me. I turned to see the dancer. Her seductive figure draped now in a richly embroidered shawl of reds and purple, streaked through with golden threads, she smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Arabic” I replied, shrugging feebly. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t respond appropriately, as I always did. “My apologies” she countered, “I thought you were Arabic”. She wasn’t the first to ask me this. I suppose my own complexion was similar to hers, and my hair didn’t carry the afro curl that all my siblings had. It had always been my assumption that I got my hair from my mother’s side more than my Dad’s, whilst all my siblings took after him. “No I’m mixed race, Jamaican and English actually, but I often get asked.” “Oh.” Her response was flat. Unconvinced. She drew her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders as she seemed to consider her next comment, “You seemed really into the show. Have you ever tried it?” “No.” Feeling that my response was a little too brusque I made an attempt to engage in a conversation, intrigued by her whole presence, “But I loved it, yes. You were amazing, and the music was so hypnotic.” “Thank you habibi. You are so kind.” A gracious incline of her head. “Do you do many shows like this?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “No habibi. Normally our group only dances the Raks Sharqi for our family celebrations.” “Oh I see.” I pondered a moment, confused. “Raks Sharqi is what you call ‘belly dance’. In Arabic it means ‘Dance of the East’”, she explained in gentle tones. Looking at me quizzically, as though waiting for a reaction, head cocked to one side. “Oh” I again muttered, feeling even more inadequate than I had at the start of this exchange.  “So you don’t know the music or the dances at all?” she enquired. Again all I could respond was a simple “no”. “Ah, perhaps one day you will want to know more.” The statement, delivered so calmly, seemed undeniable. “I must go now. I hope I will see you again one day habibi.” Bowing her head in a gesture of farewell she pulled her shawl up over her head and turned away, her movements as graceful as on the dancefloor. The encounter stayed with me all night and my dreams were punctuated with fragments of a recurring dream that I hadn’t had for years.

I stood in a vast desert, undulating golden sand dunes hiding the horizon from my view. A compass in my hand spun wildly out of control and every path I took led me to a cavern filled with genie lamps. But I could never touch them. They would slide right out from under my fingertips and begin moving like a kaleidoscope so I could never grasp one, colour intertwining and shifting in a nauseating dance. I woke feeling frustrated and bereft. Recalling that Dad would be visiting Mum later that day I called him at 9 o’clock sharp to catch him before he left for the market. His usual Saturday shopping trip for fresh fruit and vegetables. He was a creature of routine, steady and dependable. Tomorrow he would make curried goat for us for lunch, filling containers to take away so I would have two or three meals through the week. When we had finished our long lunch we would settle down for a fiercely competitive domino match, shouting and laughing as we slammed the tiles on the plank table he had built from left-over timber three decades ago, painted in a faded turquoise that he said reminded him of the Caribbean Sea. Sometimes my brothers and sisters would join us with their children and the flat would echo with laughter and shouting, the banter relentless but always loving. But there was forever a mum shaped hole now. A void in our centre that I had unwittingly started to fill. It would be me calling the family in November to organise the Christmas plans and swap present suggestions. Every Easter I would select the perfect lamb joint and fend off the hopeful, yet unhelpful, suggestions to try something different “ just this once Aunty Gem ”. It was my turn to be my father’s sidekick now, maintaining the balance he and Mum had brought to our little piece of the world, through challenge after challenge. We arranged to meet at the nursing home at 3pm when tea and cake would be served. It was a warm sunny day, despite the showers the night before, and we took Mum to sit outside so she could enjoy the roses that were starting to bloom. Mum was lucid today, patting my knee and calling me Little Gem, like she did when I was very young. A nickname that would always make me smile. We chatted for a while about the past week’s activities which for Mum had included a ‘sound and movement’ class and bingo, which she hadn’t won, to her loud annoyance. Dad and I looked around in concern as she vehemently cussed the other ladies for cheating, though we couldn’t quite get her to explain how they had cheated at bingo. Thinking to divert her attention, Dad gave a loud guffaw and chortled, “So Gem, tell us, what you get up to last night at the Social Club eh?” Leaning over to Mum, he tenderly took her hand and said, “You remember Stacey Wilson, Linda? Gem’s best friend from middle school? She had her hen party last night at the Social Club. Yes, so Gem here had a late night. We’ll get her to tell us all about it!” Thinking that my mum would love to hear about the belly dancer I launched into a full description of the night, leaving out my unease and sense of foreboding. I laughed as I told my parents that the dancer had thought I was Arabic and her suggestion I might want to consider dancing myself. Expecting mum to laugh, as I had been the clumsiest child and never took to dancing, it was a few minutes before I noticed the silence. Both Mum and Dad looked shocked and then Mum’s eyes seemed to glaze over, the familiar shutters being drawn over the rich brown eyes so like my own. Gazing into the distance she seemed to be staring at the rose bushes, merrily waving their buds in the light breeze, but I knew she didn’t see them. “Noor ‘eini.” The whisper was barely audible amongst the cheerful birdsong and distant hum of traffic. “Dad?” I queried as I turned my attention to him, sitting still and taut in the garden chair. “Gem, my little Gem,” he sighed. And with that sigh he seemed to deflate, like a punctured lifeboat. “Noor ‘eini. Light of my eyes.” Mum’s voice was tender yet wistful. Addressing a ghost from the past. “Noor ‘eini? Is that Arabic Mum?” Turning to my Dad, “How does she know Arabic Dad?” My voice rose in mild hysteria. What the hell was going on? “Gem, we were going to tell you, I promise. But everything was so wonderful as it was, and we didn’t want to upset you.” “Upset me how?” I couldn’t process what was happening, or how I felt. All the deep emotions of the evening before came flooding back to me. “You see darling, I’m not actually your biological father. Your mum was pregnant when I met her after a brief relationship with a Sheikh. And he didn’t, couldn’t, want to acknowledge either her or you. He had to go back to Saudi and marry someone there.” My mouth was as dry as the sand dunes from my dreams, yet my brain swirled madly. My eyes welled. I gasped for air. To say something. But there were no words. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin to wipe my eyes. A delicate cursive script caught my attention. I unfolded the napkin, cheap white and unbranded from the social club last night. "Habibi. My number. Please call me. I believe you are my sister.”


An Hour The bird on the wall squawked once. It had flung itself into the stagnant air for a moment, pausing only long enough to cry its chord, then vanished into its nest once more. It fell silent. Everything was silent. The hallways were silent, no longer begging for the soft steps for which they had once longed. The door frame was cut and marked to varying degrees, with names and numbers scrawled in caring script. The kitchen was calm, the measured dripping of the faucet's tears had long since dried into apathy. The living room lacked its own eponymous nature, its couches and chairs tired and layered in heavy, gray lethargy. Out front, the pumps were dry and thirsty, pleading for a drink, a drink inevitably denied by the cracked dirt of the stone well. An old wooden bucket, moldy with maturity, lay still and silent, in mimicry of the world it knew. The house was empty. The silence broke all at once, and rain fell swiftly, sure and confident the land it softened would give no resistance. The land had long since been claimed by the rain and had resigned itself to its domain. As the rain descended, the sun melted away, unable to compete with the storm. A once great entity reduced to flaming rubble on the horizon, still emitting light, faintly, however unnecessary light happened to be. It would have been hard to breathe, the trees had long since been uprooted or toppled. They no longer had the will to breathe life into the world, and the world too was too weary to sustain it. And thus the trees fell, and with them, the world held its breath. The cracked dirt drank quickly, and cried, parched for more. The thirst was unquenchable, the more there was, the less it seemed. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the Earth tried to cry, but the tears refused to flow. It feared the rain had forever ended, as it had once breathed in excess, now it craved the winds cool embrace. The sun shone again. This time brighter than before. Had someone cared to look, a wooden clock shaped like a house could be seen on the wall, preparing to sing the hour. The dry ground had since decayed and warm methane breezes would often flow, dragging along streams of blood red dust, a parade for the emptiness. A window gave out, and the dust found the inside of the house becoming desert. And then the wind gave out and the dust settled permanently in it's new home. The last wind had come, and gone, and with it, had blown the last flame in the sky. The bird cried twice in darkness.


“Guardians of the watchtower of the East, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Breathe into us the spirit of the true joy of life.” “Guardians of the watchtower of the South, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Kindle within us the spirit of spiritual awakening.” “Guardians of the watchtower of the West, I do summon, stir and call upon you to protect us in this rite. Water our deepest roots, so that we may find peace of mind.” Then there was a long silence. I opened my eyes to see three women, their hands clasped, silhouettes framed by velvet curtains, faces softly illuminated by candlelight and turned expectantly in my direction.

“Oh, my turn? Uh, ok,” I stammered. What was my direction again? Never. Eat. Soggy. Waffles. Well, in this case Eat. Soggy. Waffles. Never.

“Guardians of the North, I call on you… to…” Everything I knew about directions and elements dropped suddenly out of my head, leaving a cold, empty space where my brain should be. The others’ faces were beginning to harden in that familiar way that I knew masked annoyance. But the more I tried to recover my balance, the faster panic began to set in. My pulse pounded in my ears and dizziness overtook me. Not now! I begged.

Too late. Hurry up, I need to pee!

She is so awkward, I KNEW we shouldn’t have- What idiot doesn’t know that North is Earth? “GUARDians of the North” I began again, too loud. The voices around me mercifully stilled, though the staring continued. I cleared my throat. “Watchtower of the Earth , I call on you… to… ground us in this rite. Me especially,” I added with a nervous chuckle, glancing around at my compatriots. West subtly crossed her legs.

East impatiently pulled her hand out of mine, breaking the circle, and raised her arms to the ceiling. Billowing sleeves slid down to her elbows to reveal skin covered in intricate blackwork tattoos. “I conceive this circle as a place of contemplation and protection, blessed by the Goddess. So mote it be!” “So mote it be,” the others echoed.

“So mm hmm hmm,” I mumbled behind them.

West rushed out of the room in a whirl of honey blonde braids. The rest of us settled on velvet cushions scattered around the center of the floor. I stroked the fabric absentmindedly as I gazed around the room, observing solemn portraits hung on creamy plaster walls, lush houseplants tucked into corners, and a mantlepiece tastefully arranged with crystal and gold implements. “So you’ve never been part of a coven before?” East interrupted my reverie. “Or so I assume.”

South rested her face in her hand, tapping her cheek with shining black acrylics, awaiting my reply.

“This would be my first one, yes” I said, forcing a cheeriness into my voice.

“So why are you here?” South asked, looking me up and down. I suddenly wished I’d changed into something black. “Is it about that thing you did before?” The others turned to look at West, who was now perched cross legged on a turquoise cushion behind them. Neither of them had noticed her return; come to think of it, neither had I. “What thing?” East snapped. “The…” she tapped the side of her head. “You know.”  South rolled her eyes and exchanged a smirk with East. Keisha shot them a dirty look. Why do they always do that? I heard the thought and, before I could stop myself, offered a sympathetic glance in response. Keisha’s eyes widened and she jabbed her finger at me. “Ah hah!” she exclaimed. “You did it just now, didn’t you?” Reeling at this sudden validation, I realized I might not be insane after all. When I could speak again I asked, “Do you know how to make it stop?” “Stop?” She looked at me questioningly.

I laughed, holding back the tears threatening to escape my eyes. “It’s torture .” “What the fuck are you two even talking about?” demanded East.

“Shut up , Abigail.”

East huffed. “It’s Isis.” “Are you Egyptian?” Keisha shot back, “I thought your great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower.” “They did!” Abigail insisted.

Keisha held out a hand as if to say, well there you go. Abigail smoothed down her hair with a pout. Keisha turned back to me.

“So you’re a telepath.” “My therapist calls it being a highly sensitive person.”

Keisha laughed. “Your therapist would call it that.” “You know telepathy isn’t real, right? It’s just in the movies,” Abigail proclaimed disdainfully. South also spoke up. “If you’re a telepath, then what shape am I thinking of right now?” She leaned back on her hands and narrowed her eyes as if daring me to guess.

“That’s not really how it works,” I offered lamely. “I only…” I trailed off, staring down at the floor. Overhear the nasty things people think about you? My head shot up. Keisha was gazing at me with something like pity. Was I imagining it or had she- Yes bitch, I did, she smirked.

Abigail had been tolerating this nonsensical conversation for quite long enough, thank you. She stood up and crossed resolutely to the doorway. “Well, Callie, it’s been great meeting you, but we’re going to need to discuss amongst ourselves whether or not it feels like a good fit.”

Which she is obviously not. Freak. My heart, a thing which I had retrieved and smoothed out many times before, was once again crumpled and tossed in the trash. Tensing my jaw to keep my face from betraying emotion, I rose to go. Keisha rose too, dark eyes boring holes into Abigail’s.

“I don’t remember anyone appointing you the leader of this coven,” she began softly. Abigail stared defiantly back. “I might as well be. Lilly doesn’t want it, and you-” She stopped herself, pursing her lips. Keisha’s mouth smiled, but her eyes didn’t follow. “Me, what? Why don’t you just go ahead and say it? I see you two giggling and making faces at each other whenever I talk. So say it.” Abigail snorted incredulously. “You’re reading into it, there’s nothing to say!” “Callie, since Abigail is too cowardly to tell me how she really feels, I’m gonna need you to check.” I froze, eyes wide. “It doesn’t- I can’t-” You can’t?

Keisha turned to look at me. I saw the pain etched in her face, carved deep by every moment of disrespect or turning away. I set my jaw and wincing, sputtered, “She says that you’re weird and probably mentally unstable and that the only reason you’re still here is because three are more powerful than two.”

What had just happened? Before I had time to consider it, Abigail whirled on me, rage painted across her face. I took half a step back. Keisha shook her head. “That’s what I thought.”

She sighed, and with a wry grin added, “Well, good luck getting anything done without me. I was trying to spare your feelings, but neither of you can do magic for shit.” Then she slammed the door.

“Crazy bitch!” Abigail shouted after her. I stood frozen in this room which no longer seemed quite as impressive as it had before. The shimmer over everything had dissipated, leaving it all feeling a little dirty and old. Lilly still sat on her cushion, looking blankly at the wall. Abigail sat down heavily beside her and leaned her head on her shoulder. Anxiety swelled up inside me like helium in a balloon, and I began to drift toward the door. “I’m gonna go- I hope you… have a good weekend?” Then I bolted. When I burst through the door into the crisp air of dusk, I took a shaky breath. My head felt stuffed with cotton and slightly achy. I flung one leg over my bicycle seat and was about to kick off when a wave of dizziness washed over me. I set my foot back on the concrete and decided to walk. As I rounded the block, I spied a figure leaning against a car on the curb. It was obviously Keisha. I seriously considered walking back the way I had come, but she had already seen me. I very casually wheeled my bike up as she quickly wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Hey,” I muttered and nodded as I began to pass. “Thanks for backing me up in there,” Keisha said. Reluctantly, I stopped. “No problemo,” I replied, cringing even as the words left my mouth. We looked at each other. “Well, goodnight,” I chirped, giving a tight little wave, desperate to escape before my social skills failed completely. Keisha returned my wave, wearing an inscrutable expression. “Night,” she said. Despite my rush, I was too close and too tired to avoid overhearing her as I walked away. She must think I’m crazy too.

The thought hit me between the shoulder blades, stunning me into stillness. I turned to see Keisha circling the car and opening the driver’s side door. After a brief internal struggle I stunned myself by calling out,

“Hey, do you want to go get a drink or something?” Keisha paused, hand still on the latch, and finally smiled. “Yeah.”


I regained consciousness in a coffin of cedar, the timeless scent barely becalming my horrendous sense of claustrophobia. And then, rage; for it was apparent that some doctor had a crude sense of jest. Perhaps it was on purpose that I was entombed whilst living, yet I was not an ill mannered fellow and had few antagonists. These thoughts however, were beyond pointless. Moving my arms and legs, I ascertained that nothing was permanently damaged, though there was a feeling of-well from what I've only studied (until now, that is)-the feeling of rigor mortis. My soul and mind knew my limbs remained intact but the limbs themselves refrained from this opinion. I struck repeatedly upon that lid of my confinement, not expecting anything. My faith was rewarded. I lit my tantrum with all the dreams I was too cowardly to do while alive, and the regrets I wanted to die from, down here. Exhausted, I attempted to contain my wrath, for surely the oxygen was sparse, and this, along with the general macabre environment, had me recollecting an event that befell my companions. Never being one for minute spaces nor entrapments, I had refrained from many expeditions into subterranean ruins that my archaeological peers were so fond of, until, not two years ago, in 1872, excavating a crypt from 2516 B.C. on the island of Cyprus, they did not return. There were no claw marks, nor sanguine trails into hidden passageways, and no local unsubstantiated legends to make any cognizance of their disappearance. The queerest thing was the note they had left behind. I could not quite recall the exact words, but it was something to do with following: the most splendid musical compositions, ones never heard before on this planet, we do not want to be down here any more, and the cosmos sees us all. Most unnerving. The recount of this nameless terror, however, was not helping my present predicament. I closed my eyes with determination, recalling the events of the few weeks prior to this abysmal situation. They had gone by as something of an inebriated blur; I had been diagnosed with consumption and the outlook was grim. I recalled the hazy days as if I were staring through the malady: a few doctors around me, mumbling scientific vanity, the appalling conditions of the ward I was housed at-the face of my wife, devoid of any emotion, should would not touch me. The most disturbing fact was some figure in black that I could not remember clearly....then a sheet over my head and the feeling of extraordinary acceleration-into nothing. I ascertained this was when I relinquished command of my corporeal being, for a time. Suddenly, a day or nocturnal dream (for I could not tell the hour) or an apparition (for it could not be a memory) eradicated my current musings on my life above ground. I was on an operating table completely naked-some nurse was cleaning my corpse with some noxious liquid and, my God, opening my throat with a metallic device-pouring embalming fluid down my esophagus-a casket of cedar with a black crucifix-a rather empty funeral, for my wife had committed suicide after the announcement of “death”-the graveyard in the French quarter of New Orleans...through this maelstrom of the subconscious (or soul conscience) living photographs, there was a figure of void black through it all. At times in the foreground, often in the back almost a memory, like a forgotten companion in one's youth, yet always coming closer. I could not meet this figure, I was determined to stay away, but as with many things we dread, my wishes were in vain. The entity loomed over me, it's movements were not mortal they appeared to swim and flow as though a celestial tide from beneath the universe was caressing its formless mass. It placed something in my pocket and I awoke again, beneath that horrid lid. Yet the feeling that engulfed me now was incalculably worse. It was though I could feel the weight of the rotting earth and flesh in tons, pressing down through my varnished wooden box of mortal rot, down past my perspiring chest, down into my very soul. I had to escape. I reached into my tuxedo of death and felt the nine pronged key. My astonishment was so severe that I cried aloud, coughing up formaldehyde. Sliding my finger over it, I envisioned the little white horns and a small elongated skull, though what creature it may have been, I knew not. Though it had been on my person for some time, it was unearthly cold to the touch. I felt every conceivable inch of that hellish container again and twice over, my back itching from the new black suit. Maybe an hour had passed of this activity in agony when the morbid realisation of my death by starvation came upon me. This was it. There was not a thing more I could do. It is sorrowfully amusing how no one thinks to craft a coffin which opens from within. I should just roll over and die. Which is what I did. And my index finger fell upon some miniature hole in the bottom of my coffin. Heart palpitating erratically, I frantically dug out that spectral key of bone and with a few failures, heard the tell tale click. I turned it. And turned again. Attempted reversing, inserting halfway...nothing worked. Striking the key in anger it punctured my hand, blood swimming over it as I grasped it in frustration, cursing whatever deplorable fates had riddled me with this ill-fated existence. Then with an almost vocal sound, worthy of the half imagined apparitions of Tartarus, the bottom of my coffin opened and I fell through, barely managing to cling on to the key before all went black. Well not completely black. There was a tinge of emerald green phosphorescence. I woke, lying on molding earth (or that's what I hoped it was) in a small cavern. I stepped out, stumbling slightly, and beheld a cosmically gruesome scene. It was a phantasmagoric panorama of a rotting subterranean dream: curiously lit flora and fauna were as one, unnameable things swam and crawled through the air, pranced on stalagmites, devoured each other, regurgitated remains, only to try again, and all held resemblance to half imagined necromantic nightmares. I surmised this was not the correct afterlife for me, and I had already begun my retreat, when some imp ghoul hybrid caught sight of me, and ululated a form of repulsive communicae to it's fellow species. All saucer eyes turned on me and in that moment, I do not think I have ever been more paralysed during my life, nor after it. I ran, heart palpitating, a sick radioactivity in my nerves made worse by the unnameable sounds behind me. I ran till, I found a dark crevice, near some abyss, my hand touched something resembling marble and I collapsed. A vibration awoke me. I had hoped to awaken on my bed in my flat near the French Quarter, but I was still in this vile underworld of eons dead. I looked down. And heard the most beautiful music I will ever hear, for now I cannot recall how it went. There were virtoustic masterpieces that they could practise for all eternity. Symphonic and polyphonic. Masses in Latin, Gregorian chant and Sumerian. Even languages that bore no resemblance to the lingua this earth. I heard remonstrances akin to Mozart and Beethoven, Liszt and Chopin, Paganini, even the famed Spanish guitarist Tarrega...yet far more devious and bone chilling, the notes themselves seemed to pierce and become a parasite within the body. Upon closer inspection of these phantoms, I found that horror to be true. Some kind of green phosphorescence was eating away at them, like a symbiotic organism. At them, I mean this parade. At the bottom of a cavernous pit, stretching on for all eternity. An Abyss's Parade. With a blasphemous hairless thing at its head, it had a miter of bone, and stamped it's webbed membranous feet with a hateful irreverence. I dared not look to its eyes, but they burned. And they all marched ever so proudly. It sounded as though all of the great composer had collaborated for decades. And then, I saw my wife. In long dress, and jet black hair down to her waist. She followed them listlessly, like a dying star in the void black of space. She did not looked scared, nor relieved to be done with life, just lost. Unquenchably, eternally, and lamentably lost. “What are you doing down here?” she asked, yet the words seem not to come from her mouth but from beneath, and beyond. “I fell, I conjecture from my coffin. But Angeline, why would you..what of our daughter. What of Isabelle?” “I know not. I know not. I'll always remember... our happiest moments. ” And with that, she drifted down that cosmic parade of souls. I have never seen her again, but on occasion we will share a stroll near the beach, during sunsets, and sit on the shore with the moon, in my dreams. It was our favourite pastime, and in my dreams, where I readily live now, we remain together. *** Shaking my head from this nihilistic nostalgia, I continued through the tides of the dead, seeing history in front, beside and behind me. Suddenly I heard the familiar tones of my old archaeological comrades. I could not believe it. “We went too far my lad...He said you'd get the worst of it.” “Rather, gave me quite a chill that one did.” “What are you conversing about Walters? what the bloody hell is going on-” I stammered. Walters eyes held a pity, like an adult telling a child how the world works and how it does not. “Why Lucifer of course. Him and God made a deal, old boy. Whoever could get the most souls would build and rule the next planet. Very big deal, doncha know. You see, this is his parade. His parade to bring us all down here, for the ending.” “My God. George is this true?” “I'll say, bally unbecoming of those chaps in my opinion. We aren't toys to be tinkered with!” A final fanfare of Death, War and all the little things we hold so closely in our existence, came parading forth in a grand march of Hell's abominations. I stood with my old comrades in that phosphorescent half light, the reverberations of the demoniac denizens receding. And then Walters said. “Why art thou so morbid? One day you shall join us, yet that time has not come. Or perhaps it has. You told us to go into the crypt in Cyprus. And you knew what was down there, waiting since Hellenistic times. That BEHEMOTH, BAAL and ASMODEUS. Remember what you said to us, that god damn chant you were so adamant about. I'll never forget! LUX LUX LUX. LUCRUM INFERNALIS, SALVE ET ILLUMINARE VIA DESCENDIT AD TARTARUM! The thousand faced one ate us all. You're dead too Alec, better get used to it. Have some wine, its quite good. You'll notice the first thing that changes in the afterlife, is the smell.” And by God, the smell!


Rob, the Squirrel, was on the couch watching Maury when the phone rang. Rob, the Squirrel, was not expecting anyone to call, and the sound made him fall off the couch. Shaking himself off, he grabbed the cordless and answered. “Hello, this is Rob the Squirrel.” “Hey Rob, the Squirrel, it’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord. Just a reminder that your rent was due five days ago.” “Hey, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. Yeah, sorry about that. I had that stomach bug that’s been going around — “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, attempted to interject with a story about his wife, but Rob the Squirrel kept talking. “so I didn’t get a chance to mail it out. Is it okay if I come by your cave later today and drop off the check?” “Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel. I’ll be going out with the missus, so if I’m not around, just put it under the rock that I also use as a pillow.” “Sounds good. See you soon, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord.” Rob, the Squirrel, hung up the phone and went back to watching a marathon of Maury. Ten hours later, he went to bed and had a blissful night of rest. The next morning his phone rang. Rob, the Squirrel, was not expecting a phone call and was so startled he fell out of bed. Dusting himself off, he grabbed the cordless and answered. “Hello, this is Rob the Squirrel.” “Hey, Rob the Squirrel, it’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord. I didn’t see you come by, and I don’t see a check under the rock that I also use as a pillow.” “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I went to drop it off, but my Aunt Barbra needed me to help move her baby grand piano — “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord attempted to interject with a story about his Aunt Barbara, who spells her name with an extra “A” and how funny that is but Rob the Squirrel kept talking. “and you know how my Aunt Barb is — can’t say no to that one!” Rob, the Squirrel, let out a fake laugh. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, made a sound that resembled a chuckle. “Yeah, no problem. How about this? In an hour or so, I’ll be at Phil the Hippo’s to fix his toilet. After I get done with that, I’ll swing by and grab your check.” Rob, the Squirrel, was so thrown by the request that he fell off his couch. He licked his paws to smooth out his fur. “You okay, Rob the Squirrel? I thought I heard a crash.” “I’m fine, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. Sure come over whenever you like.” “See you soon.” Rob, the Squirrel, immediately threw up last night’s dinner. Then he ate the puke. After he finished eating the residue, he threw up again. After the second puke, he raced to and fro throughout his 800 square foot apartment. His bushy tail stood erect like a Mediterranean penis, and he chittered like a squirrel possessed. \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* What was he going to do? He didn’t have the rent, and he didn’t want to piss off Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord. Faced with no other option, Rob, the Squirrel, turned on the Netflix and spent two hours searching for something to watch. He was still scrolling when the doorbell rang. The chimes interrupted his trance, causing Rob the Squirrel to fall off the couch. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell? Then he remembered the conversation with Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord. This wasn’t good. He ran to and fro around the apartment like a mad squirrel, chittering like an enthusiastic waiter at a chain restaurant. \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* \*CHITTER CHITTER CHITTER\* Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there patiently, listening to the racket happening on the other side of the door. “Rob the Squirrel you home? It’s Earl the Bear, who is also your landlord.” “Yeah yeah, one second.” He was in the kitchen for the fourth time when he opened the trash and found a paper towel soaked in marinara sauce. Feeling confident about his decision, he grabbed the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce and a pen. Rob, the Squirrel, raced to the door and opened it up. “Sorry about that. I was in the shitter. Here’s the check.” Rob the Squirrel handed over the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that now contained some scribbling in between the stains to Earl the Bear, who also was his landlord. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord took the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that now contained some scribbling in between the stains and without looking down said, “No worries. Thanks. See you next month.” Three days later, there was a knock on his door. Rob the Squirrel had been in the backyard burying and reburying the same piece of Styrofoam he had found in a bush outside for the past six hours and didn’t hear the knocking. He was semi-scampering into the house when he heard yet another knock, causing him to tumble down the stairs. Who the hell was knocking on his door? He shook himself off, raced to the front door, and opened it. “Hey, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. A little early for the rent, right?” Rob, the Squirrel, laughed and laughed at his witty remark. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there, staring. This time the sound that could have been a chuckle was fainter. “Hey, Rob, the Squirrel. A funny thing just happened to me. I went to deposit your check at the bank, and the teller, a jerk of an ostrich, laughed at me. When I asked why he was laughing, he threatened to call the Panda police. When I asked why he would do such a thing, he responded by asking me if he was stupid? Then he pointed to the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains I had handed him. I looked down at the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains and asked him what that was? He said it’s a paper towel soaked in marinara sauce that contained some scribbling in between the stains. I said, why are you showing me this? He said that’s what I had handed him two seconds earlier. A half-hour later, I left the bank red in the face. “WHAAAAAAT??? That’s crazy! He was lying to you, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. That was a certified U.S. check. He’s trying to rip you off!” The fur on the back of Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood on end. He took the paper towel soaked in marinara sauce with some scribbling in between the stains out of his pocket and held it in front of Rob the Squirrel’s face. “So you’re telling me this paper towel soaked in marinara sauce with some scribbling in between the stains is a certified U.S. check?” “Of course Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord. What else would it be?” “And you’re saying if I go back down there that they will cash this?” “They better, or else! The God damn Socialists are taking over the country!” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood there, not saying a word. He was a Bernie bro but didn’t like discussing his politics. Rob, the Squirrel, wrinkled his nose in thought and held up his right paw. “You know what? Hold on one second.” Rob, the Squirrel, ran to the kitchen, opened up the fridge, and stuck his paw in a jar of mayonnaise. Then he grabbed a dish towel and wiped his paw. Feeling satisfied with his decision, Rob, the Squirrel, went back to his front door holding the dishtowel. “This here is a notarized letter stating that what you have in your possession is a check that can be cashed and used as currency. That should solve everything.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, let out a sigh of relief and took the dishtowel with some mayonnaise on it. “Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel. I appreciate your help.” “No problem, Earl the Bear, who is also my landlord.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, left, but he stopped on the last step. He turned just as Rob the Squirrel was closing the door. “Are you sure this is going to work?” Rob, the Squirrel, wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Of course, it will. Why wouldn’t it?” “Okay. Thanks, Rob, the Squirrel.” Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord left. Two hours later, Rob, the Squirrel, was once again on his couch, looking for something to watch when the doorbell rang, causing him to plummet to the ground. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell? Rob, the Squirrel, used his bushy tail to clean himself off and ran to the front door. “Hey, Earl the Bear, who — “ Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stormed into his foyer, sending Rob the Squirrel flying into the kitchen. He ricocheted off a cabinet built in the late 80s and slowly stood up, trying to shake out the cobwebs. Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, stood over him. He was not happy. “Do you think I’m some kind of jerk-off?” Rob the Squirrel wrinkled his nose, this time out of fear, but he had no clue what Earl the Bear, who was also his landlord, was talking about. “Pardon?” “RAAAAAAAR!” Earl the Bear, who used to be his landlord, opened wide and ate Rob the Squirrel in less than three bites. Feeling satisfied with the outcome, Earl the Bear, who used to be his landlord, went back home and placed an ad in the local newspaper for an eight hundred square foot apartment. Anyone interested would need the first and last month’s rent, along with a security deposit.


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Dear Ma, Loved hearing from you, thanks so much for writing! I’m glad Dad was able to set up your new email address--we’ve had our hands pretty full and it’s been hard to sit down and write anything handwritten, for once, but our family therapist tells me journaling is a healthy processing technique so I guess you’ll get an earful. Sorry in advance! I love that you still keep up with Peter and Susie Chin! I remember their kids--we used to spend hours playing with them down at the creek when we were younger, just like you said their kids do as well. I miss that place. Sometimes I wonder if we had stayed in Oregon if Johnny would grow up with an appreciation for the outdoors rather than holing up in the shed and building his rocket. Maybe he’d be out there with the Chin’s grandkids, splashing around and getting into neighborhood shenanigans like we used to. Oh right, I suppose I should tell you about the rocket. I suppose we’re to blame with his recent obsession--I think he got turned on to space after we gave him a stack of Ted’s old Superman comics, with Kal-El being from another planet and all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to visit Krypton! I normally leave him alone while he’s welding in the shed but my parenting podcast told me I should participate in my child’s interests, so the other day I walked in to see what he might be working on. He wasn’t around but he’s really a gifted artist! As I suspected, he’s obsessed with Superman. Well, the Superman universe, at least--one wall was covered with drawings of Lex Luthor. They were a little manic, scribbled in one of those avant-garde dark-red smear styles but think with a few private lessons we could have a regular little Francisco Goya! The other walls were plastered in diagrams of this rocket, and grid maps of major cities--Los Angeles, Toronto, New York, even the Distrito Federal. What struck me was the precision with which he drew everything. Notes on the side included things like population density, intercontinental flight times, fuel charts, and even notations on the city's anti-air systems. It was really riveting stuff. I also found the rocket he’s been working on--it’s smaller than I expected, but expertly welded. I told Ted about it afterwards and now we’re looking into architecture and engineering private schools to put him in once he reaches high school! I think a private trade school might be good for him. The other kids in his class don’t really get along with someone as bright as Johnny. They call him awful things, like “weird,” “creepy,” and “hell-bent on world domination.” Poor Johnny’s handling it well, though. I asked him how he felt about it one day after school, and he told me that “they’ll see. They’ll all see.” and then disappeared into the shed. You show them, Johnny! Tonight at dinner I asked him if he planned to make his rocket any bigger, because I didn’t think it could hold a person. He kind of stared at me for a long while--we call those his Johnny stares! It’s a fun game he plays. And then he said, “no, mom, I don’t need it to hold a person, I just need it to hold a payload.” That’s also part of Johnny’s game. He always responds to questions with something cryptic. It’s like a mystery we get to solve as parents. Anyway, I’ll wrap this up. Johnny’s school psychologist left me a message asking if I was available to talk ASAP, and I think I have to tell him we’re moving Johnny to a different school next year. Say hi to Dad and the Chins for me. Hope to hear from you soon.


It had been three days since the storm started and it didn’t look like it was stopping anytime soon. I was sheltered under some cardboard boxes, which had turned too soggy to support themselves, let alone shelter me - it was as if I was standing under the rain. Many times I thought of getting up and finding a better place to spend the night but, I feared not only the frequent boom of the thunder or the occasional lightning that followed, but the thugs who came out at this time of night.. Even after decades, it seems that these people never sleep and continuously watch you from the shadows; like a curfew - if all the homeless people weren’t sleeping by 11 pm, it was these people’s job to get rid of us, like mere pieces of garbage. The boxes prevented anyone from seeing me at night, but not the loud bang of the gunshots. It was this that kept me from dozing off into the merciless night. My cold, wet hands were tucked within my legs, my legs bent inward to conserve some heat. Someone had stolen my entire cart while I had gone to find some food. It had everything I rummaged over the years; a blanket, pillow, some bits of food and water, and gloves; oh how I missed my gloves! I always brought it with me, but yesterday, I was close to a dumpster, so I decided to leave it behind. I made sure to conceal it well but someone must have been watching me. The five minutes that I took was enough for the thief to get what he or she came for. I resented myself for it and should have known better than to take the risk. All I could do now was to start all over again, like I did when I first arrived onto these streets. This time though, I knew what I had to do.

The night passed and the storm had calmed down, thankfully, but that didn’t mean it was going to stop. The morning was normal; car horns blaring, huge crowds scrambling to the store with the biggest discount, pigeon droppings falling on people’s heads - all normal from a homeless man’s perspective. It was reasonable enough weather to go on a little scavenger hunt. I knew from experience that nice weather doesn’t last long, so I had to hurry to find not only a shelter, but also some food and new clothes. I got up from under the boxes and took a look around. Other homeless people had also started to look for food in the dumpsters. One man made a mistake of shouting excitedly, indicating that he had found some food, which caused others to rush towards him and fight for it.

”Amateur”, I thought but in the back of my mind, I knew I was once that amateur as well.

I fixed my hair as well as I could, to blend in with the crowd. As for my clothes, I had no choice but to keep them on until they dried. People were looking at me from everywhere, as if I was some inhumane creature rather than the same species. Some were discrete about it, looking only when I was not, but I could feel their eyes burning into me. And others simply couldn’t help it. “What happened to you, freak?”

“Stay away from me, oh my God! You stink.”

And it was true. I did. But I had been in these conditions long enough not to even care anymore. Fashion is something one must sacrifice in order to be successful on the streets. I was shoved by some who were brave enough to touch me, and spat on by ones that were not. I continued through the crowd because I knew that resorting to fighting would do me no good as I was too weak to fight. As I escaped into an alleyway, the clatter of the crowd subsided and I pulled out my map to see where I was.

North St. A dumpster was close by, but before I could get there, something caught my eye. A few feet in front of me, I could see a folded blanket. Without hesitation, I went towards it and picked it up. It was heavy, so there was something inside. It was also very warm and soft, as if it had been left in the sun before being placed here although, there hadn’t been any sun the past few days. I took the blanket with me, making sure that I wasn’t being followed. I then hid behind some trash cans behind a small shop. I placed the blanket on the ground, and opened it. Inside, there was a cylindrical container, with crimson liquid peering from within. I soon realized that that was the thing that made the blanket feel so warm. I wanted to pick it up, but feared getting burnt. Nonetheless, my heart was yelling at me to touch it. And so I did. But as soon as I did, the liquid inside the container turned a light shade of blue. My hand didn’t feel hot, instead, I felt cool. It was then that I saw the opening for the container, and so I decided to open it. I don’t really know why I wanted to open it. I should have left the container alone, and taken the blanket, but it called out to me. Like when you know something is wrong, but still end up doing it. As I opened it, I decided to test its capabilities by pouring it onto a rat that was amused by the turquoise light. The liquid just fell on the rat’s body, and drenched its fur. I looked away too soon to realize that the rat disappeared. Thinking that it was safe, I poured it into my hands. The cool fluid flowed into my already wet hands, and almost instantly, I felt a ringing in my ear. “ Miikke”. I heard my name being called by an unfamiliar voice and after a few seconds, I fell unconscious. When I came to, my eyes needed a few moments to fathom where I was. Around me, transparent walls concealed me from what seemed to be some sort of lab. There was equipment surrounding me, and I was constrained to a bed. An unpleasant and an unfamiliar aroma was floating in the air, and my mind wanted to escape this ratchet place. I would rather have been homeless than sit here waiting for something to happen. Then, an automated voice said, “Welcome Mike to the Home of the Spartans. You are in lockdown and will be released after two weeks.”

That was all that it said, and then from holes in the ceiling escaped a visible green gas that once again put me to sleep.  2 Weeks Later…

My body was sore and I was no longer wearing the old and soggy clothes from the day I touched the liquid. I was still in the bed but my constraints had been removed. I got up and walked around the room, trying to find a door. Then, as if on cue, a man accompanied by two bodyguards appeared from within the ground. I asked him to get me out of here and he replied,

“Relax, Mike-” “How do you people know my name?” “You gave it to us 10 years ago.” That is when I went homeless. “Lies, I was homeless then. I had never seen you before in my life!” “Mike, we brainwashed you for an experiment. You were willing to risk your life for it because you said you didn’t have anything better to do with your life. You lost your wife, your job, and your house, so we took you in.” “I don’t believe you.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. So here is the footage of the entire thing.” He showed me a video and it showed me and him, talking to each other. I had said that I had nothing else to do with my life. And yet, I don’t remember any of it.

“We told you that you would be brainwashed and you agreed. You said you wanted to forget your past at whatever cost, even if it meant being part of an experiment that made you homeless. It all seems a lie, but it's true. Now that we’ve finished conducting the experiment, you are no longer needed, so we gave you that teleportation liquid. The rat that you tested it on has been eliminated from the laboratory. We will give you your memory back if you want it.” “Yes, I want it. Of course I want it. I need it. I don’t know what I was thinking - forgetting about my past. That’s what a coward would do. Not me. I’m Michael Gray.” “Actually, your name is Johansen Berger. To recover your memory, we need to also edit your family’s. That process will take a while, but I assure you, that as soon as we finish, you will be reunited with your family.” A week had passed and I was finally going back to my small apartment. My wife, Diane, had passed long before my memory was erased. The kids, Cooper and Lily, were left on their own to figure out the world for themselves. I was excited but ashamed. What if my kids tell me to leave? What if they don’t forgive me for what I did? I started second-guessing myself, but it was too late. I was outside their door, and so I knocked.

An elderly man opened the door.

“Cooper?” I asked “Who? My name is Silverstein. There is no Cooper here. He was murdered along with his wife or something, Lily, I think it was, I don’t remember.”

At his words, my life crumbles within seconds. I couldn’t bear it, so I did what I could, I jumped out the window, and felt the wind rush through my air. The ground got closer and closer until it was right there. My eyes closed, and weren’t opening anytime soon.


Let me preface this with this is my first time trying something like this. I know there will be mistakes and would love to have you guys point them out to me. I have more of this story written out. Just didn't want to post a wall of text for my first time. #2 Will be released soon. Thanks :) **Pt. 1 – The Apothecary** The young man awoke from another night of wine and an empty stomach he stumbled over to the nearest pot and retched into it. His hair was a mess and his clothes tattered. He wiped his mouth with his forearm; he regained his composure and set off with the few coins in his pockets to buy himself some fine rabbit stew and refill his canteen with mead. He made his way through the village the smells of smoldering coals filled the air as smoke rose out the tips of the tattered teepees. He gazed around and saw the faces of the hard working. Blacksmiths busy in the forge, alchemists hard at work and cooks preparing meals for the village. The dirty young man reached the place where he was to order his stew when a strange man took a seat next to him, ordering something he had never heard of before. He looked down at his own dirty clothing and feet. Out of anxiety he started to get up to move a seat away. The oddly dressed man looks over and asks with a friendly tone, “Where are you off to? Isn’t your rabbit soup almost ready?” Ollie nods and let a small smile escape his lips. “I’m Ollie,” he says to the odd man meekly. “Well met, Ollie, I am Helmen, the local apothecary here in Reltun. Well- not much of one anymore since the gripes of old age restrain me from accomplishing some of my work…” he says his voice trailing off. Ollie looks up, rather intrigued. He takes a bite of his delicious rabbit soup in contemplation before asking, “Are you in need of an assistant?” he says hesitantly. Helmen tilts his head back and forth, “Perhaps if you’re serious about it we could arrange a deal.” He says gesturing to Ollie’s dirty garb. “Clean you up and get you a place to stay. This would depend though.” “What’s that?” Ollie eagerly replies. “I need a task done for me- something to prove that you are in fact, of some use to me. Follow me.” Helmen gets up and leads Ollie to his home, tucked away in the swamps. The doorway covered in heavy vines, a thick fog emanating from the woods nearby. They trudge past the vines and enter the rather humble abode. Helmen walks over to his desk, takes a piece of parchment and dips his quill in his ink and begins writing. Once done, he takes a candle and dries the ink on the parchment, rolling it up and holding it out to Ollie. “Bring me the supplies listed here. Then, show me that you’re capable of brewing and I’ll offer you a place to stay, food, and a profession. It’s only right in my old age to pass my knowledge down since I have nobody of my own to share it with.” Ollie accepts the parchment and quickly unravels it, reading its contents: *- Bark of a Phyn tree.* *- A vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp.* **Pt. 2 – Gundrak’s Demands** A large brute of a man trudges his way to Helman’s house and barges in. Skulls of his foes dangle from his waist, the chieftain Gundrak. He was demanding a shipment of Ellisium, a drug that is ideal for partying. As well as a large shipment of ‘Warrior Powder’ as they call it. It’s used to amp up soldiers before a fight. Giving them enhanced senses and inhuman strength, a forbidden recipe, however your life is more important than your apothecary license when Gundrak asks. Helmen reluctantly agrees to make the warrior powder, however he had some of the Ellisium on hand to satiate Gundrak for the time being. **Pt. 3– The Test** Bark of a Phyn tree. Ollie thinks to himself. The only tree he can think of is near the south of the swamp. So he grabs his knife and sets out. Trudging through the foggy swamp. Careful not to run into any tribesman, he makes it to the tree. However a few tribesmen seem to be camping nearby performing some sort of ritual. Ollie decides to take shelter in a nearby bush and wait until they are busy. As two of the members lay down for some rest, one remains on patrol. Ollie studies him and identifies when their shift change is. An hour before they change shifts is when Ollie plans to make his break for the tree and acquire some bark as that’s when the one on rotation is most tired. The guard takes a seat on a nearby rock surveying the mountain path as Ollie sneaks up and starts slicing some bark, he gathers some and shoves it in his satchel. He slithers away, making his escape into the density of the foggy forest. Next, is the vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp. A rather simple task as long as you keep away from the poison needles that litter the area. Having been raised in Reltun, Ollie knew the best and quickest way to acquire this. He filled up a few vials, hoping it was enough. He set off on his return to Helmen’s home. As Ollie returns to Helmen’s shanty he realizes something amiss. Helmen seems to be frantic and as his gaze sets on Ollie a light flickers in his eyes. “Did you get the items I asked of you?” he asks urgently. Ollie empties his satchel onto the table and a small smile forms on Helmen’s face. “So you’ve done it, eh?” Helmen walks over to Ollie, hands him a few coins. “Go wash up.” He says as he walks over to his closet and pulls out some fresh furs for Ollie. “These should suit you well here. Also, there’s a bed upstairs. Eat what you want. You’ve earned it… I’ll need a lot of help from you here tomorrow, so get some rest now.” **Pt. 4 The Book** Ollie wakes up the next day with a stack of books on his nightstand. A letter atop that reads: *“If you’d like to earn your keep here. I’ll need your help with my work. Start by studying these books and gathering herbs.”* * *Helman* So Ollie does as he’s told and cracks into the first book, “Swamps, Spores, and Fungi”. It outlined the various mushrooms, spores, fungus, and vegetation that grow around the swamp climate. Ollie found a recipe for an elixir that allows you to see in the night. So he set out to find the ingredients listed in the book. He returned with all the ingredients getting them ready on the countertop. He turned and looked at all the alchemical equipment and his heart sank. The book only outlined where to find the ingredients, not how to brew the elixir. Ollie heard a noise towards the door and in walked Helmen. “Ahh… the Nighteye Elixir.” Helman says as he eyes the ingredients on the table in an approved tone. ”Are you aware of how to brew it, Ollie?” he says with a piqued brow. He sauntered over to a bookshelf and read a few titles before pulling one from the shelf. “N-no.” Ollie says, rather frustrated. Helman flips through the book and finds the page labeled “Nighteye Elixir”. He sets it on the counter and grabs the first ingredient and starts the process, showing Ollie how every step of the way. Teaching him how to read the instructions and then allowing him to brew it himself. Mentoring him as if it were his protégée. A few days of Ollie foraging and concocting pass. Then one night he noticed Helman up in his study rather late. Reading a dusty book under candlelight. Ollie had never seen him do something like this before so he decided to keep a keen eye on his actions this night. Ollie heard Helman blow out the candle and so he snuck down the stairs to see what Helman could be doing. Helman carried the large black book in his hand and paced over to a wall. He pulled a board from the wall with ease, sliding the book behind before covering it back up with the board. Ollie was rather curious. What secrets could Helman be hiding? Is he a part of some criminal organization? Was it just merely valuable? There was only one way to find out.