THIS IS MINE by Rick Pascal London - 1926 Edith Chatsworth awoke with a start, her heart pounding as if attempting to escape from her delicate rib cage. Her thin silk nightgown was no match for the cold sweat that enveloped her fragile frame as she sat upright in bed, shivering. The words, “This is mine, and you can’t have it,” reverberated in her mind again and again. She clutched her ears endeavoring to block the ominous repetition. Only sitting still for a few more moments enabled her to silence the threat posed by the unknown sinister voice in her head. Her sudden movements startled her husband. “Are you all right, my darling?” he called. “It’s that dream again,” she responded. “I’m frightened, Henry.” Henry felt his wife’s slim frame tremble as he put his arms around her, offering comfort. “Try to relax, dear. It’s just another bad dream, that’s all.” “But, Henry darling, that’s the third time this week that I’ve heard that terrible voice. It must be some kind of warning. A bad omen, I’m sure.” “Don’t be foolish, Edith. There’s no such thing as a bad omen. That’s only superstition. Try to go back to sleep.” **** Lord Henry Chatsworth was a proper English gentleman, a graduate of Eton, and a noted archeologist whose explorations were financed by the British Museum. He glanced at the clothes in his leather suitcase and nodded approval. “That ought to do it,” he said, closing the lid and fastening the straps. “Are you finished packing yet, Edith?” “Almost, darling. Are you absolutely sure you want me to go with you? You know how I detest being near those sweaty, half-dressed men. They’re always staring at me, and they smell awful.” “Come now, Edith. It’s not that bad. Besides, the dry desert air in Egypt will be good for your asthma. The museum will provide for all our needs during the dig. The tents have fans, the cots will have soft mattresses, and they’re even providing carpets inside the tents so you won’t have to walk on the sand in your bare feet. We’ll have a cook who will prepare our meals and make sure you’ll have enough turmeric tea and ginger decoctions for your asthma. And there’ll be guards to protect us. So you see, darling, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got this all worked out. We’ll be back home in two weeks’ time. If all goes as planned, I’ll be the most famous archeologist in all of England; probably the world. “Nothing to worry about but that horrible voice in my head. I’m convinced that this trip is a bad idea.” “Stop it, Edith! I’ve told you time and again that there’s no such thing as an omen or superstition.” “All right, Henry. If you say so. I’m just about ready.” **** The two-day trip from London to the burial site of the Pharoahs in Saqqara, an hour’s drive south of Cairo, was uneventful. Edith read her favorite book, Henry Esmond by Thackeray, while Henry could only think of uncovering the tomb of Amenrajah and finding the fabled jeweled gold medallion given to him by his wife, Nefterami. No one knew for certain that the medallion even existed, but Henry believed it did, and that he would be the one to find it. It was rumored that the medallion had unknown magic powers and was entombed with Amenrajah in his sarcophagus. It was also rumored that Nefterami put a curse on anyone who attempted to steal the medallion from her husband’s tomb, which lay undisturbed for nearly 3,000 years. Henry and Edith settled into their tent as soon as they arrived in Saqqara late in the afternoon, just as the sun began to set. Their cook prepared a sumptuous meal for them, served outside their tent on a table set with a linen tablecloth, fine China dishes and silver utensils. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon accompanied the meal. “I don’t imagine you thought the desert would be this luxurious, did you, my dear?” Henry declared. “And the red wine is good for your asthma, too.” “I suppose you’re right, darling,” Edith sighed. “I just hope I can sleep tonight.” “Don’t worry, the desert air is good for you. You’ll be fine.” Tired after a long trip, and drowsy after finishing a bottle of wine, Henry and Edith went to bed soon after the sun set. Not long after they fell asleep, Henry was awakened by his wife’s wailing. “What is it dear? Are you all right?” he probed, reaching out for her. “It’s that horrible, terrible voice again,” she panted. “I can’t make it stop! It just keeps on saying, ‘ This is mine, and you can’t have it. ’ I’m petrified, Henry. Make it go away!” “There, there, Edith. It’s another bad dream, that’s all. It’s probably just being here in the desert that’s scaring you. But I assure you it will be all right. Take one of your sleeping pills; it’ll help you get back to sleep.” **** Henry and his excavation crew were out at the dig site just as the sun was rising. Edith’s pills helped, as she remained asleep long afterwards. When she finally awoke, she became aware of the excitement coming from the dig site. “What’s going on?” she asked the cook, who was getting her breakfast ready. “They seem to have made some discovery in the tomb,” he responded. “Everyone’s down there.” Without waiting for breakfast, Edith dressed quickly and ran to the dig site. “Where’s Henry?” she asked one of the diggers, recoiling and grimacing from his malodorous perspiration. “Is my husband in there?” “Yes, madam,” he replied, oblivious to the handkerchief she held over her nose. “He’s in the tomb.” Impetuously, without considering her asthma, Edith rushed inside, past other diggers, continuing to press the handkerchief against her nose. The smell of their perspiration, coupled with the mustiness and dust inside the tomb was overwhelming, provoking her asthma and causing her to gasp for air. She dared not venture more than two steps into the tomb fearing that she would no longer be able to breath. Standing on tiptoe, she strained to watch Henry pry open the sarcophagus and peer inside. He stood motionless, amazed at first, but the excitement of his discovery immediately became apparent. Edith could see the wonder in his eyes reflecting the flickering flame of the lantern held by the dig foreman. “Henry,” she shouted, “What have you found?” Henry continued to stare, enthralled at the mummified remains of Amenrajah. A golden chain around the mummy’s neck, stretching down to his chest, bore a magnificently crafted, golden jeweled medallion. “This is it!” Henry screamed. “I’ve got it at last. It’s real! It does exist!” He reached into the sarcophagus and wrapped his hand around the medallion. At the same moment, a rumbling was felt throughout the entire tomb. As if manipulated by a puppet master from above, the mummy’s arm emerged from its wrapping and raised its hand seizing Henry’s wrist with a vice-like grip. Its other hand sprung up and grasped Henry’s throat. A dark hole opened where the mummy’s mouth would be, expelling a most foul and putrid stench causing everyone near it to hold their noses and swoon. The walls of the tomb shook violently; the floor quaked and the ceiling began to crack. Sand and debris rained down from the ceiling. A loud, fierce, gravelly voice emanated from the dark hole in the mummy’s head and echoed off the walls: This is mine, and you can’t have it! Edith screamed and turned back toward whatever remaining daylight was visible through the dust and sand. Standing near the entrance, she was able to escape just as the sandstone ceiling crumbled and fell, burying everyone else. She collapsed outside the tomb’s doorway, which was now blocked by tons of sand and rock. She was taken back to the tent, unconscious, and transported to a hospital in Cairo where she remained in a catatonic state for another week before returning to a hospital in London. Doctors and psychiatrists attempted to get her to speak, but her silence remained unbroken. Edith sat in her hospital room, continuing to stare at the wall, as if focusing on some unseen being, her arms wrapped around an invisible object, clutching it tightly to her chest as if her life depended upon it. All she could utter was a single phrase that she repeated over and over: This is mine, and you can’t have it.


“Remember,” my father advised my 10-year-old self, “when it comes to your grandmother,

you  have to be the parent.” I had never been a parent before. How does a child supervise a 70-year-old? Can I ground her? Take her knitting needles away for a week?

It was like having a younger sibling, not a grandparent. Grandparents are supposed to be loving and want to spoil their grandkids with cookies and candy. Instead, my grandmother, or “Granny D” as we called her, was a toddler with a driver's license.

Bundled under the covers with a fever, fighting off an infection, I stayed home alone from school one day. Her sense of timing was impeccable to just so happen to ring the doorbell on the day someone would be home, unless my parents were feeling a bit feverish themselves and thought it would be a good idea to babysit one another. If so, they were very, very wrong.

With her curly brown grandma perm she carried over her shoulder a colorful, oversized straw bag she went everywhere with because that’s how she snuck in her Chihuahuas, Patty numbers 1, 2, and 3, over the years. (Yes, she numbered and named all of her dogs “Patty”.) As I reluctantly climbed out of bed to open the door, she greeted me with an eccentric, “Hello!”

I turned and headed toward the nearest place to lay down, the sofa, as she followed me in. For a minute you would have thought she was a regular grandma, concerned and wanting to pamper and nurse the sick child. She made a lot of fuss about how she was going to take care of me. But that’s where they get you. They fool you into thinking they’re sane just long enough for you to let your guard down.

She scurried around as though looking for something and then popped out of the kitchen with a spray bottle filled with plain tap water. “Look at all these bugs!” she exclaimed as she went about the room spraying water into the air. “I don’t see any bugs, Granny D,” I replied. “Oh yes, there’s bugs everywhere! Let me get them sprayed and you’ll feel much better!”

Then, as though the water had instantly vaporized all the “bugs” Granny D dropped the bottle and piped up, “I know what you need! Let’s go to the store!” I was really in no shape to be going anywhere and told her that. “Come on,” she insisted, “the fresh air will be good for you!” With my face pressed into the cushion I, again, denied her request.

“I’ll buy you whatever you want!” she coaxed. At that, I decided maybe I could muster a little bit of energy. What would be the harm in a quick trip to the store, maybe get some soup and crackers, maybe a magazine, maybe something a little pricier...

Wearing pajama pants and house shoes I buckled myself into the front seat of her sedan. As she started the car and put it into gear, she looked over at me and grinned. At that, you would've thought she turned into Ms. Frizzle from the “Magic School Bus” just as the school bus magically turns into a rocket ship and the Frizz shouts, “Wahoo!!”

We, too, shot off like a rocket. This was no “Sunday Driving” Granny. She was making up for all those lost years she missed out not getting to be a Formula One driver. As we came to the upcoming red light at the first intersection she slowed down, and then kept right on driving. “Red light!!” I screamed. “Oops! Oh well, there was no one coming,” she laughed.

She did that at every intersection as I clenched my eyes shut and held on for dear life. Fortunately, her destination wasn’t that far away. As she pulled into the parking lot, I realized the “store” she was talking about that would make me feel better and she would buy me whatever I wanted, was in fact, the fabric store. You know, for those knitting needles she needed taken away.

I sat in the car, shivering and laying against the door as she skipped inside, little Patty number whatever tucked quietly inside her purse. She did keep a stash of cookies with her, but it wasn’t to give to her grandkids. She bribed Patty with cookies to get her to keep quiet so no one would know she had her inside a store. Not dog cookies, mind you, homemade people cookies that you would get your hand slapped if you tried to take. No, no, those were Patty’s precious Salted Caramel Chocolate Chip Delights.

I dozed off and startled awake when she returned to the car. “You really missed a good time,” she said, “look at all this yarn I got on sale!” I un-amusedly nodded. “Listen, dear,” she added as she started the car, “when we get back will you show me how to use email?”

I knew immediately that was a bad idea. Granny D didn’t even know how to turn on a computer, let alone use email. I once spent 45 minutes trying to explain to her the concept of scrolling. She couldn’t seem to understand that there was more to the page she couldn’t see, and much like a paper scroll, you had to scroll down the page.

Somehow, we made it home alive. That evening, my parents were furious to discover she had taken me on her outing to get yarn and even managed to miss every single red light and stop sign we came across. How we didn’t get in a wreck or pulled over by police, I’ll never know, but that’s how Granny D went about life, she was invincible.

She had a manic joy about her, and this crazy kind of likeability (or manipulation as my parents called it) that made people do whatever she wanted. She went about life with a carefree attitude, never worrying about what people thought or how she would get by.

Growing up over the years Granny D pulled many more crazy stunts that were usually followed by “vacations” to the hospital because it meant Granny had stopped taking her medications. The doctors would adjust her meds and then release her back out into the world, until she stopped taking them again and she would repeat the process all over again.

My parents didn’t know how to handle her and attempted to have her committed for good, but the doctors insisted that as long as she was stable on her medications and wasn’t going to harm herself or anyone else then she had to be released.

Eventually, Granny D did get her license taken away from her. At least now she couldn’t harm anyone with her car, but she did still find ways to get around. By the time I was grown and Granny D was well into her 80s, my dad received a phone call from a Sheriff’s department in Arkansas. We didn’t know anyone in Arkansas, and it was over 600 miles away.

A farmer had found Granny D in the middle of his wheat field sopping wet and dancing in the pouring rain. With no idea where she got the money, she had hopped a bus for Arkansas to “claim” some land she thought she owned. “She doesn’t own any land in Arkansas,” Dad told the deputy, “We have no ties to Arkansas whatsoever.”

"Well, do you have anyone who can come get her?”

“No, we can’t come get her! Every time someone calls me about her, I always tell them she needs to be committed! Just commit her already!” At that, he hung up the phone.

I felt bad for my grandma. I had been raised and taught the importance of taking care of our elderly. But Granny D had burned all of her bridges. Of all of her kids, grandkids, and even distant relatives, there was no one left to bail her out of trouble anymore. Maybe someone else can help her now, I thought, or maybe now that I’m an adult I can see to it that she gets the care she needs. I can be the one person who doesn’t give up on her. She can live with me and I can make sure she takes her medication regularly. Maybe we can hire a nurse to visit regularly...

My phone rang an unfamiliar tune. Incoming Video Call from: Dolores Dempsey. How the hell did she learn how to video call?! And where did she find a phone or computer?? I remembered my heroic plan to be the person she needed to take care of her until her final days. I placed my finger on the red icon and swiped, then went back to my day.


CHOO! CHOO! The locomotive whistles, a train’s usual high, but at the same time low sound, piercing the coal-smelling, dusty air as we take off down the tracks. We start out slow, then gain speed in the first thirty seconds. People are all around me, hoping we’ll get to Chicago for the Christmas Fair without any disturbances. I look out the window that I’m lucky to have a spot next to to see New York City’s brick buildings rushing past me. I can spot them in the distance as they're coming up, but they seem so far away. Yet before I know it, they’ve passed, and then they’re running away from me. They’ll probably be completely out of my sight in just a few seconds. Someone’s elbow jabs against my waist. A little kid bumps against my hips. A man starts smoking, releasing the noticeable smell of cigarettes into the already bad air. Like most people, I hate crowds- but I especially hate them in small spaces. It feels so tight, though the photos I’ve seen of train cars make them look open and airy. I’ve never been on a train before- I didn’t know what to expect.

I go inside my cabin, grabbing today’s edition of the New York Times from it’s spot on a small desk before sitting on my bed and taking a look. The front-page article reads “Pearl Harbor Attacked by Japan, 2,403 Dead, we will be going into World War II”. What? I read the article, and then read it again, and again, and again, and again. Why did this happen? How did this happen? On the other side of the very un-soundproof walls of the cabin, I can hear that the other people have also heard the news, and they’re gossiping about what this means for our country. “We were so focused on the east, we forgot about the west.” “I still don’t think we should’ve joined that war.” “Will my husband have to leave to go fight? Will he come back?” It takes me a second to realize I’m now standing back in the crowded train car, with even more ruckus then before. Everyone is too busy talking, crying, revelating to notice anyone else. Five people are collapsed in a pile on the floor. No one cares about anyone else. Is this how life will be now? Everyone for themselves? Will we be safe?

That’s definitely what lots of people think, going into their cabins. I’d do the same, but mine is in the same car as the crowd, and I want to get as far away as possible. That must be why I left my cabin. But I can’t remember it… everything is spinning too fast for me to even process what I’m doing. How did this happen? I figure I’d just thought the words again, but when everyone turns to face me I realize I’ve just said them aloud. No, I’ve yelled them. At the top of my lungs. So I go near the front of the train. I balance on the metal pole between the front cabin and the coal car until I’ve gotten to the center of it. I sit down, looking off into the distance. We haven’t even left New York yet- it’ll be a while before we reach Chicago. We’re definitely in the outskirts, though. Young boys are carrying papers and yelling, “READ ALL ABOUT IT, PEARL HARBOR HAS BEEN ATTACKED!” The streets are just as frantic as the train if not more, and this isn’t even the busiest area of New York. “You shouldn’t be here.” I nearly fall off, I’m so startled. I turn around to see a figure in all black, shoveling coal to fuel the train. They probably took a break from their work for a second to open the door, however. “Should I leave?” I ask. The coal worker raises their head to nod, and I get up. But at the last moment, they shake it. “It’s fine. I like the view too. You should enjoy the ride, not spend it with thirty people in a cramped space.” “Did you hear the news?”

“About the new breed of hamsters those hikers discovered? Yeah.” Clearly they don’t know- unless they’re joking. But why would anyone want to joke about death and destruction- especially if it will surely lead to even more darker, scarier moments? How did this happen? “No,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “About Pearl Harbor.” “Where’s that?”

“It’s in the island of Oahu, in Hawaii. I didn’t know about it either, until everything happened. It was bombed by Japan yesterday- it was in the paper, front page and everything. We’re going into the world war.” The coal worker stares. And stares.

And stares some more. “Are you okay?” I ask. They shake their head. A strong gust of wind suddenly blows our way, and their hood flips over. I see a woman staring back at me. Black hair, skin a little darker than mine. She’s Japanese. But she’s innocent, too. Her life would probably be full of changes in the coming months, probably not for the better, and she dosen’t deserve any of it. “Oh,” I whisper. “Come sit with me.” “I probably shouldn’t. I need to fuel the train.” “This probably won’t be a long voyage anyway,” I inform her. “It’ll be canceled because of the…” I stop there. But she knows what I was going to say. Because of the war. This ride isn’t the only thing that’ll stop. Life will shut down as we know it. Nothing will be the same, maybe even after this is over. She bends down to sit next to me. “Okay- I guess I was a bit ahead with that coal. Though I’ll have to go back to work in a minute.” “The sunrise is pretty, isn’t it?” I ask as she’s sat down. “I’m sure if the air wasn’t so dusty from the train, I’d feel cool morning breezes.” We sit and watch as the train leaves New York City, heading west, though I know it’ll turn back whenever there’s a chance to do so. We run through some rolling fields, dotted with wildflowers, and soon we go into a lush forest, where I see a doe and her fawn rush off of the tracks to avoid us. It’s so natural. It’s what’s meant to be here, not war or bombings from foreign countries or crowded train cars. And for the whole time, one thing is on my mind- will this beautiful place live through the war?


Taking almost undistinguished breaths, her eyes squeezed closed, eyelashes pushing hard against her cheek , laying silently at the bottom of her pond. Nestled into the mud and leaves like a blanket. The cold stinging water a comfort that no one else understands. Each time she enters the dark waters it’s like a slap, short and sharp, leaving her skin tingling , the cold never really lifting. Like a salve against her day. Her fingers creep slowly out into the dark pushing through the mud, branches and the leaves , fingertips searching for the right one, unravelling the leaves and muck. Probing slowly feeling each stem, ridge and vein of the damp leaves. Is this the one ? Is this one painful enough? Tracing along the veins of the leaf does she remember the words she told herself? Are the words enough?will they bring the cold relief ? She needed the harshest of words, the coldest she remembers to bring her peace. The memory of his cheeky little grin, his tiny fingers reaching out and touching her belly, his adorable giggle his tiny blond head snuggling into her. It’s too much she can’t do his anymore. The love hurts more than any word could, any thought could. Even in the coldest part of her world she can feel that burning heat pressed against her, his love, white hot and unforgiving in its intensity, loving her and all her darkness and fear. Her ever searching fingers find what she needs and slowly she unravels the memories. The words. They sting when she lays them across the spot on her belly where his little fingers laid and had burnt through, soon the burning subsides and all she feels is the cold relief of nothingness. Numb. She doesn’t talk about her ritual. Why? So they can tell her it’s not normal? Not healthy? Or worse that she needs medication? They don’t understand. She’s is strong enough. This is her balance. She doesn’t want any pity. She doesn’t need any help. She just needs to be alone, sometimes. She needs the cold, the dark places she goes, she needs this to balance out the immense love that she endures each day. Why didn’t they tell her it would be so hard to be loved, cherished and needed so intensely. The hugs and the laughter of her perfect little family gently tickling every last happy nerve she had. She sits , smiles and laughs, absorbing all that love, and loves them more than she believed she ever could. But it hurts. And she needs the cold. So after all the smiles and love and goodnight kisses She lays down sinking slowly to the bottom of the pond she created searching for the cold dark comfort of her misery. She needs this. She feels too much. Tomorrow she starts again. Prepares for another day of battle. A silent warrior. She sinks further down into the cold and settles in to restore her strength.


Something I have always been. As in, my memory begins at the beginning of all, or at least my own memory of it. I have been since the earth was hot and turbid. I have been since the great beasts roamed and stomped their way across the new land. I have always been. I have been since your species wore fur. I discovered you while you were still small, tiny creatures scrabbling about in the mud. Perhaps I was growing tired of eating the little scrabbling creatures and you looked like a novel snack. I snatched you up and I haven’t looked back. I take no pleasure in eating you, you do taste good and meet my needs, but I take no pleasure in the kill. I don’t fiddle around with you. I kill to eat. You used to have sounds to describe my presence, small squeaks that evolved into grunts. Eventually you gave me a name, I don’t recall what it was. I did delight in the concept of a name though, nothing had ever had a name, you invented them. You used to tell your young stories and warn them about my presence. I was the dark. There were many other creatures that made you their meals as well. Large cats and bears, sometimes you killed and ate each other. That always left you with a strange flavour I didn’t care for. I often moved on to another group when you began to turn on each other. I was very amused when you began to make up stories of invisible friends to explain your misfortune and misdeeds. You couldn’t accept the true nature and cruelty of existence, you gave pain and suffering a personality, disease became a punishment. I could never understand why you continued to hurt each other, and blamed invisible forces, saying you were called by your “gods” to hurt one another. I often became sickened by your treatment of your young. They were often the ones sent into the darkness to placate your gods. Certainly not me. The young hold no nutrition, small and lean. My intentions were not to torture or harm you, but one must eat to survive. My meals became easier when your numbers grew. You fought and killed each other over territory and shiny rocks you seem to think hold value. You piled into towns and crammed yourselves together for fear of me. The hairs still rose on the backs of your necks when I crouched nearby. Your cities became cesspools and disease ran rampant. Those were lean years for me. Although your dead lay in the streets the fetid stench of rotting flesh drove me away into the wild. I fed on the old foods, the creatures you forgot about, you called them fairy tales. I wandered around this earth for many years leaving when your wars became unbearable. My hunting ground grew smaller as you razed the forests in the name of progress. The earth was dying and your progress and technology ate the air and water, the earth began to fester. Ever so often a plague would knock back your enormous numbers. The creatures and I could no longer hunt you safely. My contribution barely scratched the surface of your rampant breeding. You breed so often that you could not feed or care for your young. The young ones died in the name of your animal urges. It still disgusts me. Your species has such knowledge, but no self control. You’ve forgotten my name now. Your stories no longer include mine. You may think, are you the devil? No, you made him up to explain away your hate and misdeeds. Nor am I the vampire, wearwolf, wendigo, or ghost. Those are just more stories to rationalize your diseases and disorders, from before a time you knew about the tiny ones. Yes, I have long known about your “bacteria” and viruses, we old ones have knowledge from millions of years of wandering. I still hunt. I take from the edges of your cities, only what I need. You don’t notice. Someone simply vanishes, never found. I never waste a morsel. I grow weary. The air tastes of poison and the water burns my mouth. I still walk in the darkness. A small part of your ancient brain recognizes my presence. It raises the hairs on your neck and a feeling of dread passes over you, you call it a “gut feeling”. It’s a memory from a time where you knew my name. You still do, some of you hear a whisper in the wind, and hear my name. They call you “mentally ill”. I watch you, you could be dangerous. If the others start to listen to your call, it could result in my capture. I whisper in the ears of your children, they wake from their sleep with screams. I warn them about the dark, not me, but others of your species that lurk there, predators. You seem to allow the torture and pain of your own kind, the animals and I watch in horror. We are hungry. I am the only one of my kind, I am an anomaly. I have no name I call myself. I have always been, and shall always be,in the darkness. I continue to feed on your putrid flesh. I wait for the day you change into something else, something aware, maybe closer to my own awareness. I am here, in your darkness. You’ve forgotten my name.


fingers through her hair. Her muscles flexed as she plowed under the weight of all that black hair. She rubbed her scalp back and forth, feeling the skin shift over her skull. She felt something peculiar – a pimple sized bump. She picked at it, scratched it until it came off under her fingernail. *Bugs…*she thought, bringing her hand in front of her face, waiting for her eyes to focus in the pre-dawn light. She didn’t see anything under the fingernail. She reached back into her hair and tried to find another bump. Through the window, she saw the first light of morning bleed red into the dark dome of night sky. Thirty minutes later and the courtyard outside the window was washed in pastel colors. Long shadows started their slow retreat into the trees and buildings of the dormitory cluster. Shubra hadn’t found another bump. *Not bugs...* she concluded. She turned away from the window and looked at the man in her bed. He was snoring softly, lying on his stomach, his face turned sideways on her pillow. Light through the window cast an oblong rectangle over the fine white skin of his upper thighs. Shubra stared at the rectangle of light until the sun rose higher and it moved to his buttocks. Then she had another thought – *Nice ass.* She shook her head slowly, chasing the numbness away. She went to the bathroom where she splashed water in a coffee cup and drank it down. She filled the cup again, and again drained it with a breathless series of gulps. She took one look at herself in the mirror, realized in a split-second that she wasn’t ready to deal with that yet, and stepped carefully back in to the bedroom. Her eyes went from the muscular form of the man on her bed, to the nightstand where a pile of joints lay cold in an ashtray, to the bottles of Stoli on the floor, and finally to the kit that contained the paraphernalia they had used to shoot up heroin last night. Shubra saw the needles and thought – *Aids….* But no, this guy seemed pretty clean. From Norway, actually. Hadn’t he said he was some sort of royalty there? Not bragging about it, almost embarrassed. Like he had to have an excuse for being so rich. Shubra’s eyes fluttered involuntarily, and a blast of pain tore through her head. She sat back down on the windowsill and wrapped the curtain around her naked body. She shivered even though it was already growing hot outside. The worse of the migraine finished fast leaving a dull ache behind Shubra’s eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She worried that that Norwegian would wake up and find her crying, think she was a case. But she just didn’t have the energy to wipe the tears away. She looked at the man’s back. He was huge through the shoulders with a narrow waist and, again, a nice, firm ass. His legs were so long, the calves and feet hung off her bed even though he lay diagonally with his head as far up as it could go in the opposite corner. He was big, no doubt about it. Shubra remembered undressing him last night, stoned and feeling sexy as she knelt before him to pull down his underwear. She actually fell on her haunches when his penis sprang free. Oh yes, he was a big boy all over the place. The head alone looked as big as a baby apple. And the shaft was as long as her forearm. He’d smiled sheepishly, almost apologizing for his size. “It is a family curse,” he’d explained, “or a blessing. Depending on who you talk to.” Thinking about it the morning after, Shubra leaned more towards blessing. It had been a little awkward when, during foreplay, he’d put it in her face – talk about intimidating – but once the actual intercourse started, her orgasms came hard and they came fast. It truly felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. Like her body was being burned into ash by a sacrificial fire. Then the ashes caught a gentle breeze and blew away. Of course, that could have been the drugs. Which brought her back to – *Aids*. *No*, she concluded, *he’s the future king of Norway. He wouldn’t have aids….* The sun continued to rise, and the early-birds took to the courtyard. From the window, Shubra watched a few of her peers stroll lazily through motes of dusty, tree-filtered sunlight. They wore backpacks and munched on pastries, drank coffee from thermoses and water from bottles. Two boys passing each other stopped for some conversation; ended it with laughter and a hearty pat on the back. More tears leaked from the corners of Shubra’s eyes. *Future king of Norway*…. The truth was she couldn’t even remember his name. It was some fucked up Scandinavian thing ending in “udski”. She rubbed the inside of her elbow where he’d inserted the needle. She knew absolutely nothing about him except that he happened to be at her favorite club last night and he was uncommonly handsome, rich, and well-hung. Then another memory came to the forefront of her mind. When she had retrieved a condom from her purse and the Norwegian shook his head. “It has been tried before,” he’d said, holding his enormous penis up for her to see for herself. Shubra struggled to fit the condom over the head of his cock, wrestling with it like a child trying to fit a circle into a square hole. For his part, the Norwegian seem to enjoy the struggle until the rubber sprang away and slapped him in the chin. They had laughed and laughed. But she never did get that damned condom on the prick. Shubra wiped her face with the curtain and, after a few body racking sobs, she forced herself to stop crying. She would have to go to the University’s free clinic again. Get tested. It was just so humiliating, sitting in the waiting room with the poor students. But she couldn’t go to her family doctor. It would get back to her father. Light flashed from the courtyard. She looked out the window, scanning for whatever caused the flair. It happened again, and Shubra whipped her head towards the source. She saw her father standing between two trees, holding a machete at his side. *Impossible!* Her father was in Dallas, four hours away from Houston. It couldn’t be him…. She leaned forward and saw that, in fact, it wasn’t her father. This man was thinner and had more hair. He looked younger too, without the deep, dark character lines on his face that her father had. Otherwise, they could be twin brothers. The stranger slowly lifted his head and looked right at Shubra. She clenched the curtain to her chest. She noticed that he wore an old fashioned korta, the sleeves of which were stained brown and the skirt was horribly shredded. He bared his teeth and pointed the gore-coated machete at Shubra. Sunlight caught the helm of the machete and Shubra was momentarily blinded by the flash. Shubra flew to her feet. The curtain pulled away from her body and she stood naked at the window, rubbing her eyes. When she focused them again, the mysterious man was gone. She leaned out the window, frantically searching through the trees, but he wasn’t there. She sank back to the window sill and kept looking until she calmed down enough to figure it had been a drug induced hallucination. *Guilty thoughts, that’s all.* She closed the curtain, tied it at the bottom so no sunlight could get in, and sat with her hands between her knees. The Norwegian looked so peaceful lying on her bed. She studied his profile; the milky white complexion of his skin, the blond scruff on his jaw…. She remembered his eyes being ice blue. Impossibly blue. She had an urge to see those eyes again, to lose herself in the arctic pools. Shubra lowered herself gently on top of the sleeping giant. His skin felt sticky in the morning heat as her breast pushed against his back. She wrapped an arm around his chest and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He opened his eyes slowly and Shubra saw that they were indeed blue. Very blue, but also red and puffy from a long night of alcohol, drugs and sex. He smiled though, and that was enough to melt Shubra’s heart. He rolled over and held her close. She burrowed her head into his massive chest. He smelled good; musty, earthy. He circled his hands over her back a few times, and then started snoring again. Shubra smiled and sighed pure contentment. She had been prepared to give him sex, but this was all she really wanted; to feel safe in a man’s arms. She dozed off dreaming about lush green valleys, forests full of snowcapped pine trees, cold blue waters, and a royal castle perched upon a majestic Norwegian hill. **Shubra sat in** the waiting room of the University’s free clinic. It was crowded, as always, and most of the people there shaggy looking and poor. Shubra had thought she was dressing down when she’d put on the denim blouse and stone-washed jeans before leaving her dorm, but a furtive scan of the room told her that even the sandals on her feet cost more than the entire wardrobes of the other people waiting. Feeling out-of-place, Shubra tried not to make eye contact with anybody. She looked at the posters on the wall; public service announcements warning against smoking, drinking, and – there you go – promiscuous sex. Shubra folded her hands in her lap and waited. It was deathly quiet in the room. Only the whisper of book pages being turned, an occasional cough, and the disruptive event of a name being called to see the doctor punctuated the interminable silence. Shubra closed her eyes. Time passed – hours, minutes, it was too hard to tell. She allowed herself to doze lightly, just alert enough to recognize her name when, or if, it ever got called. As she drifted in and out of sleep, Shubra heard a faint, rhythmic *ping* noise. Like a metronome. Or water dripping on ceramic. At first it was soothing, and Shubra lost herself in the sound, but after a while it became irregular, the *ping* happening out of sequence. It became jarring. Shubra lifted her head and opened her puffy eyes to look for the source. She thought it might have something to do with the air conditioning system. She checked the ceiling but didn’t find any signs of water damage. She looked to see if there was a wall clock that might be off, but there wasn’t. As she continued scanning the room, she noticed another young Indian lady sitting across from her, looking even more out of place than herself. This one was dressed like an Indian Princess! She wore a stunning silk Sari – white as cream with veins of gold sewn through the fabric – and her hair was done up in jewels and ivory. Her arms were heavy with bangles and her hands painted red with henna. *She’s in an acting class*, Shubra thought, *in costume for some stupid festival.* There, at the feet of the costumed girl, Shubra found the source of the nuisance sound. Blood dripped from under the girl’s sari, hitting the charms on her ankle bracelet. It alternated from drops to fairly heavy streams, causing the irregular pulse. Shubra noticed that the gorgeous sari was soaked through and thick with blood around the girl’s lap. It stuck to her crotch and the insides of her thighs. A puddle of red engulfed her dainty bare feet. Shubra stood up and was about to scream when the student intern entered the room. “Shubra Sastri?” a young man in a white smock asked, the door banging against the wall as he pushed it open. Shubra gasped. She looked at the young man, then back to the costumed girl. For the first time, the girl had raised her head, so Shubra could see her face. She was beautiful. Her eyes were large and sorrowful, pleading with Shubra. She lifted a henna-red finger to her lips and motioned for Shubra to *be silent!* Shubra ran to the young man, grabbed his arm, and pointed to where the costumed girl was sitting. “Help her!” she cried, “She’s bleeding!” But the costumed girl was no longer there. The seat was now occupied by a disaffected young man with a goatee and a Houston Cougars baseball cap. He arched an eyebrow at them then went back to reading ESPN the Magazine. “Who’s bleeding?” the attendant asked. Shubra frantically searched the room, studying faces, getting quizzical looks in return. “She was bleeding. There was blood all over the place….” Shubra muttered, hanging on the attendant’s arm. The pressure of a migraine headache started building behind her eyes. The attendant led Shubra into the back rooms, assuring her everything would be fine. Just fine. **“She’s crazy,” Biju** told Rachel handing her the clipboard, “Or strung out on dope or something. Look! Look at my arm!” Biju rolled up the sleeve of his white coat and showed Rachel the marks the patient had made with her fingernails when she’d grabbed his arm. Rachel noticed the half-moon crescent bruises on the bicep, but they didn’t disturb her half as much as the arm itself. “My God Biju,” Rachel held his arm up by the elbow and inspected it, “you’re lucky she didn’t snap the bone. Do you have any muscle at all on your body?” Biju took his arm back. “I happen to have a runner’s physique.” “You have a pencil’s physique.” “I am pretty sharp,” Biju joked. Rachel groaned as they came to the patient’s room. They started whispering now. “So why did she come here? Most people don’t come to the free clinic because they are ‘feelin’ a little crazy today’.” “She wants testing for STD’s,” Biju summed it up succinctly, “specifically AIDS. The ‘Morning After’ pill too. I asked if she was using drugs and she said ‘no’, rubbing her elbow the entire time.” “Shit,” Rachel frowned, raising the clipboard to her face. “I hate when they lie….” “What’s wrong?” Biju asked, noticing Rachel’s expression. “I think I know this girl. Shubra Sastri. We went to the same church.” “You want I should get a different resident?” “No….” Rachel answered slowly. “No…. I guess not unless she asks for one.” “Were you friends?” “Quite the opposite, actually. There is some sort of feud between our families, so I’ve never even really talked to her. I assume she hates me though; she always looked down her nose at me when we were growing up. What the hell is she doing at the free clinic anyway? Her family is loaded.” “She probably doesn’t want anybody to know she’s a strung-out slut-junky.” “Biju!” Rachel snapped. “Well, she surely didn’t come here for our fast and courteous service.” “And nobody ever will as long as you’re around.” Rachel sighed. “I’ll give it a shot anyway. If she doesn’t want to deal with me, she’ll just have to wait for the next resident to come available.” Rachel waited until Biju disappeared around the corner before grabbing the door knob. She looked at the clipboard one last time and flashed a wicked grin. “Shubra Sastri,” she whispered, “my my my.” Rachel squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and stepped into the room with authority. Growing up in the close-knit Indian community of Dallas, Shubra Sastri had always been the pretty one, the popular one, the rich one, the one who was going to lead a great life. But in the examination room of the free clinic, pretty, popular and rich didn’t mean a whole lot. It was all about who wore the white coat in here. At first glance, Rachel assumed it was a different Shubra Sastri. The girl perched on the edge of the table, hunched over with her arms hugging her stomach, a mess of tangled hair obscuring her face, looked far too wretched to be the bitch-on-wheels Rachel remembered from home. But when the girl lifted her chin, Rachel recognized the unmistakable features of her schoolyard rival. Even without makeup and hair style, and with the stress of emotion lining her face and leaving her complexion spotty, Shubra Sastri was still a strikingly beautiful girl. She had the fine-boned features of a fashion model; sharp cheeks in an elegantly angular face tapering to a dainty chin. Hell, she even had the ridiculously perfect beauty mark hanging just above and to the right of her sensual lips. To Rachel, as well as most other women, Shubra Sastri had the type of beauty that made them shout – “Unfair!” Shubra looked at Rachel with such anguish and fear in her large, almond shaped, black eyes that the young doctor felt unaccountably guilty – taking pleasure from another’s suffering. Then again, maybe it was all just karma in action. “Shubra Sastri?” Rachel asked, trying to make her voice sound deep and impersonal. Shubra looked at Rachel, studying her, and then replied in a mousy voice, “Rachel?” “Yes. I’m a resident here.” Rachel retrieved a pen from her smock and clicked it open, putting the tip to the clipboard. “I understand you’re having some tests done today?” Shubra didn’t answer; she just continued staring at Rachel. “I, um, guess I should let you know that there are other residents if you’re uncomfortable with me.” Shubra surprised Rachel by standing up and embracing her in a tight hug. “Whoa there,” Rachel exclaimed, holding her arms out to the side, “This is…. I’m not…. I’m a resident here….” Rachel protested, until she felt Shubra’s body tremble. Then she brought her arms around slowly to complete the hug. “I’m scared Rachel,” Shubra sobbed, resting her head against the larger girl’s shoulder. “There there,” Rachel said, patting Shubra’s back. The embrace lasted far too long for Rachel’s comfort. She started thinking of ways to break the hug, but Shubra just kept sobbing, pressing her face into Rachel’s smock. Rachel felt the damp of tears and snot soak all the way through to her shoulder and decided that was enough. “Okay,” Rachel said, putting her hands upon Shubra’s shoulders and gently pushing her way, “Let’s see if we can get you cleaned up a little.” Rachel sat Shubra on the examination table. She grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped Shubra’s eyes and cheeks, then held the wad under Shubra’s nose and told her to blow. The snot was clear and watery. No signs of infection. Rachel stood at the sink, washing her hands. “Well, your mucus is coming out clear anyway. That’s a good sign. Of course, it doesn’t mean much as far as STDs go, we’re still going to have to tests for those. Have you experienced any painful discharge? When urinating? Shubra?” Shubra wasn’t listening. Once again, she was wrapped up in herself, clutching her stomach and gazing at the floor. Her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. Rachel sighed. She picked up the clipboard, drew a few circles on it, then set it down again. She stood next to Shubra and reached out a hand tentatively. She touched the back of Shubra’s neck, then slowly started pulling the thick tangle of hair away from the right side of her face until she could see her eyes. “Shubra, I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.” “There was a girl in the waiting room.” Shubra said, reaching up to clutch Rachel’s hand. Rachel sat next to her on the table. “Yes, I heard about that. You thought you saw something?” “She was bleeding.” “But there was nobody there.” “She was there.” “Shubra, you’re under a lot of stress right now….” “When she looked at me I didn’t recognize her at first, but now I know who she was.” “Oh? Well then, we can call her and make sure she’s okay? Do you know her phone number?” “It was me, Rachel. I was the bleeding girl.


George was unable to shake the smell. However long he stood staring into the sandstone embedded letters, it remained. Yet the memory of a dear friend persisted. So he remained. George picked up the crumbled piece of stone that laid near the broken gravesite. Rolling it in his hands, he couldn’t make out if it had fallen from old age or was done purposely. Overlooking the grave, he could see the wear and tear of time. The dying blades of green appeared shriveled underneath the weight of the death and decay lingering in the air. His gaze soon fell upon another couple that had come to pay their respects. He watched as they walked hand in hand, garbed in curious attire, towards a smaller site. They sat upon the bench and gently laid a single purple rose alongside a peculiar toy of some fashion. He silently wished them the peace that had escaped him long before. Turning back towards the grave, George placed his hand on the withered headstone and prayed. The hum of industry droned lowly nearby. His breath laboured to pick out clean air as he finished his recitation. George began to walk towards the exit of the graveyard, gait hindered, but he pressed forward. Reaching the stone walkway, he glanced around. Bright, glaring lights littered the streetways. Carriages of iron rushed this way or that, coughing up soot and dark smoke. A familiar scent found him treading towards a smaller shop off the stone path. He approached the door and read the sign above the business, “Java Coffee”. He remembered coffee. George placed his hand on the door handle and pulled. He was met with a heavy scent of coffee rushing out to greet him. Upon the walls of the establishment were portraits of various libations, plants hanging from pots, and a strange, loud box. Upon further glance, he saw that the box contained images of color and peoples speaking of recent happenings all dressed similarly. He found himself a seat with an empty table and stared, transfixed, at the portrait box. A maiden of age came to the table. “What can I get you today, sir?” Before he could think of any response, she quickly glanced at him before exclaiming, “OH! Lucky day for you, ain’t it? We are actually giving all seniors a free coffee of their choice today. Celebrating the re-opening, ya know?” She looked towards the sign above the counter before adding, “Been rough trying to make it lately, what with the bank on my heels and the bigger companies pushing people like me around. Even having to do these free specials just to get traffic. But hey, it’s better than being on the streets, huh?” She gave a half-hearted laugh before turning back towards George. “So, is a coffee good? Will you have anything else, sir?” “That would be lovely, madam. I thank you.” George gave a small bow of his head towards the maiden. A few minutes later she came back with a steaming mug of black coffee. George finally read the lettering upon her apron. “You are a gracious, humble woman. Thank you, Kathy.” “It’s my pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else.”, she said as she began to walk towards the back of the shop. George’s gaze once again fell upon the loud, colorful box. After some time he realized it was speaking of recent events. A living news-letter! He had a sip of his coffee and gasped. Such flavor! Hardly had he tasted such a thing. As the night passed on, he watched all the transpiring of the living news-letter. Such times! Many states had now composed as United, yet each had hardships of measure in which they lacked the capacity to afford aid. George watched in solemnity. A trust in governance broken. A land ravaged by tumultuous weather. A people filled with vitriol hate, divided. Warnings unheeded. Checks and balances breached. Yet the people endure. The hour had reached past dusk and his mug had dried what black was left at the bottom. George reached into his pockets and took three of the silver coins within and placed them upon the table. Each read “Georgius Triumpho”. He walked out of the establishment and towards the cemetery once more. The moon shone brightly and exposed the exquisite craftsmanship of newly placed headstones. A backdrop of crumbled, decrepit graves silently sat, awaiting maintenance and assistance. George soon came upon a stone bench. Fatigue had taken him and his mind raced with worried thoughts of his countrymen. Sitting within the moonlight, he grasped towards his heart and felt a calmness begin in his hands. Spreading from arms to legs, torso to head. A bell could be heard ringing from both near and far. The bench was shown to be barren and filled with moonlight once more. Awaiting the bell to feel warmth once more.


To: Melly Belly <cranegamer@arteburn42.com> From: Melanie Arteburn <mbarteburn30@gmail.com> Time: 05/10/2022, 2:11 am EST Subject: URGENT! THIS IS YOU FROM THE FUTURE!!! DO NOT DELETE! To My Younger Self,

I have so much to tell you, where to start? If you meet boys named Walker Deager, Richard Smith, or Michael Hill - date them if you wish - but know that it’s doomed from the start, and it’s for the best that you eventually break up. They are still boys when you meet them, and they haven’t learned what it means to love a woman for herself; they care mostly about what she can offer them. Most boys and men will be like that, and sometimes they grow up to be better. Don’t let that scare you, I just wanted to let you know that’s out there. You eventually find love that seems fit to last with Martin Huong. He’s 26 when you meet in Birmingham, AL, the 1st of August 2016. That being said, I wouldn’t recommend trying to meet him before he’s that age.

I’m sure you’re interested in knowing what the world is like in 2022, the time that I write to you from. I’m sad to report that the world suffers from numerous crises, and its people are divided and conflicted. Natural disasters increase in frequency and intensity as global warming continues unmitigated. A worldwide pandemic ravages the nations and millions have died. Politics becomes a contentious and polarized exercise. Democracy is threatened at home and abroad. I could go on.

I don’t know when you will receive this, only that you might. You might not believe me, and I understand you should be skeptical. Please, hold on to this, and if my predictions come true, then heed my advice!

These events have come to pass in my time: Grandma Wanda will be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. You, Mom, and Dad will move to Tennessee to be close to her in the summer of 2006. She will die Sept. 25, 2015 in a memory care unit. It’s going to be rough. Try to be grateful for the time you have, and don’t be too hard on yourself for the crazy stuff you’re probably going to do. Dad’s going to file for divorce from Mom in May 2010. You’re going to be the one who answers the door when the sheriff serves her the papers. It’s going to get nasty and acrimonious, but trust me when I say they will be much more sane and happy after a couple years apart. Don’t feel like it’s your fault, it’s not your job to keep them together. There’s no way you acting better as a teenager could have saved their marriage.

You’re going to do pretty well academically and end up getting paid to go to college. However, during those first university years you’ll suffer from a major depressive episode that’s the result of years of poor mental health hygiene, and it’s possible you can still avoid that. Get treatment and support, or risk losing your scholarships!

Stay away from Jared Forner. I’d rather not say why. Just. Stay. Away. From. Him. If you’re receiving this after 2005, then the thing I want you to avoid has already been set in motion. Barack H. Obama will be elected the first African American president in 2008. Some people will think that means America is moving toward a more equitable society, but it’ll turn out they’re overly optimistic. America on the whole will continue its hostility toward minorities, and white nationalism will become a thing again in America! It’ll eventually be called “MAGA,” for “Make America Great Again.” Despite that, Obama will be reelected in 2012. His administration will pass something called the Affordable Care Act to expand health insurance availability and coverage. It kind of works, and it kind of doesn’t. During the summer of 2011, you will go on an educational tour of Italy and Greece, so make sure you renew your passport. Or don’t, because Corey and Jacob will have to drive you to New Orleans to get an expedited passport at their regional office just ahead of the trip when you realize yours is expired. You get drunk for the first time walking on Bourbon Street and end up dancing five blocks with a wedding parade and brass band. You’ll thank Corey and Jacob profusely, but they’ll just say, “that’s what big brothers do.”

Speaking of Greece, it will announce bankruptcy in 2015. When you visit in 2011, there will be some protesters in an Athens square restless about the state of the economy, and it turns out they were right to be concerned.

The UK will take a nationalistic right turn in 2016 under the leadership of Boris Johnson, and there will be a push within the country to leave the EU. Instead of Parliament doing their job of making decisions to govern the country, they will turn the decision over to citizens in a referendum. In a very close contest, Britain will decide to leave the EU, and they will spend the next 4 years trying to untangle their finances and policies. Jacob will meet a woman in the summer of 2015 whom he will marry in the summer of 2016. In May of 2017, they will file for divorce. Just do your best to be a supportive sister while he’s going through all of that, don’t let him go through that alone. It felt like we drifted apart after that because I wasn’t there for him.

Donald J. Trump, the reality T.V. host, will become the US president in 2016 after Obama, even though he loses the popular vote. The weird thing is a cult-like conspiracy group will form around his presidency called QAnon, which casts him as the savior of America taking down a satanic child-cannibalizing cabal. In 2020 he will lose his bid for reelection against Joseph R. Biden, and Trump followers will storm the US Capitol building Jan. 6th 2021 in an attempt to overturn the election results.

A major contributor to President Trump losing the 2020 election will be how he handled the global pandemic that will begin to shut down the world in March 2020. Hospitals around the world will become overwhelmed, and millions will die of it from 2020 to 2022. It’s a dark time, and everyone except essential workers will spend months locked down at home. At one point, you’re going to spend 11 consecutive weeks without meaningful human contact, and during that time you’re going to do some bizarre things out of sheer loneliness and boredom. Don’t be self-conscious about it, lots of people are going to be doing them, too. You’ll learn how to make a really good sourdough loaf. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg will die on 18 Sept. 2020. Her dying request will be for the administration to delay replacing her on the supreme court until the start of the next presidential term, so that the will of the people in the election can determine the balance of the court. Naturally, the Trump administration will rush to swear in its nominee ahead of November.

Grandma Coco will die on 2 Dec. 2020 in her sleep, after a couple years of hospitalizations and rapid health decline. Because of the pandemic, you will not see her in the last year of her life, during which she’ll be bedridden. I would say, go ahead and visit her when you can, just be careful and manage the risk as best you can. You won’t get another chance. You will eulogize her at her funeral, during which several people will try to hug you, but since you’ve been practicing social distance for months, you politely try to decline or dodge them.

America will withdraw from Afghanistan after 20 years of occupation in Aug. 2021. Within days, the entire country will fall to the Taliban. By then, something called “unboxing videos” will be a trend, and the Taliban will celebrate their conquest with the grimmest unboxing videos in history.

On 24 Feb. 2022, Vladimir Putin, the Russian president, will declare war on Ukraine and invade the nation. He’ll claim that it’s not a war but a special military operation to denazify the government and protect Ukrainian people; however, indiscriminately killing citizens and targeting non-military infrastructure seems the most backward way to go about it. The war is ongoing.

Now, this is my advice:

There’s going to be a housing market crash in 2008, followed by a recession for 2 years. But from 2010-2019 there will be a bull market with few downturns, so invest whatever money you have in the stock market during that time, and you can’t go wrong. In 2019, you’ll want to sell off investments that will see a downturn during pandemic lockdown, things like hospitality and travel services. If you feel guilty about using this information, don’t. U.S. senators will be doing the same thing once they find out about the pandemic ahead of the public. Also, invest in BitCoin when it’s cheap, shortly after you start hearing about it. No one will be able to explain what it is to your satisfaction, but it’s worth a great deal somehow, someday.

Tech companies, especially ones in something called “the share economy” will rapidly gain value, a couple are Uber and AirBNB. I know it sounds crazy, but those are softwares that people will use to ride in strangers’ cars and sleep over in houses of people they’ve never met. Most people will start to get the news from social media instead of the cable television, and a lot of news on TV and the internet will be called “fake news,” and it will take some fact checking to figure out which is which. Most people won’t bother with that. I don’t want you to get duped, so question an article’s motivation, check the sources, and look for corroborating stories when it counts for something.

A lot of this won’t make sense depending on when you get this, which is hopefully shortly after setting up this email account in 2004. You’ll have to wait for events to unfold before they start to make sense to you. I want you, and by extension me, to benefit from this information. But I also hope you’ll aspire to use it to try and make the world better.

You might be wondering what you should do with your life. If I know you, you’re frustrated when adults tell you that you can do anything in life you want, so follow your passion. But if memory serves, you don’t feel particularly passionate about anything yet; you’re still figuring out what you like and trying to find where you belong. So, it feels bad when grown-ups act like you should know what you want and who you are before you’ve had the chance to explore. I won’t tell you to follow your passion and become whatever you want. I won’t tell you what your life’s work should be. Instead, I think you should follow your curiosity, test yourself, and learn to accept the person you discover with compassion.

Don’t let anyone, most of all yourself, try to make you into an ideal or object of admiration. There’s nothing wrong with striving to be your best self, but acknowledge that you’re a complicated person, prone to mistakes, and you’ll find that there’s no shame in it. The shame comes from hiding your truth. My biggest regrets are from being too hard on myself and the people in my life, not reaching out for help when I needed it, and coping in ways that made me lose self-respect. Accepting the dangers of letting others see you for who you are is hard, but there is value in the struggle, and the rewards are worthwhile.

Here’s the biggest piece of advice I wish I had known when I was younger: always empty your bladder after sex. It’s amazing what a difference it makes. After I became sexually active, I had a ton of UTI’s, and one of them developed into a serious kidney infection. Make sure you talk to your doctor if you have painful urination or sex because that is not a normal part of sex for women! If anyone tells you it is, then they’re not doing it right. And while we’re on the subject, always use a condom or other birth control until you’re ready for kids. Don’t believe a guy if he tells you he can’t because of a latex allergy, because there are latex-free ones on store shelves.

Best of Luck,

Future You, Melanie Arteburn … To: Melanie Arteburn <mbarteburn30@gmail.com> From: Ashley William Arteburn <ashley.william@arteburn42.com> Time: 02/02/2006, 6:50 am CST Subject: RE: URGENT! THIS IS YOU FROM THE FUTURE!!! DO NOT DELETE! Stay away from my daughter, she’s 15 years old!!! I don’t know if this is a prank or a scam or if you’re watching us to know about my mother’s diagnosis. But stay away from my family, OR I WILL CALL THE COPS!!! I have blocked your address from my daughter’s email, and she has not seen your message. You will not be able to contact her for whatever twisted game you’re playing. LEAVE OUR FAMILY ALONE!

…

To: Ashley William Arteburn <ashley.william@arteburn42.com> From: Melanie Arteburn <mbarteburn30@gmail.com> Time: 05/10/2022, 12:34 pm EST Subject: RE: RE: URGENT! THIS IS YOU FROM THE FUTURE!!! DO NOT DELETE! First of all: WTF, Dad?! You intercepted and read my emails? That’s not cool, I thought those were private! Second of all: I’m not a scammer or something else messed up. I’m Melanie from the future, and I can prove it. Third: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO CHANGE THE FUTURE?! I’m rereading the email I sent, and I have no idea who Martin Huong is, and half the things I wrote are different now! Something that you did makes it so I never meet a man named Martin Huong, and it changes a bunch of other things, too! I just looked him up on True Social, and he’s been married for three years. Do the math: if we met in 2016, then by the time I sent the email we knew each other for nearly 6 years, and now that never happened! I don’t know how, but you’re screwing up my life and the future. You need to stop before you do whatever it is you did to change things.

Here’s my proof:

These famous people will die in the next three days: 2/3/2006: Al Lewis (Alexander Meister), American actor (The Munsters, Used Cars), dies at 82 2/4/2006: Myron Waldman, American animator (Fleischer Studio), dies at 97 2/5/2006: Franklin Cover, American actor (Tom-The Jeffersons), dies at 77 You once told me something you said you had never told anyone else. Your father died from a neurodegenerative disease. It was initially diagnosed as ALS, but he survived another 5 years, casting doubt on the initial diagnosis. He was given experimentally high doses of Prednisone to attempt to delay his decline, but the last few years of his life he withered to “leather and sticks,” in your words.

On the last day of his life, the two of you got into a fight. You screamed at him and said you hated him, and he died that night from cardiac arrest. Ever since, you have blamed yourself for cutting your father’s remaining time short, because it’s likely the shock of your fight overtaxed his weakened heart. You told me then that you had killed your father. That even though no one blamed you for it, you knew you had murdered him. You knew the risks, but you gratified your own selfish feelings, and it killed him. You told me that story, and that you had never confessed it to anyone before, shortly before your own death on 12 April 2010. I don’t know a good way to say this, so I’ll just say it. When I wrote that first email, I think you were still alive. Otherwise, I would have mentioned it like I did Grandma Wanda and Coco, and you couldn’t have filed for divorce the month after your death. You died under suspicious circumstances, and Mom was under investigation for homicide because it was discovered she had been having an affair. It was eventually ruled a suicide.

That means something I tell you in these emails will either drive you to kill yourself, or you’re going to reveal to someone that you received communication from the future, and they will kill you to cover up the secret and horde the information for themselves. So, I guess now both of us have murdered our fathers.

And not that it matters, but the Melanie in your time is 14 right now, my birthday is in September! If you can't remember how old I am, at least do the math! You’re an engineer for crying out loud! Here’s what you need to do: 1. NEVER REVEAL THE INFORMATION IN THIS EMAIL AND YOU JUST MIGHT LIVE. 2. Give the me of your time my original email, and/or delete your copy so it can’t fall into the wrong hands.

Best of Luck,

Your Future Daughter, Melanie Arteburn


The opening and closing clicks of the shutters of the cameras feel like a part of me now. Lights flash, some white, some blue, some red. I’m blinded. Chester is walking behind me, his hand on my back, trying to protect me from the crowd and comfort me at the same time. My parents and Courtney got left behind, calling everyone they knew to get enough money to get me out. Microphones are shoved at my face, trying to get a word out of me. But I’m not going to say anything. Anything and everything I say will be used against me. I pointed out to the lawyer that not saying anything could be used against me too, but he gave me a look that clearly said that I had brought this on myself, so it would be best if I just shut up now and let the professionals handle this. But I didn’t do it. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? Oh right. The boyfriend is always guilty. Contrary to popular belief, all guys aren’t creepy jerks. Some guys love their girlfriends. Some guys are normal. Some guys are not murderers. ****** I had spent hours in this interrogation room, the walls seeming to close in every time I looked around. Ms Davis, the police officer stared at me with an unrelenting gaze, her face tired but determined. “Caleb Lowell, I’m asking you one last time, why did you kill Ophelia Winters?” “And I’m telling you one last time, I didn’t kill her!” “Then why were you seen at the crime scene with her blood on your hands?” “I already told you, I was trying to stop her wound from bleeding any more." “Because you felt guilty after stabbing her?” “No, because a normal person would try to save their girlfriend’s life after she’s been stabbed.” “After you stabbed her?” “I didn’t kill her! I loved her! Why would I have any reason to take her life?” “You tell me.” “But I didn’t do it!” “So you didn’t know that she was pregnant? With your child?” I look at her, numb with pain and anger. “It wasn’t my child.” ****** “So she cheated on him, and the other guy knocked her up? That seems like a pretty solid motive to me.” “But he is still denying murdering her.” “I can hear you guys, you know.” The lady who was interrogating me and her colleague stop talking and look at me until I look away. Ophelia. Beautiful, moody, maddening. She had told me that she loved me. When had she stopped meaning it? When had she decided that I wasn’t anything to her? How could she have possibly thought that I wouldn’t find out? We hadn’t even slept together. But I didn’t kill her. Please believe me. ****** University. She was a quiet presence, seemingly everywhere but not really anywhere. Ophelia kind of always melded into the background. I would never have met her had it not been for a friend of mine. He suggested going to watch the school play, a reimagination of ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’. I didn’t even concentrate on the story. When Ophelia appeared, everything else came to a standstill. She was marvellous, her expressive eyes and her rhythmic voice making me restless and calming me at the same time. Her dress seemed to float around her like a cloud. After the show, I congratulated her in person, and soon we started hanging out more. I don’t even remember when we stopped being friends and started dating, it all just felt so natural and meant to be. She loved me. But I loved her more. ****** “Who is the father of Ophelia’s child?” “Why should I tell you? So that you can convince him to prove me guilty?” “No, because he might be guilty.” I looked up, startled. I can’t tell them. Telling them would put me off the hook for sure, but it would mean betrayal. And I hate betrayal. “I don’t know who the father is. I do know, however, that it wasn’t me.” “Why are you protecting him? You must hate him for what he did.” “Trust me, I don’t. If anything, I hate myself.” “And why is that?” “I couldn’t stop it from happening.” ****** I had invited her over for a few days to meet my family. She immediately hit it off with my parents, her demure nature impressing them. When she did open her mouth to speak, what came out was always witty and clever. Then she would clam up again for a few more hours while the rest of my family was still reeling with the after-effects of her statement. Everyone was convinced that I wouldn’t find anyone better than her. I had agreed at the time. She became good friends with my sister Courtney, though there was a stark contrast to their personalities. Chester approved of our relationship, and I saw them laughing to jokes and bonding over shared interests. I thought nothing of it at the time. Even when I saw her hang out with him without telling me, I was just happy that they were getting along. I hadn’t known at the time that the worst was yet to come. Demure little Ophelia wasn’t as modest as she seemed. I don’t expect much from a relationship. All I expect is for my partner to be faithful. How hard is that? Just concentrate on your partner for a period of time. That’s all. And she managed to break the only expectation I had. She managed to break me. I wish that I could have done that day differently. Instead of going back to my house, I should have gone to hers and waited. If I had done that, I wouldn’t have been greeted by the sight of her and Chester going at it in the living room. I wouldn’t have gone completely ballistic. I wouldn’t have cut off both of them when they tried to explain. I wouldn’t have called her a slut and said that Chester wasn’t my brother anymore. I wouldn’t have ignored their calls. I wouldn’t have been helpless when she lay there dying a few days later. ****** I had gone over to Ophelia’s place to tell her that I was willing to work on our relationship if she stopped seeing my brother. I wasn’t ready to see her lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I wasn’t ready to see the gaping wound in her stomach, staining her clothes. I tried to stop her bleeding, but it wasn’t working. She opened her eyes and smiled at me. I called the police and an ambulance. ****** “You’re still not going to tell me who it is?” “No, I told you that I don’t know who it is.” “I think you do know. I don’t know why you aren’t telling me though. It would easily take the heat off you.” At this moment, another police officer entered the interrogation room and whispered something into Ms Davis’ ear. “Bring him in. I’ll be right there.” “What happened?” “It seems that we have a person willing to confess something about Ms Winters’ death.” “Who?” She looks at me, trying to discern my sudden attentiveness. “A Chester. Why, do you know him?” Chester? What could he possibly have to confess? He had told me that he wasn’t her killer. “Caleb? Do you know Chester?” I knew there was no point in lying now, he had gone and screwed it up anyway. “Yes, Chester, he – he is my brother.” ****** I sit there in the room, unable to stay still. Chester came to confess. Was he lying when he said that he didn’t kill Ophelia? Should I have believed him when he said that he loved her? Ms Davis enters the room, looking slightly triumphant. “Chester has confessed to being the father of Ophelia’s child.” I stare back, unblinking, without an expression on my face. “I think that we have arrived at our prime suspect.” “Chester? Just because he made her pregnant, it doesn’t mean that he killed her. How can you be so sure?” “Because he told us that he did.” ****** The police should have looked closer. They should have scoured everything, inside and outside the house. If they’d done their job well, they would have found the only proof they needed to free any suspicion off the Lowell brothers. A note. Lying in the bushes of the backyard, having flown away from Ophelia’s desk. Explaining why Ophelia had decided to take her own life. Maybe if they had found the seemingly insignificant paper, they would have gotten the real truth out of Chester. That Ophelia threatened to stab herself, and that Chester had merely pulled at her knife only to see one second later, that the knife was already plunged into her stomach. That Chester had panicked and ran, believing that he had murdered her. When in the end, it wasn’t his fault. It was no one’s fault, really. Just an unfortunate series of events. ******


Braahnk. Braahnk. “The Croaks are coming.” Mortimer rocked back in the rickety chair. Took another swig of sweet tea. The breeze blowing through the porch cooled his leathered skin during the midsummer's night. “Ain't no such thing as Croaks, Papaw.” Little Averitt says he doesn't believe. But his wide eyes and his goosebumps betray his words. “They're just bullfrogs.” Averitt continued. The boy's grandfather turned to him. “There're bullfrogs out there for sure. Cicadas and 'gators. Cottonmouths too.” They scanned the swamp that stretches out beyond the front porch. There's plenty out there that could kill a man. Braahnk. This time Averitt jumped. Mortimer let out a chuckle. Averitt climbed off the floor and edged closer to his Papaw. “You gotta be careful this year, boy. You're finally ripe.” “They don't take little boys away!” With defiance, Averitt belted out his words. They say the Croaks only snatch children of at least eight years. Averitt's never seen it happen. He's never been friends with older kids either. Mortimer enjoys toying with his grandson, but he knows Averitt had better stay close to home this summer. The Croaks aren't too concerned with the child's belief system. A lack of belief didn't keep Mortimer's friend safe. Nor his brother. Of course, everyone in the small town of Henry believes the boys ran away. That they do believe. Braahnk. “Is it time for bed yet?” Averitt's getting awfully fidgety. Even more fidgety than an eight year old ought to be. Mortimer throws another gulp of sweet tea down the hatch. A few cubes of ice rattle around the empty jar. He stands to stretch. Back pops like a corn cob thrown on dying embers. “I suppose it is, boy.” **biscuits and gravy** “Averitt, get down here! Breakfast's ready!” Eleanor didn't believe. She's had to listen to her husband talk about Croaks her whole marriage. Sure, she didn't meet Mortimer until later in life. And she didn't grow up in Henry. But she's the best Grandma Averitt could ask for. She treats him like her own. Treats him to fluffy, buttery, cathead biscuits topped with her famous sausage gravy for breakfast. Half-asleep, Averitt makes his way downstairs. “Did Papaw keep you up late again last night?” Mortimer's not going to let Averitt answer this one. “I wouldn't dare such a thing, Ellie!” Averitt flashes a grin. “We heard the Croaks last night, Grandma!” That lights her up. “What did I tell you about fillin' that boy's head with lies!” “Aw, they was just bullfrogs is all.” “But you told me--” Mortimer won't let his grandson protest. Now's not the time. Gotta let Eleanor get off to the neighbor's house. Too many goats to milk and not enough hands. Eleanor heads to the wash basin to clean up. Scrubbing dishes, she's still hot. She's spouting off to no one in particular, but Mortimer sure can hear it. She dries the last dish, washes her hands, and heads for the front door. Pauses. Turns. “Don't scare the poor boy, Mort.” She walks over to Averitt and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He's not too keen on grandma-kisses, but accepts her affection. She's going to be late. Eleanor turns and heads out the door. Mortimer walks over to the window. Watches her walk down the dirt road. Once Eleanor is a sufficient distance he turns back to Averitt. “You better believe those were Croaks, boy! Every ten years. Middle of summer they come.” Only by accident of birth did Averitt miss the last Pickin'. He's more curious to hear the tale again under the safety of daylight. Mortimer and Avery sop their plates clean and head outside. No breeze today. The oppressive heat does a number on Mortimer. He finds his seat and pulls out a handkerchief to fan himself. Averitt plops down at the edge of the porch, feet dangling over the side. Grass hasn't been mowed in a while and the taller weeds graze against Averitt's calves. Averitt's eager to listen. Sweat's already forming on Mortimer's brow. He wipes with the 'kerchief and resumes fanning. He begins the tale: “The Pickin's been going on for longer than Henry's been a town. Every ten years they come. Middle of summer. We never know when exactly. It always varies by a couple days. But they'll be here this year. They'll be here soon. And every ten years we hear the same excuses. So-and-so ran away. Charles was killed by his father.” Mortimer pauses. Charles was his friend. He's remembering. “Mr. Haddick didn't kill his boy! He loved Charles. He'd do anything for that boy. Anything.” Averitt turns to look at his Papaw. Mortimer tries to hide it, but Averitt catches the handkerchief swat a tear from the corner of the old man's eye. Averitt doesn't acknowledge it. He knows better. Turns back around. Kicks at one of the weeds. Mortimer composes himself. “The Croaks are horrible creatures. They'll snatch you from your bed. From the porch. From your parents' arm--” He sees the boy twitch. Shouldn't have said that. Averitt's parents both died a couple years back. Mortimer continues. “But they love to hunt in the swamp. You don't venture out to the swamp this summer. Not to fetch a ball that was tossed too hard. Not cause someone dared you. You shouldn't even want to leave this porch this year. The Pickin' will happen soon.” What little hair Averitt has on the back of his neck begins to rise. He wants to hear more. “Tell me what they look like Papaw” Mortimer wipes more sweat away. His 'kerchief is soaked now. Keeps trying to fan himself regardless. “They look like bullfrogs, for sure. Sound like 'em too. But you know when you hear a Croak calling you. Sends a chill down your spine. Mesmerizes you. You only hear a Croak call once. They enchant you. You lie in bed, sheets pulled to your nose. Stare at the ceiling, not daring to move a limb. The Croaks are coming. You know they're out there. You know they're Pickin'. You know you're next. But when you hear it, when you hear the call, all fear leaves your body. Your soul detaches from the flesh and is lifted from the bed sheets. Braahnk. The call is a sweet melody now, divorced from the one that draws you closer. The Croaks are coming. They lurk in the swamps. They wait in the shadows. And they hunt at night. Slick skin the color of moss. A bullfrog's body, hundred times over. Tall as I was before gravity took its toll. Then it smiles at you. Teeth like daggers, you'd welcome a rattler's fangs deep in your flesh rather than look any longer. But by the time you see the smile you're already gone. Then it hops. Feet like a grizzly pound the ground, claws dig deep into the soft mud. The call brings you closer. Then it pounces. Like a cougar it grabs you, fangs sink in deep. They drag you deep into the swamp. You'll never be seen from again. They take you back home. Back to the Other World." Mortimer looks down at the floor. He stops rocking in his old chair. He pauses. Thinking. "We don't speak of the Other World.” The comforting embrace of the sun's rays isn't warm enough to stop the cold tingle running up Averitt's spine. Too scared to move. Mortimer cups his hands round his lips: “Braahnk.” Averitt falls off the porch. He whips his head around to see Mortimer cackling. “Papaw!” Still laughing, “I think it's time we head inside. The shade we're under now ain't doing us no good.” **whiskey** Wrapped up in a blanket, Eleanor has her nose in a book. Mortimer's not concerned with the title, some sappy romance he reckons. “How do you stand being covered up like that?!” Even inside, even at night, Mortimer is still fanning himself. He lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips. Draws in slowly. He doesn't drink like he used to, but the burn helps him get as much sleep as he can. The house is still. “Why don't you go check on Averitt?” Eleanor doesn't look up from her book; she just wants Mortimer to leave her in peace. He obliges. Takes the stairs carefully. The bones of the house are getting weak and he doesn't want to wake the boy. The door is cracked slightly, a sliver of moonlight illuminates the hallway. Mortimer pokes his head in. Averitt's not in his bed. Mortimer coaxes the door open. “Boy, get away from that wind--” Braahnk. The breath leaves his body. Cemented to the floor, his veins freeze. Averitt tumbles out the window. Life fills Mortimer's body once again. He runs to the window. With a thud, a shadow plops into the yard. It comes closer to his grandson. Mortimer turns and runs for Eleanor. “Eleanor, Eleanor! The Croaks are c--” He makes it to the top of the steps and in his confusion trips. He tumbles, house slippers over head, down the stairs. With a crack, his skull meets the solid oak wall. “Mortie!” Eleanor drops her book and rushes to her husband. The trickle of blood slowly flows down the step. She runs upstairs to find an empty room and an open window. She rushes to the window, scans the yard. Nothing. **ice water** “Drink up.” Eleanor's neighbor passes her a glass of ice water. Hands still shaking, Eleanor accepts. Thankfully her neighbor has one of the few phones in town. Eleanor hurried over as fast as she could. The officer sitting across the table from the two wraps up the interview. “We'll find Averitt. I promise. He's the second child this week to run away. For the time being, I suggest you stay here. When you're ready, we can help you prepare for Mortimer's funeral.


In the seconds before their lips were about to meet, Ida felt she could lose herself in the clear blue waters that lay just behind those beautiful blue irises. For they spoke to her of love, longing and a deep desire. They could fill her with a comforting warmth while cooling her skin like a fresh breeze. Her mind, body and heart were all tingling like a light current coursing through her. For in this moment, he wanted her to know that he would give himself completely to her, if she would have him and then they kissed. Ida sighed deeply, giving way to a sadness that began to dull the current she had just felt. She knew that the actor entangled in a passionate embrace on the screen in front of her represented an ideal that was far from reality. Ida thought back, trying to remember the few men she had kissed in her lifetime and was disappointed when she couldn’t recall even one who had gazed into her eyes, seconds before the embrace. Would she ever experience a moment like that? Probably not, she told herself because men in real life don’t do that; willingly anyway. It was highly likely that the blue-eyed actor she was mesmerized by, was not motivated by his gorgeous co-star, but more by the big paycheck he got for his signature “pre-kiss gaze”. Cinema had built such high expectations when it came to romance. She spent the rest of the movie deep in thought trying to console herself but couldn’t stop herself from wondering what it would have felt like to be on the receiving end of that kiss. It didn’t help her sadness and Ida was crushed. She was in such a funk that she didn’t even notice the movie had ended, until her friend started gushing about how dreamy romcoms can be. After she hugged her friend farewell and began to walk to the metro station, Ida returned to her lament. Lost in ‘what if’s and ‘what could have been’. She entered the station, scanned her metro pass, and got onto the train. She sat down on the cold plastic seat, put on her audiobook and settled in for the 30-minute ride to her stop. Ida rested her head on the hard wall of the cabin and closed her eyes, hoping the soothing voice of the narrator would distract her from her thoughts. When that failed, Ida opened her eyes and found herself gazing into the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. Had she just imagined them into existence? She slowly began to register the very attractive face that complimented those blue eyes. It was a couple of seconds before she realized they were staring back. She flushed with embarrassment and quickly shifted her gaze to the side, only to lock eyes with another pair of eyes. These belonged to a kindly looking old man whose chin was resting on a cane held between his knees. She smiled nervously to disguise the awkwardness and was taken aback when the old man winked at her. Unable to suppress a giggle, Ida looked back in front of her where Blue Eyes was also grinning, clearly having seen the exchange. Except his eyes were now focused on the pages of the book he held in front of him. Ida was impressed by this because she seldom saw people reading paperbacks these days. She found this old school habit charming and wondered what other interesting traits Blue Eyes possessed. Did he prefer the simple things in life like biking along the canal, or hiking, listening to music from yesteryears when lyrics were poetic and meaningful? Or was he more the kind who enjoyed watching movies and then spending hours talking about the intricate plots and clever storytelling? Heck she wouldn’t mind if he was a fan boy who geeked out at comic con! With those blue eyes and the chance to gaze into them, she would put up with anything. She suddenly realized that the metro had stopped and looked up quickly to see if Blue Eyes was getting off. Instead, the cheeky senior citizen got up and hobbled toward the doors, smiling at her one last time before he disembarked the train. It was then that Ida realized that Blue Eyes and she were now the only two people left in the cabin. She returned her gaze to her phone and began scrolling through her Facebook feed pretending to be interested in what Margot was ranting about in her latest post. “Hi”, said a voice. Ida looked up. She must have looked surprised because Blue Eyes smiled warmly at her and once again said, “Hi”. Ida caught herself just before she turned to look over her shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else, which would have been supremely stupid since there was nothing but the cabin wall behind her. “Hi” she said, with a slight hesitation. What followed was a friendly, casual chat about anything relevant these days. Simple conversation that filled the silence that would have hung heavy in the cabin. Although Blue Eyes kept it light and easy, Ida felt herself drawn in by him. He seemed smart, funny and interesting. They didn’t get personal or flirty, absolutely no hints of any ulterior motive. Just two people enjoying easy banter, and those beautiful blue eyes. So, it was with a slightly heavy heart that Ida picked up her bag, said goodbye and got off the metro at her stop. Although she was sad to leave Blue Eyes in the cabin, Ida walked away with a small smile on her lips. In the past 20 minutes, this mesmerizing stranger had in some way restored her faith and hope in the dream that one day she would gaze into blue eyes that loved her. The hope that she would share a ‘moment’ that seemed like Hollywood’s cruelest joke on the hopeless romantic, just an hour ago. As Ida made her way home, she was filled with a warmth. She even dared to imagine what it would be like to share an intimate moment with Blue Eyes. She wondered if those eyes that were so friendly as they chatted were also capable of conveying love and passion. She almost giggled at the fantasy of being wrapped in his arms, eyes locked on to each other before they kissed. Here she was again thinking about the ‘what if’s’ and the ‘what could have been’. Had Ida not been so deep in her fantasy, she might have noticed the man walking behind her, keeping pace with her steps. She might have noticed he had followed her around every corner. She might have even noticed that when she opened the door to her apartment block, he had snuck in behind her. She might have paid attention to him climbing up the stairs. Had she stopped romanticizing, she would have realized he was standing almost right behind her, as she put her key into the lock and opened her apartment door. In a few seconds, the man had pushed Ida in through the door and on to the floor. She felt his weight on top of her and as she opened her mouth to scream, his hand stopped her, muffling any sound that she made. Ida knew his face was just above hers, and with the tiny sliver of moonlight that pierced through the darkness, Ida saw those familiar beautiful blue eyes. But there was no warmth, no comfort in their gaze but instead she saw menace. No clear blue waters but instead they were cold and icy. No passion but a dark desire that she feared. Ida’s whole being continued to scream, and the tears rolled down the sides of her face. Blue Eyes was grinning malevolently. How could this be? He was so nice. She had imagined only happiness with him. How could she have been so wrong? He shushed her as she cried and reached behind him to take something out of his back pocket. When Ida felt the sharp edge of what she knew to be a knife against her neck, her heart froze. It was in this moment, when she closed her eyes and wished she had never gazed into those blue eyes.


After a brief hiatus, we’re back for more spotlights from our recently concluded cycle of Serial Saturday! Now all that’s left to do is prepare for the upcoming season and spotlight our fantastic authors. With weekly programs like Serial Saturday we have a great opportunity to get to know writers in our community and follow their progress in such a clear and exciting way. That is definitely the case with /u/ChineseArtist \-- After joining us at /r/WritingPrompts 6 months ago, he dove right into SerSat in a big way, with a story that features characters inspired by other writers in our Discord chat. What began as a fun meta story of a group of teenagers being given a quest by an all-knowing flaming dumpster quickly became so much more. Not only did we get a kick out of reading a story featuring a version of us writers in the chat, we got to see the evolution of this story from a dialogue heavy opening to a balanced, fleshed out story with depth and substance. Here at we had a blast getting to know the cast from **Of Dice and Friends**. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from /u/ChineseArtist: >An elf, a dragonborn, a human, and a stereotypical Californian surfer dude walk into a bar. > >*Al, please. We need a real synopsis, no time to be messing around. And careful with that fire, or the dumpster’s not the only thing that’ll be burning soon!* > >Ugh. Fine. You’re no fun. > >Four unlikely allies must band together when they are forced to save the world. Will they be able to work together and help good triumph, or will they bicker and argue until it’s too late? Spoiler alert: it’s the second one! > >*Al!* > >I mean - you’re gonna have to read it for yourself to find out! For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's ChineseArtist’s take on that: >Coming into Serial Saturday, I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d been writing in the r/writingprompts community for some time, but everything up to that point was stand-alone and meant to be read without any context. Creating something like this from scratch, making a world where I actually had to care about the things that happened with each chapter, that was something new to me. > >I definitely think that I’ve improved greatly over the course of these sixteen chapters, with everything from dialogue and pacing to action and comedy. The writers here are an amazing group and with them it’s always just this great community of feedback and growth that’s hard to find anywhere else. > >Oh, and of course, I’ll be continuing on with Serial Saturday next year, as this story is far from over ;). With *Of Dice and Friends* at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished arc for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's /u/ChineseArtist’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Table of Contents: \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of /u/ChineseArtist's work by going to his subreddit, r/ChineseArtist. Congrats on finishing your serial, ChineseArtist, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.