The antique store was packed with forgotten and discarded treasures, but it was the antique mirror that whispered to Sarah. ‘ Me. You want me .’ She hadn’t come looking for anything in particular, she had no idea why she’d stopped at all. But once her gaze fell on the tall mirror, she wasn’t interested in seeing anything else. It stood in the window of the shop, with various other pieces that might have been found in a long-ago bedroom. But Sarah only had eyes for the mirror. The sinuous embrace of a dark, mahogany frame enveloped the silvered glass, its contours undulating like the graceful curves of an old-time movie starlet. The unadorned frame connected seamlessly to the base through two sleek swivel joints. Below, a drawer crafted from the same rich wood hovered above four petite wheels, poised to carry reflections across the floor with silent grace. Sarah had never been one for mirrors. She barely glanced at the one in the bathroom before she went out into the world. She worked from home and only rarely had to worry about how she looked for online meetings. So she found it curious that she was considering buying a large mirror. “What’s the story with the mirror?” she asked the young man behind the counter. He pushed a lock of sand-colored hair out of his eyes. “It used to belong to my great-grandmother. We’re moving next year, trying to reduce the amount of stuff we have to pack, you know?” He looked to be in his late twenties. Sarah nodded silently. “What’re you asking for it?” “Twenty-five seem fair to you?” “It does, but…” Sarah glanced at her little car parked on the street nearby. ‘ You want this ,’ a voice whispered in the back of her consciousness. “You live here in the city?” The young man asked. Sarah nodded. “About three miles away. I really like it, but I don’t think it would fit in my car to get it home.” He nodded toward a black truck parked across the street. “Throw in another twenty and I’ll deliver it tomorrow.” He seemed eager to be rid of the mirror, but Sarah attributed it to the move he’d told her about. “Can you turn it so I can see the front? Your window ripples a little…” The young man nodded and stood up. He bent to grasp one side of the frame to turn it, jumped a little, and then stumbled.

“Must’ve stood up too quick,” he said. With the mirror fully exposed, and without a window to interfere, Sarah was able to see it was pristine and unblemished. She dug into her pocket and pulled out cash. “Got a piece of paper and a pen? I’ll give you my address.” The next morning, the young man arrived with a friend and the mirror. They brought it into Sarah’s bedroom, as she’d asked, and set it in the corner she pointed at. “Good luck,” the young man muttered as he and his friend left. Curious about such an odd comment, Sarah admired her new mirror for a moment, then returned to the other room to get back to work - an article on growing watermelons. Sometime later, her focus was interrupted by the sound of something dragging across the floor of her bedroom. “What the hell?” She picked up an aluminum baseball bat she kept in the corner and headed for the other room. At first glance, there was no explanation for the sound. Sarah went all through the apartment, checking closets, cupboards, and the bathroom for hidden intruders, but found herself most definitely alone. She tried to get back to her writing, but it was pointless - her concentration had been upended like a cart full of chestnuts. She gave up on watermelons and went into the kitchen to make dinner instead, uttering a small prayer that the storm outside wouldn’t knock out the electricity. As she was putting the finishing touches on the pan of lasagna, she heard the distinctive and brassy tones of a trumpet from her bedroom. She stood for a moment, transfixed by both the music and the mystery of why it was playing at all. It wasn’t her alarm, and her phone was on the counter nearby. Perhaps she’d left the window open. Certain that was the explanation, Sarah put the lasagna into the oven, slid her phone into her back pocket, and went to close her bedroom window.

No sooner had she stepped one foot into the room, than the trumpet stopped. Her window was closed, and she could see no one in the park below. Not that she expected to find anyone foolish enough to be outside in the downpour and lightning. She turned away from the window with a small shake of her head and went back into her office, thinking perhaps if she could edit the last page, she might find her flow again. She was surprised to hear the oven timer chime forty-five minutes later. Where had the time gone? She’d reread the last page she wrote, and now…the article was complete. Just like that. She’d had work sessions before when she’d been hyper-focused and written more words than she expected but they’d been few and far between. “If I could write like that more often, I might be able to get a manuscript accepted,” she mumbled to herself as she walked past her room to the kitchen.

After dinner, she chatted happily with her uncle on the phone, took a shower, and read until she felt herself nodding off over the book. Sarah ensured her door was locked, and went to bed. As night fell, her subconscious unveiled cryptic scenes: donning a black dress and pearls to the backdrop of brassy music. The sole semblance of familiarity — the mirror. But the woman in the reflection was not Sarah. She was brunette too, and of a similar build, but the resemblance went no further.

The woman in the reflection locked gazes with Sarah, smiled, and said, “Hiya, Doll.” Startled, Sarah snapped awake, her gaze immediately drawn to the newly acquired mirror. In that fleeting moment, a surreal glow emanated from the glass, casting doubt on the reality of her awakening. More curious than afraid, she pushed the covers aside and slid out of bed. She stepped slowly toward the mirror, bewildered as the reflection mirrored her every move with uncanny precision—yet the woman staring back at her was the same enigmatic figure from her dream. “What the hell is this?” Sarah whispered as she stopped in front of the mirror. “Hiya, Doll,” the woman in the glass chirped. Her dark hair cascaded in waves, framing her face with a mix of curls that flirted over her head and tumbled gracefully to her shoulders. The vivid sparkle in her bright green eyes accompanied a smile carrying a hint of mischief and a touch of cocky charm.

Sarah felt a cold breeze chase across her skin. Her eyes widened as far as they possibly could before she blinked once. Twice. “I’m still dreaming…” “Nope, ‘fraid not, Sweetcheeks.” “How is this possible?” Sarah reached toward the glass, but the woman inside did not. “I don’t know how my Packard runs, but it does,” the not-reflection replied. “You aren’t me, but you’re inside my mirror. Who are you?” Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Alice.” Sarah was silent for a moment as she considered possible explanations for this seemingly impossible experience. Then she said, “If I’m not dreaming, and not hallucinating, then you’re…a ghost?” “More of a spirit,” Alice waggled her hand back and forth. “But either way, you’re not screaming, so that’s good. I seem to scare the others.” “You’ve shown yourself to other people?” “Sure, I winked at Andrew the other day and he almost fell over, remember?” “Andrew?” Sarah asked. “Oh! The young man who sold me the mirror. I wondered why he stumbled.” “I would’ve hoped that my descendants were made of stronger stuff, but neither he nor his wife wanted to share their home. Seems a little ungrateful, if you ask me.” The puzzle started to come together in Sarah’s mind. “You’re his great-grandmother.” Alice made a face. “You make me sound so old.” Sarah reached out and wheeled the mirror closer to the bed, and sat cross-legged on the end. “How did you end up in there? What’s the last thing you remember doing?” Alice sat more primly on the reflected bed on her side of the glass. “Howard and I were getting ready to attend the funeral of one of his drivers when the baby woke up. The sitter hadn’t shown yet, so Howard volunteered to tend to her. He walked out of the room, and the next thing I knew, the window was exploding. I was on the floor with bits of glass everywhere. The baby was screaming, there were gunshots and tires squealing, and my side was burning.” “You were shot?” Alice nodded. “The last thing I remember seeing was the reflection of Howard rushing into the room with little Maggie in his arms.” “Do you remember your last name?” “Hill,” Alice replied simply. Sarah stood up. “I’ll be right back. I want to check something.” She wasn’t surprised to see Alice still sitting on the end of the reflected bed. Sarah settled into a cross-legged position, opening her laptop with a purpose. With a few keystrokes, she searched the digital realm, and in the span of a few heartbeats, the answers to her inquiries materialized on the screen. “It says here that Howard was a …” “A bootlegger, I know,” Alice replied with a nod.

“Howard Hill was suspected to have stolen a significant amount from his mafia bosses,” Sarah read. “An act that was paid for with the premature death of his wife, Alice. She was shot to death by unknown gunmen while preparing to attend the funeral of Socks Lotoro. The murder of Hill’s wife sparked the beginning of a months-long war within the local Syndicate, ending only with the assassination of Howard himself.” “Wow…” Sarah blinked as she set the laptop aside. “None of that seems to be news to you.” “I’ve been in here a long time, Sweetie. Like I said, I don’t know how, I only know that this is the way things are now. But you’re different,” Alice cocked her head a little. “You aren’t afraid.” “Should I be?” “Nah,” Alice flicked a hand. “You’re stronger than the others, that’s for sure. They all wanted to get rid of the mirror.” “And you?” Alice nodded. After a moment she asked, “Why’re you so different from them? Why aren’t you afraid?” Sarah shrugged one shoulder and looked toward the darkened window as lightning traced across the sky. “I’ve always enjoyed reading about things that can’t possibly exist. I remember having a conversation with my uncle when I was ten, trying to convince him unicorns were real. If there are sea creatures that can live at the bottom of the ocean and translucent frogs in the rainforest, why should unicorns and Windigo be so far-fetched? By extension,” she gestured toward the mirror. “Why should a spirit trapped inside a mirror be so hard to believe?” “You’re pretty smart, ya know that?” Alice said with a smile. “Did I hear you say earlier you were a writer?” “Not a very successful one. I have some success with non-fiction, but that’s about it.” “You ever try writing a mobster story?” Alice grinned at her. “I always knew what Howard was doing, and I could tell you tales that would knock your socks off.” Sarah thought for a few moments. “If I wrote a story with the mob boss being a woman, it might be different enough to stand out.” “You should probably change the names to be safer, too. But you’d better get something to drink, and something to take notes with, Sweetcheeks, ‘cause I’ve got stories galore…” One Year Later … As Sarah sat before her mirror, her fingers gently tracing the wooden frame, she marveled at the journey she’d taken since the day she’d stopped at that antique store. The once dynamic and lively woman in the mirror had become a cherished companion, a muse that cradled the echoes of a bygone era. In the quiet of her study, where she’d moved Alice’s mirror, Sarah took a deep breath and glanced at the desk, where the multi-book contract awaited her signature. She felt a surge of gratitude for the spirit that had guided her through the labyrinth of history, mobsters, and untold stories. Sarah picked up her pen and signed the document she hoped would catapult her into the literary spotlight. As ink met paper, a profound sense of closure wrapped around her. The novels, born from the collaboration of two women separated by time yet bound by destiny, would find their way into the hands of readers over the next few years. She imagined them engrossed in the tales of greed, desperation, and resilience, blissfully unaware of the unique partnership that had given birth to the stories. Sarah turned to the mirror. Alice had shared so many of Howard’s exploits, and those of the men he worked with, that she’d been able to write first drafts of five separate manuscripts. Sarah had pushed through long hours at her desk, transcribing Alice’s memories as fast as her fingers could fly over her laptop. Of course, she’d changed the tales enough to suit her main character, a steely and determined woman at the head of a crime syndicate.

The night she’d finished the first draft of the fifth book, the lightning had split the sky over and over again. Sarah had slouched in her chair, triumphantly declaring the draft complete. Alice had smiled sadly out of her glass prison. “It’s time for me to move on.” “What? No! I still need you!” Sarah reached toward the mirror with a desperate hand. “You’ll be okay now. You know what you have to do. Those stories are gonna make you famous one day, but don’t tell anyone I told ya so,” Alice had winked conspiratorily. “But…” Alice’s reflection had grown a little fuzzy around the edges. “Someone else needs me more, Sweetcheeks. One of my other descendants just had a baby, and she’s got a hole in her heart. If anyone needs whispers of encouragement, it’s that little girl. You’ll be fine.” “Other descendants?” “One of your extended relations, actually,” Alice grinned. “Remember, Doll, you can do anything you set your mind to.” She glanced toward the window of the study, fading now. “You make the family name proud, you hear me?” “Family name?” Alice only smiled and gave Sarah a wink as she faded completely from view. In the days that followed Alice’s crossing over, Sarah had done some digging and discovered that she was indeed related to the famous mobster Howard Hill. It was hard not to tell anyone, but Sarah had settled for procuring portraits of Alice and Howard. With a satisfied sigh, she whispered her thanks to Alice’s portrait. A profound stillness settled over the study as Sarah wheeled the now-ordinary mirror back to her bedroom.

As she exited the room, Alice’s portrait rippled with a final, approving smile—a tale told, a destiny rewritten, and a bond everlasting.


Gisella di Vallepietra sat, as gracefully as she could, on the embroidered padding of the stool before her instrument. She brushed off her silky skirts, and threw (yet another) anxious glance around the two dozen guests now ambling to their seats in her father’s gilded sitting room. Signore di Vallepietra rarely threw such ornate dinner parties – he could barely afford their ornate Venetian villa as it was – but Gisella had spent months begging her father to host a fine affair which might showcase her hard-won musical gifts. He had finally agreed, with a few eyerolls, to plan an evening dinner in celebration of Ognissanti , All Saints Day. The di Vallepietra extended family and friends were thus graciously invited to an evening featuring the family’s very own Signorina Gisella. So Gisella sat, perched like an eagle, before her shining harpsichord as the candlelight shimmered off of the fine ivory keys. It had only taken her an instant to choose her weapon for the evening since Gisella already knew what her favorite instrument was. After all, Gisella had attended her concertos, admired her mastery of the harpsichord many times before. In truth, it was because of her that Gisella had demanded that her parents purchase a harpsichord for the new villa – an expensive investment indeed – and for her sake that Gisella had abandoned the dulcet tones of her harp for the bright, plucky notes of her newest acquisition. Gisella’s palms began to sweat as she scanned the sitting room once more. Her family’s butler began to glare at her nearby as he impatiently waited for the signal to begin the evening’s program. Gisella’s mind raced: where was she ? She had said she would attend, weeks ago! Gisella pondered, frantically, if perhaps a more important family had invited her to their own party this evening. Perhaps – after weeks of hoping – the carefully laid plan was all for naught? But a shuffling in the very back of the sitting room caught Gisella’s eye. She gasped sharply; there she was, at last and of course, fashionably late. The voluptuous Lady Carlotta strode in, glittering in a gold and cream gown with a bejeweled hand tucked in that of her brother, the Count di Carbognano. The Count was Lady Carlotta’s usual escort; her own husband was long dead (although rumor said Lady Carlotta herself had poisoned him). Some of the Gisella’s maids had even whispered that Her Ladyship was secretly married to a commoner – not that Her Ladyship ever limited herself. Gisella had listened carefully when the stablehands muttered that Lady Carlotta had lovers of all sorts, of all classes, of all persuasions. Most fascinating of all, to Gisella and her pounding heart, was the rumor that Her Ladyship enjoyed “unnatural” affairs. There was talk of a beautiful woman in Rome, a talented painter with her own workshop, who Lady Carlotta had known for years. But Gisella didn’t care; Lady Carlotta had been in Venice for months, after all. Some commoner artist in Rome was surely far from her mind (and her heart) by now. It was for her , Lady Carlotta, that Gisella had composed tonight’s sonata. All she had to do now was play it. Gisella motioned to the butler with a sharp nod, and his booming voice silenced the crowd on cue. Gisella timed her opening notes with a few soft taps of her right shoe on the white marble floor. With another quick breath, she began to play. Gisella had titled her composition Achilles and Patroclus : the great lovers of The Iliad . She carefully allowed the deeper notes of the piece to ring clearly as the sonata transitioned from playful, to serious, to somber. Gisella told herself that she was playing only for her as her fingers flew over the keys. These thoughts, less chaste with every pluck of the strings, sent a bead of sweat trailing down Gisella’s forehead. Every few moments, she stole a glance at the onlookers: her indulgent parents in the front row, her aunts and cousins warmly smiling behind them. But try as she might, she could not catch Lady Carlotta’s face in the melee of waving fans. The remaining notes seemed to pass in seconds, and Gisella soon found herself rising unsteadily on numb legs before offering a curtsey to the smattering of applause. But Gisella jerked her head up just in time to finally glimpse the object of her affections, grinning at her brother, her dark eyes sparkling as she joined in the polite clapping. *** Gisella had left nothing to chance that evening, and had surreptitiously stolen the seating chart for dinner only hours before the performance. Tonight, she and Her Ladyship would not be separated. Signore di Vallepietra threw his daughter a raised eyebrow as Gisella glided to an open seat in the middle of the long table. Gisella smoothed out her skirts before casting her gaze demurely over the wall-size pastoral paintings which provided the dining hall’s main décor. The minutes ticked by, like the pangs of purgatory, as Gisella waited in perfect silence. A ripple of familiar laughter jolted Gisella to attention. Lady Carlotta swept into the open seat to Gisella’s left as a footman gently pushed her chair closer to the table before them. Gisella flashed her new companion a broad, inviting smile; Lady Carlotta parried with a brief nod before offering the same to the young lord to her left. Gisella’s grin twitched slightly at this mediocre response, but it faded entirely as Lady Carlotta chattered away with the lord beside her throughout the primi course of tomato soup. Gisella’s desperation deepened with each fresh dish placed before her as she failed, repeatedly, to draw Lady Carlotta’s burning eyes onto her own. Lady Carlotta, on the other hand, seemed to have a fabulous time as the witty conversation from the raucous guests around her sent her jet-black curls flying with each gasp of laughter. An hour passed; Gisella’s fingers grew numb as she gripped her fork. Gisella took her courage in her hands once formaggi e fruta was served. She grasped at a brief dimming of the conversation to loudly clear her throat. “Signora,” Gisella began, turning her entire body to face Lady Carlotta. For once, the deep brown eyes turned fully onto Gisella, taking her in with a sweeping glance. Gisella swallowed back the thrill of finally winning her full attention, and forced herself to focus on the delicate task at hand. Around them, several pairs of eyes now bored into Gisella’s honey-blonde head. “I understand that Your Ladyship is an accomplished player of the harpsichord,” Gisella continued, carefully measuring the flattery in her effusive tone. “I wondered if Your Ladyship enjoyed my sonata earlier this evening?” Gisella clenched her hands in her lap, but kept her gracious smile pinned to her fair cheeks as she waited, expectantly, for a response. Lady Carlotta’s eyes glanced upward for a moment, as if to gather her thoughts. Gisella waited as her fingers began to wring her skirts. The seconds stretched interminably; Gisella willed her breathing to slow down, her heels to stay silent on the marble beneath them. “The composition was quite intriguing,” Lady Carlotta finally answered. Gisella drew a sharp intake of breath. “But the tone of the piece was not suited to the harpsichord,” Lady Carlotta quickly added. “I suspect the music would fare better on an instrument with a wider and deeper pitch range.” Fare better . The words ricocheted through Gisella’s frantically churning mind. “As to your performance,” Lady Carlotta continued, “while the opening stanzas were rendered capably, the middle section of the piece was too rushed for the notes to ring properly. A common problem, I can assure you, for amateur players like yourself.” Gisella’s throat closed as her mind fixated on that brutal word: amateur . But her eyes darted sideways as Lady Carlotta gently patted her shoulder. “Undoubtedly, my darling, you have a great deal of potential,” Lady Carlotta concluded warmly. “I am certain that you can achieve proficiency on the instrument with a few more years of hard work.” Gisella’s smile remained etched into her features. She nodded lightly, even as her clenched hands trembled in her lap. The warmth in her belly, the delightful tension in her hips evaporated as Lady Carlotta turned her head back to the far more interesting guests around her. Soon enough, the merry conversation resumed, and all eyes abandoned the little wilted rose of a teenager. Gisella held back her imminent tears long enough for a small bowl of pistachio gelato to appear in her field of vision. Mercifully, her father took this moment to offer a toast to the holy holiday. Gisella quietly excused herself, and dashed from her seat just as the guests’ heads rotated to the front of the table. Nobody noticed her disappearance; nobody cared, either. A few running strides took Gisella from the dining hall back to the doorway of the vast sitting room. Gisella stormed past a handful of (mildly concerned) maids carting out used wine glasses before slamming the heavy door shut behind her. She quickly took in the fading candlelight illuminating the gilt moldings, the shiny wooden paneling along the walls, the strewn-about chairs where her family’s guests had gathered to enjoy her performance only a few hours before. At last, Gisella’s wandering eyes reached her own harpsichord, and the little embroidered stool. The very sight of the instrument, keys still glistening, stung Gisella like a curse. Gisella picked up her heavy shirts as she rushed the makeshift stage. Fuming, she flung the pointed end of her high-heeled shoe into the padded stool and sent it flying. The little stool crashed violently against the wood-paneled wall behind it, and tumbled unceremoniously onto the rug below. One of the curved cherry-wood legs now bent precariously sideways. Gisella’s assault wasn’t finished; she next gripped her fingers around the open edges of the harpsichord lid, barely missing the delicate keywell, and shoved the massive instrument with all her might. This time, however, the object of her rage only moved a few paces - but left a deep scratch on the stonework beneath. Gisella ignored the fresh damage, and gasped for air as she pressed her palms around the lid edge once more. Gisella’s rage soon melted into despair. Slowly, deliberately, she closed her eyes. The tears now trailed down her cheeks in earnest as she recalled the hours sitting on that little stool, shoulders aching, as she pored over her own scratchy handwriting. How many nights had she spent imagining her composition, perusing old concertos, desperately crafting a piece that would surely amaze her ? Gisella grew nauseous as she counted the cost, and then counted the reward: amateur . That was all she was, really: an amateur. Lady Carlotta was simply honest enough to say it to her face. “I’ll never play again,” she hissed to the empty air all around her, the statues in the corners, the painted cherubs gracing the ceiling. “Never. I hate it!” She finally uttered the most bitter words of all: “ She’ll never care .” The cracking of the prop stick, which held the harpsichord’s upper lid aloft, did not rouse Gisella from her heartbreak. She never heard the swish, either, as the heavy lid slammed onto her unsuspecting fingers. But she screamed like a harpy as the sharp, burning sensation sent her staggering backwards. Gisella’s vision blurred with the pain as her fingers seemed to grow hotter with every passing second. Gisella tried desperately to regain her composure, but the effort only produced fresh cries and a new round of tears. Several minutes passed as Gisella crouched pitifully on the floor, peering through a haze of tears. At last, she held her bruised, aching hands just inches from her eyes to assess the damage. Every finger was purpling, the knuckles bloated and stiff such that she could barely move them. “Oh, my God,” Gisella whimpered in horror. Slowly, the flush of pain dulled as Gisella’s common sense returned, belatedly, to her. She gazed around, taking in the destroyed stool, the ruined floor, the damage to an instrument her parents could barely afford as it was. The full horror of her tragic mistakes washed over her as she drew her knees up beneath her silky skirts. Gisella realized that, like her tragic heroes of myth, she had fulfilled her own prophecy: she would never play again.


I’ll begin by saying that I am by no means a successful writer. I’ve got nothing published nor have I ever made money for my effort. Every story or poem I’ve written has been just for me and a select few dear friends. I’ve had a rough go of life lately so I tend to write some pretty dark stuff. For example, I wrote a short story about a young man fresh out of the army (Chris) who had his apartment broken into by a beautiful women (Chloe) who said she was in trouble and running from someone. Chris takes care of Chloe for a while, insert drama, until he falls in love. The whole thing plays out like a romance until Chloe, who turns out to be a serial killer with a very specific M.O. cuts his throat in his sleep. I wrote this story entirely in my car at the parking lot of where I work. This is where it all began. I always arrive early to the parking lot, sun still hiding under the horizon. I turn on the overhead light, grab my notebook, and set to work. I was fighting the frustrations of finding the best way to end the story with Chris and Chloe when I feel tiny needles prick the back of my neck. I look up distracted because it was that distinct feeling of somebody watching me. I do a glance around and see nothing until I check my rear view. Piercing blue eyes set in a pale and perfect face meet me. I immediately turn around to confront the intruder but when I look back, she’s gone. I knew right then who I had seen. Someone I’d only ever seen before in my mind. Chloe. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest. I quickly left my car and made for the office. Thankfully, though the hour was early still, the doors into the building were unlocked. After the strange morning, the rest of my day passed without incident. I was quite sure of what I saw but how normal everything was at work and having all those people around was comforting so I dropped it. I thought it must have just been stress playing tricks on my mind. Those eyes were so vivid though, just as I described them in the story. They shined in the darkness of my car, piercing with all their wickedness. I checked the back seat at the end of the day before traveling home. A few days go by normally, as days tend to do, until I see my Chloe once again. I was woken by a crash in my apartment. Just as Chris was. I investigate, grabbing the nearest weapon of opportunity which so happened to be a metal baseball bat I had since I was nine. I open the door ordering the intruder to reveal him/herself. “SHOW YOURSELF” I put as much menace as I can muster into my otherwise inoffensive voice. “You needed only ask, creator” a lovely voice calls out in the darkness. I hear bare feet on carpet approach, nearing the blind corner the living room wall creates. Luminous and evil, her blue eyes come into my view. I flip on the lights next to me ready to attack and see her stop, smiling at me. She’s near as tall as I am. Her skin is pale to an alarming degree, scars on her arms hardly visible. Her clothes are torn and painted crimson with what appears to be fresh blood. She does not look exactly how I first described her in my story. Her fingers are elongated along with the rest of her limbs in a grotesque way. One of her hands carries an ornate letter opener, it was me who put it there I recall in irony. Her smile reveals black teeth, startling in their sharp contrast to the paleness of her lips. I can’t stop shaking just recalling this night. “Why are you here?” I asked meekly. “I am here dear creator...” she purred, “to be the monster you made me out to be” then she lunged.


Brown. Those eyes that followed me around the school. I felt them when you sat behind me that first day of school. When I turned around, you had the decency to look away. But that didn’t last long. After the first month, you were still staring; every time I looked up, your eyes were on me. I thought we had a lot of classes together because I kept seeing you around. But you're only in my first two. Are you a stalker? *Red. The charm that caught my eye. We were both waiting outside the classroom. In a sea of grey hoodies and white shirts, you stood out. You were reading a book I think, but I was actually paying more attention to your single earring. The light hit it just right, making the dark metal shine. Did you know that your eyes shine the same way when you read? I wasn’t brave enough to talk to you, so I sat behind you instead.* Blue. The notebook you fell asleep on. It wasn't even open. How were you going to learn anything? Or even pass the class? The teacher was explaining a problem on the board - the same one you asked actually. You’re lucky he didn’t see you. But behind that stack of books, I don’t think anyone could. I guess you carry them around for a reason. *Green. The color of the chalkboard I swear I was looking at. But the sun was so warm, and the teacher's voice was like white noise. I put my chin on my hand. When my arm fell asleep, I put my cheek on the desk. Then I blinked. And again, but slower. And a slower one still. Next thing I know, everyone else is packing up.* Pink. The notes you tried to pass to me. It’s your fault the teacher saw. Who even carries Post-Its around? And who would choose neon pink? Even whispering would have been less conspicuous. Besides, if you had something to say, couldn’t you have told me after class? You had to make the teacher call us both out. *White. The chalk the teacher gave us to write with. Since we had time to pass notes, we must already know the material, right? Wrong. Well, for me at least. I had no idea how to read the graph, much less how to find the net work done. Staring at the board, I wished the ground would swallow me up. But you took the chalk and scribbled out the answer. Amazing.* White. The Gatorade you gave me the morning I started running. Honestly, I was surprised to see you up so early. But when I arrived at the field, you were already running laps. You looked happy. I wonder if you realized you were smiling. It was simple and pure, unlike the obnoxious one from school. You were in a world of your own. Did you run every day? That's cool, you know? *Pink. The sneakers you wore that morning. When I saw you in those, I almost started laughing out loud. It was so out of character! But I guess I don't actually know you that well. Maybe that's just how you are? At any rate, you clearly weren't a jogger. You even forgot to bring water. That wouldn’t do, so I had to give you something to drink. Since then, I’ve waited for those pink sneakers every morning.* Green. Your hair tie when you sat next to me in the library. I’d never seen you in braids before. And just that morning, I could’ve sworn you had a ponytail. Why did you change your hairstyle? Or maybe you braided it in the afternoons? When you looked at me, I was worried I spoke out loud. But then you looked back down. With your head bent over a book, I guess loose hairs would get in the way. *Blue. The tables in the library. I keep sleeping through physics, so I thought I'd ask you for help. Thankfully the seat next to you was open. I meant to ask you to tutor me. But when I met your eyes, the words wouldn’t come out. I figured I’d try to learn it myself first. It wouldn’t be too late to ask after I’d tried and failed. Silence was never so comfortable.* Red. The color of your face when I called you out. Surprising, considering how you always seemed to follow me around. But also comforting; I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling nervous. *Brown. The ground beneath my feet. It was suddenly very interesting. I had to tell myself that this was only a matter of time. After all, I'd also be annoyed if I saw me everywhere. But what you actually said was so strange.


Joey pawed the ground a few times, leaving streaked shoe prints behind in the dirt. Ahead of him was a well-worn path through the forest, and further ahead, a section of the gully. He looked down at his new shoes, feeling their power surge through him. It was time to test them out. He crouched, counted down in his head, then took off like a shot. The new soles gripped the ground firmly; he felt his speed increase beyond anything his old shoes could have done. The edge of the gully rushed up to him; at the last moment, he jumped into the air, pinwheeling his limbs as he soared over the chasm. The darkness yawned beneath him; he felt a slight twinge of panic. Had he gone too far this time? Were his new shoes everything he had hoped for? He pushed his nagging doubts aside and focused on his jump. Slam! He finally made contact with the ground, landing on the uppermost slope of the gully; it was only a few feet to flat ground. A couple steps later, he was on the other side! Joey turned around to take in the full effect of his accomplishment. A triumphant yelp escaped from his throat; he had never jumped so far in his life! He looked down at his shoes, the thick leather straps swarming over the breathable mesh interior, looking like the muscles of an ancient gladiator. The olive color used throughout made them look like real Army shoes; the only way they could be cooler was if they were camouflage. His face beamed as he took a few deep breaths; everything was different now. "Nice jump," he heard someone say. Joey whirled around to see his friend, her eyes glowing with warmth. Her beaming smile seemed to shoot right through him. Joey swallowed before taking another breath. "Hi, Molly," he finally managed to say. "I didn't see you there." "Of course you didn't," Molly declared, her smile turning cryptic. She looked down at his feet. "New shoes?" "The best!" he exulted, twisting his body to model them. "These are Merrill Taos hiking shoes, with authentic Tekram soles, tactical nylon shoelaces..." "OK, OK," Molly protested. "I don't need to hear all the 'boy' details. They're neat shoes; I get it." "Sorry," he laughed. "I just got them for Christmas; I'm still excited about them. Did you get anything cool?" "Couldn't you tell?" She struck a dynamic pose, centered around her torso. Joey blinked. "Oh! That's a new pullover, isn't it?" "Not just *any* pullover!" she gushed, reaching behind her head. His eyes lit up. "It's a hoodie! You've always wanted one of those!" "It's not just *any* hoodie," she revealed. "Watch this." With a single fluid move, she flipped the hood over her head, nearly vanishing from view. "Now I get it!" he laughed. "No wonder I didn't see you coming!" "That's not all," she hinted. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her hoodie's kangaroo pocket. Quickly donning them, she pulled the drawstrings on her hood tight, then tucked her hands into her pocket. Joey gaped. "You vanished completely!" He peered intently, but could only discern a faint shimmering in the air. Molly pulled her hands out, dropped her hood, and removed her sunglasses, completely visible again. "Looks like we both had a great Christmas!" he beamed. She looked down shyly, twisting one foot into the dirt. "Uh huh." Excitement swelled within Joey. He and Molly had known each other since before they started kindergarten, and had always gotten along really well. Would they continue to do so as they got older? Joey could only hope. "Your shoes are stupid," he heard a voice say. Joey looked around frantically, finally spotting an older boy some distance away, standing on top of a large boulder, smirking at both of them. Joey and Molly exchanged nonplussed glances. "Eric," Joey growled. Eric jumped down from the boulder and swaggered toward them. Joey and Molly looked at his shoes with growing discomfort. "That's right," Eric gloated. "Your eyes are *not* playing tricks. Check out *my* Christmas present!" With each step, lights in the heels of his white high-tops flashed. Eric strutted back and forth in front of them; Joey's face twisted into a frown as he felt himself burn inside. "My shoes totally dominate yours," Eric sneered. "Anything they can do, mine can do better!" "So what if your rich parents can afford better shoes?" Molly snapped. Eric stopped pacing and took a long look at Molly. As Eric sidled up to her, a mocking grin on his face, Joey felt like he was ready to boil over. "Well, *hello*, Molly," Eric oozed. "Aren't *you* growing up to be a lovely young lady." "Get lost, creep," Molly seethed. Eric reached for her; she slapped his hand away. Eric feigned surprise, then leered again. "Mmmm...I like 'em feisty!" Molly turned away from him, disgusted and unnerved. "Stop that *now*!" Joey shrieked. Eric turned to glare at Joey; Molly looked worried. "Oh, you *like* her, do you?" Eric mocked. Joey could feel his skin burn; Molly looked down demurely. Eric got uncomfortably close to Joey, almost pushing him over. "How about we settle this with a little contest? Perhaps a race through the Curse?" That was the name the neighborhood kids gave to their obstacle course, running through a small portion of the forested forty-acre parcel between their subdivision and the next one. It started with a few loops over creeks and fallen logs, but had grown over time, sporting improvised fences and hidden traps. These days, it was no mere obstacle course; they had taken to calling it the Curse. "It won't be a fair race!" Joey protested. "Just because your parents can buy you fancier shoes!" "I don't think you have a choice," Eric insinuated. "At least, if you like Molly. Because the winner gets the hand of the fair maiden." Molly made a disgusted snort. "I'm not going to stick around and be treated like some sort of *trophy*," she huffed before turning to leave. As she did, she caught Joey's eye, and flashed him a subtle wink. Joey froze; what did she mean by that? And had Eric seen it? He continued to smirk at Joey, his gaze unchanged. Perhaps he hadn't noticed. "Well?" Eric snarled. "Are you down?" "She doesn't like you, you know," Joey shot back. "And you can't make her like you." "Oh, Joey," Eric chided as he put his hand on Joey's shoulder. "Sweet, innocent Joey." Before Joey could squirm away, Eric pulled back. "You're only twelve; you don't know the ins and outs of romance the way I do. One day, when you're fourteen like me, you'll realize that women respond to certain social cues. They prefer tall, rich, older men." He shook his head. "Do you see what I mean? You just can't compete." "We'll see who can't compete," Joey snapped. "I accept your terms." Eric chuckled. "Really? You think you have a chance?" "She'll never like you," Joey vowed. Eric put his hands up. "Hey, no one can control how women think. That's something else you'll learn when you're my age. So here's the deal. If I win, you have to stand aside and let me have my chance. If you win, I'll leave her alone." Joey was surprised by how intensely he was willing to defend Molly's honor. "Deal." Eric clicked his tongue as he shook his head. "You're in for the biggest humiliation of your life." "Let's just settle this on the Curse." Joey looked around. "Should we walk to the start of it?" Eric's lips curled into a haughty sneer. "Let's race to it from here! Ready?" Eric crouched down into a runner's starting position. "Fine." Joey crouched too. He fingered his new gloves in his pocket, making sure they were still there. He didn't get a chance to show them to Molly; they were real woodsman's gloves, with leather running over a polyester sleeve. They kept his hands warm and should give him the traction he needed for positively superhuman abilities. He was confident they would let him climb like Spiderman. "On 'go'," Eric commanded. "3...2...1...*go!*" They both took off running. Joey thrilled as he found himself keeping pace with Eric. He glared at Joey, then abruptly, he pulled ahead as his shoes flashed more rapidly than before. Joey felt his heart sink as he pushed himself harder. It was a clear path to the start of the Curse, now looming before them. Joey could hardly contain his anguish as he felt his effort to protect Molly crumbling before his eyes. Without warning, Eric stumbled and fell, face-planting at full speed, crying in pain. A grin spread across Joey's face as he passed Eric. "You should look where you're going!" Joey called out as he sprinted past his fallen foe. "That's not fair!" Eric whined. He looked around wildly. "What did I even trip on?" He pulled himself to his feet and took off toward Joey, straining to close the gap. Joey reached the first obstacle, a wall made from logs. It was one of the first added by the neighborhood kids, years ago. For Joey, it had always been there. He leaped onto it and quickly scrambled over. He could hear Eric's footsteps behind him; there was no need to look. After a short straightaway, the next part involved jumping the gully; that was the name they gave to the deepest, widest creek in the forest. He swelled with confidence as he neared the edge; with a mighty leap, he pinwheeled his limbs, sailing over the gap and landing on the other side, well past the slope. His heart fell a few seconds later as he heard Eric land. He was catching up! Joey bolted around the U-turn and to the next obstacle, which ran under a simple plywood deck. The crawling hazard wasn't safe during the summer; it tended to attract snakes and spiders. Fortunately, it was winter. Feeling like a real Army man, Joey dove toward the opening, impacting roughly on the dirt. With all the speed he could muster, he flailed his limbs to propel himself forward, counting off the support beams as he passed them. His face broke out into a smile as he passed the fifth one, seeing daylight ahead of him. Joey emerged from the hole and sprinted away, brushing himself off without missing a step. He heard Eric emerge from beneath the deck; he was right on Joey's heels! A thick patch of brush was next; Joey knew it well. Although it grew back quickly, some parts were naturally thinner than others, and he knew how to weave through it. Eric was close on his heels; if he followed Joey's path, the advantage would be lost! Joey entered the thicket and dodged occasionally from side to side, hoping to convince Eric to do likewise. But Eric plowed through a different area, making better time than Joey had expected. Joey stopped his attempt at deception and focused on breaking free of the brambles. Joey heard Eric cry out in pain, followed by a clumsy-sounding tumble. He didn't dare turn around, choosing instead to watch for thin parts in the brush. "What the heck?" Eric complained. "That branch came out of nowhere!" "I can't hear you!" Joey laughed as he finally burst out of the tangle. "You're too far away!" He rounded the next U-turn and toward the balance beam, jumping up to the platform with only a few steps. This challenge made good use of his new shoes. Switching to a side-stepping gait, he crossed the beam quickly, focusing on the aged wood, not the overgrown creek below. The beam shook unexpectedly; Eric had arrived! Based on the way he made the beam bounce, he had also chosen to side-step. Joey felt panic rise in his throat as it seemed Eric was getting closer. The end of the beam was only a few steps away; Joey knew he couldn't slip up now. But just as he was about to jump to the end, Eric body-checked him from behind, sending him flying. Joey watched the platform's rough surface rush up to him. Remembering his years of practice, and the Army movies he loved so much, he tucked his head down and curled into a ball. He hit the platform hard, but rolled instead of coming to a stop. He continued at full speed as the platform sloped away, weathering rough impacts on his knees and back. Despite the deft maneuver, he could hear Eric run past him. Finally, Joey hit the ground and sprung to his feet. He silently thanked his quick thinking and years of experience. He was less happy to note that Eric had increased the distance between them as they both rounded the next U-turn. The rope swing was next. It was just a few old twine ropes tied to a tree branch, swinging over a shallow part of a creek, but the distance couldn't be achieved with a single jump. One had to throw their weight, increasing the sweep of the curve until it was safe to dismount. Joey realized that was the least of his problems as he glumly watched Eric pull ahead of him, reaching the rope swing several seconds early. Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. Running made that more difficult, but he didn't dare slow down now. He managed to slip them on just a moment before reaching the rope. Eric was already swaying wildly, gloating as he watched Joey only beginning to swing. Joey's gloves gripped the rope tightly; he needed every advantage he could get. He threw his weight expertly, gaining distance faster than he expected. Two more swings and he could probably jump! But Eric had reached his apogee, and flung himself from the rope, landing just below the flat ground. Suddenly, his body twisted as he lost his footing and fell backwards. "Stupid branch!" he roared as a short log tumbled from his landing spot and down toward the creek. He quickly picked himself up and scrambled up the hill just as Joey attempted his dismount. He landed closer to the flat ground, but Eric was still a few seconds ahead of him. They approached an improvised bridge over a small creek; both crossed it easily. One day, they hoped to install some monkey bars here, to make it like a real Army challenge, but that was well out of the nonexistent budget of the neighborhood kids, and no kindly benefactor had shown up with a set. Still, something to dream about. Joey was sure his gloves would have helped him cross monkey bars much faster than Eric could. The last obstacle loomed before them. A flat wall, constructed from two-by-fours and held up by four-by-fours concreted into the ground, rose ten feet in the air. It had been put up last spring, to use up the leftover materials from someone's backyard deck project. The kids had been trying to crack the puzzle ever since. The most popular method was to leap as high as one could, grab onto one of the four-by-four posts, and try to shimmy the rest of the height. That took good shoes and strong fingers, and maybe even proper gloves. Joey was sure he would clear it with little effort. But Eric was so far ahead of him. What could he do? Eric launched himself at the wall and tried to clamp his hands onto a post. The force of his collision made the wall flex; Joey's heart soared as he watched Eric get thrown to the ground. He made another leap for a post just before Joey arrived, who sprung into the air and attached himself to a different post. His gloves clung to the wood as if he was Spiderman; he thrilled at the strength of his grip. Both of them climbed upwards. It all came down to this! Eric suddenly faltered. "What the–!" he cried. Joey dared to look down for an instant; Eric's right shoe had come off! Inexplicably, it landed neatly on the ground, not bouncing. For a split second, Joey saw a hand dart away, quickly disappearing from sight. He smiled; Molly had played a dirty trick at the last second! As Eric continued to wail, Joey expertly ratcheted up the wall, and in another deft demonstration of a real Army man move, he flung his legs upward, launching them over the wall, then landed on the other side. It was only a dozen or so steps from there to a rounded clearing they had dubbed the "winner's circle". He sprinted to the circle, jumping at the last second to land inside of it. "Winner!" he exclaimed. Eric, huffing and puffing, emerged from the side of the wall. He glared sullenly at Joey, then sat down to unlace his shoe. Without warning, Molly's face appeared before Joey. The rest of her was suddenly revealed as she flung back her hood. "You did it!" she gushed before hugging Joey. He gratefully returned the hug. They stood together for several moments. Molly locked eyes with Joey. "I knew you wouldn't let me down." Joey smiled. "I could never let you down." Molly's face turned red; she released the hug and looked down demurely. Joey swallowed hard. "Hey!" Eric shouted as he finished tying his shoe.. "Where did *you* come from?" Molly looked coy. "Oh, I've been...around." Eric's eyes grew wide. "Wait! You've been sabotaging me the whole time! Haven't you? *Haven't you?*" Molly smirked. "You'll never know." "That wasn't fair!" he bleated. "Best two out of three!" "There's no point," Molly chided. "You don't have a chance. Women don't like crybabies. Didn't you know that?" "He'll understand when he gets older," Joey cracked. They shared a laugh. "I *know* you cheated," Eric seethed. "I'll get you for this." "I didn't need to cheat," Joey pointed out. "Look how dirty your shoes are! What were you thinking, wearing white shoes in the forest? Everyone knows that, the dirtier they get, the worse they work!" He presented his right shoe, covered with dirt and debris. "While mine just work better and better!" He glanced at Molly as he showed his left shoe. "Natural forest colors, you see." "Just brilliant!" Molly gushed. "You really did get the best Christmas present." Joey locked eyes with Molly again. "I really did." Molly brushed some debris off his shoulder. "I think the big winner deserves a prize. Want to come to my house for some homemade fudge?" Joey smiled broadly. "That sounds great." Without another word, Joey and Molly walked away, leaving Eric leaning against the wall. A small tear escaped and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly. "I'm not crying," he said to no one in particular. "There's something in my eye.


I haven’t felt the same since that day. She hadn’t been the same girl ever since she’d had everything taken away from her that night. The girl she’d always been never returned and I guess in the end the girl that she became took over. I’d often ask her what it’d take for her to get back to her old ways, but the answer was always the same. ‘There's nothing you can do’, she’d say. The feeling of uselessness that came from this used to break me, but I’d always realise the irony in the fact that the thing that was breaking me the most had already broken her. She’d never been the most extroverted character, in fact people would often say she was the opposite, and that she kept to herself mostly. Whilst this was mostly true, for the people she did get close to she was an open book. Often she’d be the one who’d talk the most and she always had something to say. It was almost a privilege to get close to her as it unlocked a character no one else got to see. People would often ask me why we’d spend so much time together and what we actually spoke about, but I’d always just reply that they had to find out for themself, and if they truly wanted to know they could make an effort to actually see her for who she actually was instead of what they believed she was. Before the incident she was such a happy go lucky character, and i’d often blame her for the majority of the stupid ideas that would end up causing us trouble. She’d occasionally have days where no one could get through to her, not even me, but she’d always be back to her usual self within the coming days. I’d always ask her to come out to events that I’d been invited to, but normally the response was ‘no’ and that ‘she isn’t really a party person’. That’s why I’d been so surprised when she said yes to coming to Bryan’s 17th. There’s always been a sense of guilt I've carried around since that night. People often tell me it’s not my fault but maybe if I hadn’t been so excited to go or maybe if I hadn’t convinced her to have a few drinks then the whole thing never would have happened. Ever since that day people have often claimed how they were close with her and it was such a tragedy what happened, but I know that the majority of people didn’t give a fuck about either of us before that day and if you mentioned our names to either of them they probably would have replied with a who?. For a while people claimed that she was making it up and that she was only doing it for attention. It was soul wrenching to hear this being said and there was a huge sense of irony that the person who tried to avoid social interaction as much as they could would be doing anything for attention. It was slowly destroying her and you could tell that with each passing comment and each passing day she was slowly losing the things that made her what she was. There was a clear hierarchy system within our school and if someone at the top said something, then that was the truth. When Bryan said nothing happened that night anyone who said anything against that idea was quickly shut down and ostracised. Whoever she told about it happening would often say how horrible it was to her personally, but as soon as they got into a situation with anyone they thought disagreed, quickly changed their way and went back to disregarding her claims. They often say silence is the loudest but this whole thing seems to show otherwise. Everywhere we went together you’d see people whispering to each other and occasionally you’d see the people point and laugh. The day she ended everything we went for our final walk together. She was laughing and smiling for the first time in a while and I thought everything might be finally returning back to normal. In hindsight I should have noticed the life in her had faded and that she was only smiling and laughing to keep me from suspecting anything bad could possibly happen. She knew she was going to do it that night. She’d never been one to be emotional and it was why I was so shocked she told me how much she valued our friendship that day and that she’d never forget what I had done for her. I thought it was the start of change, and in some ways it was, but it was the change no one wanted to happen. We lay down under the tree we’d always known since we were growing up together. We’d spent nights talking about everything here, from what we wanted to be when we grew up to just chatting shit about whatever we could chat shit about. We always knew that whatever said by this tree would stay between us and it’s why she chose the tree to tell me about what happened that night for the first time. I cried when she told me and I've cried many times since that night but she told me she didn’t want the tree to be remembered for the sad memories and that we should only remember the good memories from under that tree. I suggested to her that we should visit that tree once a week and talk about everything good that had happened that week in future. She nodded and agreed but I guess she already knew that we’d never spend another minute under that tree together. I vowed to change this though. I crossed the river and the bridge that marked the tree was close. She’d never been close with her family but it was still a shock when her family said that I should decide what happened with her ashes. I knew exactly what I was going to do as soon as they said this and it was finally going to be an opportunity to be with her around the tree again whenever I was able to. I’d finally reached the tree by this point and although I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry as I knew she wouldn’t want me to, the tears came flooding out. I was going to say a few words but the tears were making me choke up. I decided that I may as well just do what both of us would want. As I scattered her ashes under the tree that we both loved so much, it was finally an opportunity for her to grow as much as I had within her short company.


An executive was reading a script called "Untitled" at Amazon Studios. Frank Stubens, the author, watched as the executive laughed, cried, and got frightened. Finally, the executive placed the screenplay on the table and took off her glasses. "Without a question, this was the greatest story I'd ever read. I need to make this movie. How much do you want?" "Well, Hulu offered ten million, Netflix offered eight million and a theatrical release, Disney offered five million and a theme park attraction, and Crackle offered three million, and the CEO will let me sleep with his wife." "I see. Those are tough to beat." "I understand," Frank said as he began packing his things to go. He came to the door when: "Hold on. How about $50 million? Everything on Amazon is free for a year, and five free rides on Jeff Besos' superyacht." "Make it ten rides, and you've got yourself a deal," Frank said, his voice trembling with delight. "Deal," the executive said as she extended her hand. "But, I want exclusivity. I don't want to wake up tomorrow to find out that HBO Max has offered you sixty million and a recurring role on Game of Thrones!" "You don't have to worry about that," Frank said, shaking her hand. "This is it; the story is yours." "It is truly the greatest story ever written," remarked the executive. "But all I have are the first seventy pages. What about the ending? "How does it all end?" "I've been keeping the last twenty pages a secret so as not to give away the ending." "I see why; the characters are so complex, the plot is so full of drama and tension, and the prose is so elegant that I felt practically illiterate while reading." "I will continue to withhold the ending," he said. "But just say one word: Costa Rica." The executive looked intrigued. "That's two words, but my interest has been piqued. I'll be patient and wait along with everyone else." And so, production on "Untitled" began. Frank couldn't believe how well things were going. The actors were all outstanding, the crew was professional and efficient, and the budget was endless. But as the days went on, Frank noticed something was off. People were leaving the set in tears: actors, crew members, and even the catering staff. Frank had no idea what was happening, but he knew it couldn't be good. He finally couldn't take it any longer. He approached one of the actors and asked what was going on. With tears in his eyes, the actor gazed at him. "It's the story," he explained. "It's very... emotional. Every time we read a new page, I feel like I'm going to lose it." Months later, the set was entirely closed to the public, including Amazon. The deadline for finishing the film had passed, and the finished product had yet to be submitted. Amazon executives arrived on set to investigate. The set was in shambles; there were Amazon boxes everywhere, it appeared that everyone had stayed the night, and it looked like something out of Lord of the Flies. They looked all over for Frank, and he was barricaded in his office when they found him. Through the door, the executive yelled. "What exactly is going on here? Has the film been completed?" "Yes, but please inform the Hair and Makeup Tribe that we will not back down from the battle for the break room." Everyone had gone mad, and the Amazon executives were confused. They were frightened when they heard strange sounds above them and throughout the studio. The executives started to slowly back away when a flash drive slid under the door of Frank's office. The Amazon executive grabbed it and dashed out of the studio with the other executives. Except for Janice from accounting, who was kidnapped by the "Wardrobe Tribe." The executives immediately put the film on the Amazon Prime streaming platform, as they had been marketing it for months. This included a 10-minute Super Bowl commercial with Tom Cruise, a dance improvisation group that performed around the clock in Times Square, and the production of a two-hour prequel that was streamed on a loop in the corner of all their Amazon Prime content. The executives watched the event live with the rest of the world. Account password stealing quadrupled for this occasion, and there was no traffic as the world came to a halt for this premiere. And it was... beautiful. The most gorgeous visuals ever displayed on a screen. World leaders wept, religious services were postponed, and wars around the world ceased, if only for a few hours. It was everything Amazon had hoped for, and as the film neared its conclusion, the executive awaited the ending with bated breath. This was the moment she had been looking forward to, and... Nothing. It said the file was corrupted. The volume of complaints received by Amazon forced the site to go offline. When executives returned to the studio, it was in flames, and nothing remained but embers. The greatest story and film ever written and made had no ending! Some say Frank Stubens now lives in the real Amazon. Others claim he stole Jeff Bezos' yacht and turned himself into a pirate. Frank was never seen or heard from again. All that remains is the beauty he created within the film "Untitled," which will never be recreated again.


Journal 6, Entry 23, 6/13/2018 Today we stood in front of an open grave in black suits, black dresses, and with white handkerchiefs. Everyone huddled close under a ceiling of umbrellas as God’s tears poured down on us over the life of a courageous and thoughtless young man. I watched the stars and stripes soak up the drizzle as it lay there on the perfectly polished mahogany casket suspended above its final resting spot. Standing before the gravestone, the priest gave his benediction before the flag was folded up and presented to my wife and I, which I held as she replaced it with a single white rose upon the casket. Behind us, pristinely dressed young men, perfectly creased with polished shoes and shiny brass buttons on their coats, white flat top hats and military insignias shining proudly, began firing their arms as my son was lowered into the Earth, never to be seen again. I couldn’t help thinking back on the day my boy was born. He was shriveled and purple, suffocating until he cried his first breath. He was presented to me swaddled in a baby-blue blanket and a little ducky beanie placed on his head. His eyes were bright blue, and, in those eyes, I saw someone who would be in my life until my dying day. Yet, his dying day preceded my own. The day he announced he was joining the marines he stood proud in his first adult decision. He wanted to serve his country like I had, learn responsibility and integrity, and then use the GI bill for college to study politics before earning his law degree. I was so proud of him. I encouraged him. His mother had concerns, none that I listened to, and I was steering him away from her advice. She and I fought. He and her fought. Ultimately, it came down to the three of us at the bus station, one of us sobbing as if she would never see her son again. He served almost two years before he was shot and killed trying to pull a wounded man to cover in Afghanistan. People swiftly made their way to their cars to get out of the rain. Even my wife took the umbrella and left me gazing into the grave, or maybe it was a hole of despair, the rain dripping from the contours of my face, me motionless. The loss was crushing, but the guilt was agonizing. I watched as a bulldozer covered my son with dirt, forever sealing him in darkness beneath the soil. It gave me a chance to have a wholehearted cry, to tell him I was sorry, and to tell him I love him – God, I hope he knows how much I love him. I got in my car soaked and wet. I removed my blazer, loosened my tie, and used my handkerchief to wipe off my face before leaving. Everyone went to my mother-in-law’s for lunch after the burial. Leaving the cemetery, I turned left towards town instead of right towards my in-law’s place. I felt I couldn’t show my face there. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to. Maybe I was just tired of everyone asking me how I was doing all the time. I mean, how did they think I was doing? I lost my son. I was doing horribly. I just didn’t know to what degree of horrible I was actually doing. The dreadful silence my wife imposed on me wasn’t a motivator to make an appearance anyway. I needed time to think. I needed time to remember. I needed time to mourn. I hadn’t felt like I had a moment to do any of those things since his death. I had to be strong for my wife, I had to take care of all the preparations and notifications, and I was assuming blame from more than just my wife on top of it all. I was worn thin, ready to snap, breakdown, crack. I headed over to the old corner bar in town that has been there so long that the Coor’s sign hanging above the door has faded to a brownish yellow with barely visible lettering. The building has changed its proprietors so many times I no longer know the name of the place. Beyond the plain brick walls and the dirty metal awnings that cover the windows with their neon signs drawing drinkers to the doors like bugs to a zapper was a lowly lit room of browns and dark reds that smelled like ashtrays and urinal cakes. There was a jukebox on the far wall playing a heavy tune I didn’t recognize. It sat by the only booth in the place, occupying the corner. High tables with bar chairs were spread throughout. In the back there were a couple of pool tables and a dart board. The beer was served in cans and the scotch and soda I ordered showed up in a red Solo cup. I took that as a sign not to stay too long. The bartender was a mountain of a man. I figured he served as the bouncer as well. He must have been six-five and nearly three-hundred pounds of muscle, long hair, piercings, tats. If I saw this guy standing in my driveway when I got home, I’d turn around and speed away. But looks are deceiving. He turned out to be a decent guy. We talked briefly and he provided a round of shots on the house in honor of my son’s bravery. The handful of fellow day-drinkers who were there gathered around the bar for their finger’s worth of whisky in a red Solo cup. We slammed them down and everyone gave me their condolences, saying I should be proud. In that moment I was proud. My son died saving a man's life during a war to protect us from terrorism. It was the type of man he was. The type of man I raised him to be. I didn’t get to revel in my pride long. The bartender advised that I finish my drink and find another watering hole before his regulars started pouring in in the next fifteen minutes or so. So, I finished my drink promptly and returned to my car. As I plopped down heavily into the driver’s seat, I noticed my blazer beside me and realized that my phone had been in there the entire time. I retrieve it from the inner pocket and found that I had six missed calls and one text: “call me as soon as you get this.” I immediately called my wife. “Where are you,” a frustrated and impatient voice asked. “I took a little detour into town,” I said as I rummaged through my pockets looking for my keys. “I stopped at a bar to have a couple drinks. I wasn’t ready to face all the accusing looks and whispers,” I told her. “You earned them,” she said coldly. “Now that’s not fair.” “Don’t talk to me about fair,” she says angrily, and with a sigh she says, “There are people here who are primarily here to comfort you. Your mom is worried sick.” “Tell her I’m fine. I just need some time to myself to mourn for a little bit. I’ve been overwhelmed lately.” “No. You are not doing this. You are not leaving me here alone making excuses for you any longer. Get here now, and mourn with your family,” and she hung up, ending that conversation. I took the long way to my in-law’s. I was lost in memory of our last family vacation together. I wish I could turn back time to what was one of my fondest memories of my son and live it all over again. The girls wanted to explore the shops in Gatlinburg, so my son and I scheduled a low-grade whitewater rafting trip. It was a rush, what he called the experience of a lifetime, but it was after that when we found calmer waters to do some fishing that I cherish most. It was the summer before his freshman year in high school. We were set up on the riverbed enjoying sodas and chips, joking around and bonding. It seemed like a good time to have ‘The Talk.’ I was amazed by his maturity given the subject and the intelligence of his questions. ‘The Talk’ led to us discussing things that his mother wouldn’t have approved of, but it evolved into a discussion on love and family. From there, we talked about science, politics, religion, and issues of a philosophical nature. I could see in the boy who was my son the makings of the man who would be a lifelong friend that day. I quite often think that day was a turning point for him. That was the day he began to take a serious interest in the world around him and his part in it. It might have been the first step on the path to where we are today, but I wouldn’t give up that day for anything. It was still crowded when I got to my in-laws. As I made my way in, I couldn’t help but notice the dirty looks from my wife’s family and friends. I could see into the kitchen where the food was laid out buffet style across the kitchen island. My daughter was there making a sandwich. I approached her to give her a kiss on the head and hug her, but she pulled away, shunning me, taking a place next to her mom who was talking to one of her girlfriends as she refreshed her tea. My wife gave me a dirty look and placed a protective arm around my daughter, approving of her behavior. My mom saw me come in the door and followed me to the kitchen. She busied herself making me a plate as I explained to her where I was. She led me into the family room where my side of the family had gathered. There was palpable tension between the families, like nothing I had ever seen before. Three generations of veterans filled the room. All who were quick to defend my decision to support my son. They kept their opinions to themselves for the sake of peace, something I greatly appreciated. Sitting by herself, looking out of place, was my son’s fiancé. They had only been engaged for four months, but she had been around so much over the years she was already like a daughter. She was his first real date. It was his junior prom. He really liked her and was scared he was going to mess things up. He called me into his room for advice. I remember him sitting on the edge of his twin sized, looking up at me scared and nervous. I looked around his room as he explained the situation to me. There were sports trophies on the dresser, car posters on the walls, video games around the TV, and dirty laundry scattered everywhere. He was taller than me, shaved, and drove a car, but he was an oversized child commencing on an adult relationship and I could relate to the anxiety he was feeling in the moment. I straightened his bowtie and took a knee in front of him. I told him to pay attention to her, to not get distracted by anyone or anything else. Listen to her and keep the conversation rolling. Make her laugh when the timing is right. Anticipate her needs. Offer things before she asks. Compliment her. Out of respect for her, always be patient, gentle, and kind. He came home that night elated because she let him kiss her. When I told her this story, she hugged me with tears in her eyes and kissed my cheek. “I know what people are saying, that it’s your fault he’s dead. He would have joined with or without your blessing. But instead, he died knowing you believed in him, were proud of him, and loved him.” As evening approached, the crowd thinned until it was just family. Mom decided it was time to get grandpa home, so they left, leaving me with my wife’s side of the family. I went to the kitchen to let my wife know I would see her at home. She pulled me aside and told me that tonight her and our daughter would be staying with her sister, but tomorrow I would need to check into a hotel. She warned me that she had already hired a lawyer and that I should be served papers any day now. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I pleaded with her to reconsider. I told her I loved her. We still had one child under our roof. We needed to consider her needs and that our son would not want this. She shook her head and walked off. My heart shattered. I knew there was a chasm between us since his death, that she blamed me, that she was angry I didn’t support her protest to his enlisting, but I thought it was something we would work through over time. I returned home defeated. The staircase to the bed broom was a mountain of memories lined with warm, happy pictures of us together over the years. For the first time, the home we built together felt like an empty shell of a house in the silence. As I sit here and write, procrastinating, not wanting to pack a bag, I really do wish I could turn back time. I don’t know if I would do anything different, but I would go back and relive moments over and over again. Pictures and videos aren’t the same. I don’t want to just look at my family and rekindle memories. I want to relive the experiences with them again - the contact, the smells, the warmth of the day, the emotions of the moment. But even if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t live in the past. Whether I was wrong or right, actions have their repercussions. There is no sense in trying to run from them, hide from them, deny them. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and I will rise with it, conducting myself in a manner that would make my son proud to call me dad, and hopefully win my family back.


Every mating season is like a festival inside the Flame Belle community. Unable to reproduce by themselves, Flame Belles rely on male magical creatures together with their chosen Queen to increase their population. A Flame Belle, who has the hottest flame would be a hailed Queen. Flame Belles are female shaped flames. They do not have a face but differ in flame color. Peasants have a red-brown flame, Servants have a cherry-red flame, Soldiers have a bright orange flame, and the Queen has dazzling white flames with a mixture of crimson red.

A month before the Queen’s mating season. Her body releases a fragrant scent that only affects male creatures. Making every single male specie hunt for her and ask to be her mate, but only one is chosen. Male creatures come flooding in front of their cave every season. A rumor says that a Flame Belle's mate would be gifted a precious treasure only they can have.

The time has come, and everyone is preparing for the Queen’s mating rites. Flames Belle’s were walking left and right. Peasants were busy arranging the cave for their upcoming visitor or sacrifice while others were carrying baskets full of food on their shoulders. Servants were beside the Queen and making sure that she is in her top-most condition to mate. “How are the preparations going?” The Queen asked her servants. They all knelt and bowed their heads in front of her. Her aura screams power and radiance. Making every Flame Belle show respect to her.

The servant responsible for combing her hair raised her head but did not attempt to stand up. “The preparations are doing well, my Queen. The peasants are doing all the necessary arrangements, and soldiers are ready to attack once a male creature sets foot in front of the cave.” The Queen nodded her head in response. A peasant and a soldier went inside the Queen’s chamber. Both knelt and bowed their heads in front of the mighty Queen. “It’s almost time, my Queen. Male creatures would come flooding in front of the cave anytime.” “Toughen your armor and senses before letting anyone set foot in my community.” She has sharp eyes like daggers ready to stab anyone who opposes her.

Before they can even leave the Queen’s chamber. She stood up and grabbed the soldier’s chin. “Last season was a failure because of your incompetence. The chosen mate died even before laying a finger on me. He disintegrated the moment he entered my chamber.” Her flames grew larger every passing second, indicating how furious she was.

“My Queen please calm down, or it will direly affect your condition.” The servant responsible for her clothing spoke.

A Queen’s anger cannot be extinguished easily, but her senses felt a new presence nearing her cave. Her flames came back to normal. Everyone felt the unfamiliar presence, and in a blink of an eye, every single Flame Belle became alert. “You may now leave. Attend to your duties and make no error.” Authority was evident from her voice and stance. The peasant together with the soldier hurriedly went out of the Queen’s chamber to welcome their guest. In front of the Flame Belles cave, mounted a man riding a Pegasus, which was as white as snow. His wings flapping slightly blew the dust below them away. The man dismounted from his Pegasus wearing a fire-resistant armor and a sword hanging on his side. “I have come to thee to take your Queen and make her mine.” He announced. The Flame Belles paid no heed to his words and looked at him sharply. He touched the hilt of his sword and took a fighting stance.

Without any warning, Flame Belle soldiers charged at him. Peasants followed suit. Each Flame Belle stacked on top of him one by one. The creature unable to fight back decided to emit his fragrance to get their approval, but his scent wasn’t strong enough to match their Queen’s. Seconds past and his screams of pain could be heard. Little by little his body disintegrated in front of their eyes, indicating that he is not worthy to be their Queen’s mate. The Pegasus fled after seeing his master burn to death.

One by one, male creatures started to appear in front of their cave. Each one of them met the same faith as the man who rode a Pegasus. Their strength and scents aren’t strong enough to be on par with their Queen. After a while, a fairy with butterfly-like wings descended from the sky. His wings were a mixture of blue, white, and black. He was wearing non-fire resistant clothes and had a dagger on his rope waistband. His flapping wings extinguished some peasants and a few soldiers. A positive sign of being worthy to be hailed mate for their beloved Queen.

As he set foot on the ground, he released his scent, which attacked every Flame Belle’s sense of smell. Soldiers and peasants alike almost got swayed. Luckily, one soldier charged at him, which made everyone come back to their senses and followed after the first soldier. He released more of his scent, which stopped every single Flame Belle from their tracks. A smirk crept on his face. He walked straight to the cave’s entrance with his head held high, showing how proud he is.

Flame Belles started to line up on both sides to welcome him into their cave. He confidently entered their community. When suddenly a soldier attacked him from nowhere, he grabbed his dagger and sliced her in half. The soldier cut in two became two peasants. Flame Belle’s can only die through the wind.

The fairy or any other mate is not safe until he reaches the Queen’s chamber. Flame Belles can attack him at will anytime before he reaches the Queen's chamber.

The Flame Belles lined up on both sides started to come toward him. Their purpose is to cut his wings off to ensure that he won’t escape from their cave. A 50 feet wall of inextinguishable flames surrounds the cave. For male creatures to pass the wall of flames alive is impossible, so most of them fly above it to avoid being burnt. The fairy cut off his wing using his dagger because he knows how Flame Belles mating rites are performed. The other wing was removed by the peasants which he willingly obliged. A feast was served in front of him, and he ate to his heart's content. A celebration was thrown for him then he was sent to the Queen’s chamber. After mating with the Queen, the fairy’s body started crumbling to dust. He was confused as to what is happening. He looked at the Queen to ask, but before he can say a word, the Queen spoke. “What you’re experiencing is the gift only a Queen’s mate can have, turning to dust after mating. Creatures from the outside thought that a precious treasure would be gifted, but has someone who was chosen ever returned to their homes?” The fairy wasn’t able to answer because he turned into fine dust. The Queen’s mate dust is used for nutrition for the growing flame tree seeds. These seeds would grow into trees and would bear hundreds of fruits. And those fruits would then grow and become Flame Belles of different colors.


When the passenger, carrying a leather knapsack with the gold initials FK on it and a passport sticker showing the bearer was traveling from Prague to San Francisco, departed the train onto a rickety platform separating the tracks from a one-story, faded wood plank station, with no other buildings in sight, eerily identified by a sign hanging at a cockeyed angle, that read Desert^ion Springs; the “ion” added, to affirm what was plainly obvious. If a rattlesnake greets the passenger on the platform, but the passenger, not seeing the snake, goes into a minor trauma when the snake says, “That your name son, FK? That’s what it says on your knapsack.” If the passenger, who appears to be in his mid-twenties, dressed in a three-piece Edwardian suit, soiled from his long sea and land passage, having never seen a snake before except in old scripture paintings, says, “FK are my initials, not my name but I fear what you have to say will be the words of a serpent of ill will, but I’ll answer to FK, just the same just to bring a sparseness to our conversation.” And if the snake now pleased with the passenger's arrival in Desert Springs, tells the passenger he’s been waiting what seems to be an eternity for his advent, or so it looks like from the snake's point of view. Then the snake begins to loudly, using a colorful language spoken exclusively in the Southwest, weave the story of the fortune of the town, which spellbinds the passenger so that he becomes oblivious to the train leaving the station and now stands alone listening to the snakes tale of the magic found in the deserted town of Desert Springs. When FK wants to wait for the next train at the station, the snake answers, “There will be no train, but there is a means of travel much swifter, wild as the wind, the lickety-split of a coyote, through the magic of the peyote cactus.” “And how do I travel on a peyote cactus?” the passenger inquires. “Not on it, but in it, or the other way around, it’s in you. Well, once you drink the nectar of the peyote, it is, and then you’re a magic traveler, of course, I’ll be with you all the way, I can ride in your knapsack.” And the passenger followed the snake to a cluster of green ball-shaped cactus plants; some topped with pink blossoms and others with small dried out heads, which he told the passenger to promptly eat if he wanted to get on with his travels. If the passenger, now eager to continue his journey picks two small dried peyote heads and chews them even though they were very bitter and felt like his stomach was turning against him. With the coaching of the snake, he managed to keep them down for the thirty minutes that the snake said was needed for the magic to happen. The passenger did look at his watch and as the snake predicted when the thirty minutes passed everything in his stomach came back out of him leaving only the magic behind. When the passengers thinking processes is altered, by the magic of the peyote, rearranging his sense of time and space, opening and closing his eyes, colores blinking distinctively appearing brilliant and intense, while the snake circles around him, undulating and multiplying his form as if he had no distinctive form. Suddenly, the passenger's presence closed up; reality was not reliable, could anything be real from this point on. Then he braced himself for a surge of movement; his muscles tightened, his body tingled, he gasped as the tingling grew more intense. The snake says, “Sometimes, it helps to speak aloud about what you are feeling. It helps your mind register these new experiences and then let go. Trust me, FK.” The passenger inhales sharply as all his senses fire hot—and then separate and float away with a pleasant heat surging up and down his consciousness. The snake says, “FK, let me know what you feel. Shall I make it more—pleasurable for you?” The passenger not sure about the feelings of pleasure, lost memories swirl around his brain’s pleasure centers, he is swept up into a vortex of color, he howls with laughter,  “I am rushing down a raging colored river, a wild kaleidoscope, the colors—they’re flooding my whole body, so many colors, how can they all exist? How do they get in me? There are colors I can't see, but I can feel. So now they’re pushing out of me, taking me apart. Oh, God, I’m breaking into pieces, like beads becoming unstrung and spilling out onto the desert floor, mixing with the grains of sand.” When a coyote emerges from a swirl of colored dust, the snake hisses at the intrusion. The coyote joins the passenger in a dance, in slow, tantalizing motion, each cell of the passenger’s body rubs against the coyote and then pushes away. His cells are colored dots in a flash of intense feeling, much like an orgasm—an orgasm of light that illuminates the glowing coyote like a ghost coming out to a full moon. The passenger says, “The rainbow of light—I’m wet with it, with no perception of embarrassment,  I apologize I’m hardly myself anymore.”— he was the light . “These pinpricks of light—they are me, rubbing, rushing, writhing over me, again and again, can you join me?” And again. The rhythm of the movement mesmerizes the passenger, a wave breaks over his most sensitive places and then breaking again like an ocean set; until he thought even his consciousness would unravel in the exquisite pulsing. The coyote screams, moans, cries out, Stop; to the passenger, “Join me, unite with me, take me,” and yet still, the experience is prolonged. The passenger hears the coyote’s invitation, her solicitation, enticing him with her colorful coquetry, to be master of her den, but now inundated in a deluge of colored dots, dots swelling up over him, the smell of friction from dots colliding that reeked like an infinite number of dying flowers mixed with stink of unwashed dogs. The snake says, “Beware FK; the coyote is out to transform you, reassemble your kaleidoscope of colored dots, remake you, disrobe you, dress you in gray fur, with legs that run like the wind across the desert, you will catch fast-moving rabbits, and tear them open with canine teeth made for ripping flesh, that’s what will become of you, is that your destiny?” That could not be the truth, that could not be real, the passenger could not see that, and yet the flowered colors surged and changed, regrouped, wrenched apart, morphed into small fruits that matured in a twinkling—strawberries turning white, green, red, then redder and into the deepest, most luscious red; lemons greening and then yellowing to the most exquisite yellow of the coyote’s eyes. The sweet and then the sour filled him—taste had returned. He gathered the richness of flowers, fruits, and vegetables, experiencing their smells and tastes and colors in a fast-motion harvest, from new buds to dying leaves at a winter burial, and what of this female suitor, that beacons him? How will he respond to the warning of the snake? A skeletal structure of light that the passenger knew was the coyote appeared before him, gently gathering up the dust and dirt of the beautiful fruits and blowing them away. The passenger watched sadly and then in fascination as they turned into multicolored sparks and then winked out. The passenger held the coyote in his arms. The snake hissed a threatening lyric while two Red-Tailed Hawks screech a melody. The coyote pleads, “It’s time to let go, FK, stop resisting. You need to flow with the changes that come.” The passenger sniffed. “But… I’ve just never felt this way before. So—complete.” He let out a long and slow breath, yielding, the blue of his eyes flowed out of him, and yellow flowed in. The coyote vibrates against him, and then the passenger is vibrating as if they are becoming one, and maybe they are, or perhaps the passenger only wishes it. His glow diminishes as the dots of light slowly leave his body. What remains is the afterglow of goosebumps, like tiny lanterns of phosphor on a moonlit sea, disappearing in the fast-growing fur growing on the passenger's body. Soon the coyote will have her mate. She pauses to howl at the moon. The snake becomes restless, knowing he must strike the coyote and the passenger. The passenger struggles with the peyote mescaline that is transforming his mind and triggering his metamorphosis into a coyote, even though he begins to recognize his growing love for her and has already imagined the cubs they will have together. The coyote sees the snake who was lifting his head and most of his body out of the top of the passenger's knapsack. The coyote knows the snake is up to no good but needs to convey that message to FK. The coyote knows she must kill the serpent, knowing the risk of the snakes deadly venom, but she must get the snake in position, the transforming passenger lunges at the snake as the coyote clamps the flaring teeth of her jaw around the snake's neck.


Once, there lived three brothers, identical in face and body. At infancy the three brothers, due to unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of their birth parents, were separated from each other. The first brother wound up the adopted child of a barren lord, and was showered with gifts and joy, so much so that he would never live through a hard time in his life. All his days were filled with play and education from the finest teachers in the land, and all the finery that a young prince could expect. The second brother on the other hand, wound up in a very different life. He was taken in by a poor band of nomads. They traveled the far reaches of the world, rife with bandits, plague, and war. The second brother was forced to grow up quickly if he ever hoped to survive this dangerous new life laid before him. The third brother, neither lucky or unlucky, was adopted by a kindly farming couple from a small village. They were poor of course, being peasants, but they had always wanted to care for a child. He faced his share of hardships growing up in life, but he had friends and family to support him. Now, I suppose, is where we see what became of these boys. The first brother, being pampered and praised all his life, was never exposed to true hardship. He had spent his whole life behind impenetrable castle walls and had grown up on tales of honor and kindness and as such had never truly seen the wickedness of men's hearts. Despite his sheltered upbringing, the young lad still had a burning wanderlust and as such set out to see the world when he had come of age. Upon arriving in his first big city, he discovered that life was not exactly just like the castle. People were mean, they had no respect, and they most certainly did not wash themselves regularly. He did not let this deter him however, and he continued to explore this grand new city he had never seen. One day, a stranger offered to show him around the city for the meager price of a gold coin. Eager to see everything this city had to offer him, the young prince accepted. He followed the stranger throughout the city, seeing a few landmarks and big statues, until they came to a rather secluded and darkened street. The stranger, having seen first hand the naivety of the young prince led him into the alley where he and his gang of ruffians, rapscallions, and raiders promptly stabbed the boy in his side, beat him senseless, took all of his gold, jewelry, and clothing. The Prince, aged 19, dies naked and bloody in the gutter of some slum nobody remembers. The second brother, having faced a lifetime of hardships from a very young age, grew up quite differently. As a child, his tribe was ravaged by bandits, killing many and taking him and others as slaves. As a slave, he was abused, beaten, and worked to the bone day in and day out. Even when performing his tasks to perfection and beyond, he was still beaten. As such, the young boy allowed hate to grow and fester in his heart. One night, however, he unleashed this hatred upon his vile captors and took a knife to the throats of every bandit he could find. Seeing his bloody work completed, the boy, now a young man, fled with his fellow nomads from their chains, seeking a new start. Sadly, many of them would not get that start. Due to years of malnourishment and mistreatment at the hands of the bandits, many of the nomads did not have the physical strength or health to fend off sickness or predators, leading many to their demise. Over the following years, as the nomads struggles to find a new home in this wild frontier, more and more began to die off, until only the young man remained with hate in his heart and rage for all the injustices he had faced in his time. He would continue to travel from place to place taking work as a mercenary or hired blade. It didn’t really matter what he had to do, murder, protection, tax collection, as long as he got paid and he could afford to drink away the guilt of his actions. He would never truly belong anywhere, never able to find peace, never able to quell the rage that burned inside of him. Most tragically, he would not find love, for who could love such a man so wretched as he? One whose morals are dictated by the jingling of coins and a tankard of beer? Unfortunately, nobody could. The Wretch, aged 64, dies bitter and riddled with guilt, old and alone in a hovel in the farthest corners of the world. There’s really not much to be said about the final brother. The third brother, as you might recall, was neither fortunate or unfortunate. As he grew up in his small little village, he saw his fair share of unpleasantness, from hangings to the occasional small bandit raid. On the other hand however, he grew up under the guiding influence of his adoptive mother and father, learning about the virtues and rules of being an honorable man. In his life, he strived to apply all he had learned to his actions. No matter how bad the harvest, no matter how badly the village was raided, he learned to pick himself up by the bootstraps and get on with his life. With the passing of his adoptive parents later in life, he would take over their farm, keeping alive the legacy of his family in the village. He would also settle down with a nice woman from the neighboring village, fathering many children and then later on being grandfather to some grandchildren even. As he grew older, his children began to tend the farm as his joints grew weak, and he saw many seasons come and go in his final years. The Father, aged 83, dies in his small cottage, surrounded by his most beloved children and grandchildren in his final moments.