No disrespect to all the cleaners out there, but house cleaning wasn’t exactly my intended career path. Hey, life happens. It paid the bills while I got back on my feet. Most of my clients forgot my name. I was just the Merrie Maid girl to them, basically invisible. I exacted revenge by giving them all nicknames in my mind and fantasizing about their reactions if I were ever to write a book about all their quirks. For example, there was Ms. Hoarder. She had only accepted cleaning services out of fear of her daughter who had threatened her with Social Services. She followed me from room to room as I threaded my way through tottering stacks of clutter, fumblingly snatching back anything I tried to throw out. The Poopsters were a nice old couple, but they had a couple of yappy, incontinent little dogs. I learned early to look where I was stepping and to wear my heavy-duty rubber gloves in their place. Ms. Party Girl left spilled wine stains and cigarette ash all over the place. I was always surprised that the house hadn’t burned down since my last visit.         Then there were the Glossies. The same wedding picture that had been in the glossy society magazine I had browsed through in my dentist’s waiting room was hanging framed on the wall of their elegant home. They were tall, slender and confident, with sparkling white teeth. The dentist probably approved. If the article hadn't contained their personal details, I’d have thought the picture was staged. It all looked too good to be true. With hindsight, I wish I could say I had been prescient, but at that moment I was just plain jealous.             He was standing behind her, arms clasped around her waist as she gazed adoringly up at him. Her hand rested delicately on his to show off a diamond as big as a walnut. Okay, I’m exaggerating, slightly. The blurb had gone on about how they had met, their degrees and careers and how they were soulmates. She was a lawyer, and he was a financial consultant. It described seed pearls and lace in excruciating detail. My marriage had turned out to be even cheaper than my wedding and had barely lasted six months. At least my mother was so thrilled with her granddaughter that she had stopped saying “I told you so” about my ex more than once a week. Since we were living in her basement apartment, I had learned to bite my tongue. I couldn’t disagree with a word she said about him anyway.          “Hope you have better luck than I did, sister,” I said to the bride in the wedding portrait as I dusted it. I forgave them their good fortune. The sleek, modern design of the house, with its cathedral ceilings and hardwood floors, made cleaning easy and I had learned to appreciate the little things. They were polite on the few occasions that we crossed paths, more than I could say about some of my other clients. Their life seemed to be idyllic. I couldn’t hate anyone for that. I smiled knowingly at the messy tangle of sheets in the king size bed and empty wine glasses on the bedside tables. There were loving little notes in the waste basket and roses on the dining table. What, you didn’t think I would read them? Give me a break, and shred your papers .      And yet, there were clouds on the horizon. Sometimes there were only one person’s plates in the dishwasher. One side of the bed was immaculately made, while the guest bed had been used. Gorgeous flowers and sweetly worded cards appeared after these episodes. I gave Mr. Glossy full points for classy apologies until I found the most recent bouquet shredded in the trash along with the shards of the vase. Now I understood how the hallway mirror got broken. That one apparently didn't go according to plan. That day I was dusting his office when I retrieved some papers that had fallen between the desk and the wall. They were letters from collection agencies. I recognized those from my own experience, but the amounts on these made me open my eyes wide. Romantic, considerate Mr. Glossy was in deep financial trouble. I wondered if Mrs. Glossy knew. It might explain the vase throwing. Yet it didn’t seem to make a difference to their standard of living. The wine cabinet remained full and there were exotic travel brochures scattered on the coffee table. I pored over them wistfully before I stacked them neatly in the magazine rack.      “I’m sorry,” I said to her photograph. “I know what it’s like to have your Dr Jekyll turn out to be a Mr. Hyde. Mine wasn’t as good looking and he didn’t have any money to lose, but I know what it’s like to fall for a jerk.” I wondered what would happen if I tried to warn her. I hardly ever saw her in person. There was the slight matter of client confidentiality. And finally, I was the house cleaner. There was no earthly reason she’d believe anything I told her. If I left the statements where she’d find them, he would know who had moved them. I put the papers back where I found them and kept my mouth shut.          On my next visit, I noticed that most of the clothes and a suitcase were gone from her side of the walk-in closet. We wore the same size. I admit I sometimes took items of her beautiful designer clothes out to admire them, though I never tried them on. Hey, I’m human. If you’d had to wear a Merrie Maid smock, you’d have done the same. I thought of the travel brochures and hoped she was relaxing on a beach somewhere, sipping a tall drink with a little umbrella in it. I headed to the main bathroom, gloves on, basket of cleaning supplies at the ready, when Mr. Glossy suddenly appeared, scaring me half to death. He seemed equally startled.           “Good morning, er, um, Ms., Ms...yes, Ms. Merrie.” I told you they never remembered my name.           “Didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to worry about cleaning the bathroom. We had a slight mishap last night before my wife left on her business trip. The toilet overflowed. What a mess! It took forever to clean up. I don't know how you do that all day long. Anyway, long story short, I bought new mats and it’s all fine now.”  He’d never uttered more than a passing greeting before. Since he was almost blocking the doorway, I could not enter, but I could see that there were indeed new mats on the bathroom floor.           “In fact,” he continued, “I’ll be joining her in a day or two, so there’s really no need to worry about the rest of the house. Here, this is for your trouble. I’ll call the office when we’re ready for you to come back.” He rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a roll of notes, peeled off several and handed them to me. It was almost a week’s wages. I just managed to thank him before he hustled me downstairs. I found myself, cleaning supplies and all, outside on the front porch, still wearing my gloves, as the door shut behind me. Something didn’t feel right, but it wasn’t a crime to behave oddly. Maybe she’d left him, and he didn’t want to admit it. I told the office that they’d put services on hold for now. Somehow, I forgot to mention my tip.

        About a week later, I was relaxing at home, playing with my baby, half listening as my mother prattled on in the kitchen. She had the television tuned to the local news. I glanced up and did a double take as I saw Mr. and Mrs. Glossy’s familiar wedding photograph. The view switched to a teary eyed Mr. Glossy standing outside the house.          “Please come home, honey,” he intoned, gazing into the camera with tearful sincerity. “I miss you so much. It doesn’t matter what’s going on. We can deal with it together.” He turned to weep on the shoulder of a distressed looking older woman. Judging from the likeness, she was Mrs. Glossy’s mother. The camera cut back to the reporter.           “Anyone with information is requested to call…” I was already on my feet, scrabbling for pen and paper.            “Mrs. Glossy, you’d better believe I’m going to call. I’m on your side, sister.”


A sliver of light seeped beneath Dolly’s door.

Shadows paced back and forth, while beads of sweat dampened her forehead. She rubbed the cool opal pendant beneath the quilt, trying to sooth her nerves. The door squeaked open, flooding the room with light. Dolly’s heart thrummed against her rib cage.

The stranger’s imposing figure towered in the doorway. “How are you today, Dolly?”

Her pulse quickened. “Who are you? Where is my husband? What have you done with Harold?” He wheeled a trolley across the floor, blocking the exit. “It’s time for your medicine.”

She sucked in a breath, and pulled the quilt to her chin, her limbs aching from arthritis. “I don’t have any money. Please, please, leave me be.” He halted a few steps from her bed, and tilted his head to the side. “It’s me, Dolly, It’s Nigel.”

A flash sparked behind her eyelids. A short circuit of memories. Harold’s funeral twisted like a knife in her stomach. “Oh, Harold, - w- why did you -l -l - leave me?”

Nigel’s warm hand rested on her back. “I’m sorry, Dolly.” “He was my angel.”

“And he loved you very much, I’m sure.” She winced as she shifted onto her side. “He did.” Wiping the tears, she gazed into her care-givers dark brown eyes, and breathed shakily. “He always said, Doll, you are too skittish.” She sniffed. “I dare say, I think he was right.” Nigel stood by her nightstand, the top edge of a pewter frame was visible behind a pile of books opened at varying degrees of completion.

“May I see your photo?” Nigel said. Proud, and shy at the same time, she nodded. “Harold was so handsome.” On the bottom of the frame was engraved Mr. and Mrs. Harold Chambers, September 12,1945.

He handed it to Dolly’s outstretched hand. “You looked beautiful, Dolly.” With a delicate touch, she ran her finger along Harold’s face. “You know I was fifteen when we married.” She closed her eyes, feeling Harold's embrace as he twirled her along the dance floor. “We were so happy, barely a fight between us in fifty-five years.” “You’ll need to tell me your secret. Velma and I are in our fifth year. Not sure if we’ll make it to the sixth.” “Just say your sorry. Oh, and make her laugh, Harold used to make me laugh no matter how angry I might have been. Come to think of it, that got me even more angry, but still there was never a harsh word between us. Don’t go to bed angry. You never know when the end is near.”

His black curls fell in waves across his forehead as he helped her to sit up.

She gripped his arms. “Nigel?” “Yes?” “I had one of those nightmares.”

“The one with the eyes?” “Yes, those piercing blue eyes, staring at me in the dark.” She bit the inside of her cheek.

“What is it?” “The man with the blue eyes. He was walking the halls.” A chill shook her to the core.

“I’ll talk to the doctor about adjusting your medication”

“But what if he comes back?” Nigel lifted a plate of biscuits off the trolley wrapped in cellophane. “It’s just a side effect of the medication. You’re safe here.” She squinted at her watch. “Oh, dear look at the time. We’re well past tea time.”  “I know, sorry about that, I got held up with a new patient. He was a bit disoriented. Insisted on seeing someone. Said there’d been a mistake.” “Poor dear. He’ll settle down. We all do eventually.” He handed her two pills in a tiny cup. “Take these with your cookie, it’ll help with the pain in your back.” “They’re biscuits, like my mum used to serve. She was a marvel in the kitchen. Three-course meals and not a speck on her apron.” Nigel's eyes creased at the corners.

“She could teach a thing or two to my wife. The house is a disaster when she cooks.” Pulling a chair along the tile floor, Nigel settled beside her bed. “How’s the pain?” “I only just took the pills two seconds ago.” He quirked his mouth on one side. “I meant in general.” “At my age, you’re bound to start wearing down.” She inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell? Aftershave?” “My kids got me a bottle of old spice for my birthday.” He leaned in.

“Do you like it?” “My sister’s boyfriend James, or was it Peter… no it was James, he wore the same cologne. He practically bathed in it. We could smell him a block away.” Dolly covered her mouth as a titter tickled her lips.

Nigel sniffed his light-blue scrubs. “Too much?” She patted his forearm.

“You’re fine, dear.”

“Tea?” A lightness lifted her spirit as Nigel presented a dainty cup and saucer. “Where did you get that?” “Don’t tell the others. I brought it from home. I thought it would be nice for a change.” She ran her finger along the rim. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Nigel. It can't be easy dealing with the likes of me. I know I can be a terror.” His dimples deepened. “If you’re a terror, I’d hate to think what Velma is.” He poured the amber liquid into her cup.

The cup and saucer clinked in her trembling hands. The feel of china on her lips brought her back to a simpler time. “I remember one time, oh dear, it must have been seventy years ago now. My best friend was supposed to get married to a strapping young man named Jacob Tremble. She was a lovely girl, though a bit head-strong.” “I know the type.” “We were to have a party, you know, the kind before the wedding. Just us girls.” “A bachelorette party? I hope you didn’t get into any trouble?” He winked. She dunked her biscuit. “Stop teasing.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “What happened?” “Oh, yes. Well, it was a catered affair. Nothing too extraordinary. I just remember the gift she gave us.” She lifted the opal pendant from beneath the quilt. “See it has my initials in gold.

DD for Dolly Duncan, I hadn’t married Harold yet.

Helen had one made for herself. It was rather controversial as she wanted her maiden initials. HP for Helen Poole. Her fiancé was none too pleased.” She dabbed the corners of her lips.

“But that was Helen, she did what she wanted.” “Did he get mad?” Dolly’s face heated up. “It was a terrible thing.” “Some guys can’t take a strong woman.” Dolly balled her fists. “I saw it all. I saw what he did.” Nigel stood up and felt her pulse. “Hey, it’s okay. We don’t need to talk about this anymore. How about something more pleasant.” “She never made it to the altar.” He placed his hand on her forehead, and set her tea cup down on the trolley. “You’re burning up.” Gripping Nigel's hand, Dolly widened her eyes. “She was murdered.” “Deep breaths, Dolly. I’m going to give you something to calm your nerves, your heart rate is sky high.” “It was Jacob. He-- he killed her, I saw it.” “Lay back. I’m calling the doctor.” She bit her lip, holding back a scream. “I see her, she’s right there in front of me… Get out of there, Helen!”

Nigel shook her gently. “Dolly. Look at me.” Blinking, she focused on Nigel’s chestnut skin. “Helen lived in the apartment across from me. I could see her through the window. She was talking to Jacob, but something happened. He slapped her across the face.” Dolly cupped her cheek as if the sting was real. “Helen backed away from him, but he kept coming.” Dolly squeezed her eyes shut. “He, he- he pushed her. I called out. I shouted her name, but no one came.” Tears stung her eyes. “He kept pushing her.” Dolly covered her face. “She fell, Nigel. She fell from the balcony.” Bile churned in her gut. “I should have saved her. I should have done something.” The mattress dipped, and Nigel held her in his arms. “You did everything you could. You’d have never made it there in time.” “When the police found her, she was dead. They said it was suicide, said she couldn’t go through with the marriage. But, I saw him. I saw him--. He did it.”

Nigel’s face blurred, as her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Dolly. I’m so sorry.”

“He left after that. No one saw him again.” Visions of Helen’s limp body sent shivers up her spine. “She would never have taken her own life. If she didn’t like something she’d tell you straight out. She would never...” “I shouldn’t have got you talking about all this.” “I pray for Helen every night.” Dolly’s eyes fluttered closed. “I’m so tired.” He tucked the blanket around her shoulders. “Sleep.”

*** Dolly woke with a start, and clutched her neck. A knock at the door sped her heart.

Nigel peeked around the door. “Can I come in?”

“Where am I?” “You’re at Cedar Residence. It’s time for dinner.” He pushed a wheel-chair beside her bed. “Hop on, I’ll take you for a ride.”

A child like merriment bubbled in her chest. “Really? Like we did with Mummy and Daddy?” “Yes, we can go as fast as you like.” She gritted her teeth, as the throbbing pain pulsed down her legs. “It’s bad today. I can’t move.”

Nigel scooped her up, and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you dressed first.” He presented a pink dress from the three hanging in the closet. “Oh yes, I like that one.” He gingerly unbuttoned her nightgown and slid it over her head. There was no shame or sadness as she gazed at the sagging skin. She lifted her arms while Nigel slipped the dress over her head, and slid her arms through the sleeves. “You’ll be the envy of the dinning hall.”

She leaned against his arm. “You’re such a sweet lad.” He picked her up and sat her in the chair. “Ready?” “Ready.” The chatter in the dining hall hummed like a whirring tornado.

“We have some new residents,” Nigel whispered in her ear.

“Mummy doesn’t like me talking to strangers.” She bit her lips. Gliding between the tables, Nigel seated her with three white haired women engrossed in conversation.

Nigel squeezed her shoulder. “It’s movie night tonight. I’ll make sure you're seated next to someone respectable.” ***

The lights dimmed and the reel to reel clicked to life. A black and white title appeared on the screen, “How Green Was My Valley.”

A man hunched in the seat beside her leaned over. “I love this one.” “It’s one of my favorites. Roddy is so young.” “And how he cares for his mother. It breaks your heart that they can’t be together.” She batted her eyes. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He nodded, squinting in the darkness. “The pleasure is mine.” He nudged a little closer. “Can I get you some popcorn?” “Oh, how lovely, yes thank you.” He lumbered out of his chair, and limped toward the popcorn machine.

Nigel sidled up beside Dolly. “Seems like you two are getting along.”

Giddy, Dolly bounced in her chair. “This is my favorite movie, and he knows all about it.” “That’s a good sign.” The white haired gentleman weaved through the aisle with two bags of popcorn. “Oh, shoo, he’s coming back.” She patted the chair. “I saved your seat.” “Aren’t you sweet.” The movie ended, and pleasantries were exchanged. The dapper gentleman kissed the back of her hand, as the lights brightened the hall.

A scream lodged in Dolly’s throat. Her chest constricted.

His blue eyes narrowed. “Small world isn’t it, Dolly.” “Get away from me.” “Now, now, don’t be like that. It was an accident.” “I saw you.”

A sly smile curled his lips. “She tripped.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What was I to do?” He fiddled with his opal tie clip, initials HP shining under the light. “Now she’ll always be Helen Pool, just like she wanted.” “How’s everything going over here?” Nigel backed Dolly’s wheel-chair a few inches. Short breaths strangled her words.“Take. Me. Home. Please.”

Nigel blocked the man from view. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.” Dolly closed her eyes, terrified Jacob would do to her what he did to Helen. “Please, Nigel take me home.” The man peeked from behind him. “Is there anything I can do?” Nigel wheeled her out of the room. “She’s just had a long day.” “Maybe we can meet tomorrow, on the terrace?” His voice trailed off. Dolly reached back and clutched Nigel’s hand. “Hurry.” Once in her room, Nigel lowered her on the bed.

She sobbed into her pillow.

“What is it, Dolly? Tell me.” “Harold? Is that you?”


The light from the surface was fading as Dr. David Lovering drifted towards the entrance of the grotto. The entrance resembled that of a gaping maw, swallowing the inky blackness of the ocean depths. Rocks on the ocean floor scaled upwards before Dr. Lovering, reaching jagged points at their zeniths. The rocks lined the cave opening along the bottom, and the ceiling of the cave entrance mirrored the floor; sharp conical spires of rutted gray stone unevenly dotted the ceiling above the entrance. The task before Dr. Lovering was simple: Explore the cave and discover the source of the strange radiation that seemed to originate from somewhere within. David had been on many deep sea dives before, but he had done very few alone, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly on edge. He was no stranger to the deep blue and its inhabitants, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of overwhelming awe before the great aperture that seemed to yawn before him, like the welcoming jaws of a great white. Before crossing the threshold into the cavern, David took one last look to the surface and basked in what last little bit of dying moonlight he could. The rays just barely managed to pierce the briny deep, casting lines of pouring light that stood stark against the black backdrop of the expansive open ocean, where for fleeting seconds, bits of debris and plankton glided past and became visible before disappearing into the dark just as quickly as they had appeared. Further up above, David could see the surface swelling, the moonlight reflecting off, and how it created what resembled diamonds glinting and shimmering, swelling and receding with the push and pull of the sea. David stared skyward for a few short moments that felt much longer than he knew them to be. Was he stalling, or sincerely enraptured with what occupied his focus? Not even David knew, but he decided whichever it was, enough was enough. He turned and kicked his legs, and felt the rush of water past his ears as he headed into the deep unknown of the grotto. Making his way past the stalagmites that lined the entrance, Dr. Lovering procured a large yellow diving light from the belt of his wetsuit and felt the firm ka-chunk of the on switch being pressed. A wide beam of bright white light lit his path as he ventured into the expanse of the cave that lay before him, like the cold interior of a cathedral, ancient and pristine. The walls of the cave seemed to expand outwards, becoming ever more lifeless as he made his way further into the darkness; bits of coral and algae became sparser as the walls stretched on, and David felt the water become cool and stale, like the air in a basement. Swimming cautiously onwards, David shined his light around his surroundings, looking for anything unusual, which he quickly found. The normal seafloor rock began to slowly change color from a stone gray to a sort of pale, off-white. Swimming ahead, David observed that the walls of the cave had now become completely chalk white, and totally absent of flora or fauna of any description. Finding this rather odd, Dr. Lovering extended a wetsuit-clad hand and felt the ground, noting the unusual smoothness. Most sea floor caves (in David’s experience anyway), were made of craggy, almost porous rock, nothing like the smooth white surface that he found so curiously unnatural. Preoccupied with the strange composition of the cavern, it took David a minute to notice the brightening cyan light that appeared ahead of him. It was quite faint; in fact it was barely noticeable, but as Dr. Lovering drifted onwards, approaching the luminosity of the mysterious blue light, it only became stronger and brighter, eventually filling the cave with an almost palpable atmosphere of understated yet awe-inspiring power. **This must be it.** The pale white cavern walls reflected the blue light and now all sides of the grotto around David now appeared radiant, to the point where he no longer needed his diving light, which he switched off and placed back on his utility belt. Approaching an opening in the end of the long tunnel that he had been traversing, Dr. Lovering drew a long breath on his respirator before nervously peeking his head out into the chamber from which the mysterious blue radiance seemed to radiate, hands gripping the rim of the tunnel opening. Squinting in the direct exposure to the blinding blue glow, David was convinced he was hearing things. *What is it you seek? Knowledge? Understanding? Or are you simply acting on instinct, like a moth before a flame? Who are you to enter my domain? Should I reveal my exact nature, would you truly comprehend?* The might of the aqua glare seemed to ignite the water in the chamber, and David felt a force pull at the suction on his goggles. The white spherical chamber’s walls danced with oscillating blue shapes that reflected the aura of the glowing object, which David struggled to see in the brightness. Having adjusted to the light, David’s eyes made out what looked like a cross-legged figure, which was either the source of the blazing sapphire light, or a resident thereof. Either way, Dr. Lovering was not at all sure what he was looking at, and was understandably completely terrified. The figure had four long arms and was very skinny. Its eyes were the same milky color of the cavern, yet their blankness did not convey anything other than overpowering knowledge and wisdom. It remained suspended in a state of neutral buoyancy in the middle of the chamber, floating in a meditating pose, legs crossed and arms extended and slightly bent. Lost in the wonder of the spectacle he was beholding, David failed to notice himself drifting towards the azure being, and found himself feeling completely numb; he began to see double and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. *You exist in a corporeal state, purely sensory. Superficial, primitive. The nature of your existence is nothing compared to mine. I am endless.* Endless? *Endless, child. I was there when the hands of men built the first cities. I will be their when the hubris of their descendants burn the cities down.* Am I dead? *You are free.


/////First Submission, howdy y'all!///// “Miranda, this is control, how are we looking?” Miranda was chewing on her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration as she focused on steadying her trembling hands. “I’m fine control, just… just being extra cautious.” “Roger, take your time captain.” She rolled her eyes, but out here there was no one to see it. Take your time, captain. No worries, captain. The whole world is watching, captain. She bit her tongue though, in no small part because she knew every word would be recorded and memorialized for all time. She took a glance at the heads-up display projected on her helmet’s visor - Aside from slightly elevated heart rate and blood pressure readings, everything was green. She let out part of the breath she was holding, then focused in on her hands again. She was still holding the long, braided polymer cable that connected her to her only lifeline. She looked back over her shoulder at the Herald, which she’d landed about sixty yards away. She could see that the cord - and all of the anchor points she’d placed along her path so far - were secure. The small landing pod was scarcely big enough for the measuring equipment it carried, let alone the sole occupant expected to travel down to the surface with it. But beyond it, hovering silent in the void of space, was the vast bulk of the Ascendant, the pride of the United Planetary Navy’s research fleet. Sleek lines and polished white bulkheads reassured her that she was far from alone out here, despite how it felt inside her tiny space suit. She returned to her work, retrieving another alloy stake from the toolbox she’d brought with her. She clipped her tether into the loop of the stake and then set it against the rocky surface of the asteroid beneath her feet. After ensuring that her mag-boots were set to maximum strength she swung the heavy tungsten hammer she carried. The impact drove the stake in easily, while nearly lifting her from the surface. Thankfully, her boots held. She gave the stake a firm tug and, when it refused to budge, bent to retrieve her tools and instruments. “Control this is Miranda. Stake six embedded, proceeding to target.” “Roger, good copy.” Minutes ticked by in silence as she worked her way painstakingly across the harsh, rocky surface. Yard by yard, stake by stake, she made her way to what her team had dubbed ‘the entrance.’ Finally, she’d made it. A short distance before her stretched a perfectly circular void in the rock. She looked at the lip of the hole as she drew nearer and was in awe of the razor sharp, impossibly precise edge. Her in-suit sensors did a quick scan of the opening and confirmed what she already knew. The circle was perfect, variance was 0.00% along the entire shape. No mortal instrument could have crafted such perfection, she’d seen laser drills less precise. She activated her mapping software and a wire diagram projected itself over the hole, measuring it’s diameter and depth in an instant. It was 31.4 feet across and… that couldn't be right. Her diagnostics weren’t giving her a stable depth reading. The number simply kept growing until it blanked out. eRR. She rebooted the program. eRR. “Uh, control, I’m getting some odd readings here.” “We’re tracking, captain, running shipboard diagnostics on your suit. Standby” Standby. Miranda quirked an eyebrow, what else was she going to do, pack it in? She was by herself on a rock floating in outer space. Of course she was going to stand by. “Suit is reading green across the board, you’re good to proceed.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Roger, good copy control.” Miranda closed the last few feet and was greeted at last with the reason they’d come all this way. The hole emitted a pale blue light that washed over her as she leaned out over the edge. Not so far as to risk falling, but enough to get a good look. Instantly her suit’s communications suite spiked. Every band, every channel, every signal that humanity had learned to listen for jumped clear off the charts. Tiny alert lights and warning indicators populated her heads-up display, prompting her to take a few steps back. They quieted instantly. This was it then. The Source. Fifty-four years ago, before the United Planetary Navy was even a pipe dream, humanity had suddenly and loudly been informed that they weren’t alone. At 7:31 PM GMT, on April 12th of 2066, every communications satellite, television set, and computer on Earth had been bombarded with… everything. The signal had been strong enough to blot out every form of communication on the planet, and had lasted exactly six minutes. Within days, world governments had convened a series of special meetings, and within weeks the signal had been traced here. To this otherwise unremarkable piece of interstellar space. All the world's instruments were trained on this spot and the scientific community was baffled to find this, a completely stationary asteroid, alone in space billions of miles away from anything else. It shouldn’t exist, it couldn’t exist. And yet it did. What’s more, the signal remained. It no longer drowned out the earth but it shone, a steady beacon to those who were listening. The Source galvanized mankind, revealing to all the world that the issues which had for so long divided them were petty, trivial compared to the knowledge that something was out there. Work was done in decades that would have taken individual nations centuries to accomplish, progress and innovation flourished as never before. All leading to this moment. “Miranda, do you read us?” She blinked, her eyes dry, unsure just how long she’d been standing, staring off into space. “Sorry, yes, I read you control.” “Thank God, we thought something had gone wrong,” the voice said, clearly relieved. “What happened? We lost all comms with you.” “The signal flood projecting from the entrance is too powerful for my suit, it overloaded everything, please advise.” Silence. “Control?” “Standby, captain.” God how she hated that phrase. Miranda waited as patiently as she could as seconds turned to minutes. “Captain?” “Yes, control, I’m here.” “Captain, this is Admiral Colin Reeves, UPN Commander.” Miranda’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her flippant response, this was one of the most important men in the world, he’d designed most of the equipment she wore. “Y-Yes sir!” “I’m talking to you now not as a superior officer, but as a fellow human being. We don’t know how this ends, we don’t know what happens in that hole. No one can rightly ask you to go down there, knowing you’ll be totally isolated. We can pull you back, consider other options. No one would fault you for-” “I’m good, sir.” She surprised even herself. She hoped her voice was steady and cleared her throat to speak again. “Sir, I’m ready. I’m here. I’ll do it.” “Then Godspeed captain, we’re all behind you.” Miranda heard a faint beeping and noted mentally that her heart rate was in the yellow, 130 beats per minute. She silenced the alert and closed her eyes, focusing solely on her breathing. After a few moments she opened her eyes again and stepped to the very edge of the entrance. She hammered one last stake into the ground, clipped on her tether, and then leaned forward over the opening. With her mag boots on max, she could walk down the edge of the tunnel with relative ease, so she took a tentative step down into the unknown. She held tight to her tether with one hand as she made her way down the tunnel. She felt the familiar tug of gravity as she approached the light below. That wasn’t possible either, this tiny asteroid should have had such a negligible gravity field that she shouldn’t have felt a thing. She grew closer, and it grew stronger. As she approached, she could see a thin membrane, like the surface of a massive bubble. It was the source of the light and, theoretically, the signal stream as well. She could see herself reflected in the shimmering surface as she got closer. She looked at her HUD, everything was still normal. No temperature spikes, no unusual radiation, just the mass of communications signals and the strong gravimetric anomaly. She was a foot away now, maybe less, and the gravity was strong enough that she felt as though she were suspended from the sky, hanging out over the pool of light and mystery. A moment of fear passed through her heart, chilling her briefly. But how could she give up now? She took a breath, closed her eyes, and fell forward into the unknown.


Marty dashed through the dusty room, his machine jogging on his back. He had gotten in through a window. The space was quite cramped, even for a storage area, with paint cans and tools piled everywhere, but to get where he wanted without being accosted it had seemed the best way. Even actors, begrimed with sweat and half-way through a performance, would instantly recognize a man not of the troop.

From directly overhead Marty could make out Old Marley’s chains dragging over the stage, bewailing his lot as he admonished his ex-partner, the cowering man presumably at stage right, to heed his ghostly admonition.

Through the layers of wood, plaster and deadening bric-a-brac, Marty could catch the occasional line, not too surprising from people whose life's work it was to project, to emote , and the words,

“Have sat beside you many and many a day,”

Came clear to his ear. The intervening clutter robbed the line of its higher notes, delivering Marley’s eerie statement in a Jovian boom which caused Marty almost as much pause as it had been supposed to do the stricken Scrooge. Moving into the workroom proper he cleared his throat and whipped a hand over his hair. This room was deserted also, as he had known, or rather hoped, that it would be. Half of an oversized peach house lay propped behind raw pine boards. The balloon face of Monty Python's god, jaw akimbo, hung from the rafters and a strong smell of resin pervaded the air; glue and paint and something which might have been raw clay. Marty did not know if the Shakes possessed its own kiln for firing biscuit pottery or not.

Through this room and across the hall, through another door and the sound of the performance overhead became a continuous, unearthly voiceover. He was beneath the thrust stage now and here... there were people. A slender man in striped pantaloons bounded in, the glow still on. He was snatching at his cravat as a girl, a drop dead gorgeous woman in flowing purple, twisted his collar.

“Mark’s given’ ‘em the business tonight,” enthused the man, the low, directional lights shining on his black skin. “Shut the fuck up, John,” snapped the woman, her strong fingers running the lines of his costume like a plow correcting errant furrows. “Easy on, Val,” admonished the lift operator. “I’m about to bring it down.”

He glanced automatically around, nudging an apple box further out of the taped zone, and spied Marty. “Oi, who the fuck are you?” he hissed, and the attention of all three was, for the moment, directed at him. “Press,” Marty whispered back, ratcheting the slide on his ancient camera. The two actors instantly averted their eyes, but there wasn’t time for anything else; the trap door had slid open and the lift was descending. A miniature bed sank into their midst. As rapidly as a pit crew, John and the man in black slid it to one side, into a space exactly the size. John flashed a silent eye at the other man as the trap slid closed over their heads and the operator stabbed his finger towards a Victorian style desk. Wordlessly, the two whisked it into the vacated place on the lift. “Val, did you hear?” hissed a girl, carefully swathed in beggar’s rags. She had whooshed in like a snow storm, the black makeup lines of her poverty ghoulishly terrifying in the intensely subdued light. “Come on Ava, you shouldn’t be down here now; yes, yes you were wonderful,” said Val, snatching up the wet eyed girl's gloved hand and propelling her from the room. “Break a leg,” hissed John, sotto voce. “You get the fuck outta’ here too,” the lift operator snarled at Marty. “Follow them if you wanna’, take yer pics, but stay the fuck outta their way! You shouldn’t be here at all, not now! God-damn ridiculous….” Maneuvering between the tightly placed set pieces, Marty ascended the narrow stairs and entered... into a madhouse. “Here, you; get out the way,” hissed a man in a black t-shirt and headset, grabbing Marty’s arm and literally throwing him across the back of the stage. Tripping over an outlandishly oversized white ghost he stumbled into a man swathed about in a maroon greatcoat, vents riffling the sides. “Gosh and begofrah mate,” chuckled the man, setting him upright then immediately pushing his head down as a, ‘Scrooge & Cratchit,’ sign whisked through the air. “Tim, leave that idiot alone,” breathed Val, rustling by, her sweaty body giving off a strong scent of soap and heavy fabric. “Scene change,” hissed a different t-shirted man, snapping his fingers. Tim pulled Marty out of the way as the man mashed a button and a massive lazy susan, fifteen feet across, twirled two walls of the set away from them. Around the black curtain at the side Marty glimpsed tiers of dimmed faces, stretching away into the dark. “Chorus; up! ” snapped a third t-shirted man, this one holding a clipboard. “Val, go ; Tim, left ; Lizzy, Jan, Lani, on the right , and-” Over Marty’s head a clear, beautiful voice began harking the herald angels. “And who the hell are you?” “Press,” said Marty, rather breathless, shrugging his camera back into view and ratcheting the slide one more time. “Press? Press! Get the fuck off my set m-” began the man, but he was interrupted as a tall, mustachioed fellow whisked past, rubbing grease paint from his face with one hand as he shifted aside the great chains and cashboxes with which he was begirt with the other. “Give us a hand,” he said quickly, turning inexplicably to Marty and bearing his encumbered chest. Marty, with no time to think- the chorus had swelled by an order of magnitude and the back of the stage was filled with sound- slung his mechanism around behind and began fumbling at the props. With a deft movement the man pulled a hidden pin and twirled away, leaving Marty holding not only the chains but the grave vestments as well. “Who the hell's this guy, Jacob?” the now unencumbered man demanded of a young fellow, struggling into knickerbockers. He kicked a box open and began rummaging through it. The child had no opinion and shrugged without turning up his head. “Who knows Mark; press?” spat the man with the clipboard. “Notoriety at last…” chortled a short black woman, sweeping in from the wings. She wore a dress so large that she had to hold it in on both sides to maneuver between the props and sets and rushing actors. “Roberta, my darling, you’ve always been notorious,” growled Mark, heaving free a pair of suspenders as Val charged down the stairs. Somehow she had switched outfits and now looked stunning in a pale yellow. “Out the way, out the way!” she hissed, and was gone below.

The trap door slid open and a boy the size of a pepperoni stick, who could only be Tiny Tim, insinuated himself between Marty’s legs. “Hot crowd tonight,” whispered John, spinning into the space from some hidden alcove and now looking at least as beggarly as the little girl below stairs had done, fingerless gloves, holes in his sleeves and shoes from another age. A snap, a hiss and the man pressed the button again. The floor rotated and another scene spun away from Marty. He remembered to pick up his machine and push the shutter button two or three times, backing as far into a corner as he could. “Past coming up... now,” said t-shirt number two. “You; zip,” snapped Roberta, thrusting her muscular back into Marty’s corner. He zipped and she was gone. The light around the curtain changed to purple and Marty heard the elevator hum. “Your reclamation, then. Take heed!” an invisible voice declaimed, a moment later. Marty scuttled and scooched, he clicked his camera and shifted props, was kicked up and down and swore at as scene followed scene. Costumes were snatched off- new ones just as rapidly thrown back on- carol succeeded carol, ghost replaced ghost and the lazy susan spun and spun and spun; props being unearthed and moved into location from the most unlikely places. The great white ghost, over which Marty had stumbled, was tipped upright and strapped to the man who, a dozen personas ago, had been wearing the much vented great coat. “Got this, Tim?” said Val, holding an outlandishly long arm as a by now familiar stagehand ratcheted the frame to the man’s person. “Just a walk-on,” replied the now invisibly shrouded actor. “Keep an eye on that break,” panted a sweating young man, his long glistening hair restrained in a band, now that his character of young Scrooge had passed middle age. “No worries, Carlos,” chuckled the invisible Tim, trying out the controlling rods which actuated his ghostly arms. “Five seconds,” hissed a man in black, and all three hustled Tim backwards to the center of the lazy susan, holding him silently until the button was pushed and he rotated away from them, the head of his apparition rising well above the set walls. A great gasp rose from the audience and Marty shared a quick grin with John, once more in the striped pantaloons, before the man dashed away, skipping nimbly over Ebeneezer's headstone, lying now to hand, ducking beneath an oversized, crystal topped staff and weaving around a robust man in purple toga who was fixedly removing a grey beard. “Good on ya, E.” he hissed, and was gone. “John, John, John,” chuckled E. bemusedly, dropping the toga to the floor and skipping nimbly free as it was whisked away. Everyone ducked, including Marty, as the ‘Scrooge & Crachit sign’ came sailing back the other way. Val and Roberta popped up as if by magic and each grabbed a side. “Out the way, my darling,” sang Mark, as loud as he pleased- which was still not very- as the cello boomed over their heads and Scrooge, in a fine, ringing voice, carried on both sides of his final sepulchral conversation. Taking her end away from Roberta he hoisted it a clear foot over her upraised arms. “My hero,” she whispered, knocking him with a well padded, Victorian hip. “Fuck over here,” hissed Val, and Marty, perceiving that she meant him, wove his way to her side. Their hands touched as he took her end and, together, he and Mark held it for the first man in black to affix. Suddenly, it was a new scene, and, “We won’t go until we get some, we won’t go until we get some we won’t…” cried the cast, all on stage now, the house lights up, and Marty stood, shoulder to shoulder with the sweating hoard of black t-shirted men, his camera hanging forgotten at his back, eyes glistening. He had made it. He had done it. Then quickly down the stairs, past laughing actors rushing back left and right, through the room and into the other room and through the door and out and across and through the window and Marvin was free, in the night air, running across the parking lot to the cement sculptures before even the forerunners of the evenings crowd had left the Shakes by the front doors. And then they came. In a rush. Masks torn off, shrugging into rustling coats, digging from pants pockets a jingle jangle of shining keys, faces alive and voices high, an air of drunken hilarity spilling along with them, a rolling, cresting gush of life and excitement, of color and noise and the joy of redemption shared, a common wonder like electricity crackling from head to strangers head, with a turning and a nodding and eyes touching which would never meet again; blue, brown, green and indigo violet, a shared and an infectious wonder. “I loved the scene where-” “Did you get the-” “And the ghost yet to come, how-” “I didn’t remember any words except-” “I didn’t remember-” “How did-” “Can you imagine the sets-” “Forgot hasty pudding until-” “That dress, my god-” “I know, right-” “Want that coat so much-” “Amazing voice-” “Amazing show-” ‘Amazing time!” And Marty sat, the empty, antique camera useless at his side, as the crackle of magic fizzled slowly from his soul.

Soon, the Shakes building was black and empty, the parking lot a deserted sea.

The night stretched out, cold and beautiful.

And.

Overhead. Like tiny, miniature spotlights. The stars glistened.


We all died at the same time. It was a combination of two of our friends, Rhett and Sam, and a bit of unfortunate luck. I don't know what you would call it. Not murder, they only put things in motion. But they did mean to do it, so intended Manslaughter? Either way, it ended with the three of us with cracked skulls at the bottom of bleachers. That was my original guess as to why we were chosen for the roles we now play. We found out later that something we had each done changed the world through ripple effect, so the world isn't as random as you would think. They simultaneously cured cancer and started another war. Hannah became the World Angel. Quiet and soft, out of the three of us it was a nobrainer. My bet was she would have become the World Angel eventually even if we hadn't died when we did. She influences all the good I'm the world. The halo I joked about her having back when we were alive I now really there, as well as an extreme wardrobe change to a soft white dress. She wasn't a huge fan at first, being that she always wore a blue hoodie and jeans, but I think its grown on her. Will became the World Demon, which makes him sound a lot worse than he really is. It must have been a toss up between the two of us to be the World Demon at first, but he won out in the end because he has a certain way with words that makes it so you're going to listen to him. Naturally, he's in charge of negative actions. If you look around, our redhead is doing a good job right now. Said redhead was outfitted in a expensive look black suit and a red tie. Again, not particularly his style, but he stopped complaining after a decade or two. I think I've gotten the hardest job out of the three of us. After being done up in a beautiful gray silk dress, I was given the title World Truth, which wouldn't give away my spot without you knowing anything else. I'm in charge on assigning every important person in the world an alignment, so to speak. My predecessor assigned Hitler an evil alignment, for instance. I tell the two of my friends to keep am eye on people who I assign alignments. Which brings me to you. I've had a hard time with you. Watched through your childhood, and I know your future. Run for world leader, see how that goes. Since I know how that turns out, I'm supposed to give you an alignment. But I cant figure you out. You're a perfect neutral. Then it hit me. You'll end up be the next World Truth, a pure one. I'll be picking your World Angel and World Demon, I think I have them locked down. Hold him and her close to you, you might be spending a millenia or two with them.


I come from a town of 6 high towers which scour the skies and protect the honest to good people who live inside. They like to jump from the high rooms, near the tops, and soar down, down, down, like lovely butterflies dancing on a summer's breeze. Their wings are beautiful, clear and shimmering, but most importantly, light. The people that I come from, are born with wings like slivers of silk, but strong enough to carry a fae and her child. Then, there are the exceptions like me. We, too, have our own set, but they are not the same. These are the wings we call, Mirae, because, like the looking glass, they are only meant to be admired and shatter just the same if one does not care for them properly. I can’t fly like the others do, so I run. If I run with the speed of foxes on their hunts back home, I can feel the bending air I rush past. But to fly, they say, is like the weightlessness in a swimming pool, only the water isn’t there so you can feel the air in a plane which others couldn’t. I’d always wanted wings like that, so I finally got them the way I do everything: I stole them. Not that I could actually use them, but I’ve earned the bragging rights at the very least. Glasses doesn’t take from just anybody; we only take from the very best. So if we steal from you, take it as the compliment that it is. “Angel, open the bag,” I do so immediately, loosening the strings of the velvet bag that rests in my gloved hands. I smile at the faint light that glows within and pour the contents onto my palms. The collar may look plain but if you turned it over you would notice the strange incredibly thin needles which are shielded by a thin protective membrane. Once the membrane is removed and the harness is secured on the chest plate and shoulder blades of any human, the needles would pierce through the skin and insert enough structure to lighten the mass of the bones and create a protein film that would feed into the growth of wings like that of my people. “Preciosa,” Glasses is still the honest man who can’t cage a thought from leaving his lips, “They would make a whole world of fae,” he said softly; I smiled at that. “And break the vows of the vestal sisters who sought to protect the secrets of our sacred tower,” he finished slowly. I think I choked on my disbelief. My blood ran cold and my wings clinked together beneath my loose clothes. “What?!” A hysterical laugh began to climb its way up my throat, I flew into a flustered rage, “I did all this to-- to- to- what?! Destroy the only thing that could possibly lead to a cure for my wings? That could give me a chance to fly like I’ve always dreamed of?” Glasses reached for my hand. I snatched it away to run along the crisscross patterns of said wings. I could just barely feel the blood which ran through the veins set in crystal. He said soothingly, “Angel, angel please . It’s okay to feel so distraught about this change in events however, there is no other choice we have but to protect the legacy of our people at all costs. I can NOT-” he stifled a small cough, “ WILL not let the scientologists take what belongs to us alone!” his passionate outburst rang throughout the small empty room along with the great heaves of breath he struggled to inhale. An eerie silence descended on the room and I remembered exactly to whom I was talking to. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with and I wasn’t so keen on getting a few holes blasted into me. That’s the thing about Glasses, it’s too effortless to forget the real danger he poses when he’s always cracking jokes like a friend and taking care of us like a Pop. “It is not easy,” I sucked in another calming breath to steady my shaking voice, “Not always easy to do the right thing,” My fluttering wrath quieted to mimic the glassy surface of still waters. “That’s right, Angel. So while the right thing is the hard thing to do, you must endure for the good of our people and our gift,” Glasses tried to comfort me with his words of assurance, but I knew better than the old man did. His wings might’ve worn away with time, but he’s never had to live a flightless lifetime like mine. Virtue is sparse and rare in a world that rewards the greed that chews away at the good. People are not given the same chance at life despite what others may want to believe so one must make the most of what they are given. Even children are reduced to pawns in this game of life, up in the tops we keep the young exceptions trapped to the only floor where they may serve the higher ones. Or they are lost to the lower level streets and serve the lower lords like I do. In the towers, where fae are blinded by their desire to be perceived as perfect, that they desperately hide at the injustices which sneak through the cracks of order. Like me, and a little like Glasses, we can’t always keep our hands clean to get what we want. And what I want are those wings. “Gente, gente! We got a lot to do here today, prepare the incinerator, if fire does not manage to burn this devilish mechanism, then we try the crusher, the broiler, the casket, the slicer, and- well, you guys get the idea,” he smirked as Jet and Chal rushed to prepare the kindlings. I moved to check the gauges in the other room, and in one motion slipped the necklace into my pocket from within its pouch lying on the table. I quickly turned to exit the room and heard Glasses grunting at the boys to hurry them along while inspecting the incinerator. Adrenaline pulled me to leave quickly, I pulled a bar down over the door’s entrance for a headstart; the motions did not feel like they were coming from me but someone daring enough to shed Glass’s control. Here’s the thing about running away with precious cargo, it’s nothing like in the movies where the spy looks hecka hot while happening to find the perfect tools or hiding spot before delivering the goods. Escaping with stolen goods is like running with your hands tied, sure, it’s not like you can’t keep going, but then why do I feel like at any moment I might just trip up and get caught. I’m not going to lie, it stung when I saw myself listed under the Wanted, I didn’t think you’d turn to them for help, Glasses. But then, I’ve never been wanted so I’ll take what I can get. Today is the day I meet with Marciel about the collar, he wants it for 30 mil but I’m not going any lower than 1 billion and he knows it. I know the funds they have and I know what value I have. Maybe up til now you might’ve figured out the way I like to play the game, but when it comes to the money you better cash up or we got problems. The type of problems that get scumbags who waste my time kicked off a tower and ending with a nighttime nap with the fishies. I’m dressed in a casual gray, tight flexible pants to run if things go north, light formal blouse for business, and loafers that are really more for a fast escape but are cutting it as formalwear. For the scary look I’ve selected a thick ribbon of red tied around my throat, just enough to be menacing but easy to take off should I choose to become less noticeable. I wait in a tidy office space on ground floor, the entrance to the small facility. Marciel strides into the lobby with a steady pace and head held strong; he looks like he’s nearing his 40s, but I’d bet he's only in his late 20s. Guilt and harsh work can take off decades from a man’s life. “Senora Giselle?” he addresses me from his stand near the entrance and I can’t help but grin a happy little grin. Marciel’s got another thing coming for him if he thinks I’m that type of business woman. He’s scared; he stands too close to the door for easy access to me, and his steps were too light for a man prepared for a tousle. Of the two, he’s the kind to pick flight over fight. “Marciel, drop the formalities, I’m here for a quick ordeal so let’s make it quick,” the sooner I get my money, the less I have to worry about keeping the collar safe. He frowns a little before sitting down at the coffee table across from me. I doubt he will recognize me as a Wanted since the picture was simply much too long ago and dark enough to be almost any girl off the streets. I’ve taken care not to let people take advantage of my face with a camera that can spill too many secrets told in a photo of a thousand words. Neither of us move from the spot, I may have chosen the place, but I felt safest near the outdoors and I’m certain Marciel’s partners had not anticipated we would not continue farther into the building. He clears his throat, “Do you have the collar?” “I do.” Absolute silence and if I were not so stressed out a giggle might’ve ensued. He truly expects me to pull it out now when I have not even seen the payment? “Senora Giselle, I am not here for the collar,” he shifts and I quickly slip my knife in hand, “We have heard you are one of the... Exceptions ,” “In practically everything,” I grumbled and regretted putting myself at risk for this stumbling fool. I pull my knife and he stumbles over a syllable after a glance at my blade. “The wings, senora, your wings are...” he searches my body for a glimmer of my glass catastrophe, and I hold myself back from slicing his throat right that moment in order to teach him a hard learned lesson, “perfection,” His eyes alight and I fear the greed in them that runs its course in all men. But I am also frozen in wonder at what he has just said about my disablement, “Pardon?” I am going to do it; I am not afraid. Wings or no wings, I will make whichever choice or sacrifice to soar the skies. I feel my place there unlike any other. Marciel is unlike any streetrat I’ve ever encountered. He knows the dark and dirty corners hidden at the tops of the towers and he pulls the strings like Glasses does with his thugs. Even if I am one of those strings, it doesn’t matter if I can have what I’ve dreamed of. My back sores are still bleeding, even though the cuts are clean and bandages are holding my flesh together. Regrets are beyond my conviction to get the wings I’ve always wanted, be it the price to let them take my wings. Marciel plays nice when he is about to get what he wants; I got the ‘best’ care and by that I mean the rich lunatic put me in the hands of his skilled spare parts collector. “Why do you even want them? Any Exception in the towers would work,” I growled from under the straps that held my glass wings in place. It was getting a little difficult to talk, but I had made sure the anesthetic wasn’t enough to stop me from ripping the holdings. “They don’t grow as old as you,” he sighed, “the wings never reach the right maturity,” Anger and grief dripped into my puddle of desperation; I didn’t like to think of how ‘lucky’ I was compared to the youngers despite my harsh upbringing. When my glass came off, I sensed a deep loss within me. They had been a large part of my life and stuck with me through thick and thin. That sense of loss however did not fully register with my physicality, my burden was lighter, but I did not actually feel cutting pain since the nerves nearest to the glass were weakest. Marciel must’ve been paying the man very well since he did not eye anything else on me and finished every laceration with expert precision. I ran from the facility after a last glance at my past and before the parts collector changed his mind to take something else. I doubt that Marciel would’ve stopped his lackey if he tried, however, he feared my reputation in the criminal world. He may have been the leading crook at the top of the towers, but those almighty towers rested on the black market of lethal delinquents like me. I am not afraid. My mind is set on my sole purpose after sacrifice and running for years and years in ragtag hoards, I have finally found my way here. I close my fists around the collar and wrap it around my throat. As the needles set into place, I close my eyes and a strange feeling of clarity in shrouded hazes enters my system. I did not realize the collar had automatic painkillers installed in its injections however, it manages to calm my nerves. It’s in that clarity that I find memories I wanted to forget. Being an Exception is like accepting a death sentence. All my life, I’ve had to work 10x harder than any fae to keep on surviving. I am at the age where most Exceptions would have been worked to death already, whether it be serving the higher ones or homeless. I hate the fae who pretend their ignorance is any excuse to how we are treated. We are just as deserving of futures and lives, granted our wings don’t work but our minds do! And now that Marciel has his hands on my glass pair, they will be making a collar that actually works. Wings will be worthless when anyone can have them!

“Are you certain you want it?” he eyed it nervously, “We tried it on others and it did not work the way we expected. If anything, they could come out worse than before... ” he shivered. I held in retches, testing on others would mean they had to have cut off other fae’s wings; the collar does not work on those with wings already. Only those from other realms would ever be able to use the next collar, but that will not be for a few decades. Marciel has assured me that though my wings will greatly speed up the creation of the new collar, there is much time before it will be safe to use. But I don’t care anymore for what’s safe.

When I wake up from my induced sleep, I feel the weight on my back has returned but slightly heavier than before. I reach back and spread my hand over a leathery flap, I inhale sharply. I rise to look in the mirror, and am surprised to see batlike wings the span of my entire body on both sides of me. My muscles are well connected to the control over these new wings and for the first time, I feel soreness at my shoulder blades, it is the strain of keeping these wings straight. The blood flows strong within veins that are barely perceptible under my skin, it is the complete opposite of the glass there before, like a dam broken and rivers of life flowing. There is a new labor to breathing and I raise my gaze to the ceiling of my keeping to try to keep down the chaos of emotions. But the tears come anyway because I have real wings. They may not look like what one might expect but they are everything and more to me. I mourn my lost wings, I howl, but I cry out of exhaustion because I did it! But I am the only one. I remember the clarity I had in the induced state of the collar which still rests on my chest. I am the only one of many exceptions who will never be given this chance for a gift of flight. Far away from this place and these towers which loom over anything that threatens its delusionally fictional haven. I will persevere, I will not waste my dark blessing. I feel the need of those little ones which feel as delicate as the glass which is encased on their backs, and I refuse to ignore it. My wings are stronger than any faes’ and my will is stronger.


I woke up in a room, an ugly room. The walls were black , and there were no windows to allow light. Then it hit me, an iron grip. I looked down at myself and found that a strait jacket was restraining me, it was also restraining my thoughts. All at once it struck, fear, terror, shock . I quickly scanned the room, looking for features. Something to gaze at, something to leverage my escape, something to stop the tug of my heart from drowning in fear. Something to keep out the fear. I was unnerved, there was something wrong here, a deep primordial fear had been triggered inside me. As my eyes scanned the room, I found nothing remarkable. There was nothing mundane. There was nothing bad. There was nothing, at all. And that, that, threw me off balance. I tried to get up but found myself bound to the ground, I couldn't even shift my weight. I was scared, and uncomfortable on top of it. As my legs began to ache, as my mind turned to anarchy, I tried to calm myself down. A thousand thoughts at once in my mind. Running around like little kids *One second, I am in a land constructed with sugary candies. I behold a massive gingerbread man, massive swathes of white cream and red buttons the size of tanks are adorned by him.* *Next, I smell the salty sea as it wafts into my itchy nose. I am a pirate looking for booty on the seven seas. I keep my wits about me as I slice my foes into neat little meat steaks.* *The doooooodle man is big and hasd a big hanf to protect mnnnjbj hus all fren the malh evil penciiil man oh yeesssss,ossssssssssssssssssssssssdwcw* *wdcefvbefvnrhuvocmebhu,cthub,chubmhuicmgh4uiogmc4uig74mgui4thmgo4ihugf,4oxugm4rghxxomgrhxu4cgmh4ouigm4thuxciogmh4xcoiug74moiuhgmoxc4uitomg4icxgt4umhgoxc,rhxfu.zpfoefoeiry318yr8123u9pxfpeq,ipfh,x;i3rhgio3rmhulgu4tklguklcewgukbvgsueilf* ...................................................................................................................................................................................        ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; "Hello." I heard something. A single echo, a distant voice. I tried to think, my mind was blank. All I had learned was gone. I felt like nothing, an insignificant speck of dust in an endless sand pit. Nothing unique, nothing great, just another speck of dust. "Hello, can you hear me?' The same voice, it was nice and tender. It was like the first spring of life. A mother's milk, I went to it. I rose up and found that I was free to move. I was suddenly standing on a green meadow, the grass reached up to my hands. And then I saw another person standing in front of me. A beautiful man, wearing a simple white shirt and black pants. He spoke to me," Hello, we are in a place where time cannot affect us. We are in a place where we can be safe. We are in a land of infinite good, we are in paradise." Somehow, the words he spoke to me made sense. My blank mind was beginning to come alive. He came to my side and beckoned me to turn. He put his hands on my shoulder and I felt his warmth. In front of us was a beautiful village. Houses of mud, people of sweat and an air of good. This was beautiful! The happiness on people's faces, the warmth of their friendship, the simplicity of the life they led. Dark clouds began to gather in the distance, a creeping presence was felt. Soon The look of happiness and warmth faded away from the villagers faces, a horrible din was approaching. Soon the village was been mowed down by monstrous bulldozers made of heartless metal. Next came the concrete trucks who dumped cement on the ground and blemished it's beauty. Soon a heartless structure of iron and steel was created on top of the cement and it released a smell most foul into the air. People came only to fight with each other and good had gone away. The grass began to yellow, the air became dark and the happiness faded away. In one swift moment, paradise was replaced with a heartless world of dust and hate. I felt anger bubble up in myself. I clenched my fist. The kind man patted me on the back, he spoke with a voice saddened by the happenings, "I will show you the man responsible for this, just wait". The next moment we were in a bathroom, a man stood in front of us. "Behold my friend, the man who ruined paradise." The man turned around, he had a face scarred by acne. There was an untended beard as well, as if he had had no time to shave. He walked away and left the bathroom. I was only stopped from hitting him by the kind man. "First look at your face my friend, before you strike at the heart of evil." He handed me a mirror, which I stared at. The face I saw, my face was the face of the evil man. Then, it hit me. I was him all along. When I joined the company as a rookie, I was eager to prove my mettle. So, when I discovered a deposit of oil in a grassland I pounced at it. I had the villagers who were standing in the way of my promotion evicted and had a refinery built there. I soon fought my way to the top and became the CEO. The kind man stepped aside from me, he was suddenly bathed in fire. A flaming sword manifested in his hands," Every day, you end lives with a stroke of your pen. You shatter dreams and break wings. You commit sins by the millions. You had the chance to make the world better with your wealth and power. But instead you gathered material wealth and consumed it. You could have been good, but you weren't. I saw you everyday and hoped you would change. But your heart is too dark to see the light. I was your good conscience Paul, but now I shall be your evil conscience and destroy you. I shall.." *Shunk* A dagger slid through his heart, his fiery voice had been subdued. I was an evil person after all, he should never have given me the chance to recover and prepare an attack. I had enough time to take the ancient dagger hidden in my bathroom wall and stab my evil conscience. He staggered back, his grip on his sword weakened. As it fell down and broke, so did he. I saw his lifeless body, leaking blood on the bathroom floor. I shrugged, if a retarded robin hood comes to me and expects to kill me by first wasting time on a monologue then it was my evil conscience. The world went white I woke up and found my view blocked by my hands, I took them away to find himself sitting in an office desk. On my table was a photo of a gorgeous lady*. I will give everything I have to fuck her, oh wait she IS my wife! I don't need to give a penny to fuck her!* I felt the leather chair I was sitting on and the smooth orgasms it was giving to my back. I also saw the closed laptop I had on my table, I opened it to start work. Clearly in the stupid world of my evil conscience, the value of time is not understood. I would have lost many millions because of some stupid brain impulse. I opened the laptop and found a note inside. It had been scribbled on a post-it. Dear Paul You have won, for now.


I want to quit; I just want out; I want to quit! I whisper it softly to myself, over and over. I want out, I want out. It was just an hour into my shift. I was a fellow soldier behind the monitor, feeling the sting of the customers as they sent their bombs over into our narrow trench. Bags and prizes were everywhere, Winnie the Pooh dolls rolling around in the dust, candy being mixed into a grisly, sugary rendition of a rainbow. I made my way up to the counter, already feeling that subconsciousness knocking inside my brain, throwing up the warning signs that this would be no different from the other slogs. “Hey, hey, are you paying attention? We’re right here.” I hasten to reply, tripping over the plastic bags spread over the floor, “Right, sorry, what can I do for you?” He snaps, “I want a good deal, considering you were wasting our time.” I put my hands around the counter, flicking my eyes over the screen, “Look, I’m sorry, that isn’t how it works.” It doesn’t change his tune, in fact it makes it worse, “Okay, then how about you call your manager down? Surely, they’ve got to be more competent than you.” Is this how life always must go, where people like to make themselves more difficult? Isn’t there already enough trouble in the world without adding ice-cream and chocolate sprinkles to it? “I’ll be a moment,” holding up the radio to my lips, softly muttering. “Can I please have a manager at the Vault?” “What is it now?” “Look, I’ve got a gentleman here that has an issue of sorts that he wants to discuss with you.” “Great, alright, I’ll be right down.” A second later, the door to the staff room swings open, “Okay, sir, what’s the problem?” After a barrage of comments and razor-sharp criticism, there are tears staining her cheeks, “Listen, we’re packed to the rafters here, you do realize that there’s only five of us on sight. It’s hard enough as it is. Do you want free games on the arcade or a round of laser tag?’ He shakes his head stubbornly, “That doesn’t help me at all.” I could see it brewing, that anger, “Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you have some fun?” “I mean, if there’s nothing that we can do for you.” He cuts her off, flicking his hand into her face before walking off. Trying to say something, the words get caught in my throat. Within seconds, the moment passes, and she tries to gather her courage, “Okay, guys, keep going.” Another wave of customers hit the counter, kids in prams and students in trollies. I can see the subtleties of my fellow veterans, urging me onwards to take care of the unruly youth, to send their drawn trolly out of the warzone. They just laugh at me, “Come on, man, we’re just having fun.” “Isn’t that the point of this venue, that you make everyone happy?” “This is a space for everyone,” I respond drily, “, so please, could you kindly take the trolly outside?” “We don’t need to; this is our day out.” “I can see that it is, if you want to have fun driving, we’ve got a Sega Relay Racing game just around the corner, it’s only $2.00 a head. What could be more fun than that?” Ignoring my words, they take off in the trolly, knocking over bins along the way, causing candy and plastic bottles to sweep onto the floor. I try in vain to chase them, but the trolly rattles outside to crash into the bins outside. They’ve gotten rid of the evidence as soon trouble came knocking, I catch their eyes and they arrogantly walk past. The next few minutes involve mopping the floor, soaking in the soda and coda. That voice returns, I want to quit. The same group eventually makes a return, this time with a round of drinks in hand, ignoring all the signs on purpose that restrict their area of movement. Not that it matters, they want a go at laser tag and are jumping in despite my warnings. Even I, a very reluctant partygoer can tell that they’d had too many drinks at the bar, probably refilling their bottles and getting more buckets of ice to add to their earlier stash. They want the night to finish off with a bang, a fond memory for them and a nightmare for me. Not for the first time this shift, I wish I was them and I didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of their wild escapades. Their flights of fancy, their joyous moments of unrepentant immaturity. I want to join them, why do I have to be in the trenches, working from morning to night? I gave ground, promising left and right to the kids that I would keep an eye on events, to make sure they didn’t cheat. Believe me, they did. After getting the round going, I went inside, hearing the loud screams and cries of the blue and green team. The boys were gathering around the lowest sections of the obstacles, a thin wooden with a window that looks out into the nuclear plant set-up, with the flashing buttons and whirring gears. The kids were like lit up like lanterns, and they were pointing their guns up towards the ceiling. It took me a moment to locate what they were shooting at. One of the wild bunches, was jumping and swinging like a sugar-high monkey, crashing into the wall with a sudden bang! His friends hoot and laugh, trying to partake in this deadly game. “Get down from there, now!” “Or what?” This isn’t worth the money I’m getting paid, why am I even here, having to deal with this nonsense? “I can call down the manager if you like, she won’t be too happy if you keep this up and you cause damages.” Finally, the bell rings for the end of the game, the kids are busy, pointing their fingers at their competitors, “They were cheating, climbing and jumping.” “How about this, you guys, you get another round?” The birthday boy turns around to address his mum and dad, “It’s fine, mate, don’t worry. Those guys have been causing problems all day.” I anxiously return to the monitors, watching the final minutes tick by. As I head into the staff changing room, I can feel the uncertainty wash away, I’ve made my decision already, “Hey, Allison, I just want to have a chat with you.”


Fan Fiction “Can you believe this shit?!?”, Stan says to his friend Ryan who's standing awkwardly behind him, looking for any place to sit that isn't covered with dirty laundry, books or potato chip wrappers. “I mean, what idiot wrote this crap! Did they even read the books?” “Why are you bothering to read it, then, Stan? If it's so stupid, why are you even getting worked up over it?” Ryan taps on the glass of the terrarium, trying to no avail to get the corn snake to move. “Have you decided what you're going to do with Marceau?” The snake, originally named Fang, was purchased by Stan in the hope that he was a parseltongue. Much to his disappointment, though, the snake never said anything Stan could understand. Actually, as far as he could tell, he never really said anything at all – hence the name change. “I figure I'll give him to Johnny but I haven't told him yet. He's been such a dick lately.” Ryan cracks open a shade to let some light into the room, squinting from the flash of sunlight splashing across the room. “Hey, shut that. I can't read the screen.” Stan shifts his heavy torso around to position himself between the window and the computer. “Until Rowling gets off her ass, FF is all there is. Some of it isn't half bad, but then there's this butthead trying to make a 'ship out of Harry and Myrtle.” “Moaning Myrtle? The ghost?” Ryan edges past the foot of the bed to get a better view of the screen. “Exactly. I mean, a poltergeist could at least push a pillow against his junk or something, but ghosts can't interact with the physical world at all. Everyone knows that. Except obviously for this butthole.” 'Myrtle hovers over Harry's bed, slowly untying her bodice. Though there's not a breath of wind in the room, her shirt billows open as she loosens the laces...' “Give me a fucking break. THEY CAN'T TAKE OFF THE CLOTHES THEY DIED IN! ” Stan turns toward Ryan and waves his hands at the screen. “This is the shit I have to deal with.” “Do they actually have sex? Move over.” Ryan squeezes his lean frame onto the edge of the chair and reaches for the mouse, his hand brushing Stan's out of the way as he tries to find his place in the story. 'Her blouse slowly dissolves as it wafts to the floor, exposing her tight bosom. Harry's breath catches as the bed sheet he's clutching to his throat peels back against his will. His lean, alabaster frame is glistening in sweat as Myrtle starts to moan.' “I swear to God I'm going to flag this as a TOS violation” Stan's mumbles as he watches Ryan's eyes softly shifting back and forth across the text. He's holding still, lest he break the spell and Ryan realizes their legs are pressed against each other. “Oh shit. Is that clock right?” Ryan jumps out of the chair and rummages around the room looking for his jacket. “Amy's going to kill me.” “Dude, you are so whipped!” “At least I'm getting some. You should try it, nerd...with an actual muggle.” He pats Stan's shoulder once and checks his reflection in the computer screen, running his hand through his dark hair. “Gotta run. See you later.” Stan gets up and walks to the window, watching until he sees Ryan leaving the house and jogging down the street. He starts to pull the shade down but stops. The light has softened, bathing the room in a warm, shadowy glow. He and looks around, wondering how much of this he can take with him when he goes off to college next fall. He walks over and opens the small drawer of his bedside table. Inside is one of his most cherished possessions – an 'authentic' Harry Potter wand made of exotic hard wood and reputed to have an actual feather inside, though he'd never cut it open to check. He doesn't think he'll take that with him, though. He was so excited when he got it for his 15 th birthday, but then was instantly ashamed when he saw on the packaging that it said for ages 7 and up. He knows it's a child's toy, but he still takes it out when no one's around and points at things, willing them to move. Past the bed is his book case, the one tidy space in the whole room. On the top shelves are his well-worn paperbacks arranged by author with each series in chronological order – Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia. On the lower shelves are mostly hard-backed versions of the same books, with a few random titles thrown in. On the very bottom, pressed into the corner are four books wrapped in heavily doodled brown paper. He and Ryan were embarrassed at first to be reading the Twilight series so they papered over the covers and added drawings of robots and race cars and swords as they traded them back and forth. Stan's not so embarrassed about having read them anymore, especially after the movies came out, but he likes the covers too much to take off. He bends down and picks one up, turning it over. He's looking for the drawing Ryan made of a pick up truck, with eyeballs for headlights and fangs hanging from the bumper. MONSTER TRUCK is written underneath in Ryan's familiar block lettering. He runs his thumb over it gently, then puts it back on the shelf. He doesn't think he'll have room to take those either. He goes back to his computer, plops down and Alt Escs through his apps until he gets to Word. He starts to type: 'Crabbe is clearly nervous having Harry in his room. If any of the other Slytherin walked in he'd be dead meat but he can't back down now. Not after dreaming about this moment since their first year. The painting propped on Crabbe's desk is of two shirtless wizards grappling in a glade. Crabbe points his wand at the picture and the characters start to move, their laughter carrying dimly off the canvas. Harry says “Move over” as he squeezes into the chair next to him. He reaches for Crabbe's wand and their hands touch.'


  Narrator:

The world is a cruel place. Most people do not know how to survive, more people are just winging it, and some people can't handle it. There is not one person on earth, that understands life, as life. The world has a mild taste, bittersweet, is what you could say. Sep.23 (2023) Narrator: The story you are about to read is about just one life. See, most people think life in the future will be filled with daylight, perfection, and fantasy! But if we are talking about reality, I would say the world will be a disgusting place. Filled with blurry faces and closed eyes, and a young woman feels, in my opinion, the same way. The sun hit her cheek, as she stood in the window of her small cottage in midday. The world was peaceful and quiet. Usually, people would enjoy this time. It was one of the only times you had where there was nothing happening at the moment.

But she did not stand there with a smile on her face. She stood there, thinking, ¨Where did it all go wrong?¨

Everything became blurry as a tear ran down Lila’s cheek. As one tear came down, another followed, and another, and sooner than later, Lila stood there crying. She had so many thoughts, but could not speak, as loneliness took her away. Either way, she had no one to speak to. She was alone……. Lila´s mother died in a car crash on her way to work, no one crashed into her though. Her father was a firefighter and died when trying to save a family from a random fire. Lila´s brother, Jenny, was a professional swimmer, he drowned on his 24th birthday. No one knows how he drowned, but there are rumors. Lila´s sister, Rebbeca, was seen before each death of the family members. After they all died, no one ever found her and assumed she had died too. Lila´s cousin, and best friend,

Keisha, ran away, never to be seen.   For some reason, Lila stayed alive through all of the pain. She did not know why she was alive, but she never second guest it because she considered it as a second chance to live. On this particular Monday, there was something different. Lila could not fall asleep, it was as if something was telling her not to.

Every time Lila tried to close her eyes, they opened. She couldn't think, hear, or see. Something told her, get up, and stay up, and it gave her the chills. After a while, she fell asleep. In the early morning, she awoke. When she had finally finished her breakfast, she decided to go for a morning run. She got some clothes on and started towards the door. It was early in the morning, so the sun was not all the way out yet. It was damp and dark outside. Then Lila got that chill, that she got when she was trying to go to sleep, only it was stronger. The feeling was like something was there.

¨Anyone there.¨ Lila looked around curiously. ¨¨¨¨¨¨I know, that you know.¨ A voice said aloud. ¨Who are you?¨

Lila ran towards the voice, but tripped on a rock, and all she could see was a black shadow ran from behind a bush. The shadow gracefully ran next to a train track, near the edge of Lila´s cottage. ¨This is illegal!¨ Lila said, panting with fear of the black shadow.¨ The shadow took one big step and was on the train tracks. To Lila, this shadow was so familiar.

¨I never got to you.¨ Said the shadow. As Lila stood, watching and confused, the train horn roared. She knew that whoever this was, was a female.

¨Move, the train is coming!¨

Lila tried to run and push the girl out of the way, but it was too late. The train lights were pointing at the familiar shadow, and the train passed. Instead of seeing a girl’s body, Lila saw nothing.

It was like the shadow person vanished. Not a trace of her was leftover. Kinda like the shadow did not want anything to do with it? Lila stood there, wondering what just happened. ¨Am I going crazy?¨ She walked up to the train tracks, to see if there were any trace of what happened. Then the train honked again, Lila jumped onto the grass next to her as the train came rushing over. Lila had felt that her life just flashed before her eyes. One of the fastest trains in the world almost killed her. She thought if that was what the shadow wanted to happen. Just then, her thoughts got blocked.

¨ That is not the last time!¨ Lila heard someone’s voice in her head and whispered to herself.

¨That is not the last time for what. Me almost getting killed from a train going one hundred miles per hour?¨ Then, Lila noticed her arm was bleeding. It looked broken, and it hurt really badly. She knew that the arm did not look like that a few seconds ago. She silently screamed, with pain, confusion, and worry.

Lila went to the hospital and got a check up on her right arm.

¨This is like an unfixable fracture. How did this happen?¨ Said the nurse, as Lila sat on the emergency bed. ¨Way to keep the positivity up, and I do not know how this happened.¨ Lila told the nurse the whole story. About the shadow, and the train, and the blood. Even about the small voice in her head.

¨Maybe the side effects of the medicine I gave you are kicking in?¨ The nurse looked at Lila worriedly. ¨I am fine. It is all true! All of it .¨ Lila swore it was true, but the nurse ignored it and thought it was the laughing gas. A day later, Lila woke up, it was midnight. She went to the police station and stated what happened. No one believed her. Then, she came to her cottage and saw something. ¨What's this?¨ Lila asked herself in worry. There was a piece of paper on her cottage door. The words on it were, ¨Evicted¨ in big red letters across the paper. ¨No, no no no no no, not today. Please no!¨ Lila started to cry, as she wondered what she was going to do with her life. ¨Hello again.¨ Said a voice. ¨Hello, shadow girl?¨ Lila got the chills, again. ¨I promised I would finish you. I plan on keeping that promise.¨ There she stood, the shadow girl. This time she came with a clue. She grabbed scissors, and cut her hair. You could not see her do it though, because she had a black hood and a mask. Then, the shadow grabbed a piece of hair from under the hood. It was golden brown.

¨Can I ask a question?¨   Lila said voice cracked. ¨Yes, but I do not know if I will answer!¨ The girl replied. ¨Are you related to me.¨ The shadow nodded, and if the girl was telling the truth, there were only two relatives to Lila that had that colored hair. Keisha, and Rebbecca.

¨How, could you be….¨

Then Lila remembered. Rebbeca was seen before each death of the family members Lila had. The police concluded Rebbeca was dead, but never found the body. Rebbeca was not the best person. She was ruthless and hated everyone and everything. Even still, it hurt Lila so badly when the police gave up while trying to find Rebbeca´s body.

Lila was still trying to take in her idea. If this shadow is Rebbeca, then she could be who killed all of Lila´s family. If this was true, Rebbeca would be the reason for all of Lila´s pain, hurt, and distress over life. And what is worst, is that it would be all because of Lila´s sister. Then, the shadow girl came closer, there was something in her hand. It was sharp and clean. It looked like a knife. The girls was coming closer, knife in hand. Lila was scared, she ran the other way and when she did, the shadow was that way too.

Anywhere she tried to run, the shadow was there. The shadow came closer. ¨Just let me put your misery to an end!¨ Lila took this opportunity to take the hood off the girls head, but instead of seeing a girl, she saw nothing. She couldn't see what was there, because she did not want to believe that the person under that hood, was under that hood. Then before Lila could even think, everything around became hopeless. This might have been the end. Lila did not even care. Loneliness seemed to have taken her away again. Lila could not see, but she could hear.

¨Wanna see who I am.¨ The voice shouted.

Then, when Lila could see, she could not believe it. No, it was not Rebbeca, it was Lila´s very own best friend. Keisha…… ¨What, why, why a……...¨

Lila could not even finish her sentence. She was all of a sudden in a room, it was dark and dingy.

¨But why not, is the real question?¨ Keisha shouted, in Lila´s ear.

¨What do you mean, my family gave you everything? They bathed you, loved you, I loved you.¨ Lila said, tears running down her face.

Keisha had a knife in her hand and was now crying too.

¨My only goal is to kill you and your family.¨ Said Keisha. ¨But you did not reach the goal of killing my family did y….¨ Lila realized, that all of those times the family members had died, it was random and unknown how each death happened.

¨YOU KILLED THEM!¨ Said Lila, angry and confused.

¨And all I want is to finish the family off.¨ Keisha grabbed the knife.

¨I have promised me that I will be the last person you see when you die. And that I would be the reason you die in the first place.¨ Keisha could barely speak, but part of her did not care. ¨And I will not let you keep that promise.¨ Lila grabbed the knife as fast as she could.

¨Noo!¨ Keisha tried to reach for it, but it was to late. Lila had stabbed herself. Not because of her misery, but because God does not like ugly. Narrator: Now you see what I mean. In the end, there was no happy ending. Life is no fairy tale.


This is a story that I haven't told many people yet. In fact, I find as much mystery as I do solace in the story to this day. This is the story of Giselle. My aunt once told me a story about the boutique fashion store she worked at in the 70s. As a stylist, she frequently dressed the store mannequins for the window displays. On a cold summer afternoon, she recalled dressing up Giselle, a mannequin that many customers complemented. Giselle was not like other mannequins. She had a beautifully sculpted face with eyes that peered deep into your soul. Deep, deep into your soul like the vastness of the blue ocean. Apparently, Giselle was a relic of bygone days before the store changed ownership. No one knew of her origins. She had no tags or labels anywhere on her, but everyone who worked there agreed that she was too beautiful to give away and loved seeing her in the store window. Some nights when my aunt closes up the store, she could almost swear that Giselle was a real girl- watching and listening to her amidst the tranquility of the after hours. My aunt had told me more, a lot more. Oh yes. My aunt had told about a soft clicking noise behind the wig one time while cradling Giselle to another display window late in the evening. She said that you would not normally be able to hear this, but it was perfectly quiet with no one around. When she studied the wig further, she discovered a small glass window at the back of her head through which a beautiful mechanical watch movement was in perfect view, with the initials P.v.L. inscribed. Apparently, to her amazement, the watch was still ticking away. One customer was the wife of a passionate watch collector, who gladly asked his husband Vlad about the mechanical movement. The husband was in complete awe and explained that the person she wanted to talk to was James the watchmaker, the son of Pierre. Two weeks later, my aunt got hold of James the watchmaker (son of Pierre) and showed him the photos of the mechanical movement. “I have never known my father. In fact, everything I knew about him was from my older sister Stephanie, with whom he was around until she was 6 years old. My sister vanished one day 2 years ago, and I have never heard from her since.” “The only thing I can tell you is that the watch movement was made by my father. He was a talented watchmaker known within some niche circles of collectors during the 50s and those were his initials – P.v.L.” Legend has it that his watches kept precise time that was accurate to 30 seconds after 25 years. That was his ultimate achievement and there were photos of him with the prominent figures wearing his watches. It was the most accurate wrist-worn timepiece at that time, but many thought it was just a story designed to drive attention. One thing is for sure though -for whatever reason the timepiece was installed in Giselle, it had great significance. Much greater than a simple memento left by a passionate watchmaker. One day, my aunt invited James to the store to take a look at Giselle, and what they discovered changed her world. Nothing was the same after that. \[to be continued.\] Part 2 continues .