#Chaper I - Part I: Loretta Jones   *** ***   *Knock. Knock. Knock.* My coffee mug landed in a heap of shattered porcelain on the floor of the beach cottage. Anna would’ve killed me. “Sorry, honey,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at my own lunacy. The front lock jiggled. Through the curtain, I saw a small, weathered woman standing on the porch. Her clothing was dark, but not so dark that it hid the smudges of dirt in various places. “Please. Open the door!” She glanced behind her several times and removed her sunglasses. There was something incredibly familiar about her, and yet, I’d never met her. I opened the door, letting a draft of warm, salty air encompass me. “Jeff. I know you won’t believe this…” I squinted and shook my head. “Do I know you?” “Please, don’t freak out. It’s *me*.” Her gaze met mine and I almost collapsed right there. Those eyes. I knew those eyes. *** “I don’t understand.” I threw my arms in the air as I studied the stranger in my living room. “Honey...look, I know it sounds so crazy. And to be honest, you never were very open-minded.” Her eyebrows lifted and she pursed her lips together. She appeared to be amused by her comment. “Well if ‘open-minded’ means believing in,” my fingers drew circles in the air, “whatever this is, you’re right.” I placed my hands on my head as I paced back and forth “No. NO. My wife is *dead.* Has been for two weeks.” Anger stirred within me, my face like coal in the fire. Nausea hung at the back of my throat. “I was there, god dammit! We had a fucking funeral!” I ran the events over in my mind. The accident. The grief. Even this pathetic trip to our beach house, all alone. The woman sighed and studied me with those familiar blue eyes. “You’re right. I was dead. But then…” “No. I’m not gonna fall for whatever the hell…” I motioned to the strange woman, “this is. I don’t know how you knew my wife. And right now, I don’t really care.” The woman stared in silence, with her mouth parted just slightly. She exhaled, and looked at me the way one might look at a child. “I don’t have a lot of time--” “What kinda person would do this? What’s the goal here, lady? What do you want from me?” “Jeff, I don’t want anything. I just thought you ought to know. And I wanted to say goodbye. Properly.” “Stop acting like you know me! You don’t get to come in here and stomp all over my wife’s memory. You know what?” I stormed over to the front door, and opened it. “Get the hell outta my house.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she placed a hand over her mouth. She shook her head. “Don’t, please. I’m not trying to pull anything. It’s me.” The woman sighed and met me at the door. She pushed it closed. “How can I show you? What do you need me to do to prove to you I am Anna?” She glanced at her watch. “I…” Her words were so familiar. The inflections she used at the end of her sentences. The way she paused, waiting for me to take in their meaning. Anna had always done that. “Do you realize how bizarre this whole thing sounds?” “I do.” I walked down the hall and into the kitchen. I heard her footsteps behind me as she followed. As I reached the bar, I turned and saw her stopped, staring at the photos along the wall. She ran her fingers along their edges, hands trembling. She seemed nervous as she fixed her gaze on the last photo. “Do you remember the day this photo was taken?” she said, a hint of a grin on her face. “Of course I do.” “That place...was so beautiful. My favorite part of the whole day was under the waterfall. You whispered that you’d love me longer than the sun would be yellow, and then you took me right there.” She shook her as she scurried into the kitchen and stopped in front of the window. Only Anna would have known that. But this was all so much. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. “So, assuming I believe all of this, who are you… *now*?” “Well, that’s a little tricky. I’m not even sure I fully understand, myself. I just wanted the chance to say goodbye... sugar bear.” She grinned, extending an arm. “I know everything happened so fast.” A shiver trickled down my spine. Those words didn’t feel right. None of this felt right. I shook my head. “This is a lot to take in...” “I gotta admit, this body is quite the upgrade.” A hint of a smirk bloomed. But as if an alarm had sounded, her attention quickly fell to the watch on her wrist. She bit her bottom lip, scraping it with her teeth. Anna had also done that, for as long as I could remember. “I can’t...I don’t… Is that supposed to be a joke?” I blinked a couple times and breathed deeply. “Please, don’t look at me like that. I’m still Anna, in here." She placed a hand on her chest and inched closer. “I’m as much me as I ever was.” I met her gaze. She looked like a stranger, from the chestnut brown hair to the pudge around her waist all the way to the beat-up boots on her feet. But she didn’t feel like one. It was something about those eyes, the way she walked, and the softness in her words. “I prayed, you know, for God to take me instead.” I leaned against the counter, feeling my knees buckle. “But this… this is something different.” She nodded and shuffled to the window, peeking in between the slats. There was something uncomfortable about her impatience. Our silence was broken by sirens wailing in the distance, steadily getting louder and closer. I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t the kind of place that was home to the sound of sirens. Especially not a group of them. “What the hell is going on? What are you looking for?” She peeked out the window again, cursing under her breath. Anna turned to me. “I spent too much time here. You remember that gun your father gave you? I’m gonna need it.” My eyes widened. “Gun? Why would you need a--” The sound of the sirens was overwhelming. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows. I looked back and forth between her and the window. My lips parted, but no words came out. “Forget it, there’s no time.” She rushed to the back door, one hand on the knob. “Sugar bear, I wish I could stay and explain more. I love you.” “Where are you going?! Why are all these police outside, Anna?” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back here. I shoulda stayed dead.” “No. I’m...I’m glad. I mean...I’m happy to see you. But what’s with the police?” “They think I’m Loretta Jones. And people around here see everything.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “*The* Loretta Jones?*” A realization washed over me. She bore a striking resemblance to the fugitive. Anna was halfway out the door. I was stunned; how could any of this be real? But there was no time left to ponder. I fetched a large metal box from the side closet. My hands were trembling as panic and adrenaline surged through my body. I knew exactly what I had to do. “Anna, wait!”   *** ***   - Chapter I - Part II coming soon! And yes, I am mostly pantsing this entire thing. (I'm sure I'll grow to regret all my decisions.) - This story originally began on . - Feedback and critiques welcome.


It’s a nice summer evening – the birds are chirping, and the grass has just been cut. The football team practices in the distance, as Wendy sits off to the side. The school day had finished hours ago, and the football game would begin soon. Wendy watched her boyfriend run across the field, his teammates following closely behind. The day had dragged on – teacher after teacher piling more and more homework on her shoulders left the young girl nervous for the upcoming weekend. Wendy knew she’d find herself studying and working all weekend, barely being able to see her friends or relax to herself.                “Hey Wendy!” Bebe Chandler, Wendy’s best friend since elementary school came running down the field, a football barely missing her head. A sigh fell from Wendy’s lips. The girl could be so ditzy sometimes.                “Did you finish the math homework?”                “The one that was, just, assigned?” The smile feel from Bebe’s face, while showing back up on Wendy’s.                “Right…” The sunset casted a warming glow on the two girls faces, as they both sat together on the grass. The peaceful silence created between them made a nice atmosphere, and Wendy found herself at ease. Bebe always had that effect on her, it felt like the other girl knew Wendy inside and out, and brought a peaceful atmosphere even when Wendy felt herself losing control.                “Oh my god! I forgot to tell you! Clyde gave me the prettiest bracelet on our date last week!” Bebe suddenly lunges forward, her torso colliding with Wendy’s in less than a few seconds. Bebe’s outstretched hand almost slaps Wendy in the face, jiggling afterwards with a slight bounce.                It’s like time stopped.                It must’ve been Bebe’s new perfume – the girl was always trying something new out, self care wise, but it’s like Wendy’s smelt it before.                It reminded her of her mother.                Wendy had lost her mother when she in elementary school, she was only eleven to be exact. Although she loves her father and appreciated him so much growing up – she missed out on having someone she could relate to in her own home. The years have dulled the pain since then, but Wendy could still perfectly see her mothers smile if she thought about it hard enough.                Wendy could still remember “Parent Date Night” at her house. Her parents would get all dolled up and go to the local theatre once a month, leaving Wendy with her babysitter for the entire night. She always thought her mother looked so pretty, sitting by her vanity before they went out. Wendy always admired the care her mother put into getting pretty.                “Wendy, what are you staring at?” A soft smile broke out on her mothers face. The lipstick she just applied sat perfectly on her lips. Their eyes locked in the mirror, and Wendy felt herself blush from the attention.                “Why do you put makeup on mom?” The smile from Wendy’s moms face dropped a little – there was something in her eyes Wendy couldn’t quite place.                “You’ll understand when you’re older darling.” A pity smile was shown in her direction. It was gone before Wendy could even process it, and her mother went back to putting blush on her cheeks. The powder flew off her mothers face, and right into Wendy’s nose – making the young girl cough.                “Oh Wendy,” Her mother quickly spun to face her, bending down to be eye-level with the girl. “I’m sorry sweetie.” Wendy didn’t even know she was tearing up until she felt her mother’s thumbs wipe the tears away. Wendy could see the light sparkle in her eyes, and the eyeliner she put on – the line was shaky, and she knew her mother’s hands could never stay still enough to the liner on.                “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Wendy felt so, safe. Her mothers arms wrapped around her so snuggly, it felt like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. Wendy felt like she could do anything, be anyone as long as she was in her mothers arms. The soft aroma of her perfume filled Wendy’s nostrils, quickly destroying of the blush particles left over. The scent of vanilla was strong, but not too overpowering, and it made Wendy feel warm inside. Her short arms wrapped around her moms neck, and she let her head rest on her shoulder. Parent Date Night always made her nervous, but Wendy was always a nervous child. She could never calm down until she heard her parents car pull into the drive-way, and would only fall asleep once she felt her mothers lips on her forehead. But in this moment in time, where the clock has stopped and the only thing that matters is her mother and her, Wendy felt like she could take on the world.                When only one parent came back that night, Wendy realized she had to take on the world, this time, alone.                “Oh, so you think it’s ugly? Clyde’s gonna cry when I tell him.” Bebe brought her hand back, cradling her arm like it got burnt. Her sweet eyes looked so hurt that Wendy almost felt bad. Almost.                “That’s not why I was silent,” an eye-roll, sometimes Wendy couldn’t stand the girl. “Are you using a new perfume? It smells nice.”                “I can’t believe you noticed! It is new!” A smile instantly broke out onto Bebe’s face, all bad feelings forgotten in a flash. “I got it from Nicole – we went to that new store in the mall the other day. Girl Boss, I think? Cheesy name, but it just smelt so good I had to buy it!”                It was funny really – how one closed door can lead to another. Wendy knew she was never going to get her mother back, she realized that years ago. But sitting here next to her best friend, she knew that it was going to be alright. Yes, she was still taking on the world, but she was not alone. She had her friends, she had her boyfriend, she the strength of everyone she’s interacted with.                Yes, she was taking on the world, but she was with those who loved her. And for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.


(WP) Of Monsters and Men They say that there is a subset of men who do not succumb to the temptations the sirens or even the harpies present. Men with hearts of stone and sand, slippery and cunning, killers with eyes like the blackest onyx. And my people have sent me out to capture one. To study, they say, to observe and see if their curses can be broken. Call me a cynic, but even the most powerful magic cannot soften the hearts of such stubborn beings, so far removed from their humanity they were closer to the monsters they’d set out to slay. Fear lives in my heart, a constant companion, but the vengeance I crave burns brighter than that ever could. For a single, fleeting moment, the night I lost everything comes back to me: the rusty iron tang of blood, splattered everywhere like so much fresh paint, windows broken and our rooms destroyed, and the only sound of my anguished, breathless scream. I snap myself out of it; out here, I cannot afford to lose focus. The night is cold and clear, and the stars stare down at me like so many bright, watchful eyes. The silence is broken by the thunder of many hooves; these monsters that used to be men are nomads, following the people that they hunt. I cannot hear any people up ahead, but my senses aren’t nearly as sharp as they should be. Despite my anxiety, I volunteered for this mission just before my nineteenth birthday, eager to settle the score. And no one had objected; I was but an orphan, losing me would cause no real harm, I thought bitterly. The village had never truly accepted me after the loss of my family; their eccentric ways had made them, and me, by extension, outsiders. So, the elders had no problem sending me out after the men who’d transformed something that wasn’t quite human or monster, but something more, something in between. I sneak along the golden dunes of the desert from a distance, watching, every muscle in my body preparing to spring. There’s a rustle behind me, and I whirl around just as one of them sneaks up on me, snarling its rage, spitting and hissing through thick, sharp pointed teeth. “Human,” It growls, its bright golden eyes gleaming with malice. I glance back at the herd ahead; this one must have scented me, even from this far away, because they are still riding their steeds, paying me no notice. I take out my dagger, the one enchanted with magic so my aim will remain true, and the long, serrated knife glimmers wickedly, the edge aglow with violet. The monster grabs me and snaps his teeth so close my nose almost comes clean off. I curse and plunge the knife into his stomach, but it’s like trying to gouge a wound into a boulder. His grip is like steel and I know if I move, he’ll snap my arm like a flimsy twig. Now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I’m not ready for this after all. But before the monster can do anything else, a dark figure streaks toward us, hooded and holding bright, golden chakrams engraved with strange runes. A voice screams ‘Duck!’, and I do. The last thing I see before I lose consciousness is the monster, its massive body going one way and its head the other.


"I can't sleep." The private investigator raised a brow at the woman sitting across from her. The office was quaint, a low, flickering light hanging over a sturdy wooden desk. The space looked more like a refurbished living room than a proper office. Floral wallpaper spanned from the floor to the ceiling, hardwood stretched far over the ground. Bookshelves rose high behind the investigator’s desk, various legal documents way above Ginny’s pay grade. Despite what should have been a comforting home, it felt cramped, as if she barely had space to breathe. “That seems more like a concern for your doctor than a PI,” Mrs. Reed said, raising her brows over her glasses. Ginny rubbed her eyes, sighing, “No, no, I—I don’t know how to explain. You deal in more… specialized work? Right? The supernatural and all that?” Mrs. Reed rolled her eyes. Well-manicured fingers reached over to flip through some papers, finally picking up an empty file. “I investigate what people believe is supernatural interference. I assure you, anything paranormal you may have found is guaranteed to have a perfectly benign explanation.” Ginny pursed her lips. She hardly wanted to deal with someone else who thought she was crazy, but this was the closest someone’s gotten to believing her. With how desperate she was, she knew she didn’t have many options. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Whenever I try to sleep, I just… can’t,” Ginny blurted out, her hands gripping at the edge of her shirt. “I feel something on me. It curls itself around my head, keeps my eyes open, breathes into my ear. But when I try and look at what it is or bring it into the light, it just… isn’t there.” A hum resonated from Mrs. Reed as she scribbled some notes down, asking, “Have you tried sleeping with the lights on?” “Yes! That, and I’ve slept with a mirror on me, I’ve tried medication, I’ve tried everything. But when I try and look for it, it’s just like it’s gone. But I feel it. I know it’s there.” Sighing, Mrs. Reed took off her glasses, rubbing her tired eyes. Pale, wrinkled skin laid taut on her face as she looked over the woman sitting in the chair before her. Silence filled the clustered room. With the judgmental gaze upon her, Ginny felt herself shrinking in the chair, quickly growing to regret her own presence here. Finally, Mrs. Reed spoke, “What do you do for work, Ginny?” Ginny blinked in surprise, answering, “I—I work retail. Why’s that matter?” “Do you have a degree? Student loans? Car payments?” “Yes? Why does that—” “I think I see where this is coming from,” Mrs. Reed sighed, setting her papers down. “Look, I’m no professional in that mental health stuff you kids love these days, but… have you ever thought it might just be stress? You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, a shitty job, too much debt. Maybe you start seeing things.” Ginny’s nose scrunched up in disgust. The same answer she’s been given, time after time. Doctors and psychologists and shitty forums on the internet all saying the same thing, but nothing’s helped. Gathering her bag, she swiftly stood up, dark brown eyes narrowing with irritation at the investigator in front of her. “Whatever,” she huffed, turning to leave. “’Course it was a waste of time. Have a great fucking day, Mrs. Reed.” “Hey! We haven’t discussed paym—” Mrs. Reed started before Ginny slammed the door behind her. The cool winter breeze hit her as she made her way to her car. Pulling her coat tighter around her hefty body, she shivered, hurrying back to her run-down car. An old Honda from the early 2010s that broke down half the time. Quickly making her way inside, she gently shut the door, shuddering in the cold air settled within the car. She knew she shouldn’t drive in this state. Half the time, she could barely keep her eyes open, nevertheless focus on driving much at all. But she had little choice. Rent had to be paid, and she had to try and at least get some help for this ailment she was facing—even if this led to a dead-end just like the others had. Turning her keys into the ignition, she messed with it a few times before it sputtered to life. Ginny glanced behind her car as she pulled out of the driveway, thankful this street wasn’t too busy at this time of day. It had long-since gotten dark, though it was hardly even past the afternoon. The drive home was a blurry haze, as most days were at this point. She couldn’t even remember the last time she fully slept. During the night, she felt as though she was awake at all hours, tormented by the beast that assailed her. And, at this rate, she was confident that it was a thing that was haunting her, not merely stress or anxiety. Nothing she had found had matched what was happening, the oppressive feeling of being trapped, of something being on her. She knew she had to have fallen asleep at some point, but she could scarcely remember it. All she knew was that she was always, constantly, tired. She could barely think, barely work, but she couldn’t stop. Nothing could stop it. She pulled into her apartment complex’s parking lot. The creaky steps met her as she stepped out of her old car. These old stairs seemed to reach further and further every time she walked on them, endless spirals reaching up into the heavens, far, far, far from her grasp… She stumbled along the steps. Exhaustion was quickly catching up with her. Coffee had become her main meal these past few weeks in her own desperation to stay awake, to keep herself away from the creature who haunted her. But she couldn’t stay up forever. At this rate, she wasn’t sure what to believe. In front of the private investigator, she was so sure of herself. She knew what she had seen, what she had felt. Now, though, as she turned the key and stepped into her home… she wasn’t so sure. It was always so serene when she came home. The old, hand-me-down couch sat in front of the discount TV. Wires were scattered over the floor, hosting old video game consoles she took from home. The kitchen held the remnants of her rushed breakfast with dishes piling up. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing wrong… Just a quick nap, she told herself. Then she’d get up and try to figure something else out. Maybe she’d have to go out of her insurance for the next doctor. Something. She barely had time to take her shoes off before she flopped into her bed, taking deep, heavy breaths. Her uniform clung to her body awkwardly. Dirty sheets surrounded her form. Yet, with how tired she was… she hardly even noticed. Just a few minutes, that was all she needed. Sleep came quickly as her eyes fluttered shut… Before her eyes were forced open. Something wet and slimy quickly slithered over her face, gripping her tired eyes. Thin, spindly appendages, too small to be anything human. Wrinkled eyelids were pulled to the side as sharp nails dug into the sides of her temples. Something breathed in her ear. In, and out, in, and out, the warmth pressing uncomfortably against her skin. A weight hung over her head, almost like something was there, something was there, something was on her— Ginny tried to tilt her head up, to gaze upon what was upon her… her head was forced back down, staring at the empty ceiling. The dirty nails pressed deeper into her soft, wrinkled skin. A soft whimper pulled itself from her throat. There wouldn’t be anything there. There never was. It could tear at her, rip at her flesh, pull out her hair and scream in her hair… but nothing would be there in the morning. Of course, no one believed her. She could lay here for hours, screaming and crying in agony, and no one would bat an eye. Every doctor would turn her away. She was so young, despite the wrinkles in her face and the bags under her eyes. Friends were tired of her constant complaining, her excuses of exhaustion. Her torture and pain meant nothing, all because they could not see. Tears rose to her eyes, and, in her torment, Ginny began to cry.


## The sound of keys jostling and a door opening bring me out of my daze. ## “There's a Maria here!” I hear him shout in surprise. As if I am a rare species of human he found in his kitchen. ## “Sometimes I come home and there's a Maria here, and it makes me so happy!” His tone full of childish glee. ## A surge of pure joy overwhelms me. I wonder if my face shows how happy I feel. I kinda hope not, I’d look like an idiot. “Welcome home.” ## Suddenly everything feels right. Whatever issue I was just dwelling on no longer seems relevant. Kevin is home and that matters more. ## My first instinct is to ask how his day was, but stop myself, Kevin hates that question. It’s too mundane! He would gripe I hate talking about work. But there’s no need to ask anything, he is already telling me all about something exciting. I can tell by the way his hands start to gestate wildly. He paces around the living room putting his things away, settling in. His mouth races a million words a minute. He is so animated, like watching a cartoon come to life. It’s fun to experience. ## “.....and they're making a sequel!” He concludes slightly winded and looks over at me for a response. ## Shit. What was he talking about? ## “Oh cool.” I say anyway. Making my eyes wide so he thinks I know why it’s cool. “How do you think that’ll go?” ## He continues to talk and I make sure to pay attention this time. I am not terribly interested in movies but they make him light up and I do thoroughly enjoy that. ## Nothing about our interactions would point to a couple that has broken up. We spend the rest of the afternoon basking in each other, talking and giggling like childhood friends. Maybe it’s because we know we only have a few more months together that we are able to enjoy each other so profoundly. Our lease will end and that is when our break up will stop being something we talk about and turn into something we live. But for now, we pretend otherwise. ## The breakup was all his doing. I was perfectly content with our life. We were settling into the next phase. A phase I had been dreaming about since I met him, since I recognized that I had found who I wanted to spend my life with. Kevin was instead restless and doubtful. ## Kevin: Are you happy? The text came in at work. ## His question didn’t strike me as odd, on occasion Kevin asked me this and other vague philosophical queries out of nowhere. I didn’t jump to anything being out of place. ## Me: Yes I am. I answered truthfully. Are you? ## I knew he wasn’t. He had been distant these past few weeks. I could tell settling into the apartment wasn’t giving him the fulfillment he expected to receive from achieving this long term goal. His next question slapped me in the face. ## Kevin: Do you think we would be better as friends? ## NO. No. No. My brain immediately yelled. Of course not. No. ## A second message came in before I could answer. ## Kevin: We already interact like friends, we’re not very romantic with each other. What would be the difference? ## A LOT! I took a deep breathe. I hoped to god this was another thought experiment of his. ## Me: No. We wouldn’t be better as friends. What I get out of our relationship could not be done with the intensity and frequency of a friendship. And we could be more romantic, nothing is stopping us except what we’ve let ourselves get used to. ## I typed fervently. Trying not to work myself into a panic mid shift. ## Me: Can we talk about this in person please? This feels important. ## Kevin: No it’s okay, you get home late we can talk about this another day. ## Me: No. You’re talking about a breakup Kevin. I can’t put this off. Wait up for me. ## Kevin: Yea okay. ## I got home at midnight but he wasn’t there. ## Me: Where are you? ## Kevin: Doing laundry. I’ll be right down. ## It took him a half hour. He was trying to delay a scary conversation, but I wouldn’t have it. When he got in I had a bottle of wine and two glasses poured, I knew we would need some liquid courage to talk about this. We started by talking about anything else for the first hour. He didn’t want to bring it up and neither did I. I realized, after enough delay, that if I didn’t start it, it would go on ignored. So I bit the bullet. ## “So you think we’d be better as friends?” I blurted. Trying to hide the pain in my tone. ## “I was just asking what the difference would be. I’ve been noticing more and more how distant we are.” ## I thought that’s how you liked things! My inner voice cried ## “But we’ve always been this way.” I said ## “I know. But I don’t think this is the relationship I want.” ## But it’s the one you created! I weep. ## “We can work on it. If you want more romance I want that too. I just thought that you didn’t want that so I don’t push it. But we can do something about it.” ## “I don’t think we can.” ## “Why not?” ## “We’ve said it before that we would try to be more affectionate and nothing ever changes. We’re just going to keep saying it and nothing is going to change.” ## “I never knew you wanted to break up because of it! That brings it to a whole new level of seriousness.” I am sobbing at this point. Feeling a desperateness I’ve never experienced before. ## “It should just come naturally. It’s not right that we have to work for something that should just be part of a relationship.” He says adamantly, ## “But if we both want it, what is wrong with having to work on it until it becomes normal? I don’t understand.” ## We continued to argue but go in circles. By the end he became more adamant that there was no solution to our problem except ending it. ## “I am not breaking up with you. I just want us to think about it.” I knew him enough to know that was a lie. Kevin hated making decisions. He had a tendency to give me non committal answers so I would have to make the decision. That way when it didn’t work out, he wasn’t at fault. ## We went to bed that night after a 3 hour conversation. I laid there in utter panic, foolishly trying to go to sleep. After an hour of turmoil I got up went into the living room, put on my favorite movie and sobbed until Kevin woke up for his next day of work. ## He looked at me from across the room saying nothing, eyes full of grief. He approached me right before leaving. I looked up at him and sniffled. He put his hand softly on my head. “ I am leaving. Can I kiss you?” ## I nod “Please.” ## As he walks out of the apartment, leaving me alone with my sadness I start to remember the day I fell in love with Kevin. ## I stare at my phone in absolute awe. It’s quite hot. Did we really just talk for 7 hours? I was so scared to even have a phone conversation to begin with. Texting is my comfort zone. I was so sure there were going to be awkward pauses and we weren’t going to have much to say. But neither of us stopped talking or laughing the whole night. I open my phone to text him, he has work in a few hours. I have a five am shift in 20 min. ## Me: Sorry I wish we could keep talking ## Kevin: So do I. Have a good day at work. ## I can’t stop smiling. I am trying to, I don’t want my boss to think I am drunk or something. My body feels like it’s on fire,. For someone who hasn’t slept all night I am incredibly energetic. High. I realize. I giggle all the way to work reliving our conversation. Once I am parked outside, it strikes me like a sudden jolt. Fuck. I am in love with him. I smile harder. My jaw hurts. Every cell in my body recognizes this new truth. I am in love. I didn’t expect love to feel so certain. I’ve never been in love before, but I am usually very bad at knowing how I feel. Where was the part where I hem and doubt and question myself about what should be and what can’t be and yadda yadda yadda? But no. There’s not an ounce of doubt in my body, this morning I am in love. I keep saying it in my head and it creates more fire. I am in love. ## Kevin and I had quite the unconventional start to our romance, in fact we credit the rocky infrastructure as the result of its demise. All I know for certain is that when we met, we clung to each other like we were dying of thirst and our connection was a tall glass of water. We became best friends immediately, constantly baffled at how alike we were and how many common interests we shared. I admired how ridiculously entertaining he was, and he loved my intelligent and accepting personality. It only took two dates and a few phone calls to know we had found something unique, and were not letting it go. ## The problem was that although Kevin and I had found something intense and special, I was not ready to do the girlfriend thing. I had just left what I described as a ‘suffocating relationship’ and Kevin had left a relationship where he had been cheated on. Both of which happened for us around the same time. It felt like fate had made those things end at exactly the time that would lead us to each other. After that relationship I was ecstatic to be on the dating scene and having a lot of fun exploring what being a single adult was like. I assumed Kevin wouldn’t be ready for something serious either, so soon. I came up with a compromise. ## “What do we do?” He asked me. ## My answer came off with more confidence than I had. “Have you ever heard of polyamory?” ## “I am not sure.” ## “We date. But we keep seeing other people too.” I simplified. ## “You want to keep dating me while you date other people?” ## “You can keep dating too!” I clarified. Wanting him to take this well. ## “Oh..” He said and looked out the window. ## “What do you think?” ## “Just let me get this straight. You want to make me your bottom bitch?” ## I crossed my arms “Um.. I don’t know what that is but it doesn't sound good.” ## He laughed “You’ve never heard that before? You’re from Atlanta!” ## “Is that supposed to imply something? Just tell me what it means.” ## He explained it to me and I scoffed. ## “I can’t believe you just said that.” ## “I am just trying to understand.” ## “Look! I like you. We both just got out of disastrous relationships. This seems like the middle ground we are looking for.” ## “I didn’t know we were looking for middle ground.” ## “Ever since I heard about it I wanted to try it.” I said and shrugged. ## He thought for a while and I shook my leg in anticipation. ## “I guess we could try it.” ## I smiled. “Really?” ## He nodded. Wow he really is the coolest guy ever. ## “But you’re going to have to help me through it.” ## “Oh of course. I’ve done a lot of research on it.” ## “Yea? How?” ## “I listen to tons of relationship podcasts.” ## He gave me a skeptical look “Okay Maria. I’m trusting you.” ## It went well at first. ## Kevin: I have a date with a young lady today. ## The message came a week later solidifying what we were to become. Okay, this is it. This is the part where I feel angry and upset and take back my decision. Instead I found myself smiling. Utter relief filled my system. Good. I can handle this. But, who is this girl? Does Kevin have a type? I am fascinated. I am excited. ## Me: Great! I wanna know all about it ## We remained in a deep state of limerence. Kevin lived in Fort Collins an hour drive from Denver. To see him I borrow my mother's car. I filled with anticipation the entire way. I try not to speed but it’s impossible knowing going faster means seeing him sooner. I play Taylor Swift's Red. No other album captures my feelings better than this one. I sing along, pull the windows down and speed up, checking to make sure no police are around as I leave the city. Will I ever be as happy as I am now, twenty years old experiencing her first love? I don’t know, but I take it in just in case. ## When I get there Kevin’s broad grin greets me. I jump out of the car and into his arms. This is the moment I think about the entire ride here. The moment that I get to feel him, smell him and kiss him. We kiss until we have to stop ourselves because we’re in a parking lot in the middle of the day. I’ve only known him for a few months, but that doesn’t seem to matter in the least. ## I go home very late, and the next week he comes to me. We take turns from Denver to Fort Collins, to have the funnest dates of my life. Kevin became my favorite person. I tell him things I never dared say out loud before. We get to know each other quickly and in deep intimate ways. The people I was going on dates with begin to pale in comparison to the love I was experiencing. It was all bliss. ## Until... ## “You’re still sleeping with your ex!?” I scream into the phone. It felt like someone punched me. My throat closed up and I couldn’t swallow. ## “I wasn’t going to.” He said. “But when you said we could sleep with other people I thought why not.” ## Silence.


From the front row of a densely packed crowd, Radello locks eyes with the man tied to the post. Bonds support the mans weight and what remains of his strength fixes his eyes on the boy. In truth, the firing squad's job was done before they even arrived; the man had refused what little food had been offered him during his three month imprisonment and now his emaciated body resembled the thin post it was tied to. The only hint of the seditious spirit that once filled the body rested within a dying light behind those once blue, now grey eyes. It was clear to everyone present that today's arrangements had been moved up to intercept what was about to happen naturally; his death was to be made an example of. All that was left to do was pinch, with wetted fingers, the flame at the bottom of its wick, but this by no means made things easier for Radello. Long before the man was brought out, the boy watched a nearby group enact one of the hundred variations on the same scene that took place all across the courtyard; pairs of arms danced violent pas de deux to the tune of resentful voices debating the life that would be soon brought to its end. To some, his life was the dew forming on grass, the flowers blooming, the hoof trots of pegasi, all signalling the coming of dawn; but to others it was the insidious, bitter weeds and the pernicious rootworm threatening to spoil the harvest. Loudest amongst the latter was Radello's father. As with any boy his age, his father served as both a physical model (despite a nose long ago made crooked, one could make out the hereditary blueprints all male Anatez faces were based upon) and a moral one, so over the hour before the execution Radello had begun to hate the unseen man, and with every throb of the green vein on his fathers forehead, his hatred grew stronger. At first the feeling fell odd, as if it were a suit tailored to someone else's body, but after a while he managed to get used to it. Booming cries and cheers abruptly announced the arrival of the prisoner. Radello turned to look and his hatred momentarily stumbled over the sight of a limp man who had all but wasted away, a man unable to make the short journey across the courtyard and had to be dragged by his guards, a man who greatly contrasted the picture-book drawing of 'Blackbeard' Radello had assigned him in the time before his arrival. The emotion tentatively regained momentum once he heard his father's shouting, but the boy couldn't manage to stifle a growing sense of pity. The struggle to tie the flaccid body to the poll sent the clamouring of the crowd to its peak: a quarter, evenly dispersed throughout the courtyard, cried desperately for the soul now withered to sand, and rest spitefully rose in volume just to drown them out. Guards with batons were sent out to enforce order, and those who cried "Murder" were beaten, much to the amusement of those who cried "Good riddance". Once tied to the post, the man regained a vestige of consciousness and his eyes slowly scanned the part of the crowd allowed to him by the position his head hung. Roars from the crowd and overbearing heat and glare from the sun almost completely eclipsed all other sensation; he did not hear as his death sentence was read out to him, and he could hardly make out individual figures in the crowd. Everything appeared as a vague, rippling haze, with the only exception being the solid figure of a boy at the front of the row, with whom, as previously mentioned, he locks eyes. The man's gaze is ice cold, not from any malice or loathing, but from an almost complete separation from anything indicative of life; Radello shivers as it pierces him. The boy tries, tries, then tries once more to hold onto his hatred, but it slips from his grasp. He tries to turn to his father for inspiration but he is unable to move, all he can do is forcefully endure the man's cold, misty stare. At first it's meaning is incomprehensible; Radello searches deeply into the mans eyes, running through the labyrinths but never finding anything, but soon he allows the whole image to soak in and realises that the the man's stare says nothing. There is nothing left inside the man, the breathing corpse was only served as a cruel awakening for Radello, teaching the fragility of his own life. ".... these crimes do we sentence you to die. Have you any last words?" Wails from the crowd are the question's only response. "May God have mercy on your soul" Six guns rise to point at their target, but it's all too much for Radello. The world around him beings to contort as if it were a reflection in a lake someone threw a large stone into, and for the first time he understands that he is the man tied to the post, that he is the plump man with powdered hair who condemned the man to death, that he is every single person in the crowd and every single person outside it. They were all made of the same substance he was, they were all capable of every emotion he was, and they too would one day find themselves delirious, and facing death. Before today death was to Radello just a nebulous concept applied broadly, covering seemingly unlinked objects, from a spider permanently curled in the centre of a cobweb, to a great-grandparent whose picture sat neatly on the mantlepiece. But now death is right in front of him, and - as he realises with terror - directly ahead, waiting for him. Radello now shakes uncontrollably. The order is given and the six guns synchronously fire into the body that feels nothing. The force of the bullets travel along the dead man's gaze and strike the boy, who promptly loses consciousness.


My eyes slowly blink open. I’m awake. I try to move my arms and stretch, but I realize I can’t move at all. Ah, sleep paralysis. I’ve experienced this so many times before. What gruesome apparitions am I in for this time? My paralyzed eyes are fixated on the opposite site of the room, where the moonlight cascades in through the window and bathes the room in a twilight glow. A figure walks in from my peripheral vision and sits in the armchair in the corner. But this figure isn’t like the “shadow people” I normally see when I have sleep paralysis. In fact, she looks pretty familiar – holy shit, is that my mother?! She looks much younger than she did when she died six months ago. The hollow cheekbones and dark circles that her cancer gave her are gone. Instead, she looks just like she did in old photos I was looking at just the other day, from before I was born. I realize she’s holding a baby in her arms, rocking it and singing, though I can’t hear the words. I try to scream out to her, but I can’t make a sound. After a moment, she is gone. That vision left me nervous and breathless. I hope I can wake up soon. Suddenly, a figure skips in from the periphery. Then another. And another. They’re jumping from the bed to the chair to the nightstand. I can make out that it’s three small children, two boys and a girl. They look vaguely familiar but I can’t place from where. “The floor is lava!” the one that appears the oldest says. All three of them laugh, then run out of my peripheral vision and I can no longer see them. Alright then. That was weird. Three children is less creepy than the demonic figures I usually see when this happens, so I’ll take it. I’m still feeling out of breath from seeing my mom though. The figure of a young boy appears in my plane of view. He looks to be around 8 or 9. I can’t place who he is, but he looks so familiar that it makes me feel uneasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadowy figure – I can make out the shape of a man, but not much else. What I do know is that a sense of deep unease and fear has settled over my body. I see the figure go up the boy and push him down to the ground. The boy is struggling against him but the man is holding him down, his hands traveling down the boy’s body. I realize what’s about to happen and I want to close my eyes. I want to scream for help and I want to wake up. This is so much worse than anything I’ve experienced before during sleep paralysis. Just when I think I can’t handle it anymore, they are gone. What a relief. Maybe I’ll finally wake up now? No dice. Another figure walks into my vision. But this time, I know who it is. This apparition looks just like me in photos from high school. Clearly I was going through a grunge phase. I’m walking up to another figure at the other side of my visual field, close my periphery. I’m handing him what looks like a wad of cash. Even from here, I can see the tremor in my hands. He reaches back to give me something in return but before I can see what it is, both figures are gone. This is getting weird. I’m finding it harder to breathe. Finally, something comforting appears. A tall woman with long, flowing chestnut hair strides into my vision. Right away, I can tell it’s Molly. God, I always did love that hair of hers. She’s in a white dress and she’s holding a bouquet. A second figure joins her – it’s me. I’m in a tuxedo but my hair is disheveled. The sight of this fills me with regret. I was drunk and high that day and she somehow forgave me for it. Forgave me for being drunk and high on our wedding day. The two figures lean in to kiss but before their lips meet, they’re gone. My motionless eyes are welling up with tears. Why is this still going on? Sleep paralysis has never lasted this long for me before. More scenes flash in front of my eyes, each one shorter than the last. Showing Molly my 6 month Narcotics Anonymous chip. We embrace. Finding out she’s pregnant, joy lighting up our faces. Standing next to our little girl’s bed in the neonatal ICU, after she was born at 22 weeks. A grief-stricken Molly walking away from me for the last time because I just couldn’t handle it. Mom in a casket. Picking up the bottle again. I try to scream at myself not to do it, but the sound just won’t come out. My eyes are welling up with tears, but I can’t blink them away. And I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?! And all of a sudden, a sense of overwhelming peace fills my mind and body. Thank God that horror show is over. My eyes, no longer immobile, blink away the tears. I look around the bed. Next to me is an empty prescription bottle. I squint to read the words. “LORAZEPAM 0.5 MG.” Didn’t I just get that filled yesterday? My eyes dart to the side and I see the empty bottle of wine. I smell the vomit. And then nothing.


             Could it be sealed as a stigma of indolence and lethargy that Prof. Vijay Kumar lost or suffered a gross failure during the years between 1972 to 1981 when almost ten resolutions were Made probably without strong will power without actual realization. The truth is that a resolution Had not been made in the true sense of the word. For ten years I did nothing at all. I had become a person without even a dot of confidence. “ I cannot get a GUIDE. There is none in this world to help me. Does My Lord Krishna wants me to beg like a beggar to go and click the door-bell of every PhD. Should I Seek the grace of some kind professor at Agra or Meerut at this moment of life. It was now 1982 mid July 1968-69. I had by this time become a father of a daughter who was just two years old. Leaving my wife and daughter by themselves and travelled long many hours to meet Dr R.D. Sholic of Agra College whose Lectures I had attended earlier as a student. He accepted me after asking me about my management Between Bhavnagar and Agra. He assigned to me four prominent American writers of nineteenth century from its’ literature . He also suggested to borrow books from the University library. I did lot  Of reading for exactly a year and half and as directed by my guide I made a list of eight topics for onward studies of Ph.D.                                    My destiny was firmly determined to block my further advancement in this erudite Pursuit. Dr Sholic had left Agra three months back and had left no message to be conveyed to me. He Hadn’t made any arrangement to bring me into contact with of some of his friends, who were also guides for this degree. He presented himself as the most careless person that could ever be. …………………………………………………………………………………………………..... 1970 or 1971 became the years of doing all the other things except working for a doctorate degree and It ended not till 1981. This was the part of my life that broke me down. Dr Sholic had broken my heart And for the first time I came to know what disappointment and depression could possibly be. I felt a Total loss of smooth life!. My scholarly tastes remained starved and I held monologues with Lord God during the silent hours of nights, feeling intensely shocked: “Oh my dear Krishne why did I spend Two years to study those American Poets and not attain consummation. Why Dr R.B. Sholick desert me And left me a destitute? Is this going to be my destiny? I work hard but dame luck all the time kicks hard on my buttocks! …………………………………………………………………………………………………… 1981“What’s this Vijay with you going on? “ I do not know what you mean! “Haven’t you become a lazy dog? Years of this precious life……( a pause) Dr J.J.T. was seriously concerned about Vijay’s professional career. In his high tone of irritation loudly shouted:” You have become a lazy and indolent man and I cannot bear lethargy from my dearest friend. Have you forgotten? That you had to study and had to work hard for nothing! “But what I could do? I was deserted by Dr Sholick, you know.. “Do you believe that some guide would have come travelling all the way to Bhavnagar and tell you, “Come on Vijay I will be your Guide come dear my Honourable  Sir!  A silence indifference crept in and we both were looking into each other, staring, knowing not what to say. “What the hell I should do? “ I looked at him with a sad face! “Make a firm resolution to do this Ph.D. Degree and rush to Agra and meet people there. Go and meet the Registrar or the present Head of English Dept. there. Go and ransack all avenues there. Even some Peon might turn to be helpful to get what you intend. ‘” Yes that’s done.. I must get a Ph.D. Degree at any cost. I promise you, dear friend. You have infused my confidence that I had lost. I must banish all negative thoughts. It has no place for survival. ‘’ ………………………………………………………………………………………………………mid 1981 J.J.T.

Came to see me off at the Railway Station .Wish you best of luck friend. Don’t come back till you get a guide. Let me know the situation as and when it develops. Write back a post-card to let me know the developments. As I boarded the train I occupied my seat and made a midyear resolution there itself. I must have a Ph.D. Guide I lighted incense sticks whenever I leave for another city. I closed my eyes for three minutes.                                I made a short sojourn of most of the colleges and I went to see one very senior professor who had a bungalow in Professor’s society. Nothing appeared, no consequences, empty Seemed the walls of Agra and I perspired almost four days. Thereafter it struck into my mind that  Visit the office of the University. I got the files of those professors who had done and got the degree. The Registrar himself came to me and informed me that there is one Dr Virendra Sharma of D.C. College And is shortly on the verge of retiring.. You’d better go to him and meet him at his residence close to the Railway Station.  It was easy for me to locate his bungalow. No sooner I saw his face my inner heart sprang into happiness. I intuitively felt that this Dr Virendra Sharma was surely going to accept me.                                 Next day morning I took one kg box of choicest sweets from the well-known and famous ‘Krishna Sweet Shop and Restaurant ‘ and took it to the house of my guide ‘ Ms Sharma objected and I said ‘ Its’ welcoming the beginning of a student with his new teacher. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………                         I began receiving several post cards and inland letters and it was like the modern “Teaching on Line ‘” Thus reading, writing and guiding all sorts of studies went on. He told me that Once every year you would stay here and work for two months every year here only and see me every day. I stayed In some hotel and guest house. In morning I had to meet my guide and during afternoons I visited the library of Aligarh Muslim University. All the libraries of Delhi University, British Council and Agra too had been visited to spend several hours with also gathering necessary notes.                                        I stayed full one month in the Agra University Library and I had been going through PhD. scripts that had been awarded. Every day after breakfast in the morning and also in The afternoon I was there. One fellow by name Satish Bansal came to me with limitless curiosity. He wanted to know my purpose of that reading. He invited me for tea and some social interaction is quite well Come, “  Look here Vijay Kumar, why are you rotting yourself here.Why do you make your wife Suffer who might need to fulfill her sexual urge. Go back enjoy sleeping in bed with her.” 1984 was over “What for I am here for? I am a professional thesis writer and all that you have to do is paying me eleven thousand rupees and the thesis and synopsis everything would be ready Come back to see me after one year.”           “  So that is why you invited me for tea and snacks four times.. Is that so?      ‘” Yes that is the way of the world. Money makes impossible possible and I can get you a girl in bed if you just pay one hundred bucks.    “Look stop your nonsense .Will you?  ‘” You get lost right now and hear my decision. I am the last person to get a borrowed PhD. I won’t learn anything. I will write my thesis with my own mind each word of my thesis. And look here I will prefer to be without the degree rather than becoming a robber of intellectual work. 1984 October ……………………………………………………………………………………………………… 1985 MID June:  My second son   Susheel Kumar fell ill seriously.  He got touched by a live wire that had fallen because of lashing winds and storms. He was immediately rushed to the biggest hospital of the government.                                  However my bad luck had decided to never leave me alone. My thesis work was left pending for six months and by then 1985 too ran away just very fast. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………… It was again the year of 1986 and I stayed in some hotel. Now there is no need to go o coming to me. His final lecture had gone on the whole afternoon almost two hours. My brother-in-law Mr Krishen Lal And his wife Shakuntala took me forcibly to Sikandrabad and made me stay in their bungalow, In the total privacy of one large room with all the amenities there, I could complete the final thesis in one hundred days. For four days they had gone to Delhi and again a stroke of my bad luck never left me Alone. Very soon after the thesis had to be submitted along with a ‘Forward Letter’ Surendra Verma Was quite hesitant to send a forward letter and Sushma his wife intervened. “Now send his Forwarding Letter , don’t delay the matter. The poor boy had been running all over, Bhavnagar, thereafter Aligarh, Agra. He went for consulting books in almost five libraries. His wife and children have been waiting all these years.                     But now luck came in flying after me and by next three months the Degree was awarded. The age of a person has no connection with making a firm resolution. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………… The end of 1986 SOME REACTIONS: Dr M. F,. Salat is my bosom friend today as well. When I met him at his residence he closely folded my hands into his own and said: “Oh my Lord Dr Vijay Kumar you have achieved a tremendous success. Getting a degree as the one like a doctorate  Degree at the age when one is forty-nine. None of the professors can even imagine doing such a remarkable achievement. You are great really Vijay the successful man. You have established an Outstanding  example. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………… Those people who had borrowed forty books and twenty note scripts to get their post graduation degree turned their heads in some other direction and could not even say ‘Hello Dr Vijay Kumar, Congratulations. They just remained cold and indifferent .These so called professors were really great with, feelings of insult to themselves. How could they utter a few words of appreciation for me?                                The element of Segregation planted  in their mind was really deep. How could They cast off the golden chain that they were regularly wearing in their necks?


Have you ever seen a constellation born? In my youth, it was told that they were created when the Old Gods died, their image immortalized in the night sky. Though now we grieve for the Old Gods, we once hunted them. In the days of my childhood, during the dawn of magic, it seemed as though many constellations appeared above us in the black dome of night. The forest of the titanwoods were different then. The colossal trees of lore stood still in vast numbers, truly ancient beings from the Age of the Moon. In my tribe, we found little purpose in planting crops nor herding beasts. The titanwood forest by which we lived was generous. The lumber of the mighty trees built our homes, the hides and meats of the beasts fed and clothed us in abundance. My tribe raised many a master woodcarver, and traders from afar coveted the crafts carved from the ivory white lumber of the titanwood. My birthright was to string the bow and to fletch the arrow. In a family of marksmen, my arrow flew the truest. I was a young man when forest began to grow thin. The titanwood had a most unusual quality: When bathed in fire, the white flesh of the tree turned the color of gold. The Basilius of Eidon ordered a palace built of the golden wood. Soon followed the homes of nobles and scribes, and soon the fate of the titanwood was sealed by fire. The generous fruits of this ancient forest brought hunters and craftsmen from afar, and slowly they stripped it of its treasures. Great fires swallowed groves, herds of beasts dwindled and hunts yielded little. Our eyes turned to the most coveted prize of the forest, the prize that fetched a king's fortune: The pelt of a god. I had never seen the Old Gods, I had merely heard tales. Ever since magic fell into the hands of men, the Old Gods had grown weak, and had little power left to spare. As the magic of men grew, the Old Gods faded into the air; now unseen, invisible, unheard, even undetected under the noses of hounds. They could lurk unknown for decades, keeping a silent watchful eye on the most sacred forest. Even as the power of the Old Gods dwindled, they were capable of great feats. In a final act of devotion, they could muster all their waning strength to restore their former glory, and bring great rains, move mountains, summon thundering herds of beasts, and send dying lands into vibrant green from horizon to horizon. They held the ancient forest in a mysterious, beautiful, and ever-changing balance. There was a cost to their vast power: Upon the expenditure of their great magic, the cloak that hid them from our eyes fell, revealing their form as a beast with a most brilliant coat. It was told that they appeared as living embodiments of the night sky, with pelts as black as the void of night, twinkling with stars and auroras, eyes like suns and moons. This was their sacrifice to protect their realm... doomed eternally to the hunt, every Royal ready with polished coins for the hunter who could bring forth their celestial hides. Desiring a fine trophy, the prince of Eidon put out a bounty on a noble bird said to have sprouted mighty trees that erupted from the ground in mere moments. Imagine such a sight! It was the season of the Silver Bridge when we embarked in pursuit of the great egret god. We treaded amongst the young hemlock forest where the egret’s magic had manifest. After three days of fruitless hunt, with not even a trace of scent for our hounds to track, we set up camp. It was a purple dusk when we saw it, the sign of a god’s death, a pillar of light rising from the forest into the night sky. The lonely pale light brought a mournful, haunting silence to the forest. Our huntsmaster rose and heaved a heavy sigh, and said solemnly, “We have missed our mark.” And there, above the light projecting upwards into the black dome of night, it seemed as though new stars flickered faintly in the sky. A new constellation born; an egret. The tale of our target’s fall was written in stars. The morn after our target’s demise was bright and clear, yet a sadness hung heavy in the forest air, as if one could almost smell it. I awoke in our camp and travelled down to the stream to fetch water. A strange silence fell upon the forest, as if all that lived here stopped to marvel at some beauty. As I filled my pouch, I saw it... across the stream in a clearing of felled trees, unaware of my presence, a god materialized before my eyes. Out of thin air she appeared; a small fox, with a coat of unmistakably pure black and twinkling stars. Just as the hanging lights in the night sky, nebulous swirls of many colors danced about her like the brushwork of a masterful painter. She was the very image of a pristine night sky, unobscured by clouds. In all my lifes’ hunts, I had never been prepared to stumble upon such magnificence. She was carrying in her mouth something small, and she trotted to the bed of the stream. She dug a hole, and laid the piece in it - it was what appeared to be a seed pod or nut. A gasp must have escaped my lips, for her ears perked up, and striking eyes met with mine. My heart fluttered. I can not imagine any man ever having borne witness to such beauty before. I know not what she thought in those moments she gazed at me, but she must have known that I knew her burden. Her enormous power was spent… her sacrifice was made. I did not draw my bow. No thoughts crossed my mind of the fortune her pelt would fetch. Instead I sat and marveled at the sight I had beheld. She gazed at me unblinking, unmoving, until the silence was broken by the howls of the hounds. Quickly she buried her small gift, and off she bounded into the wood. The echoes of the hounds and hunters in pursuit rang like mournful bells, disappearing into silence as they gave chase. The poor beast, doomed for the rest of her days to the hunt. It pains me so to imagine her fleeing without pause until succumbing to exhaustion. Such sacrifice for a mere tree nut. Why? I waited at the site the seed was planted, for I had to see what would sprout from a god’s sacrifice. I pitched a tent and waited for days before a fresh green sprout sprung from the soil, radiating life. It captivated me. I continued to watch, and the days became months. The tent became a hut, and the months became years, and I beheld a beautiful sapling growing before my eyes. I chased away the deer who would eat her leaves, and plucked the pests who would bore into her bark. Around me, the landscape shifted and changed as the tree grew. Her roots ran deep and far throughout the forest, channels of water and life. She grew vast and powerful unlike any titanwood before; a guardian of all that lived here. The glorious tree had embraced me, and in harmony we coexisted. I saw the fox in the sky, and it was clear what fate had befallen her. I heard from travelers that her pelt hung in the hall of the Basillius, and had long since faded to a drab, weathered grey. I could not have know what the Old Gods were giving me when I beheld her sacrifice. I had forsaken them, and yet in that sprout, they gave me a gift no other man will ever come to know. So many years ago that was. I have held the honor of being her protector for centuries now. Life around me rises and falls like the tide, children leave legacy upon legacy, and I fail to recall the names of wives long past. I have been many different men. The Old Gods no longer grace this realm, and the magic of man breeds turmoil. This is my cause: Guardian of the last mark of divinity on this realm. *Thank you for reading, this is an excerpt from a novel I've had in mind.


This happened last year. About five days each week, I walk to my favorite coffee shop and order an iced latte, regardless of the weather. I take the same path - wait for the slowest traffic light in the world, cross the street, cross another street, walk about a mile, walk through a park, then take the shortcut behind the Hampton Inn to get to the shop. The coffee is heavenly, and I sit in the same seat by the window every time I go, then I take the same path home. One Saturday morning, however, something had changed. There was a fountain in the middle of the park. Normally this wouldn’t be strange, but up until that day the park had only been a grassy rectangle like a sports field for people to play frisbee and football. Curious, I walked directly to the fountain instead of following the sidewalk around the park’s edge like I usually did. Without thinking, I fished a penny out of my pocket and threw it to the fountain’s center - an old habit from childhood - before an odd feeling crept over me. Though I’m not from here, I had lived in the city about three years before this happened, and I’d walked by this exact spot often enough to know something was wrong. It was a nice day, and a weekend, but there were no people out walking their dogs and no children playing. Given that half a million people live within a few miles of here, this park was usually crowded. And the fountain itself was wrong, too - cities install fountains all the time, but this one was old, but not old enough to be nice. I guessed it was from the 80s. Rust leaked through its concrete, leaving brown stains, and many pennies within it were caked with blue. Dried leaves sat on the fountain’s surface, despite the fact it was late spring and all the trees were green. I stuck a finger in the water. It was cold. I shouldn’t have touched it. I didn’t know how it wasn’t frozen, being that cold, but then I noticed the first signs of ice creeping around the dried leaves, delicate crystals that shouldn’t have been there. I pulled away from the fountain, deciding the city had simply moved one of its older fountains to this location, and made my way to the coffee shop. I only saw two people during my journey the rest of the way, which was about a half mile. Again, this was weird, because this is a densely populated area. I arrived at the coffee shop, which usually had three or four baristas working, but there was only one. She was one of their only full-time employees, so I knew her by name. “Hi Sarah,” I said. She smiled. She always made an effort to be nice to regulars. “The usual?” she asked. I nodded. “The usual.” The coffee shop had a small bar by the cash register, and I sat there so she could just hand me the latte directly when she was done making it. I opened my phone and checked my social media, surprised I had no notifications on Twitter or Reddit. Sarah stood across the bar from me and held out the iced latte. “I don’t know how you aren’t freezing without a coat.” “What do you mean?” I took the latte in one hand and looked outside. It was still a bright spring day. “With the storm coming,” Sarah said. “The temperature’s dropping.” “Really?” I asked. I hadn’t heard about a storm coming. I tried to look up the weather forecast, but it wouldn’t load. I didn’t have signal - that made sense. I turned off wifi and tried again on data, without luck. “Do you have any reception?” I asked Sarah. She patted at her pockets for a moment and shrugged. “Must have left my phone in the back, sorry.” “Thanks anyway,” I said. I took a sip of my iced latte, then pulled my head back in shock. It wasn’t my usual at all - it was an iced chai tea latte. “Ah,” I said. “I think you made me the wrong thing. I’ll drink it, so no worries, but usually I just get the, uh, coffee kind of latte.” Sarah cocked her head to the side. “You’ve come here almost every day for the past ten years and ordered an iced chai latte. I even ordered you that fancy chai from India six months ago.” Ten years? Ordered fancy chai from India? I shook my head, confused. I’d only lived here for under three years, and could count on one hand the number of times I’d drank an iced chai latte. Sarah must have mixed me up with someone else. “What’s my name?” I asked after a moment. She said my name, then added, “only one S.” That was wrong. I spelled my name with two. Fearing I’d lost my mind, I pulled my drivers license out of my phone case, where I kept it. What do you know - only one S. My mind raced back to that weird fountain. “Did you see that new fountain in Victory Park?” I asked. Sarah, who was drying glasses with a rag, paused. “Oh yeah. Threw a penny in it yesterday on my way here. It’s kind of ugly, don’t you think?” “Very.” I thanked her, got up, pushed my chair in, and left. She was right about the storm. The air outside was freezing now. It might have been bearable without the wind, but all I had was a t-shirt and jeans and the wind blew right through them. It was an aching cold, the kind you feel in your bones. I thought about going back into the coffee shop, or getting an uber, but getting home would only take me a few minutes if I ran. Plus, I still didn’t have signal, so getting an uber was not an option. There was not a single car on the road. By the time I reached the fountain again, my muscles cramped from the cold and I had to slow down. Snow began to fall around me. My fingers were numb, my toes were numb, and even thinking had grown difficult. None of this made any sense. By the time I reached the fountain, I could barely walk. I dropped to my knees, arms wrapped around the fountain’s lip to support myself. This was bad. I was dying. I was freezing to death in the middle of May. Only, it wasn’t May anymore, it couldn’t be. The fountain had frozen over completely, even the parts that were supposed to have moving water, so I knew it had to be brutally cold. I tried to trace my steps back to how this all started as my thoughts grew increasingly fragmented and panicked. I couldn’t make it to any of the storefronts, though I had a feeling that if I did, the doors would be locked. A darkness spread across the sky, and not a single light was on in any of them. This all started when I threw that penny into the fountain. Sarah said she had thrown in a penny, too. When we did that, we must have triggered something, or maybe been thrown into another dimension. What a stupid thing to think - and yet, this gave me an idea. I plunged one stiff, dumb hand through the ice and frantically searched for the penny I threw in, as if I could tell it apart from the others. I took sloppy fistfuls of pennies, quarters, and dimes, some new and some old, and flung them onto the gathering snow. I remembered - I threw my penny near the fountain’s center, the deepest and hardest part to reach. They said people panic and do wild, illogical things as hypothermia sets in, and it must be true because I thrust my whole upper body into that water, grabbed a handful of coins from the center, threw them onto the snow, and and– “Hey.” It was a child’s voice. My eyes were shut, and I was lying on my back. Someone poked my face with what must have been a stick. An adult’s voice answered. “Ravi! Get away from her!” “But–” “No butts, get back here,” the adult said, then cursed about drunks and the city going to shit. I opened my eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. The sun kissed my skin, and I was laying in the middle of the park, again an open field. A dog came up to me and sniffed my face. “Are you alright?” a man, likely the dog’s owner, asked. I pushed myself to my feet and took a few seconds to balance as the feeling returned to my legs. “Yeah,” I said, brushing the dirt off my jeans and searching for a logical explanation of what had just happened. “I think I had a seizure, or a stroke…” The man came over to me. He said he was a doctor (there were three hospitals within two miles of here, so lots of people living in this area are doctors). He shined his phone flashlight in my eyes, then helped me to the nearest emergency room. They checked me out, even squeezed me into their MRI schedule, but they couldn’t find anything wrong. The doctors told me to follow up with a neurologist, and I agreed. But I knew that whatever had happened was not of this world. That distorted world I was transported into had no medical or natural origin, and its source was probably something beyond what I was capable of understanding. The next day, Sunday, I stayed home. I didn’t even make coffee and instead just accepted the inevitable withdrawal headache, then spent the day binge-watching my favorite anime from high school. It was calming, since it reminded me of a better time and kept my mind off the horrors of the previous day. But still, every time I shut my eyes, I relived the sensation of half-diving into the freezing fountain, numbness spreading up my arms as my dumb hands searched the depths. Monday, I was feeling a little better. Though I hated the thought of walking by that park again, for fear of seeing the fountain, I was curious and also wanted my usual iced latte. Slowlyl, I traced my regular path to the park. The fountain was gone. I continued, taking the shortcut behind the Hampton, until I reached the coffee shop. There was something plastered in the window. It was a typical “missing person” sign you see stapled to telephone poles or pinned to poster boards in the front of Walmarts all over the US, but what shocked me was the person on it. It said: Missing Sarah \[censored\] Last seen: May 27, 2022, 5:45 am It was Sarah. But I’d seen her the morning of the 28th. A darkness settled over me, and I knew that something had happened to her. She was still in that strange world I had escaped from. I wondered if every penny in that fountain represented a person trapped and thought that if only I could find that fountain again, I could get her out. I got on the internet and went down the rabbit hole, so to speak. I searched every forum and paranormal sight until I found someone mentioning the fountain. However, it was a thread from ten years ago, and the profile had been deleted and the comments frozen. I posted around until someone else said they had seen the fountain. They had even taken pictures, but the pictures looked… wrong. Realistic in some ways, but also fake, distorted and with the perspective slightly off. Another person had sent him pictures, which he shared with me, but these were both blurry and in black and white. Almost a year later, I’m still trying to find the fountain and figure out what it is, where it came from, and if there are others like it. But whatever the case, if you see a fountain where it doesn’t belong, think before throwing in a coin.


Jack cleared his throat. This was a big moment. A huge moment. A historic moment. “*My name is Jack Platt…”* His voice was croaky. He cleared his throat once again. *“My name is Jack Platt and I am honoured to announce that we at Platt Ltd. have created the world’s first time machine*!” Silence. Jack was actually standing alone in his empty garage. The presentation was purely for his own amusement. The content however, was very real indeed. Jack had hoped for a big reveal in front of all the world’s media, but the Coronavirus pandemic meant it wouldn’t happen the way he wanted it to. So for now, it would be his secret. At least until things got back to normal. Not that staying in isolation had been a bad thing, it had actually sped up his process. Apart from a brief visit to the shop last week, Jack had spent every waking hour inside his old garage working away at what had been his life’s work. At 47 years old he had wasted much of his life trying to figure out time travel, but this year was the year he finally made a breakthrough. His dream became a reality. Jack stood back and admired his creation: a steel chamber about eight feet tall, glimmering despite the dull lighting, the glass door ajar welcoming him in. Would it actually work? Jack had no clue. Where would he go? He wasn’t too sure on that either. But he was convinced this contraption would take him to anywhere in the world, at any point in history. “*No time like the present…or the past,*” Jack chuckled to himself before his throat began to tickle. He stepped inside. Now this was the tricky part. In reality time travel doesn’t work like it does in the movies: You can’t just put the time and date in; you can’t step into a cupboard and close your eyes; and you certainly can’t just jump into a hot tub. Jack fired up the software and began coding to calibrate the machine. Jack mopped sweat from his brow - he hadn’t ever remembered the time machine feeling this hot, but then again he had never felt this much anticipation. Eventually it was ready. Jack tried to take a deep breath, but was struggling to compose himself. He put it down to nerves and pulled down on the lever in front of him and prayed to every God there ever was that this would work. ***BANG*** This wasn't right. Jack was thrown from one side of the chamber to another. ***BANG*** Jack was on the floor. Short of breath and struggling to get up. ***BANG*** The door swung open. And as Jack picked himself up off the floor, he couldn’t believe his eyes. In front of him was a bustling market place, which couldn’t be further from the silence of his garage. People pushed past him, the noise of chatter filled his ears. He was definitely somewhere in Asia, but had no idea where. It was all very alien to him after the constant pleas to social distance for the past six months. *“Where am I?”,* he muttered to himself. *“When am I?”* He turned around and took in his surroundings: stalls of food everywhere, a currency exchanging hands that he didn’t recognise, and buckets full of fish lined the alleyways, but for some reason he couldn’t smell a thing. He began to cough. Jack noticed a newspaper at his feet and picked it up - it was all in Chinese, apart from the date: *17th December 2019.* Pre-COVID. Jack suddenly dropped the paper and began to splutter, he was really struggling for breath now. Everyone around him started backing away as he continued to wheeze. If he was struggling for breath before, the next thing he saw took it away completely. He had noticed a banner above him, raising his head to read it: ***WUHAN FISH MARKET*** Jack felt a plunging feeling in his stomach as the realisation dawned on him.


Please give feedback and be harsh. If it's possible, could you score it out of 30? Thank you reading and I hope you enjoy.  **Lost to the city** Bleak industrialisation, verging on the depressive. Towering blocks of blackened buildings blotted and choked by the ash they spat out so many years ago. The buildings, sulking awkwardly, bundling and hoarding the dreams they broke. So, blinded by soot and hatred, the people shuffled past one another minds fogged with man’s innate greed. Huge crumbling, concrete condominium's blobbing like cancerous tumours from the knackered tarmac. The people wandered the blank streets, leathered with blank minds and mirroring the austere blocks that surrounded their industrial prison. But there was one outlier. An anomaly among all. Archon Pickkard; He was waiting for his meeting with Charon. He lived among the people but dreamt for more. Archon needed to make others see the harmony they could achieve. Free in his prison; he was a simple man not asking for ornate features or words but spent his life pushing for euphoria taking cheer from his boring schedule. Archon found a way to love all things he saw, resisting what the city forced upon him. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end. He was waiting for his meeting with Charon, not that he knew it though. For years Archon walked the city. Archon thought of the lush pastures of past-times and submerged his dreams with a blind optimism. Archon was authentic unlike the doldrumic people. He was happy. Life was repetitive but Archon was not a man to complain or criticise. He wandered on with his life finding joy in the menial and the boring. Not a moment came that Archon hated or regretted, he was pure. Archon saw such colour in the world, such vibrant colours that overloaded the senses. But the city corrupts all. Gradually, the colours dulled to his eyes. His mindset beginning to slowly shift, and Archon could feel the pull of the city’s tide. The joy he felt became unfulfilling. Optimism began the descent to pessimism. The city lingered on, unaware or uncaring for Archon Pickkard’s wish for simplicity. It stumbled on blindly killing the soul of the one individual man. His mind slowly crumbling like the cracked cobbled streets. The fibre of his being, his very soul was systematically smudged, until he started growing to be the man that he hated the city for. His emotions losing their colour and becoming blank. Soon the city would, with its coal infused air, dank sewers and dim inky skies, deplete the consciousness of the last conscious man. Archon Pickkard realised it was time and raised no controversy. Archon knew what was happening, he tried and forced himself to feel the euphoria of life again, but it was simply not the same. Haltingly, he was being eaten by the city. But Archon could not accept himself to fully fall to the city. Time was all that was needed in his mind, for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves and for tranquillity to emerge once more, but Archon could no longer muster the strength to wait. His one refusal to accept the dark mood of the city led him to his decision. His crumpled manic depression edging him towards the cliff of despair. His dingy apartment, grimy on the outside and grimy on the inside was the epitome of the city. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end and for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves. Through his paper-thin walls rattled the call of the city, insects and rats. One man, he used to think, was all it took to change the city. Standing in his bitter cold apartment, the winter raging outside and the decay of the city limping forward, Archon Pickkard stared at his ceiling. He fixed it up to a hook on the ceiling and looked around at his apartment hoping for hope but filled with only disgust. So alone in a world with blank slates he saw no point in continuing this sham. He wished for a world that humans hadn’t ruined, but what was the point in complaining. But... what was the point in staying? He was leaving... mind fully made up, he placed a small stool and stood upon it. The city groaned and wheezed smog in laughter, defeating the last individual. Rather defeated, Archon placed a small coin under his tongue. The fattened pigeons squawking outside, the last life – along with the insects, rats and bugs – to be left in the city. With a sharp kick, he did it. The city ignored his death. Clouds slowly blotted what remained of the sun. The streets were piled with evidence of humans but no ‘humanity’ filled them. The buildings rose higher separating themselves from humans. Fogs, storms and rains descended upon the beast pattering and lashing upon its stone walls and pane glass, to no avail, however. The construction workers laboured on, regardless of the weather, dotting their ore skyrises across the broken skyline. The clanging of their hammers rattled through day and night tearing through earth, metal and stone. Workers of this city beast clasped in reflective neon clothes – a façade for the destruction they committed. Winds slowly blocked by blocks of man's creation the howling died down and was replaced by the beating of the hammers. By now, Archon Pickkard had moved on. He had left the complex world and had entered simplicity. He gave an obol to Charon and stepped on the wooden raft and sat down. Archon steadied himself as it rocked waiting for Charon to drift him down the river Acheron. The land was bare and barren, but a beauty lay that Archon admired. He found peace, ease and simplicity – the things he had longed for. The hell he headed for was better than the hell he’d left. But, as before, the city had not noticed. The city stops for no man or woman. It stops when the ticking of humanity falters, but for one man it does not hesitate. It had not recoiled at the loss of Archon Pickkard, its chimneys bloated on, unaware of the individualism it had beaten away. The meaningless buildings grew higher and grubbier, killing the humans that birthed them. Lost to the city. The city limped forward, filled with nowhere people.


There once was a warrior who didn't want to kill the dragon, not because the dragon had been his wife before transforming. He would have had every right to refuse the King's proclamation. Nor was it the fact that he, himself, was subject to the same curse that had caused his wife to turn. No, the true reason he didn't want to kill the dragon was simply because dragons are cool as shit—and he rather liked transforming into one and going on rampages with his wife. They would fly over the beautiful countryside and barrel-roll through the skies until a town caught their eye. She would give him a knowing look and off they would go, swooping low, delivering some hellfire to the residents of some sleepy town. Oh, the fun they had! And laughs aplenty. After satisfying their bloodlust, they glided to a lush glade and basked in the afternoon rays while picking the occasional shoe or pitchfork from their dragon teeth. Life was good and the killing was easy. But eventually, he would morph back into human form. The first time this happened, he was lying next to his dragon wife staring at his human hands where, moments before, claws of immense power were his to wield. He felt small and weak. She snorted and nudged him away. He stumbled backward, trying to find the strength to stand on shaky legs. As she fixed her gaze upon him, sadness stirred within him. With a few mighty flaps of her wings, she was gone. He fell back to the ground and wept. On most occasions, the warrior would stumble back to the village on his own power, but this time was different: the King's appointed constable picked him up on the outskirts of a dense forest. The constable described a terrible scene:. Fire and screaming. Chaos was delivered by some fearsome flying creature. The King in a fevered panic. The warrior stroked his chin as if contemplating the King's plight, but inwardly smiled. My lovely wife, how I love thee. The constable stared intently, awaiting his reply. The warrior nodded grimly. He had no intention, however, of tracking down and slaying the dragon—not his wife, anyway. The King's court was in considerable disarray since the attack. Some of the royal banners dressing the cracked western wall were still smoking. Others were charred and tattered. Well done, my sweet wife , thought the warrior as he approached the bottom step of the King's throne. The King issued instructions and equipment to the warrior, as well as a small regiment of soldiers. A secret mountain pass loomed ahead. He easily lost the soldiers, discarded the ornate armor, and set off to find the specter who forever changed his wife into dragonkind. He encountered many obstacles, not the least of which was his hunger: smoked pork sandwiches danced on the periphery of his taste buds. The warrior set up camp north of the King's domain, high up in the rugged mountains where he built a small fire. As he roasted two boulder vermin on the spit, he scanned the valley below for signs of activity. A bird of prey flew below him and screeched as he lost sight of it. He directed his attention back to the crackling vittles, gently squeezing the meat between his fingers to test for doneness. Nodding to himself, he began to eat. Halfway through his meal, he heard a twig snap. Silently, the warrior rose and drew his blade. * * * In the darkest recesses of a secret mountain lair, a bloody assassin drags himself to his master's feet. The specter seizes him, much as one might a rag doll, enraged that he would lead the warrior to her front door with his blood trail. The specter flings the assassin against the wall and thus concludes his service to her. She knows the warrior will be here soon. So much to do! With an enchantment, she alters the web-covered cave into a dazzling ballroom. Live music echoes through the chambers as phantom court dancers gracefully spin and bow. The specter even re-creates a chocolate fountain in the center of the dining hall. It's a bit much, even for a specter. A mountain storm whips up as the specter awaits the warrior's arrival. Some time passes, but the warrior hasn't shown. The specter gets bored. Maybe he was injured in the altercation with my assassin. Or fell from a precipice? A win! Perhaps he lost the assassin's blood trail and will never find my lair. Another win! But who am I fooling? This is the warrior we're talking about. The guy who just barely escaped with his life, and only a partial transformation spell, when I changed his wife into a dragon. Nah, he's pissed! The specter must have nodded off because she didn't even see the warrior enter her lair. He was over by the punchbowl, slurping the enchanted drink like a parched peasant. He glanced back at her. She rose to meet him and smiled. He projected only loathing. The specter could read his mind. Many images—so much pain and anger, especially the memory of the time the warrior and his wife had sought the specter's help in destroying the King after that fateful decree. She peered deeper into his mind and saw a scene of the warrior's son riding into battle, riding to his death. It was not in her power to restore the life of his son. Instead, the specter offered immense power to the couple. His wife accepted without hesitation. He, however, sensed deception. Stumbling back, he received only partial transformation. At the moment his wife was being changed into a beast, he knew the specter intended to keep him as her own dragon pet. The warrior tossed the crystal punch goblet and it shattered into a thousand pieces. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and stepped towards the specter. She projected into his mind the futility of trying to destroy her; she was, after all, a phantom. The stare-off continued until a wicked grin appeared on her face. The specter moved to the center of the room and with a sleight gesture, transformed the cave into a tacky game show set with three portals to pick from. The warrior crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. Specter was now adorned in a rhinestone evening gown. Making a sweeping motion with her arm, Portal One lit up and opened dramatically to reveal a scene portraying the King's ruin. The castle was reduced to rubble, the King lying under the debris, while the specter and the warrior sat atop the slain dragon—his beloved wife!—toasting the moment with golden ale. In front of Portal One, the angry warrior slashes wildly at the image. Specter tilts her head and shrugs before theatrically motioning to Portal Two. The second scene shows a dazzling white washer and dryer combo, with wondrous new features like high-efficiency spin cycles and temperature-sensitive fabric settings. Portal Two sends the warrior into a frenzy, violently stabbing at the image until he pants like a wolfhound. He tosses his blade to the floor and rests his hands on his knees. Fury is exhausting. The specter waits for the warrior to regain his composure. She gestures to Portal Three, but he waves it off as if to say give me a moment, will ya? When the specter finally reveals the third option, the warrior stands with mouth agape: the sky is filled with dragons circling the King's ruined castle. The warrior smiles warmly when one of the dragons swooshes past. My sweet wife! We will yet be reunited. The specter considers the warrior, knowing his heart's desire—knowing what he would sacrifice to be with her. The warrior drops to his knees and puts out his hands as if to receive this dark enchantment. Specter transforms into a swirl of black smoke, scales, and horns. She pulls the partial enchantment from the warrior as he screams. * * * It's been a minute since the warrior was fooled by the specter. He can no longer transform into a dragon and rampage with his lovely wife, but knowing that she's up there somewhere—flying free, without fear of the King's army hunting her—is a comfort. And she has lots of company now, since all the kingdom's people were turned into dragons…except for him. Life is funny that way. As he lives out the rest of his days, hiding from these dragons, he can only hope that when his number is up, it will be his dragon that catches and consumes him. Only fitting, since, even now, she consumes his every waking thought.


I'm not what they wanted, but I'm what they've ended up with. Beautiful and fair I am yes, since birth, but with my slowness in school and my urges to be free, my beauty becomes worthless. I'm not as smart as my brothers and sisters, or as well behaved. But I love dancing and talking to all the interesting people at all of our grand parties. People take to me so well, and yet still it isn't enough. It's almost midnight now I believe. The constant dripping of the leaky pipes ticking like the old clock in Father's study tells me so. I focus only on that sound. They say I was born this way, my learning disability as they call it. Complications with my birth made it difficult for oxygen to get to my brain, thus creating the dumb creature lying crumpled on the floor of the dark dingy basement. I used to love the night. The best parties are always held at night, with the moon shining brightly from up high and everyone feeling absolutely alive because of it. Then there are the moments of sneaking away deep into our garden with a boy who I fancied, sharing kisses and giggling quietly, our only witnesses being the stars. Mostly though, I liked enjoying the night all by myself. Sneaking out the back door and walking through our vast garden, accompanied by the moon's gentle glow or simply the twinkling of the stars, I walk and think and breathe in the crisp air, and take in all the dark beauty around me. Breathing deeply I try to inhale the spirit of the night that calms my wretched soul like nothing else can. I want to bathe in the moonlight , swim through the dark swirling galaxies and lay among the stars. The night was the only time I felt truly alive, but they took that away from me too. It was seven months ago when they first caught me sneaking out, several more times and they deemed me much too rebellious to be left alone at night, so they locked me in my room. But I could not be stopped. The pull of the night was much too strong for me to resist and so I went out again. And when father found me, sneaking out again and disobeying his repeated command, the love affair with my beloved nights had come to an end. But that was not all. The night father found me sneaking out of my bedroom window, he was furious. He grabbed my arm and yanked me through our mansion like home, shouting at me about how stupid and misbehaved I am, how nobody could love me the way that I am. He shouted these things at me even while I cried, and nobody tried to help me. My brothers and sisters watched me be thrown down the stairs and into the pitch black basement, mother couldn't stand to watch it happen, but there was certainly no way she'd go against father's wishes, and so she ran off to their room to cry. Nobody seemed to notice how hard father had thrown me, nobody heard my scream of agony when my leg cracked and twisted at an unnatural angle. They ignored me, while father locked me in the dark, in such pain and agony that I have never felt before. That was two days ago. I wonder sometimes if they've forgotten me, or perhaps they decided to leave me down here so I would have a good scare and never rebel again. Or maybe their life is easier now. No more having to explain the dumb sister, the rebellious daughter. These are the thoughts that are twirling around my foggy mind as I lay cold and hungry on the damp ground, unable to move the leg that has become numb with pain. my only joy now is looking out the small window that sits high up on the basement wall. I can see it. The night, it's waiting for me. It's waiting for me to bathe in the moonlight, to swim in the purple swirling darkness of the galaxies, to meet wonderfully weird new creatures and dance with them on the planets, and finally, to lay to rest amongst the stars. Yes oh yes the night is waiting for me, and tonight I shall go to it. I will become one with the night.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Characters are vital to a story, without them, there is no story. We spend time creating them, bringing them to life, and throwing them into various situations for character and plot growth. They also grow on us, as the writer and as the reader. And then comes the time we have to kill off our beloved character(s). - Have you ever had to kill off your “little darlings”, as they say? Do you find it difficult to write those scenes? *(Edit) It seems "little darlings" is often applied to cutting words/scenes. But for this discussion, I'm referring to your beloved characters.* - Do you have a favorite way to do the dirty deed? Maybe a little murder? Possibly a freak accident or nature taking its course via old age or illness? - Are there ways to make it easier on the readers? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *Remember you don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat!* *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.