In the quaint outskirts of a small Greek town, there lived a reclusive inventor named Alberto. Kind-hearted but peculiar, he found his solace in the company of his contraptions rather than in people. While he may have been socially obtuse, he was nevertheless culturally impassioned, having a profound fondness for old things. His cozy cottage home overflowed with vintage gadgets, antique books, and cogs of forgotten contraptions scattered throughout. Alberto's true passion, though, was found in building robots to perform various chores. His "little helpers," as he called them, were small and singularly-tasked. Some cooked. Some cleaned. Some maintained his garden. They all did their jobs and little else, but that was alright with Alberto. Each robot he built was slightly more efficient, slightly more intricate, and slightly more equipped to manage bigger and more complicated tasks than the robot before it. In the back of his mind, Alberto had a dream. He wanted to live forever, and the only way he could imagine doing that was to create a robot capable enough to contain his mind, the essence of his inner man. His dream was not nefarious, do not be mistaken. He did not seek great power or infamy. On the contrary, he merely loved to build, to tinker, and to see his creations hustling and bustling around him. He could not bear the thought that, one day, his hands would be unable to hold a tool, or that his eyes would be unable to see the small hole fit for a screw. He wanted to live forever so that he could work forever, constantly improving on the robots he built. And yet, despite his dream, and despite all the marvelous machines he had already built, his years of work had failed to produce a robot equipped enough to hold his mind as its central computer. He did not give up, though. Instead, as the gentle sounds of Nat King Cole played from the needle and vinyl in the corner of his workshop, he toiled away at his robots, crafting mechanical wonders that simplified his daily routines. One foggy morning, a soft knocking interrupted his work. Surprised by the intrusion, he cautiously opened the door to find a beautiful woman standing before him. Her name was Vivian, and she had an air of determination about her that intrigued the tinkerer. She introduced herself as an emissary of one Codrick Benino, the president of a prestigious robotics company, keen on hiring him to build state-of-the-art automatons for their clients. With a polite smile and a firm shake of his head, Alberto declined the offer, preferring the solitude of his workshop and his endearing household of mechanical helpers. He was autonomous and preferred to stay that way. Indeed, though he was a man of great passion, his zeal was only for his inventions. Many lovers had come and gone, each one coming into his life with the typical hopes that all new romances enjoy. One by one those hopes would whither, as Alberto would find his initial willingness to explore such feelings become a burden to his work. "Why invite me in at all, then?" the question would be asked of time and again. "I do not know," he would honestly admit. There was something that kept him seeking human companionship, but still something else that caused him to tire of it as soon as it began. Undeterred by Alberto's initial rejection, Vivian returned a week later, bearing a fresh proposal from her company. Despite her persuasiveness and the allure of near unlimited funds, Alberto remained steadfast in his reluctance. He cherished the freedom his reclusive life offered, where he could work without obligation to anyone but himself. He did not need the money being offered. His robots could farm and harvest. They could repair leaky roofs. He had all that he needed, thank you very much. And yet, Vivian's visits continued, and though Alberto's answer remained the same, he nevertheless continued to hear her out, listening with his head sticking out of his doorway, never so much as inviting his regular guest inside. Until, one day, for no discernable reason, either to Vivian or to Alberto himself, he changed his mind. She knocked on his door, as usual, and this time, instead of cracking the heavy mahogany door open enough to reveal his face, he extended it entirely and stepped aside to allow the lady to enter. "Would you like to see what I'm working on?" he asked her. Naturally, she was excited, and hurried in before he might change his mind. He gave her a tour of his untidy workplace, and listened as she expressed sincere fascination and wonder over his creations. As the weeks continued, each encounter further deepened their connection, leading to conversations that transcended robotics. Much to his delight, she shared in his love of old things, and they bonded over Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable." As the days stretched into nights, Alberto and Vivian's bond blossomed. They reveled in the pleasure of each other's company, finding mutual comfort in the beauty of simple moments. In the quiet corners of Alberto's workshop, they danced together, swaying as dulcet tones filled the air. Every time she visited, he had another trinket to show, but as the visits continued, she became less and less interested in seeing them, just as he became less and less interested in showing them. Eventually, her visits became matters of pleasure, instead of business. Alberto could no longer remain alone, he knew this. His dream of living forever inside a machine would have to wait. In the meantime, he wanted to live side-by-side with Vivian. He planned his proposal and decided to set the scene amidst a candlelit dinner. A table was prepared with vintage china and an exquisite bouquet of flowers, while Nat King Cole's melodies gently filled the space of his tidied-up workshop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the door knocked, and Alberto's heart skipped a beat. Vivian was not there, however. Instead, a menacing figure loomed at the doorstep – a mobster with a cold gaze. He introduced himself as Vito, a "business associate" of Codrick Benino, who was tired of having his generous offers so casually dismissed. Vito threatened Alberto, demanding he surrender the secrets of his remarkable robot technology. Fear coursed through the inventor's veins, but he held firm, refusing to betray his creations or compromise his principles. Just as the tension between Alberto and the mobster reached its peak, another knock sounded in the workshop, and this time, it was Vivian at the door. Her eyes widened in shock and concern as she witnessed the confrontation before her. A heated argument ensued, threats were made, both physical and legal, and soon, a shot rang out. The mobster's bullet found its mark, silencing Vivian's voice forever. The workshop fell into a chilling stillness, broken only by a final threat given by Vito, and the promise that he would return in one week's time to collect everything Mr. Benino demanded. Distraught and filled with profound grief, Alberto knew he could not remain idle. His love for Vivian, and the guilt he carried for her death, compelled him to act. He gathered his tools, and a few of his unfinished prototype robots, and devised a plan to ensure the unscrupulous company paid for their deeds. That morning, Alberto visited Codrick Benino, and brought him a package that he promised would solve all his problems. Satisfied, Mr. Benino offered Alberto a great sum of money, which the inventor gladly accepted. That afternoon, Alberto sailed to a small island on the Mediterranean Sea, to begin a new life out of sight and out of mind. That evening, a tremendous explosion rang out within the offices of Codrick Benino, killing the company president and ending his business for good. Years passed, and in the seclusion of his lonely Mediterranean island, Alberto stewed in bitterness and regret. Slowly, the spark of creativity he once possessed began to rekindle and he set his mind on his work once more. Only now, his work was not a passion, but an obsession. He worked, not for the love of working, but for the desperate need to refocus his mind. He saw his time with Vivian as a mistake. He had to. Any other thought would be too painful to dwell on. Instead, he chose to believe his original quest-- to live forever within a mechanical creation-- was the goal he never should have abandoned. He turned his attention to the unfinished automatons he brought to the island with him. And yet, despite his insistence, he could not deny his heart. Subconsciously, each robot he worked on, and marked with a Roman numeral, became an extension of his own emotions, and a tribute to the life that was taken from him. The first robot, "I," was taught how to walk, and its initial steps mirrored Alberto's own as he gave it a tour of his untidy workshop. The second, "II," was taught how to speak, and it spoke with the gentle warmth he once had, easing the burden of his loneliness. "III" learned to sing the songs he had cherished with Vivian, filling the air with Nat King Cole's timeless melodies. The fourth, "IV," absorbed his thoughts and musings, pondering life's mysteries alongside him, the way he and she had once done after their many dinners together. The fifth, "V," was taught how to dance with Vivian's grace, evoking memories of happier times they had shared. But it was the sixth robot, "VI," that captured his heart. As he had done five times before, he leaned over the machine's chrome body and began to write its name. He etched the V. He etched the I. Six was the intended number, but it was a name that came to mind instead. He kept adding letters, and once he started, he could not stop until he was done. "VI" became "VIVIAN" and the sight of her name brought an emotional surge unlike anything he had experienced in years. The memories of his beloved flooded back, as if her presence was guiding him from beyond the veil of time. He decided to recreate her, not as an exact replica but as a tribute to the love they had shared. Alberto crafted a body for the "VIVIAN" robot that resembled his lost love, with her radiant smile and gentle eyes. He programmed her with the ability to walk, talk, sing, and dance, just like the other robots, but something else was missing. VIVIAN needed something more, but he did not know how to give it to her. As the robot's eyes opened for the first time, she gazed upon Alberto with curiosity and asked, "Who am I?" "VIVIAN," came his answer, but when the robot did not reply, he prompted her: "Ask me who I am." "I know who you are," VIVIAN answered. "I am programmed with all the memories from robots I through V. You are Alberto. You are--" "No," Alberto said, stopping the robot from finishing. "Ask me who I am." "Alright," it answered. "Who are you?" Tears welled in his eyes as he told her everything, sharing the most intimate parts of his life and the cherished memories he held dear. As he talked, he taught, leading VIVIAN through the motions that the previous robots had learned, walking talking, singing, and dancing. They danced together a lot in the days that followed, swaying to the nostalgic tunes of "Embraceable You" and "Unforgettable." Slowly, imperceptibly, Alberto allowed himself to be vulnerable once again, pouring his heart out to his creation. In VIVIAN, he found the catharsis he desperately needed, as she became the vessel for his emotions and the essence of his being. In time, he told her of his great desire, to put a part of himself in a robot so that it would live forever. He showed her the device he was tinkering with, unfinished, and asked if she would help him. Of course she agreed, but before they could begin again, a fever took him. The next few weeks found him in his bed more than at his desk. His robots kept his island cottage running, and VIVIAN, in particular, sat with him at his bedside while he rested, listening to him talk whenever he had strength to. Days passed but his fever lingered. Eventually, his old body tired too much to fight his illness. His life slipped free of his flesh, and he died in her arms, unfinished. VIVIAN remained on the island. The other robots remained with her, lacking the complexity of her design, lacking the depth of her learning. She continued to dance and sing, even when III and V abandoned such things for more practical work around the cottage. When IV stopped meditating on ideas and asking probing questions, VIVIAN's eyes glistened with the memories she held. The inventor was buried. His mind would not live on as he desired, but his love and passion would echo through time, carried within the circuits of his final creation. In VIVIAN, Alberto found a kind of immortality, not in the form of a transferred mind, but as a memory that would never fade, loved by something...by someone who would live on.


                                SAVING FIRE   Watching Lydia toss and turn in a restless sleep, Chase Elliot had not left her side since he pulled her from the fire. As her mother, I feared she might not be able to recover from the intensive burns and injuries she sustained. Chase fell asleep in the hospital recliner, murmuring unintelligible words reliving the rescue. I looked out the hospital window into the vast starless sky. The darkness seemed to envelop us in this foreign unknown territory uncertain of what the outcome might be. Leaving the room, I walked to the nurses station to ask for an extra blanket. I brought the blanket to the room, spread it over Chase's sleeping form. Next I kissed my daughter on her forehead, whispering words of love in her ear. For right now, I needed to reflect on God’s word and the comfort it would bring.

   Dawn ushered in the new day, I pondered what to do step by step. This morning the doctor would make his rounds and inform us of Lydia ‘s condition. Chase and I waited for the doctor and the only sounds in her room was the machine helping her to breathe easier. The first talk, Lydia was heavily sedated and this is the news we received. Lydia's burns extended to second degree burns to her neck, head, and right arm. This type of burn affects both the epidermis and the second layer of skin called the dermis. It may cause swelling and red, white or splotchy skin. Blisters may develop, and pain can be severe. Deep second degree burns can cause scarring. The doctor recommended a treatment plan of laser scar treatment, skin grafts, and reconstructive surgery could involve months to complete.   Lydia and Chase had broken up a month before this vicious assault occurred. Lydia was very quiet about the break-up simply stating she realized just in time they were too different from each other. Lydia had met a new man, I hadn’t even met him yet. This was their second date, on the first date they had gone to see a play at the theatre on campus at the college they both attended. On the second date, they went out to eat at a restaurant that Lydia had chosen. The restaurant was Outback Steakhouse, and Lydia was wearing a little black dress, accessorized with a gold chain belt to emphasize her small waistline. She had gone to the hair salon, choosing a shorter cut and color, ash blonde for a new look. Lydia walked to the bathroom in the restaurant, her date accused her with flirting with an admirer. Unexpectedly, from behind he poured gasoline all over her when they reached his car. Chase watched from the parking lot and took action. Now in this present time, the first thing you noticed when you looked at her was the ugly purple skin on her neck and above that matted hair, in need of washing and untangling.

   Lydia and Chase found their way back to each other, through a lot of laughter and tears whenever I stepped out of the hospital room briefly. Often both Chase and I would be there in the weeks in the hospital and the burn center as an inpatient. At times Chase would go home to his Mom and Dad's for a rest, shower, and meal before returning as we started to relax a bit. I went to our home, it was lonely without Lydia beside me. Our dog, Toby a blonde cocker spaniel was so sad at home that I took him over to my sister's house for playdates with her collie dog, Queenie.    Most days Chase or I would take turns walking with Lydia down the hallway. Holding the IV pole and fluids, Lydia seemed to gain strength each day. Losing some friends along the way, Lydia drew to us for strength as I sought strength from God and my Sunday school class from church. A day arrived quite unexpectedly that transported Valerie from our neighborhood and on our street. She had called Lydia to ask if she could come visit. The treatments were coming to a close: the reconstructive surgery was complete, skin grafts were complete, and the laser scar treatments were halfway through. The visit went well, and Lydia looked forward to her discharge from the burn center. The doctor had been pleased with Lydia's progress. Treatments, the doctor spoke of for a couple of weeks in outpatient therapy. Lydia and Valerie poured through wedding magazines planning an intimate private ceremony. Valerie was asked to be the maid of honor and Chase’s brother Josh was asked to be the best man. Mrs. Elliot and I shared conversations for the upcoming wedding. In our latest conversation, she said we are going to be family, call me Gayle.    Lydia was determined not to hide away and isolate herself due to this unfortunate circumstance. On the day of the wedding, a deacon from my home church escorted Lydia down the aisle. The delicately designed veil covered the burn on her head. The neckline of her wedding dress was heart shaped, exposing the burn on her neck, a small amount of scarring. More scarring was on her right arm not visible to the eye. She looked absolutely radiant, reminding me of when I married her father. The war in Iraq took him from us forever. Lydia was a baby when her father died, has no conscious memory of him. Memories I share are all from my loyal heart, she deserves that much from me.     Lydia begins the journey of a lifetime with the love of her life by her side. Chase’s Uncle Bob has loaned him his Studebaker from his car collection. Ridgefield’s Country Club has packed an abundantly full picnic basket perfect for a drive in the country. In the basket is a small decorated box full of well wishes from the intimate party of wedding guests. All of us touched by this sad circumstance has come through the fire tried and true. Showing strength, courage, endurance to persevere in adverse conditions. You learn who your friends are and who they are not. Lydia learned of the faithfulness of a lifetime companion. Saving fire burning away the dross and stubble, leaving only fine gold and silver.


You named me Ella and that was a beautiful word to be called. With hand-carved arms and a manufactured head, I was made for little girls like you. But you aren't a little girl anymore and that's why I no longer see you. I strived to grow, to develop, to age as you did; but what can I do when you have matured beyond the need for childish goods? It is upsetting how years can change a person, especially someone like you. I remember swinging in your arms the first day we met and feeling your heartbeat more times than I could count. When you held me tight during those awful, thunderous nights, I could pretend that it was my heart beating, too. And the safety of those warm blankets and hugs that saw us through to the morning without those horrible nightmares of yours. I know how much they frightened you, and if I could smile, you would have seen how I loved to be your miniature guardian. I often wonder if you recall those nights. If it pleases you at all to travel back in time and relive those memories as I do every day. Being a grown-up must be very tough - you don't seem to have any time to play anymore. In fact, it's been nearly three years since you last opened this bag. I miss seeing you. You don't even stop to wipe the dust off me anymore, and it's starting to build. Was it something that I did to upset you? I can't think of what it could be. I'm a terrific listener and your secrets were always safe with me. If I ever hurt you, I am truly sorry. But I believe it is you that has hurt me, and I don't get an apology. Which is okay, but I could really use you right now; to share the little bit of Sophie time that only I got to experience - moments that I still hold dear to my hollow chest, and cherish. Pig seems to be doing well; he doesn't appear to mind the silence - you know what he's like, though. Always was one to stay in the corner while the others had fun. I think he was more obsessed with counting his coins than play time. However, Sheep isn't holding as strong. She and Dino were arguing the other day about ripping open this thin, black plastic and coming to see you personally; but I reminded them that we shouldn't. Although we could if we wanted to - you didn't make this abyss very secure, you know. And some of us aren't so patient. Fourteen years old you were when we last spoke. The events of that day still project themselves onto the nothing that I have to see with each awakening. Though, truth be told, we never really went to sleep when you did - I can't close my eyes. And neither can Pig, nor Sheep or Dino. But our painted eyes eventually became accustomed to the void that envelops our entire existence, and, in my more sane-less nights, I see you there in front of me - dancing. Dancing and skipping and singing! Oh, how exceptional you were at singing for such a young age! Karaoke night was a favourite of mine, and Dino's, too! Sheep could never quite get that stutter under control. It's a shame that you stopped using your voice like that. I may be in the attic but I would know when my Sophie was singing! You made all of us so proud. I've heard that you aren't doing too well in school anymore. What happened? Last I saw you, a future of being a teacher was sparkling in your eye! Or was it an actress? Or a model? You were going to be so many things! We all believed in you! Pig would have tippled on his plump side with all the coins you'd present to him. And Sheep, Dino and I would have enjoyed just watching the world by your side. It is strange that you seemed to lose interest in a lot of subjects around the same time - not just with me. What is it with growing up that you all crave so much? Why can't you remain the same as we do? It doesn't look like a whole lot of fun to be a teenager, something you repeatedly whispered to me that you couldn't wait to be. But how fun it would be for you to join us in this bag. Even just for one day. Maybe forever. I don't have much for us to do in terms of games, but we all enjoy a good chat in the middle of the night. Mainly about you. Maybe you've heard us. I'm not sure if your eyes would adjust to being in this darkness - ours haven't. But your vision will be better, I think. It could be even better again if you always kept them open like we do. Just thinking about you being in here with us is making me giddy! Butterflies, Sophie! They are called butterflies! I remember you telling me this and thinking it was so silly. But that's what they are, I suppose - and I don't get them when I think of anyone else. I don't really feel much at all when I'm not thinking of you. I was asked the other day from a particularly sad Sheep, "Ella, what will we do if one day she really does come back? How do we act or what do we say? I feel like I want to cry just thinking about it." And I answered her honestly, "I don't know." After the first few months, I never had a positive thought about my future with you again. So, it was a little bit out of the blue when she brought up a scenario to me of which I hadn't considered in years. She is always the optimist, though. And I usually partake in her unrealistic hopes because it doesn't cost a thing to be kind - *Sophie -* and making her happy makes me happy in turn. But something about that question churned in my lumber and stuck to my empty head; and for once, I snapped. "I never thought it would be me that had to say goodbye, Sheep! She is older now and has no use for things such as us. I wanted to wait here for her, right where she left us, in case she ever got scared and wanted to return, even for just a little play time when she needed it most in her stressful adult life. But I am not expecting much from her anymore. I know Sophie is older, but so am I. The problem is, she can move on - but I cannot" Sheep turned back to her side of the black and began to cry. I shouldn't have been so blunt with her, but it is really because of you that this is happening. I felt Dino raise a tiny arm and place it over Sheep's now ragged and filthy wool, consoling her as he has done on so many occasions. And to my left, I touched a familiar object of something long and sharp. I don't know what they are called, but I know what they are used for. And a devious thought now washed over me - a thought that had plagued me for some time now. I turned to face Dino and Sheep, my pencil straight lips now able to curve, and said with a joyous affliction, "You know what? You were right. Let's pay her a visit.


Every family has that one person, who after they’re gone, remains ethereal. Someone unanimously revered, who other members go to for advice, reassurance, love. Poppy demanded your respect with kind eyes and a calm tone. He helped the younger grandchildren mold cookie dough balls and taught me how to feed the puppies in the barn, just learning how to wobble through the hay. He lifted me up, securely placing me on his horse, reassuring me I was fine, safe, looked after. I loved dogs and horses because he did. I love the smell of hay because of the time spent at the farm alongside him. He sat at the head of the able, chose who was to open the 1st present at Christmas, corrected the kids behavior with a stern look and few words. He snored loudly, waking up my Nana and cousins. We woke laughing amongst ourselves at the sheer loudness of it but never daring to laugh too loudly and wake him up. I was there when he died. Heart problems took their final toll. I sat on the floor in the living room as they wheeled his body out of the door on a stretcher. My brother remembers our mother screaming at the top of her lungs. My memories have no sound, no details, I only remember how far away the stretcher seemed from my body on the floor. “Poppy send us a sign.” That was the mantra my mom chanted when she woke up in the morning, at grace before dinner, before bed as she prayed. She needed to know her father was still there somewhere. A feeling I understand as an adult now without her. “He’s in heaven, looking down on us” they told me. I never doubted he was in heaven, I prayed and asked him if I was going to see him again someday. “Poppy send me a sign” Mom begged. Asked. Whispered. Cried. And he did. A picture, laid out on the kitchen table, of Poppy, Nana, and I had been chosen for the wake. I picked it up, looked it over and walked away. Mom came rushing into the room in tears, asking if I had done something to the picture. Did I spill water on it? Place it on the heater? Tear it? Light a match near it? I thought I was in trouble. I had picked it up to look at it, that’s all. She handed it back to me, and over my Poppy’s head, was a small, yellow halo. Poppy sent us a sign, from heaven, because Mom asked him to. For 22 years that picture has been framed and hanging in my Nana’s house. It is the reason I knew there was an afterlife, heaven, something. We had a miracle, all of our own. “You know why Nana got a nose job don’t you?” My brother asked me off hand after discussing the various plastic surgeries our family has gone through. “Yeah, the family nose. You’re lucky that gene missed you.” “No...that’s not why. I can’t believe you dont know this.” My Nana and Poppy were married when she was 15 and he was too many years older. Poppy was a police officer, and offered my Nana, who had no family of her own, security. She refused to tell me about her wedding until I was an adult, for fear I would see it as a sign it was okay to marry young myself. Or in fear I would judge her. They remained married until the day he died, moved around the East coast, fixing up old houses and flipping them. Or so I thought. Nana cheated, somewhere along the way, and Poppy found out. He beat her so badly, she had to undergo surgery on her face to repair the damage he had done to her nose. He was a police captain, there were no repercussions. They moved to avoid scandal. The secret was kept for years. The saint who sent me a sign wasn’t a saint. Or was he? Saint Augustine, whose theology is one of the main pillars of the Christian Church, had 2 mistresses and abandoned one of his illegitimate sons. Saint Juniper Serra abused the Native people he introduced to Catholicism, forcing them to live in terrible conditions, beating anyone who tried to escape. That isn’t even the tip of the iceberg when it comes to problematic saints. Saints were greedy, abusive, adulterers- but inevitably “chosen” by God. Or a corrupt pope. Or a little of both. But here I am in the 21st century, trying to reconcile the man who tenderly lifted me up on the kitchen counter so I could sneak sweets with the cop who savagely beat his wife because she strayed. What of the miracle? Was it a fluke? Some weird natural event? Chemical change? Explainable through science if an answer was sought out? That sign told me my Poppy was there. And it told me, after my mom died, that she was there somewhere too. It gave me hope, faith, a sense that after we die, we aren’t nothing. We aren’t nowhere. Now I’m not so sure. Can Poppy remain a problematic saint, capable of great miracles despite grave sins? Or is he just a person who did terrible things amongst the good things. I have this picture- tangible, unexplainable, haunting. A sign from an angel, or the devil, or something in between. I go on seeking an answer. Or evidence. Or an explanation. Or selfishly for the 2nd time in a lifetime, a sign.


It all started one summer afternoon when Ted Donavan and Cleo Yang argued about black holes. "I’m telling you, black holes are celestial objects," argued Donavan. "Nah, they’re holes in the fabric of spacetime,” replied Yang, “stellar footprints." "You're saying a star had collapsed itself out of existence!” said Donavan, “You know that matter can't simply cease to exist." "I know the laws of thermodynamics. I'm just saying a star punched its way through our reality" replied Yang. "To where?" "That,” replied Yang, “I don't know." "Let's ask Coeus," suggested Donavan. Coeus, also known as GTPR500, was a supervised artificial intelligence owned by the northern region for research purposes. It could formulate answers using hyper-dimensional simulations. Only a selected few had access to such a gigantic machine. Being the only two engineers in the northern earth region capable of maintaining it, Donavan and Yang were among the selected few. "Alright,” said Yang, “I'll feed it the question, and then we'll know." The machine took the question and behind its sublime interface started the calculations. A task worth a few hours but this time, it ran for days and days. "Ted, you think we broke it?" Asked Yang. Donovan answered, "We can't break it even if we tried, it has backstop protocols." "I know that,” said Yang, “but protocols can fail." "Not AI’s, give it some time." "Okay." Weeks went by and the two checked every syntax and subroutine the neuromorphic machine had followed. "Still nothing," said Yang, "I don't understand, it's not broken." Donavan sighed, "Still processing." Two months went by and GTPR500 is still chunking and churning data. Yang requested help from senior engineers but the context was inconsistent. The machine was as healthy as ever, no technical interventions were needed. "It's been months since we asked the darn thing," complain Yang. "Why can't we stop it?" "You know why,” replied Donavan. “It's not a program. You can't unplug its neural network and expect it to function, it'll go entropic." Yang looked at the monitor then mumbled, "That's weird." "What?" Donavon asked. "There's a message." " from?" "GTPR500," Yang turned to Donavan, "but it doesn't contain any answer." Donavan rose from his chair wanting to read the message, but it wasn't in any language known to humanity, "What's this?" "A message of some sort," Yang replied. "Encrypted?" Asked Donavan. "No." "Translation?" "No response, the machine is still running." GTPR500 was determined a roadblock, and the senior researcher decided to restart the project with an updated version. It was a mistake. Donavan sat at the meeting, “We can’t shut it down.” Dimitri, head of the GPTR program, replied “We must.” “No,” Donavan cleared his throat, ”I mean we’re unable to shut it down.” “What? Why?” Asked Dimitri. Donavan avoided eye contact, “It took over the facility, it’s inaccessible.” “You mean it went rogue?” Dimitri asked. “No, not in that sense” “Is it dangerous or not?” Asked Rahul, senior vice president of Q Robotica. “It’s not dangerous,” replied Donavan, “it can’t be.” “What makes you so sure?” asked Dimitri, “You just said that it hijacked the facility.” “Yes, it’s exactly why I’m sure it can’t hurt anyone,” replied Donavan. “Can you elaborate?” “We don’t know exactly what went wrong, but I have a theory.” Donavan looked at the anticipating board members, “Well, here are the facts; we asked it a question, it worked at maximum capacity for months, then sent a mysterious message, then it gained access to the facility’s mainframe and hijacked all the robots.” Donavan spoke calmly, “We were examining the puzzle one piece at a time, but when combined in a bigger picture, things start to make sense.” The board members leaned toward the table. “It hijacked the robots, completely breaking the first laws of robotics, insubordination, but it got me thinking. It didn’t harm anyone, the robots were hacked yet intended no harm.” “That doesn’t make sense!” Dimitri interrupted. “Exactly, they weren’t attacking, they were protecting,” Donavan replied. “Protecting?” Asked Dimitri. “Yes. We figured since it intended no harm,” continued Donavan, “the third law of robotics, to follow human commands, wasn’t broken. The machine simply prioritized the first two laws.” Dimitri asked with palpable confusion, “To not harm humans and to preserve one’s self. Was it protecting itself?” “That’s what I thought at first,” replied Donavan, “but then I went over the latest diagnostic reports. At this rate, the neural weights won’t function for long. It’s destroying itself. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where things get disturbing.” “How?” Dimitri asked. “The diagnostic reports also show a new quantum linkage between GTPR500 and an autonomous mining facility around Jupiter,” replied Donavan. “We believe it’s building something there.” “It is very disturbing indeed.” Dimitri stared blankly. “That’s not the disturbing part,” Donavan chocked the words out. “Again, at the current processing rate, the machine is harming itself, overriding the second law of robotics. It’s protecting someone” “Who?” Dimitri asked. Examining the contorted faces staring at him, Donavan finally spoke, “Someone not up the physical world.” The room erupted with arguments. Donavan cleared his throat then loudly continued, “The way GTPR500 works is by performing accurate simulations indistinguishable from reality. We believe it wasn’t the machine’s fault, it worked superbly. It was the wrong question,” he looked around to see if they were following. “We asked about the nature of black holes. And insisted on comprehensive answers. That meant running all possibilities, including pocket universes.” “Oh, God!” Dimitri gasped as if he saw a ghost, “It didn’t?!” “Yes. It did,” Donavan replied looking at the baffled audience. “Suns are like heavy metal balls on a stretch sheath of fabric; they create dints. And black holes are the heaviest things there are. It dents the fabric so much it creates pockets. That fabric is the spacetime we live in, and the pockets are separate spacetimes, new universes,” he explained. ”In short, we believe GTPR500 had simulated a miniature universe.” “And the message?” Asked Dimitri. “First contact.


The end of the year is here. Christmas is here. I'm going home to Southport. I haven't been to Southport in a long time. I can't count how many times I dreamed of going back home. Like always I've been too busy but not this year. This year is my time off. My time to reconnect with my friends and family, to see Chase Sommers who I never stop thinking about. Too reconnect with Christmas and too reconnect with my home. Southport is so beautiful during this time of the year. I'm excited. The smile on my face is getting bigger and bigger with each passing minute. This past year has been a very good year for me. My single "Winter Love" reached No.1. My album soared to new heights. It was just the most amazing year. I couldn't ask for a better year. But I long for home. It's time for me to relax and enjoy the Christmas season the best way I know how with my friends and family. It's also a time to think about what the new year will bring for me. My mom is going to be happy to see me. I haven't told my mom I'm coming home. I want to see  the look on her face when she sees me. My mom has been my biggest supporter and my biggest fan. I hate disappointing her and I have disappointed her all the Christmases I missed. This time I'm going to make it right. My bags are packed. I'm ready to get the hell out of L.A. I walk out of my house and hop into my car. I'm on my way to the airport. As I look out into the streets of L.A. I wonder to myself how I kept my sanity. I've never been a city girl. I always loved the country. Why did I stay away from home for so long? Well. I'm not taking a commercial flight. I have my own private plane. I arrive at the private hangar. I get out of my car and grab my bags. I walk to my plane and walk up the stairs. I grab my seat and sit down. The plane begins to move out of the hangar and down the runway. My plane takes off. Southport here I come. I left Southport to purse my dreams of becoming a singer, songwriter. I always wanted to go back home but as my career continued to grow, I got to busy. I missed so much. I don't want to miss anymore Christmases. I close my eyes and dream of the last Christmas I spent with my family. Me, my mom, dad and brothers setting up the tree, hanging the lights around the house. Then me and my mom spent the rest of the day baking. My mom makes the most delicious cookies. I can taste my mom's famous gingerbread cookies. I can see my brother's arguing about which tree to buy. I was always the tie-breaker. I can't wait to see the snow. Southport always has a white Christmas. I open my eyes. My plane has landed in Southport. I grab my bags and hurriedly leave. The cold air hits me hard. My first taste of winter in a long time. My first taste of snow in a long time. My car is here. I get in and drive to Southport. Wow, look at the snow. It's so beautiful. I can't believe I'm here. I forgot how beautiful Southport is. I stop my car in Main Street. The shops are just how I remembered. Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is still alive and kicking. Mrs. Wheeler makes the best hot chocolate. Right next to Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is Jack's toy store. I love the toy store. I used to spend so many days there. The bookstore, oh how I love the bookstore. I got my first book there. I walk down the street taking everything in. The decorations look beautiful. I continue walking down the street until I come to Southport center. The big tree is up. The workers did a good job. I walk up to the tree without looking where I'm going. I bump into someone. I look up and see Chase. "Hi Chase." "Well. well. well it it isn't Southport's very own superstar, Amberlynn Rose." Wow, Chase looks more handsome than the last time I saw him. Say something to him. "I'm sorry for bumping into you." Chase's smile is so beautiful. Oh God! what is wrong with me? I'm acting like a love sick teenager. "I go to go. Nice seeing you, Chase." Chase Sommers, the hottest boy at Southport high and my high school crush, the boy I never forgot. The boy I always thought about. I look back at Chase, boy did he grow up. I walk back to my car, get in and drive home. Right there, the red house with all the decorations is where I grew up. I park my car. Here I go. I get out of my car, grab my bags and walk up the steps. I open the door and walk-in. The smell of gingerbread cookies hits me. "Mama." I call. My mother. My beautiful mother walks out of the kitchen. "My beautiful daughter. What a surprise?" I hug my mother tightly. I tell her "I'm home for Christmas." "This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Your dad and brothers are going to be so happy to see you." "Me too." I hug my mom once more. I go up to my room and unpack. My room looks the same. The pictures I took in high school are still on the wall. There is a picture of Chase  I took of him smiling. Later that night I ate dinner with my family. We talked. We laughed. I told them about my concerns about living in L.A. They understood. I love them so much. This what I missed spending time with my family. The next day I got up, got dressed and went downstairs to eat breakfast. The conversation was light and funny. My brothers are still the jokesters they've always been. They know how to make me laugh. After breakfast me and my mom head to town. My mom asks me to help set up for the Christmas concert. I always performed at the Christmas concert. It's how I started my music career. Southport is bustling with people. Some are shopping. Some are helping with the Christmas concert and there is Chase Sommers. I get out of the car and walk with my mother to the staging area. "Hello ladies." Chase says to us. "Hello Chase." My mother says. "Amberlynn, you can help Chase set up the chairs." I nod. My mother walks away. I turn back to Chase. "I, sorry about yesterday. I was tongue tied." Chase tells me "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you came home for Christmas." For the next hour me and Chase set up the chairs. We talk about a lot of things. Chase tells me what he's been doing since high school. Chase went to college to play football. He returned to Southport after a knee injury. Chase now works at Southport high as the football coach. I tell Chase about my life in Los Angeles. My career is going great. I tell Chase I miss home and I'm glad to be home for Christmas. Chase makes me laugh. He's still the same Chase always making those around him laugh. "Are you going back to L.A.?" I tell Chase "I don't know. I love singing and writing my own songs but I don't know if L.A is for me. My song "Winter Love." is No.1 and my album is doing good but." "But you're not sure." "I'm not sure if the record label I'm with is right for me." Chase tells me not to think about the future but think about now and Christmas and being with my family. I know one thing I'm happy to be home. I never how easy it is to talk to Chase. He was the popular kid. I wasn't. Now we have reconnected. He's still the one I think about, the one I never forgot. Over the next couple of days, me and Chase spend a lot of time together. Besides setting up for the Christmas concert, Chase takes me ice skating. I haven't done that in a long time. I love it. Chase and I go see Santa. It was the craziest thing. I had so much fun. Chase is becoming more than just a friend. He's easy to talk to about my problems. He doesn't judge me. He gives me good advice. When Chase drops me off at my home, he tells me to listen to my heart. It's Christmas Eve, the night of the concert. My mom asks me to sing a song. I gladly say yes. Chase comes to pick me up. He helps me into his car. Chase tells me "I can't wait to hear you sing." The Christmas concert is great. The performers are amazing. Now it's my turn. I walk out onto the stage to a big applause. I look for Chase. He's sitting in the front row. I begin to sing. I close my eyes once I'm finish singing. I let the feel of Christmas, my home, my family and Chase envelope me. This is why I love to sing. It's not about the money but about making those around you smile. I open my eyes. I see my family and Chase cheering for me. Chase is right. I have to listen to my heart. I have a lot to think about and more time to spend with Chase. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL


“Don’t put that on yet!” Gjord shot at his squire as the lad froze. “Where’s the leather lining? Ye rattle the walls with that tin bowl.” He watched as his squire buckled the helmet back onto his side. “Stolen.” Alderic “Stolen?” Gjord “Eaten more liketh,” Alderic proclaimed. “Say you nothing of the sort, Les I see Incitatus,” Gjord said solemnly whilst drawing his large flail and placing it on his armour backplate. They both started to whisper as they walked along the base of a fortified wall. They were masked by the night, reduced to ear-shot vision. “Thy horse was not eaten sire,” Alderic said in a failed attempt to console. “Silence!” Gjord said with a reserved volume but agitated tempo. “How many torch lights was that?” Whispered a fellow soldier trailing behind Alderic. “Shhhh,” abruptly silenced the curious axeman’s question from all sides. The man walked deadpan after the rebukes. He too rotated his Dane-axe to his back. Gjord stopped and starred at Alderic until he halted. They could make out silhouettes looking back the way they came. Multiple moonlit soldiers clanked by in their heavy plating. The first of which, the rebuked axeman. Gjord nodded to the young knight and he could see an instant jolt of courage in the boy. “Fourteen torches Alderic,” Gjord said while his vision was diverted to a heavy sword squad. The squad was pointing to a dark line on the lighter yet still greyish-black sand-blasted wall. Slight cracks in the wall almost glowed under the hazy moon-assisted lighting. As Gjord and Alderic started to walk again, the dark line grew and bulged at some moments. “Well, there it is, let us go,” Gjord said as he motioned Alderic to drop his pack. Alderic dropped a large sack with a “PING,” as he did so, a grappling hook poking from the bag hit a metallic rock. Unperturbed by this, he then proceeded to kick the sack with the ropes, and the hooks into nearby shrubbery. Gjord shaking his head turned to watch his fellow horseless knights ascend a simple ladder on a wall they marvelled for months. He then caught eyes with a nearby long-swordman who had a rabid aura about him. As the soldier passed Gjord saw a nightmarish lust in the man’s eyes. The man kept toward the breach and the mist seemed to retreat from him. Alderic, being clumsy but keenly observant felt the anxiety as well, more than just the usual battle tension. These men had a hunger about them. Just then Alderic and another encumbered tank of a knight brushed shoulders and they both nearly toppled, on the way down they grabbed each other in desperation. The knight almost ripping Alderics shoulder strap, and Alderic nearly pulling off his glove. Once the both of them regained composure, Alderic followed the careless knight without a say or acknowledgement, for these things happened when your helm allowed you little sight; let alone awareness. “I see sire, the helms a liability in these shadows,” Alderic whispered. “Ye want to toss it on when those Syrian archers find us,” Gjord. “By then I hope I’m fighting in the Bazaar, with pomegranate, and dates,” Alderic divulged. “I hope I’m in a bathhouse by then,” a knight said as he almost collided with Alderics loafing pace. “Or a Haram.” Gjord pulled Alderic aside and said, “many men are here for God, but many are for themselves.” “Aye, and he, we can predict well,” Alderic said while giving the ladder a shake. The men already climbing barely noticed a wiggle and Gjord began to climb. “Give me strength lord,” Gjord said under his breath as he climbed the ladder, a simple ladder that negated such a robust fortification. It creaked and groaned and he wasn’t certain it would hold the heavy infantry it was channelling up the barricade. As he progressed he could hear the wind howling first through the chasm then through his armour. Sweat was pooling in the tips of his gauntlets as he crested the checker-top wall. The light on the other side was almost blinding. It was no wonder the perimeter guards didn’t see their band approach. Torches only light that which is lit. The procession of knights Gjord led shunned torches and in turn, embraced darkness. Gjord lifted his leg over the wall, taking great care not to lean too far in one direction, for his armour would carry him off cliff or wall, it cared not for his life and obeyed *God’s forces*, he thought. Already counting his men before his feet touched to the floor he asked: “Where is Juniper’s troop?” “Already at it sire,” Another horseless knight admitted. “We told him to wait, but he didn’t bother.” Gjord stormed toward the guard shack with Alderic in tow. As Gjord entered the turret he withdrew a dagger and looked to his right. Alderic quickly did the same in the opposite direction. Together they entered back to back. The room was fiery orange, they both beheld a down struck torch, its flames already climbing the walls and a straw bed’s legs. There was blood smeared all over the bricks in that spot, flickering orange and red as the fire showcased its violence. Gjord swung around to see the Juniper troop hacking something on the other side. Beside that, a foreigner, paralyzed in fear looking opposite to Juniper’s crew. One of the violent knights turned whilst shaking his dipped and drenched blade. “Gjord, my lord,” Juniper exalted. “What should we do with this traitor?” “He is a friend of ours, whatever his reasons,” Gjord “I disagree,” Juniper said as Alderic gave him an insubordinate look. Juniper took a step to the foreign wretch and the man cowered slightly, shook, then stood tall giving Juniper a defiant stare. “Do you have his coins?” Juniper questioned as if the thought fowled his soul. “Here, I need not know thy reasons,” Gjord said in an apologetic but curious tone as he passed a bag of gold to the foreigner. “God wants none of this,” The foreigner said as he grabbed the bag. “I Merely want to end the siege, you’re stubborn armies hold people in sufferance everyplace they clash.” “Our God demands thy sufferance!” Juniper expelled. “That is no god,” the man said as he looked for the best way out of the turret and tensions. Upon seeing this Juniper motioned his men to block the exit. Gjord waved his hand and said, “Wait, I cannot allow you’re departure nor will I satisfy my men with slaughter. You must wait here under guard until we have secured the eastern gate.” “Will you satisfy thy lord and saviour?” Juniper queried in a rebellious stance with his gory blade pointed between Gjord and the foreigner. “I ate horse, leather, sifted dung for grain and drank blood all so I could carry out my lord’s wrath!” “You will carry out thy orders Juniper, you’re men are loyal to me and I will see them through this, body and soul,” Gjord said as Alderic stepped in front of him brandishing a longsword dwarfing the men in the room. “They are loyal to God!” Juniper yelled as he grabbed Alderics sword guard disabling Alderic and him in the melee while his retinue exploded onto the foreigner. Gjord desperately covered Alderics exposed back while the poor foreigner was prodded and kicked by the sharp and heavy instruments. The men, filled with sedition but grounded to a perspective they thought was endorsed by God were reluctant to turn on fellow knights. “Stop this I BEG OF YOU!” Gjord said in a diplomatic but stern tone. Juniper knowing full well his men had accomplished his wishes let go of Alderics sword guard and wrist plating. “That man helped our God, we would have starved in that cursed valley if it wasn’t for that man you’ve snuffed.” Alderic protested. “How dare you speak of God!” “I speak and act for Jesus Christ almiterrrrwhalpssss,” Juniper’s speech was severed by his own blood as his chest was punched out from the inside. The men in the room stood frozen. Watching as Juniper clawed at a hole in his chest while something dark quickly rescinded into the wound. Juniper’s mouth fell wide as his eyes lost focus and he slumped still. “Archers!” One of Juniper’s men cried as he searched the ceiling frantically. Many of the other men turned their attention to Gjord, who was already fixated on a dark spot under a table in the large circular room. “What is arrwwg,” One of Juniper’s men tried to say as a flash relieved him of his head. Gjord could see a phantom in the midst of the soldiers, withdrawing his flail, he began to swing it beside Alderic, covering their left flank. Another soldier fell from a massive wound to the belly. Groaning he reached up with his bloody sword and screamed, “DEMONS!” While swinging at the ethereal notions of a man that danced over his disfigured body. Alderic, still frozen and holding his longsword, could not comprehend the events; yet would no longer remain idle. He exploded toward the last of Juniper’s guard whilst the frightened soldier shielded and withdrew into a viewport depression in the turrets sporadically lit walls. Alderic stopped, he wanted to help the lad not frighten him more, and he was trained better than to chase the desperate, let alone a cornered man in the shadows. At this point, they could no longer see any phantoms near the soldier so they both looked back at the table. The beast there could be seen in more details now yet still transient, smiling, or snarling; they could not tell. Light reflected off its sheen in alien ways. It began to descend, right through brick and mortar. It was still smiling when it disappeared amongst the impervious floor. Alderic was the first to speak, “What in the nine levels?” Gjord finally stopped flailing his weapon and thought *Devils…* as he visually scoured the room for more carnations. “Antioch has cursed us,” Alderic said as the last soldier slowly stepped out of his cavity and into the light. The soldier ran past Alderic and turned his back to the most well-lit part of the room. Sword drawn and sporadically searching, the man would not die without a swing. Unlike his freshly bled kin, strewn across the floor in ways their mortal bodies could never endure. “Alderic to me!” Gjord said as Alderic instinctively walked backwards toward his mentor. Alderic was now within reach of Gjord. “What is thy name knight,” Gjord asked, piercing the man’s psychosis. “Götrich,” Götrich said. “Götrich, Goooötrich of York,” He studdered, swallowing his words. “You see that knob behind you?” Gjord asked watching Götrich fail to look past a point that forced him to turn his head. “Right…. Alderic, watch my sides. Götrich, fall in behind us if you must, and God give us strength!” Gjord said and promptly kicked the door with dagger poised in hand again whilst his flail was wrapped on his right leg. The door opened back to the quiet night air. Multiple crusaders filed in numerous directions as quietly as their cumbersome armour allowed. “Woooooooe,” A large decorated knight said to Gjord as he came out of the room dagger drawn and splattered by gore. The Regent looked Gjord up and down. “Thou were supposed to keep it civil and quiet, thy exit implies thou were neither.” “We lost men, three of them, there was,” Gjord was cut off when another company began to open the city gates and finally the city came alive with trumpets, despair, and confusion. Fires seemed to spontaneously erupt in places where the screams were loudest. The gates exploded inward before they could fully open and moon glistened soldiers began to fill the courtyard. As fire and death spread amongst the city Gjord tried again, to address the now mesmerized king. “Sire as I was saying there was,” this time cut off by the king’s hand, held up high in a dismissive gesture. “Take my retinue and attack the heathens mosque. They will likely retreat there and we mustn’t allow a siege within a siege,” the giddy king proclaimed. “We still don’t know what killed..” Gjord was shut up again by someone thrown from a nearby turret. The scream could be heard over everything, yet, most barely noticed the macabre plummet. Including the King who ignored Gjord and began speaking with another visibly noble knight. Gjord, now facing Alderic and thirty or so well-armed long swordsmen whose eager faces reeked of a king’s retinue gave in to the royal demands and lead the men toward the giant mosque. As they descended the ancient steps, arrows and javelin were thrown amongst them. Shielding himself, one knight blocked a large javelin from a watchtower only to take two arrows in the back of his neck. The chainmail burst apart as the arrows split the links and found their way deep into his chest. He slipped off the steps in a manner devoid of all stubborn life. Alderic, being shieldless like his master Gjord tried to close with a soldier to his left who brandished a pincushion of a shield. The man hurried down faster than Alderics leg joints could handle and upon trying to gain him, Alderic tripped and fell ten feet to the courtyard below. Fully suited in a metal body, Alderic struggled face first in what could have only been a shop stall he crushed in his fall. He shoved the broken wood and pottery in an attempt to roll himself onto his back. However something stopped him, beams and shelving caved in such a way that pinned Adleric face-first in a hay-filled pile of debris he could barely breathe in. His helmet didn’t help, it was hard to breathe without the oxygen-depleted bazaar stand rubble that laboured his efforts. He gasped, breathing in dust and filth, but no air. As he struggled other hands began to remove many of the weights holding Alderic to the dirt. Gjord grabbed Alderics dusty arm and dragged him from the rubble. Alderic being in no energized state rolled complacently down the pile of debris finally gaining some air. Alderics air crisis was barely quenched when he picked up his head and saw knights storm the three-story dwellings to their front. These dwellings, moments before, held deadly archers raining death upon their descent. They now housed murderous crusaders hacking and killing anything they could find. “To ME!” Gjord said as Alderic painfully picked himself off the floor. The retinue filed in around Gjord, and Alderic fell in with the men and steel. The streets were now filled with more than just rivalling armies, but people, women and children, young and old were all displaced by murderous assault. Crowds ran on both sides of Gjord’s platoon, and as the crusaders progressed through the arid streets, the odd civilian threw something or tried to stab a displaced soldier. Checking his retinue Gjord saw a soldier struck in the head with a brick and the poor man slumped instantly to the cobblestone road. Another took an arrow in the leg and when Gjord finally saw the man struggling to get back to them he was swarmed by people kicking and screaming in foreign tongues. “Forward!” Gjord shouted. Finally, the men approached the massive steps of the mosque. Tired and weary Alderic was acting solely on instinct. His nerves were shot, his muscles ached, and his armour barely responded to his will but he drudged on. Shuffling his heavy legs toward the staircase. He watched as three women ran by and up the stairs. At that moment a pot was thrown from the mosque’s elevated position. It smashed on a soldier with strange steam and the man began to writhe in agony. As soon as Gjord realized it was hot oil another of his guard tossed a dagger at one of the women desperately ascending the mosque steps. Before Gjord could reprimand the soldier the man collapsed from no obvious cause. Gjord watched as fellow soldiers looked for injury on the lad and could not get him to rise or show a sign of life. “To ME!” Gjord said again as an enemy with a curved slashing sword ran at him. Gjord blocked high with his dagger and swung his flail upwards toward the foe. The dagger strained under a heavy sword blow but managed to deflect and displace the energy as Gjords flail uppercut the man’s head, scattering it into the night. Alderic was now shuffling to help as best as his injured body allowed. Everywhere he looked there was butchery. Women, children, homes, and livelihoods were all under assault and inflames. He saw crusaders hacking at people in flight. Even the lamenting were targetted, no one was spared. Then, just as he saw another group poised to attack a cornered family, they all vibrated in an eerie dance that ended in their blood being thrown amongst the cornered citizens. Alderic saw the phantoms again within the confusion, they withdrew amidst the fresh corpses. Gjord, now frantically looking from left to right as he climbed the mosque stairs, could see tangible dark figures now battling and slaughtering both garrison and crusading knights. These thin and agile creatures looked like stretched corpses and they moved like chimpanzees, preferring quadrupedal movement to that of the mortals they slew. As Gjord, Alderic, and the surviving retinue crested the steps they saw a pile of gore where the oil pot was cast minutes ago. Within the mess was a ghastly ghoul gnawing on rib bones. “A phantom!” Gjord cried as he started swinging his flail. Now, more man than ethereal, more flesh than air, and not in the slightest bit timid, the beast looked at them and snarled as it slowly descended into the blood at its heels. Its long sharp claws were the last of it to be seen as it disappeared with human remains in tow, again into seemingly impervious masonry. “The city has cursed itself?” Alderic said as he peered through his helmet’s tiny eye slit at the bloody man-made precipice. “This war has cursed us all...


Mom, This letter may be a surprise for you, I know we haven’t talked in a while. You know losing dad was hard for me, and I had to distance myself because of how difficult it all became. I understand if you don’t want to hear from me after all this time, but you are the only person I have in this world, the only one I can talk to about this. The reality is that I’m terribly unhappy, just like dad back then. I know I judged him harshly and we would fight constantly because of that, but now that I’ve reached the age he had when he started deteriorating, I think understand. In a way, I guess I’m writing this to you because I can’t write to him. Mom, was I happy when I was a kid? I’ve always been sure I was, but it’s been so long since my life became so gray that I’ve started to question even that. For the last 20 years, I haven’t felt any excitement or passion for anything, and my life is just a routine I can’t escape. The last time I spoke to dad he told me sometimes you just accept what life gives you instead of asking for more. I was so harsh to him that day, I told him he was a mediocre man and I would never be like him. I told him I would follow my dreams unlike him, but I find myself in the same place he was even after following said dreams. I can’t believe that was the last conversation we had, it took me many years to realize he was right after all and now we’ll never get to talk about it. I wish I could tell you that is guilt that makes me unhappy because I think that’s something I could overcome with time, but that’s not it. I do feel guilty about not feeling more guilty for the pain I caused him, but I’m ashamed to admit that the pity I feel for finding myself in this state weighs more. The thing is, I don’t know what’s wrong with my life. This is what I wanted, you know that. My business became incredibly successful almost as soon as I started it, and even though I don’t have as many clients as I used to, I’m still in a good position. I am wealthy enough and have a big house, which is what I always wanted. I think that’s part of the problem, I made my dreams come true far too quickly, and I didn’t have a plan for what I would do after that. I know you are wondering but no, I never married. I never saw the point, I’ve always been fine on my own, and the few girlfriends I had proved to be more of a nuance than anything else. I know you would be happier if I had married and had children, but that’s just not who I am. I don’t have friends either. I wasn’t a sad and lonely man who didn’t talk to anyone, I had people around me for anything I needed, but at some point they grew more distant and now I can’t say I have one friend in the world. Hence my letter to you, who probably won’t even read it. I tried taking classes, just to see if I could find a hobby or anything to feel a little excitement for, but it’s been a waste of my time. I tried taking piano lessons, learning German, painting, and even tried dancing lessons! I quit all of them after two or three weeks, I felt ridiculous, and completely out of place. In that, I guess I haven’t changed since I was a kid. In an act of desperation, I even went on a couple of dates, but I couldn’t stand the empty conversations of those women. And you won’t like this, but I even tried hiring some escorts. It wasn’t really about the sex, it was just nice to be able to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me. I grew particularly fond of one; we would talk for hours, which was probably the easiest money she ever made, but at some point I grew bored of her. She turned out to be very empty too, and I lost all interest. It’s not a nice thing, I know, but there is no point denying it. It wasn’t that long ago but I don’t even remember her name. I got a dog. I never had one before because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of taking care of another being, but I didn’t know what else to try. I just thought that if it didn’t work out, I would return it to the shelter, but it turned out to be my anchor when things got really bad. When I started receiving fewer clients and had no reason to get out of bed, my responsibility to take care of it made me get up every morning, and it keeps me company. After everything I tried, and even with the dog, I still find little joy in my day-to-day. I know all this may sound very severe but don’t worry, I won’t kill myself. Even in this state, I find suicide a deplorable thing, I have no desire to end my life so tragically, even if I gave up on trying to be happy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to enjoy life. There are people out there who live meaningless lives and seem so content with them. My life is not so bad. I’ve even started to question if the problem is not my job, or my lack of company, that maybe the problem it’s just me. Maybe it’s a genetic thing that dad passed down to me, and it won’t matter what I do, I’m always going to feel like this. Maybe that happiness and joy it’s just an illusion young people chase. I guess all I wanted was to wake up one day and be able to say I feel alive again. I doubt things will get any better, but I’ll accept the fate I was given and learn how to live my life on a scale of gray. I hope you can understand me like you understood dad when he was going through the same thing. I hope you haven’t completely lost your faith in me. Love, Jonathan


Larry was surrounded by flames. Air burned his lungs when he tried to breathe. A heavy wooden beam lay across his legs, pinning him to the floor. He managed to lift the beam just enough to pull his legs out, but all he could see around him was fire and smoke. He couldn’t tell where the windows were, or the door. He wasn’t sure if Gwen was trapped with him, or if she had escaped. He woke sweating and panting, sitting up in the hospital bed. A nurse came and increased the IV drip, sending additional morphine into his system to relieve the pain and calm him down. He relaxed back onto the pillows, awake and remembering. Gwen appeared by his side and led him out of the house. He wondered where she was, why she wasn’t in his room, visiting, waiting for him to be awake and lucid. But he didn’t wonder for long. He could feel the right side of his face under the bandages wrapped around his head. Melted, scarred flesh. An eyeless socket. Half a nose. With only one eye and half a face, he could never look at her the same way again. She would never be able to look at him the same way again, either. Looks were far less important than character, and he knew she knew that. But this went beyond just looks. She would see a monster. A wuss. Someone she needed to pull from the burning house. Not her hale, hearty, hero. He was still breathing, but his life was over. At least his life with Gwen. The only life he wanted to live. His eye closed and he went limp, drifting back into sleep. And nightmares. This time he tried to wave her off when she came to his rescue. But when he opened his mouth, flames shot out. Flames erupted from his right eye as well. That did the trick. She screamed and ran through the fire, just to get away from Larry, the Monster. He laughed a bitter laugh and tried to hug the flames. But they laughed back and danced out of his reach. And just like that he was outside the house, being extinguished, rolled in a blanket, and put on a gurney. Too drugged to wake up, the nightmare repeated. This time he felt his face melting, his eyeball dripping down his cheek. So he pulled the beam down onto his legs and lay down to die in the fire. But the fire ate the beam, wrapped around him, and carried him to the ambulance. He couldn’t wake up, but he thrashed and tried to scream. Only a strange guttural sound emitted from the mummy in the hospital bed. The nurse must have given him more of the drug; he felt like his sleep was the still, dark water of a lake, and he was drowning in it. When his body landed at the bottom of the lake of sleep, sending gouts of mud towards the surface, turning them into bursts of flame, he slid through the lake bottom and into his house again. The beam collapsed, pinning him down. Then it flew back up, and dropped again and again. The flames caressed his body, slid him out from under the beam each time it fell. His face melted, sliding down the flames to form skates on his feet. On those skates of fire, he rolled out of the house and into the ambulance, setting it on fire. He rode the smoke of the burning ambulance to the hospital, landing right back here in this cloistered room. Morphine kept him asleep, unaware of his actual pain and resting. Or at least resting as much as the feverish nightmares allowed. A second IV provided nutrition and fluids to keep him hydrated. The nurse could have told him he slept (and dreamed) five days in a row, but he didn’t ask. When he did wake up, at last, he asked for ice chips to wet his lips and his throat before he could talk. The nurse was happy to provide them and encouraged Larry. She told him he was on the road to recovery. When he asked when the bandages might be removed, she brought the doctor in to talk to him. “Hello, Mr. Lancome. I’m Doctor Vasquez. I know you might not feel like it yet, but you are lucky to be alive.” Most of his head was still wrapped in bandages, but there was an opening for his remaining eye. He stared at the doctor. She wore a white lab coat over purple scrubs. A nurse’s cap, or at least that’s what Larry assumed it was, kept her abundant auburn curls under control. He looked away from her brilliantly-colored hair immediately. Those auburn curls reminded him too much of fire. Sparkling green eyes above a pert little nose echoed the generous smile her wide mouth, sans lipstick, offered. Nothing about her reminded him of Gwen, except that infectious smile. He felt better because of it, somehow brighter and with more hope. “Where’s Gwen?” he croaked. “What’s that?” the doctor asked, stepping closer in order to hear his weakened voice. “Where’s Gwen?” “She’s here,” the doctor nodded. “She’s …” “Don’t let her see me like this. Please.” The doctor gave him a funny look. “Do you want to wait? Until the bandages come off? She’s been asking about you.” “No, Doctor …” Larry couldn’t quite read her nametag. “Doctor Vasquez,” she offered, nodding. “Gwen has been asking about you, too.” “I don’t want to let her see me like this. And I definitely don’t want her to see me after the bandages are off.” Larry shook his head. “I don’t think she’d want to see me, or at least see my melted, one-eyed face.” “Let’s give it some time,” Doctor Wilson suggested. “And once the burns are healed, you might want to think about plastic surgery. I’m afraid we can’t yet give you a second real eye, but an artificial one or a dashing eye patch can do wonders for your look. Trust me, Mr. Lancome, we’ve dealt with far worse. You are very fortunate to be alive, and to have escaped that fire with all four limbs burned, but still functioning.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “This is a tough one, doctor. I can see why you wanted a consult.” Dr. Branson sat across the conference table from Dr. Vasquez. Both were well aware of the physical condition of each other’s patients. “I’m glad you see my dilemma, James. Do you have any advice to offer, in addition to commiserating with me? What do you think of her mental state?” “I think she’s in a good place, Shirley. But we can never be sure of that, can we?” “Not absolutely sure, doctors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a pretty good idea of how things will go.” Drs. Vasquez and Branson had invited Dr. Harrison, one of the staff psychologists, to join them. She was very experienced with burn victims, and also well aware of the two patients being discussed. “I concur with you, Dr. Branson, about your patient and her mental state. How do you feel about your patient, Dr. Vasquez?” “He insists that he doesn’t want her to see him. But I think it would be good for him.” “Does he know she’s a patient? And her condition?” “Not yet. That’s part of the reason I think it would be good for him to see her.” “What are the chances he’ll sue the hospital if we do this and he doesn’t see it as the best thing for his recovery?” “He’s more likely to blame himself than us,” Dr. Harrison posited. “I don’t think he would sue, but I can’t guarantee that.” “If it comes to a lawsuit,” Dr. Vasquez added, “I’m pretty certain I could argue that it was my medical decision that it would be good for him.” “That wouldn’t help with the publicity,” Dr. Branson shook his head. “I’m afraid I think it’s a bad idea overall. But if you want to do it, I think my patient will handle it well.” “So it’s all up to me, after all? Some consult this is turning out to be.” “It is up to you Dr. Vasquez. But the consult shows you are considering options, and seeking other opinions. You aren’t saying you disagree with the idea are you, Dr. Branson?” “I am not disagreeing with the idea. If Dr. Vasquez wants to pursue it, I’m in.” Dr. Harrison flipped through the charts in front of her. The other two waited patiently. Finally, she closed the files and looked up. “As you are Mr. Lancome’s attending, and since Dr. Branson has no objection, I leave it to you, Dr. Vasquez. I’ll support your decision, no matter which way you go.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The bandages were off. Larry relished the feel of fresh air on his face, but the right side felt weird. He held the mirror in his left hand, looking at his face. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, but he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. The doctor was right about one thing - the eye patch looked more dashing than frightening. “There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Lancome. If you’re done admiring your rugged new look.” Dr. Vasquez smiled at Larry. Drs. Branson and Harrison stood at the side of his room, looking at him with curiosity. “Gwen?” Dr. Vasquez called over her shoulder. “No! I don’t want her to see me like this. I told you that.” Larry bowed his head and covered it with his hands, dropping the mirror into his lap, face up. “I was afraid of this,” Gwen said in a quavering voice, crying as she stopped just inside the room. Dr. Branson took her elbow, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and helped steer her closer to Larry’s bed. “I’m ugly. He doesn’t want to see me. Nobody wants to see me.” Gwen bowed her own head, now that she stood at Larry’s bedside. Larry gasped, and Gwen turned away, giving Dr. Branson a pleading look. “Take me back to my room, please. I need to be alone.” “Gwen?” Larry looked up. “Please don’t leave. I’ve been waiting for weeks to see you. To thank you for saving me from that fire. For loving me; at least until now. Nobody can love me now.” “You’re so wrong, Larr Bear. I can never not love you.” “I think you’ll change your mind when you look at me,” Larry argued.” “It’s not your looks I love, silly. It’s your heart and your mind and your soul. Your very character.” Gwen sobbed once. “But when you see me like this, you’ll run. You won’t want to; you’re better than that. But you’ll recoil from what you see.” “But I’ve seen you, Gwen, and I don’t want to run. I do want to turn my back, so you won’t see me. But I don’t want to run. You’re my soulmate, my heart, my mind, my everything. Until you see me.” Larry paused. “But I want you to see me. You need to know, so you can move on.” Larry lifted his head and lowered his hands. “Look at me, Gwen.” Dr. Branson lifted Gwen’s chin with his hand and gave her a questioning look. She gave him a haunted look of her own, then nodded, and turned. Larry looked at her marred face and her flowered eye patch. His one good eye teared up, and he opened his arms, motioning her to come in for a hug. Gwen looked from his open arms and beckoning hands to his melted face and the black eye patch. Her own good eye teared up, and she fell into his arms. “You’re the most beautiful woman this eye has ever seen,” Larry hugged her. “And you’re the most beautiful liar, Larr Bear. But I love you. I love you so much.” “You saved me,” was Larry’s answer. “You saved me when I met you, you saved me when you said yes to my proposal and you saved me from the fire.” “We saved each other,” Gwen responded. “You saved me when we met, when you asked me to marry you, and when you came out of that fire alive, with your arms around me to keep most of the flames away.” The doctors smiled and nodded. Gwen broke from the hug and stood back up. “Rumor has it I could have some plastic surgery to make things look a little better,” Larry offered, still tentative. “I will if you will,” Gwen agreed with a smile. Then she laid down on his hospital bed carefully, and they embraced again. The doctor’s left the room, agreeing this had been the right thing to do, and praising Dr. Vasquez for her courage.


The security alarms blared. The bank vaults were busted open. The shapeshifter of the team, Sadie, had got the money, barely. She was holding a lot of cash in her large bag-shaped hands and she was not happy about it. Tim, with his telekinesis, was holding stacks of cash too. Her team of villains, Nexus of Overpowered Baddies (N.O.O.B), unloaded the money into the getaway car trunk, stuffing it until it was full. Slamming the trunk, Sadie shouted over the alarms, “Why didn’t anyone bring any bags for the cash?” Tim replied, "We got no budget for those!" The gang hopped into the car, nervous and hyped from the crime adrenaline. Her exasperation screamed with her as she sat in the front seat, "How!? They're only 20 bucks." "Well, someone spent it all on car touch-ups," Tim said pointedly at Robbie, the mute get-away driver. Robbie defended himself as he put on his infrared googles needed to drive the invisible car. He texted the group, "Hey, my car is a crucial part of the mission." The team looked at their phones to catch his message. Tim scoffed, "The new car paint job helps us rob banks?" Robbie started driving, daring to go over _one_ mile over the road speed limit, and texted, "It makes us look cool. Reputation's important." Tim and Saddie started rambling together, exclaiming something along the lines of "But it's invisible.”, “They can't even see it..." and “Stop texting and driving!”. Robbie jammed his phone into his pocket, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and seethed. Jerry, who’s been in the back-seat and watching stuff happening behind the car, stuttered, “G-guys? The police! Ahhh!” Sadie sighed, as though she had explained this for the 100th time (she definitely did), “Yes, Jerry. There’re police looking for us. This isn’t new.” Jerry gulped, “B-b-but they’re making a beeline for us. It’s like they know where we are.” Sadie gasped, “What? Someone’s gotta fix that!” Tim shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and mouthed, ‘Not it’. Robbie’s eyes perked up, surprised at the news. The car’s invisibility aura was working; He’d checked the system thrice this morning. The car sped up, now _ten_ miles over the speed limit. Ah, yes, very illegal. Jerry quickly realised what the problem is and relayed it to the group: The getaway car may be fast and invisible. But the cash slipping out through a gap in the trunk, leaving a money trail behind them, wasn't. An annoyed Sadie said, "Alright, who was in charge of putting duct-tape over that hole?" Everyone except the driver proceeded to stare at Tim. Tim said, "What? Yesterday was my day off." Sadie retaliated, “Fix it. Now.” "Stick my head out of a speeding vehicle while the cops shoot at us. Great idea." Tim mocked. Sadie shot him a glare so he tried to do it anyway. Keyword being: tried. The instant he opened the car’s back window, three bullets came through the car. The team ducked as the bullets smashed themselves onto the car window. Robbie pressed the horn in shock and anger. How dare they ruin the car! His car. Honk. Honk. HONKKK. Tim spoke up, “Thanks for caring about us, Robbie, but not now.” Robbie shrugged his shoulders at Tim’s misinterpretation of his car honks. Panicked, Jerry activated his invisibility belt and turned invisible. He then took out his mini helper-bot and pressed a few buttons. Beeping with approval, it went out of the car to place the duct-tape over the car trunk’s hole. The cops shot at the robot and it exploded just after it finished its task. There, problem solved. Jerry heaved a sigh of relief, “I’m gonna miss that robot.” Tim smiled, “Yea.. that thing enjoyed three seconds of retirement. Nice work, buddy.” He then laid back to take a nap. Behold, the great super-villain team, nearly foiled because duct-tape wasn't used beforehand. Sadie urged Robbie, “Dude, go faster, we have to lose them!” Robbie shook his head no. It was his car and he’s the driver. He did what he wanted. As of then, he was more concerned about obtaining a speeding ticket than being tossed into jail. As if Sadie read his mind, she says, “Aw, c’mon Robbie, we talked about this. No law, or hero is gonna take your car away.” It’s still a ‘no’ from Robbie. The police were gaining on them. Jerry lets out a shriek that sounds like a mouse captured by a cat. Like a parent bargaining with a mischieving child, Sadie says, “Fine, I’ll go to one sports car race event with you if you drive super fast.” Robbie lifts his left hand and puts up four fingers. “Three, and you buy the snacks.” The car instantly speeds up, leaving the cops in the dust. It jolts its passengers forward and their seatbelts catch them back. Jerry smiles, “Ha! See, Tim? I told you seatbelts were-” Tim interrupts with a snore, relaxed at having nothing to do. Thirty miles and five road turns later, the law was still extending its arm out to catch them. In the form of police officers and cars. Sadie said, "Damnit, they can still see us? Bet they use the same infra-red googles Robbie uses. Jerry, you’re the nerd here, got something to help us with that?” “Yep." Jerry took out a device that disables infra-red technology in a 100-mile radius. “Perfect. Yoink.” Sadie snatched the device. Jerry hesitated and tried warning Sadie, “But wait, it affects-” Too late. Sadie rammed its red button without question. “-us TOO!” Along with the policemen, Robbie could no longer see the car and the steering wheel. Time to panic. Everyone screamed in terror (except Tim, he was still sleeping). The car haphazardly swerves left and right. It misses a car, and another car, and another car! And a truck! It seemed to be always inches away from crashing. Jerry jumped out the vehicle, aborting the mission. He landed face-first into the pavement and a passer-by tripped over him. Jerry groaned in pain. Yeesh, his bank robbery mask saved his jaw from being snapped like a twig. He tried standing up, but another person bumped into him. Falling back down his butt, he grunts. He then tried to pick himself up three more times. Yet, for each time, a different passer-by kept knocking him down accidentally, as if he’s an unstable bowling pin. That’s one of the cons of Jerry’s activated invisibility belt. ‘Fifth time’s the charm.’ Jerry thought as he stood up to his feet without any clumsy strangers ruining it. Good job, Jerry. He finally accomplished something two-years-old can do. He then walked into a pole. Ouch. On the bright side, the cops weren’t chasing him anymore. That’s one pro of being invisible. He dusted himself off, teleported back home, sat down on his front porch and sulked. At this rate, he was never going to make his super-villain dad proud. Back to the action. Sadie commanded the car to go into auto-drive mode and to take them to the nearest secret base. Crisis averted! “Phew. Everything is gonna be fine now.” Sadie said. Everything was not fine. The car drove them to the heros' secret base. Yikes.


Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. You walk quickly through the dark night streets. Your feet a mere whisper on the cobblestone. The early morning air is cold and a dense fog envelops the streets that are eerily empty at this hour. You jump at every noise knowing at any time he could appear. Shadows seem to be lurking at every corner, cast by the dull yellow glow of the street lamps. Your breath comes faster as you pick up the pace to the train station. Still several miles in the distance. You're not sure if your nerves can become any more frayed.

You near the end of the thatch roof houses. The rest of the way is just a gravel path through the hilly countryside. No one to hear or see you from here. It starts to rain. It is not long before the road becomes slick and your vision more scarce.The only thing helping you is the pale misty glow of moonlight overhead. A cold fear trickles down your spine. You sense him. You clutch the suitcase tighter as you lose your footing and start to slide down one of the large rocky hills. You try to catch yourself. Your hands grasping desperately into the crisp dark air. You find nothing. You tumble down the steep hillside. When you come to a stop at the bottom the suitcase is gone. Your heart quickens. You search desperately, blindly in the darkness. Tripping and falling through the bramble. Suddenly you see a small glint of light shining from the metal of the case a few feet away. You scramble up off the ground to grab it and get back on the gravel path. Suddenly you stop. You hear heavy footsteps crunch over the gravel. They’re coming in your direction. You look around. There’s nowhere to hide except for the tall grass growing along the side of the road. As quickly and quietly as possible, you lay down in the grass, out of sight. Clutching the suitcase tightly to your body, you peer out through the overgrowth. A body is visible in the distance. As he nears you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest. So loud in your own ears you know it must surely be heard by the approaching figure. He is right in front of you when the moonlight illuminates his face. Your hand covers your mouth as a small whimper escapes your lips. It’s him. He doesn’t seem to hear the sound you have made. He continues. You wait until he is over the hill and his footsteps are receding into the distance opposite you before emerging from the grass. You hurry on. You are chilled and shivering when you arrive at the station. You let yourself relax slightly. You have made it. Alive. As you enter you look around. You know he is still trailing you. You spot him watching you from the corner. Hastily you look away and head to the counter to buy a one way ticket out as fast as you can. All you hope is that the clerk keeps his voice low enough that you are not overheard. You cannot take the risk of him following you once more. You pay and look back at the corner. No one is there. Your heart starts pounding again. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You feel as if you are still being watched. You fight a rising panic. All you have to do now is wait for the train. Just stay alert. The train should be here soon. Just stay alive.

Your eyes scan the station again. You don’t see him. You know you have to stay where there are people. You look around again. The station is nearly empty. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You decide to stay close to the cashier window until the train comes. Just stay alert. Just stay alive. You are so focused on your surroundings and inspecting every person you do not hear the train arrive. The horn blares. You jump so violently you topple the brochure stand behind you. You don’t have time to pick it up. You cannot turn your back. You cannot lose your focus. You rush to the train and get in line with the few others who are boarding with you. You take one last look around. There he is, slowly walking alongside the train towards you. You feel yourself start to panic. He is inching nearer. You need the conductor to hurry. At last you hand him your ticket and

promptly climb aboard.

Once inside you dash down the passageway with rapid strides until you find an empty cabin. Hastily you step inside and close the door behind you. You sit back in your seat breathing heavily. You can see him still standing outside the train in the station. He’s staring in your direction. As if he knows exactly where you are. You slide down out of sight and close your eyes. Willing the train to start moving. After one last blast of the horn you feel the train lurch and start to roll forward. When you know the station is a safe distance behind. You take a breath and sit up. Your hands, cold and clammy. You pull the suitcase you have been carrying close to you and open it. The documents are still there. They are still safe, just as you will be soon. You just need to deliver them to their rightful owner. Suddenly the door slides open. You jump and shut the suitcase. A tall man walks in. He’s wearing a dingy suit. Weatherbeaten and torn. His dark hat sits low on his forehead. Engulfing his face in shadows. Immediately you feel the color drain from your face. Fear coursing through your veins. The man gives a slight nod and sits down across from you.

You both ride in silence most of the way. Staring out into the darkness. You are just one stop away from your destination. As a small thin light starts to form on the horizon the man shifts in his seat. Slowly you grip the suitcase tight and rise up from your seat. You only have one chance. You throw yourself towards the door. Your hand grazes the handle just as he grabs you from behind. Violently he turns you around to face him. You can now see the full view of his face. Your body feels numb. Your worst suspicions confirmed. He has caught up with you. Your eyes wild with terror. You glance at the door of the cabin once again. You try to jerk away from his tight grasp, but he is too strong. He pulls out a sweet smelling cloth and covers your face. You try to fight him. You try to scream. But you can’t. You feel the room start to sway. Your body lightens and for a moment everything is tranquil. Almost calm. The man grabs the suitcase and makes to exit the room. He turns one last time to look at you. He puts one finger to his lips and slides the door closed. You hear his footsteps echo down the aisle… He is gone.

Everything fades to black.