The bell finally rang, pulling me out of my staring trance. I’ been looking out the window for about three minutes without actually seeing anything. I’d finished my final test fifteen minutes before but didn’t hand it in. I wanted to be the last to walk out. I needed to tell him what I’d been keeping from him these past few months. Mr. Pollar had taken his glasses off, his weary eyes too old for his thirty-something face. Three years I had been obsessing over those deep brown eyes that tell a million stories when they look at you. And right now they were telling me he knew I had something to say. “I have to sub for Collins today, so I need to get going. But walk with me.” His tone was kind and inviting and it almost made me give up on my resolve. But there was no going back. He waited by the door for me, one hand holding his brown bag and the other on the door nob so he could close it after us. We walked in silence for a few seconds until he strated asking what plans I had for the break. Was I looking foward to my 21st birthday? When I didn’t say anything he looked at me worried. “Is everything alright, Isla? Was it the test? Have I finally succeeded in making a test difficult enough for you?” “I’m moving.” I blurted out instead of the clever comeback he’d be expecting. He stopped walking and I turned to look at him. His whole body frozen in place while he thought of something to say. I could read him better than I could anyone. Was I serious? He knew I was. Why? Was he ready for that answer? In the end he settled for: “When?” “I’ve made arrangements with my sister in the capital. I’m transferring to UFMG. I’m moving in with her on Saturday.” “That’s in three days.” I didn’t reply, I didn’t know what to say. I had gone through this moment in my head countless painful times only to come up blank in front of him. The next bell rang, reminding him he had to get to Mr. Renner’s class. The desperation settling in his eyes now mirrowed mine. We stood like that for long seconds, neither knowing what would come next. “Do I dare ask why?” He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled as if in pain. This was why I’d waited so long to tell him, I knew it would hurt him as much as it did me. “You know why.” I comfirmed. My eyes were watering already, I had no hope of getting through this without crying. He nodded a few times as if acknowledging for the first time what had been going between us. Kindred souls was what I called us in my mind. “I thought we had more time.” He said defeated. Students walked past us and even some of the teachers were eyeing our strange exchange. But we were past the point of caring. “You’ll be late.’ He looked confused at my words. “For your class.” I reminded him. “Mr. Renner.” “Isla…” he started. “Isla, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I just shook my head. He knew what I’d say to that. There was no need for him to apologise. “I let it go too far.” “Too far.” I repeated with a laugh. And then I sniffed wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. “We’ve never been close to going to far. We didn’t do anything.” That would be true for the outside observer. But not to us who saw inside our hearts. “We’re just very good friends who like to talk. I bore your ears off about my book writing while you grade papers and sip that horrendous coffee you can’t live without. Right?” “You’re right.” He said. “We didn’t go too far. We came too close.” Always the poetic mind. I loved that, his words. I could listen to him talk for hours and still ask for more. “You don’t have to move, Isla. We can go back to what we were in the beginning of your course. If this is hurting you we could stop being friends.” “Could you?” “I would for you.” “And erase three years of the best friendship I’ve ever had like it was nothing? I can’t live around you every day for the next year and not be drawn to you like a magnet, Kyle.” He looked at me surprised I had used his name. Something we’d established I wouldn’t do. Like that would keep some kind of bareer between us. Like that would keep me from falling in love with him. “It’s settled then. You won’t change your mind.” His voice sounded emotionless. “I can’t.” “I understand.” But he looked like he didn’t, like he thought I was making a mistake. Do you think I’m making a mistake?” “I want to tell you ‘yes, I do.’ But I know you’re right. I’ve seen it coming and I knew I couldn’t keep you, I just…” his voice broke as he closed his eyes for a moment. “I thought we had more time.” I swallowed and tried to go for something lighter. “I’m starting a new job on Monday on an ice cream shop. I’m sure it’ll be fun. It’s the summer so it’ll be full of people and I’m hoping for some free ice cream now and then.’ I tried to smile but just started crying harder. Suddenly he was hugging me. He was hugging me and I could feel him for the first time. His arms were like a soft blanket around me and his scent was the air I’d have to learn to breathe without. He brought his hand to my hair, soothing. I heard a sniff and knew he was crying too. I never imagined I’d see him cry. He let me go all to soon and I wished he had never hugged me. At least I wouldn’t have known what I’ll miss for the rest of my life. “I would leave her, you know.” His voice was low and heavy with shame. “No.” I shook my head. “It’s more than that.” We had never talked about this, about our connection, about his marriage. About the future. We only lived in the present, both wary of when the future would come for us. It finally had. “It hurts as much as I expected it would.” He said. His eyes were mostly dry now but still red. “I want you to be happy, kyle. I want you to see your daughter grow and to hear your grandkids call you papaw, and you’ll love it. I want you to love life and remember it was good. We were good.” He ran his hands through his hair and looked around taking deep breaths. “I need to tell you, Isla, if this is the last-” he hesitated. “The last time I see you.” Those words grounded me and pierced through my heart like a hundred knives. “I have to tell you that for the best part of the past year I’ve been happy. I have loved life and I have loved you.” More tears were rolling down my face. Was it too late to reconsider? “I love you, kyle.” I took a deep breath. Then I looked at him, memorizing every trace. His hair, his broad shoulders. His beautiful hands. His eyes. God, his eyes. Then I stated walking backwards as he held himself in place. A tear rolled down his cheek and to his throat. “We’ll be alright, right, Mr. Pollar?” I asked as I retreated. “Yes.” he smiled sadly. “Yes, we’ll be alright.” He lied.


Note: Includes violence. Jill deftly moved out of the way as the pot fell. She had not seen it, but moved by instinct. Her mother had beaten her far to often for her not to have those developed. As she bent over to pick it up, a knock sounded on the door. She looked up, through the dismal kitchen, to see who it was. "Jill, open the door for our guest." She heard her mother yell from the other room. She winced. Nonetheless, Jill brushed down her dress and came over to the door. Unlocking it, she glanced out through a small crack, and, seeing no one, opened it completely. A tall man stood there, draped in a dark cloak, towering over Jill's tiny form. He was pale, clean shaven, his eyes sparkling like gold in the sun. He smiled at Jill's tiny, frightened self. "Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you." With these words, he pushed past her, his stride having a determined purpose which she did not like. Jill followed him through the kitchen and into the dirty, grey living room, not daring to intervene. "This place..." He muttered, looking around. Jill understood his disgust. The room was cluttered, dust covering half of the objects in the room, indicating that they had not been used in years. Ten years, in fact. Ever since her father had died. His death had affected Jill's mother greatly. She rarely left her room anymore, except to punish Jill. She forced her to make her food, do the shopping. She was grieving, of course, but Jill did not deserve to bear her mother's burden in such a way. And for ten years. Maybe it was the stranger, or perhaps it was something else, but there awakened in Jill a feeling that her mother would have never tolerated from her. "I hate you, mother," Jill whispered, tears of grief, pain, and quiet, intense fury forming in her eyes. The man, who had briefly paused in the living room, now resumed his purposeful stride. He strode straight into her mother's room, slamming the door behind him, making Jill jump, and leaving her, dumbstruck, outside. She tried desperately to open the door, but apparently the stranger had locked it. Horror overcame her as a scream arose. She started banging on the door in panic, trying to force it open, to no avail. What seemed like an eternity in silence later, the door opened. The first thing Jill saw was a bloody knife in the stranger's hand. Breathing heavily, she slumped to the ground as she saw what lay beyond. Her mother lay on the bed, eyes glassy, a deep wound in her chest, sheets stained with blood. "I'm sorry," a whisper sounded. Then, Jill's eyes filled with rage, unthinking, unforgiving rage. Before the stranger had passed the house's threshold, he he found a kitchen knife lodged in his throat. He collapsed, gasps fading into silence. Jill stood there, tears mixing with blood, a single word ringing in her mind: Why? If anyone can give me feedback on this, I would appreciate it.


So, how did I end up on a sprawling oasis in the middle of the Kalahari Desert?

            It’s a wet story, and it starts with a waterslide.

 A waterslide in a waterpark, to be exact.

            Now, I’m not a bad guy, but that day I somehow ended up a felon. Go figure.

            But probably the youngest, fittest, handsomest felon those small-town cops ever saw. I mean, the way my dark curls must have shimmered in the sun that day!

            Sorry. I’m regressing. I used to be an arrogant son of a bitch. I was young. Testing the waters.

            Anyway, I marched right up those perpetually wet concrete steps to stand in front of the highest, most epic slide in the park. Looked at the bored slide attendant and said, “Do you want to see a

real

waterslide?”             She chewed on her gum and blew a bubble that popped loudly. “Cross your arms in front of your chest and keep your feet together.”             “No, wait. Let me show you.” I stepped up to the slide and grinned at her. “I can turn things into water.”             “Sure, and I’m a debt-free College student. Cross your arms in front of your-”             She stopped as I touched the slide and the entire thing transformed to shimmering water. It was wet under my hand, but still kept its shape.

            Her mouth fell open and her gum dropped unceremoniously from it.

            “See!” I shouted, as the people on the stairs turned to look. “Just figured it out, yesterday!”

            I thought she’d be as enthusiastic as I was, but she just looked at me stupidly. “Can you change it back?”             “What?” I had no idea. Hadn’t tried that, yet.

            “Cause, you know, my boss is gonna kill me if a slide turned to water on my watch.”             “But…” I stuttered. “Don’t you see how

amazing

it is?”             Tiny people far away on the ground were tilting their heads up to look.

            The girl shrugged. “It’s alright. Not as impressive as say, turning things to gold.”             “Water is worth more than gold, miss,” I said. “It is the essence of life!” Without another word, I plunged into the slide. Rocketed down it with the shimmering sides rushing past. It was like shooting through the centre of a roaring tidal wave!             I whooped and shouted, “I’m a superhero!” Then shot out of the tunnel and flew head-over-heels through the air.

            I flew too far and too fast. Right over the tiny pool meant to catch sliders. “Woa! Shit.

Shit!”  I shouted as I plummeted toward pure concrete.

            In a split-second decision, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of water. Hit the ground with a harsh jar up my arm, before the concrete gave way and I plunged into cool wetness with a

splash.

            People shouted and cheered. Ran over to me and pulled me out of the little pool I’d created. “How did you do that?” they said. “That was amazing!” “Can I try it?”             I puffed out my muscular chest. “Yes. You can all try!” I looked down at the tiny hole of water I’d made, then back up at the slide, and cursed.

            Someone else was already shooting down it, clearly visible in the tube of glittering, aqua-tinged water.             “Shit” I pushed everyone away. “Move. I gotta…” I had to make more water. I surged into a sprint, concrete transforming to water under my bare feet. Water that grew and rippled outward as people quickly backed away.

            I ran in a circle until I had a sizable pool in the concrete.

            At the same moment, the person shot out of the slide and through the air, brown hair flying around her. Landed in the middle of the new pool with a squeal of delight.

            I sighed in relief. “Okay.

Now

everyone can use the slide.”             Some people were glaring at me, but most were racing toward the slide to have a turn.

            The next person shot through the air and hit the pool with a mighty

splash

a second later.

            I ginned as I was soaked by the powerful spray. “Most epic waterslide ever!”

            Then I turned, and a red-faced man with a big belly was an inch from my nose. “ What  did you just do, you little hooligan?”

            Little? I was just as tall as him, although decidedly less thick. And who used the word

hooligan,

anymore? “I just made this the best waterpark in the country.”             “You made my slide

disappear! ” Do you know how much one of those costs?”             I looked to where everyone in the park had gathered round my waterslide. “Are you kidding?”             “You wish.” He jabbed a finger in my chest. “Change it back.”             I shoved his hand away. “I don’t know how. And why would you want me to? Look at your customers.”             “Some cheap trick,” he boomed. “A novelty that will wear off quicker than the heat in this concrete. Change it back, or I’m calling the cops.”             “The cops?” I took a step back. “Really now, sir. That’s hardly…”             He pulled out his phone and dialed 911.

            “…necessary. Shit.” I spun and bolted.             Now, I know what you’re thinking. What a stupid thing to do. But I was young. Reckless. Vain. Along with this new epic power, I was the fastest kid at my college, and here was the perfect opportunity to test out my speed

and

powers.

            So, I ran.             “Hey, get back here!” the owner shouted.

            I glanced back and stuck out my tongue. Immature, I know. I was, back then.

            “Catch that kid!” the man yelled dramatically.

            Kid? I was twenty-two. Hardly a kid. Although, I did have a springy youthfulness that was easy to mistake for a surly teenager.

            I turned back to my front and picked up speed. “The chase begins!”             Ahead of me, security was closing the exit gates.

            Crap!             I darted left and leaped onto the tall fence. Climbed that thing like a lemur until I reached the barbed wire at the top.

            The owner was shouting into his phone. Security was racing to ambush me at the other side of the fence.

            Humm… could my power work on metal?

            I touched the barbed wire, and it instantly turned to shimmering water that my hand could pass right through.

            Yes!             I vaulted over the top and splashed right through the transformed barbed wire. Then dropped down the other side. “Heads up!”             The security guards stood back, then rushed me when I hit the ground in a crouch.

            I turned the ground to water as they raced in, and we all plunged in at the exact same moment.

            I was ready. They weren’t. As they thrashed in their heavy uniforms, I, light in my swim trunks, glided to the edge, vaulted out and ran.

            Sirens blared in the distance.

            I knew, even then, that I was being reckless. Running guaranteed that the cops would chase me down like hunting dogs on the trail of a fox.

            But I was young and stupid and though I was invincible.

            Light in bare feet and trunks, I raced like a cheetah. Swerved onto the road just as a police car skidded into view behind me, siren blaring.

            In the distance, I heard a great splash and screams. Had my waterslide collapsed?

            I didn’t have time to think about it. Too busy sprinting over concrete as the police car raced up behind me, loudspeaker blaring. “Stop! You’re under arrest!”

            Not I’m not, I thought, as I turned the ground at my feet to water. It spread out behind me and transfromed the road to an aqua river,

            On the sidewalk, people stopped to watch and shout. Cars ahead of me pulled up with squealing tires and swerved onto side roads.

            The siren behind me cut off abruptly, and I spun to see the police car pull up at the edge the new, urban river. Ha! Stopped him in his tracks.

            Now everyone was shouting and staring. Mobile phones and freaking news cameras appeared out of nowhere and followed me as I turned back around and kept running. Kept turning the road to a glittering clear river.

            Then a freaking helicopter appeared in the air. The blare of at least six sirens sounded from ahead.

            Crap! I was stuck, now.

            I skidded to a stop as the police cars swerved into view and cops surged out with guns drawn.

            Wind from the helicopter beat over my head.

            “Run, and we’ll shoot!” they shouted in booming unison.

            Could I turn bullets to water before they tore through me? Would turning them to water stop their destructive force and speed?

            I didn’t want to find out.

            Gasping, I raised my hands.

            Now, I don’t want to generalize, but I have a feeling some cops take out their insecurities and repressed aggression on anyone they can nail with a crime. They were unnecessarily rough with me. Rude and belittling. Let me tell you, it was a bruise to the ego.

            But I co-operated. Repressed the urge to turn their handcuffs to water. Or, better yet, their uniforms. I just quietly laughed to myself as I imagined them all wearing see-thought wetsuits.

            But I was afraid of those guns, so I behaved.

            “What elaborate hoax was that?” they shouted.

            “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

            That comment got me a right twist in the arm that made me scream. I still feel the ache in my shoulder to this day.

            “Tell it to the judge,” a cop growled in my ear.

            My eyes were watering, now, but I smiled as they hauled me away. If they thought it was just an elaborate trick, then I still had the upper hand.             They threw me in a cell and stationed a guard outside it. A big, scary-looking guy who stared at me like a giant Rottweiler, ready to pounce if I made a single wrong move. It made me tense, at first. But after a few hours, I got used to his menacing presence. I casually turned on the TV and lounged on my bed to watch.

            I was all over the news, of course. Footage of me running over the road as it transformed to water behind me. “Tahir, last name unknown,” a voiceover commented over the images, “has been charged with mischief, vandalism, destruction of property, and manslaughter.”

            “What?” I sat up straighter.

            The image changed to show the waterpark, and my

waterslide crashing down like a waterfall while someone was clearly inside. It must have collapsed the second I was out of view.

            My stomach dropped as I watched the tiny figure plummet with the water down to pure concrete, below.

            A news reporter appeared and spoke beside the image. “Sixteen-year-old Maya Sands sustained serious injuries and later died in hospital. Other spectators suffered minor…”             The voice became distorted in my ears as I gripped my head. “Died?” I staggered to my feet and slammed the TV off.

            No, that didn’t happen. I didn’t just kill a teenage girl.

            “Yeah,” said the deep voice of the guard, slamming me with a reality I didn’t want to face. “Thought it was all games, didn’t you? Now you’re going away for a long time, motherfucker.”             His voice sounded distorted and far away, like I was listening to it from underwater. I groaned and collapsed onto the hard bed. Closed my eyes and tried to drown out reality. I felt sick. Dizzy. Wished I had the power to turn back time, instead of turn things to water.

            I stayed like that for a long time, in a daze. Barely even noticed when the guard left to do a round of the prison.             How could I ever make up for what I’d just done? I certainly couldn’t do it rotting in a cell for years. I had good intentions, but would never convince a judge and jury of that.

            In the middle of the night, I sat up and decided. I would escape.

            It was quiet right now, only sound, the periodic jangle of keys as a new guard did his rounds.

            When he came my way I quickly covered my head with my thin blanket and lay still, facing the concrete wall on one side of the bed. I heard a squeak of boots as the officer stopped outside my cell. Could feel him glaring at me. I twitched and made to mutter in my sleep, then grew still, again.

            After what seemed an eternity, he walked on and his keys resumed their eerie clatter.

I stayed still as a statue until I was sure he was gone. Then crawled out of the blankets and arranged them back into a shape more or less like they’d been when I was sleeping under them. Climbed out the side of the bed, slid under it on my belly, and touched the concrete wall. Instantly, it turned to water that spread until it was wide enough for me to fit. I pulled myself through the veil of cool water. It separated easily for me. Flowed over my clothes and soaked me. The rest of it seeped into the earth on the other side.

            Wet and muddy, I stood and nearly whopped in triumph, before I shut my mouth. Idiot. I still had to get past the gate.

            It was easy, though. And I’m not saying that to brag. I was beyond arrogance at this point. All I could think about was making amends. But when any barrier can turn to soft water, well, escape from anywhere is pretty easy.

            So, I crept along the wall to the barbed gate, turned it to cool liquid, and slipped past it out into the night.

            From there, I hid in the woods during the day and raided stores at night.

            Yes, it was wrong. No, I didn’t take more than I needed. I left the places as untouched as I could. My face was all over the news. I couldn’t risk being seen by anyone.

            I made my own pools to drink and bathe from (in that order, thank you very much). My water was fresh, clean and uncontaminated. A precious resource we always take for granted.

            Through stealth, and my elusive ability to pass any barrier, I made it to Mexico. Then stowed away on a ship headed for sub-Saharan Africa.

            I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say it was a long and painful trip, before I was standing in the middle of the Kalahari Desert, looking out on rippling waves of sand.

            I threw off my sweaty shoes and socks and walked in a wide circle, water rushing from my feet and rippling outward, until I had an oasis of pure, fresh water.

            My first new friend found me while I was at it.

            “Hey!”             I spun in the direction of the voice and saw a dark man in a white robe and colourful hat. “You’re the waterboy from America, right? Tahir?”

            Waterboy? Was that what they were calling me?

            I glared at him. “So, what if I am?”             He laughed. “You showed those coppers who’s boss.”             I stood still and tense as a statue. “Are you going to turn me in?”             “Hey, what you did in America is not my business. “ He nodded at the water. “That drinkable?”

            “Best you’ll ever taste.” I waved him over. “Come on, try some.”             He smiled and strode up to me. “There is a poor village just a few kilometres from here.”             “I know,” I said. “That’s why I chose this spot.”             “You came halfway around the world, to give fresh water to a country you’ve never been to?”             I shrugged. “Just heard this place has limited fresh water.”             “Well you can’t always trust what you hear. Most of us are fine. Some of the poor villages don’t have access to clean water, though.”             “Exactly.”             He raised an eyebrow at me. “There is poverty in every country, including America. Why come here?”

            I knelt and ran my hand through the glittering water. “My country doesn’t want me. I thought my skill would be more useful in a place like this.”             “You weren’t wrong about that. You seem like a good man, Tahir.”

            “Not yet.” I stood and looked at him. “But I start, now.”

            He smiled, and knelt to take a drink.

            It wasn’t long before plants started to grow around my Oasis. I built a series of huts with help from some builders. Put up a watering station and bathing station. People are constantly coming from nearby villages to gather water, and I love to talk to them every day. I created my own little paradise in this hot, unforgiving desert.

            And this is where I sit, now. In a handmade wooden hammock, on a boardwalk that stretches over the blue water of my lake. The plants are so thick and vibrant, you’d never know this was a desert.             Eventually, I’ll get my friend to take over, here, and I’ll go somewhere else. Set up a new oasis outside another village.

            Maybe someday, my work will be enough for me to go home without being arrested and thrown in jail.

            Until then, I’ll use my ability the best way I know how, and spend the rest of my life making up for that one, horrible mistake.

            My first oasis is called Maya Sands. Everything I do now, is for her. It will never be enough, but a lifetime is all I have.

            I’d give it all up to turn back time just once. But we can’t choose our abilities.

            We can only choose how we use them.

            I know I’ll make the most of mine.


I was sitting on the train today, thinking about weird stuff (as I generally do). The topic in my head today was hell, heaven, and the after life. I was pondering on the idea of hell. We say hell is a place where we will all burn and penance for our wrong doings. However as I look around me, I can see many eyes with sheer pains them. Day to day pain we all endure. Whether they are trivial reasons for unhappiness such as, a hard time paying the rent, unhappy marriage, or a crying child a mother cant handle anymore or the large societal issues, such as starvation, poverty, a child's innocence dying every second, murder, human trafficking. I immediately came up with my theory of hell. What if we are all in hell now. What if life on earth at the present moment, is the hell we all have to endure for our past lives. What if we are on this earth to reach our Nirvana and once we have achieved it, we pass away going to heaven.


Mail hadn’t existed for many years. Yet there before him lay a small box with a letter resting on the top. Sonder would never know who put it there or when, but he would soon know the importance of it. And why it was on his doorstep. Training. He knew it was safe. No heavy components for a bomb or anything out of the ordinary that would represent a threat. “Its just a package” he thought. Safe. The smell of fresh coffee caught in the cool air made its way to Sonder and he followed that smell back to the kitchen after shutting the front door behind him. Walking down the hallway, he opened the envelope and revealed a small piece of paper with numbers on in. \+1 617 3874020 Sonder, thinking of what the numbers could mean, walked into his kitchen. They reminded him of a system criminal gangs used in the underground. An old technology that required numbers to contact people. Through phones. Phones. Small enough for a package. He began to put two and two together and figured this might be a threat after all. A system used by criminals, to get in contact with a high-ranking officer in the World Centre Policing Agency, just showed up on his doorstep. He lifted the lid of the package and a phone rested at the bottom with a note saying: **We need to talk about project Cypher** Project Cypher was his life work. Before being an officer, a dream he had since he was a kid, he graduated from MIT with a degree in Algorithmic Principles of Security. His work in security jumpstarted his career and he was quickly hired to protect government secrets. Including Project Cypher. The project was a virtual vault for any type of information, and it was almost impossible to hack. The information that Sonder protected was nothing he could have ever imagine. The phone didn’t require a password. It must have been old. Security was a major part of Sonders life and work. The phone only had one application on it. He froze for a second after realising that it wouldn’t open on command, a very basic task for modern electronics. He held his finger down on the icon. A keyboard popped up right away. He slowly typed in the numbers. Sonder held the phone to his ear and listened to the light humming sound it made. Then the sound stopped. “Hello…Sonder.” The person on the other end was unnoticeable. No definite accent. Could be anybody. “I know you’re there Sonder, and I know who you are, what you do and why – “ “Who are you?” His training taught him to talk as little as possible, but he couldn’t help it. “This isn’t about me it’s about you…and the work you do. I have a question…where are you right now?” “At home.” “Well it that case will you please look under the sink in your kitchen.” Sonder slowly walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet. He didn’t speak. The air in the room seemed to drop through the floor, suffocating him, stopping him from speaking. He was in danger. A bomb. It was large and it was strapped to the pipe along with large detonators on each side. “Sonder, leave the house; we blow it up. Try to get help; we blow–“ Sonder began to speak again. “Who’s ‘we’?. What do you people want?” “We want to know the truth” Sonder started to yell into the phone. “I don’t know anything! I don’t know…” “That’s ok” said the man, “I’ll tell you what I know and maybe you can help uncover the rest.” The man talked about some of the most horrific thing he could imagine. He told Sonder about terrorist attacks that were planned by his own government to create fear, and about targeted outbreaks of disease to affect weak economies to make profit the rich on Wall Street. It was a scheme on a global scale and his job was to make sure nobody knew. He felt responsible but tried to ignore it. “But what evidence to you have?” said Sonder, now calm. “That’s were you come in. We need you give us everything on project Cypher. Send it all to this address before 12:00, or the bombs goes off.” The line went dead. After that whole thing he realised a tear was rolling down his face. But that wasn’t the problem. He rolled up his sleeve and peered at his watch. **11:43** The phone vibrated and an email address popped up on the screen. Sonder opened his laptop, taking a deep breath. He sifted through files he was told never to see. Sonders hands start shaking, his watch read 11:54. He used passwords and access codes that would get him fired. 11:57. And he saw things that could cripple the world. Billions of dollars funding secret government projects and large international bidding for war secrets. He had helped uncover the greatest form of greed the world will ever see. His hand hovered over the send button knowing that he was about to shatter the world. His work on project Cypher assisted the rich and hurt and poor. He hit send. 11:59. He looked back under the sink in the kitchen to look at the bomb. He stared at it, wondering if I would have really gone off one minute later. The world shook like the terrible truth that held it up for so long. Then the peace returned. It flowed back like the light that Sonder was forced to bring over the shadows. He would sit back and watch society rebuild around the knowledge that greed would always serve as a crutch. He never knew the darkness until now. Sonder held the phone in his hand and turned it off.


You’ve been an absolute mess since you discovered the shimmering doorway after years of searching, and read the word “Sinemagicae” on the other side. There are four other doors, labeled Absquaqua, Sineigne, Anbsqueterra, and Sineaere, each hiding its own secrets. You go back, day after day, sitting in the room with its crystal walls and onyx doors, staring at the letters marking the door you came through; the letters confirming what you always knew about your world. The world you had hoped to escape from when you found the door that lead you here. You had been forced to take Latin in high school, so it didn’t take you long to puzzle it out. Five doors, five worlds, each lacking one of the five elements. The words on the other four doors could be translated to mean Without Water, Without Fire, Without Earth, and Without Air. And you sit on the gleaming floor, bound to the only world without magic. Of course, you try the other doors, but none of them ever open. At least once per day, you make a slow circle around the room, turning each knob hopefully, only to be met with firm resistance when you desperately attempt to push the door open, the magic calling to you, needing you to get there even if it kills you. But every day, you drag your feet back to Sinemagicae and a world that no longer holds any enchantment. Until that day, when you went to brood in the liminal space of crystal and onyx, and for the first time you aren't alone among the mocking doors. At the threshold of your door, you stop when across the room you see what could be a ghost of you: a fellow traveler, slumped on the floor, eyes glued to the door marked “Absquaqua.” It takes you a long time to move again, but when you do, softly closing the door behind you, she jumps up from the floor and turns to face you. She stares at you, mouth agape, before a whisper escapes her lips. “You come from another world?” she asks, familiar tears streaming down her cheeks. You nod, and she wipes her eyes with her fingertips, leaving behind a smear of blue-green makeup below her left eye. “Show me *water*?” Tentatively, you nod again, and push the door open behind you. It would be easy enough to fill a sink or grab some bottled water, but you want her first time to be special. You take her to a small, quiet beach just as the sun is setting. You watch her wide, brown eyes take in the last of the sunlight glistening on the waves, the water painted with every color of the sunset. The tears dripping from her face mingle with the salt of the ocean as she drops to her knees in the surf, gently running her fingers over the tops of the waves. A wide smile takes over her face as she looks up at you in awe and whispers a single word. “Magical.


Nothing irked Marianne more than a subway ride late at night. It was practically impossible to find a wagon that wasn’t taken over by party goers who reeked of drunkenness and sweat. The seats were all covered in filth from a day’s worth of spilled fast food and coffee, so sitting was simply not an option. Standing wasn’t glorious either: the steel poles must also have been contaminated by a thousand germs and unknown substances, and she would rather have died than be forced to come into any form of contact with them. She therefore stood in a triangular position, steady as a bridge with nothing to hang on to, while the club crowd grew increasingly rowdy around her. The train came to a sudden stop, and the laws of physics were no longer in her favor. She found herself catapulted down the wagon and would have landed on the dirt-ridden subway floor if it wasn’t for her powers. Her lips uttered the incantation in a whisper. Wind of yore I summon thee, from this plight come and save me. For a split second, Marianne levitated without anybody noticing, just enough time for her to find her footing again. It wasn’t without a price however: an intoxicated college student who couldn’t hold his booze anymore barfed on her expensive scarlet jacket as she got back up. A monumental cleaning spell would be needed to get rid of the stain. She got off at the next stop, unable to stand this prison of steel and bodies any longer. This was the last time she agreed to do overtime past nine. Demopolis was too much of a ruckus at night – not that it was any better during the day. No matter the time or place, a never-ending stream of humans filled every inch of every street (except for the space taken by the occasional rat), and not one person in the infinite crowd cared about the wellbeing of another in the slightest. “Hey girl,” blurted out an ogler smoking a cigarette by a sketchy pub entrance to the delight of his toxic group of friends. “Looking for someone to spend the night with? Plenty of choice here! You can even take all of us if you want.” My bed is not the one you seek, in the arms of Morpheus you shall sleep. The ogler instantly collapsed, falling into a deep slumber on the sidewalk. His crew of followers gathered around him with puzzled looks, too drunk to be alarmed at the state of their leader. They couldn’t understand what had just happened, but they probably would never harass a woman in a scarlet coat again. No wonder a warlock had cursed her to spend the rest of her life in this concrete jungle. It was just like being cursed to rot in Hell. The fumes emanating from the sewers were infernal flames. The sea of people was the Styx, overflowing with wretched souls. The bouncers at the entrance of every nightclub were Cerberuses in shades. The demons of the Ars Goetia stood still around the blissfully ignorant mortals in the form of skyscrapers. The city was no place for a witch. Her link with nature had been broken. The stars in the sky were no longer visible amongst the light pollution. Most of her rituals simply could not be practiced. There was no space in her one-room apartment for an altar, and even if there was, her roommate would have been suspicious. Practitioners of the Craft had always been outsiders, but in Demopolis, the single outsider was trapped in the heart of the inside. If only there was another one just like her, someone she could confide into. The suffocation kept her awake at night, made her dread the following day. So far as Marianne knew, she was the only witch in town. How she longed for the lush meadows in which her former Coven lived, for the inebriating sensation brought by the casting of enchantments in the silver moonlight by the pristine lake. The young woman reached her apartment complex at the same time as Joel. He was the one person she did enjoy crossing paths with around here. Her twenty-something neighbor might not have been very talkative, but she felt a strong spirit in hiding behind his brooding eyes, underneath his raven hair. “Good evening,” she said timidly. “Good evening.” This was the extent of their conversations. The introverted programmer was shy and rebuffed any kind of social interaction, yet she couldn’t help but smile in his presence. They walked together in awkwardness into the long entrance hall and Joel ran for his room. Marianne, alone again, entered her apartment with a glimmer of happiness from the brief exchange. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Her roommate was already fast asleep. There was not much Marianne knew about the puzzling stranger in the bed next to hers. Her rent had gone up beyond her threshold of affordability a couple of years back, so the obvious solution had been to put out an ad for a roommate.

Who knows, it might be someone I can talk to , she thought. Turns out, Vanessa was mute. They communicated only in writing. There was an inherent sadness to her, as if she wished to voice many stories of trauma and pain but could not. These secrets were locked deep inside her chest, never to be spoken of. She left early in the morning, came back early in the evening, and went to bed right after dinner, to the point where Marianne barely ever noticed her presence. Somehow, that night, there was something intriguing about the speechless woman. She seemed at peace. As for Marianne, she had never felt so empty. In this small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, the walls seemed to draw in closer to her, ready to crush her bones. A wave of claustrophobia flooded the witch from head to toe. She knew; it was time. Time to do what her mother had done fifteen years ago. She had to break free from the earthly chains that bound her to this cruel reality, and this could only be achieved through Astral Projection. Tonight, she was going to Project out of her body and Ascend towards the Spirit Realm, leaving behind her Demopolis cage forever. It was a simple ritual, one of the few she was capable of performing without direct contact with nature. Twisted into the lotus position on her bedsheets, she first aligned her chakras. The Crown was always difficult to line up, so she concentrated all of her spiritual energy towards thoughts of freedom. The meadows materialized before her eyes. The surface of the pristine lake glistened in the silver moonlight. The leaves fluttered left and right, guided into an airy waltz by the call of the Nymphs. Winds of change carried the scent of eternal renewal as the Coven danced with nomadic steps, free from routine, free from shackles, free from the weight of soul-crushing depression. All of these things were of course only taking place in her mind, but they felt more real than anything she had experienced in the five years since the curse had begun. All chakras were now aligned. She did as the Coven’s Great Book prescribed, taking the feather of a dove in her left hand, and the feather of a crow in her right. Her feet sinking deeply into the sheets as if they were dipping into rich and vibrant soil, she spoke the words: Bird of light and bird of night, Make my soul fly with might. Her body collapsed onto the squeaky mattress. Marianne found herself hovering over it in her spirit form, translucid, ethereal. All she had to do now was ascend. Light as a feather, she felt herself drift towards the ceiling, but something caught her attention, stopping the ascension midway: a cloud. There was a cloud suspended over Vanessa’s head, tied to her hair by a golden thread. Of course, how did she not think of it? In the Spirit Plane, dreams were visible. Dreams were nothing but condensation of spirit energy above a person’s body. What could her mysterious roommate be dreaming of? Marianne came back down and peered into the depths of the cloud. Beneath its fluffy whiteness, there were meadows. Lakes. Waterfalls. Constellations. Vanessa dreamed of escaping the City too. Had she been able to speak, the two women might have been able to share their pain, their isolation. Alas, it was never meant to be. Another thought came to her. Joel must also be dreaming by now. She absent-mindedly drifted towards her apartment door, passing right through it. A minute later, she found herself into Joel’s bedroom. There he was, a cloud tied to his hair by a silver string. Inside the cumulus, she saw herself walking up to a door. He was dreaming of her . Her dream-self knocked, and Joel opened. They stared at each other for a moment, then began to passionately kiss. He liked her too. The two neighbors remained intertwined, bound together by love, a love Marianne had no clue to be reciprocal. Suddenly, the scene dissipated. Dream-Joel found himself back at his computer, cornered into a desk. The cumulus turned to a nimbus. Spirit rain fell over his face to the terrifying sound of thunder. Marianne’s spirit stepped away. They shared the exact same desires, the exact same fears. The Spirit Realm now seemed much less tempting, but she had been out of her body for too long already. She lifted her head and saw through the ceiling the dancing auroras of the world waiting for her. It pulled her soul with an irrepressible force, dragging her away from a place she no longer wanted to leave. She wanted to stay, to tell Joel how she felt, to physically experience the embrace from the dream. With the last drop of strength left in her, she tried to fight it off, but to no avail. Her destiny was sealed. Bird of light and bird of night, Time has come to stop the flight. The pull vanished; so did the auroras. Marianne drifted back down. Someone had spoken these words, but it wasn’t her. She turned. Vanessa’s spirit stood before her, translucid, ethereal. “Every witch has a voice in the Spirit Plane,” she said with a beaming smile. “Even me.” Her voice echoed mystically in a tone filled with power. “You’re… You’re a witch?” Marianne muttered in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Why did you never…” Before another word could be said, Vanessa snapped her fingers. Marianne found herself back in her body and woke up in cold sweat. She looked around. Her roommate still appeared to be sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. Had this all been a product of her imagination? Thankfully, two feathers swirled over Vanessa’s head, carried into their dance by a crafty wind, and Marianne understood that it was not. She sunk her head into her pillow. Her roommate was a witch. How had she lost her voice? Why was she trapped in the City? By what coincidence did they end up sharing the same apartment? The questions would remain unanswered that night, but that was okay. For the first time in five years, Marianne knew there was someone she could confide in. There was also someone she could love. For the first time, she looked forward to tomorrow. And so that night, inside the small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, on that squeaky mattress in the heart of Demopolis, she slept soundly.


In The Service of Father Brain A Telling Place Short Story Solemnly I trudge through the winding streets of Estersa. I am pressed into a sea of Conscripted, all of us draped in white wool robes lacquered with Wax tithed from the denizens of our home Ward. Burning ceaselessly atop its cyclopean Wax pillar at the center of the city, the MindFlame radiates its amber glow and warms our backs as we march, pressing us in our

thousands towards the pervasive blackness manifesting in District 13.

My standard-issue MindTorch hangs from a cord tied around my waist. Its basic form is a metal rod no longer than my forearm with a small brass crucible affixed to one end. A depression on the MindTorch’s pitted surface containing a small thorn allows me to prick my finger and become one with the weapon, effectively binding my consciousness with the TorchSpirit that resides within its core. While bound to the weapon, I’m able to extend the length of the MindTorch as well as channel my will into its crucible to manifest a minor gout of MindFlame potent enough to return a minor Darkling to the Ink. A Conscripted’s MindTorch, our thin, Wax-laquered armor, and the holy charms affixed to us are our only protection against what lurks in the shadows at the fringes of the city, and in its dark crevices.

 The ground rumbles as Battle Organs crusted with scores of dripping candles sail through the sea of conscripts on overlarge carriage wheels, creating furrows in the powdery WaxSlag that coats the ground. Crews scurry about on the decks of the wood and brass behemoths, pulling levers and turning cranks to manipulate the mechanical limbs affixed to the side of each contraption. They’re orchestrated by an Organ Grinder, a misshapen creature draped in formless black robes with a torso elongated to fit as many arms as possible, which sprout from it at various angles and always seem to be at work doing something or other. The strange creature gesticulates this way and that, droning orders at Conscripted in its sonorous language while one of its appendages rhythmically turns a heavy crank connected to an ornately carved box housing a series of studded tubes and small metal tines that plonk ponderously with an eerie melody. A massive stack of conical tubes welded together at the aft of the vessel broadcasts the noise out over us in heavy waves and the force of it causes my diaphragm to vibrate.  Gargoyles, monstrous winged machines of leather and brass patrol walkways and flit between the tightly packed spires above us. Their powerful claws find easy footholds in the soft BuildingWax of the sprawling metropolis, and where there are none, they soar on leathery wings courtesy of the updraft created by our procession.

We are flanked on either side by a long row of

holy TorchBearers. They steady themselves with hand-over-hand grips clasped to MindTorches resembling long poles topped with a crucible from which their MindFlame burns. They’re hunched over from the weight of the heavy chain bound tomes they bear on their backs. The large books are splayed open, displaying wax-sealed pages covered in artistic renderings detailing the history of Estersa and scripture espousing the holy deeds of Father Brain. With faces obscured by gauze coated in holy Wax, they’re blind in the conventional sense; guided only by the soft glow of the MindFlame they’ve pledged their life in service to.

Pressing on, we begin to see signs of Darkling infestation as we move closer to our destination. These manifest first as shadows cast by our passing that begin to take on an oily viscosity which tugs at our footwraps. Soon, we see the dreaded sludge coating the walls of structures and dripping from Torch fixtures along the street that have long since gone out.

Trailing incense from censers hung about their necks, TorchBearers raise their MindTorches in reverence, driving back the foul ichor, and relighting the extinguished fixtures. Bathed in the gentle sepia glow of the flames around us, our resolve is strengthened and our pace quickens in anticipation of the coming purge we’re soon to be embroiled in.

This feeling of protection abates however, as we cross a bridge under which we can see a river flowing with fathomless darkness. Anguished faces peer out from the murky sludge, and then are stretched and twisted as rows of desiccated hands reach out for us, disturbing the mire in the process. Overhead, a honeycomb of sinewy obsidian lattice stretches tautly between structures and threatens to blot out the life-giving glow of the MindFlame like a hastily constructed shroud.

I grip my humble MindTorch and shudder at my surroundings, withdrawing inwardly to prepare myself for the coming battle. I focus on the soul-thumping melody generated by the droning of the Battle Grinders mixed with the holy chanting of my brethren and slip into a meditative state to steel myself for the coming battle.

I am not long in my trance before the sounds of war bring me to my senses. The world I open my eyes to is a vast black abyss, crawling with creatures from nightmare. Darklings rush forth like a wave from the seemingly endless blackness. A tide of chopping teeth and wailing mouths, they crawl and trudge forward with various forms of locomotion, gibbering and screeching. The sound alone threatens to corrupt our very HeartWicks and drive us mad. And corrupt us it would, were it not for the righteous blare of our war implements keeping the auditory assault at bay.

The outside ranks of our dirge respond to the onrushing tide of horror by channeling their willpower into their MindTorches. Great walls of flame erupt on all sides of us, and the first waves of Darklings caught attempting to pass through them are immolated. The larger ones fall to the ground flaking to black ash as they come undone.

The heat we generate is immense, and I begin to feel it permeate the layers of my protective robes. Nevertheless, we press forward in our advance like a great flame-wreathed serpent slithering blindly through a dark cavern. Despite this show of force, the more clever Darklings are able to slip through the cracks in our defense and begin wreaking havoc in our ranks.

Dread builds in my chest as a severed hand trailing mangled sinew skitters across the ground. I extend my mind torch and strike out with the pointed end, skewering the foul creature to the ground just as it is about to leap for me. Its mottled skin flakes and begins to turn to ash as I shake its remains from my weapon and scramble to assume a defensive position.

Our tightly pressed ranks undulate from the persistent Darkling assault like an organism being swarmed by small insects and finding itself powerless to shake them off. Battle Grinders belch flames into the endless darkness, while crews of Conscripted battle to hold their broad decks now teeming with monstrosities.

At one point I’m pressed so tightly amongst my comrades that my feet are unable to touch the ground, and I drift along helplessly until

the pressure subsides, and

I fall to the ground, finally able to stand on my own and rise to my feet. Looking around I see Conscripts begin to scatter and I catch dark shapes sailing through the din above us. I’m showered with something wet and look down with surprise to see that my robes are spattered with warm blood. A mangled arm propelled through the air lands with a wet smack on the gore slicked ground. I watch in revulsion as it is quickly snatched up by the dexterous mechanical appendage of a nearby Battle Grinder, ensuring that no Wax goes to waste.

Gargoyles dive like falling meteors into the fray all around us, some never to rise again, others victoriously snatching up large Darklings before shredding and torching them in the void above. The remains of these unfortunate creatures drift down to us as soft black ash before being swept away in the churning chaos. Shuffling Conscripts scramble to mount themselves into a defensive position, and it isn't long before I see why. A hulking figure stalks toward us. Its ugly porcine features twisted in a rictus of glee as it hews down Concripts by the handful with powerful arms ending in jagged metal fragments. Its forearms rotate in bursts, pulping any unfortunate souls standing in their destructive path and showering the surrounding area with hot viscera.

The crowd bucks and sways in an effort to create distance from the remorseless killing machine and I’m pressed into bodies so snugly that the air escapes my lungs. Agonizing seconds tick past until once again the crowd heaves and I’m pushed forward with such force that instinct alone throws out my arms and saves me from meeting the ground face first.

I lose my grip on my MindTorch and it drops into the muck with a sucking sound. I frantically reach to retrieve it when a cloven foot descends on my hand with enough force to smash it free of my wrist. I scream and the world goes black for a second, stars dancing across my vision. My breathing quickens, and I clutch my shattered stump. I look up and am face to face with my executioner. Its beady eyes shine with malicious glee and it squeals triumphantly in my face before rearing back to deliver the killing blow. Its powerful blending arms begin to whirr and before they are plunged into me, pulverizing my abdomen and splitting me in two, I glimpse the creature in its full glory.

It stands and I see that it is an arm’s length taller than me and at least three times as broad. Chains hooked through weeping flesh spread from one point to another across its ash gray skin, the trophies hanging from them forming a macabre latticework of grotesque oddities. Its engorged sex organs drag the ground, leaking fetid purple fluid that wafts over me as the creature shifts position. Then comes the pain. I am quickly torn asunder as the beast plunges both of its hellish arms into me. Briefly,

I feel my flesh being churned apart before I realize with horror that my legs are now separated from my body. Reality takes on a dreamlike quality, and I watch with waning lucidity as the beast steps forward to claim its piece of me when a strange weightlessness takes hold. The ground begins to recede and I am pulled out of reach of the monster, now petulantly squealing at being denied its prize. A second later, the world lurches and gravity returns. A sense of weightlessness and the churning gears of the Battle grinder are the last things I recall before the end.


So, once upon a time, there was a dirty word,

an abhorrent marriage and

a soiled soul and

Drake Fabian. Everyone knows a Drake Fabian.

He is the guy who would step on your head and kick your dog to ascend that ladder.

He was his mother's Christ.

On any rung he placed his foot, a sacred ground from beneath him, grew.

The child she shouldn't have had, or never should have kept, was Drake Fabian.

Her hair was always greasy, and she was beaten on the daily by her alcoholic husband.

Not pretty enough for her tiny man, and too Catholic to divorce, she took her frustration out on Drake, her dirty boy.

He was dirty because he was a boy.

He was dirty because his soiled his diaper, like clockwork, every three hours and a minute.

Her cross eyed spouse, her tiny man, would not, could not, stand the smell and for that, he would hurt her; hurt her for the stench of crap.

She made sure to tell him that, her son, whom she called out by his full name, Drake Fabian.

Simultaneously, she would chastise her baby, and lick his ego, like a sore,

or as a cow laps up placenta from a newborn calf.

She couldn't get him clean, because he couldn't ever be clean, enough.

Not in the area that he messed,

every three hours and a minute, nor in her eyes, for he was a make, like her cheating man.

Filling his diaper with green bile, he listened as she vomited verbs and nouns that no child should ever hear, but he listened too closely and he heard and he learned.

He knew when he soiled,

he was going to get beat on, and he grew frightened.

But his unformed mind, unconsciously kept a tally of every blow that struck him and every verb or adjective

of abuse thrown at him.

Over weeks, he knew it was wrong and bad to fill his pamper with green bile.

He came to hate that mess and smell that happened every three hours and a minute, he recognized it soon, as the smell angered his mother.

She beat his ass red and bloody, and wiped and scraped it clean, because it was bad, filthy bad.

He hated his soiled drawers, and his mother for hating him, for

being a dirty boy.

He remembered how it hurt to be dirty.

As he grew up,

his mother doted on him as a golden child.

He was a perfect child now, and getting more ideal every year, because he was directly to thank,

fornhwr beatings only happened at night, and not every three hours and a minute.

Drake Fabian considered only his needs, and bullied anyone who tried to tweak with his power play.

There was the time, I got sucker punched for not signing up for selective service on my 18th birthday.

The moment my life flashed before my eyes, when he told an Italian fisherman, that it was me, and not him, that stole his beer in Europe.

He routinely took more than he needed, and spent as close to nothing on anyone other than what was necessary to win friends and influence people.

His favorite hobby was watching his reflection, as a child predator would.

He made it a daily challenge to miserly pinch every penny:

telling St. Jude’s hospital to fuck off on the phone.

After years of listening to him bitch, and moan, and his daily rants of self serving propaganda,

it was time to kill Drake Fabian.

Should I kill thee for the fourth grade misgivings and all the hype you put upon the rest of us, while you created a cult around Farrah, and made everyone else a pariah near thee?

Should I slaughter thee for the minutes you stole in highschool, taking my books or swiping your backhand against my face?

Perhaps I should slice your throat for the years of drug abuse you deny to your wife and children?

There are so many ways.

Should I perhaps, take your skull and smash it with the hammer you threw at me, when we played near your mother’s pool, but you weren’t the center of attention?

Or maybe when you started throwing scissors at me when I interrupted your beating of your

girlfriend?

I could take out your knees, because you couldn't actually win on the football field, but had to find a way to make sure your privileged ass shined bright against the sun.

I remember the year in college, when we both chose Western Civ as a sure pass, and I aced the same test you failed.

The night before studying your stolen test, while I skated through to the same C.

How you plotted against me, because I had learned

in high school what you blew the TA for.

When you were busy sticking your little wicket into some 13 year old, as I excused your bad behavior.

Or the same year, when I interuppted your rape,

that you used marijuana and cocaine to ply through; her tight Jordache jeans had her sucking your fat fingers, until I pulled her out by her dignity.

Why did you suck the peanut butter off a goat's goathood bought, to ensure friends at the biggest frat, while I drank and smoke my way into the same Dean's list?

Your mother bought you edible underwear, because she thought it was sexy, meanwhile we all drank to forget the thought of it.

Your father asked you what that girl meant, when she asked to buy weed from you, albeit on parent’s weekend.

When your girlfriend, the only one you ever loved, called you out on your hypocrisy with the one word you couldn’t digest.

The one word that interrupted your little world, and made you feel like the little babyyou were, a full diaper of crap.

Did you tell your wife, Drake?

Did you tell her you married her only to breed?

Does your wife know the word that makes you shrink into a little red, white baby?

Can she sense your soft, white under belly? Because it’s dirty.

Because you can’t clean it up, like you clean up your life, at least in a whipped up rationalization.

You know your deepest fear.

It frightens you as hell shakes a minor, puny demon to IRA core.

You know, and no one else knows, that

dark, black, evacuation, if your nightmares.

It’s not the job you lied to get.

It’s not the car you wrecked and got fixed by filing a false claim.

It's not the exact measurement of your hair, ir the number of bug bites per summer and the weight of the pile of coals at the bottom of your grill, you can meet out.

In fact, even the weight of the pennies you throw at the homeless in your town, isn't within your domain.

But that dirty little back end of yours, you bad, dirty boy.

That, you cannot control.

You know that.

And only you, and I, know that.

Do you tell your coworkers about how you would purposely kill anyone who fucked up your career, even your wife, the woman who bore you two children?

Did you announce to the world, as you would announce any bowel movement to the nearest drunkard, the beer you stole throughout your youth, or the bat you kept in your pathetic B210, to pummel anyone who didn’t agree with your self serving ding a ling?

The blackened eye you gave as a gift to any non worshipping lackey.

Can you recall the rituals you went through, day in and day out?

Of walking a certain number of minutes per day, or eating a particular number of calories, or fucking every girl who entered your beer red pubic hair?

The way you showered for exactly 4 minutes each day and then took 13 steps back into the dormroom, to pull your towel off, left to right every time.

Then, taking your right hand and putting exactly two poofs of talcum powder in your left hand, to rim your asshole three times, never four, to make sure you “powdered up,” and then announce it to the whole floor.

Or when you got wet by accident and proceeded to attack poor, large Harvey; much larger than you, and someone you could not harm, put you down like a baby for a nap.

I wonder if you can see why I must kill you?

Why everything you stand for and everyone you’ve harmed, call to my soul, begging for vengeance.

People you don’t remember, times you’ve put behind you, like a fat drunkard puts a handful of

tainted, browned single-ply toilet paper into his ass, and wipes, and wipes, and sandpapers and pulls out the hairs of his ass covered in boils.

Now that you have attained this American dream, you created, nay, infested on everyone else.

All of us who dared stood near you, not even in your way.

The mother that blew little kisses on your naked behind.

So white, so privileged, your cheese droopy ass is, and soon, was.

I hated every word you uttered,

Every little lisp you tried to make sexy, every sneaker you stole from the Footlockers you worked at.

I despised every drop of every beer of every case you snuck out the back door of the IGA.

You made friendship a game.

Where love should have prevailed, you placed contempt and competition.

You tried so hard to be number one, and we all bowed in front of you, so as not

to be beaten when we weren’t looking.

But you were last, always last, never to win, fairly.

You stole the right to win, when you refused to play by the rules humanity wrote.

So on this day, this your fiftieth birthday, I must end you.

I will not tell you about it.

I will ambush you, when all is right and blissful and calm in your world.

While you sip a Scotch, you don’t deserve, or smoke a fat black cigar, you never bought, I will walk up to you, as I have a hundred times before.

I will shake your hand, while pulling you into a hearty hug, and squeeze you, as the prodigal son greets his lost brother.

You will smile, because you will think you have a moment of safety.

And another unearned victory.

As I pull away from that embrace, and your eyes lock mine, as a comrade’s should, I will look down at my feet.

Your gaze will slowly turn to a blink, as you automatically follow my head down to where I want you to be staring.

Your wife will smile like the horse faced ass she is, your children, whom I have never met will be texting their boyfriends or BFFs, nearby, and someone else you’ve fucked over in the past, will be stealing one more beer from your ill gotten cooler gains, and then….just then.

“Drake.”

“What up, Fatness?”

“Happy birthday.”

“You're still smoking crack?

“You still an ass hole?”

“Uh. I hate that word.”

“I know.”

“Why do you use that word, when you know I hate it?”

“Ah, Drake.

Ah, fucking, Drake.

May all your fears face you when you die."


I vividly saw hell and truly believed if I stopped breathing, I’d be there. Forever. I had two days off work and a friend, Joe, asked me if I would be interested in buying a four-finger bag of pure PCP from the chemist who made it, for one hundred dollars. This is a horse tranquilizer. Sure, why not? I had no idea.

After what occurred over the next several days, I could say this. Comparing LSD to PCP, LSD is a shot of beer, and PCP is a fifth of whiskey. PCP is one of the most absolutely horrible drugs on the face of the planet. I'm driving back to my apartment, and Joe is sitting next to me. He snorted a big line. Instantly, he said, “Hallsey'', my nickname, “Where are we going ?” “Back to my apartment.” “Where?” “Back to my apartment.” “Hallsey, where are we going?” “ Back to my apartment.” “Where is my dad?” “I don't know, Joe”. He went quiet. Wow!

I was dating a lady named JoJo. I went into the apartment and told her this stuff was very powerful. We both snorted a very small line. We were listening to the rock band Boston. Don't know why I mentioned that, except it was important at the time.

Instantly, everything went euphoric. Surrounded by white light. After a half hour, I wondered where Joe was. I went out to the car, he was drenched in sweat. He hadn't been able to open the door. He said he had been out in the universe. He crawled across the street, on all fours, like a dog. He had urinated himself. He came into the apartment and straight armed my oak coffee table straight over his head. Unbelievable strength. Then both JoJo and Joe were gone. What? Over the next two days, I'm snorting a little every four hours or so. I can handle this. Didn't sleep. I was very wrong. I went to work Friday morning, so high, I didn't know I was high. I worked at corporate headquarters, which also had a sales floor. I found out, after the fact, that I was going to be promoted to store manager. I was fired.

Here is exactly what happened.  	My first customers were two big men from a company called Stuart Sandwiches, looking to buy a used sixty-nine-dollar freezer. We had an open-to-buy list, where customers with a good buying history could take the product and pay later. I had looked at the wrong list and naturally didn't see the name. I walked upstairs into the vice president's office, which I had never done before. He was in the middle of a meeting and explained the situation. I told him there was a man named Stuart Sandwiches. It's a company.

He told me to not let them take it. I went back down, told them, and they went ballistic. I just stood there, looking at the floor. A fellow salesman came over and peacefully resolved the situation.

I went and sat at my desk. I opened a King James Bible my mother had given me. The words became extremely “pornographic”, vial, threatening, and menacing. I closed the Bible.

A couple of minutes later, there was a man behind me, looking at a stereo. It turns out he was a semi-driver taking a load of appliances back to Bellaire, which was five minutes from my hometown, Martins Ferry. We were also a distribution center. I went back to my desk, tore the front page out of the Bible, and wrote, “Mom, just thinking of you, have a nice day. Love, Bob”. She had, what turned out to be, terminal breast cancer. I went back to the warehouse, found the driver, and asked if he would mind taking this to my mother in Martins Ferry. He said sure and asked if the semi could maneuver in the backstreets. I looked at the truck, it was miles long. I proceeded to walk back to the sales floor, the driver following me.

We were in a darker area of the warehouse when he stopped me, grabbed my hand explained he was gay, and asked if he could give me oral sex. Now, I have no issues with gay men. However, in my mind, at that moment, I had just given him a “Holy Mission''. Taking my note to my mother with cancer. I had a 280-pound bench press and on PCP strength is magnified and you feel no pain. If I had torn into him I probably would have killed. I looked at him, turned around, and went completely insane.  I went to the sales floor and started switching all the price tags. I had an expensive Amana ice and water refrigerator, priced at seventy-nine dollars. A basic washer was over two thousand, and an inexpensive microwave was over a thousand. There were numerous customers on the sales floor.

I then picked up a can of Coca-Cola, went upstairs, and poured it into an industrial laser printer. I squirted some mustard on my suit and went down and sat at my desk. The V.P. came down a few minutes later and asked, “Bob, What's going on?” Quiet. “Are you drinking anything?” “No.” “Are you smoking anything?” “No,” “Fred, I’m scared.” “Why are you scared?” “I think I’ve overdosed on PCP.” Several minutes later, the police arrived and took me to an emergency room. They observed me for quite some time. I have no idea how long because I was lost in the madness of my mind. I was perfectly quiet, the doctor gave me a card to a mental institution, explaining that because I was not violent, I could leave. Somebody drove me back over to work, where I was told to take the weekend off. I was fired on Monday. A good friend said the printer would randomly print, “Things go better with Coke.”

I had a 1969 Chevelle SS. and started driving, I swear I remember hitting one hundred mph. And I was not on the interstate. I had no idea where I was. Became lost several times. I'm on the interstate, then side roads. Back on the interstate. I'm dripping wet from sweat. I ran many red lights and stop signs, all at a very high speed. Somehow, I made it home.

Arriving safely without even a ticket qualifies as a miracle. I was blown out of my mind.

At this moment, I thought I should call my mother and explain that a gay man might be pulling up in a semi-truck with the front page of the Bible she had given me. Today this seems hilarious. She asked what on earth was wrong with me. I told her the truth, that I was overdosing on PCP, and that I thought I had just lost my job. “You son of a b_itch” and slammed the phone. I had just lost my best friend.

I went to hell.

I'm sitting on the front porch drinking a little King beer. At this moment, my next-door neighbor, who I had never talked with for the year I had lived there, came over, sat down, and introduced himself. He was a gay man in a gay relationship.

I looked at him and he transformed. His eyes became black, he became over ten feet tall, and he grew wings and hooves. I said I was sick and had to go inside.

I went inside, locked the door, took off all my clothes, and went to bed. All this occurred on a Friday, and I came to sanity on Sunday morning.

All I can explain about those lost twenty-four hours is this. There was no concept of time. I'm visualizing spiders, snakes, bats with human heads, smelling sulfur, seeing humans on fire in agony, lakes of fire, hearing intense screaming, at times in utter blackness. For every good thought, there was an immediate bad thought. My mind was in a continuous loop. Good, bad, good, bad, good, bad. Fast, very fast. I remember looking at the clock, it was 9:01. I thought hours and hours had gone by, looked again, 9:02. One minute, I was beyond terrified. I explained this to a doctor several years later. He told me he was writing a book about the effects of natural hallucinogens on the human psyche. Many plants are known to have hallucinogenic properties. Some of these include Common Reed, Datura, Fly Agaric Mushrooms, Hawaiian Baby Wood Rose Seeds, Magic Mushrooms, Morning Glory Seeds, and Nutmeg. These plants contain chemical compounds that can react with the human body in specific ways, affecting the brain and mental state of those who ingest them. He asked if it was pure PCP. I said yes. For some reason, he asked if I was spiritual, and I told him I was Christian. He explained that I had gone catatonic. He had patients who were in mental institutions. Put their hand up, it stays up until you put it down. Their mind is in a good/bad loop. Most came out of it, but a few hadn't. PCP “short circuits” the synapse in the brain. I remember during those lost twenty-four hours, focusing on a small constant light and breathing, while all this hell was going on around me. I truly believed, if I stopped breathing, I would be in hell. Forever. I woke up on Sunday morning, and the first sound I heard was birds singing. I took the PCP and flushed it. I didn't even smoke weed over the next year or so. The doctor said I had experienced a miracle. Yes, I had.

 Before continuing, I should explain what I know is true. Eternal Source did not put me through this experience. I did. The Source was the light I concentrated on with my right mind and spirit. What I experienced was an extreme attack by my insane wrong ego mind. God does not send us trials, each mind has the Holy Spirit within. All works out for the good of all parties concerned, always. You may not think so at the time. Looking back at my own life, for me, this is very true.

“You may not get what you asked for, but you will get what you need”. The Rolling Stones.  I had been attending church regularly. Believing strongly in the existence of Heaven and Hell. Up until I became a student of A Course in Miracles, I still believed in hell because I had seen and experienced it. My mind made the whole experience up.

I now understand the power of our minds. As an example, have you ever tried to remember someone's name and couldn't? Several days later, the name “pops'' into conscious thought. Everything you have seen, heard, and experienced since birth is stored in your subconscious database. You consciously put into your database the question, and answer found and given to your conscious thought. This is why it is important to dwell and look upon what is good. Put positive in, not negative. I didn’t stop breathing, and the light I concentrated on brought me through the worst experience of my life to date. -Bob


‘Are you, inside?’ I ask, letting the bars drop from my hands to thud solidly onto the wooden floor. ‘Inside, outside, all fucking sides, mate. But no, I’m not wearing your body if that’s what you’re thinking. I am your body, same matter, simple as,’ me says. ‘Where are you, mate?’ ‘I’m, I’m on a train,’ I say, vaguely, staring at him. He’s me but there are differences, lines in his face, a light greying of stubble on his chin, sharp blue eyes where there should be green. ‘You need to wake up, mate, you need to wake up now,’ me says, then he darts forwards and stabs something into my right bicep. ‘I need to what?’ I say. My brain won’t work. ‘Where are you? I can help you, we need to go, you’ve got an infection,’ he says. ‘Infection,’ I say, without comprehension. ‘I think I’m on the train to Manchester.’ ‘Get off at the next stop,’ me says. ‘Now, wake up,’ me says, and I do. My eyes open and I’m leant against the shoulder of an awkwardly polite middle-eastern man, who meets my gaze and smiles, somehow apologetically, as I right myself. I’m on the train, I’m me. Ticket inspector at the end of the carriage, no ticket. I hop to my feet, gingerly testing the ground beneath me, all normal. I wander as far up the train as I can and sit in a corner of the first-class carriage until we pull into a little village station. The doors ding and slide open and I trot up the carriage and outside. Me is waiting for me on the platform. ‘Come on,’ he says, and hurries away. I follow. Over a bridge across the tracks, through an empty ticket office, to a car parked outside. ‘Get in,’ me says. I get in. The engine sputters and sparks into life and we rumble up the street and around the corner. ‘What is this? Where are we going?’ I say. ‘Nowhere,’ me says, exasperatedly. ‘Look at this.’ He fishes in the glovebox, swerving dangerously as he does so, ‘it’s simpler if you just read,’ he says, showering me with A5 sheets. I pick one up and start reading. *INTERDIFECTION: A GUIDE* *Hi Paul,* *I’m Paul 357375486-045372-5-1, your immune response.* I look up, me catches my gaze and grimaces. *You are experiencing an out of body infection, I will assist you with the removal process. Do as I say. Everything will be OK. No questions. All of your lives depend on it.* *Also, no questions.* I look up at me. ‘Not much of a guide.’ ‘It’s simple,’ me says. ‘Shut up and do what I’m told, basically,’ I say. ‘Correct.’ ‘Interdifection?’ ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘But.’ ‘No fucking questions, you don’t know how many times I’ve had this talk,’ me says, ‘Who are you? What am I? What’s wrong with me? Is this real? Christ, is this real? Look at it, touch it, does it feel real?’ ‘OK, so?’ I say. ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘Right.’ We continue on in silence down winding country roads until we reach a small blue bungalow at the edge of a forest. ‘Out,’ me says. I obey. Inside the bungalow is cosy. Tartan tablecloths and doilies cosy. ‘Is this?’ I begin. ‘This is not my house, no,’ me says. ‘I’m borrowing it.’ He trots upstairs and I follow up two flights to the locked door of an attic bedroom. He clicks a key in the lock and we enter. Lights flick on and computer screens blink into life all around us. Each screen appears to show a different image of me in various states of unconsciousness. Every so often a screen warps and shifts to another image of another me, asleep, or passed out, or pissed or whatever. I’m so transfixed I barely notice the two people on the bed in the centre of the room. A man and a woman. They’re restrained, with wires inserted into either side of their necks, snaking down to a machine at the foot of the bed, pumping dark fluid beneath their skin. ‘And these are?’ I point towards the unconscious pair. ‘The owners of the house, yes. Please stand here,’ me says. ‘Right,’ I say, must continue to just go along with this or I will completely lose my shit.


The train’s sharp whistle startled her out of a restless sleep. Though the benches were upholstered in plush velvet, being squeezed between Mr. X’s boney frame and Mrs. Y’s overflowing one, Caro was trapped. Across the narrow space were the sleeping figures of the young girl, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Z and, near the door, a young man. Caro had tried all afternoon not to ogle him, but her eyes had a mind of their own. Using the half-light from the exit sign over the door, she stole another glance. He smiled at her. Tipping his head toward the door and the hallway beyond, he whispered. “Fancy a walk?” Hoping that the lack of proper light was hiding her blush, Caro nodded. Twisting and turning, she slipped out from underneath Mrs. Y’s crushing weight. Her short fur cape in one hand, he held out his other to help her to her feet. The soft sigh when the door slid open did not seem to disturb anyone. They stepped into the hallway. A porter, smoking a cigarette at the end of the hall, nodded and turned his back to them. “The bar car is still open, I believe,” he mumbled. “Come let’s get a drink and …” Not finishing his sentence but, still holding her hand, he led her toward the dining room and bar car. As if expecting the rendezvous, the sleepy looking waiter nodded toward a table at a window and brought an unopened bottle of slivovitz and two short glasses. “Now, Caroline, let’s talk.” The young man poured a generous shot in each glass. He raised his glass as if making a toast, savored the taste before swallowing. “My name is, …” he paused. “No, let me tell you what I know about you.” He drained the rest of his drink, put the glass on the table and leaned forward. “You, Caroline van Buuren, are the last of your family who, for generations were prosperous beyond belief. Your ancestors, bankers every one of them, made under-the-table bargains with their friends and charged usury fees to lend money, never losing sleep over what happened to the wretches who were ruined when they couldn’t ante up.” He paused and refilled his glass, held the bottle out to her. “Drink up, my dear. Enjoy it while you can.” Topping up her glass after her modest sip. “Now that the bottom has fallen out of the stock market” he continued, “and wiped away your family’s fortune, you are on a hunting trip, are you not? You, having lost your fortune, I would say ill-gotten gains, but that would be so dramatic, wouldn’t it, are traveling to your maternal homestead, in the hopes of finding peace, or riches. Have I missed anything?” Eyes on the table, fingers gripping the sturdy short glass, Caro shook her head. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Her voice, tight with fear, was low, barely audible over the relentless clack-clack of train rushing on. He reached across the small table, one finger under her chin, he lifted her head, made her look at him. His smile was benign, but did not reach his eyes. “I have a proposition for you. It so happens that someone, a noble, shall we say, needs a new bride. Of course, any chit would do, but he happens to be particular. He wants a beautiful wife. One who is educated, knows her way around the dining room and leads the conversation that ensues. One who knows her way around a Pound, a Frank, a Dollar. One who will do as he says and never question him.” “You want a pretty, smart, pet. A monkey, a slave.” She shuddered. He smiled and shrugged. “As you wish. However, this monkey would be well taken care of, lack for nothing,” he stared out of the window into the black night. When he continued, his voice was low, distracted. “She would be dressed in silk, adorned with jewels and live in palaces.” He turned back to her, is voice sharp again. “In other words, Caroline, you would continue your life as you were meant to.” He drained his glass and leaned back. “Who are you?” “My name does not matter. I am merely a messenger. Say yes and we go on toward untold riches and unbelievable power. Say no and you will travel alone into poverty.” “Then who? Who?” Frowning, she searched his eyes but found no answer in their black depth. Caro finally lifted her glass, let the sharp liquor touch her lips, roll over her tongue and let it burn as it slid down her throat. Another swallow while she thought. She had spent the last of her money and several pieces of heirloom jewelry to come here and still had to travel second class. If her mother’s family in these remote mountains of Hungary would not welcome her, she’d be on the proverbial street, cobble stoned streets, most likely. If the man were speaking the truth, she’d be on easy street. He was right, she had been raised to preside over a dining room table, be charming at all times, to marry for wealth. Caro drained her glass, barely aware of the bite of the liquor and held it out to the man, wordlessly demanding a refill. It was her turn to stare out into the black night, the window a mirror to the bar car. There, on the other side of the car sat a man, older, yet virile, black hair smoothed back showing a widow’s peak, dark, deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones. Was he watching her? His evening clothes spoke of wealth, the large diamond tie pin alone would feed a family of five for a year and have money left over for the rent. The sapphire in his pinky ring would pay for any lavish wedding and an extensive honeymoon. Was he studying her? The ice bucket at the side of his table held an unopened bottle of champagne. Was he waiting for her? She blinked and looked back to the man across from her. “Why? Why me?” He smiled. “Maybe because you were meant to have everything you had been promised. Maybe because your desperation and inability to negotiate through the real world will make you more grateful, maybe because he … No, I doubt that would be it.” He smiled secretively. “What’s your answer, Caroline?” She tossed the drink back, shuddered at the sharp, intoxicating liquid, put the glass back on the table and nodded. “Yes. I’ll take the offer." The handsome young man turned and pointed to the man Caro had seen mirrored in the window. “Go and meet your groom. Count Vladimir.”


The hangover stank. It was the worst one in a culmination of bad ones, one so impossibly foul and rotten that there was no way to drink it off. Green to the gills and as a dry as a badger’s chuff. Unreasonably dehydrated, yet unable to keep down any liquids. It was in this sorry state I got onto the bus. You’d think the marathon of cigarettes would’ve taken away my sense of taste and smell, but all they’d done was dry around the taste bud, leaving it intact and ready to analyse the putrid, acrid rank that passed for my breath. I could smell myself, smell my fingers, each one yellowed, stained and honking so thoroughly of tar I imagined they were emitting cartoon stink lines. Cold sweat dripped down my back as my paranoid heart thundered off key to the march of some inhuman drum. I could smell these people. I could taste them. The stale body odour, the cheap aftershave, the violent perfume. It lingered and rolled into a triumvirate which also added cheap greasy food and fresh farts to the roster. I took my seat, as the sunlight blasted through the thick reinforced windows and dust burst from within the faded seat padding in a cascade of dead skin cells and anonymous fibres. I sucked it in through my flaring nostrils to stem the wave of terror that had gripped my scalp and muttered, ‘still alive.’ An aging female wart with an array of skintags sat across from me, berating and scolding what I took to be her fat grandson who had chocolate all over his hands, shirt and face. She was smacking and nipping the boy and seeming to get a kick out’ve his feeble and sticky protests to stop. I swallowed down some vomit which if spat out would’ve eaten away the upholstery on the chair in front. Two teenagers sat in the two seats in front, one in each and talked loudly of half forgotten football games and girls in their year they’d give it to. One of the pair, covered in what seemed to be a mosaic of acne and third degree burns craned his neck to see if anyone else was listening to him talking about sniffing his cousin’s knickers, when, as he twisted his neck, an evil looking spot burst from the tension and flecked his collar in residue of puss and blood. I could swear I heard it explode. My chances of recovery from this nightmare were now painfully slim. I put my sweating head into my stinking hands and ran my fingers through my hair. I felt like an ashtray, and spasms began to violently grip me around the spine as I shivered and quaked in this cesspit of anxiety and loathing. I promised God I would get my head together and sort myself out if He would only deliver me from this wretched place. I swore I’d change, as I watched clear fluids run from the little pervert’s neck and stain his shirt collar a translucent colour of orange. Suddenly, the bus driver stopped. The engine had failed and smoke was cascading from the front of the bus as he bade us wretches off the bus and onto the street. As I got off, I looked up and saw an off-license, it’s neon lights emitting a lonely but enchanting buzz, echoing me inside with all the warmth of a mother’s embrace. It was then, I concluded, that the Lord does certainly move in mysterious ways, as walked inside and stared into the fluorescent light.


Hello, my name is Jenna, and when I got married in 2017, I was 120 pounds, my ideal BMI weight, confident in myself, and ready to take on the world. I married Mark Taylor, you probably already hear it, but I didn't until my wedding day. "Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mark and Jenna Taylor!" My husband sounded like he was marrying his private parts. It was then I decided to take my old name and go by Jenna Small. Anyway, I gained a little weight, about 90 pounds, during the next four years. At the start of 2022, I made it my goal to get back to my infant weight; just kidding, but seriously, I was so heavy I started to develop a gravitational pull. Over the course of this infomercial, I will share the secret diet that helped me get confident again and more! Don't get me wrong; it wasn't easy; you have to kiss a lot of frogs until you find the diet that works for you. I was on the STARVE Diet, which stands for "Strength Training and Rigorus Vegan Eating." It was great until I discovered I was missing meat so badly that my husband had to tie a steak to a string to get me to run on the treadmill. I tried blue plates, small plates, no plates, and all I got was a full dishwasher. I tried, and brace yourself for this one; it's a little gross, the Chew and Spit Diet. This is where every other bite, you chew and spit. I had only been on it for two days when I realized I was making others sick in the break room. I tried Colonblast, Colonblow, and the now-illegal, Colonplow. They were all OK until your work uses a community bathroom. I experimented with Keto, Atkins, Paleo, Whole-30, and the lesser-known Whole-19.5, for those who try for 30 days but fail. It worked until I found myself floating to a pie sitting on the windowsill like I was in Tom and Jerry cartoon. I was low-fat, high-fat, no-fat, good-fat, unsat-fat, and all I had to show for it was, yes, you guessed it, fat. My husband even attempted to help. We investigated it and discovered that I ate a lot of my snacks while watching television and movies. So we limited our munching to when we watched sports, which was only a few times a week. This worked until one day; I found myself watching Finland versus Parguary exhibition curling at 3 in the morning. I was on the South Beach Diet until I went to South Beach and gorged myself on Pina Coladas and Empanadas till I required a new pair of jeans. I considered lap band, lap sleeve, and actual laps around a track. All of these were swiftly eliminated when I discovered how costly they were; financially for the first two and physically for the last. Then there was intermittent fasting, twice a week fasting, 24-hour fasting, and the lesser-known 15-minute fast, in which you are supposed to fast for 24 hours but eat something after 15 minutes. I experimented with frequency diets, eating 6 meals a day, 3 meals a day, and 1 meal a day until I was eating 10 meals a day and hiding my face in the McDonald's parking lot. I joined a gym, which quickly became a monthly reminder of my failure; I purchased a treadmill, which stores more clothes than my closet; and a Total Gym, which conveniently sits in a box in my bedroom. Every day when I get up, Chuck Norris is taunting me on a dusty box. I drank protein shakes, nothing but water, fruit smoothies, vegetable smoothies, and all I lost were several tumblers and bottles that cost $8.99 each. I tried the skip breakfast, skip lunch, skip dinner; no matter which meals I skipped, it always resulted in me crouched over the kitchen sink, eating chocolate cake in shame. I reached rock bottom when I found myself in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, sipping a Dunkin Donuts coffee, eating Doritos, and entering my calories into my fitness tracker. I made the decision to stop. For a few days, I just wanted to be normal. After a few more days, I began to notice my body's natural hunger and fullness cues. I also made a conscious effort to eat foods that I enjoyed, and that nourished my body, rather than trying to restrict certain foods or food groups. After a month, I decided to become more active. I began going for walks, practicing yoga (badly), and even joining a local kickboxing club. I found that I was losing weight, and my heel hook kick to the groin was coming along nicely. Slow but steady, the weight began to drop. I concentrated on how I felt rather than the numbers on the scale. My clothes began to feel more comfortable, and I had more energy throughout the day. Now, at the beginning of 2023, I've learned to love and embrace my body for what it is, to be happy and healthy rather than to fit into a specific dress size. Self-love is derived from within, not from a number on a scale. If I'm crouched over the sink eating chocolate cake now, it's because I want to, and I do it confidently. This has been Jenna Taylor-Small... yes, I hear it; and I hope my story might inspire others battling with their weight. Remember that there is no one-size-fits-all diet, so figure out what works best for you and your body. And most importantly, be kind to yourself and trust the journey.