CW: Brief descriptions of violence, death This seat is too rough. You think if they have a nice assembly room, the best thing they can do is give us chairs that don’t feel like splinters. I guess when you’re in this place, you can’t ask for anything. My eyes immediately drift to the lights. They seem to be fading, almost, a little too broken. They’ll probably make a new labor station for lightbulb repairs. Maybe I’ll get put in it. The walls look shiny as can be, though. I’m not surprised by that. Painting is one of the easiest “jobs” they can force you to do, so it makes sense that the people doing it would be relatively enthusiastic. “Why do you think we’re here today?” I whisper to Imogen. Morning meetings only happen on Mondays. Being here every single week is exhausting as hell. “No idea,” she said. “I heard Erik was captured. Maybe they want to show us the consequences of getting out and being caught again.” That’s a punch in the gut. I never knew Erik personally, but after they captured all of us, he was one of the first to get out of this awful place. I heard his plan. He’d pretend to be a guardian, and hopefully cross the border. He’s pretty tall. I guess he can pass as an adult. A ringing fills the auditorium. All hundreds of people sit down and turn towards the front. The signal sound, telling us all to sit down, is truly one of the worst things about here. The door in the back opens, and everyone seems to freeze a little bit more. Genevieve enters, with a bunch of guardians around her. Maybe Erik is in one of those suits. As she walks to the front, the guardians start to spread around the auditorium. I guess something important is happening today, and they don’t want anyone escaping. Maybe I should have used my bathroom pass before this. “It’ll be okay, Kris.” Just because they don’t want anyone escaping doesn’t mean anything bad is going to happen. Maybe it’s just a mandatory presentation. But despite the words of reassurance, I can’t shake the pit laying in my stomach. She finally steps to the podium, a tight smile on her face. “Good morning, citizens,” she announces, and a spike of feedback bounces around the room. I cringe. “Hopefully our IT guys can get that fixed. We’re glad you’re all here for our morning meeting!” “We’re glad to be here too,” everyone around me mutters. All five hundred of them, all in unison. Imogen gives me a punch in the side. “You have to say it, too.” “I’m not going to,” I mutter. She rolls her eyes. “We have a very special video to show you today,” Genevieve says, her face as flat as the air in the room. “Hit the lights, please.” I hear a click in the back, and the lights shut off. It’s practically pitch black where I am. I want a hand to grab for support. Usually I’d grab my mom’s. But she’s not here. It still hurts to even think about. A projector screen rolls down at the front, almost hitting Genevieve. I bite back a laugh. With humor, that’s practically the best you can get here. The video projects, leaving an overexcited man at the front. “Hello, Citizens of Walmour! Congrats on reaching your first year here! We’ve been overjoyed to have a conservative society.” “It’s been a year already?” I say to Imogen. She shushes me almost immediately. Every day here seems to blend into each other, feeling super long and short at the same time. I guess after we reached a month, I just lost count.

The screen flashes different shots of people around the island, doing their jobs. “We’ve had amazing work from multiple people around the island, exceeding their standard.” A clip flashes from the Outerlands, which causes me to cringe. All you do there is shovel coal and dirt. You’re sent there if you aren’t performing well, acting badly, or all of the above. Death or illness is the most common route. My friend Mikah was sent there after he smuggled food to someone there. I remember the threat of the guardian. “If you care about the Outerlands so much, we can send you there.” Something tells me that him not being in the video is a bad sign. “However, not all has been perfect here,” the man says. “We’ve had many people who think they can get away with breaking the rules.” A clip flashes, making my heart stop. It’s Erik, getting thrown to the ground. There’s no way that isn’t him. He looks exhausted. Desperate. Murmurs begin to erupt around the auditorium, probably due to the same reason I’m shocked. “Is that him?” Imogen whispers. “It has to be,” I say. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. They’re probably torturing him right now.” “Silence!” Genevieve screams, and the majority of people freeze again. The clip finally disappears. “Many people think that they’re able to just get away with their theatrics. We’re not tolerating it, though. So, we have implemented a new system to hopefully improve this! Your president will explain it in detail.” The video stops, and only about half of the people clap. Usually it’s everyone, but there’s no way anyone’s in line after seeing that clip. What was even the point of that 30 second video? It had to be to fuck our minds up after showing us Erik, proving that no one can get out. She could have said everything herself, but she needed to do that. The lights finally come back on, revealing everyone’s terrified faces. The kids at the front, like usual, look mortified. How could they do this to children? Genevieve steps back to the podium. “Guardians, please bring them to the stage.” Three guardians run backstage, like the little puppets they are. Sometimes I wonder how they got their jobs. Did they simply do their work and get promoted? Were they supporters of the regime? I’ll never know. There’s a lot of things I will never know about Walmour. They bring out three colorful wheels. Tiny black text remains on each slice, with a large white label on the stand. Adult. Teenager. Child. There has to be at least 300 slices on the adult wheel. As an estimate, the

other ones have closer to 150 or 90. Genevieve reveals her daunting smile. “As you can see, we have three spinning wheels right here, each one labeled by age group respectively.” She walks up to the wheel and does a casual spin on it. The ticking as it rotates is haunting enough to keep me up for nights. “Each of the slices on this wheel has a name on it. A name on the wheel represents how many times you’ve rebelled or stepped out of line. You may not have thought we were watching. But we were.” Imogen grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly, causing it to flinch. She isn’t a very touchy person, but I don’t blame her right now. She takes out an olive green triangle from the wheel, and adjusts her glasses to read the tiny text. “For example, this reads Penelope Wellings.” I flick my head to this poor girl, as does the rest of the audience. I’m pretty sure she works as a surrogate. It’s an understatement to say she looks mortified. Of course, Genevieve uses this to her advantage. “Don’t worry, darling. That was just a practice round. You haven’t been selected. Yet.” Imogen squeezes my hand a little tighter. “Whoever the wheel lands on will be immediately brought to execution, no questions asked.” The tone in the room immediately shifts. I thought maybe they would send them to the Outerlands, or even make them a guardian to send a message. But execution? There’s no way. This has to be some kind of joke. But when I see the batons of the guardians extend, I know this isn’t just a joke anymore. It’s happening. It could be me. “It’ll be okay, Kris.” You’ve always stood in line. There’s absolutely no way it could land on you. Sure, you don’t really say the required mantra, and you’ve sometimes snuck out of your pod at night. Maybe one time I only pretended to finish in the agriculture fields. But they couldn’t be keeping track of all of that. It’s not possible. “I suppose we should start with the adults!” Genevieve exclaims, pushing said wheel to the front. She seems excited about this. Like our existence is just some kind of game to her. My head flicks to the back section, where the adults remain. Some of them are crying. Some are shaking. Some are even praying. But the majority of them remain completely still, watching the wheel get slower and slower. I don’t want to watch. I want to look away. But as the ticks get less frequent, I can’t bear it anymore. I have to look. The wheel finally stands still, as the arrow points to a blood red slice. Genevieve takes it out, a flat look on her face. “Dotty Lewis, you’ve been selected.” Dotty Lewis. That name sounds so familiar. I’m pretty sure she ran the flower shop at the island before the takeover. She was such a kind lady. I have no idea where to look, so I follow the heads of the audience. Dotty looks destroyed. She doesn’t even try to fight it as the guardians approach her, grabbing her by hand. I’m pretty sure she got sent to the outerlands. Probably for being a lesbian. At least she’s old. She had a relatively good life on the old island. And it’s just a tad better than losing an 18 year old. She doesn’t say anything as she’s dragged out, but she clearly makes eye contact with one woman. Mouthing anything is clearly unsuccessful.

I think that’s the last time I’ll ever see Dotty. Genevieve smiles, and clears her throat. “Well! There goes our first member. I suppose we shall go to the children now.” She puts her hand to the wheel, when a man stands up from his seat. “Genevieve, you can’t do this!” I gasp, as do the majority of the audience. What was he thinking standing up like that? That’s one of the biggest laws. No speaking whilell Genevieve is talking. “You’re sending a poor child to their death! They don’t know any better about staying in order or not!” “Back to your seat, Daniel!” Genevieve barks. Two guardians shift their body his way. “This is ridiculous! You can’t kill a child!” Tommy says. Genevieve grabs a whistle from her neck, and two guardians run to him, grabbing him by his arms. “Don’t touch me!” he shouts, but they’re already dragging him out of the room. “No! Don’t do this! You can silence them, but you can’t silence me! Get out of here, guys! It’s all slave labor!” But he’s already gone. “Enough!” Genevieve shouts. “I will not have anyone tell me what to do! I suppose we shall go to the teenagers now, since we have so many protests against this one.” She walks to the spinner, her heels as loud as ever. This is it. Where she decides who it’s gonna be. I look to my left, where a tear is falling out of Imogen’s eye. “It’s not gonna be you,” I whisper. “You always follow the rules.” “You don’t know everything,” she says. I want to question that, but the spinner is finally slowing down. It lands on a midnight blue slice. The silence in the room is thicker than Genevieve’s eyebrows. She clears her throat as she moves the slice to her eyes. “Imogen Greenlight.” It’s as if time stops. Her grip loosens. No. It can’t be. There’s no way. I must have heard wrong. They can’t be taking Imogen. I whip my head to the right, where her eyes remain wide. She’s probably in shock. The guardians walk our way, and I grab her hands. “Get out!” I yell. “Quiet, sir,” a guardian says, hooking her with his arm. “Run away! Don’t let them get you!” I say. “Kris! No!” she shouts, as the guardians drag her down the aisle. When I thought about Imogen going down an aisle, I thought about it in a different way. Not this mess. I can’t let them take her. She has three siblings, and they can’t lose her. I push my way out of my seat, running down the aisle. “Don’t do this to her!” “Christian, back to your seat,” a guardian says, pointing his long gun at me. I initially stop at the gun, but I don’t care anymore. They can’t take Imogen away. I’d rather die than let her get executed. “Take me instead! I’ll take her place!” “Christian, this is not the hunger games,” Genevieve says. “You may not volunteer for someone. But if you’re so enthusiastic to go, I suppose we can take you with her.” She blows a whistle, and two guards start running towards me. “No!” I yell. “That’s not what I wanted!” I look for an escape route, but guardians surround everywhere, batons in hand. I can’t even think of a backup plan by the time the guardians reach me. They grab me with a firm grip, and bring me up to the stage. The audience all watches me with terrified eyes. However, I don’t see them long, as the guards whisk Imogen and I offstage. The guards walk us for a minute or two, before they throw us into a room. “Get in there and stay in there!” My face hits the ground, causing a pounding pain in my head. The door slams, and I hear the click of the lock. I open my eyes, and I’m immediately greeted with a slap from Imogen. That doesn’t help considering it feels like hammers are smashing my head. “Ow!” “Why would you volunteer for me?” she yells, throwing her hands into her face. “That’s just got us both killed!” “I obviously didn’t know that!” I say, finally sitting up. At first, I think my vision is blurred, but it’s clearly a product of the poor aqua lighting in this room. It looks like a prison cell, and I’m pretty sure there’s a bug on the wall. I also notice Dotty Lewis sitting in the corner, crying. I want to comfort her, but I can’t right now. “It’ll be okay, Kris.” I always repeat that phrase to myself to calm me down. I repeated it when I was hiding in the secret room on the old island, before they captured us. I repeated it as I got my assignment as an agricultural laborer. I repeated it as my mom got sent to the outerlands. However, at this moment, I don’t think it applies anymore. I hear a huge smash, which makes me jump. I expect it to be a guardian coming in to give us a lethal injection. However, when I look where the sound came from, one of the awful lights comes smashing towards the ground.	Luckily, none of us are sitting in the area where it smashes. However, a person comes into view from the ceiling, where the light originally smashed. It’s Erik. There’s no way. He was captured. How did he escape? I thought he’d be dead already. He reaches a hand out. “C’mon, take my hand!” “Erik?” Imogen exclaims, her look of terror turning into confusion. “Yeah, I know, you thought I was dead,” he says. “We can talk about that later. Just c’mon! We gotta get you out!” “We can’t escape!” Dotty says, speaking for the first time. “They’ll kill us if they catch us!” “They’re gonna kill you anyway if you’re in this room!” he says. “Quickly, now! We don’t have much time!” Obediently, I stand up and grab his hand. Somehow, he pulls me up to the ceiling, which reveals a dark area. He does the same to Imogen and Dotty, who are more skeptical than I am. He turns on a flashlight, which reveals a much bigger space than I thought. There’s pipes and trapdoors. “Follow me! We gotta get you to a safe area!” He starts creeping in one direction, and Imogen is the first to address all of our concerns. “I thought they caught you!” “They did at first,” he says, pushing a pipe to the side. “I made it to the border, but I lost my ID. I got sent back to prison. They were about to send me to the outerlands, but I knocked out a guard and escaped. I’ve been hiding around the island helping people escape.” “That’s pretty badass of you,” I say, chuckling. No one else laughs. After a few minutes of walking, he leads us to a tiny room, covered by a black shade. Inside lies a bunch of refugees. Some are shivering, some are holding each other. I think I recognize one of them. “Stay in here for now. We’ll pick you and the other ones up in our next wave. Don’t make a sound. No talking unless it’s absolutely necessary.” We make our way inside, and he throws a dark blanket at us. Before we can ask anything else, he’s gone. I lie down with Imogen, getting close with her to maintain our warmth. I can tell it’ll soon be freezing up here. Is this really it? Are we finally gonna escape from Walmour? I have no way of knowing. This could be a scheme that the government planned, just to see who actually tries to escape. Then they’ll know who to keep an eye on. But for now, all we can do is wait. I stare at the lonely clock in the corner of the room. Tick, tock, tick, tock…


Since I can remember, I always played in the woods behind my grandparents’ house. We visited once a week every season from the moment I was born till now. It was a magical place. It was a land you could create stories and be princesses or knights or witches or rebels in hoods. It was an escape from the adults and the responsibilities. It was a safe place. To me anyway. It wasn’t anymore. For three years now. Standing at the edge of the property my grandparents still owned with a large beautiful country house and gardens blossoming around them in the cool early spring, I stared up at the tall silent trees. Like I was waiting for an answer. I was now seventeen, a young adult. Yet, right now, I wish I was a young naïve spirited child again who could run for hours dressed in silly costumes and imagine sticks were swords and fireflies were magic. Sadly, that was no longer a reality or a fantasy anymore. Knowing I shouldn’t step a foot further, I did anyway. It was against family wishes that none of children of the family entered the forest, not after what happened. But I missed the forest. Was it the same? Or was it different? With a full intake of pine and earthy air, and a shaking exhale of steamed breath, I took my first step into my childhood memories. My grandparents had three children. My father, and his younger brothers. My Uncle Dean had two boys and a daughter, my cousins Robby, Tatum and Chrissie. My Uncle Drew had two daughters and two stepsons, Marie and Jamie, and Steven and Joe. Then there was me…and Jared. My little brother. My best friend that stood no higher than my waist. A small boy for his age of seven, with pale skin and rose cheeks, and eyes the sparkled like the starry skies out here away from the city lights and pollution. He loved coming out here. Robin Hood was his favourite game. He liked to be the Sheriff of Nottingham, because it involved more chasing and attacking and saying to our parents he was defending them from the criminals before they came into the house to steal our mother’s nice rings and pinch coins out of dad’s wallet. He didn’t care if Robin Hood was giving it to the poor, it was still stealing. He thought that the people must be spending too much if they think they should be stealing it from other people. Too much fun those peasant people were having, he thought. It always made us laugh. It was such a wrong thought, but he was young and wilful, so we let him enjoy his fun. I can still remember his laugh. His smile. Even when I walk around the ancient trees and take in the familiar smells of early spring frost and green, I can see him running around having the best time of his life. Around this time of year, we would be playing games such as ghosts wanting to drag your soul to the afterlife, or evil witches coming to get children to have for their dinner, or monsters of the forest. Somehow, in the back of my mind now, I think that’s what happened. A ghost took him, and they both vanished. A witch came and boiled him to stew. A monster came and dragged him back to his lair. He didn’t just runaway. He didn’t just disappear. There was a real monster out here…and it took him. Three years ago, today, my seven-year-old brother Jared went missing. He was last seen tell our parents he wanted to see if the winter fairies would be doing a special dance for the spring time that would start the next day. It was a story our grandmother would tell us as we grew up, that the fairies who helped grow her garden had a special dance for the seasons. From night of the last day of the season, until the morning sun rises the next day into the new season, the fairies had a party in the forest. It seems Jared really wanted to see if that was true. He had climbed out of bed in the dark of night, the thermometer still in the negatives, slipped out the back door and rushed into the forest to see if he could find the dancing fairies. I wonder if he actually found them. Was that how he disappeared? Did he find the fairies and they took him with them? I stopped walking too far into the forest, even though I have gone much further than this. It was pushing it, mentally for me and if my mother ever saw me out here she would have an aneurism. God, I missed being out here. It was so much fun. All my cousins were currently back in the house in bed with the rest of the family since it was still so early. Years ago, as soon as we had breakfast and did our chores to help out the family, we would rush out here and play for hours and hours until it was too hot or we were hungry. No it just stood here. An open space between the mist and fog and trees. Empty of people, full of memories, and one big horrible reminder of what we were missing. The week he went missing, I was out here all the time. We all were. Police, Rescue Teams, media and volunteers. 5000 square kilometres of land, 300 people searching from the early hours of the morning until late at night in the frosty spring. We found nothing. For the first year since Jared when missing, I would sit at the back of the garden and watch between the gaps of the trees to see if I ever saw glimpses of him in the shadows. The second year, I avoided this place entirely. Now here I was, daring and wishing. For a clue. For a sign. For path. For a ghost. Anything. But all I had left of him was this place. Turning around, I decided to head back to the house. I stood here long enough, knowing my family would soon wake. Plus the voice in my head telling me that I wasn’t going to get what I wanted out here made me see logic and reason that it was not best to stand out here and wish for something that was sadly impossible. Even my home in the city there was very little of him because it was too painful of a reminder to my parents that he was gone. Right now, it was quiet and cool, with frost and dew on the ground, and dead pine covering the ground in a blanket. The trees were dark and hushed. The air still and carrying an echo of snaps from miles away, making my body jolt every time it happened. I don’t know what I will do when it comes to the summer holidays. It would be warm. The frost gone, and fresh patches of grass and shrubs and flowers breaking through the earth. There would be a breeze that carried the odd scent of apples and cinnamon, which would trick us into thinking that someone was backing in the house. It would be another year gone without Jared. Without a clue. Without a sign. Without a path. Without him.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting; there are changes! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Distortion! As we continue to explore the overarching theme of ‘change’ for March, we will focus on “distortion” this week. Sometimes, our view of a given situation is distorted by our perceptions and emotions, or by those around us. What does this look like in your world? Are your characters being intentionally misleading or are they victims of their own distorted perceptions? What consequences will this have for them and those around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * March 14 - Distortion (this week) * March 21 - Resistance * March 28 - Loss   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on stories to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/ArchipelagoMind - - u/Xacktar - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/stickfist - - u/Lord_Demerek - - u/MossRock42 - - u/Mattswritingaccount   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. I’ve recently added two new ways to get points each week. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place and on - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * ***Note:*** Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well. If you’re unsure what this means, check out from this past week.     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Janet It rained like this on the night my sister was murdered, Janet thought to herself as she slicked the plastic coral lipstick on her lips and scrutinised her wrinkled, grey reflection in the dressing table mirror. The colour didn’t suit her. The bedroom still smelled like her, like Anna, and a faint whiff of white musk and face powder lingered in the air, as it mixed with the mouldy damp odour which permeated the whole house. Wind rattled the door frames like an unwanted intruder trying to break in whilst raindrops played percussion on the single glazed windows. What a night for a party! Would anyone come on a night like this? It seemed like a morbid idea with death still so fresh in their minds and Anna’s corpse not yet buried. Everything seemed out of kilter and Janet tried to guess what her sister may have felt during her last moments. Had she looked into this mirror on her last night alive? Had she worn this lipstick? A twinge of guilt stabbed Janet's gut as she thought again how long it had been since she'd seen her own sister, or since she’d spent any time in the sombre grey walls of the mansion they'd both grown up in. Truth be told, they’d lost touch. They'd still sent each other cards at Christmas and birthdays, meaningless tokens of the affection that’d once felt as sisters. But it had been months since they’d even spoken on the phone. Now Janet would never speak to her sister again. When the phone finally rang last week it had been Colin’s voice, Janet had heard from the other end of the phone instead, his usual calm and softly-spoken lilt racked with guttural sobs as he explained what had happened. Anna had been found bludgeoned to death on the cold stone floor of the dining room with one of the oversized, ornate candle-stick holders. Her skull caved in like a broken Easter egg, leaving a hideous splash of blackness and blood seeping into the stone slabs of the floor. ‘Murder!’ His voice was hoarse from crying. ‘The police say that someone must have broken in and she unwittingly surprised the thief. But that’s a lot of nonsense. We all know better than that.’ ‘But what else would have happened Colin?’ Janet asked. She was still in shock. ‘My sister didn’t have any enemies.’ There was a pause on the end of the line. ‘When did you last speak to Anna?’ he asked. The familiar feeling of guilt washed over Janet. She couldn't remember. ‘Well… I think it was just before Christmas,’ she lied. It had been much longer than that. Colin took a deep breath. ‘Janet. Did Anna ever mention anything to you about her husband?’ Janet nearly dropped the phone in shock. Since her youth Anna, had staunchly maintained she’d remain a spinster until the day she died. Both sisters were in their sixties, Janet widowed a few years ago whilst Anna had inherited their childhood home, rattling around on her own in the large empty house filled with shadows. Well not quite on her own – Anna had a solid group of loyal friends, who were just as eccentric as she was in their own way and who all enjoyed a touch of the theatrical. Anna, Colin, Bunty and Mae; the four friends had been inseparable since their tearaway adolescence. Janet, with her more conservative tastes, had never quite fit in. The four friends were known for holding weekly dinner parties in the echoey, high-ceiling dining until the early hours of the morning. Although often there’d be more wine than dinner. Sometimes there would be no dinner at all. ‘Janet, are you still there?’ Her stunned silence was the only answer Colin needed. ‘Look I think you need to come home. We need to talk.’ Colin Colin let himself in with his spare key and eased off his wet boots in the hallway, leaving puddles on the diamond floor tiling. The rain showed no sign of abating and the wind had grown stronger as it whistled through the dripping trees. He didn’t mind the weather too much. In fact, it suited his purpose. It would be a dinner party to remember. ‘Anna would have been proud’, Colin thought sadly. She had loved anything theatrical or overdramatic. He tried to ignore the niggling feeling that he was being ridiculous and that he would just end up looking like a fool. His conversation with Janet earlier today hadn’t reassured him. Janet was almost a carbon copy of her old sister in terms of appearance and colouring but the similarities ended there. She was a nice enough woman, but she lacked Anna’s independent nature and spirit of fun. Whilst Anna would have toasted the idea of a dinner party in her memory, and have knocked back a hearty gulp of wine to mark the occasion, Janet obviously found the whole scheme highly inappropriate. ‘Really Colin? Do you honestly think this is a good idea?’ Janet had asked with raised eyebrows. He missed Anna. He tried not to think of his oldest friend as he up the florid stone staircase to her bedroom. He needed to focus on the plan. The plan would work – it had to work. Janet ‘Home,’ Colin had said. ‘Come home.’ Only it wasn’t home really. It never had been. For Anna maybe, but not for her. Even though Janet had grown up in the jaded splendour of the mansion, and had run along its corridors laughing with her sister as a child, it had never been a happy house. She hated the dank, chill of the place which refused to warm even during the midst of summer. When Janet met her husband, she’d jumped at the chance to escape the toxic imprisonment of the house and forge her own path, whilst Anna had stayed and slowly became consumed with the isolation and gloom that the house drew into itself like a vacuum. Nevertheless, Janet still couldn’t believe that her sister hadn’t mentioned her marriage. Had their relationship really have become so distant as that? ‘It was a whirlwind romance – very sudden,’ Colin had told her that afternoon as they’d sipped coffee on the terrace. He was trying to reassure her. ‘You know what Anna was like once she had an idea in her head. Of course, she knew we all disapproved terribly.’ ‘And you think he was after her money all along?’ Janet knew that the house, despite its dilapidated state, was worth a fortune. A ferocious expression flitted across Colin’s usually gentle demeanour. ‘I don’t think so… I know so. Burton – that’s what he calls himself – is a complete rotter. That’s why she didn’t tell you about him. She knew you wouldn’t approve.’ Janet shrugged. It was probably true, she reflected. The sisters had always possessed a tendency to disagree. ‘But murder, Colin? Do you really think so?’ ‘I know so,’ Colin repeated with resolution. The grief was palpable from his faded, red-rimmed eyes and hunch of his shoulders. Poor Colin. Janet knew he’d secretly been in love with her sister for years, but Anna had always refused him swearing she would never marry. Suddenly marrying another man when Colin had been her devout slave for so many years must have been a shock for him. Janet couldn’t help but wonder whether Colin wasn’t being completely objective about the whole affair. ‘If you’re so sure it was Burton then why don’t you go to the police?’ Janet asked. Colin’s buried his head in his hands and momentarily looked ten years older. ‘I already have. Apparently Burton has some kind of alibi for that night. Some woman’ . His voice dripped with meaning. ‘But I have a plan,’ he said, curling his lips as he gazed into her eyes. ’The only thing, Janet, is that you’re part of the plan. Are you game?’ Janet paled and took another sip of her coffee, uncertain whether she wanted to be drawn into one of Colin’s schemes. Her sister was dead – no amount of flimflam was going to bring her back. ‘What did you have in mind?’ Colin grinned. ‘It involves a party’. Colin and Janet Colin knocked on the door to Anna’s bedroom as he had done a thousand times before. Of course, he knew Anna wasn’t there, that she was dead, but as the door creaked open his mind played tricks on him. He saw an image of Anna, bathed in the bedroom light, as she sat at the dressing table applying make-up in an elegant green evening dress. The white musk scent filled his nostrils, addling his senses. ‘Anna?’ he whispered. The spectre turned around to face him, and the illusion shattered. ‘Janet… of course. I knew,’ Colin said. He shook his head as though trying to clear his head. ‘It’s just you look so much like her. That was her favourite dress.’ Janet stood up, the green dress spreading out like an emerald carpet at her feet. ‘Colin. I really feel very uncomfortable about the whole thing.’ ‘It’s all set,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘Burton will be here in any minute. And Bunty and Mae are coming too. Do you remember what you have to do?’ Janet nodded, her rabbit-like eyes, cavernous and frightened. ‘I do remember, but Colin–' ‘The lights are scheduled to go out at 11pm,’ Colin continued as he paced the bedroom floor. ‘I ought to be able to build the appropriate atmosphere before then. All you have to do is enter the room when the lights go out and point a bloody finger at Burton. He’s never met you before and so it won't even cross his mind that you're not Anna. He’ll think that the devil has risen to drag him back to the hell he belongs in.’ He gritted his teeth with determination as he spoke. ‘It’s frightful,’ Janet said, her brow crinkled with worry. ‘Do any of the others know about this? What do they think?’ ‘No one but you and me, Janet.’ Colin clasped his hands together in glee. 'No one else knows you're here.’ ‘Colin, I really don’t think I want to–’ ‘Nonsense, Janet. It’s for Anna remember. Just one more thing. I nearly forgot.' Colin reached into his pocket and pulled our a small vial of stage blood. He dabbed the red paste on to Janet’s forehead. ‘Behold. The look is complete!’ The doorbell rang, echoing sing song chimes incongruously throughout the empty house. The guests had arrived. Colin sprinted for the staircase. ‘Remember,' he said, as he swung himself around the brass finial of the bannister, 'stay hidden until the lights go out.’ ‘Colin?’ Janet’s voice was choked as that of a drowning woman. 'Wait!' ‘Don’t worry dear. You look sublime.’ And just like that he was gone, leaving Janet alone looking out on to the landing with its peeling wallpaper and faded patterned carpet. The wind continued to whistle through the hallway in mockery. Colin ‘What an awful night!’ Bunty, said batting her thickly mascaraed eye lashes, heavy with blue eyeshadow at Burton, who was brooding at the end of the mahogany table. Shadows menaced in the cobwebbed corners of the room and occasionally the sudden movement of the faded velvet curtains blowing in the wind would cause one of the guests to flinch and look up in surprise. Thunder rumbled into the night and every so often a flash of lightening would illuminate the dining room wall. Burton hadn’t said a word all evening, he seemed particularly withdrawn even for him, as he stared at the untouched glass of wine in front of him. Anna’s chair, in which she used to sit next to Burton at the head of the table was, of course, empty. Looking at the vacant chair, Mae’s eyes brimmed with tears which did not fall. ‘I just hope they catch whoever did it,’ she said. She showed a row of tiny white teeth stained pink with wine as she raised a glass to her lips. ‘Oh I’m sure they will…’ Colin said casting a malevolent glance at Anna’s husband. ‘Crimes have a way of catching up with people.’ ‘Do you really think so Colin?’ Bunty said. ‘I do.’

Burton grunted and went back to staring at the glass of wine which he'd been nursing since he arrived. ‘In fact, I have a surprise for you,’ Colin said. ‘You know how we all used to joke about and say we’d come back to haunt each when we died. Well I thought we could hold a seance.’ There was an immediate outcry. ‘Oh no Colin!’ ‘Bad taste!’ ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, man!’ Burton said, coming back to life. ‘Why ever not? Unless anyone has any secrets they’d rather not share with the rest of the group?’ The other three exchanged awkward looks with each other but no one said anything. Colin reached into the bag next to his chair and drew out a flat oval board. The alphabet was painted in shiny black letters on the surface, and attached was a triangular planchette with a circular hole cut through the middle. ‘This is what you might know as a Ouija board.' Colin's expression was alight with the feverish zeal of a fanatic. ‘Anyone game?’ ‘I’m not sure…’ Mae’s tiny frame was tense and hunched. ‘Although I guess if Anna has something she wants to tell us then this might be a good way to communicate with her.’ Colin nodded and looked pointedly again at Burton. ‘They say those who met with a violent end never rest until they’ve been avenged. She died in this very room. In cold blood.' ‘It’s a terrible idea!’ Burton’s sleepy expression from earlier had transformed into one of fury. ‘And appalling bad taste. I’ve just lost my wife and you’re playing about with gimmicks like this?’ 'Worried about what might come to light?’ Colin asked his nemesis. Burton picked up his glass of wine, holding it so tightly his fingers turned white and blue, raised it to his lips and drained the contents. 'If it shuts you up for the rest of the night then – hell – let’s just get it over with.’ Colin laid the board on the table so they were all in reaching distance of the planchette. ‘Bunty?’ Colin asked. Lightening flashed, briefly illuminating her powdery complexion and then disappeared casting her in darkness again. A few seconds later the inevitable thunder growled in the distance.

Bunty placed a perfectly manicured hand over the planchette in response. ‘Sure – it might be fun. Anna would have loved it.’ There was a hushed, clotted stillness in the air, whilst the rain continued to beat against the window panes. ‘Anna are you there?’ Colin asked first. The planchette rotated the board slowly, looping round in large circles before settling decidedly on ‘Y’. Mae gasped. ‘Y’ is for yes.’ Colin hadn’t really needed to explain. ‘Anna - are you at peace?’ he asked next. This time the planchette moved faster and more violently around the board. ‘N’. All four players were rigid with anticipation, hypnotised with horror. ‘Colin – are you pushing it?’ Bunty asked. ‘Of course not! Anna – who killed you?’ Lightening flashed dramatically in the night sky and a gust of wind rattled the windows with renewed vigour. The planchette moved to ‘B’, and then to ‘U’. It started to move on. ‘This is stupid’, Burton said his face flushed in anger. He pulled his hand away from the planchette as though it had bitten him. ‘I know you’re pushing the glass Colin. You’ve always hated me and I know what you think. Well I’ll tell you the answer to what you’re thinking, I—' Suddenly the lights went out and the table was plunged into darkness. Someone screamed. As the guests’ eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom of the candlelight and they became aware of a figure of a woman in a long green dress sat upright in Anna’s vacant seat. Bunty gasped. ‘Anna?’ Colin had to admit Janet had done an excellent job with her hair and make up. Her lurid coral lips, contrasted magnificently with her alabaster skin to give an authentic impression of unreality. The blood, which dripped from the wound in her head, had seemed like something out of a bad Hammer horror in the cold light of the bedroom, but had spectacularly sinister effects in the candlelight. He watched in awe as the apparition stood up and pointed a bony finger towards the group. ‘Murder,' she croaked. The pungent scent of white musk perfume filled the room. The spectre started to move, gliding slowly across the floor towards the group. As she drew towards them, Bunty put her hands up making an 'x' across her face as a shield and tried to rise from her seat. Her limbs jerked awkwardly as she stumbled in her haste to escape. ‘No…. no,’ Bunty cried. 'Leave me alone’. But the dead woman continued to move forwards. Bunty became hysterical, and having finally succeeding in standing up, crouched backwards towards the wall. 'No Anna! Leave me alone.’ She started sobbing, her legs and arms quivering with agitation. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.’ She sunk to her knees as limp as a doll, whimpering. ‘I’m so sorry Anna. I’m sorry. Forgive me.’ But there was no forgiveness in the phantom's face as she stretched her arms in front of her, and tried to clutch her victim with cold, dead fingers, her face twisted in vengeance. There was no longer any doubt who the real murderer was. Bunty screamed. And then the lights came on. Janet Janet wondered what was going on downstairs – she’d heard some sort of commotion after the lights went out. When the electricity returned, someone thumped rapidly up the stairs. Colin pushed the door open triumphantly. ‘Bunty!?’ he said. ‘Who would have thought? Can you believe it? Apparently the silly woman thought she was in love with Burton. There was some kind of argument between them and it went too far.' ‘What?’ Janet asked in confusion. ‘Yes apparently so. I’ll concede Burton may not be a murderer but he’s still a rotter and a cheat.’ Colin was flushed with jubilation. He was delighted that his plan had worked, even if it hadn’t quite panned out the way he’d expected. ‘Incredible performance, Janet! I didn’t know you had it in you old girl. You should be on the stage. You were the star of the show! And the white musk perfume too – what a fabulous touch!’ Janet’s shiny coral lips crumpled into a frown. Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry Colin – I don’t understand. Are you making fun of me? I'm sorry but I just couldn’t do it. It felt so wrong wearing Anna’s clothes like that. Bad taste.’ ‘But Janet what do you mean? You were there… you pointed at us all. You reduced Bunty to a shivering wreck. You made her confess. We’re just waiting for the police to arrive now.' His legs suddenly felt like jelly and threatened to buckle beneath him. Janet shook her head, and his blood ran cold. ‘No Colin. I didn’t. I didn’t want to go – so I changed my mind. I haven’t left the bedroom all night.’


Hey guys, I wrote this 2 weeks ago in my 9th grade English class. I would appreciate some feedback and possible title suggestions :) The sun was shining gently over the field, with the wind ever so slightly rustling the leaves of the great yew tree that shaded her family. She was wearing her finest white dress, her grandmother’s pearl necklace delicately wrapped around her neck. Her father walks with her down the red carpet, perfectly lain out in the grass. He cups her hand in his, warming it. He has tears in his eyes as he looks down at her, threatening to breach. They neared the end of the carpet. Where her fiance stood, waiting, with roses littering his feet. Her favourite flower. As they approached, her father tightly squeezed her hand, forcing a quick, brief smile at the relatives who stood by their sides. There they were. Her father hugged her fiance, gave her a hard kiss on the forehead, and walked away without looking back. Her fiance looked down at her. ‘Hey darling’, he says, managing a trembling smile. He leaned down and softly kissed her lips. He held his lips on hers for a long time. He rose, and gently nudged a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Bye darling’, he says, with his tears softly hitting the rose petals littered around the polished oak box. He straightens to his full height, turns around, and walks away. They closed the lid, and slowly lowered her into the soft, warm brown soil. Edit: Changed a word from past tense to present.


“Oh no, where am I?” He knows that he is in his dream right now but he is totally lost right now. He is in a huge room with a lot of chairs and some sort of counters? The design of the room is unfamiliar to him. It is like it comes from another place, unlike his own. There are some people in the area but it seems like nobody is waiting for services. Only some personnel are doing their job at a leisure pace behind the counters and there are two guards at the door. A sudden blaring sound screeching his ears and flashes of orange hurting his eyes. The silver room is now filled with flashes of orange coming from above. They seem to come from tubes that he totally did not see before. He only knows how to use candles. Where on earth he is now? Personnel inside the room jolt in surprise when they hear the alarm and see the light. Some of them were running, leaving the room, and some of them rushed to finish their work. Suddenly he heard a voice from his back. “The portal has opened again. Some guardians are waiting at the door for any travellers.” That person is now in front of him, her back is facing him. She wears all black clothes to him. He had never seen these clothes that these guys were wearing before! Where is he? A woman in white from behind the counter walks towards the woman in black, addressing her. “We are currently preparing for the arrival while waiting for news from the team.” The woman in the black nods in understanding. She suddenly rotates behind, facing the door located slightly behind him. “If it is a false alarm, I hope it is a good sign.” His stomach dropped. He knows that face.

“Haoran, wake up!” Oh, his time here is up. **** It has been a few days since he had the weird dream. He and other juniors just back from a night-hunting excursion in the village near his sect. They are cultivators. The case of a haunted mansion at the edge of the village. Thankfully, they managed to exorcise those spirits and came home with minor injuries. He just finished cleaning his room when his roommate walked as fast as he could towards their room.

“What is the matter now, Yichen?” “Sect Leader and Elders called all the juniors to the Lotus Hall immediately!” Both of them rushed to the meeting. *** When they arrived at the hall, it was filled with other juniors as well. All of them are anxious with the sudden meeting like what is actually happening right now? Nobody knows.

The sect leader and some elders arrived a few moments later and stood at the front. The juniors stood in lines after bowing to arriving parties. The sect leader comes forward, giving his announcement. “Today, as the Zhou Manor Sect Leader, here I have appointed my adopted son, Zhou Zihao as the Sect Heir.” He did not hear any words that came from his father’s mouth after that. He felt that his world had imploded into darkness. He just laughed at his misery. His laugh shocked everyone in that hall. “Sect Leader, this one is truly sorry for his rudeness but actually, I am not sorry at all. At least, I know why my father never looked at me or acknowledged me. Do you know why? Because he hates me. He hates my mother. His wife. Or a former wife maybe? She left or was forced to leave because of you 13 years ago, right? Father, I know you hate me but I am your son too! You love Zihao more than me, but save me some faces too! He stormed out from the hall, ignoring his friends’ shouts. *** He is now standing in front of the cave at the back of the mountain. Based on his mother’s letter, he must go to this place if he wants to find her when he grows up. He never knew why his mother left when he was a toddler, but he was glad in a way and angry at the same time. He was glad that she could leave this place but angry at her on why she left him alone here. He knew that Grand Uncle loves him but it is still not enough. He felt guilty for his decision and hoped that Grand Uncle would understand his action. After that announcement, he rushed to his room to pack his things into the travel pouch. He did not bring many belongings with him like he did not have a lot of them in the first place. He just took three sets of clothes, soap, his mother’s box, some money, his two favourite books, an entrance token, and his sword and dagger for security. He put all of them into the pouch except the sword and dagger and fled to the mountain at the back of the mansion. He was searching at the cave entrance when he saw a slot at the cave wall. Wait, he knew that shape. He scrambled into the pouch to take out his mother’s box. He took his mother’s token from the box and compared it to the slot. It matched! He put the token into the slot and suddenly his breath is taken out of him. His surrounding becomes blurred and some azure lights surrounded him. A voice called him, “What is the thing that everyone has that usually

you need to ignore but sometimes, you need to

follow it ?” He quiets for some time before answering, “For me, it is fear. Usually, fear is something you need to ignore usually especially in doing tasks. However, it has to be followed in order to leave something that we do not have any hope for.” The lights around him become brighter and he felt his breath left him. *** “Is he okay?” He slowly opened his eyes and saw some people surrounding him. However, his sight is only to the woman in black. He cries and smiles at her, “Ibu (mother), it’s me Haoran or Hafiz.” His mother embraced him with tears. The warmth is comforting.


It was Spring of 1992 when they found Maude’s body. The whole neighborhood had known Maude, of course, in the way that only a cul-de-sac neighborhood could. All the residents of Kalamazoo Circuit had grown accustomed to the sound of her old Toyota pickup turning over, its engine (nearly as old as *she* was) sputtering and whining in the cold air that frequented Northern Massachusetts. The first sign that anything was wrong, in fact, had been the truck, which had sat in the driveway for nearly a full week before the neighborhood discovered her. While long stays at her home weren’t at all unusual for Maude, when Sunday morning came around, and her neighbors woke to see the chalk-white, dented pickup still parked, rumors began to fly. Maude had never before missed church on Sunday morning. It was the Robinson family at Number Seventeen who stopped by first, with Theresa Robinson and her son Luca lingering on Maude’s doorstep, knocking away at the door. They stayed only a minute or two before walking off, somewhat embarrassed. Then, the Thomas’ stopped by, intending to borrow a cup of sugar, but there was no response for them either. By then, the sun was beginning to set, and the citizens of Kalamazoo Circuit all slid their blinds closed, with just enough of a gap open to see Maude’s front door, in case it cracked open. All the neighbors hoped for that, for the door to open wide, and for Maude to step forward, adjusting her glasses in the diminished light, for what was left of the sun to reflect off her silver hair… but it never happened. And so, with great trepidation, it was the new wife of Harvey Waldorf in Number Four, Cynthia, who first called the police, sending a parade of rescue vehicles through the narrow streets of Kalamazoo Circuit. Maude’s neighbor, a retired beauty queen named Sylvia, gave a copy of Maude’s key to the tallest of the police officers now gathered on Maude’s lawn, which was starting to resemble something of a Policeman’s Ball. The officer turned the key in the door, and entered with a small team of paramedics, closing the door behind them. The residents of Kalamazoo Circuit held their breath in wait. The last any of her neighbors saw of Maude was her distinct form, rolled out on a gurney, covered under a thick, white sheet. Her pale hand peeked out through an opening, and many of the neighbors swore they’d seen a dark, black, circular mark on the back of it, almost as if she’d been branded. The neighborhood all felt the loss, none more than Sylvia, who had been Maude’s friend and confidant since first moving in to Number Twenty-Seven. And so, Sylvia took a holiday, and the rest of the neighborhood drifted back into relative normality. Except for Joan. Joan was an unusual child, at least by the community’s standards. While the other children would run and play in the center of the circle, Joan would sit quietly underneath a nearby tree, a book resting open on her lap. Her mother Abigail, and her father Anthony, had no idea what to make of her behavior, which only increased in strangeness on the day Maude was discovered. On that night, Joan had spent the majority of the evening looking out her window at the house across the street, where Maude had lived. She wouldn’t take dinner, and when Abigail came by with a plate of snacks, only shook her head, her gaze still fixed out the window. The first hour, her parents were concerned. By the fourth hour, they simply didn’t know what to do. But she eventually pulled herself from the scene, and fell asleep, and within a few weeks, was back to her old self. One day, Joan came home from school - much to her parent’s surprise - with a mangy black cat, cradled delicately in her arms. “Joan…” her mother started, “Where did you get that cat?” “It’s not a cat. It’s Maude” Joan replied, in a very matter-of-fact tone, and breezed past her mother into the house before Abigail could say another word about it. She continued on to her bedroom, closing the door sharply behind her, leaving her mother looking on in confusion. Abigail stared at the closed door for a moment, and then vigorously shook her head, as if trying to shake out her thoughts. Joan was still in her bedroom by the time her father Anthony came home, and sat down to dinner with his wife. Abigail was silent for a while, unsure how to relay the news of their daughter’s newly discovered pet, and decided to wait until Anthony had finished his dinner. And so, the last of his pork chops slowly digesting, Anthony looked up to see his wife seated across from him, absently wringing a napkin in her hands, looking back at him expectantly. “Something on your mind, dear?” “It’s Joan.” replied Abigail, the napkin beginning to tear. “She’s brought home… a cat.” “A cat?” Anthony’s hand went to his chin, and he thoughtfully stoked his beard. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” “I don’t know.” said Abigail, placing the tattered napkin on the table. “It’s a very strange cat.” “Strange how?” he asked, tilting a dwindling cup of coffee to his lips. Squirming with discomfort at the answer to her husband’s question, Abigail hesitated before speaking. “Well,” she started, “Joan says… that it’s Maude.” Certain he had misheard her, Anthony tilted his head at his wife. “*Who’s* Maude?” “The cat is. The cat is Maude.” replied Abigail. Anthony paused, placing his cup back in its saucer. “I’m certain you misheard her.”, he said, “Didn’t Maude have a cat?” “I believe so.” “Then it’s just that: Maude’s cat. You misheard Joan, that’s all.” said Anthony, the matter rested in his mind. Deciding that made enough sense to her, Abigail nodded, and began collecting the dishes from the night’s meal. “Yes.” she said, “I suppose you’re right.” She brought the dishes to the sink, and stopped thinking about the cat for the night. Curled up in a small, black circle, the cat purred peacefully next to a sleeping Joan. Watching the cat for the next several days, Abigail simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was happening in her home. Though it seemed a perfectly ordinary house cat, whenever it entered the same room as Abigail, the hair on the back of her neck stuck straight out, as if trying to escape her very skin. She came to dread the laundry room most of all, which was where the small creature tended to spend its days, waiting for Joan to return from school, but any of the rooms in her house seemed to suit the cat just fine. In fact, the only way to be certain where the cat was, was to wait for Joan’s return. From the moment the girl walked in the front door, the cat would run to her side, and would scarcely leave it thereafter. It appeared very much as if Joan had adopted a second, smaller shadow, one that slinked around corners, and left a trail of tiny black hairs in its wake. The pair became inseparable. Things went on like this for quite some time, and indeed, may have gone on like this forever, if not for one fateful day when Joan’s father, freshly home from work, his mind elsewhere, accidentally left the front door wide open, giving the cat an opportunity to escape. The cat’s body was found later that night, lifeless and bloodied, on the busy streets outside Kalamazoo Circuit. At first, Joan was inconsolable. The poor girl fretted nearly every hour of the day, taking long crying spells in the laundry room whenever she returned from school. Her father felt terribly, and tried many times to apologize to Joan, but the girl ignored every effort, barely speaking to either parent, escaping further and further into her own mind, and her own grief. Days passed, and still, the girl found no comfort. Joan’s family had a single, four-door sedan, which brought Anthony to and from the small insurance office where he worked, and would sometimes take the family on weekend trips to the beach, or to the park. But, as their direct neighbor Rose would notice one morning in Summer, the small sedan had begun to gather great deals of pollen. Rose got up early the next day, and decided to sit by her window, watching Joan’s home. In the past, it would often happen that Rose and Anthony would catch one another’s eye from their respective kitchen windows, and Anthony would nod, and Rose would wave, and soon, Rose would see the sedan rolling out towards the main road, with Anthony inside. But Rose hadn’t seen Anthony drinking his coffee in several days now, nor the wife, nor the daughter, whom she thought was named Mary. And so, uncertain, she maintained her watch on the neighboring window, and when she couldn’t stand it any longer, picked up her phone, and dialed the police. In all the history of the neighborhood, nobody on Kalamazoo Circuit could recall such a horrible tragedy. The following day, Joan, Abigail, and Anthony, were wheeled out on gurneys, covered in thick sheets, white as snow. The police interviewed several of the residents, but nobody knew what could have happened, or who could have done such a thing. Across the street, at Number Twenty-Four, a young girl named Seline, new to the neighborhood, watched the display from her front yard, her head tilted, and her brow furrowed. She felt sad for the family, although they had never met. She watched as the three bodies were loaded into different vehicles, and driven off. And as she watched, she felt something brush against her leg, and looked down. Looking back up at her, through bright green, almost cartoonish eyes, sat a mangy black cat. Enamored, Seline picked up the cat, which cried out softly as it was lifted. She brought the animal closer to her face, smiling. Joan’s body was the last to be loaded in, and as she was moved, her hand fell out. Many of the neighbors swore they saw a thick, black, circular mark on the back of her hand. Almost as if she had been branded. Seline spared one last look behind her at the departing ambulances before walking into her home, where her mother was unpacking boxes. “Oh!” her mother said, “You found a cat!” “It’s not a cat.” replied Seline. “It’s Maude.


“I need new shoes.” I mumbled to myself, as I stared down at my black Chuck Taylors; proud of how worn and lived in they were and disgusted at how worn and lived in they were. Cigarette ash fell from my burning cigarette and landed on the top of my right shoe. I kicked my foot in the air to knock the ash off and watched as it floated to the snow covered bush next to the steps where I was sitting. I took one last drag and flicked my cigarette into the snow. I had just finished my second cigarette and I was ready for a third. “I will lie awake and lie for fun, and fake the way I hold you, let you fall for every empty word I say.” I sang along with Brand New, as it played from the speaker on my iPhone, watching the smoke escape my lips as I sang each word. My feet were so cold I couldn’t feel my toes. It was around 3:00 am Christmas morning, and 23 degrees outside. I remember this because when I opened the front door to leave my apartment earlier that afternoon, I only had on my black hoodie that I bought from Vegan Treats on Linden Avenue. I took two steps outside, realized how cold it was, and went back in my apartment to put on a jacket instead. I opened the weather app on my phone to see what the temperature was, and after seeing 23 degrees, I realized that gloves would be beneficial if I wanted to keep fingers attached to my palms. You wouldn’t have known it was Christmas by walking into my apartment. I didn’t have a Christmas tree or decorations anywhere. I received a box of Christmas presents from my parents in Florida the week prior, but they were still sitting in the brown box they arrived in. I took off my hoodie, and put on my jacket, watching in the mirror as I changed. I had on too much makeup. Specifically, too much eyeliner, but that’s how I liked to wear it. My once beautiful, sparkling, big, brown eyes were now small, sad, and almost black, hidden behind cheap Covergirl eyeliner. It was Christmas Eve, and I was trying to forget. I looked at myself one last time, realizing that the most festive thing about me was the 2-week-old, red, chipped nail polish on my nails. I didn’t always dislike Christmas, in fact it was my favorite time of year, until I moved from Florida to Pennsylvania. I sought after something that I wasn’t getting in Florida, and even though I kept in touch with my family, I wasn’t nearly as close to them as I was when we lived in the same state. I wanted to see what it was like to watch tree leaves turn orange, feel snow, and wear boots for a purpose other than fashion. I wanted to wear a puffy coat and gloves and parallel park. I wanted real independence, and big city life. I got all those things. Yet, even though I was surrounded by people, living a fast, free, independent life, I had never felt more alone, and isolated. The holiday season was no longer something that I looked forward too. In reality, I dreaded it. As a child, Christmas was always a magical time of year for me. My parents loved Christmas, but it was my mother who really brought the magic of Christmas to life. She made it very clear to all of us when we were little that the year we stop believing in Santa, was the year that he would stop coming to our home to bring us gifts. This was a frightening thought, because every year we received a mountain of gifts that adorned colorful tags labeled “Love: Santa”, so questioning the validity of his existence would have been foolish. Our Christmas Eve traditions were sacred, and they weren’t broken until I moved out as an adult. We watched Home Alone, secretly envying Kevin McAllister for living in NY, seeing snow on Christmas, and having that huge house to himself. We always thought of different traps he could have set for the robbers, with each idea more elaborate than the year before. We baked Chocolate chip cookies for Santa and cut carrot sticks for his reindeer. I made sure to pick out the biggest cookies, with the most chocolate chips, and least crispy edges for Santa to enjoy. The year that my sister learned about Diabetes, was the year that she insisted we give him a healthier option. This is when the tradition of sliced apples with a sprinkle of cinnamon was born. I would arrange the plates with our treats just so, making Santa’s place setting look as though it appeared in a holiday magazine. We would put on our Christmas pajamas, and read The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore before going to bed to lay painfully awake for hours. We made sure to use the restroom and have our last sips of hot chocolate for the evening before retiring to bed because once we shut the bedroom door, we couldn’t leave until morning. My brother, sister and I would all sleep in my room on Christmas Eve, whispering excitedly about the gifts we prayed to get under the tree. We hoped that we would get the smallest glimpse of Rudolph’s nose if we peeked out the window at just the right time. Some Christmas Eve’s we would see a red light blinking in the sky, and even though we knew it was an airplane, we would still jump back in bed and hide under the covers, just in case. Santa and his team usually arrived at our house around 2:30-3:00 am. We know this because we would hear sleigh bells jingle outside, starting at the back of the house where my bedroom was and grow fainter as they travelled the length of the house. The temptation to peek through the blinds was almost unbearable, but the thought of Santa leaving without dropping even a single peppermint was much worse. At first ring of the bells, we would lie frozen in my bed under the covers, unable to move. Our hearts pounding with excitement, accompanied by just the tiniest amount of fear because we knew we were supposed to be sleeping. It felt like Christmas Eve was 90 hours long and daylight would never come. Eventually when it did, I would fly out of bed and slowly open my bedroom door to peek into the living room. Every year it was the same sight, a halo of lights illuminating a mountainous circle of holiday wrapped presents, stacked as if they were a gate protecting a Christmas tree fortress. I would wake up my brother and sister, and once we were all lined up at my bedroom door, we would quietly tip toe to the tree where we would sit Indian style in front of it, just taking in the glory of the sight before us. Yet, there I sat numb, physically from the cold and emotionally frozen, wishing I were anywhere else but sitting on those cold, concrete steps. I didn’t want to go inside because all I had to greet me was a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and I was really struggling with that thought. I was filled with anxiety and even though I just smoked two cigarettes, I needed a third to help muster up the courage needed to enter that building. I opened my pack of camels, took my upside down, lucky cigarette and set it on fire. I took my first drag and exhaled a thick white cloud of smoke, hoping my uneasiness would float away with the smoke. I grabbed my iPhone and changed the song to Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse by Minus the Bear and sat it down on the step beside me. I was lost, alone and angry. I needed a reminder of why I was in Pennsylvania, and that song was my anthem. Halfway through the song, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I wasn’t going to answer it, but since it was approaching 3:00 am on a holiday, I knew it wasn’t a marketing call. “Hello?” I asked, wondering who would be calling me at this hour. There was no response. “Hello?” I asked again, ready to hang up on the phantom caller; then I heard the jingling of bells. My heart stopped, and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my throat was on fire and my eyes filled with tears that fell instantly. I took the last puff of my cigarette before flicking it into the snow with the others, and sat on that cold stoop crying, listening to the faint jingling of those bells. I tried to say, “I love you, Mom.” But there was no courage in my voice, no sound came out. She hung up the phone, and Minus the Bear picked up mid song where they left off. My Mom sent her Christmas magic to me over 1000 miles away. To her it was just a childhood tradition that she thought would make me laugh. To me, it was a beacon in the dark. My fear of going inside alone, and facing Christmas alone was no longer a concern. I wasn’t alone, and her one small tradition turned my worst Christmas ever, into the most meaningful Christmas of my life. I grabbed my phone and decided that it was time to go inside, and open that big brown box of Christmas presents. Thank God I did, there was a new pair of Chuck Taylors waiting for me.


Chapter 2 Hope The first day in my new home in this new world was disappointing and amazing at the same time. Seeing what my new body looked like in a mirror hanging on the bathroom door for the first time was a disappointing discovery. The boy that I saw in the mirror had bright orange hair and a face speckled with freckles from cheek to cheek that had not a scar, wrinkle or crows feet in sight, hazel eyes stared back at me with the intensity that could be considered my own, chalk-white smooth skin covered his body and his arms and legs were no bigger than twigs on a tree. I really could not believe that this was my body now. I was less intimidating than one of those rats with fur I saw on a rope walking in front of an old lady on the street. My ego was broken more and more the longer I stared at the mirror. Later that same day my ego was set aside when I discovered how sweet, cold, and delicious ice creme was when I sank my spoon into it the white frosty desert and put it in my mouth. It was like my senses had never truly known pleasure when it came to food, sure I’ve had meat from several creatures all with there own unique flavor and yes I have had several types of custards but, none of the foods I had back in my home world could have ever compared to this. Later after I was done eating everything out of the bowl I discovered a big black reflective box called a TV and when my new Dad activated its power, colors and loud noises exploded from it making me jump in my cushiony seat. I was amazed, to say the least finding out thousands of different worlds were all in this tiny box on our wall and it could all be activated by a click of a button. After observing a bizarre world with happy talking creatures that looked way different from this reality, I stroked my chin forgetting I no longer had a beard and thought it might not be such a bad fate to be born into a commoner home in this world. After a few weeks of going back and forth from school to home Monday through Friday, the car no longer seemed to be as terrifying as it once was, I also got to observe my peers and learn some of their names. David an eight-year-old scrawny boy with dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes seemed to be the bully of my class, he also seemed to be the leader of a bunch of children that followed him like sheep and listened to his every command, Sasha a girl with light blonde hair and sky blue eyes was a girl that liked to pretend to be good, to please her elders and show everyone that she was not capable of harm. However, I saw the other side of her, while most were not paying attention, she would steal pencils, erasers and other small objects and get others blamed for it. O yes, I thought she was definitely in her early years of becoming your common everyday petty thief. These two children made my almost mind-numbingly boring days in class a bit more interesting. David lead his five friends towards there imaginary enemies ducking and hiding behind playground equipment screaming out orders to flank there enemies and started to mime an imaginary object he was holding and started making popping noises from his mouth, most of his other friends mimicked what he was doing minus giving orders, while one of the boys screamed take cover while pretending to pull something off an object and throwing it. They all ducked and covered, and the boy let out a big boom from his mouth throwing up wood chips scattering them in the air. I watched all of this in fascination knowing the boys were reenacting something I had yet to learn about. Suddenly a girl out of nowhere came running in front of them throwing something imaginary at them screaming gibberish gleefully. David stopped miming the object and went from dominating something imaginary to looking at something real with disgust and annoyance. He walked up to the girl pushed her down and screamed in her face. “Go away freak!” He screamed with rage in his voice. “No one wants to play with you, this territory is only for soldiers not for dumb girls that want to play magic!” Magic? Did I hear him right? The girl sniffed and wept out a tear before getting up, with wood chips falling out of her long brown hair she screamed. “I curse you!” “Protectose.” I reflexively whispered making a warding gesture with my hands before remembering I still did not have any magic abilities. Luckily for me it seemed no curse was thrown by the girl but for the briefest of moments I felt the faintest of breaths of magic, real magic. My jaw dropped slightly. After weeks of not being able to sense magic from any person and after studying several objects like the school bell and the TV and coming to the sad conclusion that I would never be able to harness the hidden powers that made them work, I was beginning to lose hope and started to consider the possibility that the gods had exiled me to a world without magic. Now my heartbeat drummed loudly to the rhythm of knowing I was about to take my first step in getting back to my home-world. The bell rang letting everyone know recess was over and I made my way over to the girl that was still picking wood chips out of her hair, rubbing her face and making sniffing noises. I stood by her feeling for any presence of magic in her and confusingly there was none. Had I made an error in judgment? Was David the one that gave off the slight magic discharge? I thought about catching up to David and checking to see if he was indeed the one but, I thought better of it considering I had my final class with him and I could always check then. Besides I only saw the girl during recess and lunch and didn’t want to wait until the next day to talk to her. “What do you want?” She said still sniffling. Apparently while I had been in my thoughts I must have been staring at the weeping girl and looking like a fool. “Uh hello Ms. My name is ed- I mean Jimmy and I uh, well you see I was wondering if you knew about magic?” “Hey you two!” Mrs. Zacharias screamed from a distance obnoxiously making get over here gestures commanding me like I was a dog. The girl ran as fast as she could towards the teacher ending the conversation between us before it even began. I gritted my teeth and began to jog towards the teacher hating myself for not disobeying her. Gods knew that when I got my magic back the first thing, I would do is get revenge on Mrs. Zacharias for this moment.


You'd tell me to relax. But not the way most people say it. Nothing you say seems to be the way most people say it. They mean calm down, chill out, disregard whatever it is. You'd mean it the way someone who understands the panic would say it. You'd mean breathe deeper, let go of anxiety, it will be... okay. You'd make me laugh. But not the way most people do. I'd laugh out of politeness, realizing I wasn't even paying attention enough to know what type of laugh to fake. Masks, and all that. But you'd make me laugh almost before I'd have time to process why what you said or did was funny. Like my body could react faster to you than my brain. Maybe because like recognizes like, before logic gets in the way. You'd make me hopeful. But not the way I usually am. Usually, it's hoping that I can change, fix all the little parts that piss people off. Always that look of disappointment, that dramatic sigh, and I'd think, hopefully, I can work on that. But now, I feel more hopeful that maybe it isn't me. Fix things that are broken, sure, but realizing puzzle pieces are't called broken when they don't fit. And eventually, there is a spot where they can drop right in. You'd make me angry. But not in the way most people see it. Most peoples problems feel silly, being negative about being negative. And I can get upset, feel bad for their magnified issues, sure. But you made me want to yell at people I've never met, slap faculty I'll never know. Because seeing you give up things that matter, not know you're so amazing at being amazing, drives me up a fucking wall. These negative thoughts you carry, each one makes my teeth grind. You'd say you understood. But not in the way most people would. There is always a caveat that ends up turning grief into another opportunity to fix myself. Sorry your family pulls at you so much, but you let them. Sorry you feel unsatisfied, but you want too much. But you didn't caveat things. You didn't say you understood as a way to give advice. You just said it because it's true. You'd understand. You'd be interesting. But not in a comedic, tragic way. Not interesting to watch because I already know something is going to turn out wrong, or interesting to learn more about because it sounds absurd. You are interesting in the way a child is fascinated when they first see the ocean. The wildness, the peacefulness. The feeling that this terrifying, insane, glorious thing also seems so real, so natural, so authentically true. So many new things that pull on these strings tied to my chest, strings that I never knew were there. You'd be my waking dream. But not in the way I usually daydream, alone and full of grandiose. Being the Avatar or running away to live in a shack by the ocean. No, it was more simple than that. Making you coffee, dropping off snacks during lunch, trying to like Gatsby, curled into you on my hard days, reading to you on yours. I could fill too many lines with all those thoughts. But the most different part was that this pretend world wasn't just occupied by me. At least, I like to think not. You'd make it difficult to be quiet. Most people will tell you, that has always been me. But they don’t know it’s because I don't care what their response will be. It won't... impact... (I guess I am not a good student) ... me because it doesn't matter to me, they're not inside my space. But you seemed to slowly step into me, and somehow I didn't pull away. All the sudden I could share things, be loud, and not worry about the response, even grow to look forward to it. That sincere lack of frustration that is only possible when communication is so... native, when comfort is so obvious. You'd make me safe. But not the way I usually feel that. I have become my own foundation, somehow. Things built on top of things that make up those very things. It's a painful contortion. But you'd say such small things that would start this process of undoing. Encouragement without an ounce of selfishness. You untangled me. You'd make me sad. But not the way I normally can get sad. Not sad because something went wrong, or I'm disappointed, or general melancholy. You made me feel sad the way you'd feel sad if you found out dragons existed, but the last one died yesterday. An irremediable type of grief. Consistent, annoyingly blinding liquid reminders of losing something I never had. An ideal cup of coffee spilled before you took your first sip. And I've had to wear glasses all day. You'd make me ramble. But not the way I usually do, out of anxiety, to fill the void. You'd make me ramble to stretch the time. To trick myself into living in that daydream for a bit longer, shut out the real world. "Pretending to not feel alone." I guess the same as I'm doing now. To stretch time. To remain here. You... you made me feel. And there is no comparison.


With all that has happened these past few months, my life has been the public announcement of a town crier. It’s quite daunting when I think about it. It’s scary living in a glass box. Tessa was the only way I made it through. She’s an open book. Didn’t believe in keeping secrets of her own.

Whenever I was blue, she would regale me of a story about her childhood or her fiance or things the boys did before I came. Merlin was limited with his stories. All of them - the few he shared - were before the age of ten and after he went to Camelot to live with his uncle. I guess that was when Alwyn came to live with him and his mother. Alwyn was a steel trap. He only talked about things that happened since I came to live with them. I don't know if it hurts to remember, he's trying to hide something, or he's just a private person.

I never knew where I stood with him. He was quiet, rarely talked without being talked to first. And when we were alone, he would go about his chores and tasks like I wasn't there until I needed help. After the years we were all together, I only remember one time when he opened up to me. ●●● It was close to evening and we were getting ready for supper. Alwyn’s job was to collect more firewood and Tessa was starting a fire with what we had left. Mine was to start dinner as Merlin prepared the fish we caught earlier.

Not long after we started, Merlin and Tessa were called away. Two children from the nearby town fell into an old well. Our cabin was the first place their friends found. Merlin and Tessa were more than eager to help, leaving me alone waiting for Alwyn to come back.

I don’t know how long it was before Alwyn’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Dorothy, do you need some help?”

I was fully extended on my tiptoes, trying to reach the top shelf. It was probably a good six inches from my fingertips. Merlin always got things down from there before I knew I needed them so I was determined to do it myself. I told him no before giving my best jump. I closed in. Only an inch away, before falling back to the ground. I landed hard on my rear and was sprawled out like my last ice skating fail. With my hand on my face, I whimpered out a yes. He quietly walked over and stopped right in front of me. He pulled down the bowl I was trying to get, not even needing to extend his arm all the way. After he put it on the table, I thought he would leave until I felt his rough hands on mine.

“Dorothy-” he guided my arms away - “it's okay.” He wiped the tears away from the corner of my eyes. “You still got some growing left in you. I see it every day. It might not happen as fast as you want it to, but it's still there, little by little.” I didn't know what to say. What could anyone say to that? The words could ever express what that meant to me, so I went with the next best thing: a hug. I think I scared him when I latched onto him. He gave a pretty loud grasp when he fell off his feet.

Lightly, he pushed my arms away. “Do you need any more help?” he stammered, scuffling to his feet. “I should be fine until Merlin gets back,” I mumbled back still on the floor. I felt like I did something wrong and it ran to my cheeks. By the time I got up, he had bolted out the door.

I moped to the table. I wanted to follow but my feet refused to go in that direction. They decided it was better to finish my work.

When it was done, the fish were staring at me. Merlin still wasn’t back and the sun was crawling into the window. When I walked outside, Alwyn was still trying to place wood on Tessa’s dead fire. His back was to me, so I couldn’t tell why he had a hand by his face. I stepped on a stick about a yard away. He immediately shot his arms to his sides. “Can you do the fire thing?” He moved away as I came close. I knelt down close to the pit. With a snap, flames popped. “They’re not back yet, are they?” “No,” he said, sitting adjacent to me. “But don’t worry. I bet they’re just taking their time.” “I know you’re worried, too,” I said, drawing my knees close. “I’m always worried.” He mimicked me. “For a good reason,” a voice boomed. A pair of glowing golden eyes and a beaming white smile appeared on the other side of the fire.

In his usual lightning fashion, Alwyn grabbed my hand and yanked me into the woods.

“You can run but you can’t hide, Alwyn!” the man yelled into the night, launching his followers. “Alwyn! Slow down!” I begged as I tripped over another root. “Alwyn, what’s going on?! Who was that?!” He stopped like a cliff. “I promise,” he ran his free hand over my cheek, “I’ll explain, but not now, not here. We need to keep going.”

As he took another step, a humongous shadow landed in front of him. “Don't you think you've gone far enough.” Alwyn drew me close as he backed us away.

Thudding into something behind them that was there before, they yelped. “Where do you think you're going?” In the space between, a new person ripped me from him. “Who's this, now?” they said as another lifted Alwyn by his collar. I could barely see with the thug's fat hand covering most of my face to stop me from screaming. Through the cracks, I made out Alwyn thrashing and kicking at his captor. Then with a laugh, the man dropped Alwyn back to the ground that was no longer near his feet. Golden eyes wasn't far behind. He knelt and pulled Alwyn's head up by his hair. “You should know better than to run away from home. Prince!” he spat. Dropping Alwyn's face into the dirt, he shot his beams at me. “Load them up, King Folen will want to know what his son's been up to.” At the man's words, Alwyn leaped up and got his arms ready to push.

The man turned and without moving a muscle sent Alwyn backward into the closest tree. With my elbow at the right height, I sent it back into the thug. As he fell back, I ran to Alwyn's side.

I was barely there a second when Golden eyes picked me up by my braid. “You foolish girl,” he said, making my world go dark. When Alwyn woke up, he was laying in a four-poster bed. He stretched until he realized where he was. He whipped all about before his ears perked up. “Don't cry, Dorothy,” he said, hopping off the bed.

He sat next to me on a bench. “Everything's going to be okay,” he continued, partway putting an arm around me. “Why did he call you Prince?” I squeaked through the tears. “Dorothy,” he groaned.

“Why did he call you Prince?” I repeated, lifting my head. “Who is he? You promise to explain everything!” “And I don't break my promise,” he said pushing his shaggy hair behind his pointed ears. “He called me prince because I am one. And it's not the first time this has happened…” ●●● Four figures in dingy clothing and face covering laid in the shadows of the growth next to a forest road. Their leader gestures to the incoming carriage. They all got ready to pounce.

Alwyn - about five or six years younger - stayed low behind a row of bushes further back, spying on the figures. When they went into action, so did he.

Halfway through his bounce over the bush, a hand rip-corded him back. The hand gripped like a dog to its bone. His golden eyes pierced Alwyn's. “What are you doing out here?” He snarled.

Kicking his feet, Alwyn yelled, “Put me down, Vamir!” “As you wish.” He released his hand. Not catching himself, Alwyn pancaked on the ground. “You know that's not what I meant!” “Come on, kid,” Vamir picked him back up by his collar, “before you get us both killed.” He started dragging him away from the violent scene taking place on the road. Alwyn barely got in any steps as they went back home. They approached a crumbling castle. With Vamir watching their surroundings, they disappeared, engulfed by light. Now, they were facing a pristine kingdom. Vamir slowed and made Alwyn stand up straight as people began to stare. “Don’t draw any attention!” he whispered. “You know who I am. They know who I am. Maybe you shouldn’t have forced me to my father’s parties,” he smirked. “Just keep moving, or else-” “Or else I'll be sleeping in the dungeon or the stocks or whatever old contraption you've found that the humans left behind.” Pressing his nails into his palms, he opened his mouth, saying nothing. They walked in silence until they entered the throne room. King Folen was talking with his advisor. However, when he saw his son and Vamir, he ordered everyone. Knowing all too well what was going to happen, the members scurried out like rats on a sinking ship.

"Can I have a moment with my son, Vamir," Folen asked, sitting on his throne.

With the doors closed, he continued, “Come here, Alwyn.” Alwyn’s gaze dropped as he walked forward. He sat down on the steps in front of his father’s chair, the usual spot for his lectures. “Where did you go this time?”

“Just past the ravine,” he squeaked. “That’s a few miles from here. Why were you there?” Alwyn crossed his arms and lowered his head. “Why were you there?” he insisted. “There’s been a string of robberies on the road.” The words were barely audible. “You went that close to the humans. What were you thinking? Did anyone see you?” “No, no.” He threw his hand to his face. “You could’ve been hurt.” “I was just trying to help,” he said, with tears bubbling up. “I know you do-” he placed a hand on his son's shoulder- “it’s your best quality. But you can’t just go running around. You’re endangering all of us every time you leave. You’re endangering the peace we’ve had since your great grandfather.” Everything dried but Alwyn still couldn’t project. “This isn’t peace.” “Excuse me!” “This isn’t peace!” He jumped to his feet. “I don't want to hurt you. Or our people. But this is no life for me or them. We can't keep hiding in this bubble hoping no one will find us. Every year inching away from the border to make sure of it. This isn't peace. This isn't freedom. We locked ourselves in a cage before our enemies could!” “Go to your room!” In horror, Alwyn shrunk as he was knocked down a step. His mouth dropped. He mumbled some sounds. “Now!” Folen raged, throwing his hand up towards the door. The word sent Alwyn down the rest of the stairs and the length of the room. With his hand on the door handle, he turned back. “You know one of these days, I’m not going to be afraid and you’re gonna have to listen to me.” With a slam of the door, Alwyn ran past Vamir. The stone walls closed in the closer he came to his room. He face-planted into his pillows. With a swirl of his hand, he caused the curtains to blow closed, stopping the world from crushing him.

“Alwyn,” Folen announced, making his usually later that day apology knock on the door, “can I come in? Alwyn?” He knocked again before entering. “Alwyn, can we talk?"

Walking towards the bed, he asked, “Son? Are you awake?” When he whipped the curtains open, he was thrown back. The bed was empty. The curtains on the other side were wide opened, revealing the torn through wardrobe and the opened window that recently started chilling the room.

“Vamir!” he shouted, fleeing the room. In the full moonlit night, Alwyn landed heavily on his hands and feet to the ground below his window just moments before his father found him gone. He wiped the streaks from his face. Barely back on his feet, Vamir's name sent him running as fast as he could.

The ground around the castle was fairly flat. But, as the sounds of Vamir and his men got louder and closer, he zoomed through the shield into the rough terrain of the forest. The more he tried not to, the more he tripped over everything in his path. He had a big spill over a decomposing log. Rolling down the hill, he scraped his arms and legs on protruding rocks and twigs, landing halfway in a stream. Laying there, he looked back up from where he fell. The blurred lights from Vamir's men's lanterns ran across the ridge and onward. They missed him. With a burst of enthusiasm, Alwyn sat up gritting his teeth with a grunt. He rocked himself, getting momentum to stand. Falling immediately, he splashed fully into the stream. The water had tints of red as it flowed back the way he came. Soaking wet and freezing in the summer night, he shimmied away from the hill. He crawled a bit before shifting up to his feet. Every few steps, he fell forwards onto his hands before regaining the strength to walk again. His eyelids fluttered like the moonbeams through the canopy. Though he was hunched over, looking straight at the ground, he tripped over another root.

After the cloud of dust settled back down, he faced a hollowed tree big enough for him. Shaking like the twig in the wind he was, he snuggled into the space. His eyes closed as the rain started to fall. “Are you alright?” A quiet and gentle voice called out. Alwyn’s eye trickled open until he saw the figure. He immediately patted his hair over his ears.

“Are you alright?” A boy came into view, leaning in. Alwyn groaned with his head sunk into his chest. “Come on,” he said, hoisting Alwyn up, “I’m taking you to my house.” Alwyn was shorter than the boy even more in his limp state. He dangled like a necklace. Lightly swinging, his side burned as the boy gripped him. The trip was short in distance but took far longer than it should between Alwyn’s weight, the boy’s small frame, and heavy rain. The village they came to was small. There were a few dozen houses and a small patch of farmland. They came to the closest house to the forest. Nearly dropping Alwyn’s dead weight, he opened the door. “Where have you been, Merlin! You’ve been gone all day!” A woman panicked. She sat with her back to the door, working with a loom. When she finished her line, she turned, knocking over her chair. “What happened?” “He’s hurt. He fell down the hill that most people do.” “Set him on the bed-” she took some clothes from her basket by her chair- “and go get some water.” With the speed of a hare, Merlin did as she said. He only slowed to make sure he didn't hurt Alwyn any more than necessary while laying him down. In a flash, he came back with a bucket of water that he carried with straight arms that were already strained. "Is he going to be alright, Mother?" he said, staring at Alwyn's fluttering eyes. "I don't know. We will have to wait until morning." She soaked a towel in the water then pressed it against the gash on Alwyn's forehead. "Go to sleep, dear, I wake you up if things go wrong." "Yes, Mother." In the morning, Alwyn woozied awake. He exhaled heavily with his gaze scattering everywhere. Trying to prop himself up, he wasn't in the clothes he ran away in. Now, he was in a baggy russet shirt, similar trousers, and cloth-bandages wrapping most of his limbs.

"Good morning," Merlin's mother said, coming to his side, "I'm Hunith, and you already know my son, Merlin." "Hello," he stuttered, "Alwyn." "Hello, Alwyn. Are you hungry? Breakfast will be done soon." The next week was the same. Alwyn woke to Hunith and Merlin's pleasantness. He would help Merlin with his chores then they would spend the rest of Merlin's usual chore time goofing around. The afternoon of the seventh day they were playing hide and seek. Alwyn ran through the field between Merlin's house and the forest. He snickered as butterflies floated alongside.

He turned his head back then found himself on the ground with the field mice.

“The fun's over, Prince,” Vamir said towering over him. Vamir ripped him up before he could say anything. “You waste my time. I should have known you would be here.” “Let go,” Alwyn cried, “it hurts!” “Good! You can sympathize with the mess you've put your father through.” He moved back towards the forest.

“Vamir, please!” “Not another word!” He yanked Alwyn forward. Merlin came around the house. His head scanned across the field. “Hey! What are you doing?!” He ran up to them with ease. “What are you doing?!” “Get away. This doesn't concern you.” Vamir pushed him to the ground. “Merlin!” Alwyn shouted as Vamir yanked him again. “Let go of him!” Merlin said, popping back up. Vamir ignored him. “Let go of him!” he repeated. He stared intensely at them. Vamir was thrown forward. Getting back to his feet, he fleed. “You alright?” Merlin asked Alwyn in his arms. “I guess we both have some explaining to do.”