Walter Goodman’s wife brought us both a glass of lemonade. He took a sip, and let it shatter on the brick porch. He apologized to his wife, who cleaned it up, and then to me. “Sorry Mr. Alvarez,” said Walter. “Fernando, I’m not big on formalities.” “Sorry, Fernando.” “Don’t be, you’re not the first astronaut I’ve interviewed.” “You spend so much time up there you forget gravity exists. Interview a lot of Astronauts do you?” “A few. Remind me what you saw.” “Well, I was on the ISS doing my usual, when I see this meteor.” “See a lot of meteors up there?” “No! That’s the thing you can’t see a meteor, not in space, not till it starts breaking up in the atmosphere. This one had a tail in the cold dead of space.” he shuddered. “It– it was a purple tail, a sort of purple beyond purple, the most purple anything’s ever been. I know that doesn’t sound terrifying but I nearly shat myself Fernando, and that was before it *looked* at me.” Walter Goodman had inched his way to the edge of his seat. He sank back into his chair. “What do you mean it ‘looked’ at you?” “Just that. It looked at me. The meteor looked me dead in the eyes and stared into my soul.” “It had eyes?” “No, it was a rock, like any other rock, but I felt it looking at me. Like the entire meteor was one big eye.” His story tracked with what I’d been reading. I keep up with that sort of thing. Usually it's nothing, this time it was something. I finished up my interview with Walter. He confirmed the landing zone, more or less, of the meteor. The ISS had been flying over Southeast Asia, where Walter said he saw the meteor land in the dark zones of Wallacea. It was a smattering of islands in Indonesia. ‘Lotta water there. You had to be aiming for land to not hit the ocean. After collecting what I could, I thanked Walter for his time, and made to leave. “Wait, Fernando,” he called, “are you going after the meteor?” I nodded. “Take me with you.” I thought about it. There weren’t any rules to what I was doing. Walter had stared into the eye of something and came out sane. He was also an astronaut with a military background. What the hell. “There might be monsters,” I said, but he didn’t look perturbed, “there might be nazis.” “Nazis?” that always got em. I explained to Walter on the way to Wallacea. Nazis were like maggots on a corpse to the supernatural. You could use them like forensic scientists used maggots too. An advanced nazi presence could indicate time of discovery, or length of conspiracy. It was all about context. We arrived in Indonesia by boat, making port in the city of Makassar. From there we traced a lead obtained from an acid dealer. The dealer was handing out tabs of acid with the reichsadler on them, the nazi eagle. I pressed him about it, and he gave me the details on his supplier, as well the details for a party they were throwing for some trust fund kiddies. The party was being thrown on a neighboring island in North Maluku, the same place they made the acid. “For the record,” I said to Walter, “it’s not *always* nazis. I’m just not surprised when it is.” “But it is nazis this time.” I shrugged. “Yeah. You got your iron ready?” he tapped the side of his torso where his gun was holstered. “Good. Eyes peeled and wits about you. It could get ugly.” We were on a boat with the rest of the trust fund brats heading to their party, some of them were already slapping more of the reichsadler tabs on their tongues. They tried to peer pressure anyone who wanted to stay clean. This big guy especially was making the rounds to get people to take the tabs. He was huge, well over six feet tall, with the biggest muscles money could buy. The big guy never made it to me and Walter though. He got stuck the rest of the ride trying to get this particularly cute local girl to imbibe. We landed at just about sunset. The boat stayed docked in case of emergencies. There were tiki style torches, and a Hawaiian style bar. Cute. I told Walter to not take anything he didn’t see poured out of a branded bottle, and to stay conspicuous, but my words were lost on him. He was immediately swarmed by a horde of bikini wearing local girls, and spray tanned rich brats. Some folks just really loved their white boys. I left him to suffer his pleasure, and noticed some third reich looking mothers dipping in and out of the nearby jungle. Go time. Following the blonde and blue eyed terminators led me to a small, but well built compound, with working electricity. At this point the rock had been on earth for less than a week. The advanced nature of this place confirmed one of my earlier suspicions. The rock had a mind of its own, and the nazis knew they should “meet” it here. I still didn’t know how the acid and rich brats figured into it, but it couldn’t be good. Rich brat or no, those were some potentially influential people they had getting high out there. I waited for one of the guards to be alone, and took him out from behind. I put on his pink Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and strolled into the compound casual like. I was stopped immediately. “Wohin gehst du, Soldat?” said a grumpy looking man in matching Hawaiian attire. “Lass mich in Ruhe, ich muss scheißen,” I replied. I didn’t actually know what I was saying, but I’d heard nazi guards say this a lot when leaving their posts unexpectedly. It has saved my ass more times than I care to admit. The older man scowled but left me alone. I scanned the small compound. They had watchtowers, but in an effort to stay hidden they chose the worst of both worlds. The lights of the watchtowers provided little visibility in the dense jungle, and especially in the shadows of night. The lights probably blinded their guards more than anything. That was good for me. The compound had one main building with sterile white lights coming out the windows, as well as a sickening ultra-purple. Bingo. Inside, the rock and its unsettling purple glow were being held in a strange looking device. It looked like a reverently built hydraulic press. The ultra-purple waves were dancing off the rock like light at the bottom of a pool. It was unsettling. I could feel it looking at me, it bore into my soul, filling my head with holy purple light. I suddenly felt ashamed, like I shouldn’t be here, interfering with such cosmic radiance. I tried to steel my will against it, and failed. Luck was still on my side though, and the whining of factory grade machinery snapped me out of it. A gauge on the machine told me it was applying tons of pressure on the rock. The ultra-purple waned and died completely, and a thick purple substance like blood oozed out of the cracks and deep grooves of the rock. The substance pooled at the bottom, soaking into a sheet of paper which was cut up and stamped with the reichsadler. “Motherfucker.” “Wer bist du, who are you?” said a voice from behind me. It was a properly old man, the kind with liver spots and little wisps of hair that looked like strands of stray cotton. He was wearing a white lab coat. “I’m your worst nightmare pal, and I’m liberating this rock, but first you’re going to tell me exactly what it is you’re doing here.” “The color…, “ said the old man, “It should be spread. Shared with the world.” there was a glint of something in his eyes. Something purple. Beyond purple. I started sweating. There was a part of me that started to think he was right. The purple glint in his eye. I could carry that wondrous light beyond light in my own mind. That’s probably what the acid tabs were for. I whipped out my iron and planted a couple shots into the old man, freeing myself from the grip of his ultra-purple eyes. I took a second to breathe, but didn’t dare waste any more time. This place would be swarming with nazis any moment. I grabbed the rock from the strange looking device and started to leave, but the entrance was blocked off by nazi guards. It might have been the end of me, but the old man's corpse sprang to life on the ground. The top of his head popped open and sprouted flailing tentacles. It was distraction enough to leap out of a nearby window. I ran as fast as I could from the compound. No one chased me, but I did hear screaming. I ran from one cacophony of screaming to another. When I made it back to the party I found complete hysteria. “Just try it!” screamed a rich brat in a skimpy bikini. “You’ll see real color. Like you’ve never seen before!” The rich brat was screaming at Walter who was also being held down by more bikini clad women. They were trying to force feed him the acid. Morbidly, I had to stifle a laugh because I could guarantee this was someone’s fantasy. I started shooting. “Fernando!” gasped Walter. He got up and cleaned trust fund viscera off himself. “You killed them, and you changed your clothes!” “They were already dead.” I double tapped the bodies on the ground. I didn’t want to risk them getting back up with tentacled heads. “It’s the acid tabs. Those nazi bastards squeezed something out of the rock and fed it to these rich assholes. Probably in an effort to take over the world, starting from the top, real typical stuff honestly.” Walter flinched when he finally noticed the rock in my hand. “Typical?” He asked, but I wouldn’t be able to elaborate. We were being surrounded by the zombified upper class. Walter got with the program quickly. I told him to aim for the head, and double tap when he missed. The beach was covered in rich kid gore by the end. We thought we were home free, but the big guy from earlier on the boat ride came hulking out of the shadows. I aimed to dome him but my gun just clicked empty. “Walter?” “I’m out too.” “Shit.” The big guy grabbed me and slammed me to the ground. “Try it bro,” he said. “You’ll see more than you’ve ever seen before.” “Walter!” I yelled, and started to fight back but my feeble punches were thudding on hard meat and muscles. The big guy started trying to open my mouth, and when I started resisting harder because of it, he began to choke me out. The world was fading to black. Soon it would be lit in shades of ultra-purple. Then Walter came to my rescue, and knocked the lug over. Their struggle tipped them over to the other side of the Hawaiian bar. I choked on air, trying to catch my breath. The edges of darkness started to clear from my vision. I could hear Walter being overwhelmed by the big guy on the other side of the bar. The moment I could breathe again I sprang to his rescue. I rounded the bar, and jumped on the big guy’s back, hanging from his neck with all my weight to try and choke him. To no avail. He turned his weight on me, and started to crush me again. This was it. It was lights out. Walter wouldn’t be able to recover in time and we’d be turned into purple loving zombies for the new world order. I prayed to every god I could think of, then my face was splashed by liquor. The cute local girl from earlier had smashed a bottle over the big guy’s head. She stabbed him in the neck with the sharpened remains. “Creep,” she said. “Thank god,” I said. The lug fell on top of me, and I rolled him over. “You’re an Angel,” I said to the girl. I passed her and checked on Walter. “You alive?” “I think so.” “Good. Let’s get out of here, quickly. You too, pretty girl.” “It’s Rizka,” she said. “We can get familiar on the boat, let's go.” We stepped onto the boat, which was devoid of crew at that point. Walter knew how to drive it though, so that ended up not being a problem. We left port immediately. On the shore, the tiki torches started to burn out. The tentacled head of the big guy rose up just as the light died, and from the jungle tree line there could be made out ultra-purple eyes. I shuddered, and stared at the glowing rock in my hand. I could feel it boring a hateful gaze into me. “Well, that’s that,” I said. “Far as I’m concerned anyways. I doubt they’ll be able to continue their conspiracy without this thing.” “Really,” said Walter, “What are you going to do with it?” “Turn it in, get paid.” “Turn it in to whom? What even are you exactly?” “I used to style myself an archeologist, and then an anthropologist, then a xenothropologist. Now I just call myself an errand boy. The rock is gonna end up in a sort of private collection. Don’t worry, it’ll be safe.” Walter seemed satisfied with the answer. At the very least it didn’t seem like he thought it was a good idea to know any more than he needed to. Walter went back to his life as an astronaut with a lemonade serving housewife soon after. I stuck around Indonesia while I tracked my next job, and waited to hear about the dropoff for this one. Rizka turned out to be a pretty good tour guide, and showed me around Makassar, the fun seedy parts anyways. She made a fine breakfast too.


She was caught off guard. The waves of emotion rushed through her like an electric current. "This cannot be." she thought to herself.  Perhaps she was feverish. Winter was, after all, clutching its ugly claws; ready to kick the autumn blues away. The change was imminent. Nature had always been changing. It perplexed her why human nature seemed to be afraid of change even though it was needed for survival. "If we don't change we die", she recalls reading in one of her psychology books. Perhaps it was the reason why she felt dead inside; her refusal to embrace change. Her feelings felt like a total overhaul. An evolvement. They were erratic. She had never felt this before. Not for any man, no. She wasn't sure she could contain them any longer. At first, they seemed fleeting. Soon to disappear into thin air but they never left. They seemed to be camping right inside her heart, threatening to be heard, to be felt. A burning furnace. They left her feeling awkward every time she came close to her. Her. She looked like a drop of sunshine. Shining so bright she could bask in her glory. Her smile left her feeling warm inside. Enough to melt the cold inside her. The cold that had been there for years. She didn't imagine she could, once again, feel the way she did about someone else, let alone a woman. The end of her marriage had been a shock to her system. She never could have foreseen the impact it had in her life. She thought she had it all mapped out. It had been a mutual agreement. She had spent years feeling suffocated, Trapped, like a fly in a bottle. She had put her dreams on hold. No one asked her to. She did because she thought it was what was needed to be a good wife. She tried. She tried to live a lie. The truth was that she was dying inside and he could see it too. They both couldn't stand living in unhappiness. Divorce was no child's play. It stripped her apart and left her naked in the open for all to see. At least that's how she felt. She ran for cover seeking shelter. On the sidelines, it seemed that people were staring at her, shaking their heads. Some laughing and some whispering. She was scared to stop. Scared that if she did, someone would ask her what had been done to her. She didn't want to answer because she knew. She knew she was part of the problem. Finally, she found shelter. She was freezing. Luckily there was a fireplace. She was so cold that all she could do was to throw herself into the fire. She started burning. This is how she had felt. She realized that divorce could kill if one was not careful enough. It almost killed her many a time. She was left in a constant feeling of misplacement. Not knowing where she belonged in the world. At times she had thought that feeling misplaced was worse than death. Things were changing. She was excited yet afraid. These conflicting feelings had always been a part of her. As necessary as it was, change was not easy. She came from a religious background. The scriptures said that women who sleep with women would not inherit Gods kingdom, that they belonged in a fiery hell. She had believed that for ages and embraced it as the truth. She had judged others so harshly. Her judgments had come back to haunt her. It all changed. She remembered the day as if it had happened yesterday. The memory was still vivid. It was the day she had the worst flu. The kind of flu that sucked the life out of a person. The kind that crushed the bones. Seasonal flu. She had forced herself to attend the book fair, only to satisfy the nagging feeling that was in her. It was the last day, a beautiful Sunday. Spring was approaching. She recalls feeling alive. Happy even. As fate would have it when she saw her for the first time,  something inside her shifted. A surge of mystical feelings had flowed through her. She was mesmerized by her. Her confidence was alluring. There was something enigmatic about her. She wished she could be let in on the mystery. Her feelings worsened every time she saw her. It made her sick, though not painful. It was painstakingly wonderful. She wasn't sure if she was good enough for anyone. She could also be missing the mark. Her mind drifted a bit as she remembered that according to the bible, to sin was to miss the mark. Back at her senses, she thought of how her attraction could mean nothing to the other woman. It might be wise to ask her out. Her friend had suggested. That had never crossed her mind before. It sounded logical. Perhaps not. Perhaps she wasn't supposed to be entertaining the feelings. Perhaps she was insane. Perhaps she was going to burn in hell for missing the mark. These thoughts ravaged her mind. Her friend had said it wouldn't hurt to try. "You need to loosen up a bit, we don't live in the stone ages anymore. Think of all the multiple orgasms you would get," she had told her. They laughed at this. Her intense feelings for the other woman made her feel excited. She wanted to kiss her every time their eyes locked. Perhaps she had gone berserk. She thought about waiting for a while. Waiting was her forte. It was easier to run. She had been escaping all her life. She needed no practice. It was a new season, however, and change was beckoning. She could wait forever, or she could act. She had been pouring her feelings out in her writing. Her emotions translated into her words. "I didn't imagine you to be a queer writer," her niece had told her after reading one of her stories. Neither did she. She thought about the backlash from her family if she were to act. She continued to dream about her. She recalled the words of a poet: "the how and why will reveal themselves in the making because ready is never a question, just a reminder to bring and jump." Jump? She still wonders if her feelings would be reciprocated. Perhaps it would really be best if she stayed away from her, but maybe it could be the beginning of a new season. A season full of sunshine.


“Fu-“ I started to say, staring down at the now large stain of red wine spilling across the crisp white linen of the brand new table cloth I had just purchased. “-dge.” I finished after a moment, deflated. I contemplated the perfect setting of plate, silverware, napkins, and now one poured glass of wine. It had taken a time to set everything up perfectly, and now one rogue elbow had sent the entire evening into disarray.              I briefly considered ripping the tablecloth off of the table, like you see sometimes in the movies. One quick slip and somehow everything remains in place. I quickly dismiss this thought, and I set myself to painstakingly taking pieces off, one at a time, from the table that had been so close to being finished.              Just as I was beginning to take things off, I heard the knock I had been anticipating. I quickly smoothed my skirt, cringing when I saw a spot of red wine had managed to catch the hem of it. I rolled my eyes to myself and quickly flitted to the door to open it. Women my age don’t need to be wearing skirts or setting up fancy dates. Women my age ought to be settled with their husbands of thirty years and celebrating the kids they raised together. But not me. My ex was now honeymooning with his twenty-something bride in Cancun. And I was setting up dates with online strangers and watching our only son get married off at the same time as his dad.              “Evening,” Paul said gruffly, and handed out a half dozen roses still packaged in store plastic.              I took the flowers and smiled. Paul and I had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks. We had exchanged past lives, he had never been married and never had children. Me with an ex and a son. Both of us somehow alone for the upcoming sweethearts’ holiday. We hadn’t had the chance to speak too much in person, but had managed to set boundaries for the evening: no pressure, no physical expectations.              “Thanks so much.” I cooed, ushering him inside and helping him take off his jacket. “I apologize, I had a little spill earlier and it has disrupted the ambiance of the evening.”              Paul took in the scene before him: glasses and plates now haphazardly balancing on chairs, the red wine stain settled largely across the surface of the table. “Didn’t have to go all-out on account of me.” He noted, not making a single move towards the table to help. I continued with my maneuvering.              He took no notice of the framed photos on the walls of the living room, and instead took a look at the television sitting stubbornly on an old entertainment center I ended up with in the divorce. “Haven’t got it mounted, hm?” He remarked, pointing at the old TV. “It can’t be more than, what, 32 inch TV?”              “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool as I was finally able to rip the white cloth from the table. “I don’t really watch TV.”              He said nothing, but began inspecting the television further. I made about setting things back on the table without a tablecloth, and made no attempt to be as precise as before.              “I made roasted chicken with herbed potatoes and green beans.” I muttered, walking in to the kitchen.              “That’s mighty fine of you,” He said, finally directing his attention back to me. Or the food. I softened a bit, but that quickly dissolved when he took a seat at the table. Not that I was asking for help or anything, but an offer would have been nice.              He was facing the kitchen, and looking over the décor, not really focusing on the knickknacks but lost in thought. I began plating up dinner for the both of us, at this point ready for the evening to be over with.              I put on a fake smile as I sat food down in front of Paul, and then seated myself on the opposite side of the table. “Looks mighty fine indeed, Melinda.” He remarked before getting to work tearing his chicken to shreds. I pursed my lips and placed a napkin in my lap before beginning to cut my own.              “So, Paul, was work alright for you today?” I tried making conversation, taking a sip of red wine from my glass.              “It was,” He answered, never looking up from his plate. “Just another day.”              I began rethinking our previous dates. The movies had allowed for no conversation, and restaurants had allowed for little personal talk.              He sucked down his glass of red wine quickly. When he finished, he looked at it, kind of puzzled, before looking at me. “Is there…?” He started, glancing again to the empty glass, as if expecting it to magically fill itself.              “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to refill it for you?” I responded, rather testily.              “Oh, no, no.” He said quickly, and began standing. “I would love some more though. In the fridge?”              “Yes.” I said, not looking up from my chicken. He walked around out of eyesight and I listened to him humming faintly as he opened up the fridge and unstopped the red wine bottle. I listened as he placed the bottle down on the counter, and then no movement followed. No fridge reopening. No footsteps. Nothing.              I finally glanced back and saw that he was staring directly behind me into the living room. Following his gaze, I saw the new portrait that hung of my son and his new bride. I smiled in spite of myself, giddy with happiness for my child.              “Is that…?” He asked, pointing to the picture holding his fascination.              “My son.” I said, nodding. Paul finally unhitched himself from the counter. He left his wine glass and open bottle behind, and simply tramped over closer to the portrait on the wall. “He just got married last month.”              There was quiet for a while. Paul studied the picture hard. “Your son?” He asked, uncertain.              “Yes…” I said slowly, not fully understanding the question. “Well, we adopted him when he was a baby. My ex-husband and I did.” Paul nodded thoughtfully at this, still staring. “He’s not a customer of yours?” I asked quickly, unable to imagine my son in his little shoe shop.              “Oh, no, no.” He said too quickly. He turned to look at me briefly before turning right back to the photograph. “Was he born in ’93?”              “He was. September.” I nodded, frowning.              “27 th his birthday?” Paul asked.              “Yes…” I continued, my meal now completely abandoned as I stared at the back of Paul’s head.              Several more uncomfortable moments passed before Paul seemed to remember himself. He offered no more information other than remarking, “Mighty handsome young man.” He sat back down at the table, but made no attempt to reclaim the chicken that he had torn to pieces. Even then, he kept glancing back to look at the portrait on the wall.              “You said he’s not a customer?” I asked, nudging for more information.              “No, no…” He hesitated, meeting my eyes for the first time. “I…I had a son. I didn’t know about him. By the time I knew he existed his mother had already placed him up for adoption and was long gone. The papers were all closed up. No way for me to…to get him or even…meet him…” He glanced back again at the photo, and now clear tears had welled up in his eyes. “I think…I think that might be…him.”              My fork clattered to the plate as Paul embarrassedly brushed a tear from his eye. “Your…your son ?” I asked finally. “But it…it was a closed adoption. We were told that his biological father was dead and that his mother was too young to care for him. You think that Jonah is…?”              “Well, the last part was true enough. Only 18 at the time. Her family hid him from me up until her passing in ’95. She was bad into drugs, unfortunately. It’s why we didn’t work out in the first place. It was only then, at her funeral, that they waved my son’s birth in front of me. Like her death was all my fault. That…” He abruptly stopped, waved it off. His head hung low and he sniffled. “He looks just like his mother. Just like her. Except for the eyes.” He pointed at his own eyes in demonstration.              “You…?” I was having a hard time processing the information. My ex would be furious to find out this man was walking about the world, longing for the son he never got the chance to raise. The son we raised. “I’m not sure what to say.” I finally sputtered.              “Can you please tell me about him?” The look in his eyes was so deeply wounded, and moving. It hurt to look at him.              “Jonah…our son, he’s an engineer.”              “Jonah?”              “Yes. Jonah Grey. We named him after…the Bible story, you know? And grey is a family name.”              “Right.”              “He was on the football team in high school, but he also loved choir.”              Paul made no effort to conceal his tears now as they flowed from his eyes. “His mom loved to sing.” He whispered.              “He graduated from State a few years back with a Bachelor’s degree and they’ve just bought a house about an hour away from here.”              “That’s wonderful.” Paul sniffled. “Melinda, I am so sorry, but I think my head isn’t in the right place to continue this evening. I know you have worked hard-“              “Oh, no. Please. Don’t be silly.” I countered, standing as he did. My face was flushed with all of this information, and I was flustered beyond logical reasoning. “I can understand this is…well, I know it’s quite a shock for me. So I can’t imagine…”              The big problem with this was…we had never told Jonah the truth about his adoption. And now…? Sure, he was a 28 year old man with a wife. He would need real medical information and history and background, especially if he and his wife planned on having children of their own.              “I’ll be in touch, Melinda, if that’s alright.” He said as he made his way to the door. He grabbed his coat quickly, and I began fighting back my own emotion. No doubt this man wanted to see his son. And yet he had not asked, had not even hinted.              “Of course, Paul. Maybe…maybe we can work something…out.”              Paul met my eyes, glistening and sad. “Does he know?” He asked quietly.              “N-no, he doesn’t.” I stammered. “And I…I’m not sure…”              “I understand.” He answered quickly. He put on his coat and opened the door.              There, on the other side, however, was my son.              “Oh, sorry.” Jonah said, mildly confused. He looked behind Paul to me and halfway waved. “Mom? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”              “Jonah!” I stuttered, bypassing Paul to usher him into the house. “Jonah, what on earth are you doing here?”              “Jamie had to work tonight,” He started, staring at Paul in confusion. “I wanted to surprise you. Stop by and wish a Happy Valentine’s to my first love.” He kissed me on the cheek and handed me a box of chocolates. “I know you said you’re trying to stay away from sugar, but these don’t count because they’re for Valentine’s Day.”              “She told me she was staying away from sugar, too.” Paul commented. He stared at Jonah as if he was the Holy Grail itself.              “Apologies, I’m Jonah. Mom, where are your manners?” Jonah teased as he reached out for Paul’s hand. “And you are…?”              “Paul.” He answered gruffly. Taking the hand in his own and shaking it firmly.              “And is he your…?” Jonah asked, turning to me.              “Friend.” I answered sharply. “We’re just friends, Jonah.”              “I don’t invite friends over on Valentine’s Day, Mom.” He continued to tease. “I wouldn’t have interrupted had I known you already had company today.”              “Paul was just leaving…” I started, but hesitated. “But…?” How could he leave now, when the son whom he’d pondered about and longed for his entire adult life had magically appeared before him?              “I think I’ll stay for another drink, Melinda. Get to know your boy.” Paul said quietly. Jonah accepted this without a second thought and maneuvered past me and through to the kitchen, already spiritedly talking about his upcoming weekend as he poured himself a glass of wine. Paul eyed me, silently asking permission to know the son I raised. After hardly any deliberation, I gave a quick nod. Paul walked back in as if he was on a cloud. He hardly spoke a word all evening, but only listened, enamored by Jonah. Jonah made attempts at polite conversation with Paul, but Paul had no interest in saying a word. He only found himself enraptured by my son. His son. By the end of the evening, when it came time for Jonah to leave, Paul had never gave an inkling as to why he was really there. They shook hands once more, and Jonah mentioned seeing the both of us again real soon, before making his departure. Paul sat, stoned faced, on the couch for a long time to come. I sat in silence with him, feeling a mix of warmth and guilt. Warmth that Paul got to see a glimpse of the sweet son I had raised, guilt that Paul hadn’t received the chance to raise him. “Twenty six years.” He whispered finally. “I have looked for my son…for twenty six years. From the moment I knew of his existence…” He finally stood, having never even removed his coat from his earlier attempted getaway. I had no idea what to say. He made his way to the door, gripped the doorknob firmly and turned. “Thank you, Melinda.” He said quietly. And then he left, quietly shutting the door behind him.


Narrator of unspecified gender for easier reader insert ————————————————————————— My father was always an imposing person, tall and dark haired, with a piercing judgmental gaze. He had a tendency to look at people from under his brow, giving him an almost constant glaring look. He was quiet, almost to the point of muteness and preferred books and solitude over parties or socializing. He was by no means wimpy looking, rather a strong quiet aura seemed to radiate off him. He had many dislikes, and was distasteful of people in general, always finding a flaw he did not like in anyone he met. As a child I was always a bit fearful of my father, yet I yearned for one of his rare smiles to shine on me. My mother always smiled. She seemed to light up a room wherever she went, and everyone loved her. Why she would marry (let alone fall in love with!) such a gloomy pessimistic loner, no one knew. They had met in college, as many couples do, and from what I understand my father found my mother insufferable at first. Why was she always smiling? Why did she show such an interest in him, in everybody? It confused and annoyed him, why was this girl not taking his many hints? He refused to be some popular girl’s pet or charity case. It took a long time for him to realize that she was genuine, her actions were not driven by greed, but by a genuine interest in whatever she was doing. He soon fell in love and so did she. Now, it would have been such a romantic and heartwarming story if it had ended right there. His heart was thawed by her warmness and he became a better person because of it right? No, unfortunately that wasn’t the case. He was still the same, cynical and people hating , disliked many things and scowled more often than smiled. It was just now...there was a glaring exception; my mother. Picnic dates and going to the movies, things he would have normally scoffed at, he endured just to see her smile and laugh. Don’t get the wrong idea, he didn’t suffer through these things for my mother, he was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. I am fully confident that if he had truly wanted to, he would have objected. No, just the simple act of doing the normally annoying and insufferable activities with my mother, he enjoyed it. Such was my mother’s and father’s love; un-understandable for everyone but still strong and true, nonetheless. My father never wanted children. Why would he? Annoying screaming babies that grow into brats that grow into ungrateful selfish adults. But he did have a child, me. I suppose he figured that he could endure it if my mother was alongside him. I think he thought that his enjoyment he shared with my mother could be transferred to me. Perhaps. And anyway, my mother desperately wanted a child. How could he say no? I was born a spitting image of my mother, down to her light eyes and pale complexion. We smiled the same, we laughed the same, we talked the same. Everyone always connected us as familial at a glance. While my father looked more like he was some kidnapper when it was just me and him. His dark aura didn’t help at all. We may have looked like an odd family, but regardless, we were happy. As a very small child I felt that my father viewed me with distaste, but as I grew, I thought I could feel him thaw more and more. His small smiles seemed to grow more frequent the more I grew. I don’t think he loved me yet, but it seemed he was coming around. Who knows, maybe he would have loved me one day. Maybe I would have grown through my teenage years with a father and not a stranger. We will never know. Because my mother died when I was 11. And the second she died so did my father’s budding love for me. My endearing traits, traits that reminded him of my mother, became a curse. No longer did it make me easier to love because it reminded him of his love for her. All he saw when he looked at me was his dead wife. A constant reminder of her missing from his life, and his hatred for me became palpable. “How dare they.”, he seemed to seethe. “How dare they live and thrive, while she rots in the ground” I knew he wished it was me instead of her.


Prologue I've always hated the news. My parents however, couldn't get enough if it. To me, the news nowadays was just middle aged men rambling on about all the bad things in the world. And on the rare occasion they did inform the people about something good, they talked about it for 45 seconds and went right back to the usual: a murder, a kidnapping, you get the picture. So when I visited my parents house last week it was no surprise that they had Fox News on in the background. My parents were both politically red but they weren't the kind of conservatives to go rambling on about how the government was putting chips in people or yelling about how terrible democrats are. And that was really nice. I think we can unanimously agree that people who do participate in previously stated affairs are generally more right wing. Personally, I hated politics, if you were wondering. But regardless, we were sitting in their living room when a news reporter started mundanely reading breaking news out loud. Apparently, there was a mother playing with her two sons in her Chicago home when a rock flew through her window. Neighbors reported screaming, and blunt objects strike floors, walls, and people. They heard a door opening, possibly a backyard door, and after this quick three minute terror, they dialed 911. The neighbors did not choose to release a statement, nor have the officers and the Chief of Police, who quickly arrived at the scene. However, the official police report has been released. Apparently, two men with sharp weapons, likely axes, had thrown a chunk of cement that broke of the sidewalk through the largest window. They quickly entered, and did something terrible. They used the axe and chopped off one of her sons arms and leg. They then moved on to the other child, and they drove the axe into the poor boys chest and the other man decapitated him. The later chopped of the mothers limbs and chunk of her skull. They busted down the back door, and left. The motives were unknown, and the late widows husband had died 7 years ago. She was 30, the children were 4 and 6. "Oh my God" was all my mother could say. But, then again, what are you supposed to say. My mother began to sob. She was a very emotional woman. My father tried consoling her, but his eyes started to become wet. "Why don't you leave, son. We need some space. Text us when you get home so I know you make it home alright." We all hugged and said goodbye and drove home. Buy before i left i couldn't help but notice the painting my family has had for years. It was of my ancestors. A man and a princess were forced to sail a ship and they fell in love. I believe they tryed to settle down in the colonies but the British found them. They had one five year old child that was given to the neighbors. The radio was playing one of my favorite songs, but I turned it off anyway. I drove the hour and a half home in silence. And as I drove past the football fields of corn, I realized I hated it here. It was too quiet. I wanted to return to my apartment right in the middle of downtown Chicago. When I got there I settled in by getting changed and making some tea. I then texted my parents telling them I was alright, but it never said they say it. So I called them and it rung for 30 seconds, and all I heard was the dial tones and the same thing here when I call my friends dead phone: The number you are trying to call has not set up a voice mail, At the tone, please leave a message. Maybe they decided they weren't going to talk anyone. 30 minutes go by and I get a call from the North Utica police department. The Tunnels I'm not sure you picked up on that. Long story short, my parents died. The weapons used were long, sharp, and easy to use. They were murdered in their own home crying. They were found in a pool of blood. But that was a week ago. I wish I had time to mourn them, but I'm much too busy. Hell, everyone in Northeastern Illinois was. The murders started the day before my parents died. With the mother and her sons. For the past week, small groups of men were breaking into houses and murdering everyone inside in cold blood. About 650,000 people have died. Nobody knew how many men with axes there were.. The bodys were countless, and you couldn't go out in public without being murdered. Me and some refugees built a small hidden network of tunnels to hide from the murderers. The tunnels reach from the Chase Bank building to the soup kitchen and the subway. They also had secret weapons hidden in fake walls throughout the tunnels such as rifles, pistols, knives, and what we had the most of; axes. We had ambush teams that quickly intercepted convoys. They brought back axes. Sometimes they themselves didn't come back. We have plenty of matches and electricity. However, we needed candles just in case. To solve this, we quickly formulated a plan. They would each bring a 9mm on the subway. If any axemen (oh right! Forgot to tell you. We call them axemen) boarded the subway, our supply team will quickly take care of that. They will later take supplies from stores such as food and candles. About 300 men live here, 270 women, and 400 children all crammed into these tunnels. Everyone did their share here but wait. I can hear something. It sounds like, a giant boom. I decided to go examine, but then I saw axemen. But with new, louder weapons. Chainsaws. That was yesterday. Let me tell you all about it. The Attack in the Tunnels The moment I saw the Axemen I knew we wouldn't survive. But alas, I still grabbed a weapon from the walls. I grabbed a lever action rifle. I was so glad I was in this spot because I knew there were so many unfortunate people who probably grabbed pocket knives or pistols with no magazines. As I slowly approached where I saw them, I realized something. They were gone. But the U-Hauls they stole were still there. Still open. That meant they were in the tunnels. Killing. They were destroying families. Destroying lives. I didn't have much time to think about that though. Although in hindsight that was probably for the better. What wasn't for the better, however, was that an axeman swung his axe right next to me. Well, he did hit me, but the axe just grazed my right arm, leaving a huge cut that would later heal but leave a mark on me forever. I turned around and saw the murderer. His eyes looked scarily human but not quite human. Almost like an American Girl doll. They were blue, with a slight triangle of red in the top of his void black pupils. I couldn't see the rest if his face because of his ski-mask. I quickly kicked him back with my leg and aimed my rifle. Alright. Just aim for him and shoot, not the hard, I thought to myself. As I pulled the trigger, I heard a deafening boom as the bullet left the chamber and hit him right in the neck. I was aiming for the chest, but I couldn't steady myself and aimed too high. He quickly collapsed on the dirty floor as blood quickly poured out his neck like a pitcher pouring lemonade on a hot summer day with neighborhood kids. Before long, he was laying in a pool of blood. I did this, I thought to myself. I took away this man's life. He tried to hurt me but I hurt him myself. And that's a thought I will carry with me to the day I die. But then I saw a man run through the tunnels with an assault rifle, screaming and firing at the same time. He then stopped and looked at me saying, "They're all gone now." I felt so bad taking this mans life, yet heres this guy screaming triumphantly about how he killed however many axemen he killed. I fell to the ground and fainted as blood poured out my arm. The Aftermath After I woke up I found that me among many others were placed in beds in what seemed to be a makeshift hospital. If they placed this many people here, that meant the spots we reserved for the sick were all filled up. As I woke up, I saw that a nurse was running towards me. "Hello?" I said weekly. I felt surprisingly fine, but my voice still trembled. She sighed a sigh of relief and spoke "We were waiting for you to wake up! The doc said you were able to leave the moment you woke up. And besides, you were invited to a meeting put on by the leaders of our little…" She seemed to struggle what to call the shelter. "our little den." Either way, they are expecting you at this very moment." As I nodded yes I saw how my arm looked. It was blood stained around the area the axeman hit and there was a large piece of cloth around it. I slowly got up and walked to the head office. As I slowly walked down the corridors, i saw the victims of the attack. I saw piles of blood that nobody bothered to mop up. I saw people who looked like dollar store guards brandishing AR-15s. I saw children crying, women sobbing, men grieving, and people dying. Everyone looked tired, and the people that weren't any of these things were on the verge of breaking down. I wanted to help these people so bad, but something told me no. I felt so evil. Children were here acting strong, protecting their siblings while receiving news that they would never see their parents again, while I walked through, with a small gash on his arm. I was scared walking through this place. That was so out of the blue. It didn't seem planned. And this is what they caused. What if they launched another attack? What kind of damage could they cause? I had to stop thinking about this. I felt quite queasy. I took my last turn and saw the door to the office right in front of me. Every step I took felt like an Earth shattering boom. As I approached the door, I reached for the handle and turned it as I walked in. The Meeting "Oh! Here you are! Sit down now. We have important matters to discuss." A man in a khaki uniform told me. I noticed a small tag on his breast that read "STRUMMER". I complied. "What happened yesterday was disgusting. About 700 men died, 530 women, and 400 children. We have recently initiated a task force we dedicated to protect citizens and refugees living here in the Tunnels. We have also decided upon a name for the Tunnels. We call it Solsbury. We also have named the task force the SPS. SPS is short for Solsbury Protection Services. The SPS doesn't have much, so we would appreciate any contributions. So far, we have simple blue-gray Dickies uniform with an ironed-on patch. We hope to have more official wear, but we are managing. The SPS is also armed with at least one firearm with variable efficiency. The SPS also carries either a knife or a baton with them." He said all this in an almost robotic voice, as if he wasn't really in the moment. It was like a Text-to-Speech machine, only with a slight Scottish accent and a bit more human. Another man to my left looked like he wanted to speak, but didn't. I noticed he too had a tag on his breast that read "SKINNER". I felt bad, for some strange reason. It was like he wanted to speak, but was muted like a television. But I didn't dwell on it for too long, as a woman in a very dusty yet elegant skirt spoke. She looked young, but she had definitely been through much, as the wrinkles in her face proved. I noticed yet another name tag, this one reading "PEART". She started to say something, but I wasn't listening. I heard a switch knife flicking open and a smile cross the man next to Strummer. What happened next was easily the most disturbing thing ever at the time the man next to Strummer, who I noticed had a name tag that read "GRAY", brought a small knife up and stabbed Strummer in the neck with it. The worst part, Strummer was still alive. Everyone in this conference room screamed. Gray then brought the knife out as heavy, red blood spurted on Grays face, the table, and many of the surrounding people. Gray then stabbed Strummers heart, instantly killing him. Blood poured out of Strummers neck like water out of a Budha fountain. Everyone instantly jumped out of their seats, but I didn't move a muscle. I was petrified. But then I noticed Peart pull a seven shot revolver out of the waist band of her skirt. Unfortunately, Gray also noticed this and threw his knife in my direction. She pulled the trigger. A large boom filled the conference room, alerting the SPS something was definitely wrong. However, Gray released his knife a little to late and Peart fired a little too late, causing the knife to curve, as it wasn't a good throw. It didn't strike me, although it struck Skinner dead in the eye, causing his head to jolt back. A start of a blood curdling scream started to erupt out of him, but he passed before he could finish. I looked from Skinner back to Gray and saw a large bullet hole in between his eyes. Blood slowly poured out from the wound, causing many more people to throw up. I looked back at Peart, who looked petrified. She was still holding the gun with both hands, the gunsmoke still curving smoothly out the barrel. She dropped the revolver, and fell to the ground, just as I had before. Two SPS guards picked her up and brought her to a stretcher, where they transferred her to two large SPS paramedics, who quickly rushed off with her, her messy bun still in place. As I looked over again at Gray, I saw something in his eyes. It looked like a contact lens. They made his eyes blue, with a small red triangle in the middle. The Noticing This was some weird stuff. That's for damn sure. The first Axeman I see: blue iris, red triangle in pupil. Ok. Whatever. People have weird fashion taste nowadays. Maybe that's what's cool now. I couldn't give a damn. But an infiltration in the tunnels with the infiltrator having the exact same contact lenses? No way in Hell that is a coincidence. As I walk through the tunnels I look at peoples eyes. No lenses. Even the new arrivals from Indiana don't have them, and they are looking good. Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. The Axemen just took over Indianapolis as well. People over their thought Chicago was a safe haven, given it's security levels. What a shame. If only they knew. Nowhere is safe. Last night we all turned on the last news station on, CNN, and witnessed something horrifying. The axemen found the new CNN news room and busted in. The people on the news first had a look of concern, then shock, then forgiveness, and then fell behind the desk. A lone Axeman jumped over in an honestly super clean way. I hate to give them credit, but they are agile. I then heard screams, that stopped scarily abruptly. The Axeman jumped back over, facing the camera. He pulled out something from behind his back. I really hoped he was just doing an immature joke we did back in grade school, where you pretended to pull something out and its just your big, fat, middle finger. I'm half right. He pulls out an arm. Its doing a limp middle finger, and you don't usually get so scared you get angry. Or cocky. Or annoying. Or anything other than scared. Meaning this disgusting waste of oxygen actually positioned the victims hand like this. The arm has blood gushing from the sever point, which appears to be just below the elbow. The fingers fall, but they still twitch. Look, I've read horror. I once read a book called "Sadness" or something of the sort. The main character got his foot cut off. I also think his thumb. But when his foot was off, his toes still twitched. That was a good book. When this ends… no no. If this ends, I'm going to try and find it. But the point is, words aren't scary. Just a bunch of lines. Those won't hurt you. But actually seeing it, oh Lord. This sight is disgusting. I'm praying that my worst enemy never sees this. As the fingers stop moving, he shakes the arm so it waves. He gets closer to the camera, and I see it again. The blue iris, the red triangle. I don't know how I see this. It only was there for about half a second before he slashes the axe at the camera, ending the program instantly. I remember what Mom used to say. "I had a photographic memo-" I stop thinking about it. To think about that, I need to think about my mom. And mom was murdered. By an axeman. The Axeman likely also had a blue iris and red triangle. My attempts to stop thinking about it only lead to more thinking about. I can't. I try to push through the crowd as my eyes get blurry and wet, but they barely even move a muscle. I start to cry. But not that quiet sob where you try to breathe and just choke but more of an ugly cry. I feel the tears hit the ground and splatter softly. Drip drip drip. It starts slowly but slowly gets worse and worse. Eventually I have a small three year old looking at me silently. Great. Children are just watching me cry on the dirty floor. I'm done. I don't politely ask people to excuse me. I run through the crowd, pushing everyone that doesn't see my speeding by like a bullet. I see a man in front of me, with a blue iris and red triangle in his eye. Another imposter. I quickly bow my head down, not out of respect, but to hide my face. When he's close to me, I see his eyes one more time. Yep. Blue iris. Red triangle. I then do the last thing I expected. I punched him square in the eye, almost as if the triangle were a target. As i run by, picking up speed, I here people "ooh" ing and "aaahhh" ing but on more of a concerned way than a fascinated one.I run back to my room and slam the door shut and lock it. I throw myself onto the bed, not bothering to use a blanket. I sob. And I sob and I sob. Mostly out of sadness. Partially out of anger. And for the first time, I grieve for my parents. The Death I woke up later that night to a knock on my door. Its extremely late, and no one should be knocking. I open the door, and see a man in a ski mask looking at me. I back up. He walks in. He pulls out an axe. He raises it. I fall to my feet. He swings the axe. It hits my elbow. Pain that I never knew existed shoots up my arm. He raises it again. He drops it in between my ribs.


“We’re running out of time, Leave it!” I yell as Liam runs back to grab something. “I need to grab it, Grace!” Liam yells back as he retrieve’s his weapon. It was home-made, created from the spare parts of a broom, a butter knife, and some rubber bands. But then again, everything had to be home-made in a apocalypse. I run back and pull his wrist just as he touches the spear. We run with all our mite back to the bunker. “What did Noah say again?” Liam askes, “Did he say left turn on queens or right?” “Left” I answer turning the conner, we duck behind some trash cans. “Oh o-“he starts when I put my hand over his mouth. I can hear footsteps passing by, followed by some moaning “they’ll hear you!” I whisper as the take my hand off. “Okay!” he whispers back. Once they leave, we get up again and start to run once more. No talking this time, we know the rest of the way back. As we approach the hidden door and Still holding his wrist, I knock on the door. “Password!” someone says though the bunker door. “Emily there is no password, open up.” I say back. “not ‘til you say the password!” Emily shouts again. “Emily, there are nearly 16 zombies behind us…” I say looking back as the zombies slowly but surely we’re coming us behind us “And it’s going to be your fault if we’re eaten.” “Sheesh, I was just joking” Emily says as she opens the door. I let go of Liam’s wrist as we climb down the ladder into the bunker. “Did you get it?” Noah asks me as I set down my things on the table. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t” I reply as a throw a small engine to Noah. “I took extra care of it” I say to him. “I’ll make sure to tell Monica” he says back. Monica was our tech wiz- one of the best for all I know. Everyone here has a job; Monica’s the tech, Noah’s navigation, Liam is defense, I’m a hunter, and Emily’s the messenger. One of the reasons Emily is our messenger is because she’s the youngest. Only 9. You usually get a job when your 12 but Emily begged so much that we decided to give her messenger. “Anymore assignments?” I say to Noah once he comes back into the room. “No, grace” he replies. “You sure?”  “yeah” he shoots back. “Not even a small one?” I squeak.  He sighs “there is one-“ “I’ll do it” I say almost immediately. He sighs again  “Monica needs more gears, and bunker 808 has spares” telling me, “we’ll send Emily to message them. Once we get an ‘OK’ you can go.” I eagerly run to the ladder and clime up with Emily tagging behind. “Did you hear the plan” I ask “When don’t I?” she asks me. She’s right. Even when she’s not part of a plan she knows. Emily sprints down the road and slides down the corner, out of sight. Five minutes pass, then ten, then twenty. I wonder what is taking her so long. I start to walk forward and continue down where Emily should be. “Emily!” I Whisper loudly, “Emily! Emi-“ I suddenly see someone standing on a small hill, donning a cloak, scarf, and goggles. I can tell they don’t want their identity revealed. “Uh, hello” I say slowly walking Towards them. They do the same but in the opposite direction, every second speeding by faster. She begins to a run. Instantly, so do I. “come back!” I yell, chasing after her. We run into an area with lots of hills. This mystery person slides down one of the hills and out of sight. I try to follow but can’t see her anymore. I look around for anything at all to tell me where she went. As I’m looking though the grass I feel something hard. No, not a thing, a metal plate covered with grass. I feel around a little more and find there’s a handle.  Pulling the handle, I jump down into an underground type of tunnel. I suddenly see the mysterious person again and start to chase them.  “Hello.” a voice calls out.  “Hello?” I say back. Suddenly someone appears from the shaddows. “I’m amber, sorry about my sister. Willow’s not really a people person!” amber says. The girl that I was chasing appears behind amber. This time with out the goggles. “What is this place?” I ask, looking around the tunnel. “Our transportation lot” amber reply’s, followed by willow shushing her. “We have no reason to trust her!” willow snaps. “she’s not one of us!” “Correct, but she does have the skill for it,” Willow opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by her sisters shushing.  “well, I’ve got to go,” I say to both of them, “My friends must be waiting for me” I walk away in silence as I hear them talking quietly in the echoes. “I just can’t wait until we take out all the zombies.” “Shush keep your voice down” My feet stop, and I stand frozen by this statement. All? Like forever? As in life will finally be back to normal? The thought made her smile, but only a little. But the happiness didn’t last long, impossible she thought. There’s no way she argued in her head, hope versus reality back and forth with one another. But what if there is? That’s the question that keep Grace up all night. But what if there is? There isn’t a way... but what if there was? Grace decided she wasn’t going to sleep tonight by the time she returned to the bunker. Walking into the lounge area shortly after her weird encounter. She was stuck in thought so deep she failed to notice Emily walk in. “You all right?” Emily asked using her best whisper voice. “What?” I replied half-asleep. “you’ve been gone on so many missions, and-“ a sigh escapes” “No it’s nothing, I’m fine.” I said to her. She must be deciding if she believes me or not because we sit in silence for a little longer. “Emily?” I say. “Yeah?” “Can I ask you a question?.” She nods her head up and down as if giving me permission. “What if you had the choice to... Well, I mean, what if you had the choice to make stuff normal again? Like, all of it? Back to the way it was…before.” I take a deep breath thinking back to normal. “I’m not trying to get emotional or anything but, I miss my parents.”  “I-I-I never knew my parents” she replied trying to hold back tears. Now I feel bad. I forgot that to Emily, this was the normal. I leanedin and hugged her. Emily’s like the little sister I never had. The decision was final. I am going to find a way to help stop this all. Not because of me, but for Emily. “I’m going out to scavenge” I say already climbing up the ladder to leave. “Already?” Liam looks at me, “it’s not even daylight.” “I know,” I said opening the door and shrugging, “less zombies” Before the doors is all the way open, I could already smell the fog rolling in. It was a little harder to navigate but I managed to find my way to the hills. When I dropped down the shoot, I could hear their voices, at least slightly. Most of the words are muffled until I get within earshot. One of the voices I recognized as amber. “Amber?” “oh, you made it!” amber replies to me, somehow knowing I’d come back. “You might be wondering who this is!” Gesturing towards the third figure. “This is my new friend Rebecca!” “I came here to trade not to make friends” Rebecca clarified. I must have interrupted some sort of deal. It’s been a long time since anyone has needed money, most of our things are made from pieces of broken things, or traded with other roamers.  “Alright, here you go!” Amber said giving Rebecca a bag of parts.  “Now- about your trade?” Willow said firmly. Rebecca hands Willow a hyper coil.  “How did you get that?” I asked. “I have my ways” and with that she walked off as if to end our conversation at that.  “So, what’s the coil for?” I ask amber. “It’s used in the Magnetic trap we made,” Amber said. And like she read my mind she said, “to trap the zombies. I’ll explain later” “we have all the parts for a trap, but” amber started. “We don’t have any idea how to get it working and functional” Willow pointed out. “I can help with that” a voice says behind us all. We turned around and saw Monica with the rest of our crew in tow behind her. “how did you find me?” I ask, shocked.  “Emily told us”  “I never told you what I was doing!”  “I always know the plan, even when I’m not part of it” Emily replied with a grin.  “Alright, is everyone ready to hear the plan.” Willow said rather than asking as she begins to explain.  “…igniting activation on ploy” Monica says into a headset. “English please.” Willow said sarcastically.  Monica sighed. “Turning on tra.p” she states instead, “it should hold for about 20 minutes” I wait impatiently for my part of the plan. Emily will first check the area, meanwhile Amber and Willow will fight off the surrounding zombies, while Liam sets down the barrier, and I, once I get the okay, will pull the plug on the battery to turn off the Satellite (kill code as amber call’s it). Any moment now. “Hello? Anyone?” I say into the headset. All I get is Static. “G…gr...ac…c…e” I hear.  “Hello?” I repeat. “G...ra...ce!” I sit there confused. Suddenly it comes back, “grace behind you!” I hear Emily almost scream into the headset. I turn around just in time to kick a zombie square in the head knocking him out. As I run to Emily, “Thanks.” We’re so close, I can feel it. But right when I thought everything would turn out I hear Willow stammering into the headsets, “We need to retreat, now!” “But we’re so close!” I almost whine my argument. “No, too many zombies!” We can’t retreat now; we are so close! Then for the second time today, my mind made itself up. “Go one, I’m going in” “No- Grace-“I hear as I drop my headset to the ground and take off. As I run to the satellite the zombies start coming at me left and right. Luckily none hit. I look for the Satellite, the thing that started it all. Though, I’m going to be the one who finishes it.


The cape whips behind him in the wind as he zips by in a colorful blur. His giggles dance across the field as his furry companion chases close behind – yipping with joy found only in the bark of a puppy at play with their beloved child. His imagination running wild, he “flies” with abandon. A tiny hero and his trusty sidekick. Out to save the world from the evil supervillain of the day. He’s only six, with a mop of unmanageable curly red hair, blazing blue eyes, and a shower of freckles dappled across his ever-smiling face. Still frolicking in that joyous childhood bubble where the good guy always wins, the bad guy is defeated, and everyone lives “Happily Ever After.” His mother, however, has a firm grip on the reality that is, well… life. She watches him play, and dreams of what could have been. Imagines a better life for them both. One full of happiness. But the truth is, she is miserable. Trapped in a marriage that should have never been. With a man with the unique ability to see and consider only himself. Things are not horrible. Her friends tell her how lucky she is. But they don’t see who he really is. No – he has never hit her. But he controls every move she makes. And keeps her trapped in a cage of his own design. They can’t see how beyond unhappy she really is – living in a loveless marriage and raising her son all by herself. If only there was a way out. A way to find love and happiness again. She glances up as she hears a rumble in the distance. A dust cloud billows behind a truck barreling down the dusty road. She is not expecting a soul… who could that be? She stands and heads up to the house, curiosity peaking as she wonders who has made the trip out without calling first. Her breath catches as she realizes, it’s her father! It’s been many months since he last traveled out to see them. He always seems sad when he leaves. But here he is. She breaks into a run to greet him with a hug. “What a surprise, Dad! It’s so good to see you!!!” “Well, kiddo. I just couldn’t wait one more day without seeing my favorite grandson.” She laughs and points up the hill. “He’s up there! Saving the world, once again! But your favorite daughter is thrilled to see you.” “As much as I love that kid – I am actually here to see you. Let’s go make some coffee. We need to chat.” He says as he leads the way into the house. She looks curiously at him. This is very uncharacteristic. He is typically all jokes and humor. But this… this sounds serious. She follows him inside and sets to work making a pot of strong coffee. Just like he has always liked it. She sets out the mugs, and waits for the brewing cycle to finish. As soon as the steaming mugs are ready, she joins him at the kitchen table. They have a lovely view out the picture window where they can watch Robby and the puppy running and battling the imaginary bad guy under the trees. “Alright, Dad. What’s going on?” she asks as she gently sets the mug in front of him. He sighs… a deep, heavy sound. Like he has been carrying a weight. For years. “Darling, it is time. I have to tell you the family secret. But first. There are some things you should know.” “Dad… we have a SECRET???” her shock goes beyond what she can even express. The family had always been so open and honest with each other. She cannot even imagine what they may have been hiding all these years. “I know you are unhappy here. I know you have been unhappy for ages now. Robby has made life better… but still, things are not good. Jarod has made things really hard for you.” She stares in silence into the inky blackness of her coffee cup. She had no idea her father saw her life so clearly. That he saw the pain she struggles so hard to hide. She cannot even begin to formulate a response. “Catherine, there’s a way out of this. A way to fix it. All of it.” “But Dad. I can’t just leave him. He’ll never allow me to do that.” “No. I see that, Cat. But there is another solution. This is why I came today. It’s time. It’s time for me to tell you what you can do. What you have always had the power to do, but we had to wait for the right time to share it with you.” “Dad. This makes no sense. What are you even talking about?” He closes his eyes. And begins to speak. “Catherine. Our family is special. We have been given an amazing gift. A… super power, if you will. The power to CHANGE the past.” “Ok. Wait. What?” She shakes her head in disbelief. This is it. He’s lost it. Now he is just talking crazy. “I know this sounds like I have lost my mind. But hear me out here. Throughout our history, we have had this power. The ability to stop our lives, go back in time, and change things. Big things. Small things. ANY thing. But… we can travel back only once. So we have to choose carefully. Most of us never make that choice. Because you can never foresee what else will change when you make one minor adjustment in history. Our family stories have some tragic outcomes as a result of this gift and therefore many of us live as everyone else. Content with the way things have turned out. But a few of us – when we find ourselves with no other options – we make the choice to step back in time. And try again. Cat – I think you should try life again. Make a different choice. You KNOW what you should have done.” She sits in silence. Processing. This all sounds way too good to be true. A way out. A way to try again. Make more than a new start. A whole new life. But then her eyes catch a flash of color up the hill. That little boy. He is her life. What if the choice to change the rest of it… takes him? Is it worth that sacrifice? If only she could be sure that she would still end up with him. Her father follows her gaze. And her thoughts. “There is no way to know. Not for sure. It’s a risk that you’d have to be willing to take.” They chat for the rest of the evening. The earlier conversation lingering in her mind. Sneaking into her thoughts and pushing her toward the idea of happiness. Robby joins them, with the puppy in tow, as the sun fades and the shadows crawl across the landscape. As the time for Jarod to come home inches closer, her father stands and bids them farewell. He has no desire to see or speak to her husband of close to 20 years. He has nothing left to say to him. As he hugs her goodbye, he once again encourages her to make the choice. “Choose joy, Cat. I feel in my soul it is the right choice for you. And remember - I love you. No matter what you choose.” Her night is spent as it usually is. She gets Robby fed and bathed. Reads him a story and sings a few songs. Then he drifts off to sleep, the pup curled at his feet.  As she climbs into bed later that night, she feels the weight of unbearable sadness crush her chest. She cannot live like this any longer. Her heart feels crushed by the knowledge that this is her life. And will be forever – unless she listens to her father’s advice and takes a leap of faith. Into the past. To perhaps correct a mistake she had never forgiven herself for. Her eyes flutter closed, and she sees his face in her mind. The man she loves. The one she’s never forgotten… Her eyes open to the sun streaming in the open window. She’s a bit disoriented. That dream was… very strange. But so real. She laughs softly to herself. What a ridiculous notion. To think she would have married someone like… that. And then to think her family had the power to time travel. She wraps her cozy robe snugly around herself and heads downstairs to make a pot of coffee. She finds her father sitting at her kitchen table, already enjoying a cup he had brewed when he arrived, no doubt. He often arrived early on the weekends and made himself at home. She loves how comfortable he is in their home. She wouldn’t have it any other way, really. But this morning, he gives her an odd, knowing smile. “Good morning, Cat. How are you this fine Saturday morning? You… feeling alright?” “Sure, Dad! Feeling great! Wait… why are you looking at me that way? What’s going on?” “Oh… nothing. Really. Just asking.” She rolls her eyes at him as she answers, “Alright then. Breakfast?” He nods in the affirmative and she begins to prepare their usual Saturday morning meal. Nothing fancy. Just bacon, eggs, and some toast. “Is our littlest superhero up and about already?” she asks as she cooks. “He is. I saw him and his furry sidekick up the hill when I drove in.” “Excellent. I’ll go call him inside as soon as these eggs are ready. I wonder where his father has gotten off to?” But as she plates the eggs and prepares to go to the door to call her son for breakfast, she hears a ridiculous commotion just outside. Barking. Squealing. Banging. Giggles. What in the WORLD??? “MOM!!!! Mom - LOOK!!!! I got him! I captured the evil villain and saved the city!” Robby races into the kitchen, cape flying, little dog bouncing around his feet, yipping happily. And behind him, his dad limps theatrically as he follows him inside. They look so much alike, it makes her heart swell to see them together. Robby insists on keeping his soft, black hair the same short style as his dad. And their eyes are the exact same mixture of dark, swirling brown with a little green mixed in around the edges. They smile with the same smile and both have adorable crooked smirks when they are amused. He wants nothing more than to be JUST LIKE his dad. And Catherine has no problem with that. Neal is the most perfect father she could have ever asked for, and he loves her well. Every day. Her happiness knows no bounds. As Neal kisses her forehead and grabs a bite of bacon off the plate, she catches her father’s eye. He has a look she has never seen before. Robby and his dad race to wash up before breakfast and her father whispers in her ear, as she takes a seat. “Isn’t this better? Aren’t you glad you made the change?” And the truth hits her. She remembers it all. Everything from before. And now her whole new life. It wasn’t a dream. They really did have the ability to travel through time and make things better. And she did it. She made that choice. Took the risk. And now – here she is. Happy. Finally. AND… she got to keep her son. Only with the dad he should have had to begin with. This is love. And it is beautiful.


Matilda was in a joyous mood as she looked out across the vast dew covered field. She sang and danced as she thought of the task at hand, planting five acres of petunias. Her favorite colors were violet, orange, pink, red and yellow, and the job she had been given was monumental for one person so she decided she would need help. Sitting on the ground with her legs crossed, fingers interlaced and laying in her lap, she closed her eyes and began to recite the poem that would summon the Woodland fairies. “Oh Woodland fairies far and wide, Please hurry now to my side. I need your help to complete the task, Heed me now again I ask”. As she sat and waited with her eyes shut tight the breeze picked up and the sweet smell of grass invaded her senses. Suddenly, the feather light touch of the fairies brushed her skin and she opened her eyes. There in front of her were her small friends, Lily, Sam, Cherie, Edmund, and Jamie.

“Hi, you guys, it’s been a year and once again I need your help only this year we have five acres to plant. Are you ready”? The fairies leapt upward flapping their wings and circled Matilda’s head in delight. Their wee little voices yelled “yes” in unison which delighted “Mati”, the name the fairies had given her the first year she summoned them. Mati loved the fairies and every season they helped her with the flowers. Earlier in the week she had set about the business of making the seeds available to each of them. “I have made five piles of seeds, these here are the seeds for the orange flowers they will be planted in the northeast quadrant of the field, the seeds for the yellow ones will be in the northwest, the violet in the southeast and the pink ones in the southwest corner. Right in the middle will be the seeds for the deep red flowers. Everyone has a small shoulder sack to carry the seeds and I will carry the hose and do the watering. Sound good”? “Yes” they yelled! “Okay, let’s grab a sack and get started”, Mati said delighted. Lily took one sack and filled it with the seeds for the orange flowers, Sam would plant the yellow flower seeds, Cherie the violet, Edmund the pink, and Jamie would plant the deep red flower seeds. The task was labor intense and would take a good deal of time and the fairies would be hungry before the end of the day so Mati set out a small table with five little chairs and a platter of freshly picked fruit sliced to accommodate their little hands. She set a wee glass at each place and a picture filled with water graced the middle of the table. The fairies quickly readied the field for planting with furrows dug in each section and as they started to plant the seeds when the wind began to blow. It picked up the seeds and scattered them across the field mixing them together making it impossible to separate since all the seeds look the same. Matilda stood at the side of the field with the watering hose in hand, her eyes wide with horror and mouth hanging open. “Oh no” she said “what will I do”? “It’s okay Mati, the seeds will still grow just not the way you wanted, instead there will be one field with many colors of flowers mixed together”. “But the flower colors must be separated, that’s the job I was given. What will the town’s people think when they see that this is what has happened”?  Mati hung her head and tears filled her eyes, she had failed and would probably never get to plant flowers again. She hurried from the field and ran home, sobbing all the way.  Later that night when the lights were out and the people had gone to bed the fairies decided to help Mati and fix all but one section of the field, the center section, they would leave as it is. Hurrying, to beat the morning light, the fairies used their magic. Swirling their wands in the air the seeds began to float upward separating over each quadrant of the field, yellow to the yellow area, orange to orange until they were all separated and planted. In the center plot the seeds remained scattered together and would grow as one, nobody would know the difference until the flowers bloomed in a few weeks. When they had finished they sat at the table and ate their fruit, drank their water and finally left the field to go back to the Woodlands. Mati would be surprised at harvest time since they had not told her what they were going to do. As the weeks passed, Matilda was still depressed and sad because she just knew her job would end and there was nothing she could do about it. At night she would cry herself to sleep and in the day she would weed, worrying about her problem, which really wasn’t a problem at all but she didn’t know. The plants grew and the buds popped out revealing it was getting close to harvest time.

“Oh bother” Matilda said as she hurried out to the flower beds but when she crested the hill and saw the blossoms her eyes widened in delight. There before her were all the flowers, they had been separated into colors except for the center area where the scattered seeds grew together, as one. They had blossomed into a rainbow of colors; pink and white flowers, violet and black flowers, red and yellow flowers a beautiful array never before seen. She was laughing, singing, crying and dancing with happiness when she noticed the fairies had returned and were hovering over the center plot. “They are so beautiful, thank you for all you have done and for your help”. “Remember this lesson Mati, all the colors are beautiful. Perhaps your job is safe and the people in your town will remember what you have shown them on this day, May 1 st ”. Matilda picked the flowers and filled her basket with all the colors in the field. When she had finished she took them to town and showed them to the people who loved them all and decided to make this May Day the best day ever, it would be forever known as Mati’s Day. She did not lose her job and every year there was a mixed plot of seeds that showcased the multi colored Petunias.

The fairies came back to help each year until one year Mati did not return and nobody else in town knew of her secret planters or of the poem used to call the fairies. Still, the flowers were planted each year in the spring and May 1 st was celebrated with grand festivities; the fairies, well they watched from the edge of the Woodlands and remembered with delight their only human friend, Mati.


The Negation Pill was invented on September 7th, 1945. Hans Bethe, one of the Physicists working on the Manhattan Project began work on a pill on March 4, 1943, that would negate emotions and feelings but wouldn't negate basic motor function. After seeing what Hitler had been doing, he realized what humans were capable of and wanted to permanently get rid of the danger of people like him. He hired a chemist, Edwin McMillan, to work with him and although it took 2 years, they had finally made it. Although Hitler was dead, another unredeemable, vile man was still alive in Russia. 4 years later, a spy was sent to Russia and put the pill in Stalin's drink. A month later he was admitted to Psikhushka and a year later died of the common cold. Soon after that, the U.S Navy and Marines invaded Russia. 200,000 people were executed that day for following Stalin. 5 years later every Russian had taken the negation as a "precaution" along with half of Germany's population. By the end of the 50's, all of Europe had taken the pill. It was suggested by President Eisenhower and the suggestion was well received by Europe's leaders. Then, November 22, 1963, Kennedy was shot. Lyndon B. Johnson then decreed with the approval of the House, Senate, and Congress, that all Americans take the pill. That was the breaking point for most. People emigrated, they protested and rioted, some even took their own life, but those who were alive eventually took the pill. Today, it is December 31st, 2090. I live in the only pill free country in the world, Canada, and now the world is at war with itself. Everyone who hasn't taken a pill were politicians, scientists, and engineers, everyone else is a mindless drone who either works for the non-negated or was beaten to a pulp. It was bad in America, but some countries were worse. The negated are used as target practice in Afghanistan, in Iceland they are used as anchors for ships, and in India you can buy a chunk of meat for 5 rupees. However, things in the states were starting to heat up. Politicians were talking of invading canada but they know we can fight back, we're not braindead. The company that produces the pills, Bethe Corp, has basically taken over the world. You see their propaganda and slogan everywhere, "No thoughts, Head Empty". They allow certain people to not take the pill, Oskar Schindler, Nelson Mandela, Dr. Seuss, and Jim Henson are a few. A person has to take the pill when they're 30, unless they meet one of the previous criteria. The only place I found solace in this shit world was in a little book decades old. It was entitled "Robert Frost Collection". Somethings that had been banned by Bethe Corp were books, music, movies, and poetry, so this was risky as hell. A friend of mine had been executed for watching Casablanca, so I wasn't taking any chances. This book has stopped me from taking the damn pill and essentially ruining my life, but I don't think that will be an option. A politician from Germany came to help with the Canada problem. His name was Floda Reltih and he brought 400,000 negated with him. It's 4 pm now and I can hear the boots stomping through the mud towards my house. Gunshots and screaming were blending together until both sounded the same. They're in my house now and running up the stairs, they shoot for 6 seconds and the screams of my family are deafening. More running, and then they stop for a beat. Gas began coming through the ventilation and I started choking. I begin tearing up and my visions goes blurry as my door is smashed open and I see dark shapes run and shove a pill down my throat. Ok im 13 and this is my first short story. Thank you for reading and please give some feedback. Thanks.


Alikast is a land of many unknown wonders and adventures to unfold. The continent is divided up into three regions each ruled by a king. The kings who are all brothers fight amongst each other very often in order to gain more land and power. Although they always fight, none have won yet. This being said a battle is going on right now between two of the regions, Artis and Breter. The third region Turin is recovering from a massive hurricane that just took place on their coast. Our story begins in one of the towns on that coast. A rather nice beach town named Seagrass Cove. Though this coast was suffering from the effects of this hurricane this small little beach town seemed unaltered in the slightest. Palm trees, blue skies, houses intact, people were happy and going with the flow. On this lovely beach we can find our protagonist of this story Fin. Without a doubt Fin was the most excited about the sea. It was filled with wonders and mystical creatures the likes of which he had never seen before. Sadly though he was just a young boy and travelling out onto the treacherous yet fantastical ocean was not an option he could take at the moment. So for now he would just play on the beach and watch as the waves crash down onto the shore. As he was sitting there watching he felt a whack on the back of his head. "YO FIN!" a voice shouted from behind him. Recognizing this voice Fin turned around with a sort of visible energy. "Aren! What'd I say about throwing things at me!" saying this Fin ran up to his friend and tackled him to the ground. Fin and Aren had been friends since birth. Their parents were best friends so they ended up becoming friends from this. Fin not being the strongest in the world had a bit of difficulty taking down Aren. Actually, a lot of difficulty. Fin and Aren were two very different people in looks. Fin being a scrawny, short kid with red hair and these sea green eyes. Aren however was the opposite, tall, black hair, purple eyes. The two lived like brothers but looked so different you wouldn't even think that they know each other. "Alright alright I'm sorry just get off me" Aren says laughing while pushing Fin off of him. At this point Aren stands up and has a wide grin on his face. He would always scheme some sort of plan that he would involve FIn in. This grin of his was Fin's way of knowing something was up. Fin getting up looked at Aren's hand and noticed a set of keys. A very distinct set of keys, ones that opened up Aren's family shed. A shed they weren't allowed in. A shed that had a very distinct set of things that would be perfect for these two young boys to get into some trouble. Fin seeing this smiles and starts darting towards the shed Aren following behind. Eventually the two reach it and look at it in awe. Knowing there are things in there that could very well cause them to be grounded for the rest of their lives if they touched them. They nod at each other and Aren opens up the shed. To them opening up the shed was more exciting than anything they had ever seen before. Inside was a boat and various other knick knacks. Fin started searching around while Aren hopped in the boat pretending like he knew how to sail it. "Hey, you gotta check this out come over here." Fin said in a hyper tone. Aren got out of the boat and walked over to Fin. He was holding a book. A book with four water droplets each in a corner of the front of the book. In the center of these droplets was the number nine. They looked at each other with visible confusion but also with excitement. Opening up the book dust came flying out from the old pages but there was also this sort of aura. An aura which Fin knew very well. It felt like the sea. Flipping through the pages one page speaks out to Fin. Not knowing what it says or what any of this means he reads out the writing on the page. "Eth Mrots Harces" Fin says while Aren stares at him having absolutely no clue what he just said. But as he says this they can both feel something. The aura that the book once had has gone away. Or rather it was moved. It was moved to Fin. They both look at the book and the words that were there now read out. The Storm Chaser. As this was all happening suddenly a storm started forming over this small little beach town. Thinking about it this town had never experienced a storm before the two boys noticed. A storm was really strange for them. They tried their best of course to ignore this fact until they heard footsteps hurrying fast towards the shed. "YOU TWO!" A voice yelled from outside the shed. It was Aren's father. A young man who had been in this town his entire life. His whole family had been living here throughout generations. Storming into the shed he looks at the boys and looks at the book and immediately knows what had happened. Aren stole the keys from him and their daily martial arts training and they had snuck into the shed. Fin read the words in the book and broke the seal which was protecting this town from generation to generation from storms. Now that the seal was broken a storm chaser has been born. It is now Fin's job to go and catch the storms to once again build up the seal that he had broken. And Aren was going to help.


The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. A soft whisper carved into the silence. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. "You have to hurry, and remember, as soon as you get there to visit Abigail Clover." She will understand. Come on, hurry! You have to go- the old woman's teary gaze aimed at her black eyes.- We love you so much, Mary, my little Mary! They embraced. "God bless you, Mrs. Johnson, thank you for everything," she cried. - Come on, fast! They're right here!” An old man ran in excitedly. He was all skin-and-bone, his eyes swollen, purple wrinkles running down his face. His name was Mr. Johnson, and he has already suffered a lot for this decent Hungarian name, but how much more will he suffer more... The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her. In the distance, the pounding of the enemy's horses was louder and louder. They rubbed the forest land heavily with their hooves, destroying everything that was life, freedom, and Home. They had stirred up a cloud of dust that left only torment behind; where they passed remained uninterruptedly sobbing in the wind. The fugitive walked all night. By the time the first rays of the sun blossomed on the distant horizon, Mary was already resting her aching legs at the base of a forest-edge bush. She unfolded her ragged haversack, in which there were merely three slices of dry bread, a red onion, and a little bacon. It seemed so poor, though she brought everything they had to eat. Her eyes filled with tears when she thought about how much this lovely couple had done for her. They helped and supported her in everything they could. Despite their age, they did their best. She stroked her lacy dress gently, in which she left home. The old woman even opened up the curtain to knit her clothes. She thought back to that cool November day as she wandered all alone in front of the store building. She was so young, barely six years old. Elegant people and ornately dressed women stormed past her. Sobbing, she was just shaking that her parents were dead, and she had nowhere to go. They were both taken away by the flu; they were poorer than the church’s mouse. They left nothing behind, just a little girl. Suddenly an old man approached her, carrying a full bag. He took potatoes for sale, but no one needed them at the market today. To his final desperation, he brought it into this little shop to see if the sellers here would buy it from him. However, they also refused. When he saw her, he didn’t have the heart to leave the hungry child, and although he and his wife lived sparingly alone, they adopted her without question. When they first met, she looked at Mrs. Johnson as her mother, who loved her with all her heart, as if she would have been her own, although she never had her own. She cherished her, loved her like a proper mother, a veritable guardian angel. As for Mr. Johnson, he would have put his hands on fire for the girl's health and happiness. Now here she is ... She left the people who would have sacrificed their lives for her. She ran away, there’s no way back. The path frowned contemptuously in front of her, as if accusing her of escaping, while the souls of so many people were finding their way to heaven because they were Hungarian. Now, after the glorious moments, they felt the painful hours, days, weeks of the 1848 revolution... They were surrounded, cruelly struck back. They ruthlessly incited an enormous elephant against the tiny bit Hungarian army. The fight was over; the loss was certain. If no miracle happens, the lives of thousands of Hungarians will be in danger. And no miracle happened ... The enemy treated the soldiers ruthlessly as well as the simple people of the nation. There is no longer as much wax in the world today as the number of candles burned during the weeping of the widows when their fallen loved ones were mourned. Mary went to sleep with an empty stomach, hoping she could still sleep without being attacked by devastating Habsburg soldiers. Although there was a constant rumble in the distance, they didn’t find her. She walked in fear, but eventually reached a Hungarian village. One stormy night, when she was ready to give up all hope, she found Abigail Clover, Mrs. Johson’s sister. She already knew 17-year-old Mary from older letters, who grew up on the outskirts of a city near Vienna. She was tired and skinny, her hair was broken, her lips were dry. Yet there was beauty in her careless appearance. She was more special than the other girls, her new family adored her. The years of peril were gone, however, the people never lost the mournful memory of the crushed revolution. When they thought about it, everyone's hearts tightened, but they talked less and less about it. It was the nation, mourning in black forever, that proclaimed this tragic event. Time passed, and the darkness was covered in even greater pain and agony. We’re writing 1920, the mournful year in which the Treaty of  Trianon was sight. It wasn’t a treaty of peace, but shame… It was not tranquillity, but disgrace. It had everything for a recipe of shame, and the chef proved to be overwhelmingly zealous in making this multi-course meal. What was yesterday Hungary, today is Romania, Ukraine, Austria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, Croatia. If the pains and losses of the First World War had not been just enough, they would have tried to deprive many innocent people just because they were Hungarians. However, they had forgotten one thing: whoever is born with Hungarian blood throbbing in his veins will also die as a Hungarian. Mary Johnson celebrated her 71st birthday in this famous year. Her little granddaughter revolved around her. This girl loved her grandmother so much, she would have done anything for her. At one time, however, she noticed the woman’s incurable grief. She heard her talking of a strange house where angels lived, and immeasurable wealth covered everything. At the age of 13 she managed to find out the exact address. She made a serious determination: she would visit that house. This decision grew stronger and stronger in her heart until a few years later she really did. However, all her ideas were contradicted by the sight that unfolded before her. A dilapidated, weedy house rose on the stony ground. The roof was ruined, the wall was perforated. After the revolution, it may have provided a refuge for raiding troops, but it was doubtful that anyone would have lived in it for a long time. Nora approached it with uncertain steps. The rusty doorknob left a dirty mark on her snow-white hands. The view inside was breathtaking. The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. The 17-year-old girl sobbed painfully on the old floor. Her grandmother’s stories gained life in front of her eyes suffused with tears. She could almost feel the presence of the murdered couple's returning soul. The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her…