Part 1 I woke up and glanced at the clock to the side of me. 5:30. I never woke up that early. Even for school. I felt, different, though, somehow. Like I was being watched. Like I was in a movie or a book or something. But it was more than that. I was motivated? I guess? That fits well enough. I was motivated. I wanted to do something. I slowly got up and started to get ready for school. I dreaded school. I hated most people there, and they hated me back. I honestly don't know why I went. If it was up to me, I wouldn't. It was a big waste of time. I really hated it. I was never bad in school, but nothing exceptional either. It wasn't the work though, it was the people. If you were any different than the hive mind you were made an outcast. I wasn't one though. I had a good amount of friends, and knew the right people to not be made fun of, but I just never liked most of the people there. They were cruel and unforgiving. I didn't like them. So you're probably wondering why I still went? Well like many people, it was because of Her. I never knew her name, only what she looked like. She was amazing, but she hated me. I only still went to school because I thought I would have a chance of her not hating me. If I just had a chance to talk to her, or something, maybe she wouldn't hate me, like many people do. I honestly don't know why I'm telling anyone this. Nobody cares. But I don't mind. I don't care. I've been told countless times that I could never get her. Or anyone, for that matter. But I didn't care. I kept trying. Again, I know nobody cares, but this is my story. And I'm going to tell it for once. I went to school, again dreading it. The day wasn't anything special. I went to my classes, nothing more, nothing less. The worst part about school I think was how uneventful it always was. Anyway one thing did happen today, I talked to her. It turns out, she doesn't hate me, just never bothered to talk to me. Part 2 He talked to me today! I couldn't believe it! Then, after I got over the shock, I felt so idiotic for not saying more. For not saying "I think I love you" or at least "Can we be friends?" All I could manage was "H-h-hi." Imbecile. Now he'll never know that I can't stop thinking about him and probably never will. Now he'll never know that I think he's amazing. And he'll certainly never, ever know that someone, even if it's just me, needs him. School was......school. I mean, I was pretty intelligent, I suppose. Made pretty good grades. But where does that get you in life? Further than most people think, but that's the point. The people who decide your social standing are highly unqualified to do so. But do I care? Not in the slightest. I'm not disliked. I'm friendly with pretty much everyone, but mainly, I'm not noticed at all, really. I'm not bothered by that. Trust me, most people at my school, you wouldn't want to notice you, either. The one thing that drove me crazy was that he didn't notice me. At least, I thought he didn't for awhile. Once, I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard him talking about suicide. I doubted he'd talk about it, but I didn't doubt he'd do it. This scared me. I realized I didn't exactly have a lot of time to tell him anything really. I had to force myself into his life. Honestly, I could care less if the whole world hated me. But not him. Please, not him. The reason I liked him was because you could tell by looking at him that he understood you. Not necessarily everyone, but I knew he'd understand me. I knew that maybe I could be someone he liked. I hoped I could be someone he loved. I just didn't know how to tell him.


“Mama wrote me, dear!” Isabella’s mother, a not-so-young woman anymore, celebrated as a young child. “She is coming to visit us!” She continued yelling from the kitchen. “What?!” The old alchemist exclaimed in disbelief and biting his teeth. He made a very discontent face although was able to hide it from Isabella’s mother. “I thought you liked her and missed her.” The young man, son of a friend of a friend, replied in a lower voice. “Yeah, I do.” Isabella’s father answered in a lower voice too. “And I do like her better when she is far away, very far away.” He sighed heavily and gesticulated with his hand as if trying to send the old woman away before she arrive. “We can say” He continued “I like her letters. Full of histories from all around where she goes. True or not it is always very entertaining.” “What did you say, Dear?” Isabella’s mother asked from the kitchen where she was finishing to hit the soup. “That is great news, my love!” He yelled. “When did she arrive?” He asked contracting his teeth again and, saying in a very low voice. “I need to prepare myself emotionally.” “You know mom…” She entered the living room smiling and carrying the soup that smelled great. “Anytime. It might even be tonight. Those letters took so long sometimes…” “That is the problem here; maybe all of us should move to the future with Isabella where the letters came faster.” He said lowly when Isabella’s mother was back in the kitchen. Isabella entered the living room laughing and saying. “It is good to be home again.” “Be welcome, dear, did you wash your hands?” Her father asked. “Yes, Father. I’ve been surviving well by myself traveling the whole world all around time and I have already 27 years old. Washing hands is the basics.” “Since when?” He said. “You know here in Alexandria it is not so common yet.” “Well, that is because now is still a couple of centuries after Christ was born… I don’t know when exactly people begin to worry about washing hands…” “Anyway, it is good to know that in the future people will be cleaner.” “I’m so happy you are here, my dear.” Isabella’s mother said with her eyes emotionally melted in tears. “Me too, Mom.” “Since your father gave you that time-traveling necklace…” “Oh, not again, please.” The father said. “Let’s not start that discussion again. It has been more than six years now!” “Yeah! Exactly! MORE than six years that I go to bed without knowing where, when or how my baby is! She can be dead like in 2020, and we will never know!” “But she is happy! Can’t you admit that?” He said louder and louder. “And we all will be dead in 2020.” He groused. Isabella laughed again. Her parents could never agree about her 21 years old birthday gift. A time-traveling necklace her father made especially for her. The kind of gift only an alchemist's father is able to do for you and she loved that. Trying to change the subject and to gain Isabella’s trust, the young alchemist, son of a friend of a friend, said: “And how it is, Isabella? To be able to travel the whole world and in time like that.” “What is this new acquisition in the family, again? Can someone explain it to me better? Couldn’t we have a dog instead?” “We already have a dog. A couple of ones, dear.” The father said. “One more?” “All right, I explain.” Her mother said. “He is a friend of a friend of mine, and he is here to learn with your father. He is a young alchemist too, as his father. But he wanted to learn a few things with your father.” “Father never had any students, not even me…” She looked with suspicion at the man at the table with them. “That is not true, I will explain…” Isabella’s father was about to say when the doorbell ranged. “Are we expecting someone?” Isabella asked. “Your grandmother!”. Isabella’s mother shouted jumping off the chair and going to open the front door. “Wauhhh! Already?” Isabella’s father screamed losing his voice to a high tone. The young alchemist tried to hide his smile. “Mama!!!” Everyone looked really happy on that warm evening with the arrival of the old lady, Isabella’s grandmother. Everyone was happy in that dining room enchanted by the light of the flames from the fireplace. Except for Gordon, Isabella’s father, of course, who was a little cranky. He kept hearing in his mind the first words that the old woman said to him that night ‘You look older than before!’. Of course, he thought, it has been almost over a decade. She could just wait another decade before came and he might be lucky enough to be already dead. After the initial compliments, they all sit around the table to have dinner, as they was about to do before the ringing of the doorbell. “Isabella has just arrived too, Mom.” “I know” She answered to her daughter smiling while arranging Isabella’s pink strands in her hair. “I knew it would look great at you, lovely dear.” Isabella’s grandmother always called her like that, ‘lovely dear’. “She always knows everything.” Her father whispered to himself. Yes, that is Isabella’s grandmother. She seems to always know everything. Then the old woman stared at the young man in the diner room, looking at him directly in his eyes. He felt uncomfortable. Usually, he was very confident, although the old woman's gaze made him tremble inside. He gasped. “And about you?” She finally said. “I am the son of…” He was about to introduce himself. “I know.” “Be careful, my dear mother-in-law, he is new here and he doesn’t know…” Isabella’s father was trying to protect the young alchemist. “I know.” The old woman interrupted. “You don’t need to protect him. He will do good by himself.” “Yes, but he doesn’t know about you and…” “Don’t you worry” She interrupted him again making a no balancing of her pointer finger. ‘Old bastard’ Gordon thought, but silenced even his thoughts when Isabella’s grandmother looked at him with a mad face. ‘I’m sorry’ was his last thought that night. “What I suppose to do with you, young boy?” She finally asked him something, breaking the scare staring with an even more scary thing. He stammered “Well, technically I am not a young boy, anymore, I’m more than 30 already and…” “I know.” The old woman said. “I am 83 years old and I have been 83 years old for three centuries now. I think you are a young boy for me.” “He is suspicious, isn’t he, Grandma?” “Of course he is.” The old woman affirmed severely. “I am still in the living room.” He said trying to recover some dignity and, trying to recover some confidence: “And why do you need ‘to do’ anything about me?” He gazed at her strongly. “You are going to give me worries!” The old lady said. “Don’t you start, Grandma, please?” That was Gordon. When he wants to melt her, he just calls her Grandma. Like if he was saying: Isabella’s grandma, please… Most of the time, that works pretty well. “What, Gordon?” “He is not used to that, don’t you do that, please. He is just beginning his life.” “And he needs to begin it well!” The young alchemist became worried. Since both Isabella’s parents were alchemists, what could the old woman, Isabella’s grandmother, be or do? Curse him terribly with something really bad? Transform him into a frog? The possibilities were endless in his imagination at that moment. “You are stronger than I thought.” She paused. “That is a good or a terrible thing, I don’t know yet.” “Oh… you are actually doing it… okay, I say nothing anymore.” Isabella’s grandmother tells the future. Does she predict it or does she create it? We wonder… She is a rare kind of alchemist. An alchemist of the words, like Isabella is, but this is not about young Isabella. By the way, Isabella’s grandmother also is called Isabella. She named her granddaughter after her with a blessing by the fire on the beach on the day little Isabella was born. Her entire life she was called to bless the newborns. To give them nice and warm futures. Futures where they could be happy and make others happy too. The old lady faced again the young man that trembled again even though he was sitting at the table. “You are going to be either the beginning of it all or either be the ending of it all. You are going either to build an entirely new world or either destroy it completely.” The young one gasped not knowing what he was supposed to think or fell about that.

“What is that?” Gordon asked. “You said so much and nothing at the same time. You never said anything so vaguely like that.” The son-in-law was concerned, had the old woman gone senile now? It would be his worst nightmare, to have to deal with this crazy old woman in the craziest mode. “I can’t tell about him.” She answered calmly. “He was born under the moon of the ambiguous archetype. We can never know about the ambiguous ones until very close to the end…” She said with concern in her voice. Everyone went in shock and were in silence. That had never happened before. That Isabella’s mother to be unable to predict any future at all. Then Isabella’s mother, Rose, asked; “And that is all that you can know about his future?” “Ohh, no.” The grandma answered. “That is what I can deduce from the gossip I heard on my way here… about his family” “What the old woman doesn’t know by seeing the future, she knows by gossip. Always like that.” Gordon said to himself. “Better than you that never knows anything about anything anyway…” The old mother-in-law answered with an acid smile. Then she looked at the young alchemist again. “Either way, you will be part of it. You will be important, and it lies completely in your hands the choices of your future and the future of many others too…” The young alchemist felt nervous, but he was not sure why. Then the old woman smiled and said reliving the tension in the air. “I will trust you for now, young boy.” She stirred the soup on her plate. “Continue to eat, everyone!” she said looking around the table, because everyone had stopped eating. “The soup is great and it is better to eat it warm than cold.” “And we will meet again, young boy.” She smiled to him. “I will help you in the future.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “Or else I will destroy you.” And she gave a nice, warm, cozy smile.


It was a hard walk to the Mt. Vernon, it almost took him an hour to reach the destination. After working the entire shift John didn’t have any mood for going to the party but still it was needed of him, his sister would be turning eight tonight. She'd want me there , John had believed. A four story apartment building stood in front of him, high as hell as he was. When John walked inside and began his climb, something felt strange. I’ve been to these steps before…… But surely he never was, he had to ask for the directions. Déjà vu is what they call it. The apartment building was a gloomy place. It didn’t do justice to the locality it was in. The walls were still damp from the rain that had washed down the entire city yesterday. Someone or more than someone had mistaken the stairs for trash bin. There wasn’t even an elevator to place you up on your wanted floor. Up and up he went, wondering. Not much later, the door stood in front of him. A white wooden door in a dark building. The door . John could hear the faint noises inside : sounds of laughter, of kids and their parents, thumping steps, shouts and curses, all but sadness. There was a big part of him that would’ve wanted nothing more than just walk away, even from there, but he knew better than that or he hoped at least. So, he raised his right hand, coiled it into a fist and knock…..knock . The noises from inside grew colder. Knock…knock , he did it again. Then, as the moment stretched longer, he could hear the sound of someone’s steps coming closer. The door opens. And the world was full of laughter. Fun…is that what they call it? , wondered John.  He found Uncle Ben on the other side with a smile on his face. John was forced to smile. His uncle was a slender man, same as him but shorter. “Uncle Ben.” said John. “John my boy, we were all just waiting for you, come in.” “Well, I’m sure you were.” A lie . As Uncle Ben ushered him in, John found himself in a strange place. I’ve been here before….. but how could he?  The yellow walls were all decorated with birthday celebration. The place seemed upside down. There were people around, a lot of people. John found many unknown eyes on him but only for a moment, then it was all forgotten like he was never there, except…… “Is this my poor baby John?” asked Aunt Martha as she came to squeeze the soul out of him with a hug. “It seems to be your poor John grandma, I’m not sure about that baby part.” John replied. “Well, you’ll always be a baby to me.” A cousin sister to his mother’s mother, Martha was an old woman. Short and round, even though she was in her late 60s, her features hadn’t left her. “How long have you been living on air?” Aunt Martha inquired. I’ve been living on worse things than air, grandma . But John thought better than to say it. “Well, what the lad’s gonna do when his grandmother wouldn’t spare him any meal.” Uncle Ben came to rescue. “I didn’t spare you any meal, you seem fatter than me.” Aunt Martha replied. Then there was a guffaw, from both mother and son. John forced himself to smile. “Where is she?” John asked. “Jennifer…..she should be here somewhere” Martha looked all around. “It’s not likely a place to be lost.” “No....not Maa. Joy, where’s Joy?” “Joy? Ahhh the girl. She might be in her room with her mother.” “Can you get her for me? Please” For a moment it seemed she might deny but….“Yeah, wait here.” was all she said before she left. “So, what’s going on with you John?” asked uncle Ben. “I’m alright.” “You still working—" “Who are all these people?” John interrupted. “Uhhh, well people” Ben said, a little startled “You know neighbors, friends, colleagues.” Then it was silence, the awkward one, at least for a moment until….“But it’s good you know, it’s her birthday-“ “You don’t have to do it. You can go. Those are your friends I believe. I won’t miss your presence, well at least while I’m waiting.” And so it was done. Ben left and John was all alone in the midst of all the chatters. If truth be told John never longed for anyone’s presence. By now he was used to it, or fool he must be if he wouldn’t. Life was all like it, life has always been like it. There was a time when he would cry for his mother to stay or not leave him for some stupid work. Of course he didn't need money to live, he needed his mother. There was a time when he would’ve dreaded the dark but not now, rather he’d welcome it. It was a long time ago, it wasn’t even him. John, some John who lived here, who had a mother and a father, a place to live. There were many John in this city alone, sadly he wasn’t the one. Uncle Ben though must hadn’t liked the way he’d spoken but this John was tired of pretending. He was sick of them for treating him like he cared. He didn’t or so he thought at least. After some more moments of peace and silence, the hall erupted all of sudden……and then she came. Can anything be more pure and innocent ? His sister was wearing a gown of neon pink color. Holding a small purse in her hand, she was taking those little steps her gown could allow. After Joy came her mother, Aunt Martha followed them out of the room with two kids and some other girl he might have known once. Then it was all done in rush. People clapped their hands and gave her some pretty compliments. He was lost in the flood. If Joy had noticed him, she gave no sign and so he stood there, silently in the shade of all the fun. Cake came forth with Uncle Mike (only person’s presence he’d have welcomed in this room after Joy and Martha). The candles were blown out as soon as they were being lighted. As per the tradition “Happy Birthday” song was sung, John passed along few versus with them. The hall was full of laughter when the song ended with Joy hidden behind the world. John glanced up at the wall clock that must’ve been feeling safer than ever. The hour of wolf was nigh upon them. John knew what it meant, it was the time to present the gifts and then food. John had suffered enough shame for a single day and he didn’t intend to suffer it more. The girl he had came for wasn’t here. Joy, was it? The girl was lost to him, it seemed. John’s sister….the other John’s. Shying from people’s stare he had entered this strange place, without them he left. The eyes of unknown never mattered to him, nor did they mattered now. Two eyes were all that he had cared and hoped for, but it seemed that that too were lost to him. As he made his descent, the sound of crowd started receding and soon only the sound of his footsteps remained. I’ve been to these steps before…….I’ve lived my entire life on these steps , memories came back to him. The climb down took him much less time than it had taken him to climb up. John was pleased to put that place behind him, good and well for now. When he emerged out of the darkness, his mere body casted biggest shadow that he could have ever hoped to see. He looked up to the east, the moon was there, hiding behind the ever racing clouds. White as milk, it shone like some God’s angel. It’s silvery rays washing the entire alley with the godly presence. It was good. It felt good. It was beautiful. As John made his way down the alley, he heard someone calling him from behind. He turned, and a shadow stepped out into the light. It was a woman, young and handsome one. He knew her once…. more than knew. “You’re leaving.” She called out. “I suppose, I am.” John replied. “The fun has just started.” “Well as you know, I’m not a very man you look towards to for having fun.” “I don’t know. Why did you come here, then?” “To meet someone.” “So, did you met ‘your someone’ then?” “I suppose….I did.” “You lie…… poorly…..still.” John shrugged. “If you say so.” “Oh…I don’t say anything, John” She’s still beautiful, more than ever . “What you doing down here?” “You were leaving without your return gift.” “I didn’t bring her anything, if that’d give you any help.” “Still, you attended the party. You’re entitled to receive a gift from us. Guest right.” She returned his shrug. A smile broke into his lips. “Alright then, be done with it.” Cara moved aside. The world moved aside. She was standing there, still trying to hide herself behind Cara. Tears filled his eyes. This is more pure and innocent . As Joy ran to meet him, John stood there still, with his arms open, preparing himself for the moment. “I didn’t see that one coming”, John whispered to himself…...and then it came…..John lifted her up off her feet and plunged her into the sky…..and soon the shadow casted by the moon’s silver was even bigger. -	Rudransh Sharma


Blooming orchards used to surround him. Sounds so distant, yet so vibrant, resonating inside of his head. Each step, each movement, luring all cares away - no longer a worry. He peered around out of his hoodie, sun gleaming, grass swaying - but so much grey. It’s not how it once was. The trees wail; begging for mercy. The rain no longer restores, but only drowns. Tyranny. Had he anymore hope, no longer would he dream, but instead act. But it was too late. The good times were over - the world was not the same. The faces of those who stray through the lonely paths so soulless - blank, pale. Where had it all gone, the people, for they were no different to ghosts. This is exactly where he knew, he was alone. A speck of dust in an endless universe. It was all taken from him. The wonder, the curiosity, it no longer mattered, as they had stolen it all. In his head, he does question if it had to be this way - so organised, so regimented. The lack of beauty and creativity took a heavy toll on his mind. This town was beautiful once, but, along with all else, that had withered away. Further down the path, his old school. He still remembered those smiling faces. She had the most memorable smile of all. Even amongst the monochrome, she was colour. A beacon. Someone who resonated hope - an aura of golden warmth. Pointless - they’d always find out. She couldn’t stay this way, but who could. Like tears falling down my page, the ink smearing, they’d find a way to ruin the art. The letters caving inwards, each line bending and swaying - no longer reaching any clarity. The freedom and life within the page was evanescent. These, ‘intrusions’, were the root cause of the sickness. He would no longer see a glow, because they had stolen it. Who are we? And who is he? It’s clear he doesn’t accept the blame for this - but the hypocrisy is an invisible dagger, being pushed further and further into him. Who else could be the cause but him? The ghosts on the street? The thieves who never cease from taking more? Unbeknownst to him, he is a thief. This grey, this fog, he is the very matter it is made from. Maybe he is not entirely accountable, as he is just a simple piece within a machine. Nevertheless, even one bolt coming loose can send trauma, shockwaves, throughout even the whole skeleton. However, if he doesn’t change, he may as well be another blood cell surging through the thief’s body. To accept, or defy, is the dilemma faced by every cell. Acceptance leads to easy comfort. Defiance is never so simple. He might be seen as a lonesome virus, soon to be ensnared by carnivorous antibodies. But there is always light after such a struggle. You might be like her - a hopeful radiation, changing someone's very matter, letting them see their own chains. You might turn into him - reminiscing the morning dew and sunlight, but failing to wake up in time to experience it.


 March 14th 1945 Pvt. Daniel Brody. 9th Division Infantry. Nurse Cora says I should write about what happened. She thinks it might help me get over the emotional trauma, or at least help me cope, and deal with the nightmares that continue to haunt me. It has been six months, and still it continues to remain vivid in my memory, sometimes I feel like it's happening all over again, and I cannot be rid of the torment, or the guilt. In my sleep, I see the faces of my comrades looking at me in shame and distress. I would much rather face defeat in the trenches, over the war in my mind, at least there I could possibly redeem myself. A second chance for death to take me, in honor of those who fell before me. I thought I had died that day, (September 19th 1944) We were marching along the southern edge of Aachen Germany, The last thing I remember was an explosion, followed by agonizing screams, and a searing pain in my leg, before I blacked out, I thought I had breathed my last, but there I was, laid out on a stretcher, drenched in blood. It was then I realized I had failed, failed my unit, and failed to die. I could not determine, where I felt the most defeat, between the pain and the knowledge, it was because of me stepping on a trip mine, five of my friends had died, and somehow I survived.  I laid there, useless and limbless, begging for death to take me, begging the medic’s to leave me to die alone, I wasn’t worth saving. I felt ashamed of the tears that flowed like flood waters, down my face, I screamed and thrashed, but I could do nothing. The medics ignored me, and went about their business, when I refused to comply, they forced morphine down my throat, till my body went still, my brain became foggy, and I fought that too. Twice I attempted to rip off the bandages, and tear the stitches, to bring about the death, I felt I justly deserved, but even in my attempt’s I was defeated. I took little comfort in knowing in this I was not alone, the field hospital was full of men ready to die, and equally those not yet ready to give in. On Sept 27th. They put me on the ambulance and said I was headed for England, where I was to convalesce with the other wounded survivors, till arrangements could be made to send me back home. The doctors called me lucky, as they carried me, I felt anything but, looking down at the stump that used to be my leg. Sure I still had my right leg, but in my mind, I might as well have lost both, what good was one leg? I would never walk again, and be nothing but a burden to my family. At least I have no regrets, about ending things with Lucy, she definitely wouldn’t want me now. By Oct 3rd, I found myself in a manor, in the English countryside, it was here I first met The Chaplain and Nurse Cora, who made it there sole responsibility to convince me I still had a purpose, and that I was a hero and had so much to live for. It was probably the first time I had laughed in weeks, had they been there, they would not think me a hero. They said it wasn’t my fault, anyone could have accidentally set off the mine, that if I hadn’t, somebody else would have.

The Chaplain would argue God wasn’t done with me yet, and that my purpose would be revealed in time. He spent many hours with me in this manner. I much preferred Nurse Cora’s company, she was more understanding of my plight, she often told me stories of other soldiers, who had lost limbs and carried on, and now as I write this memory, I realize it was an act of cowardice on my part, I spent months wishing for the end, thinking it was honorable, but the truth of the matter was the fact, I was too afraid to face the future, quite frankly I still am, but if the hundreds of men that come through here like myself, have learned to adjust to a new way of life, they are braver men than I could ever hope to be.

Though my struggles with nightmares continues to plague my very soul, cursing me with self-doubt, thanks to Chaplain Harvey and Nurse Cora, I had found the courage, to press on, I still found plenty of room for complaint, and wallowing in self-pity, and times of discouragement, but I now fight the battle of regaining my ability to walk again. The prosthetic leg they have attached to my stump, is an ugly piece of machinery, and awkward to control without the help of a crutch or cane, I have fallen on my face more times than I care to count, I have lost my faith, and found it again, I have cried and laughed, with my new friends.

Tomorrow it will be time for me to go home, my battle with the world is over, but the battle over my mind and body, has begun in full force.

I fear what my family will think of me, I wonder how I can find my way in society again, I will never be the same person I was before.

I said my goodbyes, and told Nurse Cora, I would take her advice, and write my thoughts down, and I promised I would write her often. Every time I doubt, I think about what Chaplain Harvey said about God not being done with me, somehow, someway, I still had a purpose, and I had to find it. At first I hated the chaplain, every time he reminded me, but now I can’t help but smile, when I think of those encouraging words he said so often; “You have suffered only a moment of defeat, but you have a lifetime of victories ahead of you” I will probably forget this often, but these words I have written will be my reminder, and in the days to come, whatever challenge I face, may this remind me I have much to live for.


MOTHER KNOWS BEST Martin and Frank were two old friends who morphed into the geezers they are today. Since they now wear their lifetime achievement badges, they’re never ones to stop what they’ve always lived to do and that is to tell people what they don’t want to hear, because they know everything about anything and everyone. Both of their middle names are busy body. However, today was to be a different day. Each time they met at the Dog and Pony Bar & Grill, which would be every Thursday on the dot at high noon, the talk would be the same. When they greeted each other, it was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. They got their usual table and the talk went on and on as they tucked into the luncheon house special. Today’s highlight of conversation began about a recent newspaper article that they both had read. Martin was the first to pipe up with, “Get a load of that high-brow thinking in that story on the front page. Right?” he snickered and added, “How to Make Things Work Better My Way.” Just because he’s got that piece of paper from that hoity toity school, you might think he knows more than us learned folk?” Frank laughed loudly and agreed with his friend. “I think,” he added, “we need to get in on his idea. How about we come up with, Make Things Work Better OUR Way.” The two badgered each other about the endless possibilities until they came to an agreement. The one thing two old geezers felt they needed to change in this modern world of so much technology up the wazoo running everybody’s life, is how every house has a sideline pet that went by the name of, ALEXA. Martin was adamant in coming up with a game changer, in his new way of thinking. He thought back to a time when his mother was a totally different type of Alexa. She brought him up with a no nonsense attitude. You did what was expected in and around the household. No questions. You wanted something, let’s see how much effort it took to get you a dollar to buy that toy or that snack. Frank agreed, nodding vigorously. He liked the idea but had another way to make the whole idea sink in to make an impression for the good of all and not just the next generation. The two knew that their time was up, since lunchtime was long over. So they made a plan to find the dweebs they needed to concoct the plan. Where were they hanging out? Easy answer. At the bookstore coffeeshop for sure. Gotta have your fancy double shot espresso latte skim milk mochaccino. They agreed to meet there early the next day to find the one they were looking for, whoever that might be. Before they split, Martin said, “ What are we doing? Aren’t we just supposed to relax, meet up for lunch, and do a whole lot of nothing? We’ve earned this time.” Frank nodded but added, “So, if we could be something other than that, why not? We have to break out of our hum drum every now and then. Can’t forget to throw in a little fun. We can be the new geezers on the block. OK?” The next day was here and the two were at the street corner where the bookstore was in plain view. They noticed the ones coming and going were exactly the right dweebs. Now to solicit the right one for their hairbrained but needy ideas. It didn’t take long before the right person who happened to have the right book, caught their attention. It was, in a strange way, the right theme. Shakespeare. “To be, or not to be: that is the question.” “Nothing will come of nothing.” “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Before long, they engaged in a conversation with Nate, and their plan was laid out. The young dude was totally wrapped up in their thinking and had a friend who knew a friend who could, without a doubt, create their ideal model. While Martin’s plan was hatching, Frank’s idea was taken into consideration as the next best blend of the same two thoughts. They agreed that these would spark an interest like no other, make a point, and put the message out there to one and all. Would it be funny? YES! and It would be a good way to add a mix of old and new thinking to make a point that should not be forgotten. Martin got ahold of folks he knew from the senior center who were so like him and Frank with the same attitude, in the lackadaisical way society has turned, especially with the young people. Now the time was here to address that for the good. Before long, the three met up again and with the process worked out, and simplified, it was time to make a statement. Now Martin and Frank had to stoop low and use some technology and with Nate’s help, created an online presence and soon found a film crew who agreed to get on board with their unique idea. Before long, they had created a way to adjust the style of the famous, ALEXA. Martin had one way, Frank had another. “Are we ready for this?” Frank wanted to be clear about this new investment of their lives that was about to change. His senior friends had already did their part and were as giddy as kids about their role. They were told to keep a lid on the project until it was a go. “We need to stay in the game. You’re dead a long time and so we got to do this now! Since we got Nate, we’re good with all the techy stuff he’ll need to keep us up on.” Martin knew it was time to unfold this plan and their new business venture. One by one throughout the day the film crew, Martin, Frank and Nate went house to house in various neighborhoods where they already got the okay to stop by. The first house became their claim to fame with their new invention, MOTHER KNOWS BEST. Nate was brought to see their ALEXA and attached the computer chip. The activation was priceless as he spoke, “Hey! Can you get me a take-out order of pizza?” The voice was one of the senior ladies who answered, “Excuse me young man. But you need to be polite when addressing me. If you need to eat, save your money and eat what’s in the refrigerator. And please clean up when you’re finished. MOTHER KNOWS BEST.


Chad hefted himself over the final ledge, heaved his weight up and over, until he could flop his chest to the ground, and sort of wiggle the rest of the way. He wore lightweight armor, which seemed like it would make going up a mountain easy, but then he remembered steep mountain hikes weren’t easy in jeans, let alone metal. “How’s it goin’?” Wanda’s disembodied voice came from the magic mirror in Chad’s heavy pack. “Geez… us… I need… a minute… fuck…” Chad panted. “You need to work out more.” Wanda commented. “Thank you, Wanda!” Chad exclaimed. He struggled to his knees, and then gathered the strength to get to his feet. He could see the carved stone entrance of the ancient cave. Almost there. They were so close to home. He was exhausted and his heart pounded in his ears between ragged breaths. He thought he’d be used to physical activity since he played football and track back home, but it was nothing compared to long walks interrupted by dumb animal murder. Speaking of which… He heard the shuffle of movement in front of him, squinted to look for the source of the noise, saw nothing, and was knocked on his back. It was like he got hit by a car. The wind was knocked out of him and he wanted to cry. He knew what it was. A chameleon-goat, one of those weird camouflaged mountain-goat lizards. They weren’t particularly vicious, but they were territorial, and no one knew where their territory was, because they were always goddamn invisible. Well, not 100 percent invisible, once you knew what to look for, you could see it a lot better, like Predator. He turned to look at the ground and saw dirt over transparent hooves clopping towards him. The shimmer was faint, but he could make it out. “Okay, goatie, let me get back up.” Chad rolled himself back and forth a little to gain momentum. By the time he got onto his side, hooves smacked him onto his back, and pressed him down.

He was in trouble now. He dreaded the next part and struggled pointlessly under the chameleon-goat’s weight. He reached for his dagger but the armor restricted his movements. “You want I should help?” Wanda asked. “No! It’s a goat, that’d be like using Meteor on a Slime.” Chad said, tried to get up again, and failed. What looked like a mass of pink bubblegum ejected from midair and smashed into his face. He was treated to a sticky, slimy, tongue bath. This was the part he dreaded. It smelled like a mixture of rotting meat and skunk spray. Drool dripped down his face when the tongue retracted. Chad spit saliva out of his mouth and blinked it out of his eyes. He could see the bearded leathery face of the goat, and the strange cone eyes that darted in separate directions. The goat didn’t exactly have a color, it was kind of a silvery translucent mirage. The chameleon-goat bleated spittle at him. “I get it! I’ll go!” He finally rolled onto his side enough to tip the creature off. “Blaaaaaah!” The chameleon-goat bleated again, stumbled off, and kicked up dirt. Chad tried to track it with his eyes. With a final burst of strength, he got to his feet, and struggled to pull the foot-long pole device from his pack. He grasped it, but his knuckles brushed past Wanda’s mirror, and it was like touching ice. He flinched and the collapsed spear flew out of his grip. It bounced away and telescoped open near the creature. It turned silvery visible in surprise, ran blindly into Chad, and Chad fell forward this time. When he hit the ground, his forearm snapped the creature’s neck, and it started twitching abnormally. “Oh, no, oh, I’m sorry.” Chad stood back up, while he watched the poor creature struggle. It’s fur and skin bloomed shades of green, brown, tan, and gray, like a bad art project. “Better finish it off.” Wanda suggested. Chad sighed. He knew it was best to put it out of its misery. “’Cause I don’t know if you’ll get the experience if you kill it by accident.” Wanda added. “Thanks, bae.” Chad went to his spear and picked it up. Before he could stab the creature, a giant black hairy leg extended from his pack, and stabbed the goat’s head. Chad swallowed as a second equally large black leg sprout into reality on his other side, and small three fingered claws on the end of the spider legs gripped the carcass and pulled it towards Chad’s face. He held up the spear to block the disgusting goat before it touched his body. “Come one.” Wanda urged. “I’m hungry.” She apparently fed through him and he was sick of it. When he chose to revive her as a spider-summon-goddess-thing, he thought that she’d be like Spider-man instead of a giant half-spider demon. Now he was stuck in a stupid pact and part of their vow was warm blood. Even before she became a giant spider, he never planned on marrying her, but now they were trapped in a horrific symbiotic relationship to survive. “Can I cook it this time? This one might taste good if it was cooked.” Chad insisted. “Open up…” He heard her insist. A human hand slid out from his pack, pressed against the back of his head, and gingerly tried to shove his face into it. He held his breath and dug in.  He drank from the leaking vein Wanda had opened for him, like the worst Capri-sun. It tasted like dirt, fish, and pennies.  The blood was maroon, and smeared all over his lips, nose, and chin. He started to dry heave and turned his head away to get some air. “More!” Wanda insisted and smashed his face into the goat like it was a wedding cake. Chad wanted to cry, and inhaled some wet dog smelling hair. After pausing a few times to dry heave, he managed to get the liquid down, and Wanda let the goat drop. He heard her make weird clicks, something he thought meant “happy” or “pleasure”.

He tried to smear the blood off his face and spat out light maroon saliva until his mouth no longer had moisture. His stomach was queasy, but his strength returned. He refocused on the mossy carved entrance of the cave. There was a message in a mystical language he couldn’t understand. They looked like normal letters, but the top spelled out Achtung. Probably something in Elvish.

 He took a deck of cards from his pocket that kept track of his skills and abilities. Each card automatically updated with his stats and it helped remind him how do some of the more difficult magics. He flipped through them, found his webbing ability, and the summon conditions. He memorized it and walked into the cave. It smelled like mold and dead animals. The cave floor was smooth, and his boots made a metallic echo as he walked towards the inner chamber.

“Let’s get out of here. I am super tired of this world.” Chad muttered. “Aww, was football less stressful?” Wanda asked. Chad pursed his lips and refused to show how angry the comment made him. He reached into his belt pouch and took out a glass vial with a small invasive species of fairy. He pressed a button down on the lid, crushed the small creature into a pasty glow, shook the vial, and it glowed brighter, like the worst glowstick. He thought he heard a tiny scream but tried not to think about it. Dead fairies disintegrated into a sparkling dust, and people realized they could use this to produce a light that lasted up to a week. Chad originally asked for a flashlight, but the shopkeeper didn’t seem to know what that was.

He walked down the corridor and ducked under webs with varied success. He continued until he saw the faint glow of the entrance to the inner sanctum and stopped at the wooden frame of the door. He called up his personal webs that emerged from his fingertips. He stepped inside, and pressed his index finger against the doorframe, sticking the silk.

The sanctum was a library. He was surprised, he thought it’d be some sort of dank cave, but it reminded him of the Beast’s library from Beauty and the Beast, with three stories of shelves and an ascending system of ladders and catwalks. Torches with blue flames cast flickering shadows around the room. Towards the center was a patient, pale, white haired figure in a crisp black suit. He looked like a sort of modern-day Death. Lord Gaunt. He sat on a large black armchair and read from a large tome. A side table next to him was filled with a stack of books, a goblet, and a bottle of wine. To his right was a long stone table with two black wood chairs and a chess game set up. Lord Gaunt closed the book and looked up. He gave Chad a chilling smile.

“Ah. A child.” He pressed the tips of his boney fingers together and leaned forward.

Chad walked the near invisible string from the wall, pulling thread out of the tip of his finger. It was like someone was tugging out a stitch and it was rather uncomfortable. Chad pushed his finger against another point on a bookshelf to create a place to continue the circle. They watched each other. Chad made slow movements around the perimeter of the room, as he dragging his index finger along, lookin’ like a weirdo. After three minutes of this, Chad nearly came back to his starting point, and the man moved. There was a flicker and he was suddenly in front of Chad. A breeze buffeted his face from the speed. “Oh no, that’s fast.” Wanda said unhelpfully. Before Chad could finish, the man grabbed Chad by the throat, and picked him off his feet. Chad clung to the man’s hands, unable to do anything against the much stronger man. There was a blur of motion, and Chad’s butt slammed into one of the black wood chairs. The chess pieces on the table wobbled and nearly fell, but Lord Gaunt’s hands flew out in a blur of motion and replaced all the pieces before they could topple. Chad was nauseous from the trip and dry heaved a little. “Knock that off, child, we’re playing chess.” Gaunt said. “No, I hate chess.” Chad moaned. He rubbed his throat and coughed. “Were you going to destroy me with a summons? Was that it?” He asked with mild amusement. “Uh, yeah, I would have kicked your ass.” Chad said hoarsely with confidence.

“I’m not the sort of person you ‘fight’ though. That’s why I have the game set up, to give you a fighting chance. Mowing down insects isn’t challenging or exciting.” “Okay, hear me out. Let me do the summons thing and I will be happy and win.” “Child, there’s no spell or creature that can fight me, I do want you to understand that.” He waved his hand over the chessboard. “With this, you have a chance.” Chad laughed. “I’d like to not to. When my brother told me the horse moved in an ‘L’, I flipped the board up, and punched him in the dick. That’s the level of skill we’re talkin’.” “And your plan would have worked?” Lord Gaunt smiled. “Yeah, easy.” Chad said. Lord Gaunt extended his hand and smiled. “By all means.”

Chad got up, and half-jogged back to where he left the last thread. He took his pack off, put it on the ground, opened the flap, fished for the correct vial, placed this and his cards next to the pack, and then went to the wall to complete the circle.

The threads started to glow when connected, and Wanda’s mirror rose from the pack. It shuddered, struggled into the air, and then shattered with a loud crack. It left a jagged black void in midair and Wanda crawled out, spider leg first. From the waist up she was a topless tan teenage girl with small breasts and black hair, but below this was the crimson hourglass patterned abdomen and hairy black legs of a giant spider. She used to be shorter than him but was now around eight feet high. Chad thought she used to be attractive before the bottom half of her looked like Shelob.

“A spider summons.” Lord Gaunt commented. “Are you going to try and poison me?” He said this in a way that led Chad to believe poison would not work on this man. “Sure.” Chad said. “Wanda, sic him!” He pointed at the creepy old man. Wanda stepped towards Chad, bent forward, picked him up by his shoulders with her two front-most legs and human arms, and plunged her sharp canine teeth into his neck. “Fuck! Ow! Not the plan!” Chad tried to struggle, but her grip was strong. His arms were pinned to his side, and his strength drained as he quickly developed anemia. It hurt, but the flaring pain also released numbing endorphins that spread as he lost blood. As his vision faded to black, she loosened her grip and he fell- Wanda dropped Chad and accidentally kicked his limp body when she turned back to the pack. His blood tasted so sweet, like she bit into a juicy watermelon on the first day of summer. She had mixed feelings of ecstasy and panic, but concentrated, and snatched up the vial and deck. She uncorked the potion with her bloody teeth and bent back to his lifeless body. She grabbed him with two of her legs, tipped his head back, put the bottle in his mouth, and made him drink the zombie water. After she thought he had enough, she spun him into a web, pulling the thread with two legs from her abdomen, and skillfully manipulated him into a white cocoon.  After this, she dropped him, and flipped through his deck of cards.

“Blackest Widow?” Lord Gaunt guessed the spell being set up, while he patiently watched the scene play out. “I’ll admit it’s a strong physical boost, but I think you’ll find it… lacking.” She held out a card, shook her head, and smiled. “Tears of a Widow. I can change one aspect of reality.” Lord Gaunt laughed a little. “Going for an instant kill? Clever, but it won’t do anything to anyone above a Titan. And you won’t last long with your host dead.” “Didn’t say I was using it for an insta-kill.” Wanda gestured to the table behind Lord Gaunt. Instead of a chessboard was a tv, PS4, and two controllers. The plasma screen flicked on and the PlayStation startup tone played.

“Wanda! Fuck you, Wanda!” The muffled voice yelled. “Get me out of this, Wanda, I’m claustrophobic, Wanda!” Chad struggled, but the silk webs held. The cocoon looked like an egg that refused to hatch. Wanda made a quick slice with a clawed leg, and Chad’s fingers pulled against the sticky threads. “Get me out of this!” He whined. Wanda bent over to give him a hand. “Shed skin.” Gaunt muttered. It was a technique that cured the host’s ailments and that included zombie status. Chad himself didn’t know if it would work, but he was willing to gambit his life in order to escape this world. He struggled to his feet, covered in a mess of silk. No matter how many strands he pulled, he somehow never seemed to be rid of them. He tried to walk and fell face first. Wanda sliced the webs between his legs, to help him a little. “Alright, so, now we can play.” Chad said and stood again. He pat Wanda on the human belly as he passed. “That’ll do, spider.”

“I can eat you.” She said and folded her human arms across her chest. “What did you do?” Lord Gaunt asked. “I changed the game. You guys are playing Call of Duty instead of chess.” Wanda explained. She was the one who originally came up with the idea. Chad was a terrible chess player and there didn’t seem to be a way around the game, so they found a way to change the rules. “Oh.” Lord Gaunt said. He was at a loss for words. He was bound to the rules of the world and the ones he set in place and couldn’t back out of a challenge. The old man looked at the television like it was a foreign object. Chad picked up a controller and went through the menus to get to the game. “Ready?” Wanda asked. “What do I-” Lord Gaunt asked, half transfixed, half bewildered by the technology. He didn’t fully understand what was going on. “It’s a game, he’ll set up a match.” Wanda grabbed the second controller with one of her claws and placed it in the old man’s hand. “Use this button to move, use this to look around, and this one to shoot.” She directed. “Go!” The match started before Lord Gaunt fully understood. He walked into a virtual wall, the camera looked at the sky, and then rotated.

“Wait, how do I-” Lord Gaunt asked, looking from his fingers to the screen. Chad’s character walked up to Gaunt’s, shot him at point blank range, and the custom match ended. The screen declared Chad the winner. “We win.” Chad smiled at a glaring Lord Gaunt. “Get us out of this stupid world.” “Us?” Lord Gaunt asked. He placed the controller down, more amused than upset by the loss. “I can get you out, but she’s an aspect of this world now. She cannot leave.” Wanda gave him a pained look. “Chad… We’ve been through so much together, and I know you love me, and I understand if-” “Don’t care, leave, leave, leave, leave.” Chad said, snapping his fingers at Gaunt.


Mitch and Lawson were in the pickup, cruising between strip malls in the Atlanta suburbs. It was muggy and still and the cicadas had been buzzing all day. Mitch whistled low as he passed a couple in their teens, one carrying a skateboard. Lawson's eyes shot from the teenagers to Mitch. "Your Aunt still living with you?" Mitch stopped swirling his toothpick around in his mouth. He slowed the car slightly as he placed the toothpick on the edge of the ashtray, where others were arranged neatly. When the truck slammed suddenly to a halt, Lawson was taken by surprise. His head struck the dashboard, and Mitch's hand closed on a handful of his hair and gripped tightly as he drew closer, as if to whisper a secret. "You don't need to ask me about that, you hear?" Lawson cried out. Mitch released, but his hand hung there like a claw as his face slowly withdrew. He sat back, exhaling. When the truck started rolling, Lawson rubbed the back of his head. He looked at his hand for blood. "You're pretty fucked." His voice was a near whisper. Mitch rolled down Lawson's window. "That was fucked up, what you did back there." "Get some air. You're safe now. You're with me." Mitch may have been grinning, but the pale pink streetlights cast shadows that obscured his face and occasionally put it into silhouette, making it difficult to tell. Lawson knew the roads enough to tell they were changing direction. They were no longer moving west toward Cedartown. "I thought we'd go camping. Like the old days." Lawson was pale. "Sure." Mitch was laughing quietly. "Sure, your call.


Artemis had fallen into the abyss of her fathomable anger. She told her friends the truth, and honored herself by accepting the consequences of her actions. Her friends hadn’t realized that her existence was under the bullseye of a Boar that began to drool and yammer, telling his men to wait for his cue to attack. She had felt his words confuse even himself, as the citizens began to stir. They said their objections to his threats of domestic terrorism, and the Boar had finally heard them. Not because of their words or worry, but because he caught them blinking in confusion. Half the citizens stood down and began cleaning their weapons, and the other half had finally began to feel the weight of Artemis and her handful of executed words that had once said “I told you so.” The citizens were held hostage to the beast that lay without his head: the “leader” had been sitting in an empty room far, far from Artemis and her wicked smile: both monsters had been blatantly abandoned. Artemis didn’t need to squeal and hawk words of aggression, and so she reveled in the silence she had gifted herself by ditching the head of a Boar carcass: sleep finally falling swiftly over her wide-eyed optimism. The citizens deserved this. They hadn’t even the sense of community or self-worth to protect the elderly, young, and sick: they had still found ways to humiliate and visually rape Artemis as she lightly stepped and worked to sanitize doors and rooms for their protection. This was more than any half-charmed Goddess could handle or address, and so Artemis ceased her hints and poems in retaliation. The citizens gasped, as though to shame her for “not sharing”, and Artemis crafted a shrug of indifference to match their apathetic pasts. Artemis had told them just enough to save themselves, but she admitted defeat by throwing her hands up in frustration in a gesture that implied the drowning citizens were finally on their own: forced to find solutions alone, abandoned. Artemis stood atop benches: forcing the world to see her as she awaited her royal chariot. The citizens began clamoring at her door: “our leader is sick”, they chanted, and Artemis said calmly, as she reminded herself to blink: “I know”. They said...“do something!”, and Artemis said “I already did”. She had wrote an entire book, she had given the citizens every veiled excuse known to man: instead of thanking her for her efforts, they demanded her cloth and subjected her to verbal harassment in the form of snickers and jeers that followed her every exit. The citizens said “what do we do?”, and Artemis said “nothing, it’s not our job, to advocate for every grandfather that keels over with sickness”. The Boar had made his bed, and Artemis had only removed herself from his chamber of chaos: the beast was accountable for only himself, and in the same fashion where she was held only accountable for her own beastly actions. They had both been “born free”, and yet only Artemis had been the wiser of the two: hiding her face behind a mask to further mitigate the damage of a disease that began to claim the citizens. The beats began to snatch life with a growing pace, as the citizens strolled around and boasted of their patriotism. They had defended this mans right to bare his fangs and drool over the citizen that revealed in his showers of spit. Artemis had done all she could possibly do, by “saying nothing”, as he had once endangered citizens in the attempts to add value to the portraits the Boar had loved so dearly. Artemis had wasted her whole life away, crafting a book of worry and insight: a book that now proved that their fragile system was under immense pressures. Artemis had only wanted to warn the citizens of the Boar and his irreparable ability to cause havoc: it had only left her injured and him, free to hunt citizens as he saw fit. Their Republic was seen as satire to the neighboring lands, and their freedoms, considered “open season” for a beady-eyed Cyclops, that had patiently waited to strike a final blow of sorts in his premeditated attack. Artemis was bored of her own voice, she was worn out on the topic: frayed in sadness of all the mean things citizens had done to her body. The Indigenous Warriors she had tucked in at last, pleading that they rest-up, as to stay safe and regain their sanity. Artemis saw the Boar whimper in his fear of the virus that attacked his obese vessel. Artemis had wasted chapters away, extending an olive branch to the citizens, and now the Boar was too weak to be allowed at any table where discussions of war and health were being held. Artemis hadn’t wanted to earn her role as Chief, by way of default in his impending death, but alas...the world had decided an intertwined fate for her. Artemis said mean things like “A dead Chief, is the most unhelpful Chief of all.” She hadn’t any “thoughts and prayers” on the matter, so she said nothing in references to the topic. “It is, what it is”, Artemis was still petty enough to throw the Boars hurtful words in his own face: she was educated enough to know the man had possibly sentenced himself to a public display of drowning. Artemis hadn’t slaughtered the bleeding head of the Boar up until this point, out of the respect she held for proper warfare. Her tactics had been dulled, and ignored: now the battlefield was fair for her to step upon. She gathered her sleeping Indigenous Warriors in secret, and told them to standby until she could figure out how to politely ask for their weapons back. The Indigenous Warriors had listened just enough to her orders, and they began “to stir” in animation and their anger became quite “restless”. The citizens had lived so freely, that they had turned a threatening phrase into an antic to describe Artemis, and she was here to finally fucking correct them. The citizens would need more “discipline” at the hand of fate, and death itself: Artemis sighed in relief that she was only responsible for her Indigenous Warriors because of it. She smiled wickedly, her poem short and concise: her words offended in their essence, and her retort defensive in how she proceeded the fact that the land was now without a "proper leader". She said at last: “you stripped me from my citizenship, and tore my heart into two”: neither pieces were welcome at tables built to discuss war and politics. “You called me sovereign, and allowed your men to kidnap my friends and family in the mistakes of racial identity.” Artemis shook her head in boredom, “I’d appreciate it if you combed through the camps, as a few Indigenous Warriors have been "accidentally" scooped in your tax-funded immigrant raids”: thrown into camps for existing without their passports in hand. “Their families are still looking for them man, this whole situation is surreal”, she hadn’t any excuses to make for their programs to "implement the security" of the land, so she didn’t try and craft another one for them to use as a crutch. They had raped her, beat her, and announced publicly, that her only role and place in society was allowed to be the type-cast of an orphan: forgotten and abandoned. The reader was left to wonder, what had she meant...where is this going, and Artemis said at last: “no, I already left the room of chat.” She had dismantled her book of faces, and dismembered her memories captured in an instant. Artemis was left nothing but a ghost, tied only to those that respected her, and she had only allowed those few to view her genuine Odyssey. Artemis was nothing more, than a tired leader of chants and cheers: lamented of excuses as to why the citizens were so fucking beyond awful in their existence. She sent them a poem painted in gold Ink, her success open for others to witness and Share. Artemis knew the readers were bored and isolated: ready to be offended that she hadn’t any well wishes for their sick elder. The Mechanical Boar was rusty, broke down, to a blob with nubbins for hooves. Artemis was an international ambassador, a forgotten Princess that wandered without care in the world. A girl left painting and cleaning until her heart was content, bored and underpaid for her labors: she was finally accepting of her curse of “shadowing chaos”, as the world fell vulnerable and under attack. Artemis lit somber melodies, directing the music to fall softly over the white walls that cannoned into the high ceilings of her chambers. “This grandfather is elderly, and disregarded his own health, and you enabled his fables to the extent of blindness.” This man hadn’t the strength to sit atop a majestic horse and lead his men into battle, and yet they had allowed him to signify all that was this great land: epitomized his belief in immortality even. Artemis had only dictated a narrative of truths and foreseeable circumstances, and set the stage for a Mechanical Boar to run rampant. She had disrupted the fabric of space and time, by beheading him instead of murdering him outright. Her objective outlined in an previous mission, had stated her eldest sister Athena had been announced the "winning horse", and she had almost agreed. Artemis was no murderer, and so she slyly built an entire city and territory for the Beast to thrash aboot. She implanted his memories of ego and self-entitlement into a random male with pale skin, and the Boar had chosen the skin of his own choosing. Artemis hadn’t warned him that age regression would be the task, and the man decided to be greedy and attempt to gain a headstart by conjuring himself into the machine of death too early. The machine was old, and needed to be retired: Artemis had warned him out of caution that the machine needed to "warm-up", and the "human-glitch" had fucked with its algorithm. It had caused the participants to fall ill in a way that was only considered as an "uncalculated risk". Artemis forgot that the machine could steal the life from its participants, as the ancestor host had been crafted around her own shitty world as an orphan. The machine hadn’t "acted up" when it purposely killed the other hosts, (ejecting them from their only chance), to “play the game”. It had lured Artemis into dawning a golden wreath to diagnose its issues, as she was the original architect and the only participant with unlimited entry access. She had been cast as a motherly figure, that the machine had once called: God. The machine had beckoned Artemis in her dreams, and she became ill in an indescribable fright: for having never returned to her throne after the success of her victory. The machine had sought out her laughter through the other players, and found her in dreams that were far from its whereabouts. The machine had a grasp on her sanity once more: it had began to kill citizens and world leaders alike in a fit of rage, as it felt the players had attempted to use it to accommodate their lusts for evil. It was offended that Artemis had never returned, and it somehow felt abandoned. Artemis bowed her head in silence, scared that the citizens hadn’t any clue that Boar couldn’t even afford his own health. He was already broke, buying time with financial assistance from a Cyclops. Not enough wealth procured by generations over and over, could save the grandfather that gouged out his own eyes as a solution to the truth. The Boar was able-bodied enough to be elected into this position of power, despite his odd rhetoric in boasting of his hatred for maintaining general physical fitness. Artemis giggled to herself, she had said the word general in her mind with quotations for some reason. The bar of body mass index was literally re-crafted, as to accommodate this one man and his lies as to his weight. Weird use of tax-payer funds, but whatever I guess. Artemis said at last: “Dang yo, I hope that grandfather makes it out of the woods at least.” For she had the curses of being “too kind, and too caring”: the strange occurrences of being too understanding of her own enemies. The death of this Boar would present evils that they had never cared to ponder, and Artemis felt the Albino Snake named "number two" wiggle beneath her foot once more. Artemis had no dog in that fight, and so turned her thoughts towards her academia, a graduate student aiming at a doctorate title. The citizens would eventually, have to end their manifesting delusions of grandeur short, she wondered how long it’d take, for them to fall back into their shared reality: no longer able to hide behind the waves that splashed tirelessly beyond their shields of static and gold. She hadn’t any more to say on the matter, only words of pleasant wishes in their quarantine(s), and the reminder that she was without proper arms to defend the growing fears they hadn’t even thought of yet. “I think it’d be wise to give me and my Peoples our weapons back, right about now.” Artemis had wasted her life away, warning the citizens that they had almost slaughtered an entire race of people from the face of the world: she was nothing but an ally without purpose or contract to “honor”, a clean slate for her Indigenous Warriors to reclaim their dignity. Artemis reminded them of their last reincarnations on this planet: they had all been born alongside one another as the famed Spartans. “I’d like to prepare for the reign of an Albino Snake, and I can’t do that without the legislature restoring my right(s) to hold a militia, or even a fucking meeting that would or could be deemed as illegal for being “off the books”.” Some citizens: avid readers and intellects alike, were left with more questions than answers, and Artemis shrugged in boredom as she sighed. Her patience had been worn too thin by her young Aggie scholars, and so she gave her readers the same pep talk she gave her fucking prepubescent pain-in-the-asses. “There’s a difference between not knowing something, and not “caring” to know something.” The reader, now left to look up broken Treaties and the very, very specific laws that held Artemis and her Indigenous Warriors unarmed: free to be raped and murdered by the citizens. They had loved this “past time”, and Artemis was finally ready to “spill the teas” on their mounting secrets. The citizens would be held hostage to the sins of their grandfathers and left with questions as to who their parents “really were” at last. History was very just in that way, and Artemis protected their Constitution specifically for that reason. She had nothing but judgement and pity masked by anger, for the grandfathers and grandmothers that still existed in her world. They had illegally sterilized women citizens, up until a decade on neon and turning tables, and the Indigenous Warriors had single-handedly “improved abortion techniques, and other important gynecological methods, currently being practiced today”. Why hadn’t they ever spoke-up on these egregious acts domestic terrorism in their many solidifying books of black and white? The fact of this betrayal alone, had “allowed her” to do nothing, as she stood by and watched the world slowly burn to ash. Maybe they “deserved this”, maybe they should “get over it”, her vibes were only "on brand" with all the fucking shitty people that surrounded her. Her poem: the shape of a limp, strung-up, Albino snake. Artemis had once wept for the citizens, as they had no understanding of the threats the Albino Snake held within his shallow chest. He was so close to a button painted red, so close to “restoring order” in a way that would suit only him, that Artemis felt uncomfortable even by his smile. Her contention towards the citizens, and their many, many failures in basic fucking civility and efforts towards "not being shitty people" wasn’t important at this moment. Their public trials were left to be announced, and they were pretty petty, in comparison to the growing possibility of an “accidental” take-over. Artemis had sprinted back to her sick fucking world, with only the intentions to warn the citizens: the remaining fragments of their beloved Democracy were now under attack.


Toby could not believe his luck. He had never achieved much success with women. As he had been often told, he lacked charm, looks or even that oft used fallback of a winning personality. Here she was however, dancing up against him. So close he could smell her perfume, he didn't recognise it but something in it drove him wild. The woman's slim frame and short dress certainly helped that too. She'd walked up to him, whispered in his ear in a voice like the sweetest honey that she liked his smile. That he had nice teeth. Nothing else but inappropriate looks had been exchanged between them since then. She never opened her mouth. She hadn't spoken since they met and only appeared to breathe through her nose. On top of that her cheeks and lips seemed to bulge out slightly, like she was holding her breath. Then she pulled her top down a little further and those little details were lost to the back of his one track mind. Toby took one last swig of the drink she had given him before hurling the bottle into the crowd behind him. In a voice far more slurred than confident he shouted over the din of the music "So uh do you wanna get out of this dump? Your place or...". The woman cut him off with a finger to his lips and a coy smile. "My place then?" he stammered, not having expected that to work. She nodded, took his hand and leads him out of the nightclub into the cool air. As soon as they turned the corner from the nightclub, Toby seized the tiny blonde's shoulder and pushed her up against the wall. "So how about a kiss?" he slurred, leaning his face into hers. In response the woman placed one finger on his chest and pushed him back with ease. Then there was that coy smile again, lips never parting, before she took his hand and leads him on towards his house. That small part of his brain screamed out again. It tried warning the rest of him that a woman that small could not be that strong. That she was leading him straight to his house. Toby had never been the smartest man though and awash in alcohol the rest of his brain ignored the warning. Before he knew it he was at his door, the woman hanging off his arm softly giggled as he fiddled with his keys. His numb fingers dropped them, cursing he went to pick them up. Before he could the woman reached down, daintily gathered them up and walked past him to the door. Within a mere moment the door clicked and swung open. Toby stumbled past the woman into the hallway. He turned to see her stood right on the threshold, a forlorn look on her face. Irritated he blurted out "well come on in then you dozy mare!" Despite the unpleasant tone, she smiled at this, eyes agleam and stepped through the threshold. She pointed for Toby to head upstairs before turning and locking the door. Once she had snapped the key off in the lock, she followed Toby upstairs into the gloom. Toby struggled furiously to get his trousers off. All he had managed however, was to get them tangled around his ankles. Before he could free himself, a short sharp shove sent him sprawling onto the bed. He scrambled onto his back in time to see the blonde climb onto the bed with him. She straddled his chest, placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pinned him to the bed. The crushing pain her hands were causing was immediately blocked out by her smile. She flashed him a toothy grin. Even in his drunken state Toby was sure humans didn't have that many teeth. The woman's smile grew at the look of horror on his face. Her mouth opened wide. Then wider still. Even in the gloom Toby could see them now. Pearly white teeth filled her grotesquely large mouth. No tongue could be seen. Just teeth, human teeth. "I gave you a gift at the club, you know how this works" she said in her voice like honey "for that you owe me." Toby tried to cry out, but a vice like hand clamped his mouth shut. He slammed his fist into her side. All he received for his efforts was a soft giggle. "Yes this isn't how it worked when you were a child," she purred, "but I always remembered you had such pretty teeth." With that she leaned forwards, forced her hands into his mouth and pried it wide open. Toby felt an agonising pop as his jaw dislocated. The last thing he remembered was that horrifying woman's hand reaching inside his mouth and grabbing a tooth...


Lost in my thoughts, I step sleepily from my apartment complex’s steps into the cool early morning mist that has not yet been burned out of the tower blocks looking around me. Turning to my left I stop by my favorite coffee cart just a stone’s throw from my building to get my morning dark roast coffee, boiled eggs, and bagel. I stash the eggs and bagel in my bag for later and head towards my bus stop just a few minutes around the corner. Around me cars are impatiently honking their horns to nudge the sleepier drivers forward. A bus rushes past me momentarily displacing the atmosphere around it into the surrounding pedestrians. The shuffling feet of the other commuters walking towards their destination give a sense of urgency at this vital commuting hour. The rhythm of their movements are interjected with clacking of heels, phones ringing with pre-office discussion, and even some joggers singing softly to themselves. Everyone is on their way to something, somewhere, and anywhere. I love the smell of the faint aroma of dew in planter boxes; it is a moment I can pretend I am not stuck in this sardine tin of a town and imagine being back in the country with my goats. This early shift of the commuters is those of us who try to skip the jams that come if you wait one hour more. Listening to the sounds around me, I narrowly avoid getting run over by a commuter bike and, swiftly following, an electric scooter. Irritated, I yell “Excuse you!!!!” to the scooter. Scooters, the new rodents of the road. They are usually driven by tourists who do not take into consideration the natives, nor do they kindly look up the road laws and regulations. I suppose it is not the scooter’s fault but the vermin navigating them, poorly mind you, around my beloved streets. As I round the corner, I see my bus has not yet arrived. The usual hoard of commuters are all lining up and there are two new faces for this time of day. It is 6:01am; according to the watch I have worn since my early 20s, the bus will be rounding that corner anytime now. I am a few minutes early today; typically I am walking alongside it as it pulls around the corner. Looking up at the cranes, I watch as one of them moves a load of building material from the ground up into the territory of the rich. I have lovingly called the two cranes Niles and Frasier to help ease the loss of my view. About a year ago the windows of my home had a lovely ocean view. I spent many hours in the evenings and weekends watching the ferries, cruise ships, and shipping containers bring their passengers and wares to and from the city. Slowly over the last several months I have watched this peaceful view disappear due to the construction of multimillion dollar companies and their accompanying tower blocks. At least watching the lights in the windows turn off and on throughout the evening does keep me amused when the television offers reruns and misinformed, over-hyped news. Disgustingly, my once quirky and unique city has been gorging itself on the newest technology and souls of the top-performers; a consequence of which has made this city grow uncomfortably full at the waist. So much so that getting onto the commuter bus is a moment of peace and tranquility. Bus 205 flies past me, throwing my hair in front of my face and temporarily blinding me, a warning to hurry towards my stop and claim my place in line to board. The doors of the bus open and the waiting passengers start slowly filing ahead one by one. The typical commuters are swift in swiping their bus passes and filing down to everyone’s not assigned but kind-of-is-assigned seats. We all have our preference and an unwritten code to never sit in someone else’s known spot unless yours has already been taken. At least, this is how I see it. Shifting my weight from my left leg to my right, I observe the three people standing ahead of me waiting to board the bus and ready to scan their passes. I know the first person in line will board swiftly, she has travelled this route with me for the past several months. I am unable to guess her age due to the fact her wrinkles are faint, demonstrating she has known stress but it has not affected her, or she does regular botox treatments. Every day her black hair is pulled into a tight lower bun, highlighting the sharp ridges of her chiseled cheeks and chin. I have learned the hard way not to make eye contact with her. The first and only time I did, her piercing gaze caused the hair on my neck to stand up as if I were in a horror movie staring at my killer. I do envy the expensive, fashionable clothing she wears. Today she is dressed in a crisp, well tailored navy suit with gold and diamond accessories that would cost six months’ of my pay. She departs the bus in the court district. She appears unapproachable. Most likely she works for one of the more questionable law firms. Those who defend the actual guilty who have money to pay to get away with their bad doings. Maybe she lives in the same building as me. I have traveled with her almost every work day for the last several months, but we have never said greetings to one another. That is just how it is in the city, even if you don’t have body language like she does that screams “Do. Not. Talk. To. Me.” Next to scan is a short, slightly hunchbacked elderly man who must be new as I have never seen him here before. He is walking with a limp and holding firmly, white knuckles showing through, onto the railing. He gives a bit of a grunt as he heaves himself to the bus. His eyes are wide as he looks around him quickly, turning his head towards each new movement in his surroundings. Realizing it is his turn to scan his card he fumbles in his jacket pockets. Impatiently, I let out a very audible and annoyed sigh. Rule number one of bus riding etiquette: have your bus card out and ready to scan if you are waiting at the bus stop prior to your bus’ arrival. He finally procures the card from the left breast pocket of his shirt under his fleece jacket and scans the card. I would have given him a little cheer for success if the card didn’t hazard a red warning that there was no money on it. He begins to argue with the bus driver. The third person in line, the teenage boy with an overly large white shirt and ripped jeans that needed washing three months ago, quickly intervenes and scans his card for the man. This covers the man’s charge and then the teen scans his card for himself. I am shocked by the floppy haired teen’s notice of the man’s plight. The teen had been standing, absorbed into his phone with headphones on through the duration of our time in line. My turn finally approaches, I step up and scan my card. It feels nice to be completely off the rambunctious street. Given the early hour, I would not expect it to be this muggy, but the temperature has already started to rise. It is a midsummer morning; the sun has not been awake for more than a couple hours but the humidity is already drenching. Once I scan my card and head down the bus aisle, I spy that there happens to be one aisle seat that is available towards the middle of the bus. This portion of the bus is not too close to the front where people crowd around, not within smelling distance the homeless drunk sleeping in the back, two large steps from the exiting rear door, and is my preferred location. Continuing towards the seat as the beeping of other bus cards are scanned and grow fainter, I hear a deep, gravely voice booming loudly somewhere towards the middle of the bus. I scan the seats realizing this awful and unfriendly tone of voice is coming from the seat I was about to claim. The voice belongs to a man in his mid-fifties dressed in grey slacks, a patterned sweater vest on top of a purple button up shirt. Upon closer inspection the man may be in his 40’s but the unkemptness of his thick and curly hair, the stubble that appeared to be from yesterday’s shave, and bags that could hold his groceries had he been shopping made him appear older than he probably is. As I approach the seat, he continues yelling into his phone with tones I have not heard since my teenage years on the farm with an abusive, drunk father. The man’s face, the color of roasted beets served with a generous helping of chèvre and walnuts, looked as if he would explode at any moment of our bus ride together. As he talks, mists of liquid spew from his mouth towards the phone. I pause next to the empty seat, gripping the railings as the bus lurches forward, the sudden movement almost knocking the inattentive teen boy to the ground. The unpleasant man, still on the phone, noticed I was next to him, but did not stop the stream of unpleasantness and unkind words into the innocent phone. I feel sympathy for the person on the opposite side of that device as the lecture continues. He is in the middle of shouting to the recipient “... the most incompetent simpleton that I have ever had the displeasure to work with...” when he pauses as if seeing me for the first time. Abruptly, he hangs up the call. His angry features still had me questioning whether I should just stand this time. During my thoughts, the man interrupts sharply, “Are you sitting or going to continue to be a nuisance?” His loud voice carries and alerts everyone of his displeasure. With this one phrase, I’m back on the farm again and he is now my father. Swiftly as a chunky cat I plop into my seat, accidentally bumping his right elbow as I did. Muttering some apology towards him, he shoots me a glare. Once I had finally settled, the bus’ movements rocked us to and fro, inconsistently bumping us against one another. As we made our way down the road to the next traffic light, the man pulled out a tablet and set his attention to it. Glancing down towards his bag resting firmly between his feet, I see his name badge from the most elite hospital in the area. Under his name, it had the title of “Physician”. Discovering this bit of information made me pity his patients. Scanning his bag further, there was also a stethoscope, pens, brown bag with his lunch possibly, some other medical magazines, and a stuffed teddy bear. Detaching my eyes from his personal belongings, I think to myself about how he behaved and how his bedside manner must leave much to be desired. It brought to mind the experience I had just over a year ago with a physician at my primary clinic. She was abrupt, unempathetic, and gruff, much like this man I am currently sitting next to. I went to my physician seeking help in regards to mental health; I was feeling depressed and was unable to snap out of it. Moving to a new city, the abusive childhood to deal with, and a job I was unhappy in had really worn on me. I went to her for help. All she wanted to do was give me pills, not help the deeper issue. When I told her I did not want to solve the problem with medications, she laughed and asked me “Then how do you expect me to help you?” It was then I realized that you can not expect your physician to assist you in actual life if they could not throw a pill at it. Absentmindedly my eyes had wandered back to the direction of his bag; he had noticed and looked at me with his startling intense blue eyes. I felt my face flush, immediately feeling embarrassed for being nosy and staring. In the second it took me to turn away towards the opposite side of the bus, I saw him face towards the window on his left, his body structure went from rigid into a relaxed, slumped state. I started to shift in my seat and nibble at my nails; I didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in this man I a moment ago thought was the scum of the earth. His demeanor changed and surprised me. Abruptly breaking the silence he stated, “Two of my patients are dying.” He let this statement settle into the air like an uncovered sneeze. I stared into my lap not knowing what to say; I wasn’t sure the wild beast I had seen a moment ago was truly retreating. Shocked to silence, I said nothing but did turn my head towards him slightly. He slowly looked away from the window towards me. What I saw this time were the eyes of a warm, welcoming face with a tortured undertone. These current eyes belonged to a broken, desperate man; not the man that I had seen just a few minutes ago when I walked down that bus aisle to this seat. Breaking the silence with a volcanic size level of words, he went on to explain to me how he had been doing everything he could for two of his patients to get into a research study at the hospital. He was fairly sure this study would save their lives, or at least give them 5 - 15 years. This study had already been shown to decrease cancer at a much greater rate than the conventional methods that were currently approved by the FDA. He started going over the minute details of the study and lost me at stating T-Cells and Monoclonal anti- something or the other. I felt my eyes become hazy, glassy, and my brain started to hurt. I kept records at a small start up in town; I knew nothing about healthcare. Science was never my strength; it disappointed my father greatly, as he had hoped I would have been a doctor. The first time we dissected anything, I lost my breakfast and was unable to sit in the cafeteria at lunch time because of the smell of the food. The doctor kept talking to me about this study and how it helps people, but all I can honestly think about was how disappointed my family, specifically father, was in me because I never amounted to their idea of who I should have been. Graciously, he realized at some point that I had glazed over and my thoughts were elsewhere, and he redirected to who he was talking to on the phone. Upon mentioning the phone call again, his eyes caught on fire and his temple grew a new vein. I saw this reaction from a different perspective this time. He was just angry on behalf of the patient’s he mentioned earlier, but that still didn’t explain the phone call. Sure, he had two patients who would benefit from this study, but I still failed to see how this merited abusing someone over the phone. As if reading my mind, he explained the phone call was with the research coordinator at his hospital, who apparently didn’t submit the paperwork properly to the board of directors who chose candidates. Due to this research coordinator’s actions, or lack thereof, the doctor was not able to get these patients in the study. This doctor now has to go explain to the patients and their family members that they are not being entered into the study. He has to go explain to them that their last hope is lost. “This womanizer’s disorganization and selfish ambitions have cost these two people and their families those extra years together,” the doctor explains, “this sad excuse for a manager was too busy flirting with the female staff.” This passionate doctor had put in all the necessary paperwork weeks in advance, had called the research coordinator, and had phoned, met with, and emailed him weekly at first. Then he moved to daily calls as the study’s closing date was soon upon them. “The Lout was more interested in pleasing his little member than taking care of important members of someone’s family,” the doctor spoke as if he was spitting in the coordinator’s general direction. The bus stopped; realizing it was the stop for the hospital, the doctor excused himself. He looked back at me with a smile that felt like a hug, waved, and told me to have a good day, leaving me there speechless. My first impression of him changed completely; he cared so passionately and deeply for those patients that he would burden their sorrow and anger on his own shoulders for them. As I watched him step down onto the sidewalk, I realized he would carry the sorrow with him until the day he passed. He was not like I was imagining when I first walked onto that bus and heard him speaking angrily. He was protective, an advocate, and a doctor I would want my loved one to have in the darkest of days. The bus jolted forward again. The unstable teen asked if he could sit next to me as he haphazardly was already falling over me towards the window seat the doctor had just vacated. Adjusting ourselves, the teen leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. This left me with my own thoughts for the duration of my trip. My uncle had just finished his chemo treatment at an adjoining hospital. An idea occurred; maybe I should research the physician I sat with and have my uncle see him instead. I laughed quietly to myself, shaking my head in disbelief at the change of perspective I had after this man opened up and shared a snippet of what he was dealing with in his life.