Autumn was his favourite season. The discoloured leaves emanating warmth against the brisk chill coursing through his body. Munroe traipsed across the rustling ground heading toward his first port of call. Lennox, his black Labrador retriever, had already excitedly run ahead and was now barking for his master’s attention. He always found the quiet of the wood therapeutic in the morning, and now this infernal hound was breaking his calm. As he neared the tree by which Lennox was waiting, he was not prepared for the horrible scene he was about to witness. Foxes are often snared; it’s Munroe’s method of choice. He always carries his trusted CZ.222 rifle for the odd encounter with what he calls the “red devil”, but the snare is the more successful. However for this poor fox the snare was only the start of its demise. As Munroe looked down he could vaguely make out the various organs spread across a 50 centimetre radius. The death of the fox did not surprise him, however the method about which it had happened did, but what perplexed him more was the amount of meat remaining. Most predators would have picked it clean, as they would be unsure of where their next meal would come from, but this seemed like the animal was killed and then left. Normal procedure would be to bag the kill, tag it and record it, but Munroe decided to leave the mess for the birds to clear up. Despite the morbid nature, Munroe enjoyed his job. After a lifetime in the British Army and then the SAS, he was desperate to retire into a quiet job where he could be his own boss. He didn’t have any friends; those he would have happily socialised with were taken from him during tours in the Falklands and the Gulf. However, living alone in a small self built shack with his faithful partner Lennox, Munroe could honestly say he was happy. There was no stress, no worries and Mr McKendrick, the owner of the land, was an unobtrusive employer, trusting Munroe’s instincts. Unfortunately those instincts were to fail him. She was lying unconscious blanketed by leaves, a pale looking woman in a tattered dress. Munroe stroked his thick beard as he examined her from afar, unsure if she was still alive. As he kicked the layer of leaves away from her face he noticed her eyes twitch. He looked at Lennox who was sat by him panting, almost as if he was expecting advice from this four legged animal. Munroe removed his Westfield wax jacket and after brushing away the remaining leaves, draped it over her skinny frail body. Throwing the rifle strap over his shoulder, he bent down and slid his arms underneath her. She was so cold; the shock sent a shiver down his spine. Munroe lifted her with such ease he guessed she weighed no more than six or seven stone. A part of him wondered how this woman could still be alive. Munroe’s shack was not the ramshackle mess the word normally springs to mind. A skilled self taught carpenter, it was carefully planned and constructed with extensive knowledge of structure and form. Granted it was basic, but it was sturdy and had survived turbulent weather. Designed as one room, the bedroom, kitchenette/dining room and living room were separated by the furniture within. On the walls were many photos of Munroe with his battalion, the 40 Commando Royal Marines. During the Falklands he was one of the first to land at San Carlos on Operation Corporate. Whilst defending the beach head they were subject to air attacks the following days and shot down an Argentine Skyhawk with a machine gun. It was a moment Munroe would never let leave his memory. As they entered the shack Lennox headed straight for his basket and curled up, the cold was clearly too much for him. The shack was surprisingly warm, something Munroe insisted on during the design. An Edinburgh lad born and raised, he never liked the cold of Scotland, but he could never deny his homeland or the beauty it has to offer. Now that he was located further north in Fife at the Kirkwood Estate, he could swear the temperatures were always several degrees lower. Munroe lowered the girl down on his bed, brushing the hair away from her face. Blood had dried around her mouth, most likely from a nosebleed or cut lip. As he moved her arm down by her side he noticed black spots along the skin. They resembled cigarette burns. He approached the sink in the kitchen and ran a tap, soaking a flannel. The water came from a tank outside that collected rainwater. He was proud of his self sufficient home. A wood burning fire provided heat and a solar panel provided what little electricity he needed. He wiped away the dirt and blood from her face as she began to open her eyes. As he stared, she panicked cramming herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “It’s okay.” he said softly in his thick accent. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her eyes darted around the room trying to understand where she was, pulling the duvet cover over for protection. “What’s your name?” he asked. She looked at him hesitating for a moment. “Sabina.” She spoke with a thick eastern European accent. “Where are you from?” He enquired curiously. “Romania.” She replied still confused as to where she was. “You’re a long way from home. How did you end up here?” “Men, take me. I arrive in container. I am to work for them.” As she spoke the thought of what she was saying horrified Munroe. “But I escape.” She added. “Did they hurt you?” Munroe asked gesturing to the burns on her skin. She looked down at them and nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.” he said smiling sincerely. “Thank you.” Munroe wasn’t sure what he was going to do with her. A sucker for a damsel in distress he was determined to help her, however calling the police would surely result in her deportation and he wasn’t sure how Mr McKendrick would react to the situation. Munroe reasoned that they had time, at least until she gained her strength and then they would decide on the next step. Munroe was stirring a batch of homemade tomato soup, his favourite meal, especially on cold days like this. Sabina was still sat on the bed wrapped in the duvet watching him. As he raised the spoon to taste, the sound of voices could be heard outside. Munroe paused. Voices were unusual around here, this was private property and nobody should be trespassing. Sabina pulled the duvet tighter around her, frightened of who may be outside. Munroe put the spoon back in the saucepan and grabbed his rifle. He glanced out the window to see three men walking by the shack. “Stay quiet.” Munroe ordered. As he approached the door Lennox stood to attention, ready to follow and, if necessary, protect his master. Munroe opened the door and stepped outside, the rifle lowered by his side. Lennox stepped up beside him. As the three men spoke Munroe recognised the language immediately, it was one he was all too familiar with, Serbian. As a member of D Squadron of the 22 Special Air Service, he had taken part in Operation Picnic during the Kosovo War. Inserted into Kosovo in the early hours of 21st March 1999, their mission was to identify Serbian units, surface-to-air missile sites and supply lines and positions while remaining undetected. They also scouted possible invasion routes for NATO forces and collected photographic evidence of Serbian war crimes. On the 25th March his unit came across a mass grave in the small village of Bela Crkva, men, women and children all piled in together. The true capability of Serbians was etched into Munroe’s mind and ever since he has held a dislike for the country and its people. To find three of them metres from his home did not sit well with him. The three men stopped in their tracks and turned to the armed man standing on the porch of his shack staring at them. The first to speak was stood in between the other two wearing an old 90s tracksuit jacket, his hair was greasy and the five o’clock shadow on his face gave an aura of intimidation. “Hello, I’m sorry. I think we took wrong turning. We are lost” he said. Munroe mustered up a sound of authority in his voice. “Aye, that you are. This is private property and you’re trespassing. I suggest you turn around and head back the way you came.” He replied. “Thank you, we will do that.” The three men began to turn around, but tracksuit stopped again and turned to Munroe. “You haven’t seen a young girl come through here have you? She is our friend, we are looking for her.” He asked politely. “No, I haven’t.” Munroe answered trying to sound genuine. A moment of silence followed before a sound inside the shack alerted the three Serbians. They could see the discomfort on Munroe’s face. Tracksuit smiled with a devilish grin. “Give us the girl.” He demanded. Munroe shook his head. “There’s no girl here.” he replied trying to stay calm. Tracksuit was becoming impatient. “Please, do not play with me. If you hand her over, you will never see us again. I promise.” Munroe decided to give up the act and play it straight. “I can’t do that.” “Very well.” Tracksuit said as he drew a Glock 19 Pistol from the back of his jeans and raised it ready to aim at Munroe. The gamekeeper was too quick though, lifting the rifle and firing a quick shot to disarm the Serb, severing off his ring finger in the process. He fell to his knees screaming in pain holding his injured hand as the blood dripped onto the leaves beneath him. His friend to the right wearing a leather jacket, with a shaved head and goatee making him look like some sort of nightclub bouncer moved his arm around to the back of his trousers. Munroe fired a shot at the ground by his feet and leather jacket paused. “Don’t you even dare. Throw it away.” Munroe ordered and leather jacket complied, slinging a Glock 19 several metres from him. Munroe then focused his attention to the Serb on the other side. “You too.” He told the main dressed in a denim jacket looking less tough than the other too. “I have no gun.” He replied lifting up his jacket to show Munroe nothing was tucked anywhere. “You stupid asshole.” Tracksuit piped up still squeezing his hand tightly to stem the flow of blood. “You do not understand.” “Oh, I understand fully. Now leave this land.” Munroe ordered, this time with more force. Leather and denim helped tracksuit to his feet and they began to head off in the opposite direction, Munroe still with his rifle trained on them. “We’ll be back, and you’ll be sorry.” Tracksuit called out. Munroe waited for them to disappear within the trees then finally lowered his rifle. He re-entered the shack and looked over at Sabina who was still huddled in the corner, the blanket held up to her eyes. “We need to leave.” He suggested, placing the rifle up against the wall. “I cannot.” Sabina replied with fear in her voice. “You have to.” Munroe grabbed a large blanket and slung it over to Sabina. “This will keep you warm.” Sabina lowered the duvet and grabbed the blanket throwing it around her shoulders. She pulled it over her head, and as she stood up the end of the sheet reached down to the floor. She was completely covered. She looked up to Munroe. “Okay, but where we go?” she asked. “Somewhere safe.” He answered as he grabbed a set of car keys off a hook by the door. To say Munroe’s Land Rover was old was an understatement. The 95 Defender model had seen a lot throughout its years and although a little rickety here and there, it churned up road like there was no tomorrow. Sabina was sat beside him still hidden within the blanket watching the trees whiz by. Lennox was in the back enjoying a trip in the car as he always did. Silence remained between them, nothing but the ground crunching beneath. The main house of the estate was a couple of miles away from Munroe’s shack. He wanted it to be located far enough that he wouldn’t have to run into Mr McKendrick too often, or his guests, yet close enough that either man could easily visit the other. As the Land Rover pulled up outside the main doors of the house, Munroe jumped out onto the gravel driveway and ran to ring the bell, he then returned to the passenger side door and opened it helping Sabina out, the sharp gravel cutting into her bare feet. Lennox began barking as though asking when he would be let out. “Stay boy, I’ll be back soon.” Munroe called to him. The door was opened by the main butler of the house, Wilson. Munroe knew him well, but did not like him and knew a petty argument would ensue between them about who the girl was, before he would allow entry. Munroe pushed Wilson aside and stepped in, much to the butler’s protests. In a great ornate living room Munroe and Sabina waited, Wilson standing by the door staring daggers at them. The fire was roaring and Sabina was sitting by it absorbing the heat. Munroe was pacing up and down near her as Mr McKendrick entered the room tying his dressing gown. “Munroe, what is it?” McKendrick asked. “Mr McKendrick, I’m sorry to barge in on you, but I need you to take care of this young woman.” He told him. Mr McKendrick looked over at Sabina who seemed completely oblivious she was the subject of the conversation. “Who is she?” “I found her in the wood, several men are after her. She needs somewhere safe to stay, for the night at least.” “I don’t know, Munroe. How can I trust her?” “You don’t need to leave her alone. Have Wilson watch her.” Wilson was not happy to hear this suggestion. “And where will you be.” He cried. “Protecting my home.” “What do you mean?” McKendrick asked concerned. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I have to go.” Munroe rushed for the door. “But Munroe.” McKendrick turned to watch Munroe leave, confused by his haste. He then turned to Sabina who was still by the fire. “Wilson, ensure she behaves herself.” “Very well, Sir” Wilson replied begrudgingly. As Munroe drove back to the shack bouncing along the dirt road, he felt as if he was back in the Gulf War driving along the desert dunes to battle. He knew the Serbs would return and this time with more men and heavier fire power. Munroe would have to use every trick he had learnt from years under Her Majesty’s service to protect himself and his home. Munroe searched the shack for anything he could find that would help hold off the inevitable siege. Along with snare wire, he gathered up every last round for his rifle and came across an old bear trap at the bottom of a wooden crate filled with farm relics. For a moment as he stared at the rusty teeth, he felt it may be too much, but after his mind flashed back to that haunting mass grave, those doubts washed away. It didn’t take long to plant everything. He knew they would attack from the same direction they originally came and so it was a simple case of creating a defensive line several metres from the shack. This would give enough time, for those that do get through, to pick them off with the rifle. Darkness was falling; this would work to Munroe’s advantage hiding every trap from view. As much as he would want to fight alongside him, Munroe knew this was not Lennox’ war and so shut him inside hoping the walls would stem the penetration of bullets and protect him from any harm. He was never one to put his fellow soldiers in danger, if it could be helped. Munroe perched himself on the roof of the shack in a prone position, rifle lined up. He used the scope to scan along the tree line looking for any movement. With no night vision to hand, he would have to rely mainly on sounds, something he was more than used to. An hour went by and the temperature dropped several degrees. The lack of movement was making Munroe more and more cold. His hands were shaking and he was struggling to hold the rifle steady. He was starting to wonder if they would actually show up, would he have to stay here all night just in case? Suddenly he heard the sound of a branch snap, and the rustling of leaves. Peeking through the sight he scanned the defensive line looking for any hint of motion. It was then he heard the sound of the bear trap snap shut and the blood curdling scream that followed. Denim jacket’s leg was in a helpless grip cutting into the flesh. He was crying in agony trying to pull his leg free, but each time he did the teeth would drag more skin from the bone. He collapsed to the floor on the cusp of passing out. One of the Serbs dressed in a black hoody covering his head ran to the aid of Denim, but tripped on a cord made from the snare wire tied between too trees. He fell forward onto a set of carved wooded spikes protruding from the ground at a 45 degree angle. They penetrated his chest causing him to cough up blood. Munroe could not see what was happening, but the sounds of rustling neared every second. He was almost panicking trying to spot any sign of a human figure, but the darkness was concealing everything. Leather jacket, Tracksuit and a third man wearing a long winter coat were only a few metres from the shack. They each had AK47s and cocked them ready to fire. They created a line of fire as they cut up the shack’s walls. Inside Lennox was going berserk barking and bouncing up and down. The flashes from the muzzles lit up the faces of the three men alerting Munroe to their position. He lined up the sight and fired a shot taking out Long Coat, a perfect shot through the head. As he reloaded, Lennox had managed to get out the door and ran toward the two remaining men, barking loudly. He pounced at Leather Jacket sinking his teeth into his arm. As he roared in pain he pulled a Glock 19 from his trousers and fired a shot. Lennox yelped collapsing to the ground. Just as Leather Jacket pulled himself to his feet a shot echoed and he felt a piercing sting in his chest. He dropped to his knees falling forward taking a mouthful of dirt. With only Tracksuit left, he yanked back the trigger churning out round after round splitting the wood of the shack, splinters flying off in all directions. Munroe reloaded the rifle and trained his sight. He fired, catching Tracksuit in the chest. He fell backwards casting the AK47 across the ground. Munroe waited several minutes scanning the tree line again, prepared for any more movements. He suspected they were all down and slowly crawled to the edge of the roof where he slipped off down to the ground. He reloaded the rifle and made his way over to Tracksuit who was panting. As Munroe looked down at him, he looked up. “You fool. You do not understand. She must die. She is not human.” He spoke under heavy breath. Munroe frowned at him confused by these words. “What do you mean?” he asked. Tracksuit gave his last breath and shut his eyes. Munroe looked over toward the main house. Munroe didn’t hesitate to gather up Lennox and put him in the back of the Land Rover. He’d been shot, but Munroe suspected it wasn’t anything too serious. The bullet was through and through missing any vital organs. It was a simple case of stemming the blood flow until he could get him to a vet. But first he would need to stop by the house. As Lennox lay in the back of the car breathing slowly, but conscious, Munroe was still waiting by the door after having rung the doorbell several times. Past experiences told Munroe it didn’t matter how late it was someone would always answer the door. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer and used all his strength to kick the door. It slammed against the wall as it swung open. With rifle in hand, Munroe stepped into the quiet expecting someone to run in questioning the noise, but nothing. He made his way into the living room where the fire was still roaring, unattended. “Hello?” he called out, expecting some sort of reply. Climbing the stairs was something he had never done. The upstairs of the household was strictly off limits, but Munroe was becoming more and more concerned by the lack of presence in the home. He made his way across the large corridor of rooms, all with their doors open. Only one at the end was shut. He guessed this was Mr McKendrick’s bedroom, and made his way toward it. He repeated the words of the Track suited Serb in his head “She’s not human.” What did he mean by that? He reached out his hand and turned the door handle gently pushing it open. The hinges creaked, the light rushing into the dark room. As Munroe entered he was greeted by a familiar scene. Lying on the bed was Mr McKendrick, not looking too dissimilar to the fox that he had discovered that morning. Blood was sprayed up the walls, the bed sheets were soaked. Limbs and organs spread all over. Mr McKendrick’s severed head frozen with a face of pure shock that sent a chill down Munroe’s spine. Down on the floor beside his feet was a crumpled up dress, the same one worn by Sabina. Behind him he could hear the sound of breathing. He carefully turned around and stared into the blackness in the corner of the room. Floating like two laser dots was a pair of red eyes staring at him. His heart began pounding faster than had ever before. She began to make a growling noise. Munroe slowly attempted to cock the rifle. The clicking noise startled her and she lunged out from the corner launching toward him. Munroe raised the rifle and fired a shot.


Walking this earth, wondering why all the suffering, why all the hurt – what is the point? Where are the answers to this life of constant good, to be contrasted with any type of negative, whether it be a thought to make you spiral into a bad mood, or a person who was rude to you which turned your mood from happy to annoyed? What is this constant contrast in this life us humans are enduring? Why do we even let people ruin our moods? What is the point to all of this? The world is overcome with negativity. We struggle with the people around us who don’t know how to be happy or grateful, while being one of those people. Go to bed, wake up, go to work, get home, go to bed, just to repeat. And the wonder is ‘what is the point of this life?’. Sure some people have more and seem happier, but are they really? Deep down are they actually happy and peaceful with this life? Being human is hard; it’s full of emotions that aren’t easy. There is illness, death, anger, heartache, fear, loss and evil in this world that does co-exist with the opposite, but the negative feels more powerful, more evident in our lives.

As humans, we are born into a family, into a part of the world we will either love or loathe. We make tough decisions and risks throughout our lives looking for that peace and happiness, while striving for success, which for most people means money. Most humans have children, which is a beautiful experience also blanketed with extreme worry; extreme worry because the love is so extreme. Again, why do we mostly feel the opposite of love as stronger? Why are us humans like this? Negativity is easy; positivity is hard. As a human, we keep walking this earth in search of the peace and happiness, with little pockets of pure joy, whether it be a trip, a new puppy, birth of a child, a promotion. But it never lasts does it? We are always brought down, nothing good lasts forever. Most of us love our parents, and they die. Some of us lose loved ones to tragic accidents.  Why??? Why is life so full of hardships and heartache that seem to overpower the good? Why do we constantly feel this struggle? Why does the good not last forever? Why do the best people always seem to struggle the most? Why is there so much addiction? Why is everyone not kind to one another? What is the point of this life? WHAT IS THE ACTUAL POINT?

I wonder this daily as I read about and watch people struggle, hard workers, lazy people, positive people, rich people; it doesn’t matter, we all suffer throughout our lives. So what is the point of a human experience? To suffer? To worry? To stress? Most days that feels like the point, except for those moments which seem rare in our existence.

The answer is at the mountains. Sure, the ocean is great. But the mountains…. Sit in front of a mountain, for example, the Rocky Mountains. The energy is alive, the energy is powerful, the energy envelops you. Give your struggle to the mountains and the mountains will give back exactly what you need. The answer is there for you. The mountains give you the answer to the point of being human. You can’t even put the answer into words because you just feel the mountains. Negative energy is impossible to feel in the presence of a mountain. You feel extreme peace, the kind that washes over your whole being and gives you all the answers. You feel the point of being human, which is love, the kind of love you can’t put into words, the kind of love that is always surrounding us but we take for granted. The mountains remind us of this love. Your body just surrenders to the mountains, without the intention, it just happens, and the point of life enters your soul. You sit and you stare at the mountain, forced to close your eyes, as the mountain heals you. The power of the mountain washes over you and reminds you of the constant beauty that is around us. It reminds you of the power of energy as this majestic being just stands in front of you giving you all that it has, giving you all the answers and all the love that is needed. You soak it up. What happens when you leave the mountain? It stays with you, for a long time. It’s like the mountain pressed a reset button and you can see the point of life now. You feel love in everything that you do and see. You can even see and feel love in the pain and suffering. You see and feel love in unkind people and your perspective changes. It changes from resentment to understanding. The mundane is now the life that you get to live and enjoy; you can see love in the cup of coffee you pour, you can feel the gratitude for that mountain that is now carrying you through this life and keeping your perspective strong and in a place of love. Only the mountains can do that. Only the mountains can give you the answers while showing you and cleansing your soul back to when you were a child and everything was an adventure, and everything was beautiful and full of joy.

Eventually you have to walk away from the mountain and carry that feeling with you in every aspect of your life. That is the way to live – to feel that mountain love inside of every cell of your body. To carry it with you, in your mundane routines, but now those routines are beautiful, and you are grateful for them. You see life with a different lens. It was a gift that you were even drawn to that mountain and were able to give it your struggles, just for the mountain to transform you. Now you can even see beauty in the suffering and know the whole point of this life is love; a love that you just felt that cannot be described in words. It’s a feeling, a knowing, a transformation; a feeling and power that you can now spread to the people and world around you. Stand tall dear mountains, we are ever so grateful for your powerful gift.


Two old wooden doors stood before Gray. Both of these doors were ancient, covered in scratches, with chips taken out of the wood. The old iron handles looked partially rusted. The two doors were very similar to each other, except for one key difference. Each one had a symbol painted a deep red on them. The door on the left had a symbol of a sword behind held by a clawed hand. The door on the right, a shield. Gray had an uneasy feeling that not only did these doors present her with an important choice, but it was a choice she could not undo. As impulsive as she had been through her entire life, for once she felt apprehensive, worried about making a decision. Before Gray made this decision she had to be sure this was the right one. She turned around to look at where she was. Gray was surprised to see that the place she was in, was just an endless white void. No matter how far she looked off into the distance she couldn't see anything. Looking at the doors again she realized that they were just standing there in front of her. Any sense of reason would suggest that these doors couldn't open up to anything, after all she could walk around them and they were just standing here in this void, nothing was behind them. Still she knew that this choice was going to be important, she just wished she could understand what the choice was. She stood there in silence, staring at these two doors for who knows how long. It felt like hours. Nothing changed around her, it was all just a plain white void and two doors. Looking down at herself she even realized that nothing had changed about her. Her gray scales rough to the touch her red clothes covered in dirt, even her wings, folded against her back felt stiff. Maybe it was because nothing had changed that she felt stagnant. A kobold wasn't supposed to be stagnant; they were creatures of energy, of decision, of creativity and passion. Yet here she was, standing still like a tree and doing a whole lot of nothing. A cold creeping voice came from behind her, deep, feminine, sensual. "I see you've come to a crossroad my little scaly friend." Gray turned around to see a wolf with black fur standing behind her. Even normal wolves were taller than her, but this wolf was even taller than that, towering over her like a dark imposing god and with two bright green eyes that stared down at her with something between contempt and judgment. Gray felt a rush of emotions seeing this creature. Fear of being torn to shreds and eaten, shame for having stood there so long that it could creep up on her, worthless for not being able to make a decision. Gray couldn't look away from it no matter how hard she tried. It was like her eyes were glued on the dark imposing figure. Gray opened her mouth to speak but felt her mouth was dry. Words were hard to form, but she managed to speak. "I'm confused." The wolf nodded. "I can see that, little one." The look in the wolf's eyes softened a touch. "I can also see you carry weight on your shoulders, there’s a great pain over this decision." Gray was able to look back at the door. "I, don't understand what I'm choosing, but I think it's important." The wolf let out a huff. "It is an important decision you make. I know what my answer was, but I also made this same decision long, long ago." Gray stared at the doors. She felt the brush of the cool fur next to her. It wasn't cold like she expected but rather it was pleasantly cool, like sitting in front of the air conditioner on a hot summer's day. "So, what is the question?" The wolf lowered its massive head next to Gray's. That green eye impossibly large next to her. "That is the best question you can ask, it is also a question you must answer yourself." Gray hated that. She wasn't a smart kobold. She wasn't like her friends. She was just dumb. Gray didn't mind though, she could figure most things out through brute force. By the Holy Dragon she even managed to figure out the stupid mail route her sister gave her after she took the new job. Yet this decision before her felt more like a riddle than a question. A sword or a shield, what did these choices mean? The wolf let out a soft whine. "I sense your struggle little one. All of your kin are like children, and I dislike it when children suffer, be they my own, or others. My sister's cruelty toward your kind will be avenged in time, but as my prison weakens I can at least offer some support and aide." Gray looked over at the wolf. "Who are you?" "You may call me Nightmare." The world began to melt around them. The white void melting into a slurry of different colors that made little to no sense at first. Only the two doors remained stationary and visible. The colors soon began to form shapes around them and she started to make out objects. She found herself standing in a large room with toys scattered around the place. There was a bed in the corner, a couple of dressers, various ragdolls on the floor, a couple of plastic toy weapons, and a large dollhouse nearby. In front of the dollhouse sat two young kobolds. Both of them were covered in gray scales with folded wings on their backs. The smaller one of the two had red spines on her back and red eyes, the larger one had yellow spines and matching eyes.

It took a moment but Gray recognized them. "That's me and my big sister. Me and Dee, but we're so small." Nightmare purred. "Oh really? I would have never guessed that the smaller kobold that looked just like you was in fact you." Gray gave a hard look at the wolf who only smiled at her revealing fangs as large and sharp as daggers. "You don't have to be rude." "I'm being playful little one." The small version of her older sister spoke quietly. "See, you just need to put the sword on the hip like that and it'll stay in the little belt." The small version of herself eyes widened. "Woah, that's cool!" Dee giggled. "Sure is." Just outside the door behind them Gray heard a voice she hadn't heard in a long, long time. A male voice that sounded rough, and serious. "I can't believe it. The security measures were supposed to keep the dreamers from leaving. How could they know about our kids?" Another voice she hadn't heard in a long time replied, a female one. "Their powers are still being studied, hun. The dreamers might be developing powers that even we couldn't know about. This might be more dangerous than any of us thought possible." Gray took a step forward but felt an invisible wall stopping her from any more progress. "Mom, dad. Their alive?" Nightmare let out a small growl and then looked toward the doors which were firmly cemented into the wall. "They were both warriors. Fighters, soldiers. They fought well, but you know better than most that with such a dangerous profession often comes with loss." Gray looked back toward the two doors herself. "A sword, or a shield." Her dad's voice came out from behind her. "We shouldn't go back. This is too dangerous, we should ask the Princess if we can resign from the program." Her mom replied. "We are soldiers, we are the weapons of the Dragon Lords, as the Dragon Guard, we do not back away from danger, we face it and fight it." "We have kids now. They need us. At least one of us should ask to resign." Her mom snapped. "I didn't realize you were a coward." There was a long silence after that but her father finally replied. "No, I'm not. But bravery doesn't always take the form of violence, sometimes it takes the form of protecting that which is really important. I know what's important to me, but what's important to you?" Her mom replied. "I, I understand where your coming from, but the project is almost done. Let's just give it one more month. You can do that right?" "One month... I can do one month." The world washed away as the blinding white void came over it. She watched as all the colors and shapes were replaced by the empty void once more. Yet again she found herself staring at the two doors. The sword, or the shield. Nightmare spoke carefully. "Does that help answer your question?" Gray nodded. "I think it does. You know, they never came back from the next trip they went on. That was the last time I ever saw them." Nightmare nodded. "I am aware." Gray had already made her choice long ago she feared, but perhaps, this decision wasn't the worst one she could make after all. She walked to the door and put her hand on it. Opening the door with the shield on it she saw a dark void beyond the door. She took a step through it and watched as the entire world was swallowed by that darkness. The doorway behind her vanished.

For a moment she stood there in the darkness, alone, cold, and lost. A pair of green eyes lit up in the darkness beside her. Soon a soft blue light spread out in the form of a giant wolf. Nightmare looked down at her. "So you chose to protect those you love, over destroying those that you hate." Gray swallowed. "I've already lost enough in this world, I don’t want to lose anymore." The world began to brighten and she watched as bright green grass grew out of the ground beneath them spreading out like a bottle of spilled milk. Soon large trees with silver trunks began to sprout out of the grass around them shooting high into the sky and toward the heavens. The sky too began to come into focus as a bright pink with green clouds. As the colors spread around her creating beauty and life she looked onward to see off in the distance, far, far away there stood a tree tall and giant above the others. It was so impossibly tall she could swear the tree itself was as large as a city in width and stretched on taller and higher than she could ever see. A large face had been carved into its front, with a massive mustache, kind smile and sleepy eyes.

It was the most amazing thing Gray had ever seen. She just couldn't believe it. She went to take a step forward and froze as a cold realization hit her. If she continued forward, even just one step voluntarily, she may never return home. She turned to face Nightmare who had wrapped her massive tail in a circle around Gray.

"Nightmare, what is this place?" "A special place, one may even call this realm 'the truth' but I always just saw it as home." From ahead of them she saw two figures approaching. Two kobolds wearing shiny metal armor and waving at her. It was her mom and dad. Her dad with his red eyes and yellow spines. Her mom with the reverse eyes and spine colors. They were both smiling and waving at her. She waved at them. "MOM, DAD!" The world began to fade around the two of them. Once more into that blinding light. She wanted to stay even for a few more seconds. She looked up at Nightmare. Even Nightmare was beginning to fade. Gray was afraid she might be all alone if Nightmare left. She didn't want to be alone. She reached out and grabbed onto Nightmare's fur. It was cool to the touch, but she could feel a warmth deep beneath it. Yet even that sensation was gone as everything was consumed by the white light. *** Gray opened her eyes and looked around. She was in her bedroom. Her blanket was a mess around her and she felt unusually tired and slow. The morning light was bright and shining right into her eyes so she had to roll over to get away from it. She rubbed her hands at her eyes and felt something soft brush against her face. Looking at her hands she saw a few lengths of soft navy blue fur. Gray swallowed. "That wasn't just a normal dream."


Bel, short for Jezebel, was an introverted only child who preferred her own company to a crowds. As an adult she fell deeply in love with nature and you could often find her on a forest trail, hiking in her free hours.   Today was no different, she blissfully hummed to herself over the singing birds and crunching leaves beneath her feet. She had walked this trail many times, so she was familiar and well conditioned for the winding trails up the mountain slope.  Her friends would often ask her if her solo trips were ever frightening and she would always answer no with a shrug.

  She was smart about her trips and was sure to always send her mom her location in advance. Something she however didn’t tend to share was how she carried a gun in her pack and kept five bullets in her pocket, her lucky number.

  She urged forward up the steep incline, eager to get to the top and around the bend where she knew would sit a ginormous red boulder. It was her favorite part of the hike and she had made it a tradition to climb to the top of it every single time.

 She remember the first time she had climbed it, how it made her feel… well at first it made her feel pure terror and bit of nausea. Though once she got past the image of the boulder tipping off the cliff and rolling to her to her death. She had felt unstoppable.

  It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel trapped. Felt as if she was standing on top of the world. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the blood scorching through her veins.

  Bel reached the boulder and began climbing, proudly doing it in half the time than the time before. Once she reached the top she scanned the entire valley with her hands on her hips.   It was an absolutely incredible view and if you knew where to look you could even see the tip of a lake poking out behind the million shades of orange and yellow leaves.

  She closed her eyes against the chilled breeze, tilting her head toward the sun that burned bright even through her eyelids.

Once she finally allowed her eyes to open again they involuntarily locked on a clearing below, the leaves green instead of the fall hues of the surrounding trees.

  Besides it looking bizarre and out of place, she felt as if she was oddly drawn to this clearing. Convincing herself it was only from mere curiosity, she decided to make the trek down which couldn’t be longer than 15 minutes.

  So with one last glance she committed the direction to her memory and began scaling down the side of the boulder.

  When Bel found the clearing it was bathed in streams of sunlight that illuminated everything within in a warm glow. Her legs buckling as she stepping into the sunlight.

  Before her in the clearing was a blooming field of wildflowers of every shade. Bright pinks, soft blues, fluorescent oranges, every color imaginable exploding before her. Too in awe to recall if she saw a single flower on the trail prior, she now stood in the center of thousands of blooms. She watched her step, careful not to crush any of the beautiful flowers. She tipped her head back towards the canopy above, the branches were covered in bright green leaves. She had found a pool of spring in and ocean of fall.

  Her eyes fell to the soft grass where she found herself centered in a perfect circle of brown mushrooms with large flat tops.

  Without thought she bent down and plucked a mushroom from the ground, holding it out in the light. She rotated it left and right, noting how it reflected red to orange in the sunlight.

  Once she plucked it though, her fingertips began to tingle and then then turn numb which quickly spread down her arms like fire.

“That’s not yours to take, child.” An angry voice purred from behind her.

  Dropping the mushroom, it fell softly to the forest floor.

  Bel turned around and couldn’t believe her eyes. Before her stood a tall, fair skinned woman whose skin was made of tree bark. She had branches that stretched, forming almost a crown above the head. Her flowing green gown was the color of aged moss.

  Fear wrapped around her gut, as rage warped the creatures face. Bel had angered a member of the Unseelied court.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Bel's voice wobbled weakly when she whispered the words. Then could only continue to stare at this creature in terrified awe, baffled by the inhuman beauty it possessed.

  “Pick it up.” It demanded coldly. Bel took a step back stumbling, the movement caused the burning fire to spread throughout her body until she was utterly paralyzed.

  She began to weep in fear, all she wanted to run but her feet would not obey. The creatures face twisted in delight. It watched Bel squirm and fail to break free from the paralysis until it was breathless in laughter.

  The creature crept close to her and pinched underneath Bels arm hard enough to draw blood. When she cried out in pain the creature doubled over in laughter again. Then a snap of its finger Bel fell hard to the ground, her head thudding again a sharp rock.

  “What a pathetic thing.” It mocked “Pick up my mushroom right now.”

  The pain shooting through Bels head was nearly blinding but somehow she reached her hand out finding the mushroom. She pulled herself into a crouch and handed the mushroom over.

  “I’m feeling merciful today, you may keep the mushroom. Leave this place and never return. ” The unseelied woman surprised her by returning the mushroom to her hand.

“Thank you..” Bel said confused. Tears still blurred her vision but she saw the creature freeze when the words left her lips. This time when it laughed it seemed to reverberate through her entire rib cage all the way to shuttering heart. Terror melting all the way into to her bones, Bel knew something was deeply wrong.

 In a tone as hard as stone the creature said, “ and by the light of the eastern sun. You belong to me, Aeylinay Vailh of the Oakwood Flesh Court. You shall do my bidding among the shadows until the blue moon rises again.”   Shadows danced into the corner of her vision until she felt her body drop defenseless again against the ground.

  The last thing she heard before being consumed by darkness was Aeylinay’s mocking voice “foolish girl.” Before it drew its leg back and kicked her into unconsciousness.

  When she awoke to her new life she found herself sleeping in a makeshift tent with many other human slaves of the unseelied.

  Aeylinay Claimed her nights with servant work while pain an exhaustion chased her through the day. Waiting on her hand and foot mean that Aeylinay would always have a toy to torment close by.

  Most humans didn’t survive long. She watched many die until she was numb to the day to day sorrows. Sometimes they would go off into the night to serve their keeper, never to return. Others would pass silently in their sleep, sunken in hunger or exhaustion.

 Life with in the Unseelied court is an awful and cruel life for any being beyond its court.

  She had come to learn the unbearable pain of dancing for days until she felt her bones grinding together.

  They would tie her hair in knots as she slept, send monsters to chase her into dreams. They would feed her berries that cause terrifying hallucinations that gripped her for days. Hallucinations of her close friends and family abandoning her or dying in her arms. Or of little bugs that would crawl over her skin and devour her flesh while she sat paralyzed in unimaginable pain.

  Sometimes they would hold events and watch their slaves fight to the death. Occasionally allowing weapons and armor, other times forcing them to fight bare with only their hands.   They were brutal, warped creatures that she sometimes believed enjoyed torturing humans equal to their love for sweet wines and elaborate gowns. The people of the Unseelied court were beautiful creatures, some radiated power strong enough that a glance could feel like a winded punch to the gut. Some with tall antlers or horns, others gnarled roots similar to Aeylinay.

  Everything she owned was taken or hidden in another wicked trick years ago. All besides her five bullets that she was smart enough to bury in the roots of an oak tree beyond the forest line. She sadly wondered if she would even be able to find the tree again after all this time, even if she had tried. The last keepsake from her formal life.   She lost a lot of things among the court of the Unseelied. Bel wept as she realized she could no longer recall the exact shade of her mothers hair. Or when she lost the memory of an old favorite song she use to know by heart.

  Another thing that was stolen in this realm, possibly the cruelest was time. Her life fading away and the person she once was slipped slowly from her grasp. Scared and alone she was made into something else entirely.

  One day she stood in the shadows of the ball room, lined with other masked human slaves. Sure nobody was looking at her, she stretched up onto her tip toes to see what had caused such a commotion. Everyone of the court stopped dancing and the music drifted off into chilled silence.

  The banished prince had entered and approached the queen directly at her throne. The knights drew their weapons, metal sliced through the air ready to stop the prince if intervention was needed.

  The queen nodded in approval and the knights let the prince pass with his token of forgiveness.

  His gloved hands held a necklace to the moonlight, presenting a ruby red pendant that could reflect the sun even in the darkest of chambers.

  However when he placed the pendant around her neck, it caused an agonized scream to rip from the queens throat before she dropped into a motionless heap on the floor.

  Chaos erupted, the prince was dragged away. The queen, close to death simply by a touch of the pendant.

  She’d later learned that the queen had survived the attack but that day was the first day Bel had ever seen weakness of a member of the Unseelied court, much less the untouchable, beloved queen.

  That was also when she learned that of the most powerful weapon against the immortal creatures was something as simple as iron.

  It took a few days to recall the bullets she had hidden and with realization, hope began to bloom in her chest for the first time since she’d arrived to this realm.  However if it was one thing she had learned from these foul creatures was that sometimes the best revenge took patience.

  So in a months time when the court gathered again for their blood moon gatherings, she waited by calmly with a single bullet clutched in her sweaty palm.

  Deep inside she was willing to risk her life for what she was about to do. She had already said her silent goodbyes to those tortured souls she had come to love in this realm. And to those she lost and mourned in her mortal realm long ago.

  Moments before the challises were passed for the queens grand toast. Bel slipped by the wine fountain and dropped the bullet to the bottom, watching it as it sank and disappeared into the dark red liquid then she turned and evaporated into the crowd unnoticed.

  The queen rose from her throne and toasted again to their marvelous immortality and once she did they all began to drink their wine, even the children of the unseelied drank deeply from their cups until empty.

  Where they once stood in their riches and glory. Now lay on the ballroom floor dying an agonizing death. They were being burned alive from the insides. The iron infused wine dissolving their insides to liquid. And when they all lay motionless the silence echoed across the vast room.

  The once enslaved humans stood in confusion at the dead court before them. They didn’t understand yet but because of Bel they were now free. The silence snapped like a rubber band as Bel’s cackling laugh bounced across the room. Then she began to dance and the other humans quickly joined her.

   She danced and danced over the bodies of the unseelied court breathless in laughter and delight. Delirious with joy she slipped in the puddle of blood that formed in the center of the floor, it staining the bottom of her ragged, torn dress.

  Unsure of how long she had danced along the other humans. A voice shattered the mirth as a chiming laugh rang out through the ball room. It was the banished prince and he hunched over in laughter at the sight of what Bel had done.

 When he finally regained himself again he looked directly into her eyes as if he knew exactly what she had done.

  “It is because of you I am free, I thank you for your actions, child.” The prince said with a smirk, dipping into a low bow. Her legs buckled and collapsed cracking against the granite floors, she didn’t notice the warmth seeping into her dress. All the heard was his words repeat in her head. “…thank you.” He was now in-depth to her.   He turned and began walking away, she wasn’t sure exactly what to say but Aeylinay words returned to her after all these years, clear in her memory as if she had spoken them yesterday.

  Loud and clear Bel’s voice called out to the prince, “by the moonlight of the Oakwood Flesh. I demand you return all of our lost souls to the mortal realm as we were before we were stolen.”

  He didn’t turn around but he halted as her words and with one flick of his wrist, he snapped his fingers.

  The world faded around her and when she opened her eyes she was no longer underneath the stars of the Unseelied court. She was now sitting in a pool of sunlight surrounded by blooming flowers. She sat up slowly and looked around. She was still in the blood soaked dress but she felt it within her that she had finally returned home. She began to sob. Sob in pity for what she had endured, sobbed in relief that she managed to free herself and the other slaves of the court from their misery.

  Then in the distance she heard dogs barking and people shouting her name. With no hesitation she screamed for their help.  Within a few moments police burst into the clearing wearing baffle expressions at finding the lost girl with knotted hair and a bloody gown standing in the middle in a blooming field of spring flowers in the middle of fall.

  Before she knew it she was emitted into the hospital where her mom was already waiting for her in her room. They held each other crying while neither of them spoke a word, afraid to burst the reality of the moment. She stroked her mothers chestnut hair until she cried herself to sleep.

  Bel had learned, what was 8 years of her life in the Unseelied court was only a weeks time in the mortal realm. Her mother feared the worst but she knew where to send the search parties looking.

  Bel was of course never the same , as she returned unrecognizable by the people she had mourned a long time ago.   It took a long time for the fear to settle within her but she finally did find peace and eventually happiness in the mortal realm. She would often think and wonder about the other slaves she freed from the court. However with enough time it all seemed to fade from her memory as if a distant dream.

  Bel lived a full life and grew to be 84 years old before she passed peacefully in her sleep.

  Not a single soul left alive that knew she was responsible for the mass slaughtering of the entire Oakwood Flesh Unseelied court.

-BDS


In his tiny acorn-cup bed, lined with spider silk and tufts of early green moss, Bugul Noz began to stir.  The sun had set several hours before and the sky was aglimmer with ice blue stars dangling like delicious dew drops from a blackbird’s wing. Bugul Noz could just spy them through the jagged hidey hole of the tree trunk he called home.  He stretched his scaly limbs and rubbed his dry tongue over what was left of his pointed crooked teeth.  Oh what thirst! How he wished he could reach up and grasp one of those mysterious twinkling droplets and bury his face into it, leeching up every last morsel of its cool wetness.  The daydreaming of it just about drove him wild! How long had he slept? It could have been months for all he knew.  He kept no calendar and, being a nightcrawler as he was, never saw the changes of the seasons in the vibrant colours of daylight.  No, the forest in which he lived, come summer or fall, was forever cold at night. Frosts came and went, yes, but beneath the ancient, silent pines, no flowers or berry bushes could grow and bloom to signal the start of spring.  The consistency of Bugul’s surroundings pleased him very much and he was often entirely alone for years.  The odd squirrel, a little lost fawn or an army of beetles may strut about the base of his treehouse, but as for visitors, he had none.  Besides, he dared not face them even if a caller did come knocking at his little doorway for he was Bugul Noz, the most wretchedly hideous being to ever roam the good green Earth, so utterly unbecoming that even the slightest glimpse of his horrible face would strike the onlooker dead in an instant. And so, he kept well to himself, going about his business in the shadow of night.  It suited him nicely.  He had never uttered a word to another soul and wouldn’t be able to muster the courage even if he wished it.

And tonight was just the same as all the others before it in the Great Forest; cold, quiet and entirely Bugul’s for the taking.  He clambered to the entrance of his hollow and unfolded his tattered, papery wings. Dust powdered about the air as he did this and immediately Bugul let out an enormous sneeze.  The sound boomed about the silent wood and bounced its way back to him.  “Bless you!” he muttered to Echo.  “Thank you, but it was not I who sneezed,” came a whispery reply from just above his head. Bugul’s eyes shot up at the seemingly endless tree trunk towering above him.  There, clutching onto the sides of the tree he could just make out a tiny blue creature with long limbs and near-invisible silvery wings criss-crossed with shimmering veiny filaments, fine as gossamer thread.  It seemed female, it’s voice light and body so dainty.  It had not looked down to see Bugul who immediately darted back into his hollow, heart pounding, mouth drier than ever with fear and utter astonishment.

What was this creature? How had it come to be here? And why of all the trees in the Great Forest had it alighted upon his very own pine tree home? Bugul’s mind raced with questions, but he dared not ask a single one.  He wished he could slip away, burrow his way right through the trunk and allow the damp mossy soil to swallow him up at the tree’s roots, but he was trapped.  The sound of scratching began on the trunk outside, slowly getting nearer and nearer and with horror, Bugul realized the creature was trying to make its way into his hollow.  “Come no closer!” he shrieked without thinking.  His raspy voice, hoarse from disuse barked the command which blasted about the forest.  Bugul shrank further back until his wings crushed against the rough wooden wall behind him. But the scratching continued as whatever it was clawed its way down the tree towards him.  “But I must,” whispered the little voice.  “My wing is torn and I cannot fly.  I must rest here and try to mend it before I continue on my journey.” And before he could utter another warning, a tiny, elegant blue limb reached down into the hollow, pulling the rest of the little creature in along with it.  Bugul shielded his face with his rough lichen coat and cowered in the corner.  He longed to peek at the mystical being which had just invited itself in, but he could not allow it to see him.  A visitor was one thing, but a dead visitor… As much as he loved solitude above all else, Bugul did not wish the first person he encountered for as many moons as he could remember to die the moment it cast eyes upon his face.

He listened as the little fae (for surely it must be one of these fabled beings, so delicate and breath-like?) scrambled into a comfortable spot on the floor of his dusty home and let out a sigh like tiny bells tinkling.  “Safety at last,” she said.  “I flew straight into a heavy cluster of pine needles and shredded my wing but luckily I tumbled close enough to this trunk to reach out and catch myself.  Do you perhaps have a needle and a thread? I have my work cut out for me.”  Bugul, shivering now, tightened himself ever more into a little ball, breathing quickly, blind panic raising the hairs on his knobbled kneecaps and elbows.

“I know you are there,” whispered the little voice again, closer this time.  “I can hear you panting away.  Do not fear me. I am a friend in need, I have not come to harm you.  I ask only your assistance.  My name is Alette.” Perhaps it was her gentle words or merely the fact that Bugul absolutely could not escape neither the place nor the situation that made him relent.  He slowly loosened his grip on himself and, one arm covering his face, he shuffled over to a shelf against the hollow’s wall, roughly hewn from the innards of the trunk.  There, he groped about between pebble pots and spoons and plates carved from chips of bark until he found what he was looking for: a miniature sewing kit – needles made from cured dried pine fronds and bundles of sticky thread bravely harvested from the black widow’s web as she’d distractedly sucked the life out of a freshly caught cutworm. Clutching the objects in one hand and masking himself with the other, Bugul crawled cautiously over to the blue fae resting on the ground right in the middle of his living room.  Bugul suddenly felt embarrassed by his home.  He had not even a moss rug nor a butterfly wing curtain to add some comfort to the space.  Indeed, it was as dry and bare as his gnarled little feet which protruded so obscenely from the bottom of his bony grey legs.  He felt heat rise in his cheeks as he remembered his ugliness.  How could he stand to be so close to this magnificent being? He dropped the needles and thread on the floor and rushed back to his dark corner where he balled himself up again in silence, tucking his toes out of sight.  After a moment there came the sound of light fingers pawing at the items. “Thank you, friend,” breathed Alette at last.  “You have just what I need!  I shall begin my work.” Bugul listened as the fae unraveled the tacky spider silk, sucking on the end to narrow it as she threaded the pine needle.  He heard each crisp pop as it punctured the glassy wing again and again, weaving the web through the wing, making it strong again.

After some time the fae spoke again.  “Tell me of your life here friend? This is wearisome work and tales of your world will give me strength, if you would be so kind as to entertain such fancy?”  Bugul was mortified.  What could he tell her? His days were as empty and lonely and uneventful as could be. The forest, unchanging and quiet had no secrets to tell and nor did he.  Perhaps he should invent some story, bewitch her with a tall tale of imagined escapades and make her sigh and laugh in wonder.  And oh, what a delightful laugh that would be! Bugul imagined it twinkling like silver chimes and his old heart fluttered a little in his chest.  But then, remembering who he was, he thought better of it and instead, he opened his mouth to speak his truth. “I am Bugul Noz,” he rasped.  “And of my life there’s not much to tell. It’s quiet and empty and cold here in the Great Forest.  I move about only by night and I sleep by day.  I see no one and keep to my own business.  Your visit is an occasion for which I am not at all prepared..” he trailed off, quite ashamed of how pitiful his existence sounded.  But then Alette spoke again, “Well friend, you are the most prepared person I could hope to find on this fateful night.  Where else in this lonely forest would I find exactly the tools I needed to mend my broken wing?” And with that Alette completed her final stitch, stood up and stretched out her crystalline wing.  Her handiwork was barely noticeable amongst the glistening lattice that roped its way about it and she let out a tinkling giggle of delight. Ah! The sweet sound! It was more exquisite that Bugul had ever imagined! How he wished to embrace this beautiful creature, to see her smile and delight in her wonderous presence and, dare he dream, to make her laugh again! “Good as new!” she hummed as she replaced the needle and thread into the tiny kit and closed it shut.  “Now allow me to thank you, friend.” And before he could shout to her to keep away, the fae had reached for Bugul’s brittle arm and spun him around to face her.  “NO!” he cried in horror as his gaze met hers at last.  All the magic of her laughter that had filled the hollow with such light and gaiety seemed to be sucked from the air around them. He should have recoiled, tried to spare her but he knew it was too late.  The damage was done.  Instead, he looked into her opaline eyes to catch the last moment of her living beauty, frozen in fright at the sight of his face, before she crumpled to the floor, like the last rose petal dangling from an autumn bud.

Bugul fell heart-broken to his knees and scooped up the fae’s limp blue body in his withered arms. The newly stitched wing grazed the dirty floor as he stood up to carry her to entrance of his hollow.  He peered out into the silent night. A chill breeze rose up and rustled his ragged coat and made the fae’s tiny, still-warm limbs shiver against his body. The moon, high in the sky now, cast mocking shadows about the forest as it toyed in and out of heavy clouds which had gathered above him.  Far off, the rumbling of thunder broke the morgue-like silence of the forest.  To think he could be her friend, to entertain her with his stories, to keep her any sort of company.. oh what a fool!  A bitterness boiled inside him as he released the fae back into the night from whence she had come.  She was feather-light, almost weightless and he watched as her tiny form floated leaf-like in gentle spirals to the bottom of the forest floor.

“It is done,” Bugul whispered to himself gazing once more at the heavens.  And slowly, one by one, ice blue droplets of rain began to fall from the sky.


It was the silence that I hated the most. I missed talking to people or just hearing them speak. I don’t mean the screams and yelling from the woods and alleyways. I’ve decided that those are something else I would rather not find. On that Tuesday everyone vanished I was home in Shadewood. I decided quickly that I needed to move on. There are many curious wonders in the world that most were not privileged to see. Initially, I decided to go to the theme park, but it turns out the controls are more complicated than I had thought. I spent a week next to the river on a private estate. That’s when I first heard the screams. I swear I heard a man shouting and then someone scream. I went to investigate the next morning but found nothing. On my way back I heard someone calling my name from the direction of my camp which sent chills up my spine. I have not camped outdoors since. Sometime early in the second month, I had the idea to go to restricted places. Area 51 type areas to see if I could gain entry and answer some questions people have had for years. I did not expect that I would find much. Worst case scenario I would get to see some interesting aircraft. I set off to Stanica. It is said that the mountains there contain a vault where the government keeps its most closely guarded secrets. Not to mention that it’s a massive bomb shelter and should have a lifetime’s worth of food and supplies for a single person. I still heard the voices some nights. But I made sure to stay indoors after dark with the doors barred. The house I was in during the last week of the third month, was at the edge of a valley I would have to cross to get to Stanica. There would be no houses to spend the nights in for three days. I had to keep reminding myself that the voices were just a symptom of being so alone. I was cooking dinner the night before my journey. Canned something or other with canned something or other on top. My meals were functional yet not entirely bad. While cooking there was a knock on the door. I very nearly knocked the pan off the stovetop. Not thinking I rushed to the door to see who it was but froze just beyond the reach of the door. My hair was standing on end and my stomach dropped. I had been alone for months. What are the odds of the only other people in the world finding me in this random house? I had left no trail for others to follow. I wanted to ask who was at the door. I wanted to peek through the window but held fast. Then another knock, harder this time. This was followed by a scream that sounded far closer than it ever did previously. I think whoever or whatever it was, was telling me they know tomorrow I would have no house to hide in. A voice came from beyond the door. It was soft and feminine. It was too indistinct to make out individual words except for my name. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I was starting to doubt my theory about it being my imagination. I stood there for what felt like hours. But it had gone quiet. The presence had left but the encounter stayed with me the whole night. I couldn’t sleep and poured over the maps to find an alternative route to the vault. The next morning as the sun rose, I had prepared myself. I had fashioned a makeshift weapon from a chair leg and some knives. I had also found a new route that would take an extra day but would let me take shelter in houses along the way. The vault that started as a curiosity now became a means of escape and permanent shelter from whatever was out there. The first two days went by without incident. Even the nights were quiet. Something that I never thought I would enjoy so much again. I started thinking that I had perhaps thrown off the weirdness from the previous town. On the third day, my hopes were dashed. The whole way I kept spotting what I thought were people on hills and in the trees. I reached the final house a few hours before sunset and fortified it as best I could. I even locked myself in the upstairs bedroom. Strangely, I guess, that night there were no sounds. The next day’s trip would be the last. Whatever was after me would have to try pretty hard to get into a bunker if wooden doors kept them out. On the first day of the fourth month, I set out with nothing but my weapon and the clothes on my back. I kept my pace high and made a beeline for the vault. I arrived around 4 pm at a great steel door. The sun was going down, and I could see no way of entering. I looked for alternative routes and entries but found none. Finally, as the sun was setting, I had run out of options. As my last hope, I decided to knock. I rapped on the massive steel door twice. As ridiculous as it may sound, that worked. The door swung open with a heavy groan and I entered. There was no one on the other side, but that was to be expected. I saw the door controls and hit the “close” button. The great door swung closed and latched after trickling in the last of the sun’s rays. I had made it. I walked down the long corridor to the interior of my new mountain home. The air was musty and stale but it would suffice. At least I was safe from whatever was outside and the relief was immense. I thought about how ridiculous it was that knocking worked when a familiar chill came over me. There was nobody else here. Who opened the door? I spotted an evacuation planner and sprinted over. There was indeed another foot entrance to the vault. Only a small way down from the blast door, nestled away out of sight. I tightened my grip on the weapon and rushed to the door. I found the secondary door wide open. Beyond it, a night as dark as tar. The voices started almost immediately. I slammed the door shut and bolted away. I would have to find another spot for the night. They must have come in ahead of me. The calling started, from within the vault this time. It was someone calling my name. It sounded close, spurring me on deeper into the vault. At last, I found the archive room. This door was open. I stepped through and slammed the door closed. It latched with a chunk that rang with finality. There was no way out from here, but also no way in. The inside was lined with row upon row of filing cabinets. Each shelved box had “Top Secret” or “Classified” stamped on it. I had found the jackpot. Perhaps the solution to all my problems would be here. I grabbed a box at random. The tag read “Subject L. Male. Project Darkpath.” This sounded ominous enough, yet stranger still is that my name was printed right below. I hastily opened the box to read what Project Darkpath was. The pages inside were blank. I checked another box. This one was labeled “Subject 0532. Male. Project Brimstone Road.” Again, with my name. All the pages were blank also. By the time I had reached the fifth box, “Subject Orion. Male. Operation Lightbringer.” The knocking on the door started. The steel door was designed to handle a rocket blast, but it was visibly shaking in its frame. Outside a feminine voice was now screaming my name. I had to get out of that room. I was clearly going mad yet refused to be cornered so easily. In a back corner, I found a plain wooden door. I threw it open and ran through without a second thought. As I stepped through there was a crack behind me like thunder. I looked back to find a circular structure a few meters tall. In its center a swirl of what looked like water flowing down a drain. It faded and the world was quiet once more. My breathing was heavy inside my suit. I felt around my head. I was indeed wearing some form of spacesuit. I took off the helmet with a practiced motion and lost my lunch on the floor. A few people were gathering now. I was so happy to see them but lacked the strength to act. “Am I safe?” I asked but was met with confused expressions. I tried to stand. Instead, the world went black. Someone was calling my name. This time it sounded right. I opened my eyes and found myself lying in a bed. A light breeze was coming in through the window. By my feet sat a woman. She looked concerned. I was sure she must have been an angel. “Tommy? Are you with me?” She said in a soft voice. “Tommy?” I asked. Realizing that must be my name. It was different than what the voices called those long nights. “I’m ok I think.” I replied then asked, “Am I safe?” “You’re safe here, I guess. The jump was a bit dangerous, but we never expected casualties.” It was slowly coming to me again. The jump gate. I had walked through it. “How long was I gone?” I asked her. “Gone. Well, the transit was a complete success, so you weren’t gone long. Perhaps a second or so.” She put her hand on mine. Caroline was her name. She was my wife, I think. Or would be next Saturday. She was the lead researcher and I was her loving guinea pig. Project Starshot. The Wormhole. I was remembering. “What happened Tom?” She asked. Her face showed concern. She would know me well enough to know if I was off. I was starting to remember it all. I had walked through the first gate at Shadewood base and was supposed to exit almost instantly through the Stanica bunker gate. “Caroline,” I said “I don’t think it worked. Something went wrong.” I told her about my three months, the voices, and how I was alone. I told her everything. She listened patiently and nodded where appropriate. When I was done, she smiled and took my hand. “Tom, I will see what I can find out ok?” She pat my leg and left. I was alone again. The silence once more hung like a fog in the room. It was finally broken with a knock on the door. “Come in,” I replied best I could. On the other side of the door, something called my name. My skin crawled and my breath refused to come. The knocking increased and the door shook. I was trapped in the room. Just me, the silence, and the knocking. “Leave me alone!” I yelled. The knocking stopped. The silence settled in once more. I got up and looked out of the window, shaking. I was a few floors up, in what must be a hospital. Below the streets looked empty. It was happening again. I was alone. Then the knock on the door returned. I rushed over and swung it open. “Take this, you bastard!” I screamed. I had it by the throat and kept squeezing harder and harder and harder until I could feel the bones snap as I put all my weight into the attack. I kept at it until this thing stopped moving. It was scratching and kicking me but I did not subside my attack. I wanted it to stop tormenting me. I wanted it to die. A weight knocked me off my prey. Wrestling me to the ground. It was an MP. He cuffed my hands, but it did not matter. I was free. I looked back at the thing that had been haunting me for months. Instead, there was Caroline. Eyes bulging, face a grim mask of death. Around her gruesome expression blood. Her eyes were staring at me. The MP lifted me to my feet. Then I saw her entire face. I swear she was smiling. While starting to lead me away, the MP said my name. I tried to turn to face him but could not get a view of his face. Someone saw the body and screamed. All the while somewhere out of sight a knocking. So loud. Never-ending. And all I wanted was to be alone.


This is my quiet place. Its peaceful sitting here looking out of the old rotting window into the darkness of the night, with nothing but street lights memorising you from a distance, nothing but the sparkling stars way up high to give you hope for something greater. I long for more moments like these, there's no fear, no hurt, no worries; its just me, my window and the view. I yawn deeply as I wince my eyes at the bright morning sun peering through the window and stretch as I sit to look around the same old warn down attic bedroom. The room is cramped with old leather chairs and wooden furniture covered in thick white sheets of dust, whilst cob webs hang from corner to corner. My bed is a mattress of broken springs in the centre of the room surrounded by the mountains of junk with the window being the only source of light hovering just above it all. It's most certainly nothing special but its the small price you have to pay for being abandoned by your first family and unwanted by your current. The new mother I live with is the sweetest, unfortunately the same cannot be said about the father. Father is , well ... easily irritated to say the least, he's often shouting at mother and hitting things around, I am not sure if he has laid hands on her as me and my younger brother get sent out of the room when he gets too mad but I have my suspicions. I am 18 in two weeks and have been living with Mr and Mrs Woodworth, who I now refer to as my mother and father, since I was around 6. Originally I am from mexico but my birth parents put me up for adoption for an unknown reason and I had been bouncing around all sorts of homes until Mr and Mrs Woodworth took me in. I was ecstatic to have found a couple that would 'love me,' of course I wouldn't have been so happy if I knew what their family home would turn out to be. "MARIA!" mother shouted "breakfast is ready." I quickly got out of bed and rushed downstairs to avoid making father wait and aggravating him. We have quite an old looking house made of big grey bricks and the inside seems very old fashioned. We have 3 floors and the brick stairs connecting them are large and go around in a spiral pattern, there are some old paintings and a few family pictures mounted to the walls. The floors are made of wood and sound as though you could fall through at any moment and are covered in a thin red carpet. There are 2 bedrooms on the second floor, 2 on the third and one in the attic which is where I sleep, amongst all of the ancient antiques and creepy crawlies that I find in my cloths or half way up my leg in the middle of the night. For some reason father made me move to the attic and mother wouldn't dare to question him so i'm stuck up there breathing in dust and ammonia from past rats fesses that never got cleaned up. On my way down the stairs I accidentally crashed into father half way. I froze as he glared at me with that deafening look in his eye which caused all of the hairs on my body to stand on edge, "sorry father," I stuttered, he stayed silent whilst rolling his eyes and continuing to walk up the stairs. I needed to take a moment to steady my breathing before I carried on the the kitchen. I hated to admit it but I was terrified of him even tho he would never hurt me ... right? He hasn't always been like this, I know its hard to believe but its true. When I first came to live here he was so happy, he loved to be out and about so would often take us to places like the beach or rock climbing and now we're too scared to even ask him to go to the park. It all started when mother found out she was carrying twins after she was told she would never have any, hence why they adopted me, it was a blessing. A miracle! This is when father seemed to have turned on me. Now he was having biological children there was no need for me, at least that's what I assumed because I was never brave enough to confront him about it. He only got worse when the babies where born. You see, one of the babies was born still and there was nothing doctors or nurses could do about it. I think that's why father is the same way with Marcus as he is with me, he blames him for the loss of his other baby. Mother of course knows this isn't true and tries her best to reassure us both that we did nothing wrong. She always comes up with the same excuse that father is just having a bad day but we know that she is just as fearful of him as we are and wouldn't dare tell him to stop storming around or raising his voice. "MARIA!" mother repeated "breakfast is ready." I shouted back "coming mother," and continued to rush down to the kitchen. I finally made it to the table and sat beside Marcus to eat my breakfast. "morning" he said in his dreadful attempt to an american accent, "good day mate," I replied in my attempt to sound Australian, we both started laughing whilst mother stood leaning against the door frame smiling at us whilst she drank her coffee. Life wasn't all bad as long as father wasn't around. Marcus is a shy young boy but around me and mother he really comes out of his bubble, he has the best personality and don't get me started on his little attitude. He has the cutest round face with a little button nose and the thickest glasses which make his big bright blue eyes look even bigger. Knock. Knock. Suddenly there where knocks at the front door which made us all jump, leading to me and Marcus laughing excessively. "stay here, i'l get it," mother said. She left the room and opened to door to find that no one was there, she was about to head back inside before noticing a small box, about the size of a shoe box tied with a ribbon and a label that had my name on it. Mother picked up the box and had another look around to see if anyone was near but she couldn't see anyone. She came back inside, shut the door and returned back into the kitchen. "it's for you," she said whilst handing me the box. Puzzled, I took it "what is it?" I asked, "I don't know, it was sitting on the doorstep," she answered. "open it up," Marcus said excitedly. I pulled the ribbon to untie the knot, placed the box on the table and removed the lid. Inside was a letter, an old baby picture and a small teddy bear. I unfolded the letter and began to read it out loud. The letter read: " To Maria, Hello my darling daughter. I am so sorry that I had to do what I did, it was for your own safety and I hope you know that me and your father love you. You won't be reading this at the time I am writing it but I promise you that by the time you are 18 I will find you and give you this box. In this box is a picture of you with your older sister Natalia for proof if you do not believe my letter. The bear is yours from when you was a baby. I remember how much you loved that bear, I hate to think how upset you was when you had to leave without him, you called him boo bear and you was inseparable. I wish to meat with you. I will explain everything that has happened leading up to now and why now is the perfect time for you to come home, you don't realise how important you are yet. I must go now but my number is written on the back of the picture, give me a message so we can arrange a place, date and time. I will see you soon my precious girl. Love Mum xxx " Once I was done reading the letter I glanced up to see my adopted mother and Marcus staring at me in surprise, no one knew what to say or what to do, "don't tell father," I begged, I knew for sure that he would take the first chance that he could to get rid of me and I for one did not enjoy the thought of living with some stranger who abandoned me all those years ago and I especially was not leaving my mother and Marcus with this monster! Then, out of no where, "don't tell father what?" ...


I would say it started when we were young. Brothers. Destined to fight over anything. To compete over everything. But now, now brotherly conflict seems silly. As I sit here, hiding behind a building, as bullets whizz around me. Brother against brother, wondering how we got here.

Raised on the land. That’s what my dad had always called it. Raised in the great outdoors. The farm. The life. We shot together. Ran together. Fought and squabbled together. It is what brothers do. It is what we did.

There was always something to compete over. Even though we were a year apart, by the time we were two and three we had started competing according to my mom. We helped dad out in the stalls. We would race to bring him tools. Competed to see who could plant the most seeds or carry the largest harvest haul. Vegetables piled high on our outstretched arms, making us wobble and fall, because they were too much for our diminutive size. But we always bounced up. We always did. Because brothers compete. You play to win.

Over time, our little competitions evolved. Past veggies and seeds, to shooting and speed. We raced and wrestled. Churned butter and built fires. Shot cans, birds, and bucks. Competition was at the heart of what we did and how we knew each other. But now those competitions, those things that siblings do, seem silly and mute. The days where I studied to catch up to my brother are a distant memory. A distinction of the past. Because there is a divergence between fighting, competing, and this. A difference when brothers shoot at each other. This is no longer a game.

I think about ducking out. But I’m alone. Or at least it feels that way. The war of Northern aggression is what they call it. A revolution. A tear in a nation too far apart on how we should live. Sitting here, pinned down, I wonder how we got here. How my brother and I got on different sides. How we ended up shooting at one another.

At some point, our perspectives changed. I can’t conceive of of embrace the thought that our values, beliefs, and morals have changed. What I thought was obviously right, he thought was obviously wrong. And vice versa. Who is a person? Where is the line between the state and federal government? We, like the rest of the country, even fought about how we should farm. How we should live. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I asked my parents if they could pinpoint it. If they could figure out where things changed. They don’t know. All they know is that our fight manifested beyond brotherhood and into conflict.

There is a difference between competition and conflict. Brothers, brotherhood, uses competition to push each other to greater things. To become better. Neither one of us got far in school. By eleven, we worked actual jobs on the land. By fifteen, our formal education had given way to making a living. That meant I was only fourteen when I started working full days. When childhood ended. Being a year apart meant that we were one in the same. We were a package deal.

The shots have subsided. The stench of death, scorch, and sorrow fill the air. I dare not move or look out. I can’t because part of me worries I will see my brother dead. A greater part of me worries he is alive. If I stand up, I will have to face him.

Maybe I resented my brother a little. Perhaps I wanted to be him. Perchance I loved him too much to evaluate my own views or save him from his own. It is possible that I ignored his slip, or maybe my own. It is hard to say how we got to this place. A place of conflict past competition and into evil, unabridged hate. That is why I can’t pull myself up. Why I can’t look around the corner. If see my brother I have to shoot him.

I sit. I sit for a long while. No one comes for me or the rest. This war has been like that. Maybe at first light, people will come clear the battlefield. Maybe it will happen in a few weeks. Until then, there is an uneasy respite. I can’t sleep. Not because I am exposed or don’t want to. Today was the first time our platoons squared off, but that’s irrelevant. I can’t sleep because my mind nags at me as if somewhere deep in the bowels of my existence I know how this happened. Deep down, I know why. When did I become the person who would shoot my brother? A person who felt ideas were worthy of violence and death? I was a farmer. My brother was a farmer. That is what we did. What our family did. And sure the war, changes it made to this country, would make that harder, but we are farmers. We should have stayed out of it.

We didn’t. Not only did we pick sides, but my brother and I took up arms. Arms for beliefs that were stronger than the bond of blood. Brothers were supposed to die for one another, not die because of each other. I scour the depths of my soul, of my mind, unable to find that moment when our ideals changed. When competition turned to conflict.

The obvious answer is it came from an election. 2020 or 2024. Those were the first times were we could vote. But that is too obvious of an answer. We started diverging philosophically before that. Before we could ever vote, or even hold and express an opinion.

When I asked my friends or parents where the seeds of this division were sown, where the hate came from, their answers were reaching and aimless. Some told me 2016, others 2008 or even 2004. The truth was, I wasn’t alive for Bush V. Gore. My brother and I were still picking carrots for fun during Obama’s first term. Those events may be catalyst. May be the convenient way to demarcate truth, but things run deeper. Seeds of hate. Ideas of anger and rage ingrained so deep that brother can turn on brother are not cultivated in a few years or by a single moment. Botanicals of loathing and vitriol have to be rooted deeper than a decade or even a lifetime can cultivate. Divisions like this, where brother take up arms against each other, where elimination is better than cooperation happens when competition turns into conflict. When the drive to win replaces the desire to grow and be better. When we throw out reason and facts, right or wrong, for the gleam of victory. These things happen as the corruptive roots of power infect your heart like a weed. My eyes open. Jolted awake by a moonlight cast shadow. It is my brother. Hand outstretched. I take it. Because, unlike hate, hope can come at any moment. Like a weed, we can pull evil at any moment from our heart. Hate may take a lifetime, but change takes an instant. We stand. Unable to speak or exchange words. An instinctual understanding forms between us. Maybe we can be the beginning of a bridge to the better. If we can lay down our arms, maybe the world can realize that we are all one. Maybe this crisis can be humanity’s definitive example of a lesson not learned.