1023 P.N 21:00

I failed. I failed Her. And now I am running, chest heaving, stumbling over peaked dunes, kicking up the red dirt on Surface Hill, aware of the shouts and pounding feet behind me. My heavy sack bangs against my legs and I consider tossing it into a crate, but the precious cargo within will take me an eternity to gain back.

I have a lengthy run ahead - over a mile, across unstable Surface terrain, down sandy banks, through my hole in the boundary fence back into the Depths, then along backstreets until I reach my hatch on 11th. Rain pelts my face and I can feel my hair stand on its ends, the atmosphere charged. Toes curled in my boots, I lower my body against the wind and sprint, full force towards home. 21:58 For my incompetence, I punish myself by letting out only one Spore per room - one for the diner/ kitchen/ office space/ my bedroom area and one for Her bedroom. My old bedroom remains in darkness, still sealed off with binder tape - we can’t afford such luxuries now. There is no sound, bar the hum of the tiny balls of light that drift about- fireflies contained in spheres, bouncing off of walls and ceilings.

There is no other light other than the occasional flicker from our hatch jellyfish; they float about lazily in their standard-issue aquarium.

Uncorked bottle in hand, I slump at my desk, a sigh heavy in my mouth. I need two Spores in this room alone if I’m going to complete a sleepless night of pacing, trying to come up with a new plan, but I can’t bear to take away Her comfort.

On the desk before me is my livelihood: fantasy art, depictions of history so long ago, sold at market to curious minds. Beneath these are diagrams and drawings - 30 P.Ns of desperate planning to infiltrate Surface Hill - and for what? Angry, I upset the piles of paper onto the floor and then groan as I hear bedsprings creak. She’s awake. I rise and peer around Her door. The lonesome Spore rests on her dresser and illuminates half of her face in a yellow veil. I see her puffy eyes and the burgundy blotches sprayed across her neck and cheeks. Her little body rises and falls in an unsynchronised fashion and I notice her fists are clenched. This isn’t conscious - a lump forms in my throat. I can’t tell her - not tonight.

Avoiding her eyes, I lurch to her bedside unit and yank the drawer; a cacophony of rattling sounds as amber glass bottles roll into view, their contents a variety of colours and shapes. In silence, I unscrew one and shake two pills into my palm. It’s almost empty, not that I haven't noticed - the red note on my memo board reminds me every morning. “What happened?” I ignore her question and gesture. She lets me place the pills on her tongue and swallows them dutifully. Then I guide her backwards into a lying position and place a kiss on her forehead, my fingers brushing her cold bald scalp, lingering on the thick black scar that judders from temple to temple. 1028 P.N

07:23

MEDICAL BILL - OVERDUE. The envelope (and its predecessors) lies unopened in a pile on the floor directly below my hatch opening. I flip this latest instalment over onto its belly with my foot so I don’t have to see the big bold red letters peeking through the cellophane window. It amuses me, that despite being well over a millennia past The Night and its outdated methods and lifestyles, Council still insist on contacting all inhabitants through post. I blow on my heated grain milk and turn my attention back to the caster; previously muted, I punch up the volume and chew my lip as the daily Light Values slide across the screen. Damn. 10 Spores are now worth only half a Flare, but the price of Photon, Lumen and Lux have risen again. The caster agent, a blonde woman with dazzling teeth, happily announces the birth of yet another Councilman’s baby, that the Trading festival on the Surface continues into its fourth day and that the Depths can expect a few rain showers in the afternoon.

This agent wears a clean white shirt tucked into pants underneath a wool blue jumper with gold embroidery along the sleeves. Council issued - of course, the trademark calligraphed C sewed prominently over her breast. I wonder if the caster agent is planning to attend the festival later, to joke over mai-tais with her peers about her flashy estate, whilst standing in her neat-as-a-pin uniform and manicured nails. My lip curls and I flick red clay remnants from underneath my own fingernails and notice suddenly that my nailbeds are yellow-brown. Suddenly a shrill noise sounds and I whip around to find a reminder pop up on my memo board. It’s just approaching 07:33 Roes (short for rotations, or 07:33 am in old speak), but if I hurry I can make it to The Outpost by 8. I yank on the ladder to the hatch and scoop up my sack and the overturned letter as I go. 08:03

The Outpost, the central hub of all main activity in the Depths is, as expected, swarming.

Today’s Value shift has seemingly set every sane person into a panic, employed or not because, by the time I arrive, my queue stub reads #101. Thankfully, a few inhabitants grow impatient of waiting and within the rotation, it’s my turn to step up to the window. Dean is on duty again and he smiles weakly as I drop my sack onto the counter. “Buying or selling?” he asks obligatorily. We both know I am never in a position to make a profit from The Outpost. I gaze at the coded heavy steel door sitting behind The Outpost workers.

When I was young, my School day trip to The Outpost taught me that the Vault contained miles of tunnels, snaking underground to chambers of shelves and units, crammed with pretty much everything an inhabitant of the Depths could ever want. I had watched a video file in the library archives of something called a warehouse and seen how people used to race through shelves of stock sourcing purchases, before boxing them up in cardboard and setting them on crates. Now, of course, the Vault is stocked by machinery and purchases are summoned through pipework to the front counters.

“Dean,” I trill. “Is Maggie out of the maternity ward yet?”

Though Dean spends all of his spare time at mine playing Hold ‘Em, my introductory chatter is merely for the benefit of the ears around us.

Dean frowns and strokes his peppered stubble. I beam at him and his shoulders sag. “Listen” he whispers rounding forward to bend towards me. “I can’t keep looking the other way dude - you know the Council’ll be onto me before I -” “I know bud” I whisper back, interrupting. “But I’ll make good on my promise; besides, I need to get you and Mags over to mine soon so I can cook a good meal-” “A good meal isn’t going to cut it in the lockup” Dean hisses and grimaces as the worker beside him shoots a look in our direction. Dean rubs the cuff of his fraying Council uniform. “I can’t risk it - not now that we have another little one.” He jerks back as I rummage violently in my sack and produce a vial containing a shimmering molten gold-coloured liquid. I cup it protectively in my fist, shielding it so only we can see it. His eyes go wide and he glances around nervously. “Where did you get that ?” he hisses and cups his hand over mine, visibly shaken.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing ?” “Giving you a downpayment.” I am aware of the physical and metaphorical gold in my possession.

“You can have this if you double my quota for Zumoride - deal?”

Dean’s nostrils flare with excitement, his hands twitch over mine. He’s doing the calculations, weighing up the benefits and the risks. “Hey, whatdya name the baby?” I ask bringing Dean back to focus. “Huh?” “The baby - what’s its name?” “Ariah.”

Cute, I think. “Have you got your bill from the Infirmary yet?”

I can tell by the way Dean’s shoulders hunch up to his ears that he has- he bites his lip and slips the vial from my hand. Pushing back in his chair, he goes to work processing my order, fingertips swiping and tapping away at his portable caster. With a final tap, it's done and my vial disappears from view- into Dean’s pocket. He’ll have to make the conversion into Flares later after dark - there’s no way a Lumen could be found in the boundaries of the Depths, least on a Depthsman himself. We can’t afford them. I remove my sack from the counter as its compartment opens up and spits out 2 amber bottles, filled with pills. I wave and shout something about dinner plans with Dean’s family as I leave the queue, eager to get home. Finally, She will have her first double dose of Zumoride this year. I decide I will bake a fruit loaf (her favourite) to celebrate and envision letting out three Spores tonight. As I walk through the streets, my mind full of possibilities, I fail to notice the shadow cast across my back, bouncing with increasing footfall, and as I exit The Outpost city lines, I feel a crunch across my skull and everything goes black. 1037 P.N 19:45 “I want to hear The Story.” My gaze, resting on my hands folded in my lap switches to hers, chocolate eyes pleading at me. I am aware She is stalling her final meds before bed and I know why. Perched on her bed, I hold open my arms and she clambers into them, warm scalp pressed to my cheek. I remember the days I would anticipate a mouthful of afro-puff pigtails, but now the gap between us is a reminder of her predicament. “Again?” I laugh and She giggles. She knows it's a long one and settles her back against my stomach to get comfortable. And so I tell Her - The Story, our Story.

The tale of how we, the remnants of humanity, came to be here on 1037 P.N (Polar Night), 1000 years clear of The Night, the day the star they called the Sun, died.

I tell her how the broken planet we inhabit, once lush and green, became arid and hard, an expanse of wasteland.

I tell Her that, to sustain life, Council discovered and harnessed the power of secondary light sources, from both animals and weather that would power and heat our cities 24/7 and provide a new currency. Thus, they created the Light Values: Spores, Flares and Photons, originating from animals, like jellyfish and fireflies, and Lumens and Lux, originating from elements like fire and lightning.

Over time, the cities separated and became the Surface and the Depths: the rich and the poor, divided not just by a wired fence and boundary patrol, but also by their access to Light Values.

The rich became richer and made investments to harvest their own Lumen and Lux. They bought access to fire-making tools. They installed Lux panels on their roofs and tower-high funnels in their sand gardens, ready to conduct lighting during frequent electrical storms. The panels powered their homes and the funnels produced an abundance of fulgurite, a natural mass formed when lightning strikes sand. Council use Surface Hill- acres of land fitted with funnels every square meter- as their core harvesting field for fulgurite. Just one piece of fulgurite crystal became equivalent to humanity’s highest Light Value - a Lux. At this, I stop. We know this part all too well. Together we turn to look at the empty amber bottles at the edge of her bed. There will be no Zumoride tonight, tomorrow or for the foreseeable future.

“I’m sorry,” I say and wince as pain dances across my vision. She tenderly touches the welt protruding from the crown of my head.

I hadn’t alerted Council about the mugging. What would I say- someone stole medication I had just purchased from a trusted employee of the state who accepted a stolen Lumen? Suddenly, She stiffens in my lap and I grasp her wrist as I see her teeth clamp down on her tongue, her muscles twitching, eyes blank. I call her name in despair, but all I can do is watch as the seizure takes hold of her and vow to return to Surface Hill during the next electrical storm. 1041 P.N 18:00 Dean called me crazy at my own dinner table. I told him I knew the risks and was out of options. He said harvesting fulgurite during an electrical storm was suicide and I said She needs the surgery imminently and I don’t have years to convert worthless Flares into Lux; neither can I bear to allow Council workers to collect all those crystals the morning after for themselves. Maggie shushed Ariah in her arms and gave me a sympathetic smile. “Will the surgery work this time?” she asked as Dean speared a carrot and launched into a familiar dialogue about the injustices of the Depths. I shrugged. “I have to give us the option to try.” 1048 P.N 07:31 And there it is - the news I’ve been waiting for. Thank you, I whisper to the caster agent pointing to weather charts.

Just four days to go. 1050 P.N 07:23 Dean’s weathered face flashes onto my caster and I sink into my chair, mouth agape as the allegations fly across the screen in their tape ticker. Serious, fraud, investigation… My mind whirls in panic and I dive at my new plan markups, desperate to get the job done and do what I said I would do - for Her. And for Dean. 1052 P.N 22:13 Boundary patrol had doubled since the investigation launched, but my hole in the fence remained happy to see me. I’d shuffled along the edge of the dunes and ducked past jittery boundary officers swinging flare sticks and guns, too busy watching the darkening skies to notice me bypass the warning signs surrounding the harvesting enclosure. I’d planned to this point - from here forward, I was in new territory. The land before me is like a golden patchwork quilt: funnels stand tall, reaching to the sky, whilst eight thinner wires shoot from its base into the sand. At the moment, the sand lies barren, awaiting the promised abundance of fulgurite crystals, months' worth of wealth attainable from just one lightning bolt. I crouch low on the edge of the loading bay, sack at my feet, as I feel my skin crawl and my fingers itch. Any moment now. My mind wonders to her. Recently, her bronze complexion had faded, and she had become silent, bar the intermittent whimpers and thrashing limbs beneath her duvet. I hadn’t sat and held her hand in days, but left untouched bowls of grey sludge on her dresser; it was all a few Flares could buy us, my paintings worthless in the Value rise.

I burned in anger at the news reports I watched every morning of thriving Surfacers, living in obscene affluence, uncaring about the suffering of their relatives beyond the rusty barricade. Just you wait until dawn, I’d whispered to her sleeping form as I’d left our darkened home. Then I think of Dean. Maggie’ll lose the hatch now that her husband is a criminal; she and her children will be dependants of the state, caged in boxed housing they used to call tower flats, with limited access to all Light Values, as determined by Council.

I told Dean I would make good on my promise and today, I will hand deliver his inheritance, what he is owed, to his grief-racked wife in her new pitiful slum residence. Then I will gather my child in my arms, march boldly across the lawful boundary crossing and straight into the nearest Surface Infirmary, demanding to see the best neurologist in the city, my fist full of fresh fulgurite crystals. We’d never need to set foot in the Depths again. I am breathing hard now, lips pursed and eyes darting across the skies, watching for that tell-tell burst of light. And then it happens; a crack in the sky and beautiful brilliant light hurls towards the ground. The sound is deafening; my entire body vibrates as I watch, frozen in time, pure light, so scarce to our fractured world, create fissures in the sand and little tubes of glass pop into being. Meters away, a cluster of fulgurite, the size of two fists, skids to a halt, thrown from its point of origin in an explosion of creation.

My eyes glaze. Our ticket to life on the Surface, just me and her, moments away.

A piece of salvation. My hips and legs unfold and I gallop towards my treasure, hand enclosing around it gratefully.

“Stop and come out - slowly.” An officer beyond the enclosure steps from the shadows, his gun aimed at my chest. Damn. Around us, the thunder ripples through the air and I feel a second wave of tingles in my extremities. He must feel it too, because suddenly he starts to shift and dance, unsure to run or stay to apprehend me. The bang beside my head makes us both jump and as my feet start to escape, I marvel at the light, white and stark zipping past my head towards a funnel; I have dodged death.

But then the bullet from the discharged gun flies through my chest and I plummet to the ground as my life and the cluster, my daughter’s deliverance, rolls forever to oblivion.


I live my days alone. I walk the familiar streets of my home. I turn the corner and find my apartment. I head inside. I kick off my shoes and lay on my pull out couch exhausted from my long day at a dead end job with people I hate. The place where I will slave away till i am worked to death. I look towards the kitchen, but I have no strength to cook. I look at the phone but with no patience left. I close my eyes hungry the thin blanket exposing me to the cold. My heater hasn't worked in months and it's a especially frigid January. Somehow despite this I lull myself to sleep with my tears. How did it come to this... Then all of a sudden I'm not in my apartment anymore! I look around to find myself in a meadow a beautiful meadow filled with my favorite flowers, blue orchids. I pick one and place it in my hair. My hunger is gone and the warm sun shines down on me. I run through the meadow full of bliss and glee. Then i reach the edge. In front of me is a beautiful city of silver. I take a step into the city. I'm back in my apartment. I feel my heart drop to the floor. I look at the clock and it's time for me to get ready for work. What's the point. What's the point of living anymore. I need to find a way back to that wonderful place. Maybe then I will be happy I'm on my way to work now. I head out and walk for about half an hour to my job. I go inside the beautiful house and see the youngest kid running around. My boss gives me a list of things I need to get done. I clean the entire house and by the time I'm done it's time for dinner. Better get cooking. As I slave away in the kitchen the eldest kid or more like young man being about my age comes up behind me. I know he has always liked me ever since I've been working here which is about a year, and has been pressuring me to be a live in servant. More like slave in this case. " You look absolutely horrible. I hate to see you like this." He says wrapping his arms around me. " You should come live here it's much more comfortable than what ever rat-hole you live in. I'll make sure you have everything you want." I stay silent. It's tempting, but I know exactly what he. I remove his hands from my body serve dinner and leave the house. I go back to my rat-hole of a home and manage to make myself a bowl of noodles. When i finish the electricity goes out. Just great. I put my bowl in the sink and turn in for the day. I'm back! This time I'm inside the city. I look around and everyone is dressed in beautiful clothes. I look in the windows of the stores and I see the reflection of someone...is that me... The person I see s beautiful, dressed in elegant clothes. I look down at myself. It is me! I see an estate just like the one I work in." Hello master how are you today" I hear the voice of young man. It's the boy I work for! " Welcome home." He leads me inside the house is decorated just like I imagined it would be if i ever owned it. The boy waited on me hand and foot the younger one playing like he always did. How is this possible. I explore the entire house. I can barely contain my joy. Dinner is a magnificent feast of all my favorite foods. I've never felt this full before. I turn in for the night in a warm comfy bed my stomach full. I wake up expecting to be back in my old crummy apartment. Instead I find myself in this dream of a world. I wake up full of energy its 12pm and I don't have to work! I decide to explore this new city. This time instead of window shopping I walk into the most expensive store I can find. I try on outfit after outfit and have the most fun I've ever had. I am about to leave out when someone stops me. " I think you're forgetting your clothes." the owner of the store says.  I panic. " I don't have any money." " You don't have to pay for anything anywhere why would someone like you need money." He says seemingly confused. I practically jump with joy and i quickly load the clothes onto the cart. I get back home in time for another absolutely amazing dinner and  have another peaceful night. Another day in my wonderland I walk around in my brand new clothes and see a group of young people around my age looking at me as if I am a goddess. I walk over and greet them. They compliment me and beg me to be their friend. Of course i let them. We spend the day shopping and we head back to my estate and watch a movie in my theater! Days pass like this I lose memory of my old life. Me and my friends go to a restaurant and order everything on the menu. I forget my family. We go to an amusement park. I forget my job. I go shopping. I forget my apartment. This is my life it's all I know. Months pass. I have a boyfriend now. I meet him at the pool. It's always warm here and i go to the pool almost everyday now. He lives with me and my house and he plays with the little kid that runs around. I never quite understood why the little kid is here but he is amusing. Today my boyfriend proposed an we're getting married immediately! Before I know it I'm standing at the alter in a beautiful wedding dress. As soon as I say I do I find myself in a strange place. I'm in a hospital! The servant boy is standing in a corner. All of a sudden everything comes back to me! " You have been in a coma for a year." The doctor tells me. No no no no no no no no no no. Im screaming now as the memories make my head hurt. Each one a wrecking ball. I need to find my way back! Maybe if I sleep forever. A permanent sleep...an irreversible sleep. I throw myself out of the hospital window...I'm back in my fantasy world....forever.


"Oh, how's my grandson doing?" I ask my son, Darius. Darius looks over to his wife, Karla. He then looks back, "He's doing... Good. Yeah, good." "Oh, that's great." I say "How's he doing in school?" "... He's... Doing well in school." Karla says "Wonderful!" I say "It should be his birthday soon, right? What is it, about 5 days from now- right? And he'll be what, twenty-two?" "Er... Yeah... That sounds... About right" Darius says, looking back at his wife for a moment. "Oh, wonderful!" I say "I really must stop by his house and give him a visit! It really has been too long since I last saw him." "Ah... No, I don't..." He says, stumbling over words, "I'll tell him to come by on his birthday, there's no need for you to go see him" "Oh, that would be great. It will be good to see him again." I say. "We really must be going," Karla says, "We have... Um... Somewhere to be... An appointment, that's right!" "That's a shame. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?" I say. "Sure..." Darius says hesitantly. With that, they left. I walk outside and grab my daily newspaper. I open it up, reading through it. A small section off to the side catches my attention. 'Unidentified deceased 21 year old found.' And I knew... He wasn't going to be coming by for his birthday.


***TRIGGER WARNING: Allusion to rape.

"Where the field kisses the forest, Where the rats build their nest,

My pretty ones pin their wrists, Preferring this

Over pale fists That groped and choked their breath," I murmured these lines as my steps fell in line with Jacob's.

Jacob stopped at the last verse, eyes wide and flashing in moonlight.

"You make that up?"

I shook my head and nudged to continue forward. "No. Mama would say 'em, hours before we started our work with the sun. I used to think it was for her own comfort, hiccuping up her tears when she thought no one was awake. Now I think she knew I was up. That she wanted me to know how to find them."

We skirted the edge of the almost ripe wheat plants, wavering but persisting like flies trying to bite at a smacking hand. The quilt of trees started not too far from where we were, and if I could I would rush into its embrace, exposing my stockings as my skirt flared up behind me.

"Very well could be," Jacob said,"but what would you think she might want you to find them for?"

His tone was all dodgy and I knew now that he only agreed to come with me because I would've went without him, not because he agreed I should go.

"Jacob, if there's something you want to say to me, say it straight. That's why I fancy you. 'Cause you tell me the truth exactly how it's on your mind, no matter which way it comes out. But you've been dressing up your words with me lately and I can't handle." "I'm sorry Em," Jacob said. "Be a bit careful about brushing up against the wheat though, will you? It ain't a windy night and we don't know who could be paying close attention."

I scooted further away from the shadowy stalks.

"All I was trying to ask," Jacob said, "is what you expect from going out to where your sisters are buried. Even if it's just for comfort, I understand. Just say that and I'll calm down." My tingling feet were pressing so deeply down, I thought I might cement myself in the ground if I carried on the way I was walking. I had forced him to ask a question I couldn't say the truth of. How could I when all I had is a knotted ball of short pieces of thread? My mother's poem, my body growing, the master noticing, inviting me to work in the house where "things are nicer, and you'll like it." Who could sew a dress from this? I brushed into a different type of plant now: the leaves of the trees of the forest. I gazed up into the moon before going in, like the mistresses gazing at their pale faces in the mirror before setting out the house. Does the moon feel abashed for being beautiful? Feel intruded on by the eyes of watching men? I interlaced my fingers into Jacob's and entered the brush, and told him, honest, "I don't know. Ma believed they chose to die as babies rather than suffer the touch of-" "Yeah," Jacob said.

"If their spirits had that wisdom, maybe they'll have a wisdom for me too. I must find them Jacob. I don't," and I hiccupped and all the numbness I had built in my mind was poked through. "I can't have him on my body," I said in my pouring tears. "Maybe it'd be better to d-" but I couldn't finish.

Jacob used his palms to cup up my tears and he pressed his nose down against mine. "Emeline, I'll take you to them. We just can't risk being heard, please."

I managed to shut myself up.

"Guess we're looking for a rat nest?" "Guess so," I said.

The forest remained silent except for our steps and the bugs that weren't shy of the cool air. Mama's poem said "where the field kisses the forest," so instead of going any deeper into the trees we stayed searching along the forest's entrance.  I don't know how long it was as I scoured the ground for piles of sticks built up in a

mound that rats could live under, when Jacob said, "Up."

Things weren't clear in the dark, but as I blinked at where he was pointing I could make out a sort of hump on the branch of a fallen tree. " Sisters," I whispered, coming up to the tree and falling to my knees. I scratched the leaves off the ground, hands longing for a familial presence. Did Mama leave some marker? Did she ever come and visit them out here? My fingers traced something indented. It was a stone, and it was flat. Clumsily scratched into it were etchings I couldn't make out in the dark and wouldn't have been able to read if they were words. "She even marked it with a gravestone." I shouldn't have been surprised, and now knew I was right for letting Ma's song guide me here. "Sisters, do you hear me? What is your advice for me? Mama told me the first of you came out with breath, and you were the most beautiful baby with the fiercest eyes. The next of you came out stillborn and close-eyed but gorgeous with bashful wisdom. It may be my fifteenth year and my body is starting to fill in and this curse is twisting my face in ways I didn't ask for. I didn't do anything for Master to notice me. I only wanna have kids with Jacob and no one else. My spirit didn't decide death like yours did before I grew up this much. What do I do? What do I do?" I pressed my ears against the cold stone, trying to hear their voices come through. Did they understand this English forced upon my people? Was I too stupid to deserve a response? "Sisters, please. Please talk to me. I don't know what to do."

"Em," a voice to the side of me screeched into my ears. "They aren't alive. They can't respond to you." "Quiet," I hissed. "I am with my sisters." I crouched there, ears imprinted on the stone. I pleaded my case, I played the naive younger sister role desperately, praying for them to take pity. They inherited stubbornness from their father, who got shot trying to escape his chains.

Eternity in the forest is like being ant-sized and traversing upon a winter quilt, patterns changing but still so helplessly lost. I would stay all night even while already my brain felt as if it was dozing. Or I would wait until my body seeped through the rock and dirt. Maybe the obvious answer was death.

"Sister?" I looked up, blurry eyed. Two shapes sat on the side of the rat mound on the fallen tree in front of me.

"Can you see us yet?" they asked together.

I couldn't discern their features or tell of their age. But I heard twin voices, one beautifully fiery and the other bashfully wise.

My heart embraced their voices, falling

into it as I did into Mama's hugs. "Y-yes," I stuttered. I had been so vocal when they weren't responding, but at their first words I was shut up.

"You are a pretty one, like us," said the one to the right.

"And he has no right to touch you," said the one on the left. "But your life gets to know great love, and yet must know great pain." "Your life is precious," the twins said together, agreeing.

"So what do I do?" I pressed.

One of the twins tilted their heads to me, and I caught a glimpse of her piercing look as dawn's first light peeked in.

My other sister bowed her head and her eyelashes.

They turned and looked behind them towards the direction of the horizon,

then down at the rats' nest. "No," I sobbed. "Please tell me."

The shapes of my sisters hopped down from the tree, and I could feel the kiss on my forehead. "I can't-" I choked. "Please, I can't figure this out alone."

"You ain't alone Em." It took me a while to process that Jacob had come to sit beside me and hold me. "Can you believe my sisters?" I asked him. "They came and wouldn't answer my one question!"

"I'm sorry," Jacob said. "We'll have to work as a team and figure this out."

"How?"

"Maybe, maybe we could leave. I've been hearing rumors that Samuel, he's missing from the neighbor's plantation. Or you could pretend to get sick, shave your head or something. But maybe not, maybe they'll hurt you." Jacob shook his head. His body shook with anger. "I just know if he lays his hands on you I'll strangle him."

Jacob was smart. If I could make myself not pretty, would that be enough? Did my sisters answer my pleas after all? A whirlwind of reflections and hypotheticals swished through my mind, my hand clasped firmly into Jacob's. I tried

to intertwine my intuition into his intelligence. His soul was warm as it whispered to mine, and I felt my sisters giggling in their hiding place, until the forest's quilt unraveled suddenly.

A voice- not mine, not my sisters', not Jacob's- spoke. "Who exactly you think you gonna strangle, boy?"


“iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə! iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə! iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə!” the chanting continued. It filled the swamp. The bugs and birds seemed to join in. “The slightly changing vowel sounds made my head spin as it continued. Everything swam and spun and suddenly-   The pressure built up and tightened.     No matter how much time I spent walking through the Elephant Swamp it never felt familiar. I could walk the same path again and again and it always felt like the first time. The trees were never quite where I remembered them, or the path slowly curved to the left when I swore it should have been right, or that weird growth of moss that certainly wasn’t there last week. It was a silly thought though; I just had a bad memory is all.   It had been a long day at work, but I wanted to unwind and the quiet hike down the old railway path was always good for relaxing the mind. Walking down from the trailhead the sound of the park slowly faded and I was left with just my thoughts and the crunching of my feet down the trail. Soon though, I arrived at the fork. I followed the path less travelled. It isn’t an official trail according to any map I’ve found, but it was obviously travelled somewhat, and getting away from people on their bikes or with their families was always welcome.   Like usual, the path moved in ways that didn’t make sense to me. It moved down more than I thought possible. This area was usually pretty level. Again I told myself it had to be a bad memory. The path and land couldn’t change. I continued on for about 45 minutes as the sun began to set. Despite all the times the path felt weird it always met back up with the main trail in about a half an hour’s walk. I was sure of that. The sky was turning amber as the sun slowly sank and the long shadows sought to swallow me.   I must have made a wrong turn somewhere; missed a fork earlier. I just had to turn around and go back the way I came.   Retracing my steps, I came to an abrupt halt as, after about five minutes, the path vanished. The worn dirt just ended in thoroughly grown vegetation. Nothing had walked further as far as any indication showed. It was pristine despite it clearly being where I came from. I could even see my foot print right at the boundary.   The sun set faster and the darkness grew.   With a bit of panic I began to jog down the path. I just had to follow it. It would lead out. This was South Jersey; I was either going to end up in a field of blueberries or a Ryan Homes townhome development.   The path meandered.   It rose.   It fell.   It never rejoined the main trail. It never ended up in a field. It never ended up in a housing complex.   As the sun just barely stayed over the horizon I came across a clearing and my feet planted themselves firmly in the dirt. I fell to my knees at the sudden stop and looked ahead. In the trees hung many small structures. It looked like yurts suspended as ornaments through the old growth. Each glowed with some flickering light. To my left was an obvious warning, a post hammered into the soft soil mounted with skulls. Fake or real it was obvious I shouldn’t be here.   More accurately maybe, it shouldn’t be here. I was fine. I belonged. This did not. Standing back up a sudden cracking pain washed over the back of my head and I was down for an unexpected mandatory nap.     “aʊoʊ ŋkɑ ʒθ ʊ eəʳ.” A low gravelly vocalization.   “aɪnuː ɒkθ ʃlʃl.” A lighter sounding voice.   My head slowly stopped pounding and I opened one eye slowly. Two figures were squatted on the other side of the room cloaked in shadow. From what I could see through my barely-opened eye I was in one of the yurts. I felt a pressure on my wrists and ankles. I gave a small test and was definitely restrained.   Fuck.   They turned and looked at me. “oʊrʊː!” The gravelly voice pointed at me and they both stood up.   Double fuck.   Soon I’m stood up by the lighter voiced one. “You’re coming with us. You were guided here for a reason.” I was shocked that they spoke perfect English.   “What are you talking about? Where is this? Who are you?” Questions just vomited out in my surprise.   “None of that will matter. It is a full moon and the Swamp has brought you to us. It wishes to feed.” The gravelly voiced one spoke this time. “Do not worry. You shall be part of something bigger. Something better. iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə”   I was lead to the edge of the yurt and my wrists fastened to a line on a block and tackle. Lowered down like some sort of furniture the people below took hold of me and walked me to a large white oak that stood tall, proud, and ancient. Ceremoniously I was bound to it, my arms stretched out in a painful reverse embrace of the trunk. The gravelly voiced man returned. He held up his arms and the people and swamp fell silent.   “iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə.” He stated simply.   “iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə!” They echoed.   “iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə” they said slowly in unison. Repeating it faster and faster. It grew louder and louder.   “iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə! iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə! iːʌʃ dʒvɔɪəpæə!” the chanting continued. It filled the swamp. The bugs and birds seemed to join in. “ The slightly changing vowel sounds made my head spin as it continued. Everything swam and spun and suddenly-   The pressure built up and tightened.   As my senses sight and equilibrium failed I felt my wrists be pulled further. My ankles tightened. It didn’t hurt as much as it felt like an overly-enthusiastic massage My vision cleared a bit and I saw as the trunk of the tree grew and enveloped my hands. Horror cleared my mind from the effects of the chant that now roared through the woods. They all stared at me, chanting as the tree slowly consumed me. The woody fibers grew and anchored my joints and ran up my limbs.   In minutes I was engulfed and there was darkness.


Rain drowned the world in terror as it passed, men and women hid their children between trembling arms. "Father," whispered the glowing gal." Why are we hiding? It's just rain, isn't it?" Her father rested his palm on the little girl's mouth, sweating like a rainy cloud. "Shush!" He said in a voice hardly heard."Just stay quiet and wait for the storm to pass." The girl still couldn't understand why her father was scared, yet she still obeyed for she had never seen him like this. Then it came. A shriek so mighty it nearly split the sky in two, followed by an earth shattering thud that sent the girl flying to the ceiling. "*This is it...*" A voice shook between the crowds. "*We're done for...*" Another trembled. the girl felt her father's tears falling between her hair, she looked up, seeing the man covered in his own tears. "I'm sorry."He held the girl tight. "I can't do anything to save us...no one can. " The gal found herself tearing up."Fathe--" Her voice faded away as she finally noticed what was peeking from the window. A massive, black, grotesque face watched them with twinkling white dots for eyes. suddenly, the ceiling above them rose, revealing the dark, raining sky. Everyone went silent, no one could even dare to move. They all understood what was about to happen, it was inevitable. Death took the form of a shiny arm that descended upon them, it seized the girl's father and slowly lifted him up towards the clouds. His daughter simply stood and watched as her only parent escaped her grasp. "I'm sorry...for everything." The father forced a final smile towards his daughter, slowly feeling his bones crumble from the monster's grip. The beast opened its enormous mouth for its meal, letting everyone witness the man getting devoured before their eyes. Prayers haunted the place as the silence faded to muffled screams and cries. As for the girl, she didn't pray, didn't cry, did not even let out a scream. She just watched. Watched as what was left from her father's blood was scooped by the monster that just stole the life of the only person who she still cared for. She felt nothing as the rest of the people fed the beast's insatiable hunger one after the other. Then came her turn, the monster's hand grabbed her as she finally screamed. *Why?* The girl wondered as the creature stretched it's jaws. *What did we do to deserve this?* The blood stinking breath of the monster made the girl vomit in an instant. She cried as the red teeth closed in to embrace her. The rain grew louder and louder, the sounds of crackling thunder sent a rumbling through the heavens. A swoosh sent the monster crying louder than any of it's victims ever did, the beast threw the girl to the ground and continued to wallow in pain. The girl's vision went blurry from the fall, but she could still see the figure that stood before the beast. A man donning a round, tall, black hat wore a rain coat as black as the night's sky. He extended a hand to his side and the rain gathered between his fingers, the rain drops slowly took the shape of a translucent blade. "Run along, kid."He said as he readied his weapon to strike."These Rain Dwellers spare no soul." The Rain Dweller smacked it's hand on the ground, aiming to squish the man. He however, dodged the giant arm with ease and proceeded to run his blade through the beast's fingers, cutting two and leaving three. The monster cried out again, this time even louder. It struck with its other hand and sent the man's hat flying to the sky, revealing his long, white hair that shone as it fluttered against the strong wind. The monster then unleashed a barrage of punches on the ground, causing the man to lose his balance. "Sly fucker!" The man sent his weapon flying towards the beast's face, sticking right on it's eye. The Rain Dweller screamed in anguish, covering its face with his badly damaged hands. The man extended two hands to his side, turning the rain into two, stunning blades.He jumped on the screaming beast and swung his dual blades at it with inhuman speed. Each swing sent a piece of the Rain Dweller's flesh flying to the sky. By the time the man was done, almost nothing remained of the creature's corpse. He took his hat from the ground and wore it as he embraced the warmth of the sun that peeked from the dissipating clouds. "I thought I told you to run." The man finally noticed the girl. "Wh-Who are you?" She could barely speak after all she had witnessed. The man approached her and Knelt down to meet her eyes. "Me? Well I am no one you need to know, I am but a humble Rain Wielder." He wiped the blood off her forehead. "I'm sure this has been quite the day for you. You should get some rest. Come, I'll take you to the upper city." "What upper city? There's nothing but small villages near here." "Oh, how oblivious you are." He chuckled. "Just follow me, can you walk?" "Y-Yeah." The girl followed the Rain Wielder as he climbed up a small hill. "What's your name? " The man stopped and asked. "Uh, Lifa." She replied. "Well, Lifa, what you are about to witness is the result of countless years of struggle and death. A place made by the hands of those who survived through the restless rain that curses this land." He pulled out a golden key from his pocket. "This is the key to a heaven safe from monsters like the one you saw today." He waved the golden key in the air, going from left to right three times. And then, the clouds split, the sun sent golden rays that formed a stairway before them. "Come, Lifa, to man-made heaven." They ascended the endless stairway until buildings peeked from the horizon. Shortly, the city fully appeared, glorious towers sprawled across the limitless sky, hiding wonderful castles and buildings of all kinds that stood in the middle of this magnificent city. It truly was a heaven, there was no doubt about it. "Welcome to the new world, Lifa." The Rain Wielder smiled as he patted Lifa's shoulder. "No monster can harm you here. This is our world, humanity left the old one to rot a long time ago." Lifa teared up as she took in the sights, the thoughts of how different her life would have been if she'd lived here with her father clouded her mind. "Just tell me one thing." Lifa said. "Why are the streets empty, where is everyone?" The man's smile faded. "That's a good question...Perhaps you will find out soon enough." "What does that mean?" "Sorry, Lifa, I can't tell you anything, my job's only to lead people to this place, that's all." "But--" "No more questions! I have to go now, you should go get some rest, you've been through a lot." He turned his back to her and descended the golden stairway. "Goodbye, Lifa. I hope you find peace in this place...not many do." "Wait! Please don't leave me here!" She tried to follow him but a wall appeared in front of her. "Sorry..." Lifa turned to the city again, her feelings changed from relief to utter horror. What's wrong with this city? Where is everyone? Why did the man take her to this place? Alas, all the answers to her questions lay inside the false heaven, her only choice was to enter and see for herself. She let out a gasp as she saw the statue that stood after the gates, it looked exactly like the monster that man called a Rain Dweller.


"MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN.” “You have been weighed in the balances, and found wanting." The writing on the wall. "Weighed and found wanting…You..." The words echoed round and round in his head.

Why had he gone to that service? Why break the habit of a lifetime? Why invite torment? But perhaps he'd thought it might bring comfort, or maybe some insight. Of course it was because of yesterday. He had heard the bells ringing as he'd sat in his office gazing out of his window at the fading light and the black silhouettes sharpening against the pale winter sunset. Before he had really known what he was doing he was down the stairs, striding across the green with the cold air making his eyes smart and his nose tingle. The beautiful windows were lit up from inside, the whole structure of the cathedral from without. The ancient building looked weightless like a giant paper lantern floating above the river a few hundred feet below. As he entered melodious choral singing warned him the service had already started. He slipped into a pew at the back and sat down. After fumbling with the book of common prayer for a while and not being able to make head nor tail of it he quietly put it down and began to look around. Obviously he'd been in here, or rather through here, many times before, mainly as a shortcut to the cheap parking on the other side of the bridge. But he now was looking at it differently. Did this place really hold any answers? The beauty and sheer size was quite overwhelming, particularly as he looked up to the soaring buttresses overhead. It did realign human preoccupations with a sense of a greater reality, put frivolity in its place, kept the serfs humble he thought cynically to himself.

The lighting and the music and the atmosphere were certainly conducive to a kind of peace. But it felt rather surface deep. The singing began again. It was soothing. He saw or felt nothing though that resonated with his experience yesterday afternoon; that overwhelming peace and cohesion. In fact, on the contrary, the service seemed rather fragmented and incoherent. Beautiful bits of chanting and singing, responses from the congregation that he realised with slight embarrassment he was meant to be participating in, seemingly unconnected bits of scripture reading. And then it happened. He was suddenly hearing those famous words from Belshazzar's feast in some ancient tongue. Of course he was familiar with the cantata, but he'd never really paid any attention to the words or their meaning. Did he even believe words had a fixed meaning? Fluidity was the zeitgeist. But now it was like he was hearing them for the first time, as clearly and as concretely as nails being struck one by one into his consciousness, or a coffin. They were being spoken directly to him and everyone in that service knew he was the condemned man in their midst.

"You! You have been weighed in the balances, and found wanting."

It was utterly devastating. In every balance, by every standard, he was found wanting, lacking, deficient, defective, flawed, faulty, inadequate, insufficient...His command of language, his knowledge of the thesaurus hardly helped him now. The words flowed relentlessly on in a long black list, marching from the white page like an overwhelming tide or invading army. The image of a large and terrifying pointing finger filled his mind, like in Michelangelo's famous painting, but in his nightmare version reaching to accuse and condemn; not to create but to obliterate. "You!" But he found he had nothing to say in his defence. In fact he couldn't speak at all.

Oblivious to those around him he'd stumbled up the aisle and out of the door into the bitter night air of the cloisters. The moonlight shed silver shadows through the Romanesque arches on to the stone floor as he staggered along, retching. He made it outside, to the entrance of the tunnel and was violently sick by the wall. "I must talk to Lucy." That was the one idea in his mind, like the only firm handle in a spinning, disintegrating world. Why couldn't he get her out of his head?

Lucy.

She hovered inexplicably in his consciousness like a beacon of hope, all bright white and gold, like the angels he'd seen in medieval paintings; those fearful visions with their intense, jewel like colours and luminosity...while everything else, all the normal familiar things and people seemed to have faded and retreated, become as flimsy and insubstantial as wraiths, or as smoke twisting from chimneys on winter days. It was as if the whole familiar old world kept rolling in sepia, while he was suddenly aware of a much greater, horrifyingly vivid reality running not only alongside but above and below too, and Lucy seemed to be the only other fully flesh and blood character in the play, full of vibrant colour and life…. bloody hell, he really must be going mad! Lucy. St Lucy!

He'd hardly given her a serious second thought before, other than when the fun of tormenting her had filled the odd half hour of boredom. Or had he? If he was honest with himself, hadn’t she been haunting the fringes of his mind like a harbinger of doom ever since he’d met her, like the half perceived shadow of some monstrous force; the incessant beating of whose dark wings against the edges of his consciousness was a horror to be kept at bay, to be resisted at all costs? And before her, hadn't there always been something or someone else, however small, snagging at the threads of his perception, like a piece of grit in a shoe?

He had always shut his mind to that madness before, and kept the busy bright lights and dazzle of his world determinedly in focus. Now the defences were utterly broken down, everything had turned on its head and his soul was unfurling, helplessly unravelling to himself revealing layer upon layer like an oriental puzzle box. What mystery lay hidden at the centre? Or did he already know? Some long forgotten seed of knowledge that really all men carry but can't recall with their brittle, hardened minds? And Lucy suddenly seemed the key to the lock of the forgotten innermost box. She was the only bright point in a world that had suddenly and brutally gone dark. Must he really let himself go, slip over the edge of his safely constructed reality and fall into that void towards her light? What had before felt like a shadow cast over his identity now seemed the first pin prick of light in that flimsy shroud. Instead of repelling her he now felt compelled to seek her out.

He passed a hand over his clammy forehead. Perhaps he was thinking in this crazy way just because he knew she was into spiritual stuff, he tried to rationalise to himself... but was it even spiritual? It felt so physical too, like for the first time he was properly awake. But to confide in Lucy? After how he'd treated her too... It was awkward to say the least, after all that pitiless teasing and mocking, his cruelty. He'd been vile to her, he could see that now with such clarity that he shuddered inwardly. In fact he'd been vile altogether to everyone. Why hadn't he seen it before?

No wonder Julia had left him. An image of his tanned, half naked wife wrapped in the arms of another man, a younger man, her raven hair falling in damp ringlets around her elegant face, flashed into his mind. Memory of the old life was still savagely vivid, even though the present had strangely retreated. He'd never forget her beautiful dark eyes full of malice, laughing at him over the shoulder of her lover. He pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hands until they bled. But himself? He had lived with all the profligacy of an ancient tyrant, squandering and tossing aside all gifts of beauty and of love. He had neglected and betrayed his nearest and dearest... And been betrayed in his turn. As he walked, the thoughts and memories of his past conduct became an avalanche of shame, each one a knife, shredding pitilessly through his carefully constructed ego; so long in the making, so quickly torn to pieces. By the time he reached the faculty building he was struggling to keep upright. He felt as if he'd been repeatedly punched in the stomach.

He hauled himself up the stairs and hesitated outside Lucy's office. He knocked tentatively. There was no reply but the door, which wasn't properly shut swung open, revealing an empty room. He walked in and crumpled into a chair. He must wait for her. He could do nothing else. He must speak with her. When she entered her office the first thing she saw was him slumped in the chair. She started with surprise. He had his head in his hands. He looked up as she came in. He looked terrible, like she'd never seen him before; great dark circles under his eyes and a haunted look in his eyes.

“What on earth is the matter?” she exclaimed, sitting down next to him and putting her hand on his arm awkwardly. This was so different from the man she knew, was a little afraid of and, if she was honest, disliked intensely. “She’s left me Lucy,” he said, his voice totally flat and expressionless. “My wife, she’s finally done it. Found herself a nice new man.” As he spoke his voice sharpened and he tried, and failed, to laugh sardonically.

"Well, in fact I found them , in my own bloody bed…Not that I'm exactly clear in that department myself, but not in our own bloody bed!" He was shocked by the rawness of his own fury. He realised he was almost shouting, clenching his fists. He could feel the angry tears pricking his eyes. The pain was overwhelming. How could it have gone from zero to a hundred like this in 30 seconds, ripping through the ceiling of his consciousness like a rocket?

And why was he telling her, of all people, these things? Did he want some justification for his own behaviour - he knew immediately that if so it wouldn't stand up, particularly to her. But why was he hedging the main issue? The reason he'd come! It was easier to talk even about this than the other thing. “Oh, I’m so sorry…” she faltered, somewhat confused and very uncomfortable. What was he doing here? She gingerly removed her hand from his arm and stood up awkwardly looking at him. “I’m not,” he said, “I hate her and she hates me. It’s exactly what I deserve. It’s what she deserves too - we both deserve all the bloody mess that’s coming to us. Normally so erudite, even his ability to articulate seemed to be failing him. He lent back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. “I know you don’t have any sympathy for me,” he smiled weakly, “And that’s why I’m here, and not somewhere else I suppose! I don’t want sympathy and I don’t deserve it.” “So what can I do to help you?” she said sitting down opposite looking at him in her old quiet but uncompromising way, the way he used to hate, before he had tried to break her spirit. He used to think it was arrogance. He could see now it was simply honesty. And what greater respect can we afford another human being than to look them honestly in the eye and not flinch or recoil. He looked away.

“I don’t know,” his voice faltered again, fighting back tears. “I just need to know if there is any way, oh I don’t know, but any way back ?” Why were these things coming out of his mouth? She shifted uneasily in her chair. Was this genuine or a trap? “We can never go back" she said slowly. We have no choice but to go forwards, but I guess that can be forwards upwards, rather than downwards, if you know what I mean. You can’t erase the past but you can help untangle it. To state the obvious, you can say sorry!” "I know I need to say sorry to you!" he mumbled. "I've been vile, I'm disgusted with myself when I think of the things I've said, done…" His voice cracked, "I have no right to be here, to even speak, I know!" "It's ok!" She lent across and put her hand on his arm again. This felt so strange, like some alternative reality. He tried to light a cigarette but his hands were shaking too much. After a moment's futile fumbling he dropped cigarette packet and lighter on the table hopelessly and stared down at them. "It's not ok. But what can I do? Lucy, what can I do?" His fingers gripped her hand on his arm until the knuckles turned white. “I want to feel clean again...” he spoke quietly, avoiding her eyes. “And, Oh Lucy, God knows, I've got a lot to answer for but I know you believe... believe in hope and the possibility of forgiveness, cleansing...." He paused and took a deep breath, and then with a rush: "Something strange happened to me yesterday. I haven’t told anyone. It seems crazy but it feels like it was the turning point in my life, a kind of epiphany. I've tried to explain it away in every way I can think of, but I can't. I saw something that spoke into the very depths of my soul. And since then, after that moment of almost complete peace, I feel like I'm being hunted…" He passed his hand over his eyes. He voice dropped almost to a whisper, it seemed to be working ahead of his conscious mind: "It sounds so mad, I know. I can get no rest, day or night. I feel like I'm being pursued to within an inch of my being...Oh Lucy, I’m so afraid, so lost! Lucy, Lucy, be my light…” Before he knew what he was doing he had taken her hand in both of his and pressing it momentarily to his lips he dashed from the room. Lucy sank down on her chair stunned and horribly stirred. She felt the tears starting to run down her cheeks. What was going on? What did he want from her?

Her head told her to keep well clear. But despite everything her heart moved towards him in compassion and somehow deep within her being her soul stirred with recognition; a still small voice urging her on. She didn’t know how long she sat there, gazing blankly out of the window. It was dark by the time she stirred herself and she felt stiff and cold and drained. She got up, put on her coat and turning off the light locked the door. She trudged down the corridor and the stairs and headed through the narrow gap towards the river path. It had begun to drizzle and was very cold. Her heart missed a beat. There he was again, sitting on a bench looking at the water flowing slowly past, completely oblivious to her presence and the rain falling on his bare head. His thick wet hair curled a little around his temples, ears and at the nape of his neck. It needed cutting and with an inexplicable rush of tenderness she noticed it was beginning to grey. She was in a horrible dilemma. Should she try to slip past without him noticing or should she speak to him. He was lit by a lamp post who's beam shimmered through the gently falling rain like silver. This made the shadows outside of its circle denser. She quietly walked to the far side of the path and managed to slip by unnoticed in the dark.

Immediately her heart smote her but the decisive moment had been missed. Somehow she knew she had crossed some invisible line. She had ignored the whispered urging voice. How strange and yet momentous are the small turning points in the dark alleyways of our lives; the tiniest threads that we either follow, hand over hand into the unknown or snap in our fear as we hurtle towards the dull comfort of the familiar. Arriving home to her cheerless bedsit she flopped down on the bed and laid her aching head on the pillow. The next thing she knew the pale dawn light was peeping through the undrawn curtains.

It was still very early. She was cold and stiff. She rolled over and looked at the clock and pulling the covers over herself, closed her eyes again. She was running down a long dark corridor towards a bright light at the far end. It seemed to get further away the more she strained towards it. As she ran she became aware of someone running behind her, calling her name. It was him, he was calling her to wait for him, to help him, or was he laughing, trying to pull her back into the darkness? She half turned and saw him reaching out towards her but she just kept on running as fast as she could. She could see the door now, or was it a window, from which the light was emitting. She was through and she slammed it shut behind her. His cries, or was it laughter, gradually receded, as if he was being pulled back into the darkness. The horrible vividness of that dream faded as the days passed but it's atmosphere stayed with her for the rest of her life returning in many forms, haunting the edges of her mind, whispering incessantly the perennial question, accusation; "What might have unfolded had you not walked by on the other side?"


THE NIGHT THAT She was going up and down the track, waiting for the train, when she heard what  more than a sound sounded rather  as  a cannon shot . A cannon shot being fired in a very high place, which was ( seemed to be) very above….of her head, aven far above the tracks, the trains, the station.  As soon as she heard that rumble, loud but dull ( deaf), it was instinctive for Angie  to look up, to look at the sky. Since that  very powerful , and yet even dull sound  came from above, from very high ( above) it could have been from an airplane. But, at least as far as she could see, there was no plane flying in the sky above there.  The sky was covered with a compact blanket of gray. Perhaps the plane that had made that sound , which, however, was not the sounds that airplanes make, was behind that blanket of gray. When  Angie, after looking up at the sky, looked down again, she started to watch ( to observe) the faces, the look ( gaze) of the other people who were  on the platform along the track, some of them still, standing or sitting, some walking up and down as she did.  But it was impossible ( for her) to meet the gaze of even one of them. Everyone, whether they were still or walking, looked down, even with their head bowed, just as they  were afraid, but even more they were annihilated by that powerful and dull sound ( rumble), which had been heard only for a few moments, which had boomed as if it were the roaring voice announcing an imminent threat, hanging over their heads, something terrible which was going to crash them all. Angie had no doubt that everyone present in the station, not only people along that platform, had heard the terrible sound looming from above. Since none of those people ( passengers) waiting along the platform (of that track) had said a word about that threatening rumble  , which everyone had to have heard, she dared to ask a young man, walking on the platform opposite her: “ Did you hear?”, while she gestured  with her head and her hand up, towards the sky. “Heard what, sorry? What should I have heard? “ the young man said, as he looked at her with a face that meant: “ But listen to this one…..For sure she is raving…..Ouch, and I’m even listening to this one here….”   “ But that sound… that rumble , which came from up there” Angie was now speaking frightened, her hand raised, her finger pointed to the sky.  “ But what sound? What rumble? I didn’t hear anything” The young man said, shrugging his shoulders. “ On, it’s impossible that you didn’t hear that….very strong sound….a sound, indeed a rumble , very loud , but even dull….as if it were a cannon shot fired at a metal barrier…..It came from up there….So I thought it was from an airplane. But I saw that there were no airplanes above here, passing in the sky…Oh, and then I wonder and wonder again : but what was it that made  that terrifying sound (rumble)? “ Anne spoke with her heart in her throat, more and more afraid. “ Eh, of course no airplane is above here…oh, and there is no rumble! At least I didn’t hear it!” The young man said, with an air of annoyance. Then Angie, running up and down, had started asking, first to individuals, whom she , anguished, approached, then addressing her question aloud, indeed screaming, to everyone:” Oh, but did you heard that menacing rumble from up there, you too, didn’t you?” And no, no one had heard that terrible sound ( rumble) . Oh, but it was impossible….she couldn’t believe it! Instead Angie thought that all those present there on the platform  denied having heard that rumble because they were frightened, indeed terrified, since they, unlike her, knew well WHAT that terrible sound meant, what it announced. Not only did they all claim not to have heard that rumble, but they started also to look at Angie with crooked looks, as if they were accusing her of something, such as the threat, the danger to them was….precisely she, who was saying, indeed shouting, she had heard that …. sound, and not the sound itself, which they kept on denying to have heard, perhaps  because they knew well it was something not to be talked about. When the train arrived  Angie, was still repeating her question, she was still looking for someone who said that yes, he too had heard that rumble from up there. But no one admitted to have heard it, and everyone  casted ( poured) on her looks full of distrust , looks that said : “Better to stay away from this one”_____Angie got on the train frightened, and during the journey she was almost always locked in the bathroom. That night Angie dreamed of a sky full of stars, with just a crescent moon. In her dream she was lying down maybe on the bed, maybe on the ground , and she saw that sky above her. Suddenly a fireball burst into the sky, scattering all the stars. That fireball  seemed to be the sun, ah, but it couldn’t be the sun, since it was night. That flaming sphere, which looked like a fiery sun, was moving towards the earth at swirling speed, it was going to fall on the earth. Angie had woken up with her heart in turmoil, she had gone at the window and had opened the window. In front of her here the starry sky appeared, like that of the dream_____there was also a thin crescent moon. But, incredible….the stars were moving, were changing their place (position). The stars of Ursa Minor were descending, approaching Arturo, the quadrilateral  of Pegasus were moving towards Vega.  All the stars were moving….they changed theit position ( place). Then they all started running, as if they were running away….Ah, but of course, they wanted  to escape, to get safety before that fireball arrived, which would disrupt them, which would destroy all them,  so Angie thought, as she still had the images of her dream in her mind.  And she couldn’t believe her eyes: in front of her, in the night sky, the stars were really moving, running. That same night, before Angie, who had fallen asleep again, woke up and thought that…it had been all a dream, even the stars she had seen moving, running in the sky, that too had been a dream, just that night, an airplane , with over one hundred passengers, which was flying in the sky she had seen when she had opened the window, had crushed into the sea. That airplane had been shot down by a missile in an air battle which had taken place in that sky, that night. Since there was no war declared, that air battle was silenced, it had not to be known that there had been ( happened). It was said that the airplane  had crushed due to a technical failure.


"Harold?" "Harold!" His wife's shrieking voice circumnavigated their tiny home planet. There was no escaping it. He could be on the other side of the world and still hear: "Harold! I need you to—" "Yes, dear," he said, sighing and stubbing out his unfinished cigarette on an ash stained rock. He walked home. "There you are," his wife said. "What were you doing?" Before he could answer: "I need you to clean the gutters. They're clogged with stardust again." "Yes, dear." Harold slowly retrieved his ladder from the shed and propped it against the side of their house. He looked at the stars above, wondering how long he'd been married and whether things had always been like this. He couldn't remember. There had always been the wife. There had always been their planet. "Harold!" Her voice pierced him. "Yes, dear?" "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to clean the gutters?" "Clean the gutters," he said. He went up the ladder and peered into the gutters. They were indeed clogged with stardust. Must be from the last starshower, he thought. It had been a powerful one. His wife watched with her hands on her hips. Harold got to work. "Harold?" his wife said after a while. If there was one good thing about cleaning the gutters, it was that his wife's voice sounded a little quieter up here. "Yes, dear?" "How is it going?" "Good, dear." "When will you be done?" He wasn't sure. "Perhaps in an hour or two," he said. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, but don't come down until you're done." He wouldn't have dared. Three hours later, he was done. The gutters were clean and the sticky stardust had been collected into several containers. He carried each carefully down the ladder, and went inside for dinner. After eating, he reclined in his favourite armchair and went to light his pipe— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" "Have you disposed of the stardust?" He put the pipe down. "Not yet." His hand hovered, dreading the words he knew were coming. He was so comfortable in his armchair. "You should dispose of the stardust, Harold." "Yes, dear." He emptied the stardust from each container onto a wheelbarrow, and pushed the wheelbarrow to the other side of the world. He gazed longingly at the ash stained rock. He had a cigarette in his pocket. There was no way she— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" he yelled. "How is it going?" "Good, dear." His usual way of disposing of stardust was to dig a hole and bury it. However, in his haste he had forgotten his shovel. He pondered whether to go back and get it, but decided that there would be no harm in simply depositing the stardust on the ground and burying it later. He tipped the wheelbarrow forward and the stardust poured out. It twinkled beautifully in the starlight, and Harold touched it with his hand. It was malleable but firm. He took a bunch and shaped it into a ball. Then he threw the ball. The stardust kept its shape. Next Harold sat and began forming other shapes of the stardust, and those shapes became castles and the castles became more complex and— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" "Are you finished?" "Almost." Harold went to kick down his stardust castle to destroy the evidence of his play time only to find that he couldn't. The construction was too solid. Something in the stardust had changed. He bent down and a took a little unshaped stardust into his hand, then spread it across his palm until he could make out the individual grains. Then he took one grain and placed it carefully next to another. They joined. He added a third and fourth. "Harold?" But for the first time since he could rememeber, Harold ignored his wife. He was too busy adding grains of stardust together until they were not grains but a strand, and a stiff strand at that. "Harold?" Once he'd made the strand long enough, it became effectively a stick. "Harold!" He thrust the stick angrily into the ground— And it stayed. "Harold, answer me!" He pushed the stick, but it was firmly planted. Every time he made it lean in any direction, it rebounded as soon as he stopped applying pressure, wobbled and came eventually to rest in its starting position. He kept adding grains to the top of the stick until it was too high to reach. "Harold, don't make me come out there. Do you hear?" Harold stuffed stardust into his pockets and began to climb the impossibly thin tower he had built. It was surprisngly easy. The stickiness of the stardust provided ample grip. As he climbed, he added grains. "Harold! Come here this instant! I'm warning you. If I have to go out there to find you…" His wife's voice sounded a little more remote from up here, and with every grain added and further distance ascended, more and more remote. Soon Harold was so far off the ground he could see his own house, and his wife trudging angrily away from it. "Harold," she was saying distantly. "Harold, that's it. Today you have a crossed a line. You are a bad husband, Harold. A lazy, good for nothing—" She had spotted Harold's stardust tower and was heading for it. Harold looked up at the stars and realized that soon he would be among them. Not far now. He saw his wife reach the base of the tower, but if she was saying something, he could no longer hear it. He had peace at last. He hugged the stardust and basked in the silence. Suddenly the tower began to sway—to wobble— Harold held on. He saw far below the tiny figure of his wife violently shaking the tower. There became a resonance. Then a sound, but this was not the sound of his wife. It was far grander and more spatial— *Somewhere in the universe a new particle vibrated into existence.


He could hear voices. It was the first thing that he could sense as he slowly started to regain consciousness. One of them sounded familiar, but he could not quite make out what was being said. It felt as if there was water stuck in his ears and all the vibrations were being filtered before hitting his eardrums. The murmurs became louder and gradually, he could feel his other senses returning. He started to register the light entering his pupils through his eyelids, but everything felt too bright and he could not open them just yet. The sensations around his mouth came next and he could taste the disgusting stickiness of his dry mouth keeping his lips stuck where they were. He could tell that he was lying on a bed, with his torso raised slightly, but could not feel his arms or legs, which probably would have caused panic if it were not for the general haze surrounding all of his body. Lastly he began to smell the numbingly clean odor that was instantly recognizable as a hospital room. It entered his nostrils and further signaled his brain to wake up. The sounds became clearer and he could just make out a woman talking softly yet with conviction to someone else in the room, “yes, he should wake up in the next few hours. I would recommend getting yourself something to eat and drink at the shop now before he wakes up. It would be best for you to be here to talk with him once he does.” Before he could try and send a signal, a grunt, a wave, a shift in his body, to show that he was already awake, he heard the two sets of footsteps moving away. The sliding door lightly hit the frame and bounced open again, before someone made sure to seal it tight on their way out. The only sound now was the beeping of a vital signs monitor next to him. Disheartened, at being left alone, he gave himself a moment to sink into his skin. He couldn’t remember why he was in the hospital. In fact, it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember much of anything. Why was he here? Who were the people in the room with him just now? Where was this hospital? What was his name? A panic started to rise from his chest into his throat. How could he not remember his own name? He tried taking a deep breath to calm himself, and felt his lungs expand before a sharp pain in his left rib caused him to yelp. It helped to shift his attention momentarily away from the panic. The vital signs monitor once again became the only sound in the room. With the pain in his ribs screaming out at him, he tried his best to gain control over the rest of his body. He opened his eyes and saw a blurry image of the television in front of him, as well as the window to his right, the lights of nearby high-rises shining brightly in the night sky. His neck was still sore, and even with the rush of adrenaline he was unable to twist it beyond a few inches. He rolled his eyeballs as far to the left as he could and saw a light blue curtain dividing his side of the room with what he assumed was a second bed. As he took in his surroundings, the pain and panic he felt before subsided, but it was replaced instead by a feeling of utter solitude. He could not remember anyone. Not even himself. It was an absolute sense of loneliness that engulfed him inside this dreary hospital room. He longed for some company. “Must have been a pretty bad fall,” a sudden voice shocked him, causing a sharp intake of breath, forcing him to yelp in pain for a second time. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice sounded worried. His eyes darted around looking for a source. Oddly, he couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, but he again saw the curtain to his left and deduced that it must be coming from the bed behind it. He wasn’t sure who was talking, but at least he could direct his attention now to a specific area. He tried to respond, but at first all that came out was a faint scratchy noise. After a couple of tries, he managed to clear his throat and produce a tiny amount of saliva to produce a few words. “Not great,” he managed to say. “That’s a shame,” the voice expressed disappointment and continued, “I thought maybe we could have a chat, but perhaps another day.” “No, no, please,” he urgently responded, grasping for company with his words. His vocal cords were starting to warm up. “Oh, well, sure, if you’re up for it,” the voice cheerily said. There was a pause. He couldn’t think of anything to talk about. After a moment, it was the voice that broke the ice. “Well, perhaps we can talk about something pleasant. How about we share our dreams? Let me tell you mine. Ever since I was a child, I dreamt of being a lion tamer. I saw one when the circus came through town and I was absolutely floored by his charisma. Able to control a beast with just the crack of a whip. What about you? What was your dream?” the voice asked. He thought this was an odd topic to chat about with a stranger, but decided to engage as he was appreciating the company. However, he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t access any of his memories. He still couldn’t remember his name, let alone his dreams. “I... I can’t remember,” he said, slightly saddened and embarrassed. “Well, that’s alright. We forget our dreams all the time. And even if we remember them, they might not come true. That’s a disappointment we don’t want to face, right?” the voice chuckled. “How about something else? Something simpler. What about your favorite ice cream flavor? Or go-to movie? What are the simple pleasures in life you enjoy?” It was no use, as he could not remember any of these details about his own life. It began to irritate him that he was being asked all of this. The sense of emptiness only seemed to widen as he faced the fact that he was without all of these memories. “No, no, you need to stop asking me these questions. I can’t seem to remember anything. I can't even remember my name!” he cried out in frustration. “Well, perhaps that’s for the best,” the voice mumbled. Upon hearing those words, he felt an anger boil up from his gut. How could this stranger tell him that losing all of his memories was for the best? Was he somehow insinuating that his past was better forgotten? “What do you mean by that?” he growled. The rage was numbing the pain in his ribs and throat. He continued, “are you saying that I’m better off not remembering my name? Or the memories of loved ones, of who might be waiting for me outside those doors?” “Perhaps,” the voice seemed saddened by his anger. “So you’re saying that I’m better off this way? Alone and without a single memory? You’re telling me that you aren’t proud of your own name? That you’d happily give up all of your memories and be like me?” he was shouting louder with each sentence. He paused for a response, but there was none. As he waited, he listened to the steady beeping of the vital signs monitor which slowly brought him back to his natural state. The lights above him were illuminating the room in a bright artificial white. He was giving up on receiving a response when he heard the voice again. “Nico. That’s the name. I have a beautiful wife, Emily, and two young daughters, Jess and Kate. A few friends and neighbors that we celebrated birthdays and holidays with, and a steady job that paid the bills,” the voice recounted. “See, Nico, sounds like you have a pretty damn decent life you’d like to remember,” the anger had subsided enough, but he still felt the irritation. His hands twitched. “But every evening,” the voice ignored his response and kept going. “Every evening after dinner as Emily started on the dishes, I would open the wooden cabinet that was right above the fridge. I would pull out the bottle of vodka I had restocked that morning. And I’d pour a glass. I’d take it to the living room, sit on the loveseat in front of the TV while some bullshit show played in the background and I’d down that first one. Instant. Every time. Then I’d pour out the next, and take the second one slowly. Each burning sensation as it went down my throat telling me that another day was here, same as the last. Another one that I’d like to forget. I’d pour out the next and before long the bottle would be half empty. And that’s about when I’d start to lose control. I’d let whatever I was feeling take over. Some nights would be somber. I’d wake up the next day grasping the cushion in between my arms and I could feel that it was still wet from the tears. Other nights I’d just fall asleep. Those were the good nights. And the worst nights, I’d know because it would be Emily waking up later than me. She’d come into the kitchen, as I’m making coffee covered up in the robe, hiding her body. She was distant, and I knew I’d done something bad. But I never brought it up. Because I knew that the guilt would be too much for me to handle. And for some reason she never did too. Or maybe she did and I didn’t listen. Either way when morning came I’d put my head down and chugged along until the evening came back again.” The voice trailed off. Sitting in the bed and eyes fixated to the curtain on his left, all he could think of was what a fool he had been. He was about to muster up the courage to apologize when he felt a sharp pain run through the spot an inch above his left ear and behind his temple. It was the type of pain felt beneath the skin, like the blood vessels were contracting sharply. “Ow,” he let out in a stifled yell. “I told you, perhaps it was for the best that you forgot,” he heard the voice say. It did not sound like it was coming from behind the curtain. Suddenly another sharp pain hit, but this one made his body curl. “OW!” he screamed. It was as if a vein ruptured in his head. He felt dizzy. He was about to throw up and the world around him spun around. It was a feeling he remembered from the last time he was at the hospital. When was that? A familiar voice he knew called out from outside the door. “Honey, is that you? Are you alright?” The door rattled open and a woman rushed in. She grabbed him as he fell over to his left, grasping at his head. “Doctor! Doctor!” the woman called out frantically. A nurse heard the commotion and ran in, grabbing the light blue curtain and zipping it open to give the others rushing in more space. The bed behind them was empty. He felt his consciousness leaving just as he heard the woman who held his hands frantically speak to him. “Nico, are you alright? Can you hear me? It’s Emily! Nico, honey?”


The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She twirls, swooping her arms up and down, lifting each leg time and time again in perfect pirouettes, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, in front of different audiences, in different locations, in the rain, in the dark, but always the same swoop and delicate bounce. Her arms stretched upwards as if to form a chalice, in which to capture the last rays of daylight before the dark comes again, so that she may sip on happiness until the inky unknown passes. The master puppeteer is not known to her. The only thing she knows of her Master is the Purpose he has given her: to dance, and dance, and dance, and dance. And for a while, this is enough. Dancing is enough. Until one day, for the first time, she falls. Picking herself off the ground, she feels the heat of a thousand pairs of eyes burning through her, as the audience grows restless. Battered and bruised, she can no longer support her own weight. "O Master," she cried out, rubbing her throbbing ankles with tender care, "send me the guidance I need to carry on. I am but a puppet; I know nothing except dance." After a moment, a booming voice, smooth as honey, resounded from above. "Then, my ward, you must dance." So with purple, swollen joints, she hobbles on, this time a little less poised, this time a little more unstable, but nevertheless still dancing. Always dancing. And after a time, once again, she feels a searing pain slice through her feet, and collapses onto a field of broken glass. With hot tears streaming down her cheeks, she throws her now-bloodied hands up to the sky and cries out "O Master, what now? I danced as you told me to. But I can go on no further. How may I serve you?" Just as before, a voice called down, this time coarse as the gritty sand of the Sahara desert. "Your purpose, dear puppet, is to dance. What will become of them if you don't dance?" And all of a sudden, the little puppet became painfully aware of the patrons in the shadows, waiting for the continuation of her endless performance. And without anywhere else to go, and without anything else to do, what could she do except oblige? As her perpetual journey continued, taking her though the jungle, then the ocean, then the twinkling stars of the skies, and then finally into the depths of a burning inferno, she found herself, the shell of what she once was, falling to the scorched, ashy earth once again, with the flames licking at her feet, screaming like a banshee. This time, she did not ask for guidance. What good would it do? She could not even move a muscle. Her Mission was over; she had failed. As her breathing became more ragged, she heard the voice, this time ice-cold, speaking once again. "You must go on; the crowd must be entertained. That is your Purpose, and you only exist alongside it." With his remarks falling on deaf ears, he grew more angry. "You think you can just abandon your duties, and lay down forever, and never have to dance again? You'll wither away into nothingness. The only way to save yourself is to keep dancing. Unless you keep moving forward, you will lose yourself." And when the little puppet refuses to move, with one sharp motion the puppeteer yanks the strings up, pulling her from the ground and twisting her into the endless cycle of spinning. Her bloodcurdling screams are drowned out by the cheers of the audience, enamored by the show that is once again being put on in front of their eyes. Into the distance she goes, dancing, and dancing, and dancing, until the flames surround her completely. The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She spins, jerking her arms up and down, throwing each leg time and time again in chaotic half-circles, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, with blood dripping down her neck, with dull, unobservant eyes staring lifelessly onto the crowd, but always the same rag doll being controlled by the same master. Her arms hang limp by her side, for she has no strength to capture any more hope or joy, and as the inky unknown grows darker, so too does her light.


"Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog–" "Are you quoting the Scottish Play?" Lizzie asked, peering over Isabelle’s shoulder into the large pot she was chanting in front of. Isa spun around, surprised. She hadn't heard her friend enter her house.

"You scared me!” said Isa. “What are you even here for anyway?"

"You're hosting Writing Club this week, remember?" Lizzie said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, yes, Writing Club! I'd totally forgotten–lost track of the time," Isa replied. "Where's Tricia? She's usually the early bird. Now, where-" Isa reached for her chopsticks to stir her makeshift cauldron. Lizzie took her hand out from behind her back to present Isa's chopsticks. Isa took the chopsticks, and kept stirring.

"Tricia's on vacation in the Bahamas. Didn't you see her pictures? Oh, right, you don't use social media except YouTube and Reddit," Lizzie muttered.

Isa suddenly remembered Tricia singing 'Ba-hamas' excitedly during their last meeting, waving around the wine glasses she carried around with her.

Isa looked down at her stew and frowned. "I was planning on finishing this recipe before Writing Club," Isa sighed. "I'm not even close to being done. Oh–Lizzie, you could help me with this! User u/theatreKidMakesGoodFood said this was the perfect recipe for a stew that gives you a spark of creativity!" Isa waved around her chopsticks with her left hand, whipping around to face Lizzie. "It's going to be great!" Lizzie winced and quickly turned off the stove. "The smell of burning hair is going to extinguish that creative spark," she said by way of explanation when Isa turned to her, confused. Lizzie made a face, but rolled up her sleeves and sighed. Isa politely ignored it and used her mittens to pick up the pot.

"User u/i_correct_stupid_stuff_on_reddit98 said the fire had to be going the whole time for it to work," Isa explained. She dumped out the contents of the pot into the sink. She started to gather a few ingredients from her cabinets. "There's a rhyme we have to chant,”

said Isa. “We usually need three people, but we can just alternate the third person's lines." Lizzie nodded, a slight grimace on her face. "What're the ingredients?" she asked. Looking at Isa's counter, Lizzie didn't see anything from the scene in the Scottish Play, like 'tongue of dog' or 'wool of bat'. All she saw were a large variety of ingredients sitting on the counter.

"Normal stuff," Isa replied, waving a hand at her. "Um, I'll do the first person's part, I guess. Come on, let's start!" They focused on the computer screen with the recipe. Lizzie didn’t know what to expect, but was surprised anyway. Isa opened a new tab on the computer and opened YouTube. She clicked on one of her playlists called 'Animal Sounds'. There were eight videos, called 'mew', 'pigggggggg', and 'WHO?!?!?!?', each video being saved a various amount of times. Isa rubbed her hands together and clicked 'play'. 'Mew, mew mew. Oink, oink, oink, oink. Who?" Isa started pouring broth and water in as the playlist played. She turned the stove on low and waited a few minutes, just as the recipe instructed. Lizzie tried to start a conversation a few times, but Isa needed absolute quiet for this recipe, with the exception of the required sounds, so she quickly shushed Lizzie.

As the broth started to boil, Isa placed ground beef in the pot. "Round about the cauldron go; In the poisoned entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone; Days and nights has thirty-one." With the last two lines were an addition of diced chicken. Well, frog legs are said to taste like chicken , Lizzie reasoned, grimacing at the unrhythmic delivery. Maybe that's where this Redditor got this idea? Isa hurriedly gestured at the chopped-up carrots. Lizzie gave her the carrots, wondering how

"Sweltered venom sleeping got" had anything at all to do with carrots.

Lizzie knew the next line by heart. "Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble," they said together.

Lizzie now realized it was her turn to stir and put in ingredients. Isa positioned herself at the counter, having a bowl at the ready. Isa leaned over and adjusted the heat slightly as the recipe instructed. Isa then gave Lizzie a bowl of diced onions and Lizzie started to chant. Lizzie loved theater and cooking, so she was actually having a lot of fun. She continued chanting, delivering her lines with enthusiasm as Isa kept handing her dishes. She noticed the strange combination of ingredients–completely different kinds of food for the ingredients in the play.

Lizzie turned up the heat to medium-high. Isa threw in ingredients from the counter for her lines and gave them to Lizzie when it was Lizzie's turn for the third witch's part. There were a few minor hiccups, but everything seemed to be going great. By the time they got to the third verse, Lizzie was seriously enjoying herself. Then she looked down at the strange mishmash of ingredients and wondered, What the hell have we made? The smell was okay, but it had occurred to Lizzie that you eat the stuff that comes out of recipes, and she didn't want to eat this strange stew.

They were nearly done. Isa turned the fire up to high and they let it sit for a minute or two, one of the very last steps. Once it was done, Lizzie went to go turn off the fire. Isa fetched a few ice cubes and Lizzie tossed them in, double-checking her next line: "Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good." Isa smiled and used her mittens to put the stew on a mat that was on a table. Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but Isa shushed her again. 'We can't speak until we're finished eating," Isa mouthed. Lizzie nodded to show she understood and fetched two extra bowls for them to eat from. Isa ladled a few generous scoops into each bowl, much to Lizzie's disappointment. As they waited for the stew to cool, Isa and Lizzie played charades. They came close to laughing a few times, but they managed to smother the noise. Finally, it was time to actually eat the stew. Lizzie was mildly intrigued as to how the stew would taste. She was hoping it would be safe to eat–the stew had cooked for an appropriately long time, and none of the ingredients seemed dangerous, but knowing her forgetful friend, maybe a few of them had expired.

Lizzie picked up a spoonful of the stew, gave Isa a grimacing smile, and took a bite. It didn't taste terrible, but the explosion of flavors could use some toning down– THUNK. As soon as Lizzie swallowed, her head hit the table and she was out like a light.

The doctors would call it a dream, but Lizzie awoke in a strange, blurry mindscape. She couldn't see anything past the white fog. She watched as she saw a figure make its way, ever so slowly, toward Lizzie.

"Um. Hello?" Lizzie called out to the figure, uncertain of where she was and hoping she could ask for help. Lizzie couldn't quite see their face past all the fog, but the figure simply emanated power. Hopefully they were feeling benevolent.

"You are here for… a creative spark?" The figure drifted toward Lizzie, and Lizzie wondered for a moment if the figure had actually spoken. Then the figure came closer, and repeated: "Creative spark, is that right, Eliz… Lizzie , is it?" "Uh, yes," Lizzie answered. "And…yes again. So, yes on both counts."

The figure sighed deeply. "People of all eras have asked similar questions, Lizzie. They summon me and ask, 'Where is inspiration?' I am never able to answer this question. I cannot tell you to go to a specific place and you will be able to write a masterpiece. I cannot give you a stew recipe that will magically awaken the creativity in your mind." "So, everything is useless?" Lizzie asked. "Not even you, a god or whoever you are, can tell me where to find inspiration? I can't just sit tight and wait for inspiration to come find me. I'll never finish anything that way."

"I'm not asking you to 'sit tight'. I'm asking you to consider the world around you," the figure replied. As Lizzie opened her mouth, they held up a finger. "'Not nature', you say, 'that's been done a thousand times.' If not nature, consider the things that are unique to you. Maybe the trinkets you've saved

can help you tell your story. Maybe this experience itself will be useful. Inspiration is in everything around us, Lizzie. All you have to do is look." Lizzie thought about the figure's words. She wanted to say there was nothing unique about her, but that wasn't true. She was the only one she knew who could recite Harry Potter front to back. Only she had the unique collection of souvenirs she did. "Where do I find inspiration in that ?" she wondered aloud, noticing she could hardly see anything anymore. She could feel her grasp on the realm slipping away. "Another question I cannot straightforwardly answer," the figure remarked. "I can tell you this: start looking for inspiration today. It will be easier tomorrow." The realm kept fading, and Lizzie could hear footsteps from wherever she was outside.

The moment Lizzie couldn't see the fog and the figure anymore, she woke up on a hospital cot, startled. "It's just food poisoning," a nurse was explaining to Isa, who was clearly worried. "Just don't make the recipe again, I guess." Lizzie snorted, drawing the attention of the nurse. Lizzie was then hurriedly discharged from the hospital, with a promise that 'your bill will be mailed to you later'.

As Isa was dropping Lizzie off at her house, Lizzie thought about her friend that had set this whole adventure in motion. I could even write about Writing Club and Isa and Tricia. They've got their own little quirks too. Oh, and I could write about my house and my backyard… Lizzie found inspiration everywhere, even if the only stories she could produce from them were terrible. "Inspiration really is everywhere," she said out loud as she plopped down in her armchair, computer in hand. "I suppose I should start looking more."