Reporter: Thank you for meeting with me. I know you don’t see many visitors. **Prisoner: I’ve read your work before. I like how you write.** Reporter: I appreciate that. **Prisoner: I liked your oped last week.** Reporter: About the Medicare reform bill? **Prisoner: Yes, that one.** Reporter: Is that why you agreed to speak with me? Because I might tell your story sympathetically? **Prisoner: My story deserves no sympathy.** Reporter: So why did you agree to this? **Prisoner: I like the way you write.** **** Reporter: Let me tell you why I’m here. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you are very different from shooters who came before you. **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: You’re not a disturbed loner – **Prisoner: I am disturbed. I’m pretty lonely.** Reporter: Fair enough. But you weren’t always.. **Prisoner: No, I wasn’t.** Reporter: You’re not a radical, you’re not a religious fanatic. You’re a data analyst living in the suburbs of Minneapolis. You have no history of addiction, criminality, financial duress, zealousness, mental illness – **Prisoner: — well, I’m not sure –** Reporter: — no *longstanding* history of mental illness. Home, bought and paid for, decent nest egg, wife, family – **Prisoner: — family… –** Reporter: — family, dog, lots of friends. You could be anyone. **Prisoner: And yet, here you are with me.** Reporter: You could be anyone, but such an act of terrorism, it seems to me – **Prisoner: I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: You’re not a terrorist? **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: Maybe we’re getting too deep too quickly. Why don’t we take a breath. **** Reporter: Let’s start with your family. You have 2 children – **Prisoner: — had –** Reporter: I’m sorry, you had 2 children. Your elder, Sam, is 12 now? **Prisoner: 13** Reporter: Yes, 13. I apologize. She’s a rising eighth grader at Washington Junior? Tell me about her. **Prisoner: Sam is 13. She’s the light of my life. She loves piano and books and writing stories about aliens and superheroes.** Reporter: She sounds wonderful. **Prisoner: She does well in school. She used to do better, but she’s doing fine, all things considered. I think they’d classify her as gifted if not for… Her favorite singer is Cat Stevens, and her current dream is to plant a million trees.** Reporter: How is she doing nowadays? **Prisoner: Not great.** Reporter: Isn’t that to be expected? Didn’t you expect that? **Prisoner: Of course I did.** Reporter: Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll come back to Sam. **** Reporter: Your second child, your son, Chris, is two years younger than Sam? **Prisoner: Was.** Reporter: Yes, was. Chris was 7 when it happened? **Prisoner: 7. Chris was 7.** Reporter: He was 7, finishing up 2nd grade. **Prisoner: Yes. He and Sam were both at the same school then.** Reporter: Lincoln Elementary. **Prisoner: Yes, Lincoln. She was 9, he was 7.** Reporter: So tell me about Chris. **Prisoner: What is there left to say? Every minute of his life has been dissected by every news outlet and web sleuth.** Reporter: But don’t you want to tell me about him? **Prisoner: No, I don’t think so.** Reporter: OK, but you can tell the world about him, about what he meant to you. **Prisoner: He’s gone.** Reporter: You can honor his memory – **Prisoner: He’s gone. There is no one left to honor –** Reporter: OK, OK, let’s – **Prisoner: … there is no one left to honor, and pretending that we somehow keep his spirit alive when no matter how many stories we share or tears we shed, nothing we do can do him any good — that’s what dishonors his memory.** Reporter: OK. OK. **** Reporter: Chris was one of 47 children killed in what was then the deadliest school mass shooting in this country’s history. **Prisoner: Yes. He was the 3rd child killed that day.** Reporter: The whole world is sorry for your loss. **Prisoner: Thank you. Chris was killed for no reason, but he was killed** ***third*** **because he began sobbing after the shooting began. 7 year olds cry, but Chris was more sensitive than most. He used to cry when he was going to bed. Said he would miss us while he slept. Whenever he did that, we used to tell him that it was time for him to grow up… It was something we were working on.** Reporter: To see what he must have seen… **Prisoner: It was too much.** **** Reporter: After mass shooting events, especially of younger children, other parents have gone on to create advocacy groups, support networks. Why haven’t you channeled your anger into something productive like they have? **Prisoner: I thought about it. I tried for a few months. To get involved. To speak out. But I just stopped.** Reporter: What happened? Why did you stop? **Prisoner: I kept asking myself, why is it on me?** Reporter: What do you mean? **Prisoner: Why is it on me? It was my family that was ripped apart, literally flesh from bone. My son was unrecognizable. I am unrecognizable. Some days I still find it hard to find the will to inhale, and it’s on me to make this a better world? Why does any of this fall on me?** Reporter: You’re right. It shouldn’t be on you. But you didn’t end up doing nothing, did you? **Prisoner: No, I did something.** **** Reporter: Earlier, I said that Chris was murdered in what was then the nation’s largest mass school shooting because that record has since been surpassed. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: By the time you were captured, 54 children had died or sustained the injuries that would later kill them. And you didn’t choose a random school. You chose Sidwell Friends, DC’s most elite private school. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: A school that counts among its students children of politicians and dignitaries. You chose an outdoor assembly where students would be gathered closely and could be attacked from a distance. Of your victims, 6 were children of Congressmen, 2 of Senators, and 1 the grandson of a Supreme Court Justice. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: These are people who make the laws that govern, among others, access to high capacity firearms like the ones you used last January. **Prisoner: Like the ones used on my son.** Reporter: Yes. You chose the same models that were used against your son. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: Do you think these weapons should be outlawed? **Prisoner: Of course I do.** Reporter: And yet you chose to use them. **Prisoner: They’re not illegal.** **** Reporter: Earlier, you claimed that you’re not a terrorist, but it seems pretty clear that you were targeting the lawmakers who made it possible for mass shooters to procure the weapons that killed your son. And who then made it possible for you to procure those same weapons. **Prisoner: I did target them, but I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: How is this not terrorism? **Prisoner: Because nothing will change.** Reporter: Did you think that if these people felt what you feel, that they would change their minds? **Prisoner: Nothing ever changes.** **** Reporter: As you might be aware, one of the victim’s fathers, a congressman, has publicly switched his stance on gun control. It’s been reported that 1 other is considering changing his as well. Does that give you hope? **Prisoner: How much hope do you think they have?** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did could be taken as a warning to lawmakers and politicians? **Prisoner: It shouldn’t be. What I did was entirely predictable. A certainty.** Reporter: And why does that matter? **Prisoner: Because a warning is a threat. An eventuality just is.** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did is a call to action for copycats to keep doing what you did until they change their minds? **Prisoner: The next mass shooter will be a mass shooter regardless of my actions.** Reporter: But they might not otherwise target the children of lawmakers as you did. **Prisoner: My victims are not the last children of lawmakers to die like this.** Reporter: So if not a warning, if not a terrorist act, was it an act of revenge? **Prisoner: No, it wasn’t revenge. Revenge could have been enough, but I honestly didn’t care about revenge. I didn’t see the point in it.** Reporter: So why? **Prisoner: Because this is the world now.** Reporter: What do you mean by that? **Prisoner: This is the world we have now. The world we’ve allowed, the world we’ve designed. And this is what happens in this world.** Reporter: It doesn’t sound like you take a lot of responsibility for what you did. **Prisoner: This is the world they created. I’m just an agent of that world. I was bound to happen, so I let me happen.** **** Reporter: Let’s talk about the children, the ones you killed. These kids did nothing wrong – **Prisoner: My kid did nothing wrong.** Reporter: — nothing other than to be born to politicians you disagree with. **Prisoner: Some of those politicians I agree with.** Reporter: When you entered the room, when you looked into their frightened eyes, didn’t you know that you were doing something terribly wrong? Evil? **Prisoner: Of course** Reporter: What did you feel? **Prisoner: Compassion, sorrow, shame, disgust.** Reporter: And yet you went ahead **Prisoner: Yes** Reporter: Why? **Prisoner: There is no logic to losing my child — or any child — in such an unnatural way, in such a preventable way, a sacrifice to nothing. There is no rational response to irrationality. I went ahead because in a senseless world, there are only senseless actions.** **** Reporter: Have you ever thought about what Chris would have wanted? **Prisoner: Of course.** Reporter: Would he have wanted this? **Prisoner: He would not have wanted this. He would be horrified.** Reporter: So then why did you do it? **Prisoner: My son is dead.** Reporter: Even if he wouldn’t have wanted this? **Prisoner: My son is dead. He doesn’t want anything.** Reporter: But don’t you sully his memory by doing such a terrible thing? **Prisoner: What I do now means nothing to him.** **** Reporter: There is still Sam. **Prisoner: Yes, Sam.** Reporter: She suffers from losing her brother, but she also suffers from knowing what you did and losing her father. **Prisoner: What I did to her was unforgivable.** Reporter: Why didn’t that stop you? **Prisoner: I used to tell my kids a story about the mathematics of love. When I met their mother, she filled my whole heart with love, edge to edge, 100%. But then when Sam came into the world, even though my heart was already completely full, I instantly loved her too with my whole heart, edge to edge, 100%. And when Chris was born, my heart was filled yet again, and I loved him with the entirety of heart, just as I did his sister and his mother. Each of them occupied 100% of my heart, edge to edge, and I could not love each of them any more than I did. Only love works like this.** Reporter: That’s a lovely sentiment, but doesn’t that mean that Sam still fills your heart? **Prisoner: It means that when Chris was killed, my heart was destroyed completely. My love for Sam is unending, but so is the absoluteness of the void. I am simultaneously full of love and incapable of love.** Reporter: I don’t understand. I might follow your logic, however tortured it may be, but when it leads you to a course of action that forces you to re-traumatize and then abandon your daughter, how could it possibly make sense? **Prisoner: She understands. She will understand. She will never forgive me, but she’ll make it through.** Reporter: For her sake, I hope you’re right. **Prisoner: I wish I could have been different for her.** **** Reporter: Let me ask you about your wife. **Prisoner: I think I’m done now.** Reporter: I’m sorry? **Prisoner: My wife isn’t my wife anymore. She won’t talk to me.** Reporter: I know. **Prisoner: I’m done. I’m tired. I’m ready to go back to my cell.** Reporter: I have just a few more questions for you before you – **Prisoner: — Hello? Can I be done here?** \[Guard enters the room and unshackles the prisoner from the table.\] Reporter: Please, just five more minutes. What happened with your wife in the aftermath of your son’s death? Did you seek counseling? What was your relationship with Sam after Lincoln? I want to understand – **Prisoner \[exiting the room\]: I’m actually easy to understand. I could be anyone.


Old Chi Wepps crushed a cigarette out on the bow of his john boat with a worn, wet boot. The darkness of the swamp was made sexy by a full moon bouncing its ass all over the blackwater, and in the distance the old man heard an outboard motor start up. A couple gators lay slopped and twisted behind him done bleeding now through holes in their heads. He had harpooned them both and then popped them with bang sticks after he pulled them to the side of the boat thrashing and chomping. He fingered his .38 Smith and Wesson holstered to his side to make himself feel a little better, and lit another cigarette. He took a long drag and puffed smoke in front of him toward the direction the buzzing, far-off motor. It was coming toward him, and the motor sounded clean to his ear. He reckoned it was a newer motor, and it was more than likely the law. Ain’t nobody out this late but him, and whores, and the law. He’d be damned if he ever got caught poaching, and he wasn’t about to get caught this time. Chi pull-started his small motor, and it revved and sputtered its blue smoke as he puffed his cig glaring down as if daring his motor to quit. He knew the approaching boat was too loud for its occupants to hear his small two-stroke, so he took the tiller handle and revved off to his starboard scattering duckweed and rippling moonlight on the water in his wake. Tilling the boat with his left hand he scratched the thick gray scruff of his beard with his right hand burning some of his loose, long hair with his cigarette. He smoked it down until he tasted filter and flicked it. Chi did not give one muskrat fuck. If any law man caught him he’d shoot him in the face without a second thought; he’d stomp their skulls until he had to scrape brains off his boots. He knew every inch of this swamp and had lived out in it since he was a little boy, and he thought of the swamp as his special lady and was headed straight for her sweetest spot. Even if he didn’t get to his camp tonight there was always a spot he could crawl into. He chuffed to himself a little his hard eyes never changing. Chi thought to himself how in his older age the swamps’s sweetness meant more to him than the women he had known as a pup, and that called for toast. He rummaged into his jacket pocket and took a scarred, wide flask out. He gave a hard pull on it not taking his eyes off the water. The motor behind him was gaining. He reveled in the burn the whisky left in his throat. *Fug them,* he thought. *Dey caint catcha me.* To his surprise he heard another outboard with the one behind him setting a new, high vibration, and Chi felt pure heat pour from his face and neck. He quickly put his flask away, curled his hand around the cold pistol at his side, and scowled. “I drive dis boat straight to da momma’s pussy see how dey like it.” Seeing a tributary bushy and hidden he pushed his tiller hard right and swooped his boat port into the overhanging vines and a trickle of black water. Sixty seconds in he cut his motor and took off a long wooden pole that was lashed to the side of the beaten boat and began to pole silently along as if he were a gondolier in Venice, and the two gators behind him were lovers whose new lust had shot each other’s brains out. Chi chuckled as he heard the boats pass him by full bore, and had a surge of excitement when he heard the unmistakeable thunk of one of the boat’s lower units smashing into the submerged cypress stumps and the dismayed cries of its occupants. The other boat motor cycled down quickly to idle, and Chi knew they’d be helping the injured in the other boat, and not following a little ole alligator poacher like him. He poled on for another mile or more using his push-pole to swipe down spider webs from the low hanging brush. He covered the gators with tarp, and started to prepare his camp right in the boat. Grasping an aluminum pole from the bottom of the boat he seated it into a bracket in the middle and strung a vinyl tarp that was bordered with mosquito netting up over it and snapped it in place all around the boat. Affixed to the top end of the pole was another bracket with holes drilled into it to which Chi pushed tent-poles into and then pushed the far ends of those into small brackets into strategic areas along the rim of the boat which lifted his tent all around him. Done with this he laid down on top of the wet tarp face-first on the gators. He kissed one of their heads smooching and smelling the fishy smell and humping them a little as he listened to the faint sounds of dismay coming from the injured lawmen not just a mile or so away. He sat up and let the sounds of the swamp drown away his focus on duties, and so the buzzes and chirps increased their value and loud dankness took him in. He sat back right on them gators and laughed. He pulled out his flask and laid some jerky on his chest took a pull of whisky and lit a smoke. He chewed on some jerky savoring the seasoning and chuckled when he heard a scream. Chi thought he heard a burly voice yell, “Fuck you!” into the night. Maybe one of the lawmen was dead. He patted the back of one of the gators he sat on and said, “Oh, I love you babies!” Those alligators he hunted and took gave him his Marlboro and biscuit money he liked to call it, and he never hurt nobody who ain’t tried to hurt him. And he ain’t never hurt none of the ladies who came out to the swamp to give him their bodies and their cheer by his firelight, except that fair one that stole from him. The one that took his heart away from the swamp and kept it wrapped in that black mold town like dirty panties in her pocket, and she wouldn’t let him leave and come back to his shacks in his wet, green world. But his swamp was a jealous, mean bitch, and she meant to have him back. And her pull was slick and humid, and she was so sticky he could not pull himself off of her. So he took that thievin girl like he takes them gators, and he took her back to the rolling greens and blacks, them snapping teeth and fangs, that swirling algae and moist, earthy decay that was her soft breast where he laid his head, and he gave both their beating hearts on back to her for good.


The dark and stormy nature of the night was accentuated, by the Witch Tower’s great height. It was so tall that at night, in the rain, you could not see the rest of the school, or it’s grounds. One had the sense of being trapped in a bottle of lightning. As such, Kiwi kept her blinds shut, better to not see the effect at all than to get drawn into the enchanting illusion, especially when there was homework to be done. Alchemy was a demanding mistress and wouldn’t be put on hold even for a storm like this. “Kiwi!” Into the cluttered room came Dante, familiar par excellence. The white and brown collie jumped into Kiwi’s bed, and burrowed his way under the covers. “Thunder! Take shelter!” He poked his head out of the sheets, and beckoned Kiwi with no greater gesturing than the shimmering of his eyes. As tempting as warm blankets, and puppy dog eyes were, passing Alchemy was more tempting still. “It’ll be alright, boy.” She went back to filling in the equations on her sheet. “You’re not scared?” The shaking dog, inched closer, emerging from the sheets like a hermit crab. “Consider me dubious.” Kiwi nervously looked at her blinds, which were lighting up like there was an alien abduction on the other side. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Even as the nearby thunder rattled the foundation of the tower, she kept a brave face, or at least a bored one. She didn’t want to freak her dog out any more than he already was. “But it’s just thunder, we’ll be alright.” She chose to ignore the nervous sweat, her childhood phobia generated. The collie jumped from the bed to her feet. “You’re so cool, Kiwi!” He praised, and licked her boots with all the love in the world. Then another roll of thunder, sent him into hiding beneath her desk. “Geez, it’s right on top of us, huh?” Kiwi giggled to try to hide her own low-grade terror. Of all the nights she decided to be brave, it had to be this one? “It’s okay, Dante.” She searched out his head with her hand and pet him gently. “I’ll keep you safe.” She could feel his scalp relax and droop at her touch. “Good boy, good boy.” --- Kiwi could actually feel her eyeballs drying up as she maintained eye contact with Dante. He was a tough opponent. Unblinking, unflinching, with eyes as wet as a salamander’s back. Only a fool would challenge him to a staring contest but loves makes us all do crazy things. “If this is how you’re spending your time, I’m definitely not giving you enough homework.” Madam Crabapple, the Herbology teacher appeared at Kiwi’s side. The young witch, jumped, and broke contact with Dante, netting him yet another victory. “Madam!” She chirped with a short bow. “You may be the first person to accuse your class of not having enough homework.” The teacher chuckled out an agreement. “Oh, very well. What sort of experiment are you running on this handsome young man then?” She reached out and scratched Dante behind the ears, which meant she’d earned a friend for life. Kiwi slouched at her stone table. The bright blue sky above, made her stormy mood feel ridiculous. “He hasn’t spoken since the storm. I think something’s wrong with him… or me.” Crabapple nodded grimly. “May I have a seat?” When Kiwi nodded that she could, the older woman bunched up her skirt and sat beside Dante on his stone seat. She continued to pet him fondly. “Is he still holding your magic for you?” “Yes ma’am. I’ve had no problem using him as a familiar, he just won’t talk.” “I see.” Crabapple adjusted her large feathered hat, and smiled sadly at her student. “You know, when I was a child, I could hear every animal speak, whether they said something or not.” “What do you mean? Can you hear him?” “No.” She took a look at the collie again. “No. It’s just that Familiars are complicated things. In a way, they are us. They share our dreams, our desires, our magic, but they’re also still the animals we made them out of.” “I don’t understand.” Crabapple straightened herself up a bit. “Dante has given you advice before, yes?” “All the time.” “And when did your dog become so wise? Where did he go to school? Who did he study under?” “When we did the familiar ritual. It gave him powers.” “And wisdom?” “I guess.” “When we make our familiars, we give a piece of ourselves over to them. They become what we need them to be. For many young witches, this is a mentor, or a voice of reason.” Kiwi couldn’t ignore the sad tint to Madam Crabapple’s explanation any longer. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” Crabapple laughed, still sadly. “You just happen to have a very good familiar. He’s served you so well that… you just don’t need him anymore.” “What?” Kiwi had to stop herself from exploding on her elder. “That’s ridiculous, he’s my best friend.” “Well of course he is, but you simply don’t need his advice anymore. You’ve grown. You’re not losing him, he’ll still be with you. It’s just that the mentoring part of your relationship is over.” Kiwi got up, she was shaking. “With all due respect, this is stupid. I know witches, who can still talk to their familiars.” “It’s different for everyone. Maybe they still need advice, or maybe what they needed most from their familiar was a friend.” “I need a friend!” Kiwi sobbed, and dropped to her knees. She buried her fingers into her dog’s fur. “Please Dante, I still need you, don’t do this to me.” “Don’t blame Dante.” Crabapple said softly. “It’s not his fault.” “Then it’s mine?” Kiwi’s eyes were full of pain. “It’s no one’s fault, my dear. Sometimes things like this, fade away.” This was wholly unacceptable to the witch. She’d learned so much, and gained so much power and she didn’t get to keep the small pleasure of talking to her dog? In what world could that be true? “I want to go back then. I want to restore the bond, unlearn whatever he taught me. Whatever it takes.” Crabapple sighed, she knew that there would be no clean away to exit this conversation. “My dear, there are no refunds in the exchange of knowledge.” --- There is nothing lost, that magic cannot find anew. Whatever that whimsical spark was that ignited Dante with wit and wisdom Kiwi would find it again. There were too many games, too much fun lost in the newfound silence of her bedroom. Dante was still clearly very smart, and fully magical, but his unspoken words haunted her. How he must be suffering, unable to critique her homework or compliment her outfits. She tried not to take it all too personally. She knew witches walked down the dark paths, nurturing the kind of petty emotions she felt now. When she saw the younger students frolicking with their animals out into the fields, she wanted to run out and tell them all the truth. She wanted to warn them of the great betrayal of their relationship. But what good would that have done? If she’d known then what she knew now, every moment she spent with Dante would have been plagued with worry for the day it would all end. So, she kept silent. Confident that there was something sacred happening in those fields. Something that should only be spoiled by time, and not the ill temperament of an older witch. Instead, she turned to her studies, and found her solution there. It was such an easy fix; it was honestly embarrassing to have felt any loss at all. A Potion of Animal Speaking, easy to whip up, and cheap as chips. She was able to cook one of those up in the school lab in about fifteen minutes. She washed the beat, and beef-flavored potion down with a burp, and by the time it hit her stomach she was fluent in Animalia. Kiwi bent down beneath her lab counter and started to harass her dog with a barrage of pets. “Hey boy, hey! Speak!” “Kiwi!” The dog sang, and rolled onto his back. “Love, love, love Kiwi! Belly rubs, belly rubs, belly rubs!” A sick feeling washed over the witch, like her stomach and heart ached all at once. Though the dog spoke, it was not Dante. Not the Dante she wanted, at least. Her wise playful friend, was a bit more articulate than the playful pup at her fingertips. Madam Crabapple was right, something had been lost between them. Whatever magic animated their conversations previously, was gone. “Kiwi sad?” The dog looked up at her, tongue hanging out of his mouth like a goof. “Yeah.” She nodded, and let the tears come. At that the dog jumped into action, rolling onto his feet, he stuck his nose into her face, and started to lick. “Don’t be sad. There there.” How could such a simple, heartfelt request not drive her into further tears? --- If there were small miracles to be thankful for, it’s that the potion eventually wore off. Not before Kiwi got into a very heated discussion with the birds about global warming. It’s not that they didn’t believe in it, it’s that they supported it that really threw Kiwi for a loop. Whatever the opinions of bird brains might be, school stopped for no witch. She was forced to make the unenviable decision to lay in her bed depressed or drown herself in work. She figured that at least drowning would raise her GPA, so went with that option. Yet not long after she entered her tower, a flash of light illuminated her blinds. Then that low, slow, tumble rolled across the land. Like breaking tree trunks the sound of thunder reached the foundation, and made Kiwi’s window shake terribly. “Mmm.” She groaned miserably and pressed her hand against the window to keep it from vibrating. There was something awful about knowing, that she’d have to endure this storm alone this time. Why did she have to act so brave in front of Dante? Hadn’t he known that she was lying? Only pretending to be brave. If it weren’t for her homework, she would have been whimpering under the covers with him. Now she had more work to do. Maybe that was the secret of being an adult. You just keep yourself so busy, there’s not time to be afraid. Maybe, but at the moment Kiwi was feeling busy and afraid. Overwhelmingly both, actually. At her bed, there was a whimpering. Kiwi paused long enough to spot Dante buried in blankets, snout poking out. “What are you doing under there?” She said in a sweet voice, out of habit she waited for a response. None came, just a feeling of foolishness and despair. Kiwi huffed. “Still scared? You weren’t just doing that all for me?” She paused, and turned to face Dante. “That whole time, you were really scared?” She turned back to her work, considering the dog for another moment. When we give these things personality, meaning… how much of that is us, and how much of it belongs to the subject? “I’m scared too.” With a flash of her hand, the blinds flew to the ceiling, and Kiwi found herself stranded in that bottle of lightning. All across the landscape, the light danced, and arched. Illuminating nothing but silhouettes, signaling only thunder. She stood up, pushing her chair away. With another wave of her hand, the massive window yawned open, and let in the maelstrom. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” She screamed at the storm, from the top of her lungs, until her throat hurt, and the clouds warbled. The storm roared back, shaking the shutters. As it traveled about the mountains, it echoed and sounded like laughter. The quilt of grey was amused by her tiny protest. The forces of nature at times can be a disheartening foe, and for a moment Kiwi felt ridiculous and wet. Then at her side, a great barking erupted. Dante, familiar par excellence was at her side, as always. She smiled at the pup, she hadn’t heard him bark since her first year at the school. It was a good solid ‘woof!’ Strong enough that every sheep in the state snapped to attention and awaited orders. “You found your voice!” Kiwi cheered, over the thunder and the barking. The raindrops splashed against her face, and she realized she was letting Dante fight on his own. So she did the only thing she could do. Kiwi grabbed two metal pots and started banging them together. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” She screamed again, and again. With her squire by her side, she ran circles around the room, banging pots, and shouting whenever there was breath in her lungs. Dante panted just beside her, barking away lightning before it even had a chance to strike. Or so it felt, in their hearts. In truth, the storm was an apathetic thing, and wasn’t concerned, interested, or bothered by the faint screaming and barking of a single room. It had a whole countryside to soak and terrify. A heavy gust of wind erupted from this formless giant and rushed into Kiwi’s room. It scattered her papers across the room and sent rain in horizontally. Kiwi laughed, and jumped to her bed, Dante joined her. With a feat of mundane magic, she pulled the covers off her bed and threw them over herself and Dante. “We’ll be safe under here.” She panted and laughed, and under the dark of the covers could feel his hot breath smacking her face in exhausted huffs. The rain wailed against their fortress, assaulting it with rain, and bluster. Kiwi snuggled close to Dante, basking in his usual warmth. She supposed that things like love, or even just caring could be expressed in ways beyond words. She also figured if Dante did what he came to do, she should not begrudge him a job well done. Though at the moment she didn’t feel very mature, she was sure Dante knew what he was doing. It would be a strange world, without his voice to guide her. Eventually, the pounding rain would soak their blankets through, and make a very cold, very wet mess out of the unusual pair. Until then she was determined to enjoy this moment with something familiar.


Crossing Paths Xiù Wáng is seated at her desk, which is piled high with textbooks and notebooks. Her marketing textbook is open in front of her, and it is brimming with ideas that will only serve to stoke her desire to launch a content creation company. Her phone started buzzing loudly, interrupting her thoughts. Xiù looked down to see that her mother was calling. Realizing that she had never heard from her parents after telling them a few years ago that she intended to study in the United States, she could feel her heart racing. She answers her phone with a nerve-wracking voice, "Hello, Mama,” as she taps her pen on the desk, not knowing what her mother will say next. “Xiù, you know what we expect of you,” her mother said, her tone firm yet loaded with cultural norms. “I cannot let you waste away your future for foolishness, nor can your father. return home, get married, and have a family. That's what lies ahead for you.” Xiù grips her phone tighter after hearing those words: “You can't just tell me to give up on my ambitions, Mama; I have to pursue my passion, which is marketing. I can make a career out of it since I'm good at it. Please make an effort to comprehend.” The call ended abruptly, leaving Xiù with an ultimatum hanging over her head like a dangling sword and no answer from the other end. In mid-March, Xiù goes to Tampa, Florida, for spring break with her friends, hoping to take a break from her family's expectations and her college coursework. She finds momentary solace from her problems in Florida's warmth, the beaches—especially her favorite, Clearwater Beach—the saline breeze, and the lively vitality. At a neighborhood cafe next to Clearwater Beach, one of the most well-known beaches in Tampa, Florida, Xiù Wáng finds herself in the center of the metropolis, where the sun shines on a bustling urban area and the blue waters of the beaches sparkle beneath the sky. The cafe she is at is called “Art Smart Coffee Gallery." This unique art cafe displays art for visitors in addition to serving coffee and pastries. The enticing local artwork adorning the quaint cafe's window walls draws Xiù in. It speaks to her like a foreign language and consists of textures, colors, and unsaid stories.

Xiù was engrossed in the local artwork, particularly the oil painting of the boat, and was unaware that a young man was watching her from a corner table. Her medium-black hair is pushed behind her ears as she examines the textures and artwork.

The young man, Jose Iglesias, was dressed casually and drinking hot chocolate while making notes in his leather journal. His dark brown eyes would occasionally dart toward Xiù as an indication of his admiration for her beauty and grace. Finally, he gathered his courage within himself and went straight up to Xiù with a warm, friendly smile. “"Hello, My name is Jose Iglesias. I noticed you're looking at the oil painting of the boat paint job," he said. "Oh, hello there. Xiù Wang is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Xiù smiled after initially being shocked. “Yes, I do think oil paintings are more vibrant than other mediums since they create such flawless artworks by bringing the colors that flicker to life and providing us with textures. I can almost picture this painting of a sunset outside my dorm window at my university of higher education in North Dakota. I will admit, though, that it is a little bit warmer here.” She replied with a smile. Our main characters go to a table in a corner that is seated for two. Xiù and Jose sit across from each other and continue their conversation from there. “Tampa is where I was born and raised. So what brought you to Tampa, Florida? I'm assuming you're here for spring break, just like me. I came here to explore more, spend time with friends, and enjoy the beaches.” He gives her a curious smile and lifts his right eyebrow. Xiù nods and responds, "Yeah, I'm on spring break." Several of us determined that Florida would be our final destination. Minutes flew by, and then hours passed, and it just seemed like they knew each other from their past. They exchanged stories, and there was laughter. Their connection just grew in the deepest moment of the evening. “So you're a student at North Dakota State University? Which degree program are you enrolled in?” He asks with curiosity.  "My degree is in marketing. With my degree, I hope to start my own content production business. I also intern for a local content producer who runs her own business and is imparting some knowledge to me. I enjoy it, even though it requires a lot of work. How about you?” She responds excitedly. Before Jose could answer, a waiter comes up and tells them this: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just letting you two know that we’ll be closing up in 20 minutes as it is almost 10:30 pm,” and Jose replies politely, “Thank you; we’ll be out soon.” The waiter walks away, and Jose starts to respond to Xiù’s earlier question, “Sorry. I am impressed with your plan after college,” he says, seeming impressed, and then continues, “My field of study at the University of Florida is communications. I enjoy how conversation can unite individuals and allow them to share their experiences, as you and I are currently doing.” “That is a great field of study, and I know you will do great in that area.” She says this while looking at him proudly. Reluctantly, Xiù looks at the time on her phone and realizes that she must be heading home because it is at that time and it is late. Jose asked for her phone number in case he wanted to have contact with her. “Call me or text anytime. I enjoyed our conversation.” He grins and starts walking home. She hails for a taxi out in the humid weather of Florida. As she gets in the taxi, her phone rings in her handbag, and her mind runs to think, "Already, Jose? " She smiles as she grabs her phone, but it's not. Surprisingly, it's her mother again, considering they had not talked before spring break and the ultimatum her mother left her.

“You only have this once, Xiù. Otherwise, we'll cut you off. Return home and fulfill our family's expectations.” The voice of her mother resounded with finality. Xiù heard these words many times, but this time they hit her like a clash of symbols in her ears, and when those words hit her ears, her eyes welded with tears. Her personal aspirations collided brutally with the weight of cultural obligations. The taxi arrived at her friend's appointment, and the driver said to her, “We are here.” Xiù got out of the taxi and thanked the driver. She walked carefully to her friend's apartment door and turned the knob, still feeling heavy from her mother's words. She slung into an armchair and thought about the future: What could she do? "How could she possibly give up her dream and yet lose all respect for her family?”

Then, recalling a previous chat in which he had discussed a similar issue that he was still going through, she considered messaging Jose about her predicament in the hopes that he might provide some perspective. She reached for her phone in her bag and texted Jose, “Hey, its Xiù,” and she set her phone on the side table to wait for an answer. When she did that, she went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and when that happened, her phone chimed, and it was Jose answering, “Hey! What’s up?” Xiù explained her dilemma, told him that she had no idea what to do, and asked for his perspective. “Why don't you and I meet up tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. at the same cafe, and we'll establish a strategy about how we will address our family's dilemmas?” Jose texted her to let her know that, while he wishes he had an answer right away, he doesn't. Xiù is sipping her water when she looks at her phone and finds Jose's message. She is relieved to learn that he is eager to assist in coming up with a strategy. She texted him back, “Sounds good to me; I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 am. Thanks, Jose.” Then she heads to bed. The next day, Xiù shows up early to the cafe after that. The calm streets were bathed in a warm, golden hue as the sun was just starting to rise over the horizons. Located between a small ice cream shop and a bookstore, the gallery cafe was well-known for its artisanal coffee and varied paintings. She flung the door open, letting in the fragrance of freshly cooked pastries. She selected a corner table and placed her coffee order. She sat at the table near the window, which viewed the ocean and the breaking waves on the beach. She couldn't stop thinking about the next chat, hoping that today's discussion would provide her with the explanation she needed. A waitress approached with her coffee order, a cappuccino with a touch of cinnamon. Xiù thanked her for delivering it to her and sipped her cappuccino while looking at the watch on her wrist. It was two minutes until ten. Jose arrived at exactly 10 a.m. His wavy brown hair bounced with each stride, giving his image a carefree charm. His face appeared lighthearted and exciting due to the loose ringlets framing it. He spotted Xiù seated at a little corner table, and he walked up to the table with a casual ease that conveyed confidence and receptivity. "Hey, Xiù," he said, his warm tone instantly putting her at ease. "How are you doing?" Xiù sighs and answers, “I’m alright for now. I just want to figure out a plan with my family.” Jose nodded with understanding. "I hear you. We'll make a plan together, but why don't we go for a walk on the beach for a change of scenery and some fresh air?" he suggests. “That sounds great. I could use some fresh air and a change in scenery.” She smiles at his suggestion. They left the cafe and walked to Clearwater Beach, which was a short distance away. As they went down the coastline, the Florida wind caught Xiù's medium black hair, causing it to flutter over her face, prompting her to pull it up into a ponytail. As their talk progressed, the sound of the waves and the salty breeze helped her feel more at ease.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to respect my family, but I don’t want to give up my independence and dreams,” Xiù began while looking out at the ocean. Jose nods understandingly. “I understand. It's difficult to match their expectations with our own personal goals. We need to find a way of upholding our family's wishes without losing ourselves in the process.” “You’re right. I just have no idea where to start.” Xiù nodded, feeling a sense of connection and comprehension. “How about we write a list of our goals and our parents' expectations of us?" Jose suggested, with determination coming from his deep brown eyes. “From the list, we can look for some common ground on how to compromise.” They found a space on the beach, and Jose took out his leather journal and began taking notes. When they completed writing down their notes, they discovered that their family's expectations were crucial, and there were areas of their own desires that they could assert without generating too much difficulty.

“Your parents want you to return home, get married, and start a family. That is what they want or expect of you.” Jose pointed it out. “However, if you do not want that right immediately, you might just return home and have an open chat with them about your personal goals and how you intend to fulfill their cultural standards in the future.” Xiù nodded, feeling more hopeful. “I could do it. And, regarding your family's condition, let them know that while you respect their desire to take over the family business to aid them, this is not your road to take and that you have another one to pursue.” As they continue to discuss, Xiù feels a ray of optimism and a burden lifted off her shoulders. With Jose's help and the approach they devised, she felt confident about confronting her family with an open discussion about expectations and personal goals. “Thank you, Jose.” She smiled as she spoke. "I greatly appreciate your assistance in all of this. I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks to you.” “Anytime, Xiù." Jose replied, his brown locks framing his face, and smiled back. “I’m glad that we both were able to figure out a plan.” Both Jose and Xiù return with a renewed sense of dedication, the sea as their witness, and the wind at their backs, welcoming a fresh outlook on the future.


Click. “That oughta do it. Nervous?” “More than you can guess,” Aichen admits. He tugs on the restraints at his wrists. “These have to be so tight?” “Part of the safety protocol.” The computerized voice is warm, almost human. It’s been programmed with perfect attention to colloquial speech, but it still lacks a proper bedside manner. The questions it asks are never followed up. Is he nervous? Yes. No. It doesn’t matter how he answers. “So if I win—” he begins. “—I’m not programmed with that information.” Two beady eyes blink behind a flat screen, which twists to meet his gaze. That’s as close as the programmers could come to successfully mimicking physical mannerisms in a human conversation. No matter how he turns, the screen will follow him. “Great.” Undercover mission or not, Aichen didn’t sign up for this. His superiors will be hearing his complaints—if he lives. “Throw me in then. I’m as ready as I’ll get. The longer I wait, the worse this feels.” “You’ll wait until your allotted time.” Blasted thing. “Your partner hasn’t been decided.” Aichen stands from his patient bed and investigates the window on the far wall. From here, he can barely make out the roaring coliseum. There’s a crowd from floor to ceiling and there’s no telling how far up the ceiling goes. It’s impossible to guess at this angle. “This isn’t some en masse fight to the death or something, is it?” Aichen wonders, hands pressed to the glass. After being captured, he’d been told absolutely nothing. It started in a cell, then he was being led down this hallway, and now he’s stuck in this room. His only mission detail was: get captured . What could be so important inside those anti-gravity walls? He won’t have much chance for recon. “Await your time, prisoner…1227894-4-4-4….” “122789435,” Aichen finishes for it. “You’d think they could afford functioning ‘bots with the high bets they get here.” He briefly glances at the bot, who’s makeshift face is a blaze of expressions, and sighs. Buzz. “Guess it’s finally my turn.” Approaching the sealed door, Aichen mentally prepares his first encounter with the chamber. Recon, then fight. And in a worst-case scenario, gather his bearings before proceeding. But he’s seen anti-gravity before. He’ll be fine. Bang! His body jolts forward. The roars erupt. And then he’s plummeting. Where’s the anti-gravity? For a fear-invoking moment, he just falls. Air whooshes past him, billowing through his tunic, ruffling through his hair.

A hand grips his ankle. “Get it together!” the shout is audible, even over the deafening thrum of people, machines, and fear. Hovering above him is a woman as well-lived as the council. Aged ones are rare. “Check the bonds.” As Aichen flails to grab his wrist, she drops him.

Two blurred figures clash with her. She blocks. Parries. Counters. Her form is pristine. She must be aged. Aerial combat is no longer sought after. The academies deemed it archaic. It and every other form of combat. That’s why he had to find a teacher. “Focus,” Aichen whispers to himself. His eyes waiver over the wrist binds until he sees it. Ripping a circular tab up from the forearm, he gives it a twirl, then shoves it back in. His body jolts. Like a crescent hand, an air current forces him back up the clear shaft. It forces his gaze onto the woman and her plight. She kicks one of the figures away and sinks her fingers into the other. Pieces of them scatter, framing the air around her. Click. Aichen whirls to meet the sound at the very base of the chamber. And then it begins to fill. A liquid floods beneath them. Water? Aichen’s never seen water before. But the frothy blue could be nothing else. He stops. The crescent releases him, leaving him dangling near the very height of the chamber.

But the water is rising. Clank. Clank. Clank. A rhythmic clatter before the full vacuum. He holds his breath. His heart pounds. His eyes clamp shut. The vacuum overwhelms him, water filling in over his head.

Soft at first, another beat. Then, from the all-consuming liquid, the beat spreads. Bang. Bang. Bang. Though soft on the ears, it vibrates through him. He hazards a peek. The aged woman is nowhere to be seen. But those two figures are approaching him. Fast. With an unplanned weave backward, his hands hit the glass. One figure eases a hand over his throat, the other threatens with razor teeth. Aichen’s limbs are heavy. How did his ancestors move in water? How did they swim ?

Panic sets in. “Oy!” the woman’s voice echoes in his head. And theirs too, apparently. They both turn to meet her. Two thin talons puncture the tips of each finger. She strikes. A flurry of movement. A feline cry. Then two screams as they dissolve. “They’ll be back.” Her words are filtering through a throbbing bubble. It fluctuates with every word, every breath.

“This is a team event?” While Aichen usually prides himself on asking astute questions, this isn’t one of his best moments. And here, under the water, the drowned sound of his voice causes the words to sound even less intelligible.

“Swim.” She ignores Aichen, drawing him toward the surface. “You may not understand the feeling. But you’re drowning.” They breach the waterline. And Aichen gasps. His chest is burning. His nose, too. But with the air, the weight of his limbs lessens. “I can’t swi—” “—I know. The academy never trains ‘em right these days.” Her grip on him holds. But her gaze is less loyal. She’s surveying the landscape beneath them, the crowd threatening to break through the chamber, and the ceiling. “No, I’m no—” “—Save it, embboy. You’re an incarnation of academy regulations.” She gestures at his feet. “Any hidden weapons in those boots?” He ignores her.

“There’s nothing wrong with being born ,” he grumbles. “Being of embryonic cells is preferable to whatever you are.” For a brief moment, the woman meets his judging glare. The bubble at her mouth squirms against her frown. “Are you one of those tube babies ? A biobot ? Or maybe you were one of the original crafted ?” He knows he’s digging his own grave, but he can’t stop the onslaught of insults from tumbling over his teeth.

“Do you have something against crafted ?” “No,” he’s quick to recover. “No, I’ve just never met one.” She eyes him a moment longer, before glancing away. Deep in the water, the figures are easing toward them. They don’t have time for this.

Diving beneath the water, the aged woman takes hold of his boot. She rips the laces free. And the knife beneath them. The other boot is short to follow. “Wield this,” she orders him as she resurfaces. “Fine.” He reluctantly takes the blade. And then he’s sinking. Rapidly. Two billowing claws climb his legs. They rip. They shred. They slice through his skin. And he swings aimlessly. The knife strikes once. And the figure recoils. It screams with a growing wound, which festers and spreads. It’s skin dissolves. Again. The water recedes. From above him, the aged woman lunges. She catches Aichen by his belt. Then herself on the wall. “The trials are quick. You have to keep up.” Thrusting him onto the wall, she points with her head. “Each scenario is different. But the goal never changes. Kill those things, survive.” “Right.” He can do that. Gurgle.

The water drains beneath them. A harsh moment. A long moment. His heart’s deafening him in anticipation. His hands are clammy.

But nothing happens.

“They can take a moment to transition,” she admits under her breath.

“I guess we can catch our breath,” he jokes. He isn’t sure she even has breath. If elders are rare, the crafted are inconceivable. They had died out decades ago, along with the other elders. And for good reason, at least, that’s what he’d been told. Dangerous, unpredictable, unstable, and horrific. Not one positive descriptor had ever been used to describe them.

He resists the urge to stare at her. “What’s coming next?” His question drifts beneath the mechanical engine that erupts beneath them. The hatches open. There’s creaking joints, the rattle of movement, and a heavy hiss. But above that, a black mass scaling up the wall towards them.

“The air, the water. I could handle those. You’re afraid of biosects ?” “What?” Aichen looks down at the mass. “I—I…” “I’ll handle this one. Climb,” the woman lowers herself. Among the mass, two shadowy figures surge. It’ll end if he kills one and she kills the other. Closing his eyes, he lets go. As he falls, he raises his knife. “No!” Her shout bursts his eyes open. The shadow has moved. Beneath him, there are only biosects. “Throw it. Throw it!” Before he hits the ground, Aichen releases the dagger. Mid-air, their daggers graze each other. That soft touch is enough to guide his. Screams. Aichen flattens to the floor. No biosects. No shadows. “Stand, hurry.” The woman is already beside him, gathering both daggers. Looping a hand under his arm, she lifts him to his feet. The wail of a siren. Pounding from the opposite side of the chamber. Cheering. “It’s not over yet.” “M-more fears?” Aichen wonders. He squints at the crowd, wondering how they find enjoyment in this. They wouldn’t if they were the ones down here. No, they’d be begging for mercy and dying one by one.

“Two unknowns, one fear.” “So then it should be over.” “Yours are. Mine aren’t,” her eyes scan the chamber. “The unknowns could be anything. But if you understand them, then I need you to—” The words are sealed into her mouth by a thin thread. Alarmed, Aichen tries to reassure her. But he can’t. His lips clap together. The thread is quick. Once finished, it pounces from his mouth to his eyes. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Wings? No. Electricity. A hand encloses in his. But the touch is gone as soon as it arrives. His dagger is all that remains. He tightens his fingers on it. This is something he’s been trained for. Bending both knees, Aichen assumes a proper dagger-stance. He can hear the woman’s breath to the left. But to the right, a whoosh. He swings. The blade connects.

And then she’s screaming. “Elder?!” he shouts. He approaches her. One arm as his guide, he interprets the situation. She’s on her knees. The figure has her by the hair. Digging his fingers into what should be the figure’s eye sockets, Aichen thrashes back. The knife moves with him. A sickening, fleshy sound tells him he hit. Light filters back through his vision. But the woman is lying on the ground. Blood has stained the floor around her shivering form. “Hey,” he whispers, dropping to her side. “Hey!” His hands cup her wrinkled cheeks. “Please. I need your help.” “Wrap it,” her voice barely passes her pale lips. Aichen tears the fabric from his shirt, peeling it into a long thin scrap. “My shoulder.” He heaves her into his lap, securing the fabric around her chest and shoulder. It’ll have to do. Another failing of the academy. No medical practice. “Give me the other knife,” Aichen tells her. “No.” She shakes her head. “ Give me the other knife!” he barks. “I’m not dead. We’ll finish this together.” Before Aichen can argue further, the lights cut. Her unknowns are all visibility related. Will her fear be as well? Electricity hisses up the chamber walls. In an arcing coil, a blue spark alights. The back of his neck tingles. This is an unknown for him, too. He has no experience with live electricity. It’s an issue of the past. The coil rotates inward. With increasing speed, it lurches in at them. He pulls her beneath him. “I can take it,” he promises. Engulfing her small frame in his body, he absorbs the shock. It rattles him. In his every nerve. In the deep, squirming organs. In his instantly nauseated stomach. His teeth chatter. And he groans. Saliva foams through the corner of his lips. But in the soft glow, he sees them. Against the increasing pain, he brandishes his knife. The figure flits in and out of view. But its location is constant. Are they testing his timing? Without a second thought, he hurls it. The knife passes through at first. But the figure returns just as the blade seeks to exit. And its eyes bulge. “Give me the knife,” he sounds the words out through pained whimpers. He’s passing out. The electricity is only gaining in strength. The once aching tingle is now a violent jolting. “No.” Her hand flicks out. He watches the blade spiral into the darkness. And then he’s free. The blue crackle releases him. The lights flicker back on. And the chamber erupts with applause. But he’s still vibrating.

Regardless of his freedom, he’s suffering. Hugging himself with both arms, he attempts to still the trembling. But it’s not just his body that’s shuddering, it’s his eyes as well. Even if he calms his body, he can barely see anything.

“Don’t move too suddenly,” the woman rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could be injured.” “It’s fine”—he jerks out of her touch—“If we’re going to get out of here, I need to know. What’s your fear?” He isn’t one who likes to be doted on. He never has. Joining the academy was a way for him to prove his worth, not to be protected like a child. As it is, they prepared him to handle worse shocks than that. “You’ll see.” “No. Tell me. Now.” He pushes to stand but falters. The knife is too far out of reach. He has to get to it before the next test begins. Dragging himself across the floor, he strains his fingers out for it. Snap. His fingers crunch under her boot. He withholds the scream, even through the throbbing. He’s in enough pain now. It’s all numbing. The woman bends to retrieve his knife. “That.” Her voice comes from behind him. Oh. “You’re afraid of yourself?” he confirms. The woman above him grins. Knife in hand, she dives for him. He rolls. Catching her leg in both hands, he rips her to the ground. They tumble. They wrestle. But she manages to gain the high ground. From the corner of his eye, he can see the real woman facing a similar fate with another version of herself. This is the last one. The last one. Tightening his fingers into the woman’s striking wrist, he leans forward. His teeth clamp down on her nose. His jaw holds firm, even though the rest of his body is wavering. She claws his cheek. Those metal points in her fingers are identical to the real woman’s. But he doesn’t let up. Blood seeps from her face. Her grip loosens on the blade. And Aichen rips it free from her hands. He delves it deep into her throat. Click! Hiss! Plumes of smoke fill the chamber. The crowd disappears as the screens stop projecting. The sound of them fades with it. The duplicate bodies of the elder woman glitch until they’re nothing but training dummies. Including the one atop Aichen. It flops, weighing him down to the floor; nothing more than a sand-filled human-shaped sack. “You’re certainly resilient.” The elder woman stares down at him. The messy, silver tresses that were once tangled into a bun are now sleek and straight at her shoulders. Her dirty, torn tunic and pants have slimmed into an ankle-length, black pantsuit. The tattered shoes are nothing but bare feet. “And considerate.” “I was trained to b—” “—Oh, certainly not. You may look regulation, however, you’re anything but. The agents before you left me to die; the ones who made it that far. After all, they still won without me. But you never assumed that to be true—” she kneels beside him, her lips to his ear—“Embboy, who really trained you?” Aichen doesn’t answer. His mission was to get captured, but now he’s wondering who issued it. And who she really is. Like all aged, is she part of the council? If so, he has no reason to talk. He refuses to have a reason. They were the ones who drove him to join the academy. Fighting them was the only thing keeping him alive after... “Twelve,” she calls out. “Commander?” a familiar face enters the room. Aichen’s eyes widen. “Weldler?!” Aichen exclaims the name before he can stop himself. “122789435.” Weldler bows to Aichen in greeting. He then returns to the elder woman. His bow only deepens. “W-Weldler.” Aichen’s voice softens. They’d lost Weldler nearly a year ago. He’d gone undercover and never returned. But those with him couldn’t remember what happened. They just labeled him MIA and the higher-ups dismissed any requests for rescue. “What can I do for you, Commander?” Weldler prompts the elder woman when she doesn’t instruct him. Gaining a soft grin, she rests a hand down on Aichen’s head. A pat. Two. Then she strokes his bangs from his forehead. “Prepare 122789435’s new living quarters. Oh, and change his file name to Aichen . I will send him to be escorted shortly.” She dismisses Weldler, who leaves without a second thought, or a second glance. Her fingers trace down Aichen’s cheek before resting under his chin. “Your mentor won’t be able to hide from me for long. See. I’m eager to unravel your mind, Agent Aichen Lurch. All too eager.” She stands with abrupt grace and snaps for another man standing at the door. “He’s ready.”


Lan’iell swam as if his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. Life as he knew it, anyway. One might say the situation was one of his own making; after all, he hadn’t had to respond to the princess’s rather blatant flirting, at least not beyond the bounds of a few proper sentences and a polite, but firm, refusal. As the youngest son of a lowly viscount, it’s not like he would ever be considered a match for the king’s only daughter anyway. Which was actually more than okay with Lan. The princess was, admittedly, gorgeous, but shallow and petty and not at all someone he could see sharing a home with, much less a marriage bed. (Or even a pre-marital bed, despite his reputation at court. He’d only been out in society for two years, but already had something of a reputation.) He breached the surface, gasping for air and taking a quick look around to get his bearings. No one was in sight, and he breathed a quick “thank you” to his childhood swimming instructor, who had insisted, since theirs was an island kingdom, that he should be able to swim well enough to escape a shark, if need be. Escaping from other things was a side benefit. Coast clear, he veered west, heading for shore. Twenty minutes later, he’d made it to shore. It was rocky here, and it took a moment for him to navigate his way to dry land. Once he did he took a moment to stretch and look around. Still clear. Good. The shore was wooded here, the treeline growing to a few hundred yards of the shoreline. Great for cover, not so much for navigation, and he studied the forest as he thought. There was a reason he’d cultivated his reputation. Part of it was that he was something of a natural flirt, and good-looking enough to attract attention- tall, with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s jade green eyes. Lan wouldn’t call himself classically handsome, not in the way some of the favorites at court were, but he was lean and muscled, a love of swordplay evident in powerful arms and shoulders. If he’d wanted to, he could have cut quite a swath through the court ladies. Too bad it wasn’t the ladies he was interested in. Picking a path that seemed to head in the direction he wanted to go, he headed inland. The ship he’d escaped from had probably gone back to port at this point. Lan’iell felt a small stab of pity for the guard that had been supposed to be keeping watch on him. It wasn’t the guard’s fault that he’d made a number of friends among the palace security force during his time at court, nor was there any way for the poor fellow to have known that one of his colleagues had taught him how to break out of shackles (in exchange for a small favor of the matchmaking sort) after a similar… misadventure. Eventually, Lan’iell’s feet brought him to a small clearing. There wasn’t anything terribly special about it, if you discounted the ring of guards trying (and failing) to hide in the surrounding trees. Lan had spotted at least four in the last half hour. He snorted. City boys. It was easy enough to slip through the ring. Even easier, since the one guard who’d actually spotted him had studiously pretended Lan was merely a squirrel. It was far from the first time this particular situation had arisen, after all, and he restrained a chuckle as he reached the edge of the clearing. Before him was a small encampment- a fairly nice tent, campfire with something tasty-smelling cooking over it, a couple of chairs, and a pair of blankets laid out, close enough to the fire to be warm but far enough it would be hard to see them from the edges of the clearing. Lan had very fond memories of those blankets. Standing by the fire, stirring the cookpot, stood a figure, and he took a moment to stare appreciatively as the other spoke. “Took you long enough. Dinner’s almost ready.” “Sorry, love. Your father’s men were more persistent than usual. I had to go a little further than planned to lose them,” Lan said easily, moving into the firelight and wrapping his arms around the figure’s waist. The other squirmed. “You’re still damp. Go change. There are dry clothes in the tent.” “Why? You’ll be taking them off soon enough.” That earned him a swat with the spoon, and he chuckled. “So violent, your highness. Is this how you treat all your subjects?” “Only the ones who stir up family drama. Do you have any idea how long it took my sister to stop screaming after that little stunt you pulled? Father was pissed. You’re lucky the guards gave up. If they’d caught you and brought you back he probably would have made you marry her just to shut her up.” The prince turned in the circle of his arms, wrapping his arms around his taller paramour and pulling him down for a kiss.

Lan leaned into the kiss for a moment, then pulled back with a rueful shake of his head. “Not exactly what I was going for. Guess I won’t be welcome back at court for a while, huh? Too bad. I was just starting to get good at sneaking into your chambers, too.” The prince snorted, pulling away to check the stew. “Yeah right. You’re lucky you’ve done such a good job charming my retinue. You’re a rogue, but stealth is not your thing, love. Stick with what you’re good at, we’ll all live longer.” That put a damper on the mood. What they were doing was technically illegal and extremely ill-advised. “Darling…” “ Stop. ” The word was short and clipped, the prince’s voice a mix of warning and resigned. “I know what you’re going to say. And, if I were my brothers, or even my sister, this would be a problem.” The prince lifted the stewpot, setting it on a convenient stump. “I”m seventh in line, and my eldest brother’s wife is pregnant. If it’s a boy, it’ll more or less knock me out of the running entirely. My father could care less who I marry, or even if I marry, and he’s known of my preferences for years now. If his advisors weren’t all old and too conservative for anyone’s good, he’d be the first to approve of this. Your father is one of his oldest friends, after all.” “I know,” Lan said with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll be good.” “I highly doubt that. But come eat.” Lan’iell laid back, sandwiched between two warm cotton blankets, his royal lover curled tightly into his side and snoring lightly. It was a gorgeous night, and he stared up at the night sky, letting the stars' peace creep into his soul. Tired as he was, sleep would not come lightly; his mind was too busy chewing over what the prince had said earlier.

Marriage. Maybe. Someday. Until then, I’ll take what I can get. You’re more than worth it, my prince.


Lying in the cold darkness of an empty room, I didn’t want to get up, there was no point!  How many times can you get knocked to your knees before you just stayed down in the muck?  This wasn’t who I was, or at least it’s not who I used to be, but here I am knocked down again, all in the name of Love.  You see I have yearned for love, hunted it, tried to create it, and all to no avail.  The rational side of my brain says to forget it and become the type of guy that I cannot stand.  You know the one, the guy who uses women for one thing, treats them like trash, and just moves on, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.  “Get that out of your head Jake,” I growled to myself, rising out of bed to start my day. Sandra had been everything to me.  She was beautiful, spirited, and had brought excitement and joy to my life.  We had lived together for two years yesterday, when she moved out with all of my furniture.  I should have paid more attention to the signs that were right in front of me though.  The questioning looks I would get when I started working night shifts and the cold meals left in the fridge, if there was anything left at all. Then the “girls' nights” started with a group of her college friends on my only nights off.  I knew it was coming, but I chose not to see it; like a fool I was blinded by what I thought was love. Walking to the window I pushed the towel to the side to let the harsh brightness of the sun into the room.  I still can’t believe she took the blinds when she left!  Closing my eyes, I let the warmth and light envelope me, then the tingling started, like pin pricks across my skin.  I had never told anyone why I worked nights, but it all started after Sandra moved in.  We had gone to the river for a canoe trip where I got a horrible sunburn. After that, my skin always reacted the same way to direct sunlight; a slight tingle that intensified into excruciating pain. “Polymorphic sun poisoning,” the dermatologist called it.  “It’s hard to say what caused it.  I’m sure that severe sunburn didn’t help matters any, but it’s just something that you will have to monitor very closely from now on,” he said flippantly.  Not caring anymore, I stood in the light until my skin turned red and the pain doubled me over.  It took my mind off the betrayal.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this happened. Before Sandra, it was Janeane, and before her it was Chelsea, my high school sweetheart.  They had all used me to help them financially and led me to believe they loved me, but they hadn’t.  I’m not even sure they understood what love was. “She even took the coffee pot,” I thought shaking my head.  “Why would you take the coffee pot, you don’t even like coffee?” I had asked when calling her phone. “Andre likes coffee and doesn’t have a pot and I am not about to go to Starborns all the time,” she replied. “You left me for Andre?” I had roared into the phone, unable to control my anger. Andre had been my best friend since eighth grade, my coworker, and my surrogate brother and the kind of guy who destroyed any kind of monogamous relationship he came in contact with.  Always looking like he stepped out of a magazine, he was tall, well built, and had beautiful olive skin, a stark contrast to my alabaster tone.  This was the last straw, I couldn’t do it anymore, so I didn’t. Leaving town had never crossed my mind before, this had always been home.  I grew up here, but this time I saw no other choice, I had to get away.  The house sold in a month and since it was my house and paid for, I at least had a windfall if needed. My work had accepted my notice without hesitation and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting.  Sad that I had been there, doing a good job, for fourteen years, but that’s life, I guess.  All I owned fit in the small box trailer I had bought to haul the sound equipment that Sandra had taken as well.  “If you don’t find a place, at least you can camp in the trailer for a while,” I told myself, trying to find a bright side. Leaving town as the sun broke the horizon, I steered my Tacoma toward the highway, set the cruise at 80, and never looked back.  There was nothing left for me there and the road heading South was all that I wanted to see.  Seventeen hours later I rolled into New Orleans tired, starving, and needing gas.  Turning into the first Conoco station I came across found me being the only customer in the parking lot. Road weary, I stretched my back, walking a couple of laps around the truck and trailer before heading into the store.  The attendant was a slim faced woman with an inviting smile and beautiful caramel skin. “You ain’t gonna find no place to stay in this town,” she said from behind the counter.  “It’s Mardi Gras honey, and I’d be careful where I went in the city tonight, if I was you!” “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Can I get thirty-five dollars on pump four and this Coke?” I asked, sliding forty dollars across the counter. “Is there any place that I might find something to eat?” I inquired. Shaking her head, the attendant took the money, ringing up my bill.  “Only place you’ll find food tonight is at my house and since I never seen you before I will probably keep my gumbo to myself,” she said, smiling through her thick Louisiana accent. Opening my palm for the change she stopped, dropped the change on the counter, and started crying uncontrollably. “You poor thing,” she wailed. Confused, I looked to see if there was some kind of grotesque tumor erupting from my hand, but there was nothing, it just looked its normal pasty white. The woman grabbed my hand with a grip like iron, tracing the lines of my palm over and over, tears dripping from her cheeks onto my skin. “You poor man. How many times have you been hurt by those you loved?” she asked. Reeling from these words, I felt like a hole had been torn through me, revealing my soul to the elements.  “Three times,” I stammered as my knees started to buckle and the room began to spin. “Focus on me,” she commanded, “you can’t pass out on me. It’s important that you stay awake.” My eyes locked onto hers, vibrant and amber with little green flecks around the edges, tears pooling on her bottom lids wicking through thick black lashes before sliding down her cheeks. "Molina" etched in black letters on a gold name badge, pinned to her red shirt. "Wha…What’s happening here?” I stuttered, trying but unable to pull away. “You will never find what you need if you keep looking for it so hard, baby. It has to come natural-like.  The other person shouldn’t care about your money, your stuff, only you and what’s in your heart,” she sobbed.  “You got a light in you still and all the darkness surrounding your heart is from the pain caused by others.  You got to let that go!” Molina said, wiping her face with a tissue. How was it that a woman whom I’d never seen before knew so much about me?  Was I still asleep?  What was happening to me?  As these thoughts bounced to and fro in my head, Molina looked at me with those piercing amber eyes. “I have the sight, honey. Got it from my grand-mamma, who got it from hers, who got it from hers.  It goes back generations in my family, and it can be a curse, as well as a blessing,” she said releasing my hand.  “Your pain is written all over you and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone hurting so much.  You need help, baby,” she said quietly. “Is this real?” I asked, backing away from the counter. “As real as breathing,” she said softly. Lunging toward the door, I forgot about my gas as I drove out of the parking lot, convinced I could find another gas station.  I raced down the street, turning right for a few blocks, then back left, finding nothing but blocked streets and closed businesses. I let out a sigh of relief as I turned the corner and saw a station with all the lights on.  My breath caught as I walked in, seeing Molina, waiting with my change in her hand. “I said you need help,” she said, smiling. “How is this possible?” I said, turning back toward the door. “Don’t leave!” she said sternly.  “Jake Bertrand, you started running away long before you ever left home, you just didn’t know it.  My name is Molina,” she said, pronouncing it “Moe-Lynn-ae”. “You are losing it Jake,” I muttered. “You aren't crazy, just broken,” she said, shaking her head.  “There’s a reason you found your way back here and it’s not because you got lost.  I led you back here with my light,” she smiled. “I saw the lights when I turned the corner,” I stammered. “Everybody can see those lights, honey.  That’s not the light I’m talkin' about.  I prayed that God would send you back to me, so that I could help you and he did,” she said matter-of-factly. Slumping onto a stack of papers, I dropped my head into my hands.  I was dead, that was the only explanation that I could come up with.  I had to have fallen asleep driving, died, and was now stuck in this weird realm of confusion. As if reading my thoughts, Molina chuckled as she said, “You aren’t dead, and this is real.  Now go pump your gas and come back into the store.” My mind spinning, as my body, on autopilot, went and did as she had told me to.  I looked at my watch to see if it was still ticking, trying to wrap my head around the events taking place.  Time ticked along just as it always had, rendering me at an even farther loss for a rational explanation.  The pump clicked indicating the tank was full as the sound of a nearby private Mardi Gras celebration ensued.  The scent of warm, sweaty bodies engaged in dancing and drinking floated on the winds of the night accompanied by the raucous music of New Orleans’ largest celebration.  My mind settled as the music and laughter lifted my spirits. “You made the right choice coming here Jake,” I heard from behind me. The gas station looked dark and abandoned; I hadn’t even noticed the lights had been turned off.  The voice sounded familiar, but the woman speaking to me wasn’t Molina. “It’s me child,” she said with that unnerving ability to hear my thoughts. “How is this possible?” I asked, no longer afraid of her presence. “I knew you were going to come along at some point in my life.  I’ve waited years for you to set foot in front of me, at this moment right here,” she said, reaching for my hand. Without hesitation I reached for her hand surprised at the strength of her grip, she looked to be 90 years old, but the amber eyes still blazed brightly.  Looking around I realized the gas station didn’t just look abandoned, it was and had been for many years. “Molina are you an angel, or something else?” I asked hesitantly. “I am simply a messenger,” she said softly. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked. “Oh honey, it’s because you are broken, baby,” she drawled, “I know how to fix you, but you have to listen, because I am only allowed to tell you this once.” My vision blurring, I hadn’t realized that I had been crying this whole time. “I don’t want to be broken,” I sobbed, falling to my knees. “Please help me!” I begged. “Stand up, take me in your arms, and kiss me,” she said. I rose to my feet, bent down slightly to look into her eyes, and kissed her with a passion I didn’t know I possessed. That’s when I felt it; the pull from the depths of my soul.  I could feel all the pain and darkness leaving me as she pulled me into the kiss.  Her frail body was changing under the touch of my hand, her skin no longer felt taught over her bones, her hair spilled in endless curls down her back as she was growing younger.  Our bodies intertwined in this ethereal embrace, seeming to reverse time, in defiance of the natural order of all that I thought I knew. We broke apart, breathless, and wanting more. Before me stood the young woman I had seen earlier. “What just happened?  How did you go from young to old and back again?  I’m sorry for all the questions, it’s just that I don’t understand any of what’s happening tonight,” I said through ragged breaths. “You saved me, and I saved you,” she said breathlessly.  “I was cursed by a Voodoo queen a long time ago because she was jealous of the love I had for a man she wanted.  She took him away from me and cast a spell, locking me in this old body for all but a few hours a year during Mardi Gras,” she said quietly. “So, this is all some kind of dream, right?  There’s no such thing as magic, is there?” I said incredulously. “You tell me,” she said, pulling me in for another kiss. I couldn’t resist her touch and relished in the delicate kiss, savoring the taste of her lips, the softness of her tongue against mine. Pulling back to revel at the ebony beauty in my arms, I couldn’t help but wonder how long this moment would last. As if on cue, she tilted her head to the side with a sly smile saying, “The only way to break the spell was to feel the passion of a man broken by love, but who still wanted to find it.  Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself,” she said as tears streamed down her face.  “I have been under this spell for over a century, hoping that someday, you would find me,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand any of this, but I can’t deny what I am feeling right now. How can I feel love for someone I just met, who tells me they’re over a century old?” I asked. “I feel it too and to explain it would take a lifetime. Are you willing to listen?” she asked demurely. Puling her close to me, I whispered, “Only if you are willing to spend that lifetime with me,” kissing her softly. “There’s no place I would rather be than in these arms for the rest of my days,” she said, hugging my neck and nuzzling my jaw. We talked through the night, standing in that abandoned lot until dawn. As the sun rose over Lake Pontchartrain, her onyx hair shimmering in the light, I felt no tingling, there was no longer pain, just the warmth of her touch, and the radiance of her smile. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said, squeezing my hand. Pulling her hand to my lips I said, “I am glad you found me. Let’s go home!”  We crawled into the truck and drove all day with the windows down, heading nowhere in particular, just happy to be together and in love.


I let out a shaky breath, not quite willing to accept that I had gotten through this shopping trip without seeing another person. As I walk up to the cashier, my cart full of essentials, I make sure to keep my head down, silently putting my items on the conveyor belt. I heard the total distantly and carefully counted out the correct amount of change. Handing it over, I make sure to keep my eyes averted, but her sleeve rose up at the last second and I flinch as I catch a glimpse of her hand. Thoughts of age and fragility immediately speed through my head until at last, I feel my own heart quicken. And then, I feel nothing. I wince at the sudden nothingness and hurry out of the store. Throwing my groceries in the front seat, I sit for a few minutes, bracing myself for the drive home. I hate the task of driving, for it is near impossible to make an entire road trip without setting eyes on a single living thing. I pull out of the parking lot and start on the road, moving my eyes from landmark to landmark. I was approaching an intersection when an insistent honk of a horn caused me to fully look at what was going on - a mad man swerving his car through the intersection. The second I see him, an image flashes across my mind: engulfing fire… burning metal… the smell of gasoline… and then, just pain. I turn into a side alley as soon as it’s safe and park my car. I spend at least fifteen minutes just weeping, before building up enough strength to continue on. About an hour later, I am finally safe in my own home. My favorite place is my house. Residence of one, with no windows, and shelves stocked with non perishable foods - it was my safe place. It is the only place I can relax, or at least come close to relaxing. Although, ironically, my safe place was also my prison. Every day spent here, I feel more and more trapped. No companionship, no pets - there wasn’t even any plants. Not a living thing that could share a happy moment with me. Yet, even as I hate it, I knew that this was still better than what was outside the doors. One of my only constant human interactions was with the mailman. I open the door at 3:59, startling the mailman as he is still unused to me awaiting his presence. I force myself to meet his eyes and watch the scene play - the same scene I had seen yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before. I had seen it so often that I could recite it from memory. His climbing the stairs of the tallest building in town; his body falling story after story before he finally hit the ground and then, darkness. I am still unable to hide my flinch as I grab the paper from him. I’m sure that he joins the rest of this neighborhood in thinking that I’m mad, and who knows. Maybe I am. I just don’t understand. He seems so happy every time I see him. He greets me with the same smile and “How are you?”. Why does he do it? I’ve spent many an afternoon pondering over him and it may very well be the thing that kills me once and for all. I’ve cried over his death, knowing that I cannot fix his fate without ruining myself. The countless times I’ve tried to save people before him have proven that fact to me time after time, and maybe this time, I would finally learn my lesson and just let him die. I was still standing in the doorway, staring out at the empty street, letting myself slip into the familiar feelings of loneliness, when all too suddenly, a woman opens her curtain in her room and I catch a glimpse of her face. I immediately collapse against my door, the searing pain and blinding lights of a car crash flashing through my body. I manage to crawl back to my rocking chair, engulfing myself back into the solitude of my house. I wish I was dead. Yet, even as I try with all my might, I cannot see my own death; I cannot cause it, and I cannot fulfill my greatest wish. I can see death in everything around me: the mailman’s eyes, the neighbor’s cat, and even the trees hold glimpses of death. Yet in the one place I wish it to be, I only find its absence. And so, I spend my days sitting in this chair, trying to escape the world but becoming all the more trapped. I must remain optimistic, even though my hope is all but lost. I must stay here in this city of bustling people, in this neighborhood of happy lives, in this house of solitude with the knowledge that no man should bear. Knowing that every time I hear a knock at the door, although a breathing human stands on the other side, I am the last person on earth who is alive. Or rather, the last person who has not yet died.


(The following content contains actions of self-harm) *Character Identification*: Female, 9-14 *October 11, 2012* As I rounded the corner of my big house, I saw Shephia, my best friend for a few weeks now. She said that mommy and daddy couldn’t see her. She told me she was only visible to those who were vulnerable to the Astral Barrier. I don’t know what that means, though. Astral Barrier probably has something to do with the *Astral Plane* Shephia keeps talking about. I don’t know what *Astral* means, but I know what *plane* and *border* mean. Plane is an area... and border is something that can keep you from something... Shephia is taller than me. Almost as tall as my mom, but maybe... about six or seven inches shorter. She told me she’s fifteen, but she looks closer to eighteen. She acts really adult-like, telling me not to do risky things. But she’s fun to talk to. She told me about her ex-boyfriend. It’s a really nice story. Today, I asked her to tell it to me again. In her white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans, she sat on the air, a foot above the floor. “Okay, okay,” she said after I asked her for the sixth time in a row. “I met Slava when I was going to Russia, where my dad lived. Since they lived in different countries, I spent every other year with my dad. I went to a new school each time I switched countries, so I didn’t really get to know anyone well. “But, when I was fourteen, that changed. My mom got sick and was put in a hospital. So, I’d be staying with my dad for a bit longer. “I was starting my freshman year of high school. The school was grades six through twelve. I walked in, and I saw that most of the people in my class, save the three newer students, already had a group of their own. “When I first saw Slava, I didn’t think he was born in Russia, he had a darker, more soothing skin tone. But after first period, I went up to him and asked: ‘how are you doing?’ “He looked surprised. Apparently, due to my Caucasian American skin tone. I explained to him that I a was a native to both America and Russia, my parents were just from the two different countries. “He explained he was adopted by a nice family from St. Petersburg. He moved out to the country with his older brother, Sacsha. “After the school day was over, we decided to walk home together, our houses being in the same direction...” As I listened to the long story of her and Slava getting to know each other and ending up a couple until Shephia died, I was sidetracked by the sound of a car outside. When she was finished with the story, I walked up to the window to see my dad with two other men from his work. Mom probably wouldn’t be very happy about that. If she wasn’t at work herself right now. “Who is it,” Shephia asked with her soothing, genuinely curious tone. I looked at her and said, “it’s daddy. With friends.” “Okay. Would you like to meet your dad’s friends?” “Nope.” “Why not, Little Enne?” “Daddy’s probably just inviting them over to suck up to them.” “Tha—at’s not a very nice thing to say about your dad.” “Fiiiiiine. I’ll go meet them.” “I was just asking, you don’t actually have to. They might be nice.” “All of dad’s friends treat me like a little kid.” “To a lot of people, you *are* a little kid. They might be nervous around people they perceive as little kids.” I proceeded to go downstairs to talk to my dad. I had a fun time, talking to them about drawing and learning new art styles. They seemed more at ease with me after we had a long conversation about drawing. When the two men left, one said, “bye, Lenne, hope we see y’again!” I smiled at the kind words said by a person I’d never have met in different circumstances. Shephia had good ideas... why didn’t I listen to her? When I went back to my room, Shephia was there, sitting on the floor. *On the floor*. She was actually sitting on the floor. I didn’t know she could do that. She looked distracted. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Nothing much,” she said back. “What are you thinking about?” “Hmm... I’m thinking about dying.” “Was it hard for you?” “... yes, it was. It was very hard.” I had the sense she was holding back tears and sobs, but I asked her another question. “How did you die?” She paused, eyes widened, and she had this look of... just being... overwhelmed by the question. Then she seemed to calm down and said, “maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “Uhhh... okay, fine.” And with that, I had something strange to look forward to, in a few years. *September 14, 2017* I was fourteen when our parents called a friend of theirs who called herself a “*White Witch*” over to exorcise the house. I rolled my eyes. The only bad spirits were in the corner of the basement... and they mostly kept to themselves. She came over and introduced herself. Mom didn’t really believe in the supernatural or paranormal, but dad and I did. Well, I mean... I’ve been talking to a ghost for the better part of my life, so I’d have to believe in it. It’d be weird if I didn’t. “I’m Elizabeth, call me Liz. You must be Lenne,” she said to me. I nodded and replied, “yeah, that’s me. Lenne. You can also call me Enne.” “Okay, Enne. Nice to meet you. Do you believe in ghosts?” “Yup. Just don’t go to the northeast corner of the basement.” Her face turned from one of joy to one of terror. “Why, what’s down there?” she asked. “Hands.” Her face then morphed into one of confusion. She gave me a pebble, then handed my dad a pebble and we sat on the couch while she did her thing. When she came back a few minutes later, she was sweating and looked totally worn out. She gave my parents and I small corked vials filled with different things. *Protection jars*, she called them. “There was something in the basement I couldn’t completely get rid of. It’ll come back,” she said, looking at me. It seemed like she was trying to see past my soul and into my mind. “And there’s something around you... seemingly protecting you. It’s kind and soft, but... it’s something that could turn on you.” I wanted to correct her, to say that Shephia wasn’t an *it*, she was a *she*. But I could tell that Elizabeth could see Shephia, so I didn’t worry. Then Shephia’s voice spoke to her. That beautiful, soothing voice. “I’d never cross Little Enne. You may see how my past presence faded, but I can assure you I’m loyal.” I nodded, and Elizabeth realized I could see and hear her too. Elizabeth smiled, said her goodbyes, and left. I hid my relief that she left until Shephia and I got to my bedroom. “Thank god she left,” I sighed. Shephia looked worried. Her next words surprised me. “I think it’s about time...” her voice trailed off for a few minutes, but she managed to finish the sentence. “I think it’s about time... I told you *How* *I* *Died.*” I felt my eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said to her. She told me the story of how she died. Her dad wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her, always by her mom’s side. She decided it’d be better for him if she did it. She told me she drove herself to her dad’s work, took the elevator to the roof, above the sixteenth floor, and took a pocket knife with her. She walked to the edge, stabbing herself so she would die for sure. Then she jumped off. Listening to her story, I was horrified. I never expected my best friend of five years... to have killed herself. She said that the house I lived in was her favorite house that her mom had owned. I felt tears on my face, and realized I was on the verge of sobbing. *September 20, 2017* Walking home from school, I was excited to bake cookies for late September, as I did every year, with my dad. Instead, I came home to my greatest fear. I got home from school to find my parents bleeding on the floor, black hands reaching out for them... And the hands had Shephia by her arms and legs and hair. Her mouth was covered by the hands, and I noticed my parents could hear her muffled screams and see the hands too. “Shephia!” I yelled, but she stopped screaming and opened her eyes to look at me. She smiled. And as I watched the hands push her into terror and darkness, I didn’t do anything. She wouldn’t have wanted me to grab her. She would have wanted me to help my parents. So I did. I helped my mom and dad to their feet. Dad was stabbed, somehow, but mom only had deep scratches on her limbs. She could still walk, though. Dad, however, was very badly injured. The *stab* wound was a few inches deep. Mom drove to the hospital. I was surprised she could still use the muscles in her legs enough to get us to the hospital, which was seventeen minutes away by car. When we got there, my mom and dad were immediately put into rooms, the hospital not being very busy. I went to a waiting room, alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked if I could borrow a pencil and some copy paper. On the paper, I drew my nine-year-old self sitting on my bedroom floor, back of my head facing the viewer. And above me, sitting on air, smiling while telling one of her favorite stories, was a long-dark-brown-haired girl with green hazel eyes wearing a white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans. On the right side of the drawing was my bed, and framing Shephia’s upper body and head was the window in my old bedroom. Next, I drew Shephia, pointing a knife to her heart on the top of a tall building, wind blowing in her hair, getting ready to glide off. Then I found myself drawing the hands, in the corner of the basement. I hadn’t even thought about what I drew, I just let the desire to move the pencil across the different sheets of paper guide my drawings. When I looked at them, I felt more tears fall down my face. Shephia... didn’t want to *leave* again. She loved me... like a guardian angel. *She was my guardian angel.* *And now I’ll never get to repay her for all the things she did for me.