Evelyn had always felt like something was off in her life. She had a nagging sense that reality was just out of reach, like she was living in a dream. She thought she was going crazy until the glitches started. At first, they were small. She would catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye that wasn't there when she turned to look. Shadows would stretch and twist in unnatural ways. But as time went on, the glitches became more frequent and intense. Evelyn sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. It was just another typical day at the office, or so she thought. Suddenly, the cursor on her screen flickered and the image on her screen distorted before her very eyes. She rubbed her eyes, thinking it was just a trick of the light, but when she looked back, the distortion remained. Panic set in as she tried to exit out of the program, but it wouldn't budge. The screen flickered even more violently, and strange symbols and letters she couldn't comprehend appeared on the screen. Suddenly, the computer shut off on its own and the lights in the room flickered, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Evelyn's heart raced as she got up from her desk and tried the light switch, but it wouldn't turn on. The room was plunged into darkness, and she felt a cold hand wrap around her neck. She tried to scream but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the lights flickered back on, and the cold hand vanished. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She told herself it was just her imagination playing tricks on her, but she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The rest of the day went by in a haze, and Evelyn couldn't focus on her work. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, feeling like something was watching her. Over the next few days, the glitches continued. Her computer would randomly shut off, objects in the room would move on their own, and she would hear strange noises in the middle of the night. It was as if her reality was starting to unravel, and she couldn't trust what she was seeing or hearing. Evelyn tried to talk to her co-workers about what was happening, but they just looked at her like she was crazy. She started to feel like she was losing her mind. One night, she was lying in bed when she heard a strange sound coming from her closet. She got up and cautiously approached the door, her heart pounding in her chest. She slowly opened the door and was met with a terrifying sight. Her clothes were floating in mid-air, as if they were being held up by an invisible force. She backed away in horror, but the clothes started flying towards her, wrapping themselves around her body like tentacles. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the clothes dropped to the floor and everything was back to normal. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She knew she had to get out of her apartment and get help, so she packed a bag and left in the middle of the night. She stayed at a hotel for a few nights, but the glitches continued to follow her. It was as if something was trying to keep her from leaving. Desperate for answers, Evelyn turned to a paranormal investigator. The investigator told her that she was experiencing glitches in her reality because she had stumbled upon a portal to another dimension. The portal was unstable, and the glitches were a sign that it was starting to unravel. The investigator warned her that if the portal fully unraveled, it would mean the end of her reality as she knew it. Evelyn was horrified, but she also felt a sense of determination to fix the portal and save her reality. With the help of the paranormal investigator, Evelyn discovered that the key to closing the portal was to confront the source of the instability, a powerful entity known as the Glitch. It was said that the Glitch was a manifestation of all the fears and negative emotions in her mind, and it was feeding off of her fear to grow stronger. Evelyn was skeptical at first, but as the glitches became more frequent and intense, she knew she had to face her fears and confront the Glitch. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. She entered a realm of pure darkness and felt the Glitch's presence all around her. It whispered dark thoughts in her ear and tried to manipulate her, but Evelyn stood her ground. She refused to be consumed by fear and instead channeled her inner strength. The Glitch appeared before her in its true form, a being of pure darkness and terror. It towered over her, threatening to consume her, but Evelyn refused to back down. She faced the Glitch head-on and used her courage to break its hold on her mind. As the Glitch was defeated, the portal started to close. The darkness lifted, and the room was flooded with light. Evelyn opened her eyes to find herself back in her apartment, but everything was different. The world was clearer, and the colors were brighter. She felt a sense of peace and calm she had never felt before. She realized that by facing the Glitch and her fears, she had not only saved her reality but had also freed herself from the negative emotions that had been holding her back. The glitches had been a test, and she had passed. From that day on, Evelyn lived life with a newfound sense of purpose and clarity. She no longer felt the fear and uncertainty that had consumed her before. She had faced her fears and had come out the other side a stronger, braver person.


The CDC told us that since there is no cure for this virus. The government told us that we have to kill all of those that are infected. The only way to kill the virus is to kill the carriers. I still feel it gnaw at my insides when I have to strap down strangers and take the most precious gift that any of us have been given. It’s hard to describe the guilt that I feel knowing that I get to live, and they’re doomed to face an early death. A positive test is an immediate death sentence. Our testing has gotten so efficient that we can actually get results almost instantly as to whether someone is infected. My lab actually has the testing strips within it. If someone is suspected of carrying the disease, or if they made contact with someone who had it, they are taken to our lab to be tested. If they test positive, they are killed immediately. Not all of the infected show symptoms of the disease. Rather, some are simply carriers. The carriers still need to be euthanized, though. The government says that we need to contain the outbreak. Those that aren’t just walking carriers die from the virus within a couple days. In those that are just carriers seem to act as a perfect breeding ground for the virus just serve to make it stronger. It’s amazing how many of my coworkers ended up dying from this disease or testing positive in the past few weeks. I walk out of the vacuum sealed room where we put down the infected, and I begin my decontamination phase. A chemical shower, my clothes are then put into the incinerator, and I open up a new package of clothes. I walk back to my living quarters, and collapse on the bed. I think about how tomorrow, and how I have leave to go home. I can’t wait to be able to go home and see my family. I haven’t seen them in several months, as I’ve been set in the quarantine here. I think of my son, living with his mother, and how I didn’t have custody of him anyway. “It’s better for him to have it this way,” she’d say to me in front of Jack, her new husband. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the course of my time here about the divorce and the custody battle. I decided that I’ll embrace my ex-wife and her husband as soon as I get out of here. A smile comes across my face. I pulled out a new testing strip and tested myself again. “Negative,” it reads. I reach into my bedside table and pull out the syringe. I inject myself with the serum inside of the syringe. I pulled out another testing strip. “Positive,” it reads. I smile and start to fall asleep as I think about how much I can’t wait to hug my ex wife and her new fucking husband.


⚠ Murder ⚠ 1938 I feel my hands on her throat, choking her. I stare into her eyes as she draws her last breath, searching her face for something to recognize, something to set her apart from the women I pass in the streets.

My hands let go of her throat and she stiffens before crumpling sideways to the floor, palms pressed together as if praying for the life she has just lost. I move to stand in front of her. If she prays, she will pray to me only. I wake up, the dream-image printed in my head, as it had been last night and the nights before. Each night, the dream gets more vivid. I smile. Soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow night, I will recognize the face of my victim. Soon, I would claim her life, and fill the aching hole in my heart. I've had a nightmare. I can't remember it, but I know it's the same one that I've had for the last few nights, that leaves me shivering all over every time I wake up. I used to think only children had nightmares, and now... I feel like a child again. Since last week it's haunted me, taunting by scaring me every night, then dissolving from my memory as the day comes. I rise from my bed to see sunlight brightening my closed curtains. The clock on my wall says 9:14. The morning routine must be attended to. My pale coat and bowler hat wait patiently for me beside the front door. I dress hurriedly then put them on, opening the door and wincing as full sunlight hits me for the first time today. My quick heartbeat drowns out the morning street noises, the shadow of my nightmare not yet banished. I walk along the streets until I reach my regular café. I'm not a social person, but the smell of sweet cinnamon and coffee that lingers around the entrance is always too good to resist, pulling in casual passers-by like mermaids, to be stuck there until either their money runs out or they fall asleep. I take a last glance around me for the woman of my dreams before being reluctantly pulled in by the beautiful, haunting smells. The waitress at my regular café smiles at me as I walk in and take a seat by the window. She takes my order then disappears, fading through the crowd.

When she comes back, she holds a steaming cup of coffee. I thank her and look out of the window as she places it on my table.

With each dream, the aching grows. The yearning for power, power over life and death, hurts, but I wouldn't give it up if I could. I've come to love the chains that bind me. I'm watching for something - someone. I was looking for them yesterday and the days before, but I've only just realised it. I wish I knew who I was looking for.

I sit and wait for the woman of my dreams to pass, watching the outside world with greedy eyes. Suddenly I catch something from the wrong side of the window that reminds me of my dream, and I bolt through the door in pursuit.

- The waitress stared at the door, an upturned chair lying unheeded beside her.The gentleman hadn't paid his bill. - I'm halfway down the street before I realise that I don't know who I'm chasing. The woman of my dreams has disappeared among the crowd. I decide to go home. I've left the café to go back to my house. A letter waits for me outside my front door. I walk inside, take off my hat and coat and sit down to read it. The first sentence tells me who the letter is from. 'Dear Bug,' (I smile at the childish nickname. Since she first saw me, Aunt Maddie has insisted on calling me 'Bug'.) 'A hermit's life can be very trying at times. Your last visit was three months ago, you naughty little scamp. I'm sure you would not want your old aunt to die of loneliness, would you? Yours, Aunt Maddie.' Dear Aunt Maddie. She could never say anything directly. I stare down at the letter. 'Dear... Visit... Aunt Maddie.' I suppose I will have to visit Lady Mirrelton (I have never and will never refer to her as 'Aunt Maddie'. Ridiculous). After all, I'm the sole beneficiary of her will. I must act the part of a devoted adopted nephew. She hasn't got long to live, and at any time she could write me out of her will. She's right about visiting more often. I have nothing to do today; I might as well start now. On goes the hat and coat again, poor worn-out things. Aunt Maddie's estate is only a few minutes walk away. I walk to the Mirrelton estate whistling loudly. Again and again I run my dream through my head, revelling in the feeling of power that it gives me, filling the aching hole with a new, better kind of ache. There's no answer to my knock. Aunt Maddie has never had any indoor servants, despite the size of her house. I open the door myself and walk down the candle-studded hallway to the visiting room. Lady Mirrelton is glad to see me. She smiles, her wrinkles multiplying until her face is just mountains and valleys with two colourless eyes set deep inside. And suddenly I know. Rising from her chair, she comes forward to greet me. I take a step towards her and fasten my hands around her throat before she can react. The scene from my dream is finally replayed in reality, and the thrill that runs through me is better than anything I have ever felt. I have mastered control over the powers of life and death.  - A gardener working on the estate froze as a noise like the laugh of death reached his ears. - I stand alone in the middle of the hallway, waiting. Waiting for what? I wish I knew. I'm no longer in control, almost in a trance as I slowly walk to the hall 'phone. My hands reach for it and dial a number. I feel my lips forming words. "My aunt's been strangled."

Only after I've hung up do I realise what I've said. Strangled. I said Aunt Maddie's been strangled. A wave of panic rushes through me and I hear my own footsteps running towards Aunt Maddie's visiting room.

She's praying. I breath a sigh of relief - and freeze. She's not moving, not making a noise. She's dead, and I don't need to see the marks on her neck to know that she's been strangled. One week later... When the news spread that the famous hermit, Lady Mirrelton, had been murdered, there was a sensation. The local papers published news of nothing else, and the public crowded the estate, the impending war forgotten. I sit on the bed of my cell, legs swinging, reliving The moment. The ache, the new and better ache, still clings to me. The hole in my heart is wider, the pain stronger, darker, and I love it. I chuckle to myself, looking at the guard by my cell door. I can kill him any time I want to. I still can't get over her - her death. It's like a nightmare. The nightmare that has been plaguing me for nights. I finally know who I've been searching for. I know - I know - I know. I am taken to trial, to stand in the dock. The judge's clerk rises. Clerk: You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. Do you please guilty or not guilty? I: Not guilty. (They are fools to think that they can convict me.) Clerk: Members of the jury, the prisoner stands upon this indictment for the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he is guilty or not. (He sits.) Someone from the other side of the court clears their throat. A large, slow-looking man takes his place in the witness box. After placing his hand on the Bible and reciting the oath, he announced himself as Detective-Inspector Robert Oake of New Scotland Yard. I can hear the questioning from my place in the backroom where the witnesses wait. Prosecution: Inspector, you say that you and three of your officers arrived at the Mirrelton estate in answer to an phone call reporting a murder. Did you take the call yourself? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: If you were asked to identify the voice, would you consider yourself sufficiently capable of doing so? Inspector: Yes. I've fallen asleep and missed the first part of my trial. They seem to be still questioning the Inspector. Prosecution: Had it perhaps been a voice familiar to you prior the call? Inspector: No. I had never heard the caller's voice before. (The audience whispers among themselves.) Prosecution: Have you heard it since? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: Would you please tell the court where? Inspector: In this court, barely minutes ago. Prosecution: Who does the voice belong to? Inspector: The prisoner. (Sensation in court. I start. I don't remember calling the police. Why would I want to?) The Inspector is dismissed. I pass the rest of the trial in a trance, barely conscious of anything. I still haven't figured out who's on trial. Prosecution: Members of the jury, you have heard of the prisoner's current financial state, which made it necessary to borrow money from the deceased, his only living relative. You have heard of how he was invited to visit her by letter and decided to go that very day. You have heard that upon his visit, he professes to have not seen her alive, finding her body after making the 'phone call to the police, an action which he has not attempted to explain. Given the evidence, I am confident that you will find the prisoner justly guilty. The jury retire to their room to decide their verdict. I'm afraid... I'm afraid that if I think at all I'll realise something... Something I don't want to know. "Guilty, my lord." I laugh, and even to my own ears it sounds mad, the voice of Death thwarted. They think I'm scared of death. I welcome death with open arms. There, the ultimate pain awaits me.

******************************************* This story is a re-write of a story I wrote about 4 months ago, my first short story. (You can read the original here: https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ulcd58/ I wrote this again (with a definite change in plot) because I wanted to see if my writing had improved in these months. I hope you enjoyed it.


“So, is it true?” Lia’s voice carried to me over my shoulder as I headed out the door of the lecture hall, backpack slung across one shoulder and a half-eaten apple in my hand. Dread filled me as I stopped with my back to her and my mouth full, trying to figure out how to answer. I knew what “it” was, even though Lia hadn’t specified. It was the same “it” as always. It wasn’t that the question itself was so bad, or even the answer. It was that it always led to more questions, the *same* questions, all ending with the one they had really wanted to ask from the start. And *that* was the question I was dreading as she caught up to me, all smiling blue eyes and bouncing red curls. I swallowed the half-chewed apple, feeling it stick uncomfortably in my throat as it went. “Is what true?” I stalled, beginning to walk towards the main door of the building. Lia fell into step beside me and we joined the herd of students moving out to the courtyard. She grinned, a look of excitement on her pretty face. “Is your grandpa really Jack Forrester?” I sighed internally. Truthfully, I had been expecting her to ask for weeks now -- ever since I went over to her apartment to study for our philosophy midterm and found a shelf lined with Grandpa’s albums. He was a local legend and most of my family was very active in the town's musical community so she was bound to find out we were related sooner or later. Not seeing any way to avoid it, I answered her. “Yes, it’s really true.” She immediately began squealing with excitement and I took advantage of the pause to finish my apple. “Ohmygod I have so many questions! You probably don’t know this but he is one of my *favourite* musicians! I have every single one of his albums! It must have been *so amazing* to have such an incredible musical influence …” Lia trailed off as she took in my expression. She frowned, her mood immediately dampened, and I felt guilty for squashing her excitement. “I’m sorry.” I sighed, tossing my apple core into a trash can as we passed through the first set of doors to outside. “It’s not that I don’t love him or want to talk about him, it’s just ... not that good of a story.” “What does that mean?” Lia watched me curiously as we stepped out into the afternoon sun. The courtyard was bright and open with a large lawn in the centre, ringed with flagstone and dotted with benches and picnic tables. The pack of students exiting the building began to disperse and we followed the crowd, keeping left towards the main bus stop. I contemplated running through all the usual questions with her but decided that I would skip right to the part she really wanted to know. “Grandpa Jack doesn’t play anymore.” She gaped at me, as expected. “Never? Not even just for himself?” I shook my head at her question. “Not even for himself. Don’t get me wrong - he still loves music. He taught my mother and sister how to play and he writes extensively, but he never plays anymore. I’ve only ever heard him in recordings. My mom heard him in-person a few times but she was so young she says it’s hard to remember.” A crease appeared between Lia’s brows as she absorbed my words. “But … why? He was so talented! They said he was the one of the best to ever play, that his music could make you \*feel\* things like no one else’s. Even the recordings are amazing - I can’t imagine how incredible it would be to hear live. They say he never played the same song twice! To think it hasn’t existed in almost sixty years is … heart-breaking.” I nodded, sympathizing with her reaction. It was the same response for anyone who had heard Grandpa’s music – there was something about it that *moved* you in such a unique and inexplicable way that it made you immediately hungry for more. Like the sound was a drug, delivering concentrated emotion directly to your soul. To find out that the supply was limited, never to be expanded or renewed, brought a sense of desperate loss to most of his fans. It was probably why the legend of *The Tapes* had remained such a stubborn presence in the history of my grandfather’s musical career. Hell, even I had felt the same way once, before I had asked him myself and seen the pain in his eyes. “I don’t really know. No one does. My mom says it’s heartbreak – after his wife died, the part of him that made that music died too. My uncle says it was just the stress of raising two kids alone while still mourning. That he just didn’t have time and eventually he lost the taste for it.” I shrugged, head down as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about how my grandfather must have felt after receiving the news that his wife had been killed in a fatal car accident, leaving him the single father of a six-year old daughter and a two-year old son. “What do you think?” Lia’s voice was soft, her expression curious. I thought back to when I was nine; watching Grandpa lean over Lyric, helping to place her tiny fingers on the piano keys. *My sister’s legs swung from the bench, sparkly blue shoes catching the sunlight. I sat on the couch opposite them, a juice box in one hand and a dark green pencil in the other.* *Unlike my mother and sister, I had no interest in music. I took more after my father and preferred to draw rather than play. After months of torturous music lessons in my grandfather’s study, he had finally sat my mom down and told her that one musical child was enough. I was released from the hated lessons and now I got to eat snacks and draw instead of suffering through scales and songs.* *“Grandpa, why don’t you play piano anymore?” I regretted the question immediately as I watched a flicker of pain pass over Grandpa’s face. He was silent for a moment, seeming to consider my question. Lyric and I were quiet too, waiting for him to speak.* *“I loved playing very much. But it took me away from things and it took things away from me. When your Grandma died, I realized that it took too much. So now I teach. I pass on my knowledge so that something pure and new can be born. Now I give something without losing something.”* I blinked and turned my eyes back to Lia, standing next to me under the shelter. The bus stop was crowded; students pushing against each other to get into already-packed buses, the smell of exhaust heavy in the air. I shrugged and she leaned in to hear me over the cacophony of the platform. “I think that after his wife died, he decided to go in a different direction. We don’t push him on it out of respect, but I can guarantee you there’s no secret tapes. No extra recordings or unreleased songs. If you want to hear his music, it’s going to be through other people.” Lia’s disappointment was palpable as I destroyed the last of her hopes in the rumours that circulated online. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* was a cult legend that insisted my grandfather had continued recording music all these years but no longer released it to the public. It was the most long-lived, but far from the only rumour about him. Some believed he had never really played to begin with and the refusal was just a way to protect his scam. Others swore he had sold his soul to the Devil to learn how to play and had stopped to keep the beast at bay. That was the problem with a local musical icon suddenly and mysteriously vowing never to play again – people talked until gossip became legend. And now in the age of the internet, they shared their crazy theory online. I sighed, running my hand through my hair as I looked down at Lia. “Look, I’m sorry to dash your hopes like that. But the truth is that despite what you may have read online, he’s just a sweet old man who likes to teach music and leave the past where it lies. He used to be Jack Forrester but that was a long time ago. Now he’s just a composer and a grandpa of three.” I smiled ruefully at her and she returned it, though it was nowhere near as bright as when we began our walk. “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. I was just so excited! I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or sad.” I brushed off her apology with a wave of my hand, a light flush spreading across my cheeks. She smiled at me then leaned out of the shelter, scanning the line of buses pulling in. “Well that’s me – number 77. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nodded and offered her a wave as she pushed out of the shelter. Elbowing her way across the platform, she scrambled up into the bus just as the doors shut. I stared out into the road long after it pulled away, my mind on my grandfather and his infamous past. I was so distracted that I missed my bus pulling into the station and had to run and flag them down before they left without me. Panting slightly, I picked a seat in the middle of bus and dropped down next to the window, backpack flopped across my lap. The bus ride home was uneventful and fifteen minutes later I was walking into the kitchen of my grandfather’s house. The narrow two-storey had stood there for almost a hundred years and my grandfather had been there for more than half of them. Even though my mother lived twenty minutes away and visited three times a week, she worried about Grandpa being alone in the house. So, after my acceptance to our local college I had moved in with him. I hadn’t complained – Grandpa’s house was way closer to school and far quieter. Plus, I loved him. As the only male grandchild in the family, Grandpa and I had always shared a special bond. I was as happy to be there as he was to have me. “Grandpa, I’m home!” I called out as I dropped my backpack down on the kitchen table. Grandpa’s steaming mug sat at his favorite spot, completely forgotten and rapidly cooling. I grinned and rolled my eyes, grabbing the drink and heading down to his music room, where I knew he would be. He stood with his back to the door, rifling through an ancient music book. Its pages were yellowed with age and wear, infused with years of loving use. He hummed softly under his breath; the closest he ever came to singing nowadays. He looked up when he heard me knock against the door frame, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Coda! I didn’t hear you come in. How was class?” He beamed at me from across the study and motioned for me to give him his mug. I rolled my eyes again and laughed, handing it over to him. He was always leaving his coffee cup in strange places. I would have worried if it hadn’t been happening for as long as I could remember. Relaxing, I dropped down onto the weathered couch and lost myself in the familiar safety of Grandpa’s house. \~\~\~ A few weeks later I woke up thirsty and too hot, my clothes sticking to me uncomfortably. It was dark out and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it was 1 AM. I needed water desperately - like I’d eaten a whole bag of chips in my sleep. Happy to feel the cool air on my skin, I kicked off the covers and stood up unsteadily, lumbering towards the hall. I opened my bedroom door and turned right, headed down the narrow staircase. The house was dark and still. I had heard Grandpa go to bed when I still studying and knew he wouldn’t be up for hours. It was around the bottom step when I suddenly heard it. A soft, gentle sound with a distinct melody. I stopped in my tracks, thirst forgotten, and focused all my attention on listening. After a moment I realized it was a piano – coming from Grandpa’s music room. In disbelief, I began to walk towards the sound. It was no song I had ever heard before and it was *beautiful.* As I got closer and the song became clearer, I felt a warmness within and my heart was filled with calm. The song made me think of the beach and I felt as relaxed as if I’d sat next to the ocean all day. By the time I got to the doorway, I swore I could feel sand under my feet, a soft breeze on my face. That’s when I saw the impossible – Grandpa, sitting at his piano in the dimly lit room. His eyes were closed and an expression of bittersweet joy painted his face. He swayed in time with the music, his fingers hitting the keys without hesitation despite years of disuse. This close to the music, to its source, my mind was filled with thoughts of a sunset on a tropical beach, the wind warm and the air salty. It felt strangely familiar to me, like a place I had been to with my family when I was twelve. We had visited Mexico for a family reunion and had stood on the beach to watch the sunset together the first night we arrived. The music reminded me of that memory, filling me with love and warmth even as I stared at my grandfather in shock. This wasn’t one of his old songs – this was something new, something I had never heard before. Something *no one* had ever heard before. As the final notes of the song drifted off into the night, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Grandpa opened his eyes and his gaze found mine. He didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed to see me. He simply watched me with an unreadable expression in his ancient eyes. At length, he sighed and motioned me into the room as he had a thousand times before. “Come in Coda, we need to talk.” My movements felt stiff and jerky as I came to sit on the couch across from the piano, in the same spot I always chose. As I had every time before, I ran my hand over the worn cloth, feeling the softness under my palm. It brought back memories of years past, replaying in my mind as I waited to hear what he would say. Grandpa stared down at the piano keys, his fingers brushing the smooth surface as gently as you’d stroke a beloved pet. His face was etched with sadness, his eyes lost to the past. For a moment I wasn’t sure he would say anything but then he spoke. “Do you remember when you were a kid, how I told you that playing music took something from me?” I nodded, the echo of his voice whispering to me from long ago. He sighed. “Well I meant that literally. Sixty-two years ago, I was a young man with a pregnant wife, no steady job, barely making ends meet. I could play music but while I was good, I had no prospects. I was playing gigs every night I could. I had the soul, the desire, but lacked that crucial last step between “good” and “great”. I wanted to provide for your grandmother and our unborn daughter, your mother, but we could barely afford food as it was, let alone with another mouth to feed. I was desperate and sad, filled with a crushing despair that I was failing the ones I loved most.” Grandpa sighed again, running his hand over what was left of his hair. He took a sip from a tumbler I hadn’t noticed before; crystal filled with amber liquid. Another unusual move – Grandpa didn’t drink anymore. He said it reminded him of bad decisions from long ago. “I was drinking. Trying to numb the panic, the choking desperation, the pressure of failure that accompanied my every waking moment. One night, after a particularly nasty fight with your grandma, I took a walk down by the river and found myself following an old road. It was overgrown and hidden behind shrubbery, almost fully reclaimed by nature. I don’t know how long I walked but suddenly I became aware that it was quiet. Too quiet – the way it gets when a predator passes by. When all of nature holds it breath and waits for the scary thing to go away … and then I saw him. Leaning against a fence at the crossroads, smoking a cigarette. He was handsome, though its hard to recall his face. In the moment it was clear but the memory has always been … hazy. His eyes though - those have haunted me since that night. They were a deep red-orange that I knew was inhuman the moment I saw it.” Another pause, another sip of whiskey as Grandpa collected his thoughts. Mine, on the other hand, were scattered beyond collection. What was he saying? The setup was too perfect – a tale as old as time. Was he trying to tell me the legend really was true? When had his mental health taken such a sudden turn? “I know what you’re thinking.” He said, his fingers idly playing notes on the piano. “You think I’m senile now, that I’m confused about the past … but it’s the truth.” His eyes raised to mine, steady and lucid as I’d ever seen them. “I made a deal with the devil – though I knew it was a mistake even as I made it.” Grandpa’s confession hung in the air as I grasped futilely for something to say. “So… what? The stories are true? You sold your soul for fame?” I laughed weakly, hoping to hear him say something, *anything*, that made sense. To my relief, he shook his head. It was short-lived though, as he corrected me. “Not my soul. Something infinitely more precious and utterly irreplaceable. He said as much when he made me the offer. He promised my soul would remain intact, and that I would live to see myself successful, my wife and daughter cared for, and a son to carry on my name. And in exchange … something that I would not miss. Something of my choosing, precious and irreplaceable, but infinite in source.” An aura of bitter regret filled the air around him as he recounted the devil’s offer. “I knew it was too good to be true, but I was drunk and desperate and more than half-mad and I … said yes. The next thing I knew, I was in my own bed. Your grandma woke me up with coffee and a message from the most prestigious club in town, inviting me to play that evening. I accepted of course, though I was filled with fear that I would fail. I didn’t feel any different since the deal had been struck and I had myself convinced it had all been a dream.” Grandpa’s head lifted, his eyes distant as he remembered that night long ago. There was an almost wistful look on his face now, though it was still tinged with the sadness that suffused the room. “But it wasn’t a dream and when I sat down that night to play, I looked out into the crowd and saw a woman with eyes like those of my first love. And in that moment, as I remembered all the heartbreak that gaze had brought me, I felt a song growing in my soul. Though I had never written anything down, never composed the melody, never penned the words, I began to play. And as I did, I felt those memories of that first heartbreak flowing through me, becoming the music in a way I had always strived for but could never reach before. I felt her presence enter the room, brought to life through the keys of the piano, the tenor of my voice. So vibrant, so alive, so *real*. And as those last notes faded away, the memory of her did too. I felt our last moments together slipping away, taking with it the heartbreak that had been so palpable only moments ago. It was only then that I understood the price of the devil’s bargain. I could finally play the way I wanted to – to make people *feel* with my art the way I had always ached to – but at the price of the memory that birthed the music.” Grandpa lifted his whiskey to his lips as an expression of self-loathing crossed his wizened features. “But Lord, the applause was thunderous and the recognition was instant – from that night on, I never struggled to pay the bills again. I turned down more gigs than I’d ever dreamed of. And like a fool, I convinced myself I didn’t need those memories anyway. After all, what was the memory of an old flame in exchange for greatness?” He laughed bitterly, chasing it with another swallow of whiskey. I sat frozen on the couch, wanting to deny his story but already half-convinced. Having heard his music in person, it held a ring of truth that couldn’t be denied. He looked up at me and smiled sadly. “You’ve felt it, you know it’s true. That song I was just playing - it was the family trip to Mexico. That sunset on the first night, you remember. The effect is even stronger when you share the memories too.” I was speechless, unable to make a single sound. But Grandpa either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He went on with his story, as if now that he had begun to tell it, he could not stop. “I had to make some adjustments to my act of course. I never played the same songs twice, I did more recordings and fewer live performances. But the restrictions only added to my appeal, my intrigue. People lapped it up and my “eccentricities” became associated with my “genius” and my fame grew and grew. Just like the devil had said, I was able to provide for your grandmother and mother. But my art was a greedy mistress. My memories were many, but the ones I was willing to lose were a much smaller number. I knew that even careful use couldn’t sustain my music forever. Slowly, I lost all of my past flames, my old loves and heartbreaks. My childhood memories – first kisses and sneaking out to meet girlfriends. Fights and friendships lost, guilt for mistakes long past – all of it went into my music. Drained from me, lost to me; only the emotion of the memory left behind as a song. Over time I got better at using them, at drawing the sentiment out and wringing the memory dry so I could make the most of what I was sacrificing. Even still, by the time your grandma got pregnant with your uncle I had nothing left – only memories I wanted to keep. But there was another life on the way, relying on me, and I couldn’t walk away … so I started chipping away at those memories too.” He shook his head and I caught the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes. “At first it was small things – doing the shopping with her, our morning coffee, stupid fights over nothing at all. Things that seemed replaceable or better off forgotten anyway. But eventually, more important memories began to creep in. Birthdays, dinners with friends or family members. I’ll keep the really important ones, I thought. After all, you want to remember your first kiss, maybe even your second or third, but do you really need the thirtieth? Do you need the fourteenth date you went on? Or the one dinner you had with your wife’s second cousin? Slowly, I began to forget things - things that your grandma remembered.” He paused to take a sip of his drink, staring down into the liquid pensively. I was quiet, held prisoner by his tale. After a moment he spoke again, his voice rough with emotion. “I was drinking heavily by then. The stress of the curse, my family, my fame - it was all so overwhelming. And when I drank, I wasn’t so careful with my precious memories … it’s hard to learn from mistakes you don’t remember. In a way, it’s worse. I wonder what memories I may have drained away in my reckless, inebriated state. But I’ll never know - they are forever lost to me.” His sadness was a tangible presence in the air and I felt choked by it, my throat tight with sorrow to see someone I loved in so much pain. “Your grandma, she was worried about me. I had never been able to bring myself to tell her about the deal and I fought her on seeing doctors and resting more. We would argue before performances and I would leave, angry and anxious. Straight to the bar, to drink and play those memories away. A vicious, bitter cycle. And then one morning I was woken up by banging on the front door. I stumbled down still half-drunk, yelling at them to quiet down …. it was the police. They had come to tell me that your grandma had been in an accident. She was stopped in her car and someone hit her from behind, going far too fast. She was thrown free of the driver’s seat, right through the windshield – no seat belts back then. She died on impact. Massive head trauma, they told me. At least it was quick. Just like that, the woman I loved was gone. And I had traded away most of my memories of her.” Grandpa was crying freely now, tears rolling down his face to land on the ivory of the piano, in the amber of his whiskey. “I vowed that day that I would never play again. The price was too high, my memories too precious. Like a miser, I have hoarded them all these years, refusing to use my “gift” and wishing desperately that I had been a smarter man in my youth. But now … I am ready to play again.” “What changed your mind?” The sound of my own voice, strangled with sadness, seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. After the story he had just told me, I couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that I knew what he would say. Grandpa’s gaze met mine, sadness and love radiating from the watery depths. “I’m dying, Coda. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week or next month, but soon. I am old and I have lived a long, full life. Now it is almost over and I want to share it with people like I did long ago, before I’m too far gone to play anymore.” I tried to protest, to tell him that he had many good years left. He waved me off, clearly in no mood for my objections. “That brings me to the reason for this talk – I want you to help me. I want to record my songs, my memories. Help me distribute them, share them with people. I don’t know how much time I have but I want to make it count.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Tears streaked my face as I absorbed my grandfather’s request. “But … will you forget me? Or Lyric or Mom?” My voice shook, tears salty in my mouth. “No, never!” Grandpa’s voice was sharp and I drew back in surprise. His face softened and he added “I will keep those memories safe. Those are just for me, to carry me to the Lord. But I have a lifetime of experience to share and a gift that has been a curse for far too long.” I was silent as I sat and processed what he was saying, the task he was asking of me. And I knew that I could never refuse. It was his dying wish and after hearing his story, kept secret for all these years, it was clear that he needed it. Wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I nodded to him. “Ok Grandpa, I’ll help you. I would be honoured to.” \~\~\~ The last few months of Jack Forrester’s life were spent in his home with his family. A few nights every week, we would go to his music room and record his songs, each one unique and perfect on the first try. I had tried to convince him to go to a studio but he insisted he would play in his room, in his house - “where the memories lived”. So, we invested in some fairly high-end recording equipment and barely a week after his late-night confession, he was playing once again. I sat with him through it all, experiencing memories that spanned the range of human emotion – the product of a life well-lived. Anger, joy, love, fear, wonder, grief – all of it went into the music and away from the man who had spawned it. It is hard to explain how valuable it was for me to soak up that lifetime of knowledge, to hear and experience his memories. I learned more from those last few months than any education could ever give me. As the memories left him, so too did the vibrancy and vitality his form had once held. What he had said was true – he was dying. But he kept his promise and even at the very end, he held my hand and called me by name. And in his eyes, I saw the same love and familiarity that had always been there. Now, he has been gone for months and at last, I have completed his final wish. All his memories, recorded and uploaded where people will be able to hear them. The emotions of a lifetime, free to experience. That is why I have written this story – to spread the word. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* are real, and he would want you to listen to them. \~\~\~ This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony – so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive – defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around – a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them – for anyone, really – to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.


Space travel seemed so simple after we settled on mars. We thought we had it all figured out after setting a space station in orbit around Jupiter, and started mining asteroids. It all seemed to click. It became common for intersystem travel to become a seemingly daily thing. By no means was it fast; It still took almost a month to get to mars, and close to 4 to reach the Jupiter stations, but we were just happy to have been able to make these technological advances in our lifetime. To be able to explore our system just like our ancestors explored the earth. It may have took us the same amount of time to cross the expanse between planets as it did for European settlers to cross the Atlantic, but that's and amazing feat nonetheless. Not only have we made such a leap technology, but as a society, we are more advanced than ever before. Countries had come together in the name of Earth to conquer the expanse as one group; as Humankind. We may still have our differences on earth, but outside of the atmosphere of Earth, we weren't distracted by race, religion, political views, upbringing, or anything of that nature, because there is none of that in space. Nobody can draw a line in the sand on Mars and claim one side, because no matter how advanced we get, no matter how hospitable we make space, it's a constant battle against the odds. Making divisions in human settlers only leads to the failure of the group, as we experienced the first time we settled mars. It is through our ingenuity and hardiness that we had made it this far as a species. Coming together as a group and thinking our way into the future that we had made it this far. It is through our desire to explore that we had made our decision to attempt to travel outside our home system. Through years of observation, we found our ticket to discovery. We had uncovered a Wormhole of sorts sitting just beyond our solar system, right in front of the Oort Cloud, and just behind Pluto. That was our ticket. We had sent a probe through it before, about 16 months back, 2 months after its discovery, and within a month after it crossed the threshold of the spacial rift, we had received radio transmissions from the probe coming from a nearby system with hospitable planets. We were overjoyed. The chance to settle outside the system, to make a new colony on a planet that we didn't even have a name for. It was a breakthrough. After another successful probe test to ensure that the target planet was hospitable for a colony, we set the wheels in motion to get an expeditionary team of 50 people to begin the setup of what would soon be the greatest jump in human history. After some testing and another probe or two, the spaceship "Small Step" had set off with its pre settlement crew. They had reached the edge of the wormhole, and begun playing the most famous recording in the history of space travel, and the origin of their namesake. They passed through the threshold of the fold on space and it was as if they had been erased from the universe. They just popped out of existence. A month later, the other end of their message was received, and indeed it was a giant leap for mankind. Upon hearing the news from the Small Step, we had learned many things about the planet. Its atmosphere was much like our own, the now dubbed colony planet "Horizon" had a small ring and 4 moons, the system had 13 planets, and most of them were rocky. All of this information had us on the edge of our seats waiting to get a new settlement ship running. And that we did. Over a year after the initial discovery of the Trans-System Wormhole, we were ready to send a ship of 10,000 volunteers into the rift and begin our new lives on Horizon. The Settlement Ship "Giant Leap" made its way through the threshold of the wormhole, just as many spacecraft before it had, and the mission was underway. But something was different this time. Nobody could have predicted it. Nobody even knew it was possible. The wormhole had closed before we could reach the other side. I'm documenting this in case... well... a miracle I guess... We've been in here for 4 Earth months. The Navigator killed herself last week in her bunk room. Used a pocket knife to cut open her forearms. The rest of the bridge crew were understandably effected, but nobody blamed her. We all think about it now. We have no reason not to. I guess its a hope for the rift to open again. Maybe some of us think this is some dream, and we can't seem to wake up... I don't know... The Capitan isn't sure if he wants to wake up the passengers and let them know what's happened, or just shit down life support to the passengers and let them die happy. We are all leaning towards the second option. Humanity wasn't prepared for this. We weren't prepared at all... We weren't ready to face the possibility of a disaster. Nobody was ready... I know I wasn't ready. I especially wasn't ready to look out the bridge windows at my new reality. The pitch black, starless, infinite void of my new reality...


For the longest time, my life was not fun anymore. God knows I tried, and believe me, I did ask Him. In return, He confirmed that I had given life all I could, but still, I lost almost all relevance I once had in this world. For a very long time, I lived in that kind of house that every mortal soul would try to avoid. You know the type, broken windows, squeaking doors, an old tree in front of it with huge sweeping branches. The wind howling through the cracks in the walls as if the yeti himself was living there. Whether it was winter or summer, old leaves would be flying around, a single broken streetlamp decorating the sidewalk. You’d think people would be afraid to enter this kind of ruin, that they’d be scared because they thought I would be waiting for them. Of course, I would be, but you’d better think twice if you believe that will scare anybody off in this day and age. People don’t believe in the likes of me anymore. It was hard at first, that is true, and for a long time, I had forbidden myself to believe it, trying to ignore that cold reality that my time was over, but I have come to accept there is no way around it anymore. I just do not exist in their world. Period. They come, their phones held upright, ready to film whatever I might do without giving me any credit for it. A window that closes because I slam it shut, they film it and think it was the wind. Every creak, every shifting object within this house, they claim as the work of mother nature. An abandoned chair with three legs falling over, they record every damn little detail, but still, it is not me that caused this. It is the missing leg and gravity that did it. It’s NOT! Some weeks ago, a couple of them even got mad because I did not wait long enough for their cameras to focus. ‘What kind of ghost are you?’ they shouted and laughed. ‘How on earth can you expect us to make a perfect TikTok video if you just don’t wait for us to be ready before you do whatever you want.’ For a moment, I was completely startled by their reaction. I froze. I did not know I still could do that. That thought froze me again. It had been a while since I last experienced that state of immobility that prohibited my body from moving. Nowadays, those very feelings make me smile, but back then, I had no urge to put something that used to resemble a smile on whatever remains of that once good-looking face. And I was pretty handsome. Sorry to say it myself, but no one else is around anymore to confirm this. When I finally recovered from my state of paralysis, I had a closer look at the couple that had entered that house. They did not look afraid at all. A GoPro in one hand, the man holding the latest iPhone in the other, the woman holding the most fancy Samsung, equipped with cameras I had never seen before. Multiple lenses pointing at me, it gave me the shivers. They both had that look in their eyes that I have never come to terms with. Not in my former life, not since I have moved to the other side and people come and visit me less often, but still, I’m pretty allergic to that kind of people. You have seen the type. They know everything. Just every single thing. They rule the world. At least, that is what they think they do. Most importantly, they don’t believe in anything they have not invented themselves or for which they have not found any proof in the pool of information they consider to be the truth. And nothing but the truth. I don’t exist; I’m not there. They say. They honestly believe. Whatever happens in this house is the consequence of a natural action. Action and reaction. Newton’s law. Plain physics. That is what they believe. It makes their remark that I had to wait for them to get their cameras out a bit strange, but I have learned that there is no logic in this kind of people anymore, having lost every connection with the real world. They will say whatever fits their reason. No need to be … well, logic. That makes it very hard for me. Because I’m not to be explained by any law of physics. I’m … No, later. As I was saying, we were in one of the almost destroyed rooms, where I had done my best to convince them that it was high time to be scared, but to no avail. So, I decided it was time for something new. Next-level shit, as some people like to say. I don’t say that. I never did. Not back then, not now. I don’t believe in swear words. I was brought up to be nice to everyone. That’s how I always lived, but now I have decided that this does not apply anymore to those who came to visit me. So I took a deep breath or something that came the closest to that physical action I used to perform on a somewhat regular basis, and stepped in front of them. I have been quite reluctant to show myself in the form and shape that these days is mine, but they gave me no choice, the anger coursing through me taking hold. You must know, anger has become a rare emotion since this house has become my home, all the more reason why it hurt. I am not supposed to become angry anymore. I have earned my rest and peace. I am not supposed to be bugged so much by those infidels who think they can barge in and ruin my peace of mind. So, I stepped in front of them and did what I had been practicing for a long time but had not shared with any living soul yet. I showed myself. For a moment the man and the woman stood still in the middle of the room. For a very brief period, something that - at least that is how it looked in my mind - came close to being scared was visible on their faces. Their breathing stopped. A sensation I vaguely remember. But then they restarted gasping for air. A good fortune I was never granted, but I have come to terms with that. They beamed with joy and excitement, a sight only further fuelling my anger. ‘This is it! We have found one. Yes, they are real! Told you so!’ he shouted. ‘Film it. Film it!’ What? It? Why do they refer to me as ‘it’? I’m not an it! I’m not that character from Stephen King! That is a whole other level of what is roaming around these places, and I don’t like those types. They are not nice. And when I say not nice, I mean really not nice. Once I saw an it-like type, it gave me shivers. I ran as quickly as I could. It was not exactly running I did, but you know what I mean. But back to the story at hand. So they were thrilled to their … I don’t know what. They were laughing and clapping their hand with joy. Like little children, only they were old. Not as old as I am, but way past childish behaviour. They kept on going until suddenly they stopped. As if they had agreed to laugh for two minutes and then had to start doing something else. By that time, I regretted so much I had shown myself to them, but I did not think of disappearing again. At least not yet. They stopped laughing, and before I could even say boo, they had pointed all of their devices at me. When I was still roaming around on the floors of this world, the cameras I knew could never make any clear picture of the likes of me. What evolution they have made! I could see myself on the screens when I flew around the place; it scared me. That was not what I wanted to do. My plan completely backfired. I know I said earlier that I used to be quite good-looking, but the image I saw on their tiny screens did not make me happy or impress me with its beauty. That was not the worst of it, however. I’m beyond being vain and feeling the need to worry about my looks, but what did bring quite some discomfort to my mind was that they still were not scared of me. At all. They could not care less that some white, transparent … thing was floating around above their heads. And I did try to make my way around their stupid heads multiple times, but it had zero effect. They laughed and filmed. I floated around until I could not take it anymore. I was exhausted and hid myself from them. And you know what? They did not even notice! They were doing things on their devices, tapping on the screen, writing, and drawing. I heard them shouting that this was the best TikTok they had ever made. What the … is TikTok? They laughed this reel would bring them thousands of views and make them famous. I have no idea what a reel is, nor who would be viewing them. I only know by now that many people did get to see me in some form and that this news spread far too fast and wide. As said before, I’m not that vain anymore, but to be honest and without feeling the need to take any or too much credit for this, how could they say this without giving me any recognition for it? They weren’t even interested in me anymore. I just sat there, watching them, looking overly excited as I had never seen any soul in my entire existence. Look, I don’t want to be childish about any of this, but still, that is not the worst. I know it is my fault, I should have known better than to show myself to this kind of people, but now the house I have lived in for … I think over a hundred years, is not mine anymore. It is constantly swamped with others who want to see me. It is haunted by men and women who want to experience firsthand what it feels like to see a ghost come to life. Once or twice I have been tempted to do it again when some mortals who seemed okay came by and patiently waited. Especially when they genuinely looked scared. Those rare times, I wanted to go out in the open again for a moment. But then I thought to myself: don’t do this. They will film you like the others did, like those two zombies that started all this! Then, it will only get worse. Then, this house will be haunted forever, there will be no place for me anymore; only mortals will occupy every single spot. No. It is over for me. I give up. I have to stop; I want to retire, although I do not know how. I did ask Him one of the last times we met. He just shrugged and smiled. He silently looked at me for a long time, and then, with a voice that was filled with pain, He said: ‘Now you know how I feel.’ I did not understand; I asked Him what He meant. He sighed and pointed over His shoulder to a man sitting in the chair to the right of His throne. ‘Once I showed myself to those people, not in person but through my son, and now those humans keep on haunting me and want to see me again. They will do whatever they can to achieve that. They start bloody wars and kill each other because they believe those actions will bring them closer to me.’ He shook his head; a sad look was showing on His face I had never seen before. ‘You should have known better than to show yourself,’ He continued. ‘Just as I should have known better. If I had stopped after having created this world and had left those humans to do their own thing without that constant urge to please me, everything would have been so much better. I did not understand that at the time, and maybe I have been subject to a little vanity as well when I created those humans in my image, but if I had known back then what I know now, I never would have let them know I existed. They would have been on their own, and I would have been at peace.’ He sighed and looked away. I wanted to ask more, but He clearly did not want to talk anymore. I felt sorry for Him. But then I thought: He really should have known better. After all, He is the creator of this all. If He can make this kind of mistake, why should I feel bad for doing the same but on such a small scale that it just does not matter in the bigger scheme of things? Not even a piece of dust in His story. Suddenly, I felt better. If someone of His character and skills can make the same mistake as me, then I must not be that dumb after all. I felt relieved, but the house I had called home for a very long time was not mine to live in anymore. It hurt, but I left the house and moved to another ruin in another town. It took a little while to get used to, but now I’m pretty happy, and I can tell you, I will never show myself anymore to anyone being so dumb to come in. I don’t regret my stupidity anymore; I’m pretty happy again and live an easy … well, sort of life. It is good the way it is. I remember the look on His face when I told Him that I had moved on. I felt surprised at the look of regret He showed; even a little jealousy was visible, I thought. ‘If only I could do this as well,’ He said. ‘But I made a promise to those folks.’ He grunted. ‘I would take care of them forever.’ He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. ‘Forever is such a … long time.’ He banged his fists against each other, a lightning bolt landed on earth. ‘If only I knew someone who could change that.’


Prompt: Write your story against the backdrop of a storm. Storms a brewin’ My joints really ache today more than the typical soreness I feel in my older age. A lot more than any other day. I think I may have slept like a pretzel twist.  Then again, when the weather changes all holy hell breaks out in my body. From my bedroom window I checked the skies. Not a single cloud; the sun was brilliant and hot. To confirm my amateur weather interpretations, I listened to the radio forecast.  The weatherman was so confident that for the next seventy-two hours our town would be basking and roasting in ninety-degree heat.

I was relieved to hear that second opinion.  There is a lot going on today and it would be a disaster if the weather was unkind to me; actually, to all of us. Time was catching up on me. I paid the price for eating a leisurely breakfast, consequently I had to quickly dress. I could not be late for the opening ceremonies. It would be horrid if I missed them since I was the new president of our local Chapter for the Special Olympics. Dozens of special needs kids, teens, and adults from surrounding communities were meeting today for a variety of trial competitions. Winning participants would compete in the state finals in two weeks. The body of officials, participants and spectators took their respective areas.  One could feel a tempest of excitement brewing.  The athletes paraded onto the field holding their respective local town flags waving and smiling ear to ear.  The spectators, although few in number were raucously loud with cheers of support. The warmth of the day complemented the intense enthusiasm. It would soon be time for these athletes to shine after much preparation and training. There would be several sprint and long run races today; teams and individuals would compete in volleyball, softball, tennis, badminton and even cycling.

This was my first year as president of the Special Olympics for my Chapter. Previously, I was involved in collegiate prep high school sports and was well aware of the expressions of elation for winning and the disappointment of defeat when losing an event. Winning was paramount to further success in sport, at college and life in general.  But I had my doubts about these Olympics. I had little faith that these participants would really grasp the value of the competitive spirit.  I had a heavy heart for those participants who would not win today. I was concerned how the losers would take it personally. I was troubled that most of game time would be spent in consoling the losers.

The races began. I was flabbergasted to see that after each race the winner was swarmed with congratulations by the other participants. It was more than a simple pat on the back or handshake. There were smiles, deep hugs and serious embraces by the losers. Amazingly, I saw no signs of defeat or disappointment expressed by the losers.  They were genuinely happy for each other.

Similar emotional responses occurred from the other events whether it was jumping, throwing or any other sport.  I was overwhelmed that the athletes thought more about each other’s efforts than just winning the event.  I asked myself was this the goal of winning a sport? To celebrate victory no matter who takes the crown? Then, a vile thought occurred to me. I whispered, “might as well give them all participation trophies. Winning then is inconsequential. Why bother with competitive sport?” I was really uncomfortable with these cynical thoughts. Now, I sensed a change in the weather. The humidity in the air became oppressive. I was sweating profusely.  Although the skies were still clear blue, I could smell the oncoming rain. A storm was brewing.  I knew it would not be long before a deluge of water would fall upon us. I was concerned about lightning strikes and the athletes’ safety.  There was a storm brewing but where?  I actually began to be fearful that a disastrous situation might happen. My anxious and doubting thoughts made me wonder was there another storm? One that was brewing inside of me? A few lazy clouds hovered above our heads blocking out the hot sun.  Unexpectedly, those clouds gave up their moisture falling down upon the athletes.  It was a welcomed relief from the intensity of the hot day. All of the competitions stopped momentarily. The participants danced in jubilation with one another. I was so taken back by the simplicity of the moment that my tears blended in with the rain falling upon my cheeks. As quickly as it had started it ended. The athletes stopped dancing. All heads were turned toward the sky as an incredible double rainbow appeared. The field resonated with voices crying out in a delightful and joyous crescendo.  In my days in athletic sports, I had never witnessed such a scene. I had to swallow my heart as I filled up with intense emotion.  These athletes were amazing. They displayed such a zest for life and a genuine respect for competitiveness. I was sullen about my earlier attitude. But after the rainbows, I felt something different. These disabled athletes displayed a zest for life and camaraderie more so than any high school team I had ever been associated with.

Our local Chapter offered a small copper medallion to the winners of each event. Presentations were done on a trilevel platform. First place on the highest tier, with second and third place taking their respective places on the raised platform. No sooner when the medallion winners would accept their prize, they jumped off the platform to gather around all the participants for the event. Each medallion winner would share their medal with the others. They took turns wearing the medallion smiling for pictures and celebrating as though each of them had won the prize. That day of the trials left an indelible mark on my thinking and most importantly on my heart. I left the field with a new perspective on what it means to win. It was given to me from people who knew and respected the value of hard work to compete. It was these special Olympian athletes who never considered themselves disabled. They had and continue to experience huge struggles which began at the beginning of their lives. They were not envious of the winners but celebrated jubilantly in victory whether it was theirs or not. I still can “smell the rain” just before the storm clouds come. I watch for the warning signs. And now I am carefully watching for those storms in my faith that are a brewin’ deep in my heart that may cause me to be judgmental, to be cynical, and skeptical of other people.

One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out.

As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger.

The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!” He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm.

“Where is your faith?” he asked his disciples. (Luke 8:22-25, NIV) Author: Pete Gautchier Acknowledgement: Reedsy Prompts


“What Sallinger most demonstrates here is, Caulfield’s fear of adulthood and phoniness, it was this idea of adult phoniness that lead Mark Chapman to shoot John Lennon citing the Catcher In The Rye as his statement…” I wish she’d shut up, I don’t care, I don’t even know who John Lennon is or Mark Chapman or Caulfield or this Sallinger bloke either, nor do I care, it’s twenty to three on a Friday afternoon, it feels like it’s been twenty to three for the last 35 minutes, it’s the last lesson of the day and the sun is shining through the scratched perspex windows casting the strangest of shadows across the desks and all I want to do is jump out of them and run until I can’t run anymore. It’s not that I don’t like school, if anything I quite enjoy it, it’s just the lessons I don’t like. Ben leans over to me and whispers quietly in my ear, well as quietly as any 15 year old boy can whisper to another, “pub tonight, bruv?” what stupid question, it’s not that I really liked the pub if i’m honest it’s probably no better than school, but you just don’t say no when somebody asks you to the pub. “Alright then mate” I reply as if the decision was my own. It was at that moment the bell rang and the entire class stood up in unison and rushed for the door in a mad exodus of hurried conversations, swear words and swinging handbags, pushing out of the doors and into the world. Nobody stops to think about the doors, nobody except me, all the doors in this school tell a story, they’re covered in layers of paint, each one of the many different colours the school has fruitlessly adopted over the years to try and change its image, each layer with its’ scars showing the layer beneath, each scar inflicted by generations of use and vandalism. Reminding us that no amount of paint, no new colours will ever change the school or the pupils. Once me and Ben finally make it out of the school we’re straight onto the estate, from one jungle to another, nothing changes here either, there's the same kids running round on the same bikes, harassing the same motorists, there's an old phone box on the corner, not one of the quint red ones that you see on the tele, but one of the purpley grey ones from the 90s that stinks of piss, with only half the glass left in it, most of which is covered in torn posters for nights out of town from years gone by. Me and Ben head back to his, it’s not even on my way home but I follow him anyway because his sister might be there and everyone knows she’s the prettiest girl in school, probably in the whole of town. We burst into his house, kick our shoes off, say hello to his mum and run upstairs to play playstation and plan our weekly trip down the pub. “We always go to the Rose and Crown” Says Ben, “The only girls in there are from school, why don’t we try the Dragon?” I’m not sure if I admire his confidence or detest his stupidity. Ben is way more confident than me, but a lot more stupid. “It’s the only pub that will serve us” I reply, “We never try and get served anywhere else, besides it’s full of school kids” I think the irony was definitely lost on Ben at this point. “What if we wore suits geez?” Ben said eagerly. “Why don’t we start at the Rose and Crown and then try The Dragon after?” I reply in an attempt to finish the conversation. “Ok” Ben reluctantly agrees. After walking all that way to discover his sister wasn’t in and to lose two games of FIFA on the trot I make my excuses and get up to leave, “Right, now tonights sorted I better get going then. See ya mate” with this I spring up from the edge of his bed where I was sitting, hurtle down the stairs, kick my feet into my shoes and walk out of Ben’s front door slamming it behind me. Don’t ask me why but I started walking home the long way, the very long way, so long in fact that most people would call it the wrong way. I don’t know why I did it but I did. I don’t know why I do a lot of things, for somebody so I clever I don’t know a lot. I did know that I didn’t like Ben his confidence annoys me, besides why should I like him he doesn’t really like me, he just pretends he does, probably to make himself feel better or because it's become a habit of his he can’t seem to change. I carried on walking the wrong way, choosing to walk round the back of the shops and through the alley ways, dusted with broken bottles, fly tipped furniture and tufts of grass that had made their way through the cracked concrete. It wasn’t the most scenic of routes in fact to most people it was probably pretty ugly, but I liked it. The litter might blow away, the damp abbonadend mattresses might come and go but the ugliness had a constant it had always been that way and it always would it was this reliability which gave it its beauty, you can keep your coastal paths and flowers, they all erode away into nothing or dry up and die eventually anyway. As I got towards the edge of the estate and into the woods the decay continued but it was more camouflaged than before, the carcasses of stolen hatchbacks and mopeds abandoned on the side of the track in their deep burnt orange and powdery white colour schemes sat on a plinth of scorched earth and melted plastic, they still smelt of burning even after all this time. Now they played the perfect host to plants looking for fertile ground to grow, reclaiming what was once theirs. It was probably time to turn round and head home in the right direction now, I was getting pretty tired and besides I was supposed to be at the pub in a few hours, before all of that though I decided to sit down and take the weight off my feet I found an ash tree, laying on its side, torn from the ground in last October’s high winds, I clambered up onto the horizontal trunk and sat there, my feet dangling loose in the air, looking at the woods that sat on the edge of my estate. I pulled my school tie loose and slung it into my backpack. While I was sat on that tree I started thinking about all the people I’ve ever known and how now I don’t know hardly know any of them, all my friends from little school, the lads I used to play football with in the street, my mum, my dad. I still see the lads in the street sometimes and most of the kids from little school are still in my classes now and I see my mum everyday and my dad every weekend, well mostly. But I don’t know them anymore, not like I used to and they don’t know me either. It sounds crazy and it probably is. After a little while stuck on the same thought I pull my phone from my pocket, after punching in my passcode I open up my contacts and scroll through them slowly, looking for somebody to ring, I could ring Ben about tonight, but it couldn’t be more than an hour since we saw each other and I remembered that I didn’t like him much anyway. I stop scrolling when I see Emily’s name, we met last year while we were both on holiday at a caravan park, she had the prettiest long dark hair and the biggest brown eyes, which reflected the lights of the arcade around the room a million times like a kaleidoscope powered by 2 penny pieces, I was too scared to speak to her when I first noticed her but our mums got chatting over their love of vodka and Eastenders. I was both pretty embarrassed and secretly pleased when mum suggested we hang out together. We hit it off straight away and although nothing happened, well nothing like the boys at school talk about - we held hands and when it was time to go she kissed me on my cheek - she’s stayed on my mind all this time, I should have tried to kiss her properly you know spontaneously like they do in Eastenders, but I didn’t. I wanted to call her but decided against it, I didn’t want her thinking I was weird, I guess I am weird but I didn’t want her to think that, anyway what would I say? I pressed to lock button on my phone watched the screen go black and slipped it back in my pocket, slipped off the trunk of the tree and started to head back into town. I wish I hadn’t agreed to go to the pub, me and ben just sat in the corner looking at the same faces we looked at all week at school, too scared to talk to the girls, besides all the pretty ones were getting plenty of attention from the older guys. Ben turned up in his suit, he looked about as out of place as I felt. If the pub was empty it would have had some charm I guess it had the same sense of decay as the alleys on the estate the garish wallpaper was peeling away to show more garish wallpaper underneath, the carpets were saturated with years of spilt drinks, tears and blood and were obviously worn into tracks between the front door, the bar and the back door by decades of footsteps. Nobody had been allowed to smoke in here for years but the ceiling was still yellow from the nicotine of years gone by and the smell still lingered in the air, trapped in the curtains and upholstery. Me and Ben were on our fourth pint now, Ben insisted on ordering IPA even though it was horrible because he was convinced it made him look older. After I finished my fourth the pub started to seem a lot better, I still couldn’t muster up anything more than a mumbled “alright” for the girls from school but I was worrying about less and started to think maybe Ben didn’t dislike me as much as I thought. I wondered if I should tell him about Emily but I decided against it, I didn’t think he’d believe me and I didn’t want him to think I was a lier. So we carried on talking about football and school watching what seemed like the entire world go by from the corner of the pub back and forth, back and forth, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter again and again all night long. I woke up the next morning fully clothed laying on top of my duvet, everytime I moved my head I was in agony, all I could remember from last night was that Ben had that stupid suit on, I bet I’ve upset him last night and can’t remember, he definitely doesn’t like me now I reached for my phone but it wasn’t there, my stomach wrenched knowing that I’d lost it, trying to work out who else I was rude to and upset last night from school, I couldn’t remember a thing but definitely Ben and the girls at the bar, I remember seeing them so I must have said something under the influence.


I was half joking about stashing that PopEyes sandwich by my bed before leaving to go to the company Christmas party. But the truth is I really did leave it there. I'm not sure what Super Drunk TWoN did with it when he got back but still semi-drunk TWoN woke up to a bunch of dirty wrappers stuck to his face. I got up to use the bathroom in the morning feeling disgusted at the pathetic human who had eaten that cold sticky sandwich at 3 in the morning. That was until I made my way back to the bed and notice something... The last piece. The final bite of the sandwich was there sitting in my bed. I must of forgotten it in my intoxication. The perfect shaped last morsel of goodness... Just the right proportion of bread to chicken. You could tell I had been surgical in my drunken state because it was all breast; plump, breaded, bulging. I had purposely ate around the sandwich to leave this perfect piece. Maybe I had even spotted it first and laid out my plan of attack from the second I opened the wrapper. It was in this moment, when I was faced with a perfect last bite laying alone in a dirty cum stained sheet, that I realized something... I'm going to die alone. I could of left the piece. I could have carried on the facade that those moments of disgust are only perpetrated by me at my most drunken vulnerable state. It was a test. Not a test for anyone else, but a test for myself. Would I eat that disgustingly beautiful spicy chicken piece, the one my drunken twin had forgotten and then have to admit to myself that there is no differentiating between the inebriated human who fills his life with gluttony and sin, and the one who judges him for it, or would I leave it and save the last bit of dignity I had in exchange for the last piece of chicken that I saw....? The truth is... I actually thought about it. I honestly looked at it and made the mental calculations of if I should. I weighed the consequences of scooping up that tiny shimmering succulent poultry. I mean no one is watching... I could eat it and pretend like it never happened. But I would know. I would know what I did and I couldn't blame it on the drink, and now that I've acknowledged and weighed the consequences I could never pretend like I didn't know the low depths of patheticness I was willing to stoop to. My reflection lasted about half a second, though it felt like a lifetime, before I lifted up the that perfect piece of chicken.... slapped it back on the waging stale pieces of bread which had found themselves on opposite ends of the bed, and ate it. I had a choice... I could have spared my soul.... I could have been disgusted... I could have not told anyone... but the shame is my penance...


Author's note: This is based on a real life situation. Names have been changed to protect people in the story. As Jade brushed her long dark silky black hair out, her phone buzzed. She put down her hairbrush to pick it up. She stared at the text the came through, shocked and a little unsure. Hi, it’s mom. Call me when you can. I’d love to try to reconnect with you, and I thought we could hang out sometime this weekend and maybe see a movie or do some shopping together.

Jade put her phone down and thought about this for awhile. Since she was four, Jade had lived with her Aunt Mimi and Uncle Ashton. Her mom had been around off and on, but Jade had always felt estranged from her real mother due to the fact she had been raised by her aunt and uncle.

She appreciated the thought of her mother reaching out to her and wanting to get to know her better, but she wasn’t quite sure she was ready yet to hang out and try to reconnect a relationship with her.

She picked her brush back up and started brushing her thick black hair again. Her little “sister” Starla ran into her room. Starla was Mimi and Ashton’s daughter and Jade’s cousin.

Starla ran up and gave Jade a big hug. “I love you, Jade,” she said to her big “sister”.

Jade looked down at Starla and smiled. She loved her little sister, but she also missed her half-sister and brother on her mom’s side — Ophelia and James — a lot.

“Starla, is your dad here?” Jade asked. Jade had grown really close to Ashton in the days of her youth. He had taken her into his arms and accepted her as his own daughter. Unfortunately, Mimi and Ashton had decided not to stay together, which saddened Jade. Starla shook her head no.

When Jade felt sad, she often went downstairs to visit Grandma Nan. Grandma Nan was always there to listen.

“What’s the matter, Jade?” Her grandmother made a cup of tea for her and sat down at the table next to her.

“My mom texted me. She wants to spend some time with me.” Grandma’s face brightened. “That’s a good thing, Jade” — looking at Jade’s downcast face — “isn’t it?”

Jade looked thoughtful, mulling it over for a minute.

“Well, I do want to spend time with my half-siblings…” Jade began.

“Ophelia loves you a lot.” Grandma Nan smiled at Jade. “So does your mom.” Jade’s mom was her Aunt Mimi’s sister, and Grandma Nan was mother to Mimi and Kathryn both.

Jade sipped her tea, thinking again. She set her cup down. “I’m 14. I haven’t really lived with my mom since I was 4. I don’t know how to reconnect with her!” Jade put her head in her hands.

Grandma Nan lifted her chin up with a gentle finger. A single tear rolled down Jade’s cheek.

“Does that make me a bad person?” Jade asked quietly.

“No, absolutely not.” Her grandmother pulled her in close for a hug. “You’re a wonderful person, Jade, and your mother knows this. That’s why she would like to reconnect with you. She does love you — a lot.” “But sometimes it seems like she loves Ophelia and James better than me. I mean, she gave me up, but still raises those two.”

Grandma Nan held Jade close to her. “Jade, your mother loves you very much. She would so like to be a part of your life. She probably misses you, sees you’re growing up so beautifully, and wants to get to know you better.” Jade again mulled over what her grandmother was saying to her. The more she thought about it, the more she knew her grandmother was right, but it still hurt that her mother would give her up and raise two more children.

Grandma Nan watched Jade closely.

“Jade, your mother does love you very much. She wanted to raise you, but she just wasn’t ready at the time. By the time your half-siblings were born, she was in a more secure place.” “I don’t even know my mom’s husband!” Jade cried out, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Jade, honey, it’s okay”— Jade stood up abruptly. “You know what? You’re right.” Grandma Nan blinked at this rapid change in Jade.

Jade sat back down. “Maybe she just didn’t know how to love me, but one question: Why did it take her this long to reach out to me?” Grandma Nan stroked Jade’s hair and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Maybe she just had a hard time figuring out how to fit you back into her life — a life that is totally different than how it was when you were born, Jade. She’s changed a lot, and so has her life. She's trying to raise your siblings now and still have you as part of her life. It’s hard. She doesn’t know where to start with the reconnection. So much has changed since you were born, Jade. I know one thing for sure, though — she does love you and always has.” Jade smiled through her tears, hugged her grandma, and replied back, “I’m going to go call her now. I would love a shopping date and to see a movie — with my mom. My real mom.” Grandma Nan beamed at her granddaughter. “Go bond with her. You need it.” Kathryn’s ringtone went off. She picked up her phone.

Jade flashed across the caller ID screen. She smiled.

“Hello?” she answered as she lifted her cell to her ear.

“Mom, I want to hang out with you and get to know you better.” Kathryn was so happy, tears of joy streamed down her face.

“Oh, Jade! I’m so happy you called!” she gushed. “What would you like to do?” “Well, there is there are these really cool jeans at the mall I really like, and I would love to see The Croods: A New Age with you, Mom.”

Kathryn felt a huge grin working the corners of her mouth. She loved to hear her first-born daughter calling her “mom”. It felt great. This was the beginning of a newfound relationship she hoped would last forever. Jade felt a warm glow after hanging up.  She was going to see her mom, her real mom for the first time in a long time.  She was excited.