His coffee had grown cold, but he took a large gulp all the same. He would need as much supplemental energy as he could find if he had any hope of arriving home before dawn. Already, Oliver could feel fatigue taking hold, and it was only just past midnight. He had at least five hours of dull and tedious driving ahead of him. His eyes were heavy in his skull, and the thought of sleep proved all too enticing. He longed for the warm embrace of his bedsheets above all else. A weekend of debauchery in New Orleans had left him exhausted. At some point, he lost track of how many bars and strip clubs he had visited. *When in Rome*, he thought. The weekend had also left him nearly destitute. Even if he wanted to rent a motel room for the night, he would have trouble finding the capital to do so. It seemed he was left with no choice but to press on, to make it home. Now, he was traversing rural Arkansas on his journey back north. The highway he found himself on was nearly deserted at this hour, and it was lined with dense forest as far as the eye could see. The unchanging scenery made staying alert all the more difficult. He took another swig of gas station coffee, his second cup of the night. He feared that caffeine would not be enough to carry him home, though — he needed to break up the monotony of the flat, static highway. The radio had been playing at a low volume thus far, but he thought loud music might reinvigorate him, so he turned it up to a volume that most would consider unpleasant. It was tuned in to a local classic rock station and, sure enough, he felt a renewed vigor as he hummed along to the cycling hits. He carried on in this fashion for another half-hour or so, thumping his thumb upon the steering wheel to match the familiar rhythms. *I might make it home after all*, he thought. Then, one of his old favorites came on — Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” — and he turned the volume even higher, letting the music wash over him. The song brought with it memories of a simpler time, when Oliver was just a child, listening to the radio with his father in his childhood home’s garage. So much had changed since then; he was not sure when his life had gotten so off track. For the time being, though, he was content with allowing the nostalgia to fill his mind with images of a much more pleasant era, and he sang along: *All our times have come, here but now they’re gone…* A smile crept across his face. Without noticing, he began pressing his foot to the gas pedal harder and harder, gradually building speed in a subconscious effort to match the euphoria brought on by the music. Soon, he had accelerated to 100 miles per hour, though he was blissfully unaware of doing so. *Seasons don’t fear the reaper…* *Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain…* *We can be like they are…* Despite having few reasons to be happy, in that moment, Oliver felt at peace. All the while, the car continued to gain momentum. Then, in the blink of an eye, the entire weight of the world came crashing down upon him. *Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper…* At first, he only saw the glare of his headlights reflected in its eyes, but within fractions of a second, its full figure became clear — a deer, frozen in the headlights, watching as two tons of metal came barreling toward it. *Baby take my hand…* There was no time to correct his course. In a brief moment of clarity, he became aware that he would collide with the animal, and that he would, in all likelihood, die in the process. He discovered that the old adage was true, after all — your life really does flash before your eyes in the moments leading up to your demise. While some might think of all of the good times they have had, of cherished moments with loved ones, Oliver’s mind was flooded with a single, all-encompassing emotion: regret. *Don’t fear the reaper…* In an act of animalistic instinct, he closed his eyes as he braced for impact. He slammed his foot down upon the brake pedal, though he knew this would not change his fate. Time seemed to slow as his car, still traveling at ferocious speed, came closer and closer to obliterating the blinded beast, until, finally, it made contact, a monstrous machination of man colliding with the hide of one of Earth’s most beautiful creatures, and then — *We’ll be able to fly…* Nothing. His tires screeched as his vehicle came to its tumultuous halt, but inexplicably, there was no collision. Oliver felt like his heart might beat out of his chest, and his knuckles were white from the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. Some time passed before he remembered to breathe. After a few moments of sitting in shock, he exited the vehicle to inspect the road behind him. There was no sign of the deer — no blood, no carcass, no tracks in the grass beside the highway. He tried to rationalize what had just taken place and failed to come to any conclusion. Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? Was the deer a figment of his imagination, a sign that he was not fit to continue driving? After searching the area thoroughly, he reentered his car, no closer to understanding what had transpired. He resolved to stop at the next establishment he came across to collect his thoughts, whether it be an eatery, a gas station or a rest stop. He turned off the radio and continued driving, this time at a sluggish pace. His hands shook violently on account of his crushing anxiety, having survived after coming within inches of certain death. He traveled well below the speed limit for the next few miles. Not a single car shared the road with him. The night now felt incredibly eerie, and he became acutely aware of how far he was from what most would call “civilization.” He was prepared to resign himself to pulling over and sleeping in his car when a beacon of hope appeared in the distance — a bright neon sign, a sign of life. He was unable to make out the words, but he knew that he needed to get there as quickly as possible. He picked up speed, and soon, the sign gained clarity — it read: “World’s End Diner.” It was the first building he had seen in over an hour. To Oliver, it felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a harsh and unforgiving desert. *A fitting name*, he thought. He reached the diner within minutes and, to his surprise, it was gorgeous — pristine, even. Given its surroundings, he had no idea how or why it had been so well maintained. The neon sign glowed a stunning blue in the night sky, and the retro architecture made it appear as if it had been plucked out of the 1950s and dropped there, just for this occasion. The scene was a strange amalgamation of beauty and omen. Strangely, there were no other cars in the parking lot, yet a neon sign in the window flashed: “OPEN.” For that, Oliver was thankful. He was not particularly hungry, but he felt that a cup of coffee that was actually hot would help to quell his nerves. Above all else, though, he yearned for human contact — the simple act of making small talk, even if he did not recount the details of his bizarre experience, might help to ground him and shake his deep feeling of dread. At the very least, it might take his mind off of an event that he was sure could not be properly explained. He parked his car and stepped into the night air, now oddly frigid when it had once been warm. A strong gust of cold wind stung his face as he made his way toward the diner’s entrance; it was as if he could feel the temperature plummeting by the second. He reached for the glass door and swung it open, bells jingling to announce his presence. He felt a rush of warm air as he stood in the doorway — already he felt relief — and he stepped inside the World’s End Diner. Letting the door swing shut behind him, Oliver glanced about the eatery and took in his surroundings. All of the décor matched the retro aesthetic he admired in the building’s façade — porcelain enamel, red leather booths, stainless steel panels. Either the diner’s proprietors were meticulous in their dedication to vintage design or it was built in the mid-20th century and had been painstakingly preserved. There were three others in the diner: a tall and slender middle-aged woman behind the counter who he assumed was a waitress, an older gentleman cleaning the grill, and a patron sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the restaurant donning a brown cap and a long overcoat. He could only see the woman’s face, which looked downtrodden; the others had their backs turned toward him. He hoped one of them would be kind enough to entertain his attempts at light dialogue. He found a stool at the counter and made himself comfortable before looking up and smiling at the waitress. She did not smile back. In fact, she seemed to be in no rush to accommodate him; she just stared at him blankly. This awkward silence carried on for some time as Oliver studied her wrinkled face. Her expression was a blend of profound sadness and total indifference, and could he blame her? Surely a life that revolved around waiting tables in the back of beyond, likely for decades on end by the looks of it, was not a particularly glamorous one. Eventually, he spoke, still holding onto a smile that was now forced: “Hey, how’s it going?” No response. “This place is gorgeous, by the way. Kind of a hidden gem, huh?” Again, there was no response. It seemed he would not be able to find the conversation he longed for with her. He sighed, and spoke once more: “Is there any way I could get a hot cup of coffee?” At this, she finally stirred. She shuffled toward a coffee pot slowly, her expression unchanging, and filled a mug. She handed it to Oliver without so much as a friendly nod. “Thanks so much.” He took the mug into his own hands and felt its warmth immediately. “This is just what I needed.” He watched as steam rose in wisps off of the black liquid, eager for it to eradicate his lingering chills. He raised the mug to his mouth, and as soon as the coffee touched his lips, he was shocked to find that it was already ice cold. He managed a small sip before resting it back down atop the counter. He stared at the mug, perplexed — not only was it cold, but it also tasted absolutely foul. He turned back toward the waitress, who was still watching him vacantly. “Uh… Can you please warm this up for me, miss?” Again, she shuffled slowly as she made her way toward him, without a word. She retrieved the mug before sluggishly sauntering toward a sink, into which she poured its contents. She filled it yet again, from the same pot, and returned it to Oliver. It was warm in his hands, just as it had been, but by the time he swallowed, it was icy. He had no intention of burdening the waitress any further, and so he feigned gratitude. “Thanks again.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, laying a $5 bill on the counter. “Keep the change, miss.” She stared at it, emotionless. It occurred to him that she might be braindead; she evidently did not have all of her faculties about her and she did not behave in a way that any functioning adult would. He slid the bill toward her, encouraging her to take it. After a long while, she did. She held the bill in her hands and gawked at it, as if she did not understand its purpose. As she was studying it, Oliver noticed something incredibly unnerving — a long gash on each of her wrists, blackened with dried blood, perhaps the remnants of a failed suicide attempt that she made no attempt to conceal. His eyes widened. “Are you okay?” She returned her attention to him, though she made no effort to reply to his query. “Ma’am, shouldn’t you see a doctor?” Her face twitched, and he thought she might actually respond, but all she did was shift her facial expression to one of confusion. *At least she’s finally showing an emotion*, he thought. *That’s progress.* He intended to continue attempting to help the injured woman, but before he could say anything further, she turned and retreated into a back office — or perhaps a storage closet? — at a much quicker pace than she had been operating at thus far. Oliver was left alone at the counter, dumbfounded. If she did not want his help, it was probably unwise to continue offering it. Still, he could not shake the feeling that the woman was in dire need of assistance, but at that moment he had more than enough of his own traumas to confront. He turned his focus toward the older gentleman tending the grill, and decided he might as well try to spark up a conversation with him — if he was friendlier than the waitress had been, Oliver might even be able to convince him to help the poor woman. He found a seat closer to where the man was standing, but his back was still turned toward him, so he sat in silence for a moment as he pondered how to attract the cook’s attention. Eventually, he decided on: “How’s it goin’ there, sir?” The man immediately let out a deep, guttural grunt. Oliver was not sure if that meant he did not wish to be disturbed, but he was so desperate for conversation, for at least *some* sense of normalcy, that he was not deterred. “Sorry, what was that, sir?” The man slowly began to turn, his feet scraping against the tiled floor as if he did not possess the strength to take proper steps, and little by little, his face was revealed — his eyes were shut tight, his jaw hung in a zombie-like manner and the skin around his lips was a sickening shade of blue. He faced Oliver and unleashed yet another rasping groan. Oliver tensed up, taken aback by the man’s appalling appearance. It seemed that every employee of the World’s End Diner might be in dire need of medical attention. He was left speechless as he studied the cook’s lifeless visage. The two of them silently faced each other for some time, although the man never so much as opened his eyes, so it was difficult to tell if he was even truly cognizant of Oliver’s presence. He just stood there, mouth gaping. Eventually, the man turned back around and commenced his task of cleaning the grill, although it was already spotless. Oliver abandoned his hope of conversing with the cook and considered the diner’s sheer peculiarity. Its occupants operated somewhere within the uncanny valley — they resembled humans, but did not behave like them. He reminded himself that he was, by all accounts, in the middle of nowhere — perhaps their strange behavior could be attributed to the drug abuse that had devastated so many rural communities in recent years. With half of his foul coffee remaining, he resolved to spend a bit more time in the confounding eatery — besides, he did not believe he was mentally fit to continue his journey just yet. He glanced over at the man sitting alone in the booth at the far end of the diner, concealed by his cap and overcoat. He was idle, not doing much of anything; in front of him were empty mugs and plates, signaling that he had been there for quite a while. *Let’s give it a shot*, Oliver thought. He stood, let out a deep sigh and slowly made his way toward the man’s booth. Timidly, he asked: “Do you mind if I join you, sir?” The man looked up and, to Oliver’s relief, he seemed to be in good shape — a middle-aged man of dark complexion with no apparent maladies. He looked melancholic, but that was to be expected at this queer hour. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.” *Finally someone capable of normal conversation*, Oliver thought. “Thanks — I think I really need to talk to someone.” He sat opposite the man and took a swig of coffee. After a moment of contemplation, the man asked: “What’s on your mind, son?” “Oh, where to begin,” Oliver groaned. “I’ve had such a strange night. I’m on a sort of road trip, and I had this run-in with a deer… But I’m not sure it ever actually existed. I may have imagined it or something, because here I am. Anyway, that shook me so much that I really needed to find a place to stop, and this diner showed up not long after. But this place seems just as strange — it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful. And the staff here… They look like they’ve gone through hell and back. They’re not even capable of small talk. It’s like everything just confuses them. It all feels like some sort of fever dream… I guess I could just use a little help making sense of all of it.” At that, the man chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any making sense of it, man.” Oliver was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” “A place like this — there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Oliver returned a confused expression. The man scoffed. “You really don’t know where you are, huh?” A brief silence. “Arkansas?” He shook his head at Oliver’s naivety. “Shit, man, you’re in for a rude awakening. Here… Take a look at this.” The man removed his cap and tilted his head downward, revealing a bloody mess of a hole in the back of his skull, the atrocious aftermath of a point-blank gunshot. Oliver’s chest tightened. “What the *fuck*?!” He looked toward the counter, where the waitress and the cook were now standing side by side, facing their booth directly. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” When nobody made any effort to seek assistance, Oliver took it upon himself. He retrieved his cellphone from his pocket and was dismayed to find that it was shattered, well past the point of repair. *When could this have happened?* The man laughed and returned his cap to the tattered remnants of his skull. “Don’t you get it, boy? There *is* no help. Piece it together, man. I know you’re smarter than this.” A part of Oliver’s mind began to work out what the man was implying, but yet another part rejected the notion entirely. *No. No. No.* He stood up and darted his eyes around the now sinister diner. The three other occupants were eyeing him expectantly, and he started to hyperventilate. “Ah, it looks like he’s starting to get it, y’all.” Oliver’s panic began to evolve into an irrational anger. “Fuck this and fuck all of you.” He stormed toward the diner’s entrance, determined to put the horror show that was the World’s End Diner behind him. “I’m done.” “There’s no running from this, man. Come on, now.” This time, Oliver did not dignify the man with a response. He swung the diner’s door open and stepped outside. Then, all hope was lost. Nothing looked as it had when he first arrived. There was no highway, no parking lot, not even any trees. Before him was only a bleak and desolate wasteland, black sand stretching out into eternity underneath a similarly black sky. The diner was the forsaken landscape’s only light source. His car was nowhere to be found. *What is happening to me?* Oliver fell to his knees and wept. He had never been a spiritual man, but now, he prayed — to whom, he could not be sure. Several long minutes passed in this fashion, alternating between curses and pleas to a higher power. He soon became convinced that these pleas were utterly useless. *I deserve this.* If there had ever existed a place where hope was strictly forbidden, where light itself was a mere fantasy, he had found it. *I do deserve this, don’t I?* It was then, in Oliver’s darkest, most despairing moment, that his surroundings began to change, ever so slowly. Initially, he was not sure if he was imagining it, but after some time, it intensified. The landscape was brightening. It was as if some great, all-encompassing light was being shone down upon him from a source unknown — as far as he could discern, there was no sun in this place. It seemed that the entirety of the sky was emitting this light, blindingly white and scorching hot, slowly but surely gnawing away at the once-infinite dark. Oliver’s tears ceased as he stared toward the sky, getting brighter and brighter by the second, until it seemed that light was the only thing there was, and perhaps the only thing that had ever been. He watched in awe as it enveloped the whole of the world, inch by inch, until at last, it had enveloped him, as well. There was no way to be certain of what he was experiencing, but in that brief moment, Oliver felt that he was gazing directly into the eyes of his Creator. **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** When Oliver regained consciousness, his brain was a foggy mess — it took him some time to remember who he was, and what had transpired. He was acutely aware of a single sensation, though: an excruciating, full-body pain. He was unable to move his body; he felt locked in place, wholly drained of strength. His vision was still white, but eventually, color faded in, and other sensations began to return to him. He was able to discern that he was lying down, staring up at some sort of metal ceiling. Then, he made out the bumps in the road beneath him, and he deduced that he was a passenger in some sort of vehicle, but he lacked the energy to turn his head and study his environment. There was a shrill ringing in his ears, drowning out all other noise, if there was any other noise to speak of. Then, that ringing began to fade, as well, and he felt like a newborn infant, entering the world for the first time. Other sounds began to flood in: footsteps, mumbled chatter and the persistent beeping of medical equipment. And finally, he was able to clearly make out someone’s words: “We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse.


Here we go again, Matthew murmured as he entered the manor house a few hours after they received the call this morning. It was another typical day at the office. When the phone started to ring frantically at this early time, it was a sign that something big has happened. And when the person on the other end of the line was screaming that he found the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan, the world-famous solar energy businessman, the whole precinct was up in the air. Matthew hated rich people. Most of the time the police department had to cover for their stupidity in causing scandals and deal with the tabloid journalists who waited for hours outside the precinct for a piece of information that would give them the exclusive they so desperately needed. But this time he braced himself that it will not be like any other time. It would be much worse. Timothy Rogan was not just a celebrity or a pretty face that sold copies of gossip magazines like crazy. He was a business tycoon, one that belonged among the three richest persons in the world. His presence in the business industry was so heavy that with the slightest wrong move he could affect entire governments or cause stock markets to collapse in a single day. Letting out a heavy sigh, Matthew put on his dark grey coat and grabbed his car keys from the drawer of his desk before he exits the precinct. The air was extremely chilly, he felt his face freeze the moment he stepped outside. He cursed under his breath as he passed the cars parked outside. There were only a couple of police cars and some fancy saloon ones of his superiors. His car was far on the opposite side of the ‘presentable’ scale, as the captain had once commented. So, he had to park in the other parking, hidden behind a row of tall buildings, two blocks from there. After two failed attempts the engine was brought to life. The lucky third one. He drove out of the parking lot and took the road heading to Ruda – the ‘paradise on Earth’ as many in town were referring to. It was a long road with fancy houses and villas, destined for the elite of the elite. When he reached the large golden gates the crowd of reporters with mics at hand and cameras flashing were already outside, pushing against each other to get closer in desperate need to manage to enter the property. When one of them spotted his car he shouted something incomprehensible to his ears and the crowd drifted its attention to him. Within seconds, the reporters scrambled around his car, shouting questions. Matthew just shook lightly his head sideways and pulled out his badge, holding it high in his hand so the guards at the gate could see it. A small team of guards approaches the gate in order to keep the media away as the doors open slowly to let the car enter. *** The forensics van was already there the moment his car stopped in front of the house. Matthew got out of his car and stood for a moment, looking at the exterior of the house. The man knew for sure to appreciate the classic beauty of the countryside. The building was so grand and imposing on the outside, Matthew was sure that it matched perfectly with Timothy Rogan’s character.

The huge door opens with a light creak and the form of a tall slender man, dressed in a dark uniform appears in the door frame. He looks sleepless, with huge bags under his eyes and wrinkles that expand across his face. Matthew thought he was way past the retirement age and wondered since when this man was under Rogan’s employment. “Good morning sir, I’m Peter Gevraux, Mr Rogan’s butler.” He said with a cold tone in his voice, like a talking robot. Matthew wondered how many times he said this phrase. “They wait for you inside.” Matthew gave a nod to the butler and stepped inside. Most probably everyone who’s seen Timothy Rogan for the past forty-eight hours was informed and gathered to get interviewed. His mouth fell slightly open when he saw the décor of the great hall extending in front of him. The decorations around the borders on the ceiling contained lines of gold and Matthew thought that it was definitely gold leaves up there. The antiques that were filling this huge space could easily be in museums. Peter the butler waited patiently for Matthew to end admiring the area until his face fell on him and motioned Matthew to follow. He followed the butler, crossing a hall that seemed not able to see its end until they turned and bright light strikes him. It must be a ballroom, that was Matthew’s first impression. And he was right. The room lacked furniture – apart from a piano – but the walls were filled with various paintings of different sizes. Except for one large area with high arched windows that expanded to the side the fourth wall would be. The room was sparkling as the sun was hitting on the massive chandelier decorated with numerous crystals that made the room more bright than the day outside. Under the chandelier, there was a large dark bag, probably containing the lifeless body of Timothy Rogan while the forensics team was scattered around, some taking photos of the evidence found while others were getting samples for further tests in the lab. “What’s the weapon this time?” Matthew asks Danielle Robertson as she approaches his side. “Surprise me,” she replies writing something on her notepad.

Matthew took a brief look around. “I’d say… knife.” Danielle’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Not bad, not bad…” she smirked. “Letter opener to be more precise. Multiple stabs and cuts on his torso and neck.” “Any guess on who’s the killer?” Matthew turned to her, taking already his pen and notepad out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Oh no!” Danielle backs off lifting her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I leave the good part at you. They are all gathered in the orchard and are ready to eat each other! Good luck with those.” She pats him on the back as she leaves to continue her job. It is then that Matthew notices voices, coming from afar. Probably arguing. He turned around and followed the voices, moving across the ballroom until he went out from one of the large arched windows that led towards the orchard. The view was magical. The orange trees had started to flower and a thin coat of snow had covered the bushes around, forming some sort of maze. And when Matthew turned to the left – behind some trees – there was chaos. At first glance, they all reminded Matthew of characters from Cluedo his favourite board game as a child. A priest, a couple – with glasses and briefcases on their hands – and a young woman around her thirties with multiple visits to the plastic surgeon. They were all talking together shooting death glares at each other. When Matthew approached close enough and they spotted him, the noises suddenly vanished. “Hello everyone.” He decided to say eventually. Good morning would be far too oxymoron. “I’m detective Matthew Karamanides. So, shall we begin? Who will be the first?” Everyone stares at him blinking. Matthew scans their expressions in case he notices something out of the ordinary. “We can start together if you want.” The priest finally breaks the sudden silence fallen to the crowd. “Yes, come with me Father…?” “Langley,” the priest says calmly. “Father Langley.” The two men walk further away, where a patio is. They could also go inside but Matthew wanted to keep an eye on the rest of the company as well while he was interviewing each member. If they went inside, someone might attempt to eavesdrop. “So, where were you exactly at the time of the murder?” Matthew asks with a low voice as he takes a seat on the bench placed on it. The pen flips between his fingers as he waits for Father Langley’s answer. “I was at the church, making preparations for a wedding we have tomorrow. As you can see the people residing in these areas are quite selective with their ceremonies and everything has to be put in order. They don’t accept anything less than perfection.” “Do you have anyone to confirm this?” Matthew continued taking a quick note on his notepad. “Yes, the wedding planner was there with a small team of his associates.” Matthew took a thorough look that the priest before spitting his next question. Father Langley seemed quite calm and composed personality. If it was him who did it, he could easily conceal it. “And when did you meet with Mr Rogan?” Father Langley took a deep breath. “We met yesterday, early morning. Mr Rogan jogs before sunrise and sometimes I jog too before I start the morning mass.” “I’m sorry to ask this and if you want you can answer my question,” Matthew said trying to appear as discreet “but did you know if Mr Rogan was having problems with someone? Has anything come to your attention?” Father Langley sighed, his index finger tapping quickly on his lap. “Look son, some things are shared with me during confessions. And this is a very private discussion so I cannot disclose any information on the matter.” “I understand father, but this is a murder case and I’m sure Mr Rogan is not available at the moment. I’m sure solving his murder would provide a piece to his soul.” Father Langley’s posture changes slightly. His shoulders got down in relief. Matthew-Father 1-0. “If you put it that way. I guess you’re right. Well, recently he was having trouble with young miss Darma – the lady in the red dress. They were having an affair that must be kept secret at all costs until her parents learnt about it and came to have a heated discussion with Mr Rogan. When they left, miss Darma screamed at him that he ruined her life and swore to make him pay. That’s all he told me.” *** “Who do you think did it?” Miss Darma said letting a large ball of smoke as she dragged the cigarette out of her mouth. “The Jacomets did it! Timothy had told me that they came the day before yesterday to his office and tried to sell him a patent, something they’d invented. But it was not worth it at all. Timothy rejected their proposal and they got mad!” “And how was your relationship with the victim?” Matthew continued. “Well, we had some ups and downs. Maybe more downs now that I remember. We had some big fights but in the end, we seem to get along well. When my parents found out about our relationship, there was a possibility that I would be pregnant. We came all here and the fight started. I was coming today to tell him the news that thankfully, I’m not pregnant when my phone rang and Mr Gevreaux informed me of Timothy’s loss.” Her voice cracks with emotion as she finishes the sentence. *** “We are scientists sir, we’re not some cold-blood murderers!” Alec Jacomet spits as he stands up from his seat and starts pacing up and down. “We believed that Mr Rogan was a man that would appreciate an innovative idea. We run many tests with my wife Patricia and we were a hundred per cent sure that this will be a winner. But when Mr Rogan rejected us, my blood boiled. We’ve been given years of our lives in research and development of this and he dismissed us so quickly as we sell him air!” “I know you also leave in the area. Any idea about an incident or who might have done it?” Patricia and Alec both looked at each other like they knew something. Finally Patricia decided to speak. “There were rumours about a video that circulated in some blogs about Mr Rogan and Father Langley in… intimate moments.” When Father Langley came to see Mr Rogan, I’m pretty sure the whole valley could hear their voices. At least, we could hear them and we leave on the other end of the road.” Matthew rubbed his temples when the interview was over. This is a nightmare , he thought. So, who do you think did it?


*By Nicholas Cakarovski* *“Hello to those below. We are not friends nor are we foe. So, remain closed or we shall release the horrid blow.”* It was the third one, and maybe the last and there it is not a singular hint to what these messages could be. Somehow they managed to gain control of all Phoenix televisions, radios, electronic billboards and the notifications on every damn phone and plastered this message for all to see. As I woke this morning it has become rather apparent to me that this last one had everyone acting rather strange. Too strange. To me it reads a threat, a threat to Earth, or to Phoenix, I’m not sure. What did we ever do? But my suspicion had become ever so enhanced when I found a letter within my mailbox the morning before everything changed. It was strikingly different from the typical fees, bills and other random letters I regularly receive. This one was small, smaller than average, and it wore a bright white coat of an intricate texture, patterned entirely with minute diamond shapes. It screamed of importance, urgency, though it remained textless. Within it the letter it read: *“To Duke:* *Meet Sophie, 47 Winning Street, 7:27 pm. Find Wearhouse 3.* *From, Us.”* I guess they called themselves *‘Us’*. The anonymity of their supposed population failed to intimidate me. I did not know Sophie and if she was dangerous, so be it. I normally sat at home with myself and my pallet. I entertained myself with painting, but sometimes making and hanging up my works triggered my boredom. I lived alone. It felt as if it was situated within perpetual hell so someone to talk to would have ignited quite a thrill. I *was* a social butterfly. It’s six-thirty. I was early because I was unable to contain my anxiousness, restless at the fact I had been invited to the unknown. I saw a pretty woman. She wore a blend of white and black hair and wore a bottom lip blemished by metal studs. It was Sophie. I spotted her sitting with her back against an old door directly below an empty red picture frame, dirty, with dry mud upon its glass, barely hanging by a wire. I walked over with class. *“Evening! You must be Sophie, I'm Duke, pleasure meeting you.”* *‘Whatever man lets just go inside and get this done.”* *“Did you receive a letter by any chance?”* *“Of course why else would I be here?”* *“May I ask what it reads?”* She had an attitude. *“To Sophie* *Meet Duke at 47 Winning Street tonight at 7:27 pm. The Question we ask is Red or White* *From, Us.”* Cryptic it was. It posed a question. It mentioned two colours, none of which typically match as black or white or red or blue would. It was an obscure message. Nonetheless, I let her in first like the gentleman I *was*. As we stepped within its threshold we were faced with two dilapidated doors, they were painted, though done roughly with old cheap paint, left one white, right one red. No lacker. We now were situated within a little room surrounded by four walls each dark in appearance, coloured with a thick blood red. Beneath us a light brown carpet soft enough to lose your ankles in. Every corner of my eye met a myriad of empty picture frames. Dozens of them placed within a symmetrical formation, like that of brickwork, a dense array. These frames, however, seemed useless. We could see directly through them as if the glass was missing leaving only a wooden rectangle, but, the glass was indeed there, barely visible. The room was illuminated from a warm bulb that remained seldom lit above. Each frame was identical, devoid of the slightest gossamer of distinction. Between the doors sat another letter upon the floor, similar in appearance to the others. It read only a single word. “Choose” *“Ok mister, I’ll open red you open white, we get this done and go home.”* *“But what if I said I wanted red. It's my favourite colour.”* *“Don’t do that. I chose first so I get it, this is already weird enough let's just get it over and done with.”* *“Woah! How about we get to know each other first!.* *“Fine, I'm Sophie, I'm 25, I'm from Inner Phoenix and I want to get the fuck out of here. Happy?”* Ill-mannered she was. Before I could say another word, she escaped, with what swiftest pivot of the feet. She grasped the knob and turned it, pulling it just enough for me to miss the contents inside. She removed herself from my company with an unnecessary degree of pettiness. I was left alone, judged by the simplicity of wood and glass upon the walls. *Harmless* panels. It was my turn. I was entranced in hesitation, a paralysing reluctance to commit. I was still. My mind spoke with itself: *‘It can't be that bad.’ ‘I bet this is some Halloween prank.’ ‘Damn kids.’ ‘Whatever, fuck it.’* The creak was something a lick of oil was not able to fix. Before me, a narrow hallway. It too had blood-red walls. Fading to a gradient of black, thick darkness that reached for some distance. Its end was invisible. I was also unable to escape the frames. They extended beside me head height for as long as my eyes could go. One step after the other my pores flooded, a tiny drop of sweat slid ever so slowly through the density of my beard before leaping off my jaw and onto the tip of my leather boots. This hallway was hot. Very hot. Too hot. Almost *intentional*. As I made my way away from the opening, the line of lights above me seemed to follow. Passing in succession. It was as if I was not moving, as if I was walking on the spot, however, the frames were passing one by one. Returning was pointless. It felt as if I were within a beast. The esophagus of the devil. Each step I took felt as if I were gradually being swallowed awaiting my landing within the pit of its stomach. These frames failed to desist. Like pupils, they judged me. I thought if I quickened my pace I was to reach the exit sooner however I received nothing but fatigue, calves like the tip of a matchstick. I built tension with myself and walls, tension thick enough that the world's sharpest blade would break in two. The frames judged me harder. They insulted me as I could not satisfy them. Its silence shrieked within my ears. Loud. Nothingness mixed with the thumping of my heart and the subtle brushing of my feet against the bristles of the carpet amplified in volume. It had no end. There was no end to the heat, to the lights, to the blood-red walls, nor was there an end to the darkness. There was no end to the sound of nothing and no end to the frames. No end at all. I felt as if I were dead as if it killed me. And I noticed that something I had once owned was now missing. At last, I had reached its gut. The exit was before me, but not before *me.* A letter sat beneath the door. It read: ‘Success!’ I let myself out, and I felt nothing. Now I am free and I am safe\*.\* They have no reason to touch me. Sophie was gone, nowhere to be seen. I was because Sophie *failed*. She does not fit. There are others, but they lack ‘self’. They have no human in them. They are the same, they are like me. Gone. Empty. I am no longer Duke. I am nothing. I am changed as fear has changed me, morphed me, manipulated all that I was. Forced to follow neither friend nor foe. I have been made to remain closed to escape the horrid blow. I am now theirs.


The torrential rain furiously hit the tiles of the roof, causing an echo throughout the barn. An ominous mist seeped through the cracks of the wall, adding to the already frigid atmosphere. The only source of warmth and comfort was the small campfire in the middle of the room. Two shadows were cast by its flames, one of which seemed significantly more subdued than the other. The middle aged man was laying on his back, both hands shielding his face from the ill intentioned individual who stood before him. “Please… please don’t do this! I’ve already told you, I-“ “Cut the bullshit, old man. It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat!” the woman barked back at him, readjusting her aim as she did so. The wrath in her eyes could stop an entire army dead in its tracks but the raspiness in her voice could seduce any man. Seduce any man to his demise that is. Elena Storm took a few steps forward, and kicked one of the man hands away from his face, then proceeded to block it under her boot, slowly exerting more and more pressure. The man let out a scream, but was soon shushed by the young woman. “Keep a little dignity… a little dignity… ah damn it” “Cut!” As soon as the director ordered the camera man to stop rolling, a bell sounded in the background and the crew simultaneously turned off the rain and fog machines. The producer rubbed his eyes brows and lazily got up from his chair, throwing the megaphone onto the makeshift table. He slowly made his way to the previously fierce woman, now a shy actress hiding behind the leather uniform and the fake handgun. “Sara, Sara, Sara” the director shook his head, “remind me how many times we have to go through this scene?” Sara Blake hesitated, knowing that her answer would just upset him even more. She looked down at her feet, occasionally glancing at her co star removing the straw off his jeans. The director stood silently in front of her with his hands behind his back. The hubbub in the entire studio seemed to grow fainter and fainter, their attention was fully diverted onto the lead actress. Sara cleared her voice and mustered the courage to look at her superior in the eyes, “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m doing my best to act here.” The director sneered, but his expression quickly changed into pure anger, “Well that’s exactly what you’re doing wrong! You’re not supposed to act! You’re supposed to be Elena Storm! Not Sara Blake pretending to be Elena Storm!” Sara slowly nodded, not wanting to show in any way any form of disagreement. “You know what miss Blake? I think we’re done for today,” he menacingly stated, “Yes everyone, we’re wrapping it up for today. We’ll continue tomorrow morning” he continued, facing his crew this time around. Before walking back to his station, the director briefly looked back at the actress, oh so slightly leaning towards her. “Don’t you make me regret this” he quietly said, making sure she heard every word. Sara gulped and nodded once more. The director murmured something under his breath and dismissed the actress. Her co worker being within earshot of their last exchange, went up to her and gave her the good old fashioned tap on the shoulder, clearly thinking that his act of kindness would help her or reassure her in any way. It didn’t. Instead, Sara Blake sought comfort in her dressing room, slaloming between curious and non-oblivious crewmembers. As she approached her dressing room, she noticed a glow under the door. The room usually bathed in darkness at this time of the day, why was the light turned on? The actress cautiously approached the door then proceeded to slowly lower the door handle. “Come in!” an all too familiar voice called out. Right in front of her Hollywoodian mirror, sat her stunt double, casually flipping through the script of A Glimmer of Death , the movie that they both were working on. “Stephany?” Sara expressed her surprise, “what-what are you doing here?” Stephany didn’t care to look behind her to face Sara, instead, she provocatively placed both of her feet onto the vanity table. “I’m just going through our script for tomorrow” she replied. “Okay, well… I don’t want to offend you in any way but… why are you in my dressing room?” Sara innocently asked while leaning against the door frame; not because she felt relaxed, but mainly to hide her nervousness. Stephany continued to look through the script. A smirk appeared when she landed on a particular page. “Mm. I heard you had a little trouble with this part. It doesn’t count if you’re planning your own defeat! ” she mockingly imitated the actress. Sara Blake let out a forced laughter, “Yes… I guess it didn’t exactly turn out the way it should have. But tomorrow’s a new day, I’m sure it will turn out fine… at least I hope so”. Her lack of confidence always emerged as she spoke. A chink in her armour. Stephanie flipped the script closed and threw it onto the vanity table. “You haven’t heard, have you?” “Haven’t heard what?” Sara worriedly asked. The stunt double scoffed and got up from her chair, crossed her arms and slowly paced towards her co-worker. “The director and I had a little chat and, after a little negotiation, he thinks that I may be suited for the lead” she bluntly announced. Sara felt as if the world was going to crash down on her. The solidity of her career was comparable to the thin, frail piece of paper of a contract she complied to with three pen strokes. “Why-what do you mean by that? I’ve gone through interviews, auditions and who knows how many hours of filming. You can’t replace me like that! You’re the stunt double. I swear if you spent the night with hi-“ “You’ve being filming for exactly three days, Sara. It is just as scrapable as salvageable, just with a different lead. And I don’t think it’s too wise to make assumptions” Stephanie responded, standing just two feet away from Blake. Sara looked away from Stephanie for a brief moment, trying to recompose herself. It wasn’t the time to show any shape or form of vulnerability. But unfortunately for her, the stunt double caught onto that. “But don’t worry Sara, tomorrow the director will do a trial. Technically, you’ll be given another chance, despite given a plethora of those throughout the week,” Stephanie said as she was about to head back out, “See you tomorrow, Elena Storm” The door slammed shut. The next day Sara nibbled on her fingernails during the entirety of Stephany’s performance. She mentally nit-picked every flawed move and delivery, but upon glancing at the director on her right, she quickly started to question her thought process: he seemed unfazed by the small mistakes, his gaze was fixed on her, it was impossible to tell what truly went through his mind. But given his body language, it was bad news for the lead actress. Sara leaned towards the director, unconsciously mimicking his prior day’s self. “We don’t have a second stunt double do we?” she whispered. The director scoffed, and slowly leaned as well towards Sara, all while his eyes being glued to the actors. “If I recall correctly, you started off as a stunt double, didn’t you?” he whispered back. Knowing what he was implying, Sara sat back in her chair without replying. Convinced that her career was over, she was almost ready to throw in the towel and walk away defeated. But before she could review her thoughts, the director signalled to her that it was her turn. Sara nervously rubbed her hands together and recited in her mind the script like a poem. Just as she was going to make her way towards the small campfire, her co-star suddenly walked off set. The crewmembers looked at each other and then at the director. “Let him be!” he said in an annoyed fashion, “Stephany, pretty please, could you briefly replace our dear colleague, because we simply don’t have all day” Stephany didn’t seem to exalted about the idea but went on with it. Sara couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on the corner of her mouth. The lights dimmed. The torrential rain started to furiously hit the tiles of the roof. The ominous mist seeped once more through the cracks of the wall Stephanie rolled onto her back, with her hands in front of her face, quickly trying to remember the lines of the co-star. “Please… please don’t do this! I’ve already told you, I-“ “Cut the bullshit, old man. It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat!” the woman barked back at her, readjusting her aim as she did so. The wrath in her eyes were fuelled by her determination and the raspiness in her voice was what differentiated her from your average actor. Sara Blake took a few steps forward, and kicked one of Stephany’s hands away from her face, then proceeded to block it under her boot, slowly exerting more and more pressure. She could feel her heel digging into the straw filled ground, all while feeling the sole of her foot squeezing her co-worker’s wrist. Stephany let out a scream, but was soon shushed by the young woman. “Keep a little dignity for the amount of time you’ve got left. Screaming serves no purpose, you’re merely entertaining the silence of the night. And before, sir, you ask who I truly am:  Ask yourself, what has brought you in the situation you have found yourself in, in present time” Sara Blake then released the pressure off the girl’s wrist and crouched next to her, slowly placing the plastic gun underneath Stephany’s chin. “Now, remind me what you’ve already told me?” she said in a menacing fashion. Stephany glanced at the director, and the latter abruptly stood up in response. “Cut!”


Trigger warning: suicide

-Ten days ago- “He’s been writing for hours,” Yasmine whispered to me. “He’ll stop, scribble things out, crumple up the paper and then toss it away. It’s happened even more than when he’s working on an essay. I’m getting worried.” I stared at Rayne as he rammed a hand through his hair and gave a tiny growl of frustration. I’d never seen him like this, even when he was freaking out over his resume in tenth grade. I turned to Yasmine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” Yasmine shuddered. “Yes, and it didn’t go over so well. He practically bit my head off. There was blood everywhere. It wasn’t pretty.” I rolled my eyes and peeked through the crack in the doorway again. Rayne was scribbling furiously now, eyes afire with something I couldn’t place. I waited until he stopped again, glowering at the paper, and then pushed the door open and strode into the room. “Rayne! How are you?” I plastered a smile on my face. Rayne glanced up and sighed, turning the paper over. “Now is not the time, Cail. I’m busy.” I sighed dramatically. “You’re always busy. Are you ever gonna have time for me?” Rayne turned his glare to the doorway. “Yasmine, I thought I told you to keep people out of my room.” Yasmine shrugged helplessly. “You try stopping Cail. It’s like talking to a wall.” Something akin to a smile flickered over Rayne’s face. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What are you working on?” I asked playfully, reaching for the paper. Rayne’s eyes widened and he slapped my hand away. “It’s nothing!” Seeing my startled look, he sighed and softened his tone. “It’s nothing, Cail. I promise. It’s just another essay.” “Another one?” Yasmine asked warily. “How many essays have you had this year already? Twelve? College must be hard.” “College is hard, baby sister. And it requires a lot of focus, so I need to be alone right now. Okay?” He directed that part at me. I stared at the floor, twiddling the strings of my jacket. “Yeah. Okay.” “Cail.” His tone was patient. I looked up. “I’ll be out soon.” He smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I nodded and slipped out the door.

“I see what you mean,” I remarked to Yasmine when the door was closed. “He’s never been like that before.”

Yasmine cleared her throat and nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s just a school thing, despite what he says.” “I don’t think so, either.” Yasmine looked up at me pleadingly. “You’re his best friend. Can’t you do something? He scares me when he’s like this.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know, Yasmine. I wish I could. But this is mostly up to Rayne. If he wants to talk to us, he’ll talk to us.”

I wish I hadn’t been as confident about that as I was.

-Now-

“Last Will and Testament of Rayne Ash Brooks My dearest family and friends. I regret what I am about to do already, but it could not wait any longer. I would like to thank you all for everything you have done for me, and I would like you all to know that you did nothing wrong. What is about to happen is no one’s fault but my own. I was weak, and that weakness dragged me too far to ever return to how I was. I hope you all know that I loved each and every one of you. To my mother, I leave all the scrapbooks and photo albums I made over the years. I hope they may remind her of the good memories. To my baby sister Yasmine, I leave whatever she would like to have. I hope whatever she chooses may serve her well. To my grandfather, I leave the pocketknife he gave me on my twelfth birthday. I would like to thank him for teaching me about carpentry. To my grandmother, I leave my guitar and my thanks to her for teaching me how to play it. Finally, to Cail I leave whatever else could possibly bring memories and comfort. I love you, Cail. I want you to know that. My deepest thanks to all of you for caring for me the way you did. You are all wonderful people. I will miss you dearly.”

I fold the paper in half numbly as tears drip down my cheeks. People around me are singing quietly, but I can’t hear the song. The world is so loud in its silence. Rayne should still be here, laughing with me over absolutely nothing. Teasing Yasmine while she’s yelling at him. Why would he do this? What could have caused it? An overwhelming urge suffocates me, telling me to curl into a ball and never get up again. I squeeze my stinging eyes closed and try not to think about how certain I was that he would talk to us if he needed to. Had I only asked how he was doing, had I only paid closer attention, I could have at least done something. A half-sob escapes my lips and I press a hand over my mouth to stifle it. Someone starts gently rubbing my back, but it can’t take away the yawning cavern that has been carved into my heart. I open my eyes and open the paper again, staring at the words as they begin to blur again. I do not look up for the rest of the funeral.

I head for the doors as soon as the ceremony is over. I need to be alone. Unfortunately, someone taps my shoulder before I can make it to the safety of my car. I mumble something about home without turning around and keep walking. But they clasp my hand and spin me around to face them. Yasmine is staring up at me, tear tracks covering her cheeks. She gives me a watery smile. She knows what I am going through. I gather her up in a hug. People part around us like a boulder in a stream. Neither of us move for a very long time.

Finally, Yasmine pulls back, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s so different now.” Her voice wobbles and she pauses. “I never would have guessed- I mean, he was always so happy.” I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “He was incredible.” My voice breaks and tears trace down my cheeks again. I ball my hands into fists and press them against my eyes, willing myself to stop crying. Yasmine rubs my back gently, and I take deep breaths. “You loved him, didn’t you, Cail?” She asks suddenly. I look up at her sympathetic face and then down again, nodding silently as fresh tears well up. “He was the best man I’ve ever known. I just wish he could’ve known that, too.” Yasmine hugs me again. “Me too, Cail. Me too.”

Four hours later, Yasmine and I are staring at the orange and pink of the sky as the sun turns red and sinks below the mountains. I am looking for traces of him; I have no doubt she is, too. We sit there until the sky is dark and pinpricks of light shine down on us. Hand in hand, watching the stars. The ones he left behind.


I’m Late By Merry Marcellino              The alarm wails and I jump from the bed! Today is the day! I must get moving! I only have an hour left! I hop into the shower tripping on the mat and falling against the wall. “Ow!” Pain radiates up my leg, but it’s not broken. Not letting it stop me, I shower getting soap in my eye. Looking in the mirror, my eye looks like a blood vessel burst! Grabbing eyedrops I almost stab my eye trying to get the moisture in. Waiting the barest second, I see the redness die down just a little.

 Limping to the bedroom to dress. Jeans, check, black boots, check.  Lacy pin bra, check, burnt orange sweater, check. Wait! Oh no! Huge hole in the sweater! I tear it off flinging the imperfect garment across the room.              “Shirt! Shirt!” Finding a T-shirt that’s clean, I toss it on getting it stuck while trying to shove my arms in the holes! Finally dressed, I slurp the last bit of coffee in my cup only to spill it down my shirt. Rolling my eyes I rush to the bedroom and Hallelujah! I find another clean shirt with no holes!

             Finally dressed, I rush out the door almost tripping down the stairs to the lower level of my apartment. The icy wind chills me in my light jacket and T-shirt, the only one I could find on short notice. Should have tried harder to find a sweater!

Snow flurries expected today. The low-level nimbostratus clouds above signal the oncoming white stuff. Gray skies hover as I hurry to my vehicle. Getting into my bright, blue car, I break a nail on the door frame. “Ouch!” More injuries! What else is new for Ms. Clumsy! Putting my finger in my mouth to calm the sting, I carefully close the door.              Jamming the key in the ignition I turn it rather vehemently to a whirring sound. “Oh no!” Trying again, to no avail. “Come on baby! Start!” No luck. “not today, please baby!” Guess I’m walking! Rather running!              Working night shift is for the birds. I’m not used to the hours. I can’t get any of my day errands done! My sleep pattern is off making it necessary to use an alarm. I need to get back to day shift. Four more weeks!              I hurry past people walking dogs, dancing around leashes. Jumping over a backpack on the ground I almost twist my ankle when I land. Can’t be late!

             “Excuse me Miss?” Oh no! A man is blocking my way. He’s tall, about fifty. Rather nice looking but I don’t have time. “Please can you help me?” I stop, what else can I do to a plea of assistance?              “Yes?” I’m hopping from one foot to the other, impatient to get moving.              “Can you tell me the time?” Really? Is no one else around? Where’s your cell? I think unkindly.

             “It’s 5:15pm.”              “Thank you.” I’m not listening. I’m off again!              I only have forty-five minutes left!              Once I hit Gerard Street, I’ll be home free! Almost there! Now what!? Gerard is closed off! Their repairing the sidewalk. Wet concrete! Can I jump it? No. Too wide. I can’t go that way! Now I have to go all the way around!              Sprinting across the street, I almost get hit by a car moving faster than the speed limit. Beeping at me they drive away. I almost gesture to them, but no. Just because they’re rude doesn’t mean I have to be. My heart is in my throat from the close encounter! Have to get my breathing under control after the scare.              If I cut through this building I can cut some time! It’s been abandoned for a while. Is it safe? The tall building looks sturdy. It was abandoned for something. It can’t be too bad. It hasn’t been knocked down yet, I reason with myself.

             Slipping under the tape on the door I squint to see in the darkness. “Hello. Anyone here?” Could be a homeless person sleeping here to hold off the coldness of the winter winds. Hearing a squeak I jump! Mouse? Rat? I don’t want to know!

             Pulling out my phone, I turn on the flashlight. Having to slow to step over broken pallets, is that a sleeping bag? I’m beginning to question my sanity, coming into a deserted building alone. Slowing, I creep along, shadows making me jump as I find another room. Smelling sweat, I turn to another door. I’m losing time having to move so slowly. I should have taken Branch Street. No time for regrets now.

             I hear footsteps above me and move a little faster. I’m going to have a heart attack before I get to my destination!              I see a light! Another door! Could this lead outside? Praying, I move as fast as I can around debris on the floor. Dust particles fall in my face and I cough. Almost to the door, I quicken my pace.

             Jumping back and falling when the door flies open, my hand flies to my chest. I’m almost hyperventilating!

             “Are you ok?” A police officer helps me to my feet. He’s really handsome. Dark hair curling under his hat. Blue eyes checking me over for injuries. A muscular arm around me when I almost fall over. Adrenaline is spiking and I am shaking. “You shouldn’t be in here. Vagrants use this place for shelter. You could have been hurt and the building isn’t safe by any means.”              We step out into the light and I’m so relieved I lean against Officer Cuteness.

             “Sorry. I was trying to get around the block on Gerard. Shortcut. It didn’t work out as I planned.”              “At least you’re not injured.” Sparkling eyes assess me and I notice he likes what he sees. “Maybe you could give me your number. You know. Just in case you’re not feeling well later. I can check up on you.”              “Oh sure.” I give him my number and my phone dings as he texts me so I have his. My face is flushed and he heads back to his duty.              Momentarily unmoving, happy with my luck, I watch him walk away.              Remembering my task, I mentally shake my head and get moving. I can see my destination up ahead but I still have a street to cross and its full of traffic. Coming to the crosswalk, I pause with everyone else. I’m dancing as I wait. When the light signals that we can walk, I move as quickly as I can in the crowd of people.

             Pushing the door open, I sidestep a woman moving a wheeled cart full of belongings.              I’m almost there. At the counter, I see two people in front of me. Tapping my foot impatiently on the tiled floor I can hear the staccato as one person leaves the line. Only one left. “Shhh!” A man whispers loudly as my foot continues to tap.

             “Sorry.” I hold my leg so I won’t start tapping again.              Finally, it’s my turn. “I’m returning this library book. Sorry it’s late.              “Oh Casey. It’s ok. You don’t have to pay the fee. You come here so much, and you never damage the books. Just mark your calendar next time.              “Thanks Mrs. Silver. You’re the best!”              The book is back where it belongs and I might have a date tonight! Things are looking up!


“Excuse me, Miss, can I trouble you for a menu?” Janie nodded absentmindedly, rushing by a new customer who had just planted his butt in the only empty seat left in the corner by the window. She paused by the kitchen grabbing a few plates and drinks for a couple that was intimately cuddling in the corner, pretending like they were the only ones in the place. They were nauseatingly happy and Janie felt a wave of jealousy rising in her whenever she passed by them. Her own forever love affair ended as quickly as it started just a week earlier so she was still hung up on that disappointment. The place was buzzing like a bee hive as it always happened on Saturday mid-morning. Janie made a few more runs back and forth before she zoomed by the new patron’s table sliding a plastic one-page menu over to him on the way to the bathroom. She came out a few minutes later determined to keep it together and stay pleasant. The boss recently commented that she would have made way more tips with her pretty baby face if she wasn’t so short with the customers. Tips… tips would be good. She sighed. Student loans were growing, bills were skyrocketing and there was no hope for improvement any time soon. She was especially irritated when people were so busy on their phones, that it took them forever to order anything so Janie had to go back and forth asking them again and again if they decided what they were going to eat. It always amazed her when people were looking up at her from their screens with a look that clearly said “ how dare you bother me here !” The restaurant was located off the beaten path in Manhattan. It was one of those NY delis that managed to combine in its menu a nice mix of American favorites and the old-school traditional Jewish dishes like kasha and lox with schmear. They typically closed in the late afternoon except on the weekend when they shut the doors after eight. Janie ran behind the counter grabbing the pad she used to take orders. She saw how her new customer put aside the menu she left for him and was about to head over to him when the owner called her over quietly but firmly. Janie obeyed with curiosity. The owner was a much older woman who rarely spoke to any of the wait staff. Her son was a big deal somewhere in Hollywood so initially, when the restaurant was first opened, no one really cared if it would be profitable. This was the old lady’s long-time coming dream so her son obliged. She taught her cooks how to make dishes from her pre-USA life , as she called it, and spent her days sitting between the dining room and the kitchen in a large comfortable chair watching how life boiled all around her. In time, however, the cafe became a big success so since Janie started here three months earlier, she couldn’t remember a single quiet day when their dining room didn’t fill up to the max. She approached the owner, bending her head closer to the old woman so she could hear better. “Honey, tell the kitchen to prepare the portion of syrniki , a large one. And serve it with sour cream, honey, jam, you know? The works…” she still had a slight European accent when she got excited. Janie was a bit surprised – she never thought of their owner as someone with a sweet tooth. Maybe that’s what she was in the mood for today. “Would you like me to put it on the tray for you?” The owner chuckled quietly. “Silly girl, it’s not for me. What could I possibly do with so much food? It would have been wasteful. It’s for that darling boy over there.” She nodded towards the man that came in last and was now looking out the window. Janie was confused. How did she know what the guy wanted? She hesitated before replying carefully, trying to be as respectful as possible. Who knows, maybe the owner finally lost her marbles… “He asked for a menu but I haven’t taken his order yet.” “No need. His name is Jake, he comes here every year on this day, always asks for a menu, and always orders the same thing. I’ve known Jake for years, ever since he was a little boy. He used to come for breakfast with his Bubbee all the time. let me tell you - the woman could eat!” The owner smiled, reminiscing. Janie looked closer at the man, or actually Jake, again. Now that she heard this, she noticed he didn’t look joyful on this sunny Saturday morning. One of the busboys placed a cup of coffee in front of him a few minutes earlier but Jake hardly noticed it. He continued to gaze out the window deep into his thoughts. “Do you know why he comes on this day?” she asked the owner quietly. “It’s the day his Bubbee left him and went to reunite with the Lord.” Janie didn’t have a relationship with her grandparents. They lived far away and never seemed to bother so it was hard for her to understand Jake’s grief. She watched him as Jake turned from the window scanning the room around him with his big brown eyes. He sighed unbuttoning the top of his shirt and brushing back the curly wave that fell on his forehead. “They were close, ha?” “Very. She raised him. Dad ran off when he was a baby and he lost his mother a few years later to cancer. So that’s all the family he had. Now, go, yenta, don’t make him wait. I have a feeling Chef David already has his plate ready on the warmer.” Of course, the owner was right. When Janie asked David if he had an order ready for Jake, no one asked any questions. Instead, she was presented with a large oval platter where in the pool of a heavenly-smelling melting butter were sitting five large golden cottage cheese pancakes that Easter Europeans called syrniki . Janie tried it once before and her mouth immediately watered with the memories of the crunchy top which covered the soft goodness of the fried cakes. They were sweet and slightly salty at the same time. Many ate them in a similar to the potato latkes manner with an apple sauce. But the owner said the right way to have them was with lots of cold thick sour cream and homemade raspberry-strawberry jams or honey. Janie picked up a heavy plate with both hands carrying it carefully towards Jake’s table. As she came closer to him, Jake looked up and gave her a hint of a smile. He nodded in appreciation. “Can I get you anything else?” Janie asked softly, setting it up in front of him pushing the utensils and the napkin to the side. “Maybe just some water…” He smiled almost apologetically. A minute later, Jake was alone again at his table with his thoughts. The smell, so familiar and homey, coming from the plate was bringing back lots of memories. He could hear his Bubbee’s voice cooing over him as she tied the napkin around his little neck, mixing English, Ukrainian and Yiddish words. He could almost see her hands covered in spots and wrinkles, carefully cutting his cakes in front of him piece by piece, dipping them in the fluffy clouds of sour cream before pausing for a moment above the saucers with the jams. “What do we do now, boychik? Is it time for a golden rain or a mud bath?” Depending on his answer she would continue to the plate of honey or jam before gently bringing the fork to his lips with a bite that was about to drip all that goodness over entire table. It was his job to open wide and try to catch all those tasty drops before the disaster would happen. No one could make these cakes as well as his Bubbee did. No one but this place… Jake sighed again before he cut into his first cake with determination. Golden rain or mud bath? He smiled. Maybe a little bit of both. He took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring it for the first time in a year immediately transporting to the far-away past when he was still little and felt so loved. ***** “Jacob, did you wash your hands?” “I did! Five times already!” “Homework?” “I did it too! And I prayed, and I made my bed, and…” “Oh, you are such a good boichka! Come have breakfast, your syrniki are getting cold.” Bubbee always called him that in the morning. She believed that the day should be started on a positive note no matter how hard the circumstances around you were. It never failed and Jake smiled. He also liked how she stopped calling him Jake or Jaikee since he turned eight. Jacob sounded like a mature manly name. She even started to introduce him that way to others at the synagogue. “This is my Jacob. Did you know that he skipped second grade and went straight to third?” She was always so proud of him. No matter how small or large his accomplishments were, he could do no wrong. That unconditional love made him want to do better, be good for her. Jake couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting her in any way. How would he be able to look into her greenish, slightly fading eyes if he did something she wouldn’t approve of? ****** Someone dropped the tray which was followed by the sounds of broken glass in the kitchen. Jake swallowed his bite coming out of his memories just long enough to look around to make sure the noise had nothing to do with him. He shook his head before he reached out for the next bite, this time deciding to make it all pure and golden as his next memory. ****** He was running through the street clinching the envelope in his hand. He slipped and almost fell on his last turn to their old five-story building. There was no elevator but Jake flew up the stairs to the fourth floor as he did his entire life not even counting the steps – in the last twelve years he got so familiar with every single one of them, that he could do it with his eyes closed and not trip even once. “Bubbee!” he screamed, opening the old door that still had the signs of the faded green color it once was. “Are you home? You need to be home!” “What’s the matter, boychik?” She came out of the living room with her usual glasses on and a bright handkerchief tied around her head.  “We did it! I got in! The new Yeshiva on West End avenue. They said they will take me free of charge!” “Oy! That’s so great!” She hugged him, rocking slightly from side to side as she did when he was little. All their hard work, all the books she got for him, all the trips to the library and museums – it all paid off! The best school, in his opinion. No, the best PRIVATE school in New York was willing to accept him on a grant! Jake knew – that would open all the doors for him in the future. New York was the best place on Earth for someone like him – everything was just a few minutes train ride away. For someone who wanted to be in academia, God couldn’t have made a better arrangement. “Boychik, we celebrate this weekend. I will take you to our favorite restaurant on Saturday morning!” “Can I get a big plate of syrniki, not that kiddie one?” “Of course! You are almost a man now! Your mama would be so proud!” ****** That was such a happy day. The school was wonderful and Jake got everything he ever wanted. He looked down smiling, looking at his expensive cashmere suit. He wished Bubbee was here to see him like that. Sophisticated, well dressed, his curls neatly cut and styled. Jake glanced at his plate. He had three more left. Maybe this time he will dip his next bite into jam instead of honey for some of his darker thoughts. ****** “How could you do this, Jakie?” Bubbee hadn’t called him that in years. Jake immediately felt his insights tuning with guilt. But like any fourteen-year-old, he tried to put up a brave face. “Big deal, some vase! I will buy you hundreds of these when I grow up!” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Boyka, you can’t replace this, don’t you know? It was the first thing your grandfather gave to me as a present. He brought it from the war. It was one of the very few things we had with us when we came here. This is all I had left that was his…” the tears were rolling down her wrinkled face. Jake’s heart couldn’t stand to see her like that – suddenly she seemed so fragile and hurt. He sobbed himself before he could catch it. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” “I know it was. I’m not upset that you broke it but why did you lie to me about it?” He didn’t know why he tried to make a cover-up story. He never lied to her before and knew he wasn’t good at it, to begin with. Unable to contain his feelings, he ran off. When Jake came back that evening. Bubbee still had red eyes but seemed more like herself. She gave him a hug letting him know all was forgotten and she forgave him. Things happened. The next day, Jake felt a strong urge to do something nice for her so he grabbed all the change he had in his possession. He was saving for a trip to Boston but decided it could be postponed. Boston is not going anywhere. So, he marched over to his Bubbee and invited her for breakfast at their restaurant – his treat. She proudly accepted it. She said he was growing to become a “good man”. ****** Jake swallowed his last bite. If she was here right now, his Bubbee would have made him wipe the butter off the plate with the last piece. Don’t waste food, she always said. Everyone who lived through the war, and knew what hunger felt like, said that. He left some money on the table before he got up to stretch. He looked towards the owner’s chair. She smiled and waved at him. “See you in a year, I hope, '' mumbled Jake, not certain if he was talking to the restaurant or his Bubbee. With that, he buttoned his collar back up and walked out into the sunlit New York street taking a deep breath of the fall’s crispy air. Until the next time…


“Are you coming tonight?” you wanted to know.

I wasn’t, or I hadn’t been planning to. But I heard myself answer, “yes, I’d love to!” It wasn’t until you’d kissed me goodbye and were halfway to your car that I asked myself why I said that.

The last thing I felt like doing that night was participating in our town’s version of a carnival . You know they do this every summer. I’ve never liked it. I’d been looking forward to being by myself, maybe ordering in and watching movies. I said yes, I realized, because Evan was going to be there ! I said yes because long experience told me my heart should have sped up with excitement when you asked me to go.

It hadn’t, though. And now that I was thinking about it, I couldn’t remember the last time it had. It must have been years. I remembered the way just thinking of you used to make me feel, and felt nothing except a mild nostalgic twinge that I suspect was more for our middle school days when we started dating than for you yourself.

Not that there was anything wrong with you, Evan. I can only imagine what you must feel towards me now (actually, I can’t imagine it), but if it means anything to you, I want you to know that this was not your fault. It wasn’t anything you did.

I guess you were probably going to propose sometime soon, now that we’ve finished college and are looking for jobs. Not student jobs or summer jobs but job jobs. Rest-of-our-lives jobs. Maybe you weren’t, but I felt pretty confident and I still do. We’d been together for ten years, after all, almost half our lives. It sounds crazy now that I’m typing it out. How many people marry their seventh grade boyfriends? I would have been one of an elite few, if you hadn’t asked me to that carnival when and how you did.

Or maybe not, if I’m wrong and you weren’t going to propose, or if I’d had my revelation some other moment some other way. Who knows? Personally, though, I think that was what did it, because when it hit me how easily and unthinkingly I’d lied to you, I realized it was because of how natural it had become for me to lie to both of us.

Once you were my best friend in the world, Evan. I don’t know when I fell out of love with you, but I know it was a long, long time ago. I also don’t know if that’s when I fell out of love with my whole life. All I know is that the night of the carnival, I suddenly knew something with absolute certainty, which was an unfamiliar feeling. So I walked downstairs in the jean shorts and denim jacket I always wore to summer nights out, and I got behind the wheel of my car–with every intention, I thought, of meeting you at the fairgrounds.

I made the left onto Pine Street, and then I just kept driving. It’s a good thing there weren’t many people on the road because you know that’s a fifty zone and I was going at least seventy. I got on the highway going west and drove until my gas light started blinking. I don’t know how far from town I was by then. I didn’t think about it.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, what was I thinking?! I’m sorry, because this is going to be disappointing, but I wasn’t thinking about much of anything. I was thinking that I wasn’t going to the stupid carnival. Somewhere in me, I was thinking that I couldn’t take another day of what, until that moment, I’d flattered myself by calling my life . Mostly, though, I was thinking about filling up my gas tank and getting back on the highway, and going, going, going and never stopping for anything.

When I got back on the highway, my pockets were bulging. I had drawn as much cash as I could from all my cards. My phone started to ring as I left the station’s convenience store. I chucked it in the trash as I came through the door. I never saw who called. If it was you, checking to see why I was late–well, now I’m telling you why.

My speedometer never dropped below eighty the entire rest of that night. I’m actually kind of amazed I didn’t get ticketed. Anyway, it was a beautiful sunrise. I think it was the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen. I kept drawing cash from my cards until there was nothing left on either of them, and then I threw them in the garbage too. I drove until my car and I were both so low on fuel that neither of us had anything left to burn.

I pulled off the highway into a little nothing town, like ours but also completely, fundamentally different. I think I was somewhere near Illinois at this point, or just outside of it. I’m not quite sure. I got calories for myself and gasoline for Cheryl (as I’ve started calling my chevrolet). I swear it was the most amazing cup of weak coffee and the most sublime overly greased omelet anyone has ever tasted.

I drove the entire rest of that day, and finally crashed in a motel in Madison, Wisconsin. You don’t know how good it felt to bathe . I washed away two days’ worth of sweat and dust, and twenty-two years and fifty days’ worth of a life I now realized I’d never been particularly fond of. Once I was clean, I put on a ratty old bathrobe and found the hotel’s gift shop. I bought packets of underwear, sports bras, a nightshirt, two pairs of vacation shorts, three t-shirts, a backpack and a sweatshirt. The motel had free toiletries. I took everything I could carry or fit in my bag.

I drank scalding hot tea and watched cartoons until I fell asleep. I felt incredible. That was the happiest I’d been in my whole life. That sounds sad, I know, but it feels wonderful.

The next day I woke up and my first thought was that the day belonged to me, in a way that nothing ever had. This is tough to explain. Also, don’t think I don’t realize how cruel I sound to you. I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m sorry I didn’t do this a long time ago, and I’m sorry I did it this way, but somehow I don’t think you’re that hurt.

Maybe I’m just making myself feel better. But I was never close with my parents. I would have died for my school friends, but after school somehow they all faded away. And you and I haven’t been close, whatever we led ourselves to believe. We thought we were close the way pre-teens are close. We never even tried to be close as adults. The person I was until that night when I left is gone forever. I don’t really think that anyone is going to miss her. I won’t feel bad about that, though. I never needed her and I still don’t.

So nothing from who I used to be was mine, but this day was. I had it to spend however I chose. I could do anything. I’d just proved that by doing something I never would have thought I could do–walking away. Choosing to be the person I want to be. I went out and explored Madison. I liked it, but I didn’t love it, and after a day I was ready to be somewhere else, so that night Cheryl and I got back on the road.

At 3 AM, I decided I was hungry. Google told me there was a roadside diner forty miles away that was open twenty-four hours. I finished my slice of pie and sugary, bittersweet coffee at 4:30 AM and I was in South Dakota for the next sunrise. A couple of backpackers watched it with me, off of a hiking trail near the Minnesota border. I liked them, and I liked hanging out with them, so I stuck around for a few days.

Who knew South Dakota was so gorgeous ? Or that I have a knack for hiking, for that matter? I slipped once and got my Snuggle’s Motel vacation shorts muddy, but I kept up with them. Their names are Abby and Danielle. I’m going to visit them next week! I’m not going to tell you where, because neither of us needs to do a post mortem on the old me, but it’s a city I’ve never been to, and I can’t wait to see it.

We eventually parted ways because they were heading up to Canada. For that I would’ve needed a passport, which I didn’t have or feel like getting. Besides, I wanted to see Montana. I kept driving.

After two days of watching Montana spin past me, and a surprisingly breathtaking stop in Idaho, I made it to Washington. I’d always wanted to see Washington state. Did you know that? I don’t think you did. I never talked about it. I don’t think I’ll ever know, Evan, why my real self was so rarely–if ever–a part of us.

Don’t think I haven’t asked myself whether things would have played out differently if I’d been more honest with the both of us. I asked it a lot of times, but the mountains of Washington blew it from my mind. I won’t dwell on the past. We both have lives to live. I hope. Or, no–I believe. Please believe me that I’m sorry it took me so long to acknowledge that.

The road from Washington to California is a blur. Oregon was a whirl of color in the windows while Adele blasted on the radio. I started stopping just for the heck of it, in random places. I would stock up on Twizzlers and Doritos and just keep on hitting the road. I’m not going to tell you about what I did from there, I’ve decided. I started typing this out just to get my thoughts in order. I had no intention of sending it to you. I was going to send you something else. An apology? An explanation? I don’t know. All I can think is that I owe you the truth, for once. So here it is, for all the good it may do. I don’t know anymore if this is cruel or kind. It is real, though.

You don’t need to hear about all the things I did, or the friends I made, or the things I saw. I was renting monthly, and I’d just paid. Mr. Brecker has probably thrown my things out already. Like I said before, no one will miss the person I was, least of all me.

I’m sending this from a public library computer (the keys are sticky but the WiFi is good). Then I’m never checking my old email address again. Like I said, I started this email just to start saying something . I never meant to send it. You have no idea how hard it was to sit down and do this. You must’ve gathered by now: I love the feeling of running. I’ve been running towards my life since the last time we spoke. I won’t run away from my past, and I won’t let you take the brunt of it again, so I’m going to make myself hit Send in a moment.

You won’t see me again. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of the over-fresh scent of hotel beds, or the tang of rest stop coffee, but I am going to have to get back to the job thing. It’s an odd feeling, having no idea where I’ll be in three weeks or three years. Actually, my head is getting a little buzzy just thinking about it. It’s nervousness, but truth be told, I think it’s closer to excitement.

Once again–know that you did nothing wrong. Forgive me if you can, and if it will make you happy. If it were me I’d rather be furious. Do that, please, with my blessing. Whatever is best for you is what I hope you’ll do. I’m not sorry for what I did; it’s exactly what I should have done. I never wanted your happiness to be sacrificed to mine. I don’t believe it will be.

Thank you for what you did for me that night, however unintentionally. I’m not being flippant; I mean that. You gave me an epiphany that I desperately needed when you asked me, was I coming tonight? It is with the relish and release that epiphany brought me that I can finally say, with candor: No, I’m not .

Sincerely,

Sara


Tendrils writhing from fresh corpses slowly spread from the temple ground. The eyes of the victims seemingly ripped out by either His hand or by their own. Horrors of unimaginable terror must have assailed their minds as the vines burst through every wound. He appeared when the Moon eclipsed the Sun. Uncomfortably tall, the ghoulish apparition wielded blackened daggers as long as swords, almost scraping the ground as he drifted amongst abandoned streets. A hauntingly tall spirit from the dark recess of a nocturnal sky, he moved in absolute silence and never announced his assassinations. Blood caked wrappings over lanky appendages swishing in sinister silence, no malefic eyes or demonic facade could be observed under His cowl. How could I know for sure though? I could only stand to glance for a horrific moment before the pits of my stomach lurched from abject terror.

The pious men were the targets of his malice. Hunting. Seeking. Killing. Seeking again. Holy men who beckoned the grace of the Light. I used to think they were heroes, the men of good and righteousness who could do no harm, could heal any wound of body or soul, and would save us from the original sins of our Fathers… but that was before He came. For reasons I fear I am not privy to know, this shadowy figure never killed the townsfolk. It almost seemed as if He could not see us at all. Or if He did, we were not the concern of his unholy crusade. At least, not yet. No child was slain nor woman was harmed. Most common men were still untouched by the macabre specter that sauntered through the town.

When the moon reached the zenith of the eclipse, like every time before, we did what we had always done. We shepherded ourselves into our humble homes and read from the Scripture to resolve our faith. Even with the daytime darkness, we still held fast to our belief in the Light. We held no fear in our devout hearts that the darkness would linger. Hours passed yet the Moon did not move. There was a growing sense of unease amongst the townsfolk. It continued to hang itself before the Sun as if to defy the natural order of the Heavens. We felt it then, just as we still feel it these days later. An unnatural cold which chills my soul to its core. Hearth fires did nothing to lift the spiritual permafrost the Moon had imposed upon us. Bundles of fur and wool blankets provided even less comfort even when my family huddled together. Trembling hands failing desperately to remain calm. Light, forgive me, I even attempted to warm myself with liquor and ale but it foolishly left me more anxious, more terrified of what was out there. With great care I crept to the second floor of our hovel, instinctually scared that my unworthy footsteps would harken doom upon my family. I know I need not worry, as this Nocturnal Demon had passed by numerous times without a hesitant pause or murderous inquiry. I kept low and reached the northern window, where I could clearly see our most holy temple of Light. A sight I desperately needed to ensure my faith would not fail me during our extended nightmare. But when I saw the defilement for myself, I felt as if my very soul had been eviscerated by his evil blades. The shining white marble and glorious golden pillars that lifted the divine domed ceiling were infested with massive, vine-like tendrils similar to the ones growing from the corpses of his unfortunate hosts. Statues of long forgotten apostles and revered heroes were decapitated with smaller vines holding their pierced heads as if in open defiance to the Sun God himself.

Curiously, the encroaching evil stopped before the other houses near the temple, they steered clear of the townsquare and its fountains, only seeking to touch the bodies of holy men who were cut down in the streets while attempting to escape the calamity which befell them. Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of blinding light raced towards the infestation and exploded with extreme radiance. A screech unlike any sound a mortal being could ever make reverberated across the town, my own ears begging for this to end. I raced down the stairs to my petrified family, hands clasped to my head. By the Light they were ok, but all of us, myself included, could not contain the sobbing that leaked from terror widened eyes. For reasons I don't know, I found myself walking to the door with trembling steps. Whatever possessed my curiosity that day would make me the chronicler of this celestial conflict.

Another bright bolt shot upward this time, reaching high into the gloomy sky as if it sought to pierce the moon itself. It burst forth in a brilliant light illuminating the entire town. No shadow could hide from awesome radiance. The dark monster screeched again, his unholy echoes bellowing from inside the halls of the all consumed temple.

A single figure, larger than any man I’ve ever seen and clad from head to toe in gleaming, nigh impenetrable plate armor, strode across the muddied cobblestone towards our desecrated temple. In his left hand he displayed a gold and white banner with our holy symbol of the Sun embossed with golden thread. In his other hand, his polished gauntlet held forth a poleaxe of immeasurable heft. Its wooden shaft affixed with a massive ax head in the shape of the same holy sun symbol, an impaling tip, and a spiked hammer face on the other side of the ax head.

I desperately tried to recall every hymn, every legend, any far fetched tale of a gleaming golden knight who commanded Light as if it were bolts of lightning. I wondered though, with a heart still smothered in fear from our murderous moon summoned guest; is this apparent challenger a hero or another dominus of sorts? Why would our meager town be the battleground of such a momentous battle? Surely we were not worthy of two higher powers to fight over us. However, our shadowy specter was fear incarnate, so perhaps all I could do in such desperation was pray our salvation had come to save us. Our brave knight approached the foot of the temple, where ravenous black vines swarming like voracious serpents lashed out. But no vine would touch this holy warrior for it seemed as if he radiated with a sort of protective aura. Still, the vines continued to lash out with vicious hate until the Knight thrust his standard in the ground before him. Hiis declaration of dominance finally breaking the concentrated evil controlling the vines. They slowly slithered back and retreated to the inside of the temple, revealing a gruesome cache of skeletal remains still adorned with their unblemished holy ensemble.

Pointing his poleax to the temple doors, the golden knight finally broke his mysterious silence, speaking with a commanding deepness like thunder heralding a storm's arrival. “Sunkiller. You have been found wanted. Exit my desecrated domain. It is not yours to lay claim!” His gaze from under his intimidating helmet was unwavering. His eyes were singular in their focus, drilling deep into the temple as if he could see through the doors right into the sunken cowl of the midnight monster. For a few moments, nothing happened. The air was still with tension, the massive vines which had swallowed the pillars pulsed softly and grew slower and slower. Where was our murderous lord at? What shadows was he hiding in? As my mind grew into a frenzy of questions, I witnessed the dark apparition slowly saunter from the pitch black depths of the temple. There was no subterfuge to be seen from him. No stalking of shadows in hopes of ambushing the Knight, who continued to stay motionless; mighty weapon pointing continuously at the approaching specter. It stopped at the edge of withdrawn vines, radiating with his own dark aura of death and evil. It raised its long, thin appendage and pointed with a gaunt finger at the knight, speaking to him. “Too much. Unchecked. Balance is broken.” It spoke with a voice that sounded like bones grinding to dust. Each word and syllable felt like maggots squirming in my mind. Our angelic champion responded with action and cleaved the shadowy specter with magnificent might. But the specter did not die, as his cleaved torso coalesced with dark magic to reform his visage. The Knight thrust with violent fury into the chest of the fiend where a heart would lie in any mortal man, but it only passed through again. Now pressing the attack with unrestrained fury, our champion swung in deadly arcs time and time again, only to see the apparition still standing; blackened smoke refastening after every swipe. Unfortunately, the golden knight's furious focus would be his fatal flaw. I saw them materialize from darkened streets, four more gangly moon summoned monsters descending upon him. I couldn't warn him, my entire body petrified from the magnitude of what I was witnessing. As they gathered behind the unchecked rear of our frenzied crusader, a pained cry spewed from the creature who’s fury the knight had garnered. In his ruinous pause two seized his arms, nocturnal knives slicing tendons of the wrist, rendering weapon and magic useless. The other two made swift incisions to the ankle, our doomed hero had dropped to his knees. With arms stretched outward, all five shadowy beings drove their knives through his back, passing through the armor as if it were nothing more than shoddy lenin.

I saw now how a hero dies. Not in glorious battle, no last stand of unfathomable bravery, but in silent defeat. What remaining faith that flickered in my feeble heart was now extinguished.

The scavenous vines claimed our fallen hero and dragged the body back into the desecrated den of evil. I do not recall what happened next for soon after, everything went black and I awoke after Light knew how long. My home was shattered to splinters as was every other hovel in our town. I stumbled in confusion towards a reddened rag that blew weakly with the deathly wind. It was my daughter's scarf, or atleast a scrap of what remained. I attempted to pry the pulsating vines to free the scarf in hopes my family was still alive underneath. But the pain in my arm was agonizing. Looking down I saw veins pumping with pitch black blood to the beat of my fearful heart. I could do nothing for them now.

As if the corrupted consciousness of the vines could listen to my deepest fears, their coils unwound to reveal the mangled remains of my family; viscera pooling under crushed corpses. Miniature vines grew from the fractured bones like maggots bursting forth from rotten meat. So I ran. I was not in control of myself after that haunting scene. I only remember running with all due haste, ignoring the pain in my cursed arm or screaming of my lungs as I ran as hard and fast as I could away from the desolation of my home. I finally came to a stop when my legs refused to carry me any further, instinct giving way to terror and the unrelenting repetition of the unholy calamity I bore witness too.

I looked back and saw in the distance all five of the shadowy apparitions standing atop the road that lead to the only town I have ever known. They did not give chase nor did they seem to want my capture. But I couldn't tear my eyes away! They stood together, as if five fingers of Doom itself were rising from the depths of the abyss. After what felt like an eternity, I finally ripped my gaze from the demonic delegation and ran until I reached the end of this land. This is my tale I am burdened to tell until the end of my days. I lost everything during those unholy days where the Moon blackened the Sun and harkned the doom of all I knew. The sky spins again, as if the nightmare never happened, but I won't forget. I can never forget. Do what you will with this story my friends. Should you choose to remain ignorant to what I said or foolishly find inspiration for delusional heroics, then go. Go and join the corpses of my family and throw your life away to the vines, if they still remain. The Moon will eclipse the sun soon and they will come again. They are the beasts of darkness.

Sunkillers.