The library was always my favorite escape. Having spent the 3 hours of the day intermittently staring at my ceiling or scrolling through TikTok, it was clear a change of surroundings couldn’t make the morning any worse. Once I was done with bathroom hygiene and got casually (re: lazily) dressed, I headed out of the house and got on my bike. I considered leaving a note for my parents, but I figured a text would suffice. I made a mental note to send one when I got to the library. If it wasn’t too much trouble. By bike, the Valen Crawford Public Library was a twenty-minute ride. My dad always tells me he could get me there in five minutes, but my constant sense of environmental dread is just too annoying. Besides, I don’t want to be any more indebted to him than the bare minimum that comes with the father-son relationship.

When I saw the building twenty meters ahead, a smile almost snuck onto my face before I instinctively suffocated it. Luckily, a few months ago, the township finally constructed a bike rack after an uncannily organized X campaign. As I braked at the rack, I noticed a little clique of prep-school kids, probably between 15 and 18, walk in. Anyone who didn’t know better would assume they were a bunch of diligent little scholars cramming for an exam. Not a motley crew of spoiled douchebags with more money than morality. My therapist would call these “automatic negative thoughts” but I fortunately learned to tune her out months ago.

Once my lock was fastened, I took a deep breath and headed in. I was not surprised when I saw the preps sitting at my preferred table—over a dozen other places they could have sat and they chose to screw me over. I glanced at them for a second before I looked away, knowing that eye contact would have catalyzed something I was not sure I could have finished. Tactically, or cowardly, I head to the far right end of the building, five tables away from the preps. But, there are still too many people for my liking, so I take a left to the southwest corner. Thankfully, no one else was there, so I sat in one of the La-Z boys and unzipped my backpack. I retrieved my laptop, plugged it into the wall socket, and it was time to work. My latest scheme in the ten-year campaign to convince my parents I’m a writer is a horror anthology book. Well, “collection” might be a more appropriate term, since there’s no way I’m getting any collaborators to contribute. Not that I need or even want any of them. That was my mom’s idea since the stories were supposed to be written in various styles from the 70s to the New 10s. “You should reach out to some other writers. You could make some friends,” she said. For all my social deficiencies, I still had a better sense of how to hide my ulterior motives in a seemingly polite conversation. Twenty minutes later, I was still stuck on the first story: a tale about a platoon of Vietnam-era Green Berets haunted by a ghost or something. Many nights and strained eyes had brought me no closer to figuring out what I was trying to say with this story. Every idea was more cliche than the last, and the few “original” things I came up with were so ridiculous as to be summarily dismissed from consideration. The preps weren’t straining their eyes. They weren’t on the verge of a panic attack. They weren’t worrying about how they had already hit their physical/mental prime, forever pushing their dreams out of reach. They weren’t in the year thirteen of an inexplicable existential nightmare that hack therapists can write off as “clinical depression.” No, they were still in high school, partying through each day knowing their perfect lives were ahead of them. Their oligarch parents could buy or bribe their way out of any problem whenever push comes to shove.

I stared at the laptop screen. My open right palm became a clenched fist. The heat around my temples flared. Suddenly, I slammed the computer shut. Nobody seemed to notice. From where I was, I couldn’t see the rest of the patrons, but I did faintly hear them—or, more precisely, the giggling of the preps. Shoving my laptop back into the bag, I got up and ambled along the library’s southern wall. I took a left down a row of books and pretended to look for a book on a shelf near the center tables. A few feet away, I could hear what the preps were talking about. One of them bragged about having the whole house to himself that weekend and how easy it would be to commandeer his father’s liquor cellar. My grip tightened on the book, my nails digging into the spine. That would definitely be a hefty fine if I got caught. My parents would notice if I were a hundred dollars poorer. I doubt their parents even notice them at all. But here I was, standing at this bookcase, impotently scratching my nails on public property. These preps would keep failing up while I sank into oblivion. They would rule the world while I would be crushed under it. The corrupt prosper from the innocents who suffer. Then and there, I decided: ENOUGH . I was no longer going to be powerless. My lot in life was not to simply suffer and die at the whims of the privileged. The power has always been mine. Their lies and sneers tricked me into thinking I was their lesser. Yet, standing so close to them, I could no longer ignore the obvious. What did money matter in an exchange of fists? When you stood before someone who felt the most unhinged contempt for your existence, what value was a new Rolls Royce or a stack of hundred-dolllar bills? Why doesn’t someone stand up to them? I stomp away from the bookcase. With my fist clenched, I move towards their table. The eldest prep looks up to me. “What the hell do you want?” “An escape.”


[WARNING The following story will contain writing and depictions of gore and other disturbing graphic description] It led me here.. it was still after me.. THEY wanted me... I've been running for what felt like hours, I shot a glance back into the forest, only to see nothing but the darkness from the dark night but I can still hear the running footsteps getting closer and closer... I made it out of the forest and I shot a glance back, out of breath and my heart skipped a beat at the terrifying sight of what seemed to be a young boy in the forest. I couldn't see its face, but it appeared to be grinning at me as it raised its decaying hand and pointed at me.  "I̢̪̪̯̱̙.̶̗̠͓̪̪̖͉.̢͉̈́ f̵̵͖͓̣͔̝͗ͥ̓o̵̴̵̯̘̬̜͖̲̎̊u̵̷̡̧͖̲̦ͭ͟ņ̶̻͚̜̂̀̄d̲͔̠.̷̶̷̡̫̞̰̝̪̫ͤ̅́̌_̶.̶̨̛͚͕͍̤ ỷ̴̴̶̸̰̗̣̪̞͈ơ͓_̣̫̝̟͓̬ư̢̛̼͕͑̈.̰ͤͤ.̸̶̟̙̲̂ͪ͝ͅ.͍ͭ̂͑ . J̛̛͉͓͙Ȃ̷̸̴̡͔̥C_̟̣̲̉̃̂K̵̢̳̗̜_̡̧̛S̶̶̨̞̱̝̩̣̺̑Ơ̶͓̹̹̤̠N̳̠͕". My heart dropped.. IT knew my name.. I made an escape home and began locking all the doors and closing the blinds. When I took a peek outside through the blinds I couldn’t see anyone anymore. Thoughts raced through my mind.. what was that? How did it know my name? what am I gonna do?.. What CAN I do?... I suddenly woke up to the sound of my alarm, “Did I pass out from the panic attack from last night? I can’t remember…”

The events from last night kept endlessly repeating in my head. Its words kept echoing in my mind, those soulless eyes.. It was like looking into a dark abyss. From what I could remember it was as if it was a corpse. I needed to investigate this further, but that was for another time as I was heading for work. While I put the tools and items in their place at work, David questioned me, asking if everything was okay. Clearly he was concerned about me. I filled him in on the nightmare from last night that caused me to have a panic attack. As he listened to me about the events he began looking shocked. According to him, I have been shivering since I got to work so he suggested that I go to a party with him after work. I was hesitant but I needed to get my mind off last night so I agreed. When we got to the party that one of our friends was throwing, I started feeling relieved and relaxed, that is until I noticed a kid staring at me through the window. But then he disappeared when I looked away for a second. I didn't know what to think of but maybe it was someone's little brother or kid that was dragged into the party but that still questions me, why would a kid be at an adult party?

When I was just minding my own business enjoying the party, I suddenly felt cold as if someone or.. someTHING was watching me. I looked around only to see nothing but the crowd of people talking and partying. Maybe it's just my head messing with me. After the party I thanked my friend for inviting me but before I could walk away I noticed that same kid again.. just watching me from the upstairs window... I suddenly felt cold but then its eyes started to turn all black and lifeless just like the other kid from last night and it pointed at me and I felt my heart drop.. "J͉͓aͭ̀̆aa̴̸̢̛̬͉̘̬a͙̜̻_̧̨̛̻͚̺a̹̰͐c̥̲̫̰_̖̤̓̔́k̛͇̯_͈̤́s̴̜̞̬õ̶̧̞̘̠n̶̅͑~.̴̴̰.̬̪̼ͩ" I heard a voice right behind me in my ear… When I looked back at the window the kid was gone but I kept hearing laughter all around getting closer and closer until it went quiet... I looked up and it was as if nothing happened. I turned to walk back home but I saw a kid standing right in front of me staring at me with a wide smile and its head turned sideways as if its neck was broken, and was holding its stomach which looked like it was stabbed repeatedly and started walking towards me. I ran as fast as I could only to faintly hear a child screeching behind me getting closer and closer and suddenly… I was led back into the forest and I heard children laughing and giggling all around me but I couldn't see anyone except the darkness. How do they keep finding me? Why can't they leave me alone? As I sat on my knees in fear I looked up only to see 7 kids in front of me.. all of them just staring at me… Their smiles grew bigger and they all looked at me with their black abyss empty eyes and hands bloody with wounds like slit throats, stomach ripped open, and burned skinned… I couldn't move, I was shaking too much and in tears but was able to get up and make a run out of the woods and as I got further away from them.. all I could hear was they're constant screeching and inhuman child screams... As soon as I got home I quickly boarded up all the windows and doors as I was still hearing they're screaming and all I could hope for is that it'd go away soon... When the sun rose and hit my eyes from between the boarded windows I took a quick peek outside and thankfully the screaming children were gone... I quickly searched up ways on how to get rid of these haunting spirits and one was that they have to find peace or complete they’re unfinished business so that they'd move on or.. destroy the thing that they are trapped in.. I started to think… Maybe that's how I can end this once and for all... After I got all of the items I needed for those things I drove down to the forest again.., I need to end this, I can't let them haunt me anymore.., I need to get rid of them.. one.. more.. time...

He got out of the car and picked up an axe, gasoline can, and a lighter and started walking into the forest... w꙲e꙲ were watching h꙲i꙲m꙲.., they were watching me... The giggling.. the faint silent screams of despair and agonizing pain.., I used to like it.. but now I feared it.., they wouldn't leave me alone... There he was.. standing right in front of us.. j̴̚ust̤͆ l̮̗̽ȉ̠̘ḱ͙͝e̒ t̃h̪e̩ daȳ̶̃ he͆_͆ k̒i̩̩l̴̺͛l̝e̷̖͛d uͬs̈́̓.̈́.̚. There they were standing right in front of me.. just like the day I killed them... And behind them.. they're dead rotten corpse buried in the dirt.., it was time I ended this... They all screamed in agony and started chasing me but after I swung my axe at them.. it was no use.. I couldn’t hurt them…H̪͛e̺͞ c̬̄ou͉̻̍l̝̓͘dͤ̄n̢̧'̷t̷ h͂u͕rt͔ u͍͊͡s͘ a̺͎nŷ̻m̹or̹e̙͓ͬ.̎.̩̒. He ran from u̖ṣͣ.. but w̵͛e̮͍ had a gift just for him… I could still hear them behind me.. they were getting closer and felt like something grabbed a hold of me but I managed to escape but I needed to end this, I needed to burn their bodies... I took out the gas canister off my back and started to pour it down as soon as I got back to their rotting corpses. As soon as I poured every bit of gasoline on the bodies they were just standing in front of me with no smiles.. I won… "HAHAHAHA CAN'T HURT ME NOW CAN YOU?!" I yelled at them but then.. they started smiling as soon as I lit the gas on fire and now I know why... He didn't realize that he tore a hole in the gas tank.. but before he knew.. it was too late… he panicked and started to burn alive and in the panic he didn't realize the cliff behind him. He fell.. he died.. finally.. after all he's done to us.. all 7 of us.. he died and suffered just like he did.. t͂o̴̴ u̺̎͌s̞.̞͓͒..̫̔


It had been twenty-four years since she'd last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. She was 12 years when she visited the place and now as an adult of 36 years ,she was visiting it.However,the place looked exactly the same. The place always had a special thing in her heart as she used to visit that park with her family and friends ,play there with them and enjoy with them every evening .She was having a nostalgia because memories are like that only .The best comparison of memories has to be with a 'box of sweets' because you go for one but end up with many .Aren't the special ? But what makes them special. The answer has to lie in their weird character. Isn't it weird that when you think of a good memory,you cry and when you think of a bad memory ,you smile over the fact that how you used to cry over that .She was also feeling the same as she remembered ho she used to enjoy here and cry when she used to fall. The park was just an ordinary park for her but now ,standing in the middle of the park ,she realised that it was not ordinary but special. What is the meaning of special . Does anything has to be a costly affair to be special. Well,in this materialistic world ,may be but deep down,we all know that special comes from something else .Special things are the moments which you have cherished ,the time you have spent with you dear and near ones or the journey that made you you,but for her, at that moment ,that park was the most special thing .She was crying and laughing and when you do that ,it means you are living a moment of present or sometimes of your past but that crying and laughing is indeed special... She went in every corner of the park and it was very relaxing for her .It seemed like every corner was talking to her .Every non -living thing was becoming living. She looked all around and started thinking that why she visited this place after such a long time .The answer lies in the concept of desires...What are desires ??To be successful or to be the best . Well,it differs from person to person but one thing is common that desires do make you selfish and when Gautam Buddha said that there is no end to desires,he was right. So ,for the materialistic things and her desires ,she went away leaving her hometown and this park as it is . When she was leaving,she felt bad but the desires to achieve more in life consoled her .Her parents wanted to achieve more and thus ,they went away and took her also from her hometown and ,then ,there was no looking back . Desires are like that only,you get struck in a web to achieve more and more and then ,there is no looking back .So,what made her come back here .It was the deal of her house in her hometown as her parents were dead and she had to sell this house to someone ,so ,she came here .She already knew that it would be an emotional moment for her but it was more than that ,it was her connection with her childhood. What is so special about childhood?The answer would be' everything'.When they say that childhood is like a holy scripture,they are right because it is full of purity and piousness .One can never forget it and the relations that one has made in it even with the non-living things and that was why she was feeling so connected .It was a routine for her to come here,she used to talk with the tree ,tell them everything going in her life as they were never judgmental and she knew that. Coming back in the present from her nostalgia,she thought and regretted that why she didnt come here earlier. and is it so important to be successful The answer is yes!!it is . Every person in this world has to have a goal to strive but is it essential to leave your roots for it . No!!we can maintain a balance too but humans forget this while running behind their goals and the result is that they achieve their goals but something is left in their heart ... A void.. Suddenly,she was interrupted by someone .That was th house broker ,he told her that he has come up with a very good deal for the house and then,he asked that you must be thinking that how the park has changed so much . On hearing that,she was astonished because she was seeing the whole park as it was earlier .Then ,suddenly, she looked around and realised that he was actually right ,the place was all changed because there was less trees now,obviously the world is going for industrialisation at the cost of environment .There were less swings now and less people .She then realised that she was looking at the park with' her own view' ,a view that relied and was built on her memories .She then told the broker that she will not sell the house and she told him that from now onwards,she will come here on a periodic basis because some things are not meant for trade,they are just near to you and so was that house and the park in front of that house have become her to now. She realised the importance of these things .The broker went away and she was happy and contented after so long. She again realised that in the park,everything was again the same as it was twenty-four years ago .Thus , a realisation came to her that we humans shoud  see a particular thing with 'our own view' ,the view of others doesn't matter at all ,she realised that memories are special and the ongoing development and the craving for success can become very high but it can't take away your memories ,they will be yours till your last breath and the realisation that there has to be a balance and humans should start doing that because contentment comes from being attached to your roots .She knew that she could not visit the place for so long but the realisations were worth .'Her own view' was hers only ,free fro any external pressures and  for her,"that was all that mattered"


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/red_veteran   - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7   - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese #Rankings: Two Weeks Ago Rankings are finally here! Thank you so much for your patience. Everyone who submitted a story should give themselves a pat on the back, but I’d like to give an extra congrats to the following: - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - Platinum Award   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - Gold Award   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - Awesome Answer Award   - - Submitted by u/bantamnerd - Hugz Award   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


He started to walk. The party he'd just visited must've bored him. He's too high brow for that sort of crowd. Not in a vain or superficial way, he's probably not aware he is, it's just in the way he *is*, you know? His nose carried him forward. Might be a posture thing. How some people don't have bad posture *per se* - ooh per se's fancy sounding, I'm remembering that one - anyway, you know how some people dont look like they have bad posture at a glance but the more you look at them you find they - through no fault of their own, mind you - have bits that stick out a bit more? That's his nose. He started carving a path through the air with it. He'd barely finished closing the front door behind him, stepping out onto the pavement and turning his collar up against the cold before he'd moved swiftly on. His trendy but thin grey winter coat went even further down him than just the collar though, in unison with his long streaks of jet black slightly curly hair, it flowed in the wind and flapped about like the ears of a basset hound walking at his heel. I think that's called a simile, what I just did. Very clever of me. He walked on. Making short lasting impressions in a thin layer of recent rainfall with heavy soled boots. He'd narrowly avoided the peak of the rain spout, and it had reduced to a light drizzle by the time he'd begun his journey. All's the better for it though, the rain might've ruined the view. Maybe he wanted to leave that party even earlier but stayed because it'd started to rain. That could be good for character development. His boots seemed to walk him, with each plod and splat - onomatopoeia, *very* nice - his stride dominated the ground on which he treaded. Is treaded a word? Trode? Just trod? Yeah that's right. His stride dominated the ground on which he *trod*. The night went on, and even further he walked. Walking as if there were a drumbeat in his head. Dancing to his own tune. The symphony of city sounds around him formed a chorus he could hear all together with perfect clarity. Wait no hold on, he's got earphones in. They were blending into that scarf. Erm... No car that churned passed, turning rainfall into tidal-waves on the side of the pavement, nor any rushing of precipitation into drains could penetrate the wall of sound he'd constructed around himself. Shutting himself away from it all? Possibly. But mostly tuning the world into his headspace. He saw music wherever he went - I'm guessing. It chorused in his ears, a symphony of - I wanna say...rock? Yeah, some indie-rock band probably. It's playing at that annoying level where it's loud enough to be heard by passers by but not loud enough to be distinguishable or enjoyable to the rest of us. With a hint of undue, charming self-consciousness, he stuffed his large but delicate manly hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of - now… what to put here. I've just used 'manly' but a sealed circuit of manliness is what he looks like. He stuffed his large but delicate *masculine* hands into his coat pockets, becoming a sealed circuit of manliness. That's good yeah. I'm really proud of that one actually, well done me. Onward he walked. Fighting effortlessly through bracing mild winds. An electric tang on the air reflected his zest for life, the way the puddles in the road also reflected his zest for life. His coy lips curled into a brief courteous smile as a woman walking a dog skulked past him. No don't stop and ask him the time he has places to be. Why are you humouring this woman she's walking her dog at like quarter-past nine when it's just about to start pissing it down with rain again. Why are you even bothering to take your earphones out to hear her, she probably has a shrill voice. Dog probably smells too. Of course you have to be kind, it's in your nature, but still. Ok, checking your watch - god, there are those hands again. Alright good, she's buggered off. Now we can continue with the story. He walked further still, onwardly. Baggy brown trousers - seeping with black at their base as small droplets of water kicked upwards onto them - swayed back and forth with every pace. Rotating around a circular axis made by his thin yet sturdy legs. Now made aware of the city sounds following the brief removal of his earphones, he scanned his surroundings as he went along, taking note of the road by which he walked. The cars that rushed past. The skyscrapers towering over him. The people shadowing lights from inside busy restaurants that glinted different shades in his blue - no, green eyes. The street before and behind him. The people walking behind him, and parallel to him on the adjacent side of the street. Following this, he once again retrieved his hands from his warm, tight pockets, and hurriedly - no scratch that, hurriedly suggests worry, or fear; he needs to be relaxed. *Hastily*, yes that's good - and hastily checked the time. He only just checked the time, that's weird. His pace began to quicken now, as he both onwardly and furtherly walked, though jogged would now be more accurate. Although he'd resumed listening, he no longer strutted in rhythm with his favourite little-known band, and his boots squelched on the- shit he saw me didn't he. It's this bloody tape-recorder isn't it. I've got to start doing this just mentally, they take longer to notice.


The once-a-month cookery group would gather in what was called the Club Room of a residential complex in which the Pintos lived. Pinto’s wife Jay always hosted the event and the small group now came together. Jay welcomed the members. She was less than 30 and was good looking. She was dressed in a sari and her hair had been knotted into a bun. Kate was a member and she came dressed also in a sari. Jay told the group “Today we’ll see the new soup which can be heated and served even for a week. This will be demonstrated by madam Liyan.” Liyan who was of Chinese origin came wearing a flowered long shirt over loose pants with an apron on top, and showed how the soup was made. Members had a glass each to taste, It was found tasty enough and questions and answers followed about the ingredients and alternates which could be used. Next Kate showed how to make a cake with walnut topping. The cake was cut and passed round for opinion. It received only 50% rating. Kate was disappointed. She answered a few questions and the group then gossiped which was the main objective of the meeting. After the group dispersed, Kate was left alone with Jay. Jay knew that Kate was very disappointed at the low approval rating of what she had prepared. To mollify her, Jay said “There was nothing wrong with your cake except that it was less sweet than one would expect in a cake.” “Ask Pinto. Don’t tell him it was made by me,” “He returns only after 9 PM. I’ll call you and tell you what he said.” “You’re lucky you’ve a husband who never seems to criticise. Bye for now.” When Pinto came back Jay gave him a piece of the cake. He bit a piece and chewing it asked “It isn’t tasty. Change the supplier.” She said laughing “It was made by Kate.” “She has to give up cake making and stick to gossiping. I hate the sight of that woman whom you consider your best friend.” Pinto was a software man and ran his own business. He was of moderate height, lean, and had lost much of his hair. He was always pleasant to talk to. Jay served him dinner and said “I suppose you’ll be with the wordlists, dictionary and the PC.” “Jay you don’t understand. I’m a SCRABBLE* champion and hope to beat the present world champion Shakir Rashid. Unless I put in more effort how can I do it? I hope you understand.” She was silent. He continued “I’ve told you that the tournament to determine the new champion is just a week away in Kolkata. Should I not prepare?” She said “You’re continually neglecting me by getting absorbed in that stupid game.” “One of my big customers in Zurich wanted me to go over for a discussion. With the tournament coming up I’ve said Tabussum will represent me this time. She is well-qualified and experienced. That is the importance I give Scrabble.” “Kate said that even if I walked nude in front of you, you won’t look up from that Scrabble board.” “To hell with her! Always interfering in others’ matters and gossip! Now walk as she said and see what happens! Only make sure she gets to know.” Later they adjourned to the bedroom and it was late night when as Jay lay snoring, Pinto returned to his wordlists! Next morning Pinto asked “Jay have you spoken to Kate yet? What did she say?” She said “We womenfolk discuss many matters unfit for male ears. Anyway I can say with pride that Kate was wrong in her assumption of what you would do if I walked nude in front of you!” He said “You must allow me to pursue my goal. I’ve gone to several places abroad for tournaments and each time I’ve remembered you and got you something or other. Last time I was in Dubai and brought you the bead necklace which you liked. When I...........” “Enough! I’ve always appreciated your thinking of me at those tournaments. Continue with your dictionaries etc. I’m reconciled.” “I hope you’ll make it clear to Kate.” “You’ve a hatred towards her but she is my reliable friend. I confide in her.” She had told Kate about Pinto’s comment regarding the walnut cake. Kate told herself “I’ll get even with that........” “Whatever you may say I consider her a loose mouth and one who is venomous.” The day came for Pinto to fly to Kolkata and before he left he said “Jay wish me luck. I should be back in 3 or 4 days.” Pinto was lodged in Hotel Matrix in Kolkata where other players had also been booked as its tariffs were moderate. The tournament was scheduled for 3 days and he had booked his return flight on  the night of the closing event. Matrix was a small hotel but well maintained and was particularly appreciated by foreign guests. Pinto was booked into a double room number 108. There were nearly 150 participants in the event and some of them had been booked into that hotel. The public hall where the event would take place was almost next to the hotel After an inaugural function the tournament started. Pinto was very enthusiastic and defeated many lower rated opponents. There was lunch when a lady he had played against and defeated came to him and said “Mr.Pinto I’m Olive Mukono from Kenya. I teach in a school in Nairobi and have been playing this game for 4 years. You’ve a mighty vocabulary! You so easily defeated me even though I defeated some players.” Pinto saw she was a black woman with pleasant features. Could be around 25 he thought. She was wearing a knee length dress which set off her curves. The curly hair on her head had been combed to the level of her neck and she looked quite attractive. He said “Nice meeting you here Olive. That is the way the game goes! Luck also plays a part.” They chatted for a time. Then it was back to the game. The game continued the second day and Pinto remained unbeaten. The game went on to day three. Pinto planned to leave by the night flight the same day and so vacated the hotel room as he set out for the game. At the game venue, he faced strong players. At the end when play was over, Rashid was the champion again, and Pinto came second. He was very disappointed. Pinto was scheduled to catch the 10 PM flight but he was told due to some reason the flight would leave only at 10AM the next day. Also came the news that there was to be a strike the next day starting at 6 AM, and those catching flights would have to leave from the hotel at 5 AM and wait at the airport. Now Pinto faced a problem. His room 108 had been taken by someone else. The hotel had been overbooked. Since there were no rooms, many including foreigners went to the reception to sleep and wait. Pinto found all chairs and sofas in the foyer had also been occupied. He was tired and frustrated and felt very sleepy. As he was standing there not knowing what to do, he heard a voice asking “Mr.Pinto, have you no room here?” He turned and saw it was Olive the Kenyan. He said “I vacated my room this morning and it has been taken by someone else. The hotel is full. I’m wondering what to do.” Olive thought a moment and said “Mine is a double room though I’m paying for single occupancy. Considering the difficult times, the hotel wouldn’t mind if you spent the night in one of the rooms. You could share my room. I’m making the offer in view of the circumstances, and noting that you seem a well behaved man.” He was wondering what to say. She said “I trust you. You can stay in my room.”  “Am I not making a mistake?” he asked himself as he told her “I’ll sleep on the carpet.” She said “I leave it to you.” Inside the room he sat on the carpet on the floor and got ready to sleep using his bag as a pillow. He said “Let’s not lock the door.” “The hotel reception said it would be risky and guests have to take care that their belongings are not stolen. For me to feel safe the door has to be locked. You lie down. I’ll lock the door.” In the morning, Pinto left at 4.30 after waking Olive and thanking her. He was back home in time for afternoon lunch. He had called Jay the previous evening and told her about his change of programme. After lunch he said “Jay this time I had no time to buy some souvenir for you. It was a difficult trip. I wasn’t satisfied with my performance at the tournament either.” He told her about the difficulties he had faced except about having accepted Olive’s hospitality. He was sure Jay wouldn’t learn about that incident. A week later Jay stormed her husband “You didn’t tell me that you slept with an African woman .” He was shocked. She said “Reena from here went to play the tournament with her brother as escort and stayed in Hotel Matrix. She told Kate about seeing you with the African. Of course she told Kate not to tell me. But you know Kate!” He had a difficult time explaining the situation as Jay shouted asking what Olive had that she hadn’t etc: The usual charge sheet after having been provoked! He said “I slept on the carpet.” “If a man and a woman are together in a locked room , what else can be assumed? I’m charging you with marital infidelity.” She taunted him so much that he finally said “I accepted Olive’s help which is a mistake. I know it is something that no one can fix. If you still suspect me after all my explanation and want me out, let’s do it legally.” “If I say I forgive you, what would you do to atone for your sin?” He thought long and hard and said “I will give up Scrabble. Would that be adequate?” They were reconciled! The next day he donated his Scrabble belongings to the indoor sports section of the school nearby. Within himself he decided it was time to free Jay of Kate that gossiping ...... (strong bad words excised!) He consoled himself remembering what Omar Khayyam has said:” And in some corner of the hubbub coucht/Make game of that which makes as much of thee.” END *SCRABBLE is an indoor crossword board game where every letter counts with bonus points on premium squares and premium scores for creating 7 letter words.


For some reason or another, my master has fallen. Not in battle, but out of favor. Perhaps he was presented with a dilemma in which what he decided what was right didn't align with his patron. Perhaps he lost faith after feeling that nothing he did was truly enough. Perhaps he wasn't all that faithful to begin with. I stood by him for a time. After all, he was my master and I looked up to him. But watching the light in him die out was heartbreaking. He stopped praying. The smell of liquor clung to his tunic. He rarely smiled. He rarely spoke. When he did, his words were harsh and bitter. The day he pawned his sword was the day I chose to leave. Using what little I had in my pouch, I bought his sword for myself and set off without a word. It pained me, but he was no longer the man I had once admired. As I worked to become a full-fledged paladin, my former master was never far from my thoughts. I prayed from him every day, and swore that I'd find him again and lead him toward redemption.


(Chapter 1) My alarm goes off at 4:30 in the morning, and I struggle to open my eyes. My head aches from where I rested it against the bare concrete corner wall over the night, and my blanket had gotten pinched in between the bed and the wall, leaving me mostly exposed and cold. I shiver and exhale, letting my body try to catch up to my mind. As I attempt to sit up in my bed, grunting and groaning, I can feel my joints and my bones doing the same. I’m only 25, but age is starting to take its toll. I wonder how much it’ll hurt by the time I hit 40, or even 50. *If* I even get that far. I immediately try to push those thoughts out of my mind. *“Another day…”* I rub my face with my hands, getting the sleep out of my eyes. I glance around my dimly lit room, covered in cracks, grime, and mold. It’s a tiny square, with an ancient stove and sink in the corner opposite mine, and right next to it is a very worn out couch Mr. Ling is sleeping in. A door on the wall at the foot of my bed leads into the bathroom, and another door next to that leads into the room Ms. Laura is currently sleeping in. The only light in the room is a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling, it’s glass cover long since been destroyed or stolen. The faint sound of water dripping from the sink less than a foot away and the snores of my roommates are perfectly accentuated by the whirring of a box fan on the floor. I can faintly hear the sounds of the city outside my window, like horns, some minor chatting, and the sound of food cooking. Upon stepping over to the window, carefully walking around the tofu boxes and the pop cans, I crack the window, and I immediately smell exhaust fumes, rain, and cooking tofu waft into my room. The smell is lovely compared to the smell in my room currently. I lazily look down into the street, down onto the people from my fourth story building inside this rats den I call home. It’s nowhere near as busy as it’s going to be, but a few people are still bustling around, getting their day ready. I wonder if they ever look inside, and wonder if anyone is looking out at them, wondering the same thing they’re wondering. 4:51 A.M. My body instinctively shuffles by itself over to the shower, my mind trying to take control of my body. I turn the heavily corroded knob, hearing the water gurgle and the air get forced out of the pipes. I place my large washbin under the shower head, and eventually the water thunders out, before petering out a few seconds later as the pressure in the line is relieved. I stare into the washbin, seeing the water fill it up, the sound and sight almost hypnotic. Snapping out of my trance, I turn the shower off just at the right water level, and the water gurgles and surges back down the pipes for more residents to use. I pick up the bin, my body a little wobbly from the weight, and I gingerly take it out of the bathroom and through the main room, being careful to not wake up my other roommates. I tiptoe into the main living room/bedroom, the washbin sloshing around like it’s trying to reenact ‘The Poseidon Adventure’, and I pass by Mr. Ling, snoring on the torn and heavily stained couch, his booze and egg drop soup spilled all over him, the smell appalling. His thin white hair is very long, covering most of his face, a face that’s travelled thousands of miles, and he could tell you a million stories about each mile. A very dirty and calloused bare foot sticks up on the armrest, the rest of his body covered from a heavy wool blanket. I look at the faded green door on the other side of the room, behind it is Ms. Laura, an American exchange student, talking in her sleep while her soap operas she likes to watch are still playing through all the static in the TV. I gently set the washbin on the stovetop, and with the squeaky turn of a knob, the hiss of gas and the click of the igniter, I begin to warm the water up. I head over to the fridge and pull some packaged pork and sealed rice and I throw them into the water to get them cooking. Mother would be proud of that little shortcut, using your cooking water as your shower water. Ms. Laura says they have ‘microwaves’ over in America, that heat up food with just a few presses of a button. Yeah, right. 5:02 A.M. While they cook, still sealed in their bags, I take another look outside, seeing the sun begin to rise over my home of Hong Kong. The traffic is starting to pick up, and the world begins to turn again. The streets are starting to see its first commuters, the street vendors and shops below unlock their doors with clacks and thuds and the roll up doors slam open, trying to be ready for the morning rush. The street lights begin to turn off, and a few of the signs of the vendors flick off as daybreak is upon us. A glance over at the pan reveals hat the food is done, so I gently take the bags out of the water and I tear open the bags of pork and rice, dumping the pork into the rice bag. I then grab some soy sauce from the cupboard and I toss a few drops in. I then turn off the heat to stop the water boiling as I eat my breakfast. As I sit down on my bed, Mr. Ling stirs in his sleep, tossing and turning, making the blanket fall off of him. “M-Muu… uuuugh… *hic* I-I love... you…” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around himself as he feels the heat from the blanket get lost. “N-nooooo… pleeease… don’t go…” I glance up upon hearing that, must be the prostitute he rented out last night. Not that I can judge the man too harshly, he just lost his wife. I damn myself for smirking and I pick up the newspaper sitting on the back of the couch. Looking at the date, the old newspaper is from June 14th, 1988, last Tuesday. Oh well, it’ll give me something to read. Looks like… 600 Americans have all congregated here for some business meeting or something. Figures, Americans trying to fix problems that aren’t their own. Biting into my pork and rice, with a grimace I realize the pork still a little cold in the center. It’s food, at least. That’s a lot more than what most people in this place have to eat. I turn the paper over to the next page with a crinkle and a snap, and I see Tian Jiyun is going to meet with the London Stock Market to see if they can send people to learn how the stock market works. Oh, joy. 5:32 A.M. I quickly down my food, throwing my empty bags into the trash. Grabbing the handles of the washbin, I forgot to grab some old shirts, and my skin touches the still piping hot metal. A silent dance and some very quiet cursing later, I take some cold wet rags and put them on the handles, chilling them instantly. A quick jaunt over to the shower again and I can finally get my day sort of started. I undress, feeling the cool and sharp porcelain tiles make contact with my bare feet, sending shivers up my spine. I step inside, and take a tiny bit of water and wash my hair, repeating the mantra in my head as I lather my hair and body as best as I can. “2, 6, 9, 9, 3, 3 goes to 32, then to 11, and 12…” Over and over and over again, while I dump the still somewhat hot water over myself. Ms. Laura always talks about how this is downright archaic compared to the West. Maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. Nor do I really care, honestly. That place is very, very far away, and there are more important matters to worry about than what ‘could be’. I dry off and dress up, putting on my white button up shirt, blue pants, and black boots. I quickly dress my hair, and take one last look at myself in the grungy mirror, adjusting my name tag. I put on my smile, and I walk out of my room and down to the street, heading down to the post office to pick up my rounds for the day. “12 goes to 36, but not 24. 7, 7, 9, 10, back to 9…” My name is Mir Lui, and I’m the mailman of Kowloon City.


I set up my easel on the edge of the lake. Never have I chosen a more perfect spot; the reflection of the sun had created a beautiful sparkle across the water. This scene brought me great inspiration. I could use a dark sapphire here, some baby blue there… Yes, this is coming out great. I got my paints out of my bag and, feeling brave, started applying them directly to the canvas. As people passed by in canoes, I added their rough shapes to the painting. It was coming along well. I’m normally very critical of myself. How could I not be? All I was ever given is negative criticism, which constantly confirmed my view of my work. My parents were always engulfed in my sister’s many talents and interests, and never bothered to pay very much attention to me. Not that I didn’t love and admire my sister; she passed many of her skills on to me. She gave me art classes every week, making sure I didn't fall far behind. I think she felt the injustice of the way our parents treated us. They always pitted us against each other, making me feel inadequate. In the thirty years of my life, I have never beaten my sister at anything. Despite her only being a year older than me, I felt I was always at a disadvantage. Sometimes I thought she was withholding some of her knowledge from me during our classes together, to make sure she always remained slightly superior to me. When our parents passed away, my sister never reached out to me. It was as if the only reason she maintained our relationship all these years was because she needed me to quench her thirst for competition. Although she went on to sell many of her art works in the years following their death, I must say my sister’s paintings have suffered severely in quality, and her art has never been the same as it was back in the day. I snapped back into reality, where I stood silently by the lake, my paintbrush in hand, waiting to make a stroke on the canvas. I dipped it into the paint, but to my surprise, found that it had dried up. How long had I been standing here? I looked up. The sun had partly set, and stars were starting to spread across the sky. It was only morning when I set out for the lake. I suppose I got lost in thought. Sighing, I started packing up my supplies. I was so prepared for a productive day when I set out this morning. I was about to start spiraling down a road of self-hatred and doubt, when I noticed something floating in the water. I took a few steps towards the lake, expecting to find a friendly duck waiting for a bit of food. Hm, that’s a peculiar shape, I thought. No, this was no duck. As I took a breath, I noticed a sour stench in the air. I suppose the lake isn’t as clean as it used to be. People these days, with their awful littering, have no respect for the beauty of nature. I got a bit closer. Whatever it was, it had a large shadow below where it was peeking out of the water. But what was that? It looked like… A pair of legs. I realized that the large shadow was the torso of what once was a person. Feeling inspired, I smiled and began to paint.


His eyes are ocean-blue, deep, mysterious, and focused tightly on me. Shaggy brown hair is pulled away from his face, tangled in the back like he cared not for how it appeared. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where I am. “Do you see it?” I pulled away, his breath stinking heavily of peppermint failing to cover up the smell of smoke. His fists clenched with such an intensity, I felt small and insignificant and unworthy of his attention.

I found my mouth to speak, my throat so dry I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke. In fact, if it weren’t for his prompting, I wouldn’t have even tried.

“I-I-” I sputtered, testing my voice and forcing down a cough climbing up my throat. “Where am I?” His eyes glinted with pride at my question, and I fought the urge to vomit. I wasn’t safe, that was clear. But even though the dark, dingy room seemed to hold me captive within its walls, I was not restrained. I could theoretically stand, if my legs would hold me. The man turned toward his computer, leaving me to contemplate my situation on my own. “It will come to you.” He smirked. “You’ll know before I even have to tell you.” I contemplated standing, but another part of me knew it would end up in my falling to the ground. The concrete ground would scrape my knees, my hands would reach out and falter under my weight. The unknown man in the corner will turn toward me and hiss for me to be careful, or I would ruin his hard work. Injuries, minor or major, were not allowed. His hands, rough and calloused, would lift me up and back onto the chair by my waist. And I would try and shrug him off, hissing with a weak voice I did not need his help. Of course, he knew I did and would not leave me alone. “Who are you, and what do you want from me?” My voice will be demanding and sharp, but the throatiness and weakness of it I could hear easily. I reeked of the fear that came with the unknown. Shivers ran down my back, and I will think of how cold and hard the bleak room was. I retreated from the memory quickly, the transition jarring and sharp. Bolting up from my chair, I tumbled to the floor in front of me, my hands reaching out to shield my fall and crumbling under me. A familiar sting to the knees overcame me, and I struggled to stand and ignored the sigh of the man at his computer. What on earth? His voice came in a low hiss. “You have to be careful, injuries, minor or major-” “Are not allowed.” I breathed, trying to wrangle away from his strong hands, lifting me up by the waist. A thin smile blossomed over his face, making him look much older in an instant. Yet he carried the enthusiasm of a child who had gotten just what he wanted for Christmas. Giddy and excited, the expression seemed unnatural. “Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I recognized my voice, the words slipping out before I had time to think about them. Deja vu washed over me in waves, this was the second time I had experienced this series of events. I remembered it before it even happened. The memories became faster, rushing through my thoughts before he even had a chance to respond. I knew the answer, and more. Images and feelings coursed through me like lightning, heat flashing through my body while the memories came hot and fast. His voice, double-speed explaining how I was an experiment. My eyes focused on the picture frame hung up on the wall beside his computer, a girl in a loose red shirt smiling with purple paint splattered on her face and hands. My legs wobbling as I took a few shaky steps, until I managed to keep my balance, the man hovering nearby in case I tripped up.

The taste of an apple, crisp and sweet against my tongue. A hunger I didn’t know was there fading, questions flying out of my chapped list irritating the man who claimed if I was patient I would learn soon enough. He knew, the thought was future me and past me jumbled together. He knows this is happening, he wants it to happen.

With a spell of dizziness, I was catapulted back into the chair. I wiggled my fingers and felt my toes, I felt completely normal despite my weakness. And the man was still talking. Whatever paradox he had thrown me into, it was not fun to be bounced around in my own head unpredictably. But I couldn’t interrupt him and tell him I already knew, could I? Because then the future I saw would be incorrect, I wouldn’t get the explanation. My thoughts ran rampant with the possibilities, the concepts and theories. It all came back to the memories from the future. “Essentially, your brain has been tweaked to work in reverse-memory. You can remember the future, but not the past.” I inhaled, the memory of it fresh and a reminder of the time loop I had going. “It will last forever, it is non-reversible. Though, of course, you already know that.”

The fury and frustration I had hearing him tell me the first time made sense, it was like being goaded with a treat and then being told you already had it. But this time I understood. He understood. But it didn’t mean I liked it any more.

“I’m going to be stuck in this cycle of deja vu forever.” I repeated, my knuckled tightening around the armrests so tight my knuckles went white. I didn’t recall asking the question - it seemed like my memory wasn’t perfect from the future either.

His brows furrowed, and he pursed his lips tightly together. “I’m afraid so. I’m going to need for you to share with me what it is like though.” My mouth fell open. I was sure I had not been asked this the first time, this was new. Not just a slip of something insignificant, I would remember this. “But I don’t remember -” He waved his arms for me to stop. “Time will almost never play out exactly how it did before. It is ever-changing, hence the paradox is taken out. You didn’t need to actually hear me explain the concepts again, you would still remember, it’s just time would break off down a different path.” “Would I remember the new path?” I asked, my hands loosening from the arms of the chair.

He sighed. “It will come more naturally over time, and it won’t always be so clear. Right now, your brain is figuring out how to access these memories. Eventually it will be more dull and you will know more vague ideas you can call upon at will instead of being sucked into it.” “You knew I had already seen the future.” I ran my fingers through my hair, surprised when they fell through it easily without knots. It was such a blasphemous statement to say, one I would never have imagined letting fall from my lips without a second thought.

“You finished my sentence, and you were visibly bored when I went through the explanation.” He shrugged as if it were perfectly normal for him to know such things. “I can’t control it, it’s got a mind of it’s own I can’t-” I stammered, my words tripping over each other until his heavy hand came over my shoulder in a strangely paternal gesture. “Idaya, it’s mind is your mind. You will come to control it, not the other way around. There is nothing to fear here.” I fought the urge to jump up and run, opting instead to take a few shaky breaths and calm down. In that moment I lurched into memory again. It was less chaotic, slow, rather. Different from the previous events, these had a layer of fog separating them. The clarity had reduced, leaving only vague imprints of events, feelings, and thoughts. Me and the man, in deep discussion about what travelling through memory was like. Discussing the impermanence of it - I could not remember individual words but rather what I gleaned from them. I remember eating an apple, not the acidic taste on my tongue but the concept of eating it.

Removing myself from the memories came easier this time, for I had never truly disconnected from reality. I remained aware and conscious in the room, the memories taking over my subconscious and filing themselves away without my control.

He was right. It would sort itself out .

“You just returned?” His voice lifted at the end in question, his hands glossing over papers sprawled over his desk. Pausing over a frame of a girl in a red dress.

“I never really left this time.” I swallowed hard, nodding to myself. “It’s getting easier.” He nodded, and his smile was smaller as he walked over to the chair and offered me his hand. I glared at it. “Why did you do this to me?” The question was sharp and accusatory, but he did not seem to take offense. “Oh, you already know.” And I did, I realized. The mere thought of it summoned information taken from the future, beyond consciousness. He had made me this way because I would be a tool for him. And the prospect of escape would never be an option, unless I wanted to spend my life in a lab with my brain being dissected. And I knew this with perfect certainty. Begrudgingly accepting my fate, I put my small hand in his and allowed him to lift me up.

“Nice to know you, Jason.” I taunted, my mouth turning up into a crooked smile mirroring his. “I just have one request.” He nodded, hesitant, not knowing how big my demand would be. But it was nothing big, just a tiny desire. “I would like to have something to eat.” His face flooded with relief, and reaching into his bag, he pulled out a shiny red apple and handed it to me. “Thank you.” I said, biting into it and tasting the crisp, sweet flavour against my tongue.


Poor Wilson! One day his friend caught the perfect climate long awaited to go after his tail. Before he could even realize that what seemed to be his stroke of luck was really one of fate’s dirty little tricks. This happens the moment you are a slipshod to a quaint you never thought of coming. After twelve years to wake up at midnight and a thought of revenge comes creeping in. Raga staring at the rotating fan of his ceiling, jaw clenching, and his fist rumpling the sheets of his bed, reminiscing. What was thought to be oaf is now repulsing, like a respirator on his mouth, his heavy breathing caused not by a tremor now but of his merciless anger.

Twenty, now twenty years of age to finally get out of the cage.

His consistent moving and packing, the loudest of his crying woke a father that was sleeping. “What are you doing?” father asks, "Son, where are you going?" one eye open as the brightest light disturbing his sight.

“Back to the old place, father” to get some things done, something felonious, as he slip a pistol inside his bag secretly. “Oh, well, send my regards to Mr. Wilson’s” rolling over the bed and cover himself in sheets, a smile on his father’s face that knows nothing but of this Wilson’s fake grace.  Regards?! You might as well say goodbye for this fellow will soon die.

Quickly packing to go on his journey, a conquest it is. As the ground rumbles and stone stumbles, the train arrives to get him back to the past, to go and make an end of an unfinished past. To think of this eight years old Wilson’s smiling face, cheering from a success of making him piss, the thought of it every second adds to the urge of Raga’s vengeance.

The train is moving so fast like a portal way to this memory, a flashback of an eight year old Raga, a quietude in his third grade and Wilson is there too, of his obverse. Like the head and tail of the coin, the same world of different faces, his opposite occurs.

Throwing papers to someone who didn’t do, nothing, to make a boy cry with no reason, he doesn't know why. Wilson seems to be fast to get on his nerves. After twelve years, only after twelve years, why wait twelve years? To wait being twenty to suddenly get the urge to go on his way and make a move, make Wilson out of this way. Only then he get to stand straight on his own, his eight years old self was a turtle to never get out of his hard shell, lost and alone. The rumbling stops at the station. He have arrive, taking the first step out the train following by more steps and more, fast and quick like he got wheels in his sole. His sight paste on the white house at the end of this old street, walking as the hindsight playing. Staring at the house with the brightest light in the neighborhood, a sight of ghostly figure of kids playing while, it was then, he was whining, his anger seems to never be stop but keeps on forwarding and growing, and growing. There, behind the bushes, he put his bag down and cover closed with leaves, reloading his gun, practice a perfect aim and how to pull the trigger, and hide it in his jacket he goes on and on. Continue his walking, his jaw clenching all the way, his fist rolling, with a fine black suit, he looks to be like in a mafia, he is now finally ready. Unstoppable as he goes, standing in this fellows front door, one knock, two knocks, and three. Holding the pistol inside pocket, his finger is holding the trigger, preparing a pull, he is very ready. Waiting and wondering if this Wilson can still recognize the face of this kid’s sad eyes. The door creaking, could Wilson be the one opening? Standing and waiting, and then a bald man appears after opening the door. “Mr. Wilson?”, yes, it’s him, there’s no one else. This young man’s face changes through the years, the eyebrows in his face disappears, but a frown on his countenance is in sight. Who was once healthy and active boy to never stop running around and picking on other kids, is now battling from cancer after all those years. “Is that you?” Wilson, squishing his eyes trying to recognize a fellow he always long to find. Staring blankly, a long pause, of what he sees in front of his eyes, his teary eyes, trying to not show and sympathize. But no, he must go on and continue, for years and years of suffering by his doings, he must go on. He is here, standing, so close to his goal, pulling out the pistol and then the trigger...there's no going back, he is here, present and the past standing in front of him, there is no way of going back. Bang! Bang! Bang! Shooting him in the head three times, in Raga’s head, he is now dead. Bang! Bang! Bang! Another shot he whispered to himself, he is dead, he is dead, he is finally dead. “Raga, is that you?” this young man ask again and clarified. He doesn't seem to talk because a lump in his throat cause and blocked. Raga, as silent as he always was, never said a word, one step back and three steps down, walking away, he is to going back home now. “Raga?” he wonders again, as to only see the back of his friend slowly walking to an end. Down he walks of their childhood street, as tears finally drop, not from fears. It has been reprieve, that was it, replenished. To see a friend is what it mean, always been. That was why, after twelve years he have to go and see him even if it is only to drop by.

Looking back at his old house where he find the eight year old Wilson throwing stone at his window from the backyard, to go off and run with him through the night, to laugh over anything with no sense, two kids who are opposite to become friends in an unexpected ways, a bully and the bullied to end up as best friends. For one who rarely to socialize and one to running his mouth all day. One day to go and separate their own ways, Wilson to have another friend. And Raga, who became another lonely lad at high school as hate emerged of why, he seem to not understand why, but envy, he is suppose to stay. Walking back home, to the present, and to realize that he was his long lost friend. After he moved to another place, only then Wilson, without the other face of his coin, he have no one to call a best friend. For a social butterfly, Wilson, after Raga left, he have never want to see just any other passerby. -END-


**** The clock ticks. It will keep ticking. For exactly One Year. Unus Annus. Twelve months. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Each day, a task must be completed. Well, not just normal tasks. Tasks that incur suffering and pain. Tasks that punish and torture. Consume that which is made with the tools used to exercise grotesque erotic urges. Build and destroy utilising only horribly deformed limbs. Go blind to see death. Go deaf to hear death. Go numb to feel death. These are but some of the cruel tasks that await. For there are three hundred and sixty five of these tasks. All different, all unique, all with the intent to make you wish you were doing anything else. But you will have to live through it for One Year. Unus Annus. They are not unlike the labours that Greek heroes had to go through for their abundant sins. But instead of twelve over twelve years, such as those of Heracles. It is three hundred and sixty five over three hundred and sixty five days. The hardship and stress of the Labours all compressed into One Year. Unus Annus. But what great sins are you atoning for? Living a wrong life, which brought suffering upon many and desecrating the sacredness of family, like Heracles did? Or living a life that was not wrong enough, not taking risks, missing out on an opportunity which was only presented to you for a year? And for having missed that opportunity, you must now be punished for another. Perhaps, you have not committed great sins, and instead you are a martyr, suffering for what you believe to be a greater cause, suffering for the sake of others. A selfless act of sacrifice, which is amplified by the fact that it lasts One Year. Unus Annus. Regardless of why you must live through this, there is only one thing that you can ask of those that witness your suffering. Ask them that they don’t follow in your footsteps. Ask them to never attempt to re-enact this atrocity. Ask them to watch and learn from you. For you know what horrors this year holds. Horrors that develop and fester in new forms every single day, finding new ways to abuse you physically and mentally until you are exhausted in every way possible. It is only to hope the fatigue sets in near the end of this One Year. Unus Annus. So, are you prepared for this journey? Are you prepared to drag yourself through a year of pain? The answer is likely no, but it is too late. The mechanism has already been set in motion. Oh, and if you thought slacking was a possibility, that you could perhaps find ways to postpone this terror, it is not recommended. Clear goals have been set. If you achieve these goals in time? Good for you, the suffering will be made infinitesimally more bearable. But if you do not achieve them in time? It will only incur more suffering. So just put up with it until the end. What does the end bring you might wonder? Release. Freedom. All that encompassed this year of suffering will cease to exist, as if it never happened. The only evidence of your suffering is your own trauma. Will you persevere and reduce this ordeal to nothing but a faint memory? Or will you succumb under the overwhelming prospect of three hundred and sixty five cruel tasks? There is no need to answer this now, just remember Memento Mori. Unus Annus.


I have attended many graduation ceremonies through the years. First as a student, then as a professor, now as a psychologist for Repair Hope. This graduation was a bit special. Rhiannon Tremayne is simply, one of a kind. As her psychologist, I am proud to be part of this moment in her life. Cary Alden, my dear friend, and founder of Repair Hope sat on my right and on my left the indispensable Mrs. McCarthy, the household chatelaine.

Cary sat up tall as the president of the Hospitality and Culinary Arts program moved toward the platform. I saw Mrs. M. retrieve a hankie from her purse with which to dab her eyes. A smile crossed my face as I saw Rhiannon standing in line. We were all so proud of her. She snuck a quick look back to see where we were seated.

The President of the College began to read names. As I watched Rhiannon walk across the stage to accept her diploma I felt a deep sense of pride. Her radiant smile was nearly as big as her petite frame. She looked very sophisticated in the beautiful cyan blue suit Mrs. M. gifted to Rhiannon for this auspicious day. She looked so different from the day I met her at the Repair Hope office.

 Rhiannon and I came to Cary Alden’s Repair Hope network like wounded falcons. The Cary did not clip our wings to keep us safe. Instead, Repair Hope tethered us to a foundation of life until we were ready to fly on our own. Hope never breaks the desire to soar it affixes one to a focal point to which we can return time and time again for strength.

After the graduation ceremony there was a party at the Repair Hope house/office. (they were one and the same) The Tremayne family, Rhiannon’s parents and siblings, had come to celebrate with their college graduate.  I stood talking to a few of the young people Rhiannon invited to the party when Mr. and Mrs. Tremayne came and stood by my elbow. I excused myself from my current companions to address them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Tremayne, I’m Emma James it is wonderful to meet you.” I said. Rhiannon was such a lovely girl it was obvious they’d done an excellent job raising her.

Mrs. Tremayne, a bubbly woman about my age, said “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you Dr. James.”

“Call me Emma, please. I feel so old when people call me Dr. James.” I laughed.

Mr. Tremayne said “You’ve done wonders with our daughter. We expected that one day Rhiannon would do great things, but we never would have fathomed how far she’d come in just a short time. She’s polished and professional!”

“I assure you it’s all Rhiannon’s doing. She was very motivated to learn! She soaks up all that she can from those willing to invest in her education. Your family has been her inspiration.” I replied happily.

Just then Rhiannon walked up to her parents and spoke, “Mom and Dad, it’s time for me to change into my uniform. I’m going to help Mrs. McCarthy prepare the food right in front of everyone! Why don’t you come sit down? I’ve already seated the rest of the family.

They drifted off to the dining room where the food prep was about to take place. Mrs. McCarthy and Rhiannon were very excited about the demonstration.

As the dishes were brought from the Kitchen for preparation I moved to the back of the room. My mind began to drift back to when I first met Cary Alden. I became acquainted with Cary on the heels of his graduation from medical school. He was already a talented surgeon. Hospitals all over the world were clamoring for him. I was a PhD candidate at State University of Albany. I was young and ambitious. Cary dreamt of helping the world through medicine. I was competing to become a professor of social psychology. I was tough, and passionate. He was driven but compassionate. We made unlikely friends. Cary was, and is, a quiet, gentle, yet, an incredibly brave man. His heart is as big as the ocean. In my early years I was “as bold as brass”, Cary liked to say. I wasn’t going to change the world, I was going to beat it into submission. I was, and continue to be, gregarious, an open book, opinionated and fiercely protective. We may have been very different back in our college days, however, we did have one trait in common, loyalty. A fierce ally of friends and family, almost to a fault. Cary would prove this not just to me but to everyone around me in the years to come.

In 1977 I earned a Teaching Assistant position at State University of Albany in the Psychology Department. My supervising professor was a brilliant man, though a little quirky. For several months we worked together very well. Then he began to rely on me for everything. For an entire year I taught classes, graded papers, helped him with his daily planner, kept his meetings with his students and helped him with his medical appointments. Professor Gilland was dying of cancer. He said he wanted to “stick around long enough to make sure I got his teaching position.” He did live long enough to ensure that I got his teaching post. It didn’t make me popular, at first, but it did make me a full-fledged professor directly after I graduated with my PhD. That was rare at SUA. Over the years I became a highly rated teacher, professor, ally to the college, a fundraiser, and I helped out at the free health clinic on campus when I could. The only thing I did not have time for was a personal life. My friends got married, had children, did all the usual “mom or dad” things while I graded papers, did adult continuing education lectures in the city, and kept an exhausting schedule on the world lecture circuit. For the most part I enjoyed my life. The students kept me sharp. My well-meaning friends often tried to fix me up on blind dates, find me suitable escorts for various functions, and planned dinners where there just happened to be a single guy seated at the table.

I met Cary, quite by accident, at a function for the college. A black tie affair where I was to present a legacy award to a fellow professor. The college insisted that I couldn’t possibly attend unattached, so they put me at a table with a visiting archaeology lecturer from Oriel College in Oxford. While he was quite charming, he was in fact a full 2 inches shorter than I even though I was wearing flats, not to mention the fact we had very little in common. As the long night wore on I stepped out of the hall for a breath of fresh air. Standing against a wall apparently taking the air himself, was Cary Alden. All 6’ 3” of him. I startled him, he startled me, then we both laughed. I must have looked like a deer in headlights because he was quite honestly the most handsome man I’d ever seen in person. I introduced myself.  He said he recognized me from my picture in The Annual Review of Psychology. I blushed. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Cary Alden. His mother had given him the perfect name. He was every bit as handsome as the movie star by the same name. I asked him if he was there at the behest of the college or as someone’s plus one for the evening. He told me, as politely as he could that he was someone’s plus one but that the “date” was not going well. He said that if my date continued to go badly I could count on him to help me make a swift escape. He pointed to his sports car across the parking lot.

  We did eventually say good night to our dates. He invited me to meet him at a quaint little Italian restaurant around midnight for a slice of cheesecake. I gratefully accepted. From that night on Cary and I remained very close friends. Though I think at times we both wanted more from the relationship, neither of us had the time.

By 1990 Cary was a successful surgeon and inventor of various lifesaving medical devices. While he did perform surgeries, his real passion was for inventing. His devices were essential therefore, held international patents. However, he always kept a low profile. Cary was not the egotistical, stereotypical “television” caricature of a surgeon. He was incredibly humble. I could always count on that humility and gentleness to help me when I needed advice or a shoulder to cry on. No matter where he was in the world he always took my calls day or night.

I had been a professor for 13.5 years. In the Fall of 1990 I became acting department head. I was in the position for less than a year when I began to notice that something was terribly wrong with the entrance exam test scores for our incoming applicants. It was part of my responsibility to assess the students applying to our department. I noticed that the test scores for coveted athletes and children of the well-to-do were altered in our department computer. My understanding was that our terminal was password protected. I changed the password on the computer, I also made note of the grade for each prospective student before I left for the day.

I arrived home later than usual. Exhausted, I sat down to a slice of pizza and a small salad, but I didn’t feel much like eating. If what I suspected were true the University could be in big trouble with those that provide funding to the school. Since my computer was the master for the department, it would look particularly bad for me. Was this all about money? I needed to talk to Cary. I called his pager number inputting our usual code for when there was an urgent situation. He called me back within the hour.

I told Cary what had happened. He told me to make notes of everything that happened including dates and not to say anything to anyone else before I had hired a lawyer.

It wasn’t long before the whole sordid story came out in the local rag. There was systemic cheating on entrance test scores. The Psychology Department was the worst offender. Whether I knew of, or was involved with the scandal was immaterial. I was acting department head. I was at the helm when the scandal broke. It was my career at an end. I’d never teach again.

  I turned my evidence over to my lawyer with my resignation. I asked him to give the resignation to the Board of Directors of the school. The pain was so excruciating. I was in mental and physical pain. I had no idea what I was going to do. My whole life had been about psychology and teaching psychology. I had no husband or children of my own, my friends evaporated, as did my job prospects. I’d never work in this town again with the scandal hanging over my head.

  The stress became too much to handle. I would go to bars, restaurants, bookstores, libraries, anyplace that there were people and noise, or music. I just didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to shut everything out. As if that would solve the problem. Having been a psychology professor, shouldn’t I have known better? Probably. I’d worked so hard and for so long, for what? To be cast out without the courtesy of an investigation. My mind raced constantly, I couldn’t eat, and consequently I couldn’t sleep. The anxiety was getting to be too much   When Cary read about the scandal in a magazine. I hadn’t even called him. The humiliation was too much. He knew me well enough to know that by now I was very likely spiraling downwards. He wasn’t wrong.

  The Aldens had a private plane. Cary and the wonderful Mrs. McCarthy came to look for me. They scoured the city. They finally found me sitting in some lounge sipping a martini with some guy I’d never met. I was dangerously thin, seriously stressed out, and losing my grip.

   I spotted Cary and Mrs. McCarthy across the less-than-attractive, smoke filled bar. I stood to try to intercept them at the door. My clothes hung on me like sackcloth, my hair barely styled fell across my face as if I’d just stepped out of a horror movie, the makeup under my eyes could not hide the black circles from lack of sleep. As I got to my feet I started to faint. Partly from the surprise of seeing the two of them and partly because I hadn’t eaten. Cary caught me on my way to the floor. Mrs. McCarthy helped walk me to the waiting car. I heard her start to sob quietly.

  Behind the scenes the ever loyal Alden family began to expose those who had destroyed my career and my good name. Having acquired certain papers which revealed the true nature and depth of the corruption at State University Albany. I did not ask how he achieved this, I was grateful to have my name cleared and by a man whose reputation was beyond reproach.

 Cary took me to his family home where he and Mrs. M. nursed me back to health. Repair Hope was in its infancy at the time. I was asked to consult on some cases while recuperating. I was excited about the possibilities. Within three months of my arrival at the Alden Estate, now headquarters of Repair Hope, I had made Cary an offer. I would use my skills to help the clients and the organization. They would need someone to do psychological consults, help with testing for school placement, college entrance exams, tutoring, and of course preparing any promotional materials as needed. In return, I would be allowed to stay at Repair Hope’s ample facilities. In the Spring of I was officially offered a position as Psychologist and Education Director.

  Perhaps we became a bit of a cliché, Cary and I. We didn’t plan to start a personal relationship. However, that’s exactly what happened. Neither of us had ever invested ourselves in a serious romantic relationship. We simply did not feel the need. Now that he and I were both in our 50s it became evident that we had the best foundation for a romantic relationship. There had been no denying that we had walked into this deepening romance with our eyes wide open. He gave me butterflies the first time I laid eyes on him. That should have been my first clue.

I must have been smiling when Cary came over. He touched my arm, causing me to give a little start.

  “Where have you been?” He asked with a smirk.   “Far away and long ago.” I replied.

  “Really? Well how about coming to dinner?” he asked.

  I laughed as I took his arm.

  Rhiannon smiled broadly as we sat down in chairs at the end of the table. Cary sat at the head and I sat on his right. Mrs. McCarthy winked at me. I smiled in return.

  As we ate I chatted with the Tremayne family. They sat wide-eyed at the artistic plate presentation and the carefully chosen gourmet dishes. They complemented their daughter and Mrs. M. on their excellent cooking. The evening had been a complete success.   As the perfect end to our week the board invited Rhiannon to be the Assistant Executive Director of Hospitality and Nutrition. Though this may have felt like the end of the story, in reality, it was just the beginning.


The early morning sun rose above the clouds. A strong, crisp, breeze whispered through a slightly opened window. A family of three, a young girl and her parents, sat at a table with their calendars open to the month of May. "So, what's happening on the 17th? And what about the 29th" The girl asked, her voice sharpened with a hint of impatience. She sat, tapping her pencil against the open book. she stared at the book. absorbing every little detail. The family was doing their weekly calendar planning. "Patience Victoria!" The Father snapped, then he glanced at his beloved wife for support. The mother smiled in amusement. "Victoria, we are still planning May 9th " The mother replied gently. Victoria sighed and sank further into her seat. The father looked at his daughter. He disappointment and impatience coming off her in waves and hoped to brighten her spirits. He looked at his calendar searching for something that would be stirring. Then he spotted the perfect thing. "Your Birthday Party is next week. Are you excited?!" He asked in a low, kind, voice. Victoria immediately sat upright, her eyes blazing with excitement. "Yes! I'm so Excited to have all my friends over! It'll be really fun! There'll be tons of cake! It'll be totally amazing!" Victoria bounced up and down in her chair, thinking of all the people she going to invite and all the stuff she wanted to do. "It's extremely exciting. You must be thrilled!" Her mother commented, feeling her daughter's excitement wash over her like a tsunami. "I can't wait!" Victoria said.

She had to wait though. Her father advised her to put it out of her mind “A watched pot never boils” he told her but she did not listen. The days dragged on and on. Victoria felt as if the day of the party would never come. She tried to keep busy, doing endless crafts and reading tirelessly. She was so focused on the celebration that she hardly noticed anything else. Her friends at school who were coming could obviously see that she was distracted, but they were just as excited. They could not stop talking about what they wanted to do and how they were going to do it. Her best friend, Monica, was Victoria’s go to person for encouragement or advice. Monica was the definition of silent but deadly. She did not talk a lot, but if there was an enemy harming her friends then she would mean every threat she made. She was truly kind but she tended to live in the moment and go with the flow. The total opposite of Victoria. They spent all their spare time together. After school Victoria went to a coffee shop with Monica. “you really need to slow down, stop thinking 90 miles per minute.” Monica advised, but Victoria waved it off metaphorically with her hand and took another sip of her coffee. “I don’t need to think I have everything planned. And when my plans begin, I plan for the next thing.” she replied with a cheeky smirk. Monica gave her a long look and decided that there was no point in arguing.  “ha-ha anything is more than I have planned", Monica joked quietly. She spent the rest of the day wishing that tomorrow would come now.

Finally, the day of her birthday was upon them. Victoria stood outside and paced the sidewalk restlessly. As soon as the clock turned 12:00 cars flooded into her driveway. Monica, her best friend, ran out before the car had stopped and flew at Victoria. They hugged each other but Victoria could not stay and talk. There were many more guests arriving. She greeted each of them in turn and guided them to the gift table, then the food table. When everyone arrived, she took them all to the pool and they dove in. “you guys are going to love the cake later” She told them as she gestured towards a box in the middle of a table. They stared in awe at the mysterious box. They partied until it was time for them to leave. “see you guys at school this Monday!” they left and Victoria told her mother “that was fun. I can't wait for my birthday”

The morning light filtered in through the blinds. The alarm clock shouted its unending beeping. Victoria jumped out of bed, half from Surprise and half from joy. It was finally her birthday! “My 13th birthday! I'm finally a Teenager!” She cheered quietly so as not to wake her father who was still sleeping. She quickly changed into her school clothes, ate her breakfast, and stared in Awe at the gifts her mother had placed on the table. There were few presents but Victoria was excited nonetheless. " I'm so excited to open these tonight!" She whispered to herself. Her mom who had been taking a shower came out and pretended that it was a normal day as a fun prank. She did her normal routine, preparing for work. Victoria was thoroughly confused. she legitimately thought that her mother had forgotten her birthday. The mother dropped the façade and she gave her a large 'Happy Birthday' hug and drove her to school. At school all her friends told her "Happy birthday!", and her friends who were unable to come to her birthday party gave her little gifts like socks and keychains from her favorite TV show.

"I can't believe how great today has been! I can't wait for tonight!"  Victoria thought.

School ended and Victoria bounded to the car as fast as she could. She drove home. Her father stopped by her favorite ice cream place as a surprise! She ordered a triple-scoop-chocolate-cookie-dough cone-ice-cream. She quickly devoured the scrumptious treat. They arrived home and Victoria opened all her presents! She loved them all, and could not wait to use them later. Cake came next and wasn't it delicious! Victoria enjoyed every last savory bit of it. Victoria and her parents sat on the balcony and watched the beautiful sunset. Many minutes of silence passed until Victoria turned to her parents. "What next?" She asked innocently. Her father chuckled and her mother turned to her with a smile. she looked Victoria in the eyes with a stare that would kill anyone with kindness. Victoria enjoyed the warmth of her mother's gaze but her burning question still fresh in her mind. Her mother turned back to the sunset and after another long time of silence answered. "Now we enjoy the gift of a moment!" She replied Victoria looked at her with a puzzled gaze “the present gift” She explained. And for the first time, Victoria stopped thinking about what is next. She just sat in the moment, wistfully watching the sunset gently descend behind the clouds.