It was a study. A library? No, a living room. Yes, definitely a living room. A cozy room not burdened by the plight of modernity and appliances. Someplace an old lady would live. In fact, there she was, not older than seventy by the looks of it, and quite small and frail to boot. She was sitting on an old oaken rocking chair passed down from one generation to the next. She recalled her great-grandfather making it for his aging wife, but that was many lifetimes ago. Days were spent in it as she was one of the unfortunate ones to live long enough to see everyone else leave. Her son in Spain, her daughter in the Americas, and her husband only with her in spirit and in the image on the wall. Indeed, the days were melancholy and seemed to meld together into an endless stream of loneliness. The only company to keep this little old lady entertained was her cat, Erol. Erol was a fully-black, ordinary cat, although hopelessly fat. The absence of any grandchildren to take care of meant that Erol was the one being spoiled beyond measure. Just like the woman, he spent his days lying on the shaggy carpet in front of the rocking chair, living the cat’s dream. The room was a tidy mess of memorabilia. A picture of her and her husband at their wedding, the one where they dropped the cake so they had to eat biscuits. A dried-out flower she kept in a small glass dome. It was the first flower she ever got. Not from her husband, though. The name was long lost to the wind but the care never left the stems or the petals of the crisp rose. An ocean of pictures, some framed, some not, from her trips around the world and from the familiar comfort of her hometown. Indeed, a full life she lived. I lied before. Sitting in the rocking chair was not the only thing she did. She’d grow roots, wouldn’t she? Ever since the last of her family left the home, a strange coldness moved in and seemed to linger in every corner of the house, no matter the weather. Every place was freezing except for the fireplace, and around Erol. She understood that her fat tub of a cat would be warm, but it seemed odd that he would warm up an entire room. Every day, she made the rounds. Shakily standing up from her rocking chair, a place of stiff comfort, she walked from one room to the next, standing in each of them for a few minutes before moving to the next. If there was warmth, she would stay longer. If she heard a sound, she would sit down. Eventually, though, the warmth would become intense enough to warrant a stool or two being turned over, or a cupboard examined. On this particular day, she went into her bedroom. It was amazingly ordinary compared to the liveries and antiques housed inside her living room, but it provided comfort, nonetheless. Standing in the room, she was about to release a sigh before leaving, but a twinge of heat radiated on her leg. *Oh, I might just stay a bit longer.* The old woman walked around the room more, touching the cupboards, the windows, and anything her hand could reach before the heat became warmer once more. She sat down on the edge of her bed, letting her house dress dangle freely from her knees. Steadily, the warmth made the room pleasant again, almost enough to sleep in. As the bliss of comfort reached its peak, her attention was drawn by movement at her feet. There was something small tangled the flowing cotton of her dress, wrapped like a parcel, almost. As her stoic expression turned to a smile, a small tail stuck out from the mess of fabric, followed by a small paw, then it flopped out onto the rug, eager to return to its play. It was a small kitten. It was mostly white with spots of orange and brown on its head and tail, and quite playful. The little ones that visited her were usually more scared or aggressive, but not this little fellow. *Hello there, little one! My, you’re a lively one. You’ll make Erol excellent company.* It did not. Erol was the type of cat to only love its owner and no one else, but he had to tolerate the newcomer for the sake of his own master. The little one sprang at Erol on its hind legs, launching a mock “attack” at the terribly fat cat. He simply laid down and did not pay him any mind. Although the site of the two playing was a comfort, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness. Visitors came and went all the time, and she could tell the reason for their visit upon their first touch. When she touched this precious life for the first time as it unfurled from her dress, she felt grime, cold, and wetness. *Drowned. What a shame.* However, whatever happened to the kitten before was not her concern. Her only duty was to provide them a home, even for a day, so they could return to their journey and reach their destination. Wherever they went, she did not know. She set the small plate of tuna on the ground next to the fireplace along with a small bowl of water. *Jump! Jump! Play with me! Cat. Fat cat. Warm. Fesh! Wa…* The small one’s thoughts raced in its hyperactivity, jumping from his unwilling companion to the rug to the food, but when it met its bowl of water, it stood still in its tracks. It looked at the sloshing water and seemed to tremble, but the woman was quick to act for her age. *Oh! Oh goodness, would you look at this silly old lady!* She picked the kitten up and held it close to her. It was still shaking. Moreover, it was cold, cold as the creaky halls of her home. *I’m sorry, little one. This should suit you better.* She put an even smaller bowl on the floor and set the kitten down. It moved forward and inspected the bowl, sniffing it timidly. *M… Milk? Milk!* Its joy and warmth were back as it made a mess of itself, dunking its head clumsily into the bowl. The lady giggled and helped clean the little one up. Her furry visitors brought joy to her life, but they always left soon after arriving. In the case of the new kitten, it was there for two days before the new warmth it brought into the home was gone. She did not have to stand up and look for them, she just *knew*. Whenever a new life would leave for its journey, she would feel intense sadness, a weight of emotion that would seemingly bolt her to the chair for days on end. The only thing to get her out of her slump would be Erol. The fat cat would waddle his way over to the chair, look up at his master, and jump into her lap. His own warmth would permeate her and give her back the familiar comfort of a friendly bond and allow her to stand up again to check for more visitors. Cats from all walks of life would come to visit her house. Some were angry: *Back! Back! hiss No more! No! Let go! Hiss* The angry ones would be taken from their hiding spots and embraced. Sharp claws would slash at her arms and chest, but she held them tighter all the same. They held tight, whispering sweet words of comfort until the wild slashing would turn to slight hissing, and until the hissing subsided into curious sniffs. They were usually the cuddliest out of all her guests. On the other hand, some were confused: *Ma-Master? Where master? Why… Why master leave? You… master?* Nothing could keep the tears from flowing when she heard these thoughts, and she made sure to keep these visitors around for as long as possible to make sure they felt loved. Some were young, as the drowned kitten. They were young, ignorant of the cruelty of humans, and came with all of the child-like tendencies befitting of them. These were usually the first ones to leave. She smiled as she reminisced about a cat that was uncannily like Erol. A white cat, just as fat, and just as lazy as him. She could very rarely hear Erol’s thoughts, but for this occasion, she could hear only one: *Friend.* The two lounged around for many days as visitors came and went. The woman did not feel sad when the white cat left, which she found odd, but welcomed it. Sometime after the young kitten left for its journey, she was feeling sad when Erol jumped on her lap again. He looked into her eyes. *Another one gone. Still the same sadness?* *Yes, they are just so precious I wish they could stay just a bit longer. I’m terribly lonely, Erol.* *I understand. Their lives are precious beyond measure. The ones that come here, must pass this point to reach the end. Their end is another’s beginning. Each time a newcomer visits us, it means a new life has started. Take comfort in that, my dear.* *But why do I have to do this, Erol? Surely, they can find their way on their own, no?* *They cannot. A caretaker must always be here, in this house, to watch over them and guide them on the right path. I should know, I’ve been here longer than you.* He made himself comfortable on her lap, lying down and purring. *And you promise that each one that comes here is going to be happy after they leave?* *Of course, I would not let them stray.* *Erol?* *Yes?* *Are you death?* The cat opened its eyes to look up at the woman, taking a moment to gaze, seemingly pondering before returning to his slumber. She never heard his thoughts again. From then on, she never thought twice about her visitors, always focusing on helping them in any way she could. Erol always mended the anguish she felt when a visitor would leave, and she always helped them. Every last one.


I grew up in a loud home. Not the bad kind with arguments and screaming but the kind that invited midnight jam sessions and spontaneous singing. My parents were musicians; pops was a D.J. in the 90’s underground hip hop scene and my mom was a pianist. And my sister? Boy, my sister plays drums like Animal from the Muppets, her purple and blue dreads flying around. The music gene skipped me. All I knew how to play was Street Fighter and Battle Toads. My family never made me feel bad about my lack of musical talent. They never pressured me to take up an instrument. They were cool like that. They understood that I just liked quiet. Even though the noise I’m talking about was stuff like Mozart in the living room or Run DMC from the basement, it was still noise to me. Inescapable, loud noise. Until I found my refuge. The kitchen cupboards. I crawled inside one of the cupboards and discovered it was pretty much soundproof. We usually ordered takeout so there weren’t any pots and pans in the way. It gave me plenty of room to read comics, mess around on my GameBoy or just be alone with my thoughts. My parents were real cool with it. They got me a hand-crank camping lantern so I wouldn’t have to hold a flashlight while reading. They even put a sign on one of the doors that read “Luke’s Place”. Which is what it was; my happy place. But overtime I wouldn’t just go there to escape the sound of admittedly good music... I’d go there to escape the sound of kids calling me names or laughing at me. While I knew my family was cool as hell, kids thought they were weird for not having 9-5 office jobs like their boring ass parents. I’d defend my folks at first, protect their honor like in the comics. That may work for Wolverine and Batman but it didn’t work for the smallest kid in school. I soon learned that my best defense against bullying was to play dead. I don’t mean curl up on the floor and lie still, I mean play dead on the inside. I kept my head down, my mouth shut, and just gave in to the taunts and attacks. I let them tear my homework, steal my shoes, whatever, so long as I looked like it didn't bother me. Just a blank, numb reaction. It usually worked and kids would stop when they failed to get a rise out of me. Except for this one kid a year above me. Tom was his name and he was a cruel mother fucker. Tom would do things like push me into traffic if I was standing close the curb or choke me until I passed out. He’d laugh each time. Especially when he'd eventually make me cry or worse, I'd piss myself. My parents tried to help but Tom’s family was rich and big time PTA donors. No matter how many times my folks tried to have him punished no one did anything. Not Tom's parents, not the school, nobody. What it did do was make Tom angrier. I eventually told my parents that Tom had a turn of heart and had stopped messing with me just so they’d stop calling the principal. All that's to say, most of my early childhood was spent alone. Until I met Doobie. It was 1994, the middle of winter break. I was in my cupboard after the worst run in with Tom I’d ever had. He didn’t put his hands on me but what he did -- what he said -- hurt me worse than an elbow or slap. He called me and my family names that just... that just made me feel less than human. I felt so awful about myself that I couldn’t concentrate on reading my newest issue of Uncanny X-Men. I kept seeing the slurs written in ink. Instead, I sat there turning the handle on the electric lantern my parents had gotten me. The hand crank was what charged the batter. It made this electric whine -- *mmmreee... mmmmmreee... mmmreee* \-- with each rotation. The sound used to sooth me more than any piece of music I’d hear outside the cupboard door. But it wasn’t working that day. I was broken. So I took my notebook and started to write. *When Tom kills me, I want my sister to have...* It was my last will and testament. It wasn’t because I had plans to off myself -- I’d never do that to the people I loved -- but because I was convinced that Tom would kill me one day. I had gotten to bequeathing my Super Soaker to my Uncle Ron when my lantern went out. I reached for it, started cranking... *mmrreee...mmrreee*... and it'd take some time for it to be a steady light but it did start to flicker back to life. Like each crank would create this blink of light. It was in one of those flashes that I saw I wasn’t alone. It was someone in the far corner. I worked up the courage for one more turn of the handle. It granted me another second’s worth of light, enough to see a boy, huddled in the corner with his back to the wall. The lantern's light once again blinked out of existence. I froze, clutching my lantern in the cupboard's lightless interior. Then I heard the boy in the dark ask in a soft, sandy voice... “Whacha writing, pal?” I responded by freaking the fuck out. I dropped my lantern and scrambled to get out of there. The cupboard door wouldn’t budge. Stuck inside the pitch-black interior, I pounded on the door, kicking and screaming for my parents to rescue me from my special place. It was useless. “Hussshhhhhh... you know better than that.” said the boy in the dark. “Good boys are quiet. Aren’t you a good boy, Luke?” he asked. He made my name sound more like a croak than a word. Believe me, I still wanted to escape... but cowering in the dark like that made my survival instincts kicked in. I played dead inside. I said yes. “That makes me happy. I’m a good boy too.”, he responded. Then I heard my lantern... *mmmreee...mmmreee...mmmreee*... and its amber glow returned, giving me a better look at who was keeping me company. The boy in the corner hugged his legs, knees brought up to hide the lower part of his face. I could see just enough to notice that his cheeks were raw with pimples. He had a crewcut but patches of hair were missing. Otherwise, dressed in jeans and a Ghostbusters t-shirt, he looked somewhat ordinary. Ordinary enough for me to I ask him his name. “Promise you won’t make fun of me?” He asked, bashful. I promised. “My name is Doobie.” I was suddenly hit with this overwhelming sense of kinship. His name, his features, the way he looked at me, everything told me that this kid was bullied for the simple crime of existing. Like me. It made me forget how bizarre our meeting was. Me and Doobie quietly talked for hours. He knew all of the comics I was into, all the cartoons, he even told me cheat codes for Battle Toads. Conversation came easy... it came easy because of the way Doobie spoke and expressed himself. It was familiar. I could tell he was holding on to a lot of pain. Like me. The more we spoke -- the more relaxed he became -- the more I noticed things about Doobie that were... off. Cupping his knees, his flat hands were way too wide for a third grader. His fingers were too long for an adult, dangling like a willow’s branches. I noticed his waxy skin would crease in thick folds whenever he moved or spoke. It reminded me of a Stretch Armstrong -- that rubber doll from the 90’s with sand inside. I didn’t say anything about how he looked. I knew what it was like to be picked on for things you can’t control. Doobie finally asked, “Can I see what you're writing?” I showed him. I explained what it was and how Tom treated me. Doobie listened the same way my parents did. He cared. “Does he call you mean things, too?” I said yes. “Tell me.” I felt self-conscious but eventually told him. When I was done, I heard him giggle. I assumed he was laughing at me so I called him out, saying how I didn’t laugh at his name. “I don’t think what he called you is funny at all, Luke. No, no. Not at all.”, Doobie said. “I’m laughing because he’ll get what’s coming to him.” That’s when Doobie leaned forward and, for the first time, his face was fully illuminated by the lantern’s light. The whole time I had thought Doobie had dark eyes like me but, with his face fully lit, I realized his brow had been casting a shadow over green eyes peering from deep, deep sockets. I had never seen eyes set so deep in a person’s skull. What struck me the most, though, was his smile. It was wide with too many gray teeth bunched so tight that many overlapped. Like his eyes, they were also deep set, like an inch or two from where his lips began. It reminded me of a muppet. Again, I didn’t say anything about his appearance. It’s funny but I worried if I did that I'd scare away my new friend. I just asked what he meant by "He'll get what's coming to him". Doobie leaned closer, like he was letting me in on a secret. He smiled, gray teeth gleaming, as he whispered... *Bad comes back, round and round.* *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* *Even home, safe and sound.* *Cupboard kids don't mess around*. It was lyrical, Doobie’s sphere-shaped head bobbing in time with his sing-song tone. Knocking at the cupboard door startled us. It was mom. We were going to Pizza Hut for dinner and I had to get ready. Doobie made me promise to come back the next day. I said yes, forgetting that my plans to visit my aunt and uncle across town. I’d learn that Doobie didn’t like that. I’ve always had trouble sleeping in other people’s homes. My Auntie Mona and Uncle Ron’s was no exceptions. I was lying on the living room futon, playing on my Game Boy while the rest of my family slept. Then I heard something over the snoring. *Mmmmrrreeee...mmmrrreeee...mmmrrreeee.*.. It was my cupboard lantern. I hadn’t brought it with me. I rolled out of bed and followed the rhythmic cranking to the kitchen. I wasn’t scared. I knew it was Doobie coming to visit. I never had a friend visit me before. Auntie Mona's kitchen was tiny. There was no way my little ass could fit in any of those cupboards much less Doobie. But when I saw my lantern’s light flicker from behind one of the cupboard doors, I knew he could. I thought it was cool. For a moment. I opened the cupboard door and there he was, contorted with his knees up to his ears. He glared at me, with my lantern between his fingertips. His long fingers reminded me of daddy long legs. “You lied, Luke Puke.”, he hissed. More than Doobie being there, more than seeing him squashed into the cramped cupboard, it was him calling me one of the names my bullies used that surprised me. I asked him why he insulted me, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. “Bad comes back, round and round.” he snarled as he extended a long, lean arm from the cupboard, lifting the lantern close to my face. His eyes narrowed on my tears. “You lied about seeing me today. Lying is bad, Luke Crywalker.” I apologized. He asked if I meant it. I did. His smile returned. “I knew you were a good kid. Just like me and my friends.” Doobie craned his head and addressed the cupboard door beside his. “Right, Chi-chi?” The cupboard door opened. A girl in a Care Bears Christmas sweater poked her head out. “That’s right, Doobie. Cupboard kids see that you are found.”, she whispered with a slight squeak. Chi-chi had the same features as Doobie -- the deep-set eyes, the fingers -- but her hair was in sloppy braids and her pale, waxy skin hung loose from her face and neck. Like a bloodhound. I asked what they were doing there. Doobie said he liked me so much that he wanted me to meet his friends. Then the three remaining cupboard doors opened. A different cupboard kid poked their head out. These ones looked less like kids and more like toothed tadpoles in t-shirts. Their pit-like eyes on me made my scared. I pissed myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d pissed myself in front of other kids but it was the first time it wasn’t because of bullying... like the time Tom threatened me with a baseball bat with a nail in it. I was expecting Doobie’s buddies to do what all the other kids did; point and laugh. They didn’t. Instead they quietly told me how cool my Garfield pajamas were and how Doobie said I was awesome at Doctor Mario. Then they asked me about Tom. I was embarrassed to tell these new “friends” what I’d been through. “If you tell us you’ll feel better.” Squeaked Chi-chi, her smiling revealing dirty teeth and bleeding gums. “You can even say naughty words if that makes it easier.” Even though most of my dad’s music was full of curse words, our house had a strict no swearing policy. But I let it rip, whispering how much I hated Tom as I described every insult he’d called me, every slap to the back of the head, every rock that hit me. I had the cupboard kids’s full attention and, yeah, they smiled the whole time. I was too by the end. Chi-chi was right. It felt good to let all that out. When I’d finished, I noticed Doobie was stroking his chin with his spindly fingers... like he was toying with a thought. Then he said, “Tom needs to know he’s a bad kid.” I told him how me and my family tried. How it was pointless. “But you have us now.”, said a cupboard kid named Lefty, his skin so tight his mouth barely moved. “Bad kids listen to us.” he added with a thin lipped smile. I imagined what that would look like. Me and my new posse walking up to Tom at school, cursing him out, making him feel small and weak and dumb. Adrenaline pulsed through me. I wanted to do it. I asked when. “No time like the present, Luke.”, giggled Chi-chi. Then she shimmied backward, disappearing into the cupboard and gently closing the door behind her. I watched Lefty, Bingo, and Waddles -- the other two cupboard kids -- retreat into their cupboards the same way. It was just me and Doobie. I looked at him, confused. “It’s time we show him how bad comes round again.” Doobie reached his hand out to me. With it so close to my face, I could see how blue green veins pulsing beneath thick, callused skin. It was ghoulish. But I took it anyhow, my hand wrapped in a nest of five long fingers. He gently pulled me into the cupboard. I gently closed the door behind us. Doobie kept a firm grip on my hand, pulling me deeper inside the dark, musty space. My heart pounded, fearing I’d end up in the dark forever. But in seconds I heard door hinges creak. Suddenly I was stepping out of the cupboard in the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. The lights were off but I saw that the other cupboard kids were there. In the little bit of light that entered through the kitchen windows, I saw how different they looked when no longer confined to the cupboard. It was awful. They were short, shorter than me, and stood on stubby legs. Even though they were shorter than me, their torsos were wider, bodies like pot-bellied tree trunks. Their arms also defied proper proportions, so long that they all rested their palms on the linoleum floor. Even while standing. “That him?”, asked Chi-chi. She had a twisted, branch-like finger pointed at a family portrait. It was of a dad, a mom with a baby in her arms, and Tom. I said yes. The cupboard kids hurried out of the kitchen. They walked on their hands, legs dangling. The only sound they made were whispers cloaked beneath their heavy breaths... *Bad comes back, round and round.* Doobie led me out of the kitchen down a long hallway. The cupboard kids were in front of us, quietly opening each door to see what was inside. They didn’t make a sound, not even the floorboards creaked beneath their weight. But I could still hear them whispering... *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* I had no idea what they were looking for but when they discovered the room they wanted, they quietly entered. Waddles smiled and waved at me as he carefully closed the door behind him. Doobie and I entered the last room. There, in a big bed beside a window with a view of the entire town, was Tom. Fast asleep... safe and sound. I felt a weight rest on my shoulder. It was Doobie’s malformed hand. “Ready, pal?”, he asked encouragingly. I said yes. Doobie pulled himself to Tom’s bed and pounced onto my bully’s chest. Tom woke up with a gasp, the wind knocked out of him from Doobie’s weight crashing onto him. Doobie covered his mouth with one shovel-like hand and lifted him up with the other. Tom tried to push Doobie off of him but the cupboard kid was too strong. “Go on, Luke. Go on.”, Doobie said as he effortlessly held Tom in place. I looked at Doobie’s face. His lips were curled over his swollen gums and gray teeth. It was a smile but without a hint of sinister intentions. In fact, he looked supportive... almost loving. It was a stark contrast to Tom’s look of bewildered terror. I whispered at first, remembering what Doobie had told me about staying quiet. “Speak up, Luke! It's okay for good kids to shout at bad kids!” Doobie barked. I did. I unleashed years of pent up anger and shame and sadness and hatred, calling Tom every name I could think of. I made sure to say how it affected me, how he hurt me and my family. Then I heard screaming from the hallway. It was a man begging for mercy. A woman’s screams soon followed. Then I heard Chi-chi shout... *Think he's good, mom and dad,* *Even though he acts real bad?* *Such a shame your kid's a rat,* *We cut your skin and eat your fat!* Tom heard it too. He started thrashing against Doobie’s powerful grip. It was useless. Tom quickly gave up, reduced to blubbering, tears streaming not the cupboard kid ringleader’s unnaturally large hand. My anger began to fade. “What’s wrong, Luke?” I asked Doobie the same thing, asking what was happening outside. Doobie told me not to worry, that it was part of teaching Tom what happens when bad comes back. Then I heard Lefty shout over the screams. Bingo joined in. Then I heard a baby cry. *Still think he's such a prize,* *Even when we take your eyes?* *Keep the egg but kill the flies,* *Teach him good with your cries!* I wanted to run. I wanted to call out for help. My legs wouldn’t let me. My voice was caught in my throat. “We brought you here for this, Luke. Don’t be ungrateful! Only bad kids are ungrateful!” It was the first time I’d heard Doobie raise his voice. It was halfway between a pig’s squeal and the roar of an enraged old man. It made my ears ring and my legs shake. I felt like I would whenever Tom cornered me, demanding I give him my lunch money. I was going to have to do what I was told. My forced tirade ended an hour later when Chi-chi entered. “Hi, Luke!”, she said as she dragged herself in on her long, sinewy arms. I was expecting to see her wool sweater soaked with blood. She looked no different than how I’d seen her earlier that evening. “How do ya feel? Better?” She asked as she approached. I tried to answer but couldn’t; my throat was too hoarse from shouting over the screams and the cupboard kids’s haunting rhymes. “I think he got him pretty good.”, said Doobie. “Let’s find out.” Tom had stopped crying a while ago, his bloodshot eyes fixed on me. I thought he was angry, biding his time to run and tackle me like so many times before. I even flinched when Doobie’s fingers unwrapped from around his mouth. All Tom did was cry and beg to be let go. Chi-chi whipped her head around to face me. Just her head, her neck cracking as it spun 180 degrees. She smiled, proudly displaying her infected gums. “Great work, Luke!” she squeaked. Chi-chi’s head returned to a “natural” position, her beady eyes focused on Tom as she stalked toward him. Tom whimpered as she leaned close to him, her unnaturally wide mouth near his ear. She whispered something that made Tom gasp. He turned to her, horrified as he stared into the black pits where her eyes presumably were. Then the other cupboard kids walked in. There wasn't a drop of blood on any of them. It made me question if they had hurt Tom’s family at all. I watched as one-by-one, they whispered something in Tom's ear. Tom grew quieter with each word, my bully’s affect sinking deeper and deeper into despair. I looked at Tom and in a moment of clarity understood what they meant. He was staring into nothingness, expressionless. No whimpering or whining, just a vacant stare. Tom was dead inside. Then we left. I silently followed the cupboard kids down the hall. I kept my eyes ahead, making sure not to look into any of the rooms on our way to the kitchen. The smell of blood was enough. “Same time tomorrow?”, asked Doobie as he helped me out of the cupboard back into my aunt and uncle’s kitchen. I said yes. My auntie found me in the kitchen the next morning, hugging my legs beside my lantern. I didn’t say anything about what had happened. My family and I returned home later that afternoon. I went straight to my dad’s tool box, grabbed a screwdriver, and removed all the doors from the kitchen cupboards. My family even helped -- like I said, they’re cool like that. I had fucking amazing parents. I spent the rest of winter break in what became the new “Luke’s Place”: my bedroom. I believed that at any minute the police would show up and arrest me for what had happened. They never came. Tom never came back to school. Rumor was that his family had abandoned him, just got up and left, leaving only him behind. His neighbors found him in his bed days later. No blood, no bodies, just Tom, catatonic and unresponsive in bed. He lives in a mental hospital now. If you're asking yourself why I'm telling you my story thirty years after it happened, it's because I have a kid of my own now. A nine-year-old girl. She's been a great kid up until my wife and I separated. Despite our best efforts, she hasn't been taking it well. Me and her mom were called into the principal's office today. She'd been ruthlessly picking on this one girl. Of course we're going to do something to try and get her back on the right track, starting with having our girl apologize to the girl she'd been bullying. This girl wasn't interested in an apology. Instead, she looked my daughter dead in the eyes and said, *Bad comes back, round and round.* *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* *Even home, safe and sound.* *Cupboard kids don't mess around*. There aren't any doors in my home's cupboards, I made sure of that long ago. But my wife's new place does. And they're staying there tonight.


Jane stared at the screen, eyes wide, bright blues and greens flashing on her face. On the television, a little boy and his grandfather rowed along the shore. In the distance, smoke danced out of a chimney, melting into the bright blue sky. The boy smiled at his grandfather as the pair turned the little boat, nestling it into a nook in the rocky shore, just below the house. “Here we are, Tony. You do the honours,” said the old man. Beaming, Tony reached out and grabbed a jutting stone. It gave way, sliding downwards, and the roar of rushing water filled Jane’s ears. A secret door opened, revealing a brightly lit cave with a dock for the boat. The current, engineered to be just strong enough to carry the boat, guided Tony and his grandfather to the dock. Tony then pressed his hand against the wall of the cave, and another door opened with a rumble. Behind it, a spiralling staircase was lit by flickering orange lights. “Home sweet home,” murmured the grandfather as the two of them climbed up the stairs. The image faded to black, and a familiar song started playing. House of Secrets will return next week on AniTV . Up next, “The Hide and Seekers”. Jane switched off the TV with a sigh. Each episode felt shorter than the last. She shivered and glanced around the room, hoping to locate a blanket; the couch and the TV were the only pieces of furniture left. Rows of boxes were stacked precariously high against the walls, each one of them carefully labelled. No blanket in sight, but her jacket was resting on a small box marked “JANE’S ROOM” in big, blue, bold letters. “Jane! Give me a hand in the kitchen, will you?” bellowed her father. With a sigh, the young girl grabbed her jacket and headed to the kitchen. The gentle rumble of the old family car had lulled Jane to sleep. The car was crawling around narrow mountain paths; under its wheels, the asphalt had grown weary and cracked and finally, had given way to a dirt road. A particularly deep pothole startled her awake. Blinking sleep away from her eyes, she stretched and rubbed the part of her shoulder that had been pressed against the car wall. Her neck hurt, too, and she leaned back, squirming to find a more comfortable position, before grabbing her tablet from the adjacent seat. Today, on House of Secrets … “Jane, darling, would you mind using headphones? I’m trying to concentrate on the road,” said her mother. “Sorry, Mom,” mumbled Jane. She rooted around the backpack at her feet and found the headphones at the very bottom. Pensive, Jane began fumbling with the cord in an attempt to untangle it. Though the sun was setting, light still outlined the jagged rocks on the side of the path, and the immense forest below. The town they were moving to was just beyond the mountain, and, from the pictures Jane had seen, full of beautiful old houses. She smiled to herself as she plugged the headphones in. Maybe the new house will be full of secrets, too . It was dark when they finally reached the house, too dark to see much beyond the ring of light cast by the streetlight next to the gate. Jane’s mom pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight to guide her family to the front door. Gravel crunched under their feet as they stepped into the gloom of the front yard; Jane peered ahead, her head full of the mysteries the house might reveal. Once they reached the door, her father switched on the porch light, and amber shadows danced around the doorstep. Inside, the light was bright and cold, pouring down from brand new lamps. The young girl blinked as she stepped into a hallway leading to the kitchen, her eyes adjusting to the change. Though the house itself was old, the interior had been recently renovated, and she could see no hidden nooks or suspicious markings on the walls—nothing like the cottage in House of Secrets . As they stepped into the kitchen, her mother ran her fingers along the marble counters and the smooth wooden table and nodded, satisfied. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore the house tomorrow, Janey”, said Jane’s father, noticing the look on his daughter’s face. “You should sleep, now,” added her mother. “There’s mattresses in the bedrooms and I brought pillows and bed sheets last time I visited. We’ll unload the stuff in the car in the morning, before the movers arrive.” That night, Jane curled up on her mattress and stared at the smooth, white walls. The wooden floors were perfectly polished, with no creaky boards or uneven corners that might reveal a trapdoor. She sighed, pulled her tablet and headphones out of her bag, and let the comforting theme song of House of Secrets wash over her. There were no curtains on the windows yet, and, when the first rays of sunlight streamed into the room and woke Jane up, she found that her cheek was pressed against the tablet, her headphones a tangled mess next to her head. She’d slept in the same skirt and t-shirt she had been wearing the day before; they smelled like sweat and long car trips. With a yawn, she reached into her bag for a change of clothes, and headed downstairs in practical jeans and a fresh t-shirt. Her father had insisted on bringing the coffee machine and a few bags of coffee with them in the car; the rich smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen and coaxed a smile out of Jane. The house, much bigger than the family’s old apartment, came with a few sparse pieces of furniture, like the wooden table in the kitchen or the TV stand in the living room. Not empty, but not quite liveable, either: it was an odd place, this half-furnished house, but not in the way Jane had wished. Since the kitchen chairs were with the movers, presumably being trucked along some treacherous mountain road, she settled for the sleek steel stools at the kitchen counter and accepted her mug of coffee with a grateful nod. “I added a pinch of cinnamon, just how you like it. Your mom went to the bakery to get breakfast. She’ll be back soon, I think,” said her father. It was decided that toast would along great with the coffee and would provide an excellent excuse to test out the brand-new toaster oven. When breakfast was over with and the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher, Jane and her parents began unloading the suitcases they had brought with them; while they were placing clothes, pillows, and various knick-knacks in the different rooms, Jane kept her eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. She even checked behind the refrigerator when they unloaded the few groceries they had brought. Nothing. All the surfaces were smooth and shiny and perfect, the rooms square and sensible, with no nooks and crannies where secrets might lurk. A perfectly normal, boring house. That evening, after the movers had left, Jane’s mother decided to order pizza as a reward. Though there were still boxes strewn about here and there, it had been a long day of unpacking, and everyone was tired.

“Chin up, Janey,” said her father. “I’ll help you explore more tomorrow. We’re bound to come across some kind of secret. Or you could take a walk around. There are beautiful lakes around here, and a whole forest for you to explore just outside the town.” Jane nodded, unconvinced. Her mother playfully nudged her shoulder. “Aren’t you a little old to be looking for secret doors and hidden passages, anyway?” The next day confirmed her first impression. There was nothing of interest in the house. She and her father had searched high and low, knocking on the walls and floors and sounding out the ceilings with a broom. No hollow sounds. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” said her mother when they came back to the kitchen, broom in hand. “This just isn’t that kind of house, I think.” “S’alright,” mumbled Jane. “You’re probably right, anyway. I’m getting a little old for this.” Today, on House of Secrets… Jane sighed. This was her third episode of the night; it was getting late, and yet sleep still escaped her. Shrugging off the covers, she headed downstairs, and made herself a cup of fragrant tea. The grass in the garden, still wet after a rainy day, glistened in the moonlight. Her parents had left a window open, and the night air was cool and inviting. Without bothering to put on shoes, she slipped outside, cup in hand, and took a deep breath. The wooden patio creaked under her feet as she stepped off it and onto the grass. Wait. She took a step back. Creaked ? Jane set her tea down and gave the wood a cautious knock. Hollow. Her heart raced. The patio was nothing more than a slab of wood on the ground where her mother had carefully arranged lawn furniture. There was no reason for it to sound hollow, unless… She took out her phone, using its flashlight to scrutinize the wooden planks. There, in the corner, half-hidden by some creeping weeds. A piece of wood was jutting out. Sucking in her breath, she pressed it down. There was another creak, and a piece of the patio moved. Jane pressed harder, and, slowly, painfully, a section of the planks slid back, revealing an ancient-looking trap door. The young girl squealed, then covered her mouth with a cautious glance at her parents’ window. Please don’t let it be locked… She reached for the handle with trembling fingers, and bit back another squeal of excitement. The trapdoor was heavy, but unlocked, and she opened it after a quick struggle, revealing a ladder that plunged in the darkness below. Carefully, suppressing the urge to run, she headed back to the house for shoes and a proper flashlight. At the bottom of the ladder, Jane found a musty-smelling tunnel. She wrinkled her nose but pressed on, shivering. Water droplets dripped from the ceiling, echoes bouncing around the tunnel as they crashed on the stone ground. Her flashlight did little to clear the darkness ahead, but at least the tunnel seemed man-made, and, unlike the passages in House of Secrets , it ran straight underground, with no twists and turns and fake exits made to trick inexperienced explorers. After what felt like an eternity, Jane finally reached a cul-de-sac. There were no other paths, no visible exits. It had to be a secret door. Pointing her flashlight first at the walls, then at the floor, the young girl quickly found what she was looking for. The stone floor was uniform and smooth, except for a small indent right behind her. She pushed into it with her foot, and, as she suspected, a hidden door opened, sending dust flying around the cul-de-sac. What she had not been expecting, however, was the gust of cold air that greeted her. Hanging plants and bushy shrubs half-blocked the way. Clutching her flashlight, Jane stepped out into the open and let out a gasp. The door was concealed right into a cliff; up above, Jane could see the outline of the town—and her house. In front of her, a starry lake spread out, its waters dark as the night. Other than the one she had just taken, she could see no paths that led to or from it. The End.


CW: Suicide

*** To increase my self-discipline, I started taking freezing cold showers at the age of fourteen. Every morning, I would wake up, brush my teeth, and step into a waterfall of icicles. It wasn’t a pleasant thing, but my mother never complained that I’d used all the hot water like my brother did when he was my age. Our house is old, built before the constitution was signed. Heat is a rarity. But that’s hardly to do with the gaps in the bricks.

I started doing this when I failed a math test, and my father told me that if I’d just studied harder, tried harder, worked harder, then I would not have failed. He was wrong. My father always thought he was right, but he was wrong. Numbers to me are not tangible, whatever they taught me about numbers in elementary school didn’t stick. But Still, I started taking freezing cold showers.

A lot of websites will list the benefits of cold showers. They reduce muscle soreness, improve your circulation, and hydrate your skin. In a locker room, I hear girls talking about how they never wash their face in the shower, it dries out your skin, they say. Perhaps that serves as a simple explanation, but nothing has ever been so simple for me.

After a year of freezing, I saw rows and rows of red cuts on my friend’s arm. We were fifteen, sitting in the study hall. It was winter and the edge of her sleeve was pulled back like an invisible hand moved it, like someone wanted me to see.

I told the school counselor. My friend never spoke to me after that. I wish I could tell her that she and I are twin souls. That my shivering pale hands and her red bleeding arms are both a form of self-destruction. I have ice water in my bloodstream and she has iron on the inside of her sleeves.  She and I were twin souls, didn’t we drink from the same can of sprite, that night sitting on someone else’s porch?  “I’m cold,” She said.  I told her that I didn't get cold. Not easily. I lied. I lied again and again to her.

I wish I could have told her that but I won't even tell myself.

Either way. She killed herself last spring. During the celebration of life assembly, I ran math equations in my head, trying to figure out how I could have spent those two hours working on an essay. My parents would kill me if I failed that essay. If they got there before I did. Warm summer evenings and the rattling of my radiator, hissing like a snake and shaking like a leaf. They both mean nothing to me. I ace every test, my grades are good. One day, in a difficult math class my father insisted I take, I got a B-, and that day I didn't walk home.

My legs carry me out into the forest. New England winters are brutal. There is snow shining on the ground, and the yards look like the surface of the moon. In these woods are where witches upon witches were hanged. New England winters are brutal.

I sit against one of those old stone walls, the ones they tell us American soldiers hid behind during the Revolutionary War. I’m not a soldier. My grandfather fought in World War Two and my brother tried to join the military when he was eighteen, but my mother wouldn’t let him. There’s nothing noble about us.

My coat and scarf are hung on a tree, waving in the wind like a woman from a ship leaving port. My boots go next, set into the snow like a time capsule my brother and I buried in the yard. We filled it with pictures and VHS tapes and buried it beneath a weeping willow tree. The tree fell years ago, that tin box tangled in its roots.

I lay in the snow for hours, feeling my limbs go numb and my brain slow down. My heart, always defiant and always struggling, beats like a rabbit’s. It tries so desperately to pump blood to my vital organs, to save me. My breath is cold, a woolen cloud against the dark backdrop of a starless sky.

Finally, mercifully, sleep overtakes me. As a child in elementary school, between concerned child meetings and flashcards with stark, black numbers, they taught me how to pull myself out of a frozen lake. How to put blankets in the back of a trunk. To pile blankets on a bed and test ice before you walk on it. They told me the one thing you should never do is fall asleep. Somehow, it feels good to finally break a rule.

Some hunters find my body. They take my coat and boots, leave the scarf. My mother wrote my name on the tag of my jacket, despite my insistence that I’m not a child anymore.

“In case it gets lost” She said. I don’t think she ever thought, holding that sharpie and scrawling her child’s name, it would ever be used to identify a body.

In the investigation, they will ask about me. They will ask my parents and my friend if anything seems off. They say I was always so hard-working, always very disciplined, and respectful. I never broke any rules, except for a key rule. My mother will sob into her hands, and my brother will see my pale face and find it incomprehensible. My father will regret every time he told me off for having low grades. Ha, no he won't. He'll see this simply as another failure. My teachers will find the news shocking, my friends will feel a pang of pressing guilt, like stones on their shoulders. Like I did. I get up quickly, frantically. Swears turn to steam as I say them. I tug my boots back on and jog home, taking my coat and leaving my scarf to hang in the tree-like the body of another, unfortunate girl.

My mother screams at me for staying out so late. I trudge up to my room and pile blankets on my bed. My head is spinning. I wonder how the cold has affected me, everything seems foggy. I keep checking my fingers, which are still there, and my toes, which are still there. My heart races like the dog chasing a rabbit, its master shouting at it to go faster, work harder. I let my heartbeat slow. For maybe the first time in four years, I do not have a stress-dream about school. In the morning, I wake up, brush my teeth, and turn the shower knob all the way to the blue. I think of rows and rows of graves of girls hung on trees, I think of rows and rows of bleeding cuts on an arm, and I think of rows and rows of straight As, stark black letters, signifying nothing. What was I doing it for? Just to kill myself? I take that cold metal handle and I pull it back all the way until hot water rattles through the pipes.


Prelude The rain pounded the small stone home outside of the city of Corinth. The storm raged and the winds howled, and yet Lamia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the storm’s presence. All she could feel was the warm radiance of the god laying in bed next to her. His powerful arms wrapped around her body, making her feel safe and secure in the home.

“You more than any other mortal, have captured my heart,” Zeus said sleepily, a smile on his face as he gently stroked the hair out of Lamia’s face.

“My heart is yours, now and forever my lord,” Lamia replied, reaching up and kissing his face gently. Lamia was the most beautiful woman of the village, her golden hair and sun-kissed skin making her desired by all. She was also known to be favored by the gods, most notably Zeus, who arrived at her home in the midst of a storm similar to the one playing out now, in the guise of a giant eagle.

“For you and only you my love, I am not your lord. I am your love, as you are mine,” Zeus replied, his muscular frame flexing under her soft touch as he moved his mane of curly black hair from his eyes. He found her lips with his own and began to kiss her softly at first, gradually becoming hungrier as they felt the throes of passion overtake them once more.

“So this is where you have been sneaking off to, my darling husband,” a voice beckoned. The two lovers jumped at the sound of the voice, and Zeus strode forward in the room, anger blooming in his eyes.

“Who dares disrupt us,” he demanded before recognition took hold in his eyes.

“Do you not recognize your wife, oh mighty Zeus?” Hera asked, stepping out of the shadows as her own golden glow began to radiate the room. Long flowing red and gold hair hung down her back, as the white sash she wore revealed her toned and athletic body, one bestowed upon to all of the gods.

“Hera, what is the meaning of this?” Zeus asked.

“You have the audacity to feign anger at me, husband? You who have left the world with more bastard children than can fill a temple in my honor? How ridiculous, and to debase your godhood by laying with this mere mortal, why that is beyond dishonor. You should feel shame.” “Shame for what? For loving and being loved? You forget your place Hera. I am the king of the gods, and you will show me the respect I deserve.” “Save the melodrama for when we return to Olympus. You and I know that you and I have equal power. In fact, let me demonstrate,” Hera replied, pushing past her husband and towards the bed, where Lumia still held her white sash to her naked form.

“My goddess, forgive me. I did not…” Lamia began to say, her words falling short of spilling out of her mouth as she stared upon the beautiful goddess standing before her.

“I’m sure you felt obliged to heed your feelings, especially in the presence of my ‘divine’ husband here. Yet an example must be made, and you sadly must pay the price for my husband’s mistake. I pity you mortal. Your mortal life is now at an end, and only hell awaits you,” Hera replied. With the simple touch of her hand to Lamia’s forehead, the young woman’s life changed forever.

Lamia howled in agony as pain took hold of her. She could feel her skin peeling and cracking in places, while her hair fell out and her bones cracked. Her teeth sharpened and her ears grew pointed, and Lumia felt her humanity shed off of her as easy as a wolf’s skin.

“Zeus, my love, help me,” Lamia cried, her voice growing heavy and rough as her transformation continued. Zeus watched in horror as the woman he loved twisted and turned into a hideous beast, and his heart broke at the sight.

Chapter 1 Quinn Ford woke to the bright light of a California morning streaming in through the blinds of the beach house. The soothing sound of the waves crashing on the shore nearby was relaxing, and Quinn found himself fighting to stay awake. As he turned away from the bright morning light, he came face to face with Iris Walsh, his amazing girlfriend, and the world brightened once more.

The weekend trip had come together perfectly. Quinn had surprised Iris with the weekend plans and thankfully she had jumped at the opportunity. He needed a break from his latest novel, Baseline, and a weekend not answering another panicked call from his agent Helen was a welcome addition. Now in his thirties, Quinn found himself drawn more to peaceful and romantic weekends rather than the party life most twenty-somethings craved for all week long.

He’d been lucky to meet Iris in the first place. Iris Walsh was a thirty-year-old photographer and makeup artist living in Los Angeles. He’d been working on his book in a bookshop/cafe, and had noticed her sitting at the table next to him. Her face had been scrunched up as she studied something on her laptop, and he noticed she was drinking the same thing as him. He’d always been shy, and so he had hesitated talking to her at first, not knowing what to say.

However as he worked on his book, he found himself surprised when she sat down on the couch next to him, setting her laptop down. He looked up to see her looking at him, her emerald green eyes drawing him in immediately.

“Sorry, the couch looked much more comfortable than the damn chair over there,” she said, her Irish accent punching through and enticing him like music in the air.

“That’s…that’s alright. Always plenty of room for a fellow vanilla late drinker,” he joked, hoping his face was as blushed as he felt in that moment. He always felt awkward sitting next to a beautiful woman. As a heavyset man, he always worried it would be the only thing a woman would be able to fixate on when talking to him. Yet Iris was different, never once breaking eye contact with him.

“Aye, these vanilla late’s are delicious. I never had them back home, but damn are they good.” “Is that an Irish accent I’m detecting? Where in Ireland are you from?” “Sandymount, a small village outside Dublin on the coast. Just moved here a couple years ago. Names Iris; Iris Walsh,” the young woman introduced herself as.

“Quinn; Quinn Ford,” he replied, and the rest was history as the saying goes.

Now looking into Quinn’s beautiful face and trailing his hand down her body, he could honestly say he’d never felt happier. Today was the day he told himself. Today he would ask her to move in with him in his loft in LA. It had been a few months since they’d met, and she brought the best out of him, and he hoped she felt the same way, at least enough to say yes to his idea.

“Good morning darlin’,” Iris said, smiling without opening her eyes.

“How do you always know when I’m awake?” Quinn asked, smiling.

“It’s one of my superpowers, love,” she replied, opening her eyes and smiling.

“You are my super-woman. Did you get some good sleep?”

“I always do when I’m next to you. What did you want to do today? Do you have to work?” “Nope, today I’m all yours. I was thinking we could have a late breakfast/early lunch, lay on the beach and then take a moonlit stroll along the beach before dinner. I thought we’d check out the caves near the Pinnacles National Park. What do you say?” “I say that sounds a plan. Want to take a shower first?” “You read my mind,” he replied, following her out of bed as the sheets fell from their bodies and they ran into the bathroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Chapter 2 It had been a whirlwind day for the young couple in love. A hearty breakfast buffet followed by a long lounge on the beach in their bathing suits was the perfect recipe for a weekend getaway. Quinn could feel the anticipation building up inside him, wanting the night to come so he could finally ask her to move in with him. The nerves were intense, and he hoped that his instincts were right on this one.

Yet as they lay together, Iris laying her head on his chest, Quinn couldn’t help but feel like something was bothering her. She felt distant at times, almost like her mind was a thousand miles away. Yet he didn’t let that deter him. Instead he told himself he was just psyching himself out of doing what he had set out to do, and so he moved forward with the day.

As night descended, the young couple walked hand in hand along the trail of the Pinnacles National Park. The waves nearby crashed against the rocks as they walked, and Quinn breathed in the ocean air around them.

“Today as been the perfect day,” Iris said, her smile stretching into a grin as she looked up into his eyes.

“It really has been,” he replied, leaning down and kissing her on the lips softly. Before either one of them could say another word, the night air was pierced by the sound of a low growl. The couple tensed, their hearts stopping in their chests as they turned and saw a large pair of red eyes staring at them from the darkness of the trail they’d just walked.

“Iris, we have to move,” Quinn said.

“Whatever that thing is, it’s blocking our path back to the car,” Iris replied.

“There’s a cave nearby. If we can find some high ground in there maybe whatever it is will move on. I don’t have anything to fight it off with, so we gotta take a chance here,” Quinn replied.

“I feel like we’re being cornered,” Iris said.

“So do I babe, but I don’t think we have a choice. That thing is inching closer to us,” Quinn began to say.

Before either one could make a move, the creature stepped into the moonlight, and they gasped in horror as a massive wolf trailed down towards them. Tufts of black fur and pearly white teeth glistened in the moonlight, and its eyes seemed to blaze with fire as it walked closer and closer to them. Quinn and Iris began to make a move to run, but as they turned they both found themselves caught on a large root, and the tumble sent them falling into the mouth of the cave below. __________________________________________ Quinn opened his eyes as pain shot through the back of his head, stars exploding behind his eyelids as he returned to consciousness. The world around him was blurry, but he could see the outline of a large fire burning in front of him. As he swatted away the cobwebs from his memory, his vision cleared and he saw he was laying inside of a large cave.

He could still hear the crashing of the waves from the mouth of the cave, and the memory of being chased by the wolf came flooding back.

“Iris!” Quinn shouted, but before he could sit up pain shot through him once more, and a cold marble finger laid against his lips.

“Shh, hush now babe. It’s alright now,” a soothing voice called out, and he watched as Iris crawled next to him. She was a vision of beauty, as always. Her flowing white sating dress and porcelain skin seemed to shine in the light of the fire, and her piercing eyes held his gaze as she slowly climbed and straddled him, her soft hands slowly wiping the hair from his face.

“Iris? Are you…are you alright?” Quinn asked, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance away.

“We’re both ok my love. Just be here with me now,” Iris said simply, her lips bearing down on his own in a powerful and ravenous motion. He’d never felt such intensity from her, and he felt weak in her presence. As she looked into his eyes however, he saw her eyes change from green to red, and the world came crashing down around him. “You’re not Iris,” Quinn said in shock, pushing the mystery woman off of him as he pushed himself against the rock wall behind him.

“More clever than most,” the woman replied, her voice gravelly and a growl erupting from her throat. Quinn watched in horror as Iris disappeared, and in her place, a hideous, monstrous crone stood in her place. Her skin was split apart and cracked, her hair was missing and large, sharp teeth pierced through her lower lip. Her eyes blazed red, and her mouth began to open wide, as if she were unhinging her lower jaw. A large howl escaped from her mouth, and Quinn found himself locked in terror.

“Quinn!” A voice shouted, and he looked to his right to see Iris, his Iris, sitting along the rock wall a few feet away from him. The creature before him screamed, turning its attention on Iris and crawling quickly towards his girlfriend. Iris let out a scream as the creature got closer, a long, black forked tongue shooting out and running down Iris’s face. The creature suddenly pulled back, a laugh piercing the cavern as it glared down at the young woman.

“I can smell it. The child has begun growing inside you,” the creature said, laughing all the while. Quinn looked on in shock as Iris met his gaze and tears streamed down her face.

“I was planning on telling you at dinner. I…I was afraid you’d be scared off. We’ve only been dating a few months, and I thought the news would…” Iris began to say, tears hanging like crystals in the corners of her eyes.

“Iris, it’s ok. That…that’s the best news you could have ever given me. I was going to ask you to move in with me tonight. I guess your news trumps mine,” Quinn joked, tears and laughs escaping them both as the horror of their situation began to sink in more and more.

“The child will make you…a much more delicious meal,” the creature hissed, unhinging its jaw once more. Iris screamed as the creature moved to strike, never noticing Quinn leaping forward and pushing Iris out of the way. As he did so, the creature’s teeth ripped out a chunk of Quinn’s side, just as it’s razor-sharp claws ripped into his chest.

“No!” Iris shouted, just as the creature released Quinn and sent him hurtling to the ground. Iris crawled over and held Quinn in her arms, turning him over so she could see his face. Tears streamed down her face as blood seeped out of his wounds.

“Why? Why would you do that?” The creature asked, shock and awe taking hold as it stared down at its victim.

“Because…because I love her. I love her…love her enough to die…to die for her,” Quinn said, his breaths shortening as the blood loss began to set in.

The sound of his voice and his words pierced the night air, and the creature suddenly began to howl in agony, flinging itself to the ground as pain engulfed it. The creature’s body began to transform suddenly, just as a brilliant light of white and gold engulfed the cavern. Iris shielded her and Quinn’s eyes just as a man stepped out of the light. He was a chiseled specimen, his body glowing and his eyes piercing as he took in the scene around them.

“Who…who are you?” Iris asked.

“You modern mortals would not believe me, but I am Zeus,” the man replied, leaning down as the creature before him began to transform. Its hideous appearance began to disappear, and in its place, a beautiful young woman appeared. Iris watched as the creature vanished, and Zeus wiped the blood from the woman’s ruby lips.

“What is happening?” Iris asked.

“You two mortals have freed my love from her curse,” Zeus replied. “My wife, Hera, cursed the woman lying here in my arms centuries ago. For my infidelity, she cursed this innocent woman to become the monster you see before you. I helped her the best I could, giving her her powers and a place to hide whenever humanity began to encroach on her home. I searched for centuries for a cure, secluding myself in the heart of Olympus until that time arrived. You two have found that cure for me, however.” “Cure?” Iris asked.

“True love. I should have known, but my wife is clever. An act of true love saved my beloved Lamia from her curse. Quinn sacrificed himself for you my dear, and that love pierced the curse entirely. For that, I shall heal your love. I apologize for the pain we’ve caused you, mortals. Lamia, rest now my love. We ride for Olympus. Your pain is at an end.” Iris watched as the man and woman disappeared in a brilliant glow of light. As they did, Quinn took a massive breath, and she watched as his wounds healed. Looking up into her eyes, he cupped her face in his hands and smiled.

“Iris,” he said, tears streaming down his face.

“Quinn,” she breathed, tears pouring out of her.

“I love you,” he replied, resting his hand on her face and his free hand on her stomach.

“I love you too, with all my heart,” she replied, leaning down to kiss him and resting her hand on her stomach as well, glad to be alive and well once more. At that moment, love had truly won.


Personally, I don't think this is the best example of my writing. But my teacher liked it, and I felt like posting something on here. So here we go. - I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. He’s laughing. He’s playing. He’s happy. He ran to the slide. His friends called him. They’re playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They ran to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman now. He’s blasting off. Snowballs are being thrown, with snow forts as cover. Impenetrable castles, strongholds, citadels to young, effervescent minds. He’s smiling. Laughing. Living. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his blue eyes. His friends tug on the dark strands. Wrestling. Their mothers are talking. His calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. His mother is beside him. “Be careful,” she says. He nods. He looks sad, but the friends call again. He smiles and runs over. The mother walks to the other parents, through a path of budding flowers, green capsules ready to burst from the life inside. The other parents try for conversation, but the boy’s mother is quiet. The boy is laughing. He’s slower. Less energy. The friends notice. So does his mother. She calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. The boy is there. His mother is beside him. She adjusts his woolen cap and frowns. “Don’t you want to go play?” He shakes his head. His feet dig ditches in the woodchips. She walks back to the other parents, through the now-bloomed wildflowers. Anger flashes through her mind at the thought of something so insignificant living so beautifully. The other parents say nothing to her. Her hair is frizzy. Disheveled. It sticks out here and there. She’s worn out. Exhausted. So is he. His eyelids droop over tired, grey orbs. They’re empty, a thin layer of cloudiness covering them. Haggard. He watches his friends. They don’t notice, or pretend not to. He sighs. His mother comes over and takes his hand. It’s time to go. The other parents begin talking. I sat across from the swingset. My eyes scan the ditches in the woodchips. A quilt of colored leaves lay flattened by young feet, browns and yellows and reds. The friends are there. They’re laughing. They’re playing. They’re happy. The parents are talking. Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Living. The friends are playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They run to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman. He isn’t.


So get this: I’m plunging a toilet. I know that’s not a very good start to a story but bear with me. Bear with me. Plunging a toilet, and right through the bathroom window, *WHOOSH, POW, KRGHINCGNNGGGG,* huge meteorite. Like, basketball-size huge. Little blue dude walks out, about six inches tall. He holds out what looks like an electronic device of some kind. It plays a message that I can’t understand, but it sounds kind of angry. So I stomped him. He made a very satisfying squishing sound, and I also think I heard him say “but friend" right before my foot came down, whatever that means. Still dunno what the message was about. Also dunno if stomping him was a very good idea, because whoever sent him was a little pissed. I think. The first sign was that the next morning, I woke up with three of the fingers on my left hand replaced by Polish sausages, one of which my cat was eating. Second, I noticed that my cat now had jet-black octagons for eyes, which I might ordinarily chalk up to the fact that she’s a demon witch disguised as a cat, but the octagons kept changing colors and whispering that they'd love to eat my lovely space hands, and she usually doesn’t scare me like that. I finished the sausage Kitty was eating because, hey, no getting my fingers back and free breakfast, before getting out of bed. I spotted the third sign that someone was messing with me when I got up. I looked out the window and noticed that the entire world was composed of a triangle, a square, and a tetrahedron, all of whom were arguing that they were the best shape, an argument that got resolved when the tetrahedron turned into a fire hydrant I was peeing on. A purple octopus with three extra tentacles crossed the street and started waving furiously at the fire hydrant and at my zipper, so I started screaming and spinning in circles to ward off the evil presence that it was conjuring from the eighth dimension. That strategy must have worked, because immediately after I stopped, the octopus turned into a woman talking on a cell phone about a crazy who was peeing on hydrants and probably high. Oh my God. *I remembered seeing someone doing that earlier!* I knew I needed to do my civic duty, so I took off racing up the street to hunt the crazy guy down. A cop car passed by, and I didn’t want to get arrested for conspiracy to be a vigilante, so I climbed into a tree and hid. It was so comfortable that I ended up staying for over four hours, and just as I started to get hungry, a squirrel sang “happy birthday” to me and invited me to his home inside the tree trunk. I forgot it was my birthday! It was so nice of him to remind me, and I was really hungry, so I took him up on the offer. At first, I was worried I wouldn’t fit, but the trunk expanded to make a door-sized opening and I stepped inside. The squirrel, whose name is Dave, is a really good cook. We had chicken parmigiana and homemade wine, which reminded me of priests, for some reason. Unfortunately, the door disappeared right after dinner. Long story short, I’ve been stuck in a pocket universe trapped inside a tree trunk for over four years. I figured out dimensional tunneling and took control of the dude who owns this Reddit account to ask for help. For the love of God, if anyone reads this, the tree is on 427 Widmar Way, somewhere by Polar street. Knock on the trunk three times, remove your pants, grow a third arm, shave your left eyebrow, and sing happy birthday backwards to open the gate. Ask for Dave. Also, if you could bring my meds along when you come to look for me, I’d really appreciate it. I think I might have just started having an episode.


Two old women are sitting on their roof looking out over the neighborhood, smoking cigarettes and drinking rum. Normally they reminisce about the past, because that’s what you do when you’re old and you only have a few years left. Anytime a new memory pops up in their minds, they pounce on it. They clap their hands together and open their eyes wide and douse themselves in honey to better stick themselves to that memory and absorb all its color until the ants come crawling, and it’s all forgotten again. But these old ladies aren’t reminiscing tonight. They’re talking about the future. They’re planning it well, tipsy and shivering slightly, blowing smoke at the moon. “I’ve never made a bucket list.” said June “Well it’s not really something you make, per se. They’re just things you want to do that you keep in the back of your mind.” said Leonora. “You don’t write them down?” “I didn’t.” “But you still have one?” “Oh sure, they’re not in any particular order. Like... alright, let’s see. The first one to come to mind is going to the beach and collecting sea shells.” “You’ve never done that?” “I’ve never been to the beach.” “Let’s go then! You ain’t gonna find any here in Nebraska.” June stood up, taking no care of the danger where she stood and that possibility of falling off onto the driveway. Then all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put this old woman back together again. She grabbed Leonora’s hand and pulled her up. They both flicked their cigarettes into the air which soared and swerved like drunken fireflies on the cusp of a DUI.

“You mean tonight?” Leonora asked. “Of course tonight. Why not tonight? Why not do everything we can possibly do immediately? You know death is combing our hair and caressing our clit, trying to make us wet, the old bastard.” “June!” “Yes, and let’s talk like.. dirty fuckers! Fucking cunt… shits!” She laughed. “I’ll make my bucket list as we go along. It’ll be the world’s first spontaneous one, created from scratch and kicked over all in the same week or month or however long it takes or however long I’ve got. But, first and foremost- seashells on the beach. Now, does it matter which beach?” “Well, I was thinking somewhere on the pacific side.” June rubbed her tongue around the inside of her mouth. It felt dry and her lips were starting to stick together. “Let’s get inside and buy the tickets.” she said. They crawled back through the bedroom window and packed up everything they felt was important in their drunken state for the collection of seashells on a San Diego Beach. They packed a noodle strainer to strain the sand, and a crab claw cracker in case they found any crabs. The tiny stranger was still dirty in the sink but they decided not to give him a bath. There simply wasn’t any time and they were too excited.

“We’ll give you a bath when we get back” June told him, trying to speak and breathe through her mouth since such an odorous smell wafted off of him. “And when will that be?” he asked in a rusty voice like a trombone washed up on the shore on Vanuatu. Or at least that’s what June pictured as she only had beaches on her mind now.

“It might be never! She yelled. “We might die of old age on the plane. And then they’d have to turn it all around and ruin everyone's trip because of our selfish dying. So you see, the longer we stick around here talking to you or giving you a bath in the sink, the less time we have. And I don't want to go out of this world ruining anyone’s day. You said you’re immortal, in which case you are certainly old enough to wash yourself.” The tiny man in the sink picked up a dirty plate and covered his face with it, as if covering his guilt. “I just said that so you’d both be intrigued by me and let me in. I'm really only 39 and I'm sure I'll die just the regular old fashioned way like you two ladies when my time comes.”

“Ha.”

June heard Leonora laugh in the other room. Leonora knew that the immortality thing was a lie when the tiny, smelly, stranger first showed up at their door. She let him in anyway. Why? Because she’s old, so why not? “Where are you going?” the little man in the sink asked them. June responded by making dolphin sounds. “Oh I see. The beach! I love the beach.” Louder this time, and with more excitement, Leonora said “I’ve never been to the beach!” Leonora didn’t have any beach clothes. So she just packed some shorts and sleeveless shirts. She packed a framed picture of her late husband dressed as a packet of french fries. It was Halloween that day but she liked to pretend it was just some regular day in March or July. One thing she never liked about him was his lack of spontaneity, and as much as she loved him, she never felt she was courageous enough to be spontaneous for the both of them. And so that characteristic which might have blossomed in another life or with another man, or even by herself, slowly became an impossibility, like the immortality of a tiny vagabond stalking through the the cornfields of Nebraska and showing up at house of a couple old ladies for no reason other than to adhere to his own bucket list. “Are you going to be ok while we’re gone?” June asked the little man, but he was already asleep. She tousled his matted hair then wiped her hand on the kitchen towel. Once they finished packing, June and Leonora slept off the alcohol for a few hours to sober up. “Are we still going to want to do this when we're sober?” asked Leonora. Almost angrily, June replied “I sure as snakeshit will! Alcohol may give me ideas, but it's not the impetus for my resolution or courage.” Leonora just nodded, knowing she didn’t feel the same way. But as long as she was with June, everything would be alright. As soon as they finished packing, they passed out. Leonora has a history of sleep paralysis but was fortunate enough not to experience it that night as they woke up early after only a few hours of sleep. They drove to the airport. on the way there, their hearts palpitated with excitement. They were probably hungover but couldn’t tell because at their age, everything ached and felt wrong anyway, hungover or otherwise.

“We should actually try to relax, we don’t want to get so excited we have a heart attack before we even get to the beach.” June said. “I was never very good at meditation.” Leonora said. “I actually have a meditation cd somewhere in the car here. My hairdresser gave it to me on my birthday a few years ago but I never used it.” June opened the middle compartment and asked Leonora to look for it. Leonora turned on the car light, squinted and dug around. Her numerous bracelets making a racket like windchimes in a tornado. “Is it ‘Fireside Meditations with Jay Garber?” Leonora asked. “Yeah that’s it.”

“It’s unopened.” “I always thought meditation was a waste of time.” Leonora used her teeth and nails to open the plastic packaging. “I’m not sharp enough for this. Nothing about me is sharp, or primal,” she complained. “That’s cause you’re human, my love. We have the luxury of staying soft and pliable so we can let all the sharp tools do all the work while we relax and ponder the meaning of life.” June reached into her beige purse which sat on her lap. She liked the way it had the perfect weight of a baby. It reminded her of her daughter when she was very young, 50 years ago. June even remembered the exact weight her daughter had when she was 2 years old before they took her to the hospital, and she always made sure her purse weighed the same amount to forever maintain that feeling of her on her lap- 24.8 pounds. A beautiful number. One that her daughter would never surpass. For 50 years she kept it exactly at 24.8 pounds, even if it meant taking out important things like makeup and coins, or adding unimportant things like rocks and

“Seashells,” June whispered to herself and smiled. “What?” Leonora asked. “Oh, nothing. I’m just excited to collect the seashells. Here’s the knife.” Leonora took the knife and carefully sliced around the cd case. “Don’t get too excited, it’s my bucket list item. Not yours.”

“Can’t we share it?” June asked bluntly. Leonora realized she was being greedy. “Of course we can. In fact, I'm glad we can.” Jay Garber’s voice was like someone whacking open a coconut with a hammer and then the juice being slurped up by a gluttonous seal. His punctuations were impactful, and every syllable afterward was the sweet nectar that poured from the impact. June tried very hard to stay awake but the two old ladies would soon realize that Jay Garber was not your traditional meditation guru.

“Track 1” he would start, “first, we are going to relax every cell in your body. If this were a meditation CD from before the year 1665, when cells were first discovered, I would instead say ‘first, we’re going to relax every micro-spirit in your body,’ because I believe there was at least a small sect of people who didn’t believe in the one spirit, the one soul. They believed we carried billions, possibly trillions of mini souls within us and technically they would be right. What are cells aside from microscopic souls all working together to help you live, to help you work, to help you love and fight and think and even forget. To help you… relax.” There was silence for 2 minutes except for the sounds of a crackling fire. You could sense Jay Garber warming himself up by it. June’s eyes began to droop but Leonora didn’t notice. You could sense the snow falling quietly outside the place the CD was being recorded. You could even sense the deer somewhere out there in that snow, licking the icy ground, and a fox quietly stalking it. You could sense beyond sensing when every micro-spirit was relaxed.

“Track 2. Have you ever seen a whirlpool of tropical bird feathers? If not, picture it. Hypnotic isn’t it? Oh, before we continue, quick disclaimer. You should not be listening to this tape while operating a motor vehic-” June died on Impact. Leonora was severely injured but still alive. For some reason one of the paramedics on the scene would always remember the smear of pink lipstick that June left on the steering wheel when her face smashed into it, since the airbag on her side failed to deploy. This was more common than people realized. There was something surreal about that brutal lipstick kiss, as if she literally kissed life goodbye. Leonora wasn’t unconscious but extremely disoriented and they immediately drove her to the hospital. She kept asking about June but the staff skillfully avoided the question while administering

drug cocktails and blood transfusions. They laid her gently on the hospital bed and she began to cry, not from the pain but from the death of her best friend (which she figured out on her own). She received many broken bones but despite her miserable state, nothing seemed overly life threatening. They let her rest and grieve until finally she fell asleep. Her mind and body were exhausted, which only made the sleep paralysis worse. She was in a hypnagogic state, and could see the busted face of June standing in the corner of the hospital room. The room began to fill up with sand while June’s contorted body grotesquely mobilized itself on broken bones towards her terrified friend. June held a large conch shell in her hands, holding it like a 24.8 lb baby. Blood smeared the shell and dripped off her arms. Leonora tried to scream but only low muffled sounds emanated from her half-sleeping mouth. June finally shuffled close enough to put the conch shell to Leonora's ear. Leonora could hear the angry voice of the ocean, each crash of the waves was a remonstrance.

“I will send whales the size of planets to gobble you like krill,” the conch said, “for your disregard of the eternal ocean.” Leonora tried shaking her head, and the facial features of June remained still while the face itself began to bloat and turn purple like a corpse underwater. She stared blankly at Leonora, a mere messenger of the conch, a mere figment of a paralytic nightmare fueled by recent misery.

“Your bones will be buried in the blackness of the ocean deep.” The conch continued. “But,” Leonora tried to say. “But I’ve never been to the beach!” Finally the conch shell shattered and Leonora woke up gasping and crying. A Nurse came in to check on her. She wore a puka shell bracelet and Leonora screamed.


There was once a village where everyone got along. It was an idyllic existence with little to no stress. See, this village was located in a temperate climatic zone and blessed with abundant natural resources, all the villagers had to do was walk into the surroundings field and harvest their fill. Cattle roamed the golden fields freely, and the rivers and streams nearly overflowed with fish. The villagers would watch the sun set every night, and when the last hues of red faded from the sky, they would revel around a bonfire stoked with wood from the nearby forest.   *Life was simple.*   Then a climatic aberration occurred, dropping the temperature to much below anything in recent memory. The deer and cattle either migrated or froze to death, and the wolves began to creep out of the forests. As all the plants died in the freeze, the villagers began to starve as well. Sickness swept over the village, wave after wave. Those who were not ill had to chase wolves out of the village nightly, but the wolves grew bolder every night. As with everything in life, the hardship was ephemeral. Temperatures rose to their long-term averages, along with the net primary productivity of vegetation. Cattle and deer returned to their ancestral habitats, and the wolves were seldom seen again by the villagers.   *But they did not forget.*   The newly appointed village leader had seen his family perish from illness and starvation. His predecessor had been dragged into the darkness by wolves. He promised the decimated village that the terrible events would never be repeated. Under his mandate, the villagers began to stockpile a decent proportion of their harvests. Accordingly, villagers began to search for methods of preserving perishable foodstuffs; they would never starve again. The villagers also began to craft spears, and eventually projectile weapons. A wall of timber was constructed around the village, and village huts and tents were replaced with larger, wooden buildings; the wolves would never dare to return. With these preventative and protective measures in place, innovation was inevitable. Gradually, the villagers became more efficient at collecting timber and began to build bigger structures. With the increasing scale of activity, organization came to be paramount and villagers were assigned specific tasks during the light hours of the day. Floods became more frequent, and the villagers were forced to venture further and further from the village to collect the necessary materials. The distance became so inconvenient that certain people were assigned these tasks as well. The village flourished, reaching an unprecedented size. With each passing generation, the villagers began to associate themselves with others who shared their daily tasks; after several decades, the villagers had multiple bonfires every night. As the village grew, so did its leadership. Each village leader could not hope to keep track of the daily going-ons of the village, and depended more and more on his or her trusted advisors. The advisors, inflamed with the ambition of becoming the next village leader, pushed their respective demographic sectors to produce more despite the absence of any immediate threats.   *Growth became an end in itself.*   With the passing of older generations, village divisions became the norm. Without question, the villagers would file out of their homes every day to join their companions in their daily tasks. As a natural result, their lives became centered around their daily labor, and it became frustrating when other villagers seemed to have easier tasks. Instead of looking to better the village, the leader and her advisors were forced to settle constant disputes among the laborers. In the time they had, the village leaders looked to improve existing methods and procedures to make the lives of the villagers easier, a never-ending pursuit. Unknowingly, they exacerbated the contention that underlay the village.   *Although the village flourished, everyone was never so unhappy.*   As the sun set, coloring the horizon a brilliant rose, the villagers sighed in relief. It was the end of another day. They crowded around their respective fires, ignoring the sullen wood collectors who dumped the wood on the ground and retreated without a word. The leader and her advisors observed the fires from a distance. The village leader felt pride blossoming in her chest, the village had grown considerably and was a sight to behold. She turned her gaze to the stars, which were partially eclipsed by the rising smoke. A flash of light streaked across the sky, and disappeared in an instant. Eyebrows raised, she looked to her advisors. They were completely absorbed in an argument amongst themselves about whose bonfire was bigger. The feeling of contempt flashed through her mind. Then that of loneliness.


It was a fishing village as far back as she could remember. With waves crashing against the grey of the shore, their foam soaking people through. And little by little, every time the foam landed on them, they got a little of the Sea; until they became one, their minds liquid as Hers, an array of emotions only She could ever fathom. And oh, how they adored Her. She was the Mother that birthed them all, the divine blue of their quiet lives. It was a quiet village indeed, and as the grey and blue washed over them, nobody took more than they needed, giving thanks to Her for their food. When the light couldn’t reach them, She delivered. And in the middle of the summer, when the sun reached its highest point, they offered thanks to Mother for having survived another year, for seeing another solstice. They feared Her as much as they adored Her; Her rage was dangerous, but it was the only home they ever knew. It was a rough life, and they all knew it, but at the same time she couldn’t think of anyone that left. People stayed and the village grew with them, community gardens to the south, wheat fields to the east. It was beautiful. And year after year they prayed to the Sea, gave offerings of honey and salt, Listened to Her wishes. And year after year She delivered. Until She didn’t. The fish grew scarce for the first time in four lifetimes, the hungry mouths growing one by one. And people came to her to give them her blessings, prayers over the boats that left to the Sea, crying children that had never been hungry in their lives. She called for a village meeting, going door to door, and people trembled, listened, for she was the Vatar, Master of the Tides, head of the Council of the Tides. They had been blessed by the Mother Herself to control Her waters, the push and pull of Her heartbeat, and she was the strongest of them all. It was a quiet village, so when she called of someone angering Mother, she was met with shaking disbelief; things like that didn’t happen, had never happened; not in her time, nor in the time of her mother before her. “One of you offended Her,” she insisted,” and I want the rest of you to keep your eyes open.” She could feel Her rage in the white that hit the shore, in the fishing boats filled with water, in the violent shifts of Her currents. Never before had Her waters held anything but life in them. It was when the body of a boy washed ashore that she knew. Somebody had killed him; a blood offering to the Sea, against their solemn oaths. It was blasphemy. She had her suspicions, of course she did. They were talks of zealots trying to harness Her power through blood, in defiance to the Council and its laws. But she and the Council went door to door nonetheless, Feeling, Listening for the offender. He was a boy of sixteen, blind with the yearning of power; he’d slain his twin for it. This had never happened before, nothing like that ever had. The Council met for three days and two nights, mediating on the wishes of the Sea, trying to piece together Her rage piece by piece. She had been tarnished, and She wanted the boy to pay. She had been the Vatar for nearly four decades, yet the humanity of Her still terrified her. She was in mourning, an angry force ready to destroy with the pushes and pulls of Her temper. When she visited the boy, he cried, begged for her pardon as the Vatar, swore that power blinded him, didn’t let him understand what he did. She listened, and consoled, for she knew very well the demands of power -she was the Vatar after all, the human vessel of the Sea- and not few times in her youth had she yearned for more. Yet, she met him as an equal. Spoke to him of the Commands of the Mother, finite in their regard. They boy listened and wept; but understood. There was red on his hands, and it was the only way She could be pleased, the only way justice could be restored. That night she prayed to the Sea, her words careful, a child to a hurt parent, soothing as the honey rolling off her hands. She asked of Her to cleanse his soul, to choose forgiveness over revenge. She spoke to Her the way she saw Her on warm summer afternoons, the light dancing on Her, shrinking Her down to human measurements. She was met with silence. They put him in the boat in the morning. The shore was empty but for her and the Council, not even the boy’s parents had the heart to face him after what he’d done. It was a peaceful sunrise, one of the most beautiful the little fishing village had ever seen, the blue of the sky speaking of new. The Sea was calm, the sun glimmering on the tiniest ripples that broke Her surface. The boy understood, watching stoically for the most part, his hands dripping in honey. A handful of salt tossed into the Sea, prayers spoken over honey, hands intertwined together. The Council formed the ceremonial circle, reaching out to her. She joined hands with the Elders and let the power of the Sea wash over them. It was a dark, pulsing grey, Her pain, Her disgust of being tarnished for power, Her hatred beating steadily as a heartbeat. The Council took it all in. They chanted, raising the currents that would take him away from the shore, the pushes and pulls of Her heartbeat. He was to return only if She found him worthy of redemption. She didn’t. It was a fishing village and became so once more, Mother offered, and nobody took more than they needed. And the Vatar watched, and her power grew.