My alarm blared, jarring me from sleep. The bright light of my clock showed that I was an hour late for work. Crashing on the floor, I threw on rumpled clothes and slipped on my shoes. I jumped into my car, breaking the speed limit on the way and cursing the traffic in front of me. My heart pounded as I drove toward the giant black obelisk, my stomach knotting with a sense of dread. Either way, I had no choice but to be here; it's my job, and if I don't do this, someone will replace me. Gerald, the security guard, was sitting smugly at his desk. He yawned and stretched his long body and looked at me with half-open eyes. "What costs nothing but is hard to find and can be lost?" He asked, brushing his paw against his chest and looking at his claws. "Look, Gerald, I don't have time for this, I'm already running behind, and I have to get to work." "Ma'am, I'm required to follow security procedures. No one gets to the obelisk without answering the question," he said."Fine," I rolled my eyes. "The answer is time, and I'm running out!" "Well, your answer is correct," he flexed his wings and stretched on his hind legs. "You may enter." I was late, and management would notice. There went my bonus for the year. I pounded up the stairs and logged into my phone. I turned on my computer, and it just froze. The little white circle on it kept spinning. My phone chimed, and I dropped my headset before I could answer it. "Hi, this is Drew with Obelisk Corporation. How may I help you today?" "Why is my bill so high?!" screeched a voice on the other line. "If you give me a moment, I would be happy to research that for you-" "I need to know why your company is overcharging-" "Please hold."I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. I opened them to see my screen was still loading. The blue screen of death appeared. "Ma'am, bear with me one moment, I'm having technical difficulties-" "I am tired of you and your crappy company overcharging me and then putting me on hold." "Ma'am! My computer is booting up." "Your corporation needs a new system. You can afford it with all the fees you billed me." I got my computer up and fumbled through retrieving a copy of her statement. The woman kept me online for an hour, why I explained each charge. Most of the costs were for legitimate services we offered. "I want all the charges refunded!" "Ma'am, I don't have the authority to do that," I said. "Our policy states that all sales are final." "I want to speak to your manager!" she shrieked. My finger hit the transfer button on my phone only to realize I forgot the extension. I opened my bottom drawer to find the giant leather tome with a chain. It fell open, and a plume of dust flew right in my face. I split my thumb into one of the ancient pages. Blood spilled, and a small portal opened. The portal then spoke. "The number to resolution is 666333." I dialed the management's number. On the other end, there was nothing but a low growl followed by squelching sounds. Good, let her deal with them. Hitting the transfer button, I breathed a sigh of relief. The portal started spinning, and my stapler flew into it. It made a slurping sound and sealed shut. Great, another item I would have to request from maintenance. At this rate, they were going to dock my pay. Smoke poured from my station tower, my screen turned blue and then white. The scrawled text formed on the screen, and the numbers bled downward. Lovely, I had to call tech support to let them know that my computer was having Zalgo issues. I turned through the pages and found the number to tech support."Please remain on hold. The next representative will be with you in one hundred and twenty minutes."Out of synch, hold music played, interrupted by mysterious chanting over static. After several hours, tech support answered and asked for my IP. I provided it, but the technician said my desk was unregistered in the system. I would have to pack everything up and move.I sighed as I picked up my headphones and a few things to move. Coworkers with various degrees of hooves, horns, and scales took up all the desks. I spotted a small, dusty desk in the back corner of the office. Ms. Naga was in the cubical beside me. Her long body coiled over her chair. She was wearing heavy makeup, and her scales polished to a mirror sheen. A Prada bag rested beside her. "Excuse me, do you know the supervisor on duty?" I asked. "He' ssss on vacation. Email him." "Is it all right if I use this desk?" "Yesss, but keep it down. My clientele is crucial." "Yes, ma'am."I unpacked my things and started the computer up. As soon as I hooked my phone to the headset, it rang."Hello, this is Drew with the Obelisk Corporation, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" "What?" said a man's voice on the other line. I could hear loud crashing in the background, followed by incoherent roaring."Sir, can you go somewhere quieter? I can barely hear you." "Damien, I told you to get away from the fridge!" A voice yelled in the background."Sir?" I asked, louder."No! Damien, don't eat the fridge. Bad!" I chuckled."Are you laughing at me?" asked the man. "No, Sir, how may I help you?" "I need a new refrigerator, the old one… it has some damages." "Sir, the Obelisk Corporation doesn't specialize in appliances we… "I trailed off. A wave of panic hit me. I could pull up a statement of services, but it didn't list what the services were. I forgot what Obelisk Corporation did. "Ms. Naga, can you help me?" "I'm on a very sssspecial call! What did I sssay about interrupting me?" "Sorry," I said. I searched my computer for information. Sweat started to bead on my forehead. I googled the Obelisk Corporation only to find the slogan: Obelisk, may your soul find its way here. I cross-referenced, trying to find more details. I looked at the interface of our corporate site, but it gave me nothing substantial. "Sir, I found the main website for Black and Decker. They can help you with your appliance. It appears to be an email service; you'll have to fill out a form." "I'm swamped. Can you fill out the form for me?" "I'm not a representative of Black and Decker," I said."Well, your no help at all! No, Damien, don't eat the couch, please stop.. NO.."There was a loud crash in the background followed by another roar and a gulping sound as the call disconnected. The call ticker on the screen read that 666 calls were waiting in the queue. "Why is our queue so high?" "Shhhhhhh!" the entire office said. I shook my head as my phone rang again. "Obelisk Corporation. This is Drew speaking; how may I help you today?" "Look, ma'am, I'm having an emergency, I need your help." Her voice quivered on the verge of tears. "I'll see what I can do. What is the nature of the emergency." "I'm so scared, help!" "I.. I need to know more details so I can help you." "My name is Selena Johnson. My account number is 66633I typed the account into my search system, and nothing came up. "Ma'am, I'm having a little trouble locating you.." "My son is injured! I need your help!" "Ma'am, hold on, I'm connecting you to emergency services!" "PLEASE HELP ME!" She screamed through sobs. I flipped through the online pages looking for a solution, but my mind blanked."Noooo! Please, God, not now!" A whispering noise came over the phone, followed by a loud thud and then silence. I unplugged my phone and sobbed. My nose started to run, and makeup ran down my face. Horrible things happened to that woman because I couldn't transfer her to the right place. I'm just a messenger and a coward, a useless cog. I took a deep breath and picked myself up to go on a break. After today I would look online to get another job. I can't keep doing this. A giant hoof lowered gently on my shoulder. I turned around to see a massive devil. He had massive black horns, charred red skin, and hooves instead of hands. Yet he wore a nice business suit, had a neat goatee and gold-rimmed spectacles. "Miss Drew, are you quite, alright?" He asked. "I.. I'm sorry, I'll pull myself together-" "This has gone on long enough; I need you to see me in my office. Follow me. "My heart pounded, and I felt the icy knot in my stomach as I followed the Devil to an office with an elaborate oak door carved with sigils and markings. Inside, the office was rather cozy, with wood paneling and an ornate clock ticked softly. An enormous desk sat in the middle of the room with two overstuffed leather chairs. "Have a seat." He nodded towards the chair across the desk. Nodding, I took a seat. My face was sore from crying, and my hands were shaking. The Devil handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose, making a loud honking sound. "There, there, child, it'll be all right," he said while his hoof patted my shoulder. "What am I doing here?" "Do you remember the last thing that happened before you came to work?" "I overslept, I headed here as soon as I could. I'm sorry I was late; it won't happen again." He shook his head. "No, child, the day before." I thought hard but ran into static. "Do you remember the heart attack?" He asked. It all rushed back to me. I worked at a call center for an umbrella company. They were laying off people for restructuring. I pushed myself hard just to keep up. Yesterday was abysmal. The queue was high all day, and customers were screaming at me for the increased call volume. There was a sharp pain in my chest, but I brushed it off as another panic attack. I slept on it, and I woke up here. "I'm dead, aren't I? I never lived, and now I'm dead. Trapped here forever in torment. "The Devil grinned sardonically. "Yes, and no. Yes, you are dead, but no, this place is not permanent, at least not for you. You'd have to be damn evil to stay here forever." "What?" I looked up, and the Devil vanished. In his place was an elderly Asian man in warm orange robes. He was wearing the same golden glasses. "Souls find this form less intimidating." He said as he bowed his head. "What do you believe I am?" "I don't know," I said. "Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, my ex-husband?" "If you believe so." He shrugged. "In a way, I am, but I'm also not." He smiled. "Why do you believe that you are here?" "Because I worked far too much. I wouldn't make time for my family. I was so worried about getting ahead. I was so focused on making a life for myself that I didn't live." "One shouldn't have to push so hard just to live. In a way, I think your employers will be here a far longer time than you," He sighed. "But I digress, what will you do better next time?" "Next time?" "If you had to live your life again, how would you live it?" "I'd spend more time with my family. My parents and sisters missed me, but I never made time for them. Work came first. I'd travel more, walk the Appellation Trail or drive cross country. I wouldn't worry so much about the rat race." "Then, my work finished." The little man smiled and gestured. A glowing white door opened behind him. "Remember this lesson in your next life, child." "Next life?" "Why yes, your soul will move on to the next life, and you will live better. You'll spend even less time here next time. Eventually, the world will be Paradise" He took off his glasses and polished them. "It is always a work in progress, I'm afraid." "I move on to the next life and make things better, and Earth becomes paradise?" "Or you don't work together, fight each other, and continue to pollute the earth. And the earth will become the Hell of Revelation. It's up to you guys. I'm just the keeper of the in-between." "Oh.." I opened my mouth and then closed it. "Are you God?" "I am whatever you believed: God, Satan, St. Peter, Anubis weighing your heart against a feather, and the never-ending void. I am all of these and none of these at the same time." "I see," I nodded. "You need you to go through that door unless you want to wander the earth for eternity." "But I didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone," I said. "I'll let you visit one last time in spirit if you promise me one thing." "And what is that?" "Be more remarkable in your next life, be more memorable. Leave something other than labor for a company that never cared if you lived or died." "I will."I hugged the old man a hug as I walked through the door. My heart felt full of life. I hovered over my family as they stood over my casket. I overheard them speaking to each other, saying they wish they knew me better. My sister wanted me to come over to see her son, my newborn nephew, in her arms. A wave of sadness hit me. "I'm sorry, I wish I could have been there more." My employer would hire an extra worker, and they would forget me, in this life at least. There was no point in staying here. I floated through the glowing door. Blinding light hit me as the world rushed through at breakneck speed. A wailed out in confusion as I was freezing and naked. They wrapped a warm blanket around me and lowered me into my mother's arms.


After the fire had gone down and the rain had become nothing but a drizzle, Ria said to him, "you should know me by now." He did not look at her but he knew she was smiling. "You're right. I should." And yet, here he was, straddled to a chair, knowing he would die and she would kill him. And perhaps he'd known all along that the fire in his eyes had burnt with a delicate tenderness for a woman who did not love him.

By his feet, her cat lay curled up. He wanted to stroke the furry coat but she did not want to take any chances.

"Tell me," he said, graciously. "Why do you want me dead?" She laughed, almost as though she'd been aching to hear the question. Her lips moved, gently, with a wild abandon that for a moment, he understood why he'd loved her blindly. She got up on her feet and made her way to the grate. Poking the fire with a cane, she turned back to him. The fire dissolved the frowns on her face so that she looked otherworldly to him. Almost ethereal. He did not think about dying at the moment when her hair looked like blurry sunlight. And if he'd been thinking at all, he'd say she made him doubt his natural existence. Ria was beautiful but more than that, she was a bubbly figure. There was no way to describe her. It was because of the way she smiled —like the earth would shatter if anyone joined her— that he'd fallen in love, recklessly, with her. Her hair was brown, short, unattended. And it ran past the nape of her neck for only a second. Her forehead was wide and when they had first met, she'd joked that it was perhaps because the world had its home there. He believed her not because it had made sense. But because, in her eyes, there was a passion unspoken for. It was something he needed, something he ached for and it tortured him in silence. She wore glasses on their second date and he thought she looked like his mother. He hadn't told her but she knew and she stopped. Then there was the matter of her skin and her body. It was almost as if she was not real, like a dream he would wake up from. She was easy to love. And easy to understand, like life thickened beneath the surface.

"If it was up to me, Jack, you'd already be dead." He nodded and bit his lips. A week ago, she dragged him down the steep path until they'd reached the little garden and they'd lay their backs against the wet grass. She'd stroked his hair with a tenderness that still weakened him. And she'd talked. "I love you, you know," she'd said.

Now, it sounded rehearsed. But it did not leave his mind. And really, his head. It was like fire and air, dancing before him, chastising him in a ridiculous subterfuge.

He struggled with the ropes now, tightening his hands until they formed something that resembled rage. But, no, he was not angry. Far from it. He was exhausted and sad and curious. It would kill him first —this tentative mixture of truth and relief and deep-ended curiosity —and he knew it. The ropes would not bulge. It was tight, uncomfortable, wickedly disastrous.

"Why am I tied up then? Kill me, alright." Her voice came from the dying flames. Throaty as though there was no life in it. She closed her eyes but only for a second. When she opened them, she smiled. "There's still time, darling." But there was no time. In three hours it would be daybreak and the sun would carve circles on her neck and he would see her clearly and she would exist before him. For now, she was a dream. "Or are you afraid?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "Afraid?" she repeated the words like it would mean something else to her. It was the same meaning, no difference. His question meant that he thought she would not kill him. But she would and she would dispose of his body the way she'd been taught at the Academy. "Nothing scares me anymore." He picked his way through her words. "That implies you've been scared before, Ria." "I like you," she was laughing now but it sounded rather unnatural, bleeding violently across the room.

He was a writer, she knew, and once, she'd read his work. He'd written it for her. It was one of those stories people wrote under the glow of artificial lights, dedicated to strangers in subway cars. She read it as she got dressed for their fifth date, applying lipstick and wondering why he'd laced in a remote kind of hope in the story. Hope was nothing for people like her. Hope meant that she would be weak and defenseless and human. But she was not human. Far from it. She was invisible. "Do you know how to paint?" she bled the words out, her back against him. The rain had since stopped falling. But outside, it was still dark.

He could tell it was a trick question. But he answered nonetheless. "I don't, no." "Oh," she turned to him and shrugged. The silence crept slowly, between the chairs and the dragonfly wallpapers and the grate with dying flames. It stopped before him. The cat got up and walked into the kitchen. "He must be hungry. Silly cats." She went into the kitchen but came out minutes later and tiptoed to where he was. "Why do you write then?" He lowered his gaze to her legs, trailing invisible hands against the soft flesh. "Do you ask everyone?" "Who's everyone?" she wanted to lie to him; to feel the heat break around her neck. He rolled his eyes again and sighed. She heard the sharp exhale but waited, patiently, for him to talk. "Don't tell me I'm the first person you're going to kill." She did not smile. Her face was expressionless. She did not move. "I should have known," he said. She threw her hands up in the air and chuckled. "You're bright. Smart. I should expect nothing less since you're a creator. But, yes, you should have known." He thought he was screaming but he was whispering. "I loved you, Ria. I loved you." She said, "Then it's not my fault." She touched his face now and lowered her lips to his so that she could brush it gently. He tasted her, briefly, but he knew she tasted salty. Like she'd been crying. Or she'd pushed her head deep into the waters.

"But you can't blame me," she said and ran a shaky hand through her hair. She would cut it later, he knew, but suddenly he craved to touch the messiness of her hair. "I mean, killing is not such a good thing, right? But you can't blame me." "Why? You have a choice." She shook her head before he finished talking. "I don't have a choice, Jack." "Why?" he asked again, swallowing, dying in the sublime image of her. "Don't ask me." But what she was trying to tell him was that he should keep asking her until the point where she would break and tell him everything. About her old life in the other world. About the Academy. "I just need to know these things," he insisted. "You owe me that, at least." What he was trying to tell her was that he loved her still, despite the fear of death by her hands. "I owe you nothing." Perhaps, they did not need to say it to each other. It was life, the way it should be, the way it would always be.

The fire died down and he imagined himself in bed in a motel, half-drunk, half-awake, listening to traffic signs and her soft snores. "You snore, you know." She found that she laughed at his words, that she still found it funny he would linger over the past like a wicked discovery of something in its real, delicate form. That he would remember her in her weakness despite the fear that she would soon end him. "I don't snore, Jack." And she discovered, quickly, that talking with him brought her relief. She was not running away from anything but it felt as though she'd come to a crossroad. "You do," he argued. The pain was seeping through now, the ropes holding him in place. He used to think he was a strong man but here he was, aching to hold her in his arms, angry that he had not known she was not real. "Remember that night we ended up in a cheap motel? I did not sleep. I simply listened to you." She stopped laughing. "We should blame you then." He hesitated and then released his breath. "We should, I guess." Ria got up on her feet and walked to the wall. She touched it and ripped the wallpaper out. A stark space stared back at him. "See? Not beautiful anymore. Not whole." "Is that who you are?" he inquired, feeling a little subdued by the power of her imagination. She looked at him and at the way his legs pushed out, away from the chair. "What do you think?" "I think I'll refrain from all that," he said. "Why?" He chuckled dryly and bent his head. He did not want her to see his tears and regret. It would be too much —to die by her hands and cry by her words—so he stayed there until he was ready to talk. And he talked, "I —we were good for each other. We had a connection and I thought we had a future. I keep thinking about it now. I keep thinking about how you could deceive me to this point." But it wasn't deception. She hadn't always known he would die by her hands. The Academy had sent her to study him, make him love her, but they hadn't told her he would die or that she would be the one to kill him. So it couldn't be called deception. "You think I didn't love you?" she asked, chewing her lips. "Please, kill me." She raised her dress and produced a dagger, strapped neatly on her thighs. Ria twisted it and yawned. "Why do you want to die?" "I don't want to," he was almost shouting. "But I am tired of waiting." "That's the whole point of this," she showed him the dagger. "There's something written on this. Latin. Don't know the meaning though but that means nothing, right?" "I guess." She twirled the dagger in front of him, in front of her, and then dropped it on the chair. "Have something to say?" "Is there a point?" he wanted to know.

She started to drag her lips open but stopped. "If you want to say something, you should now." "I love you," he said. "I know. I should know." "I loved you, Ria." This time, he screamed so loud he thought he'd died. Because he did. The Academy did not live or exist on earth. It was in a different world, too far away from humanity, too old. But it was where she'd been all her life, schooled to become deadly. It was where young people went to when they did not remember their past lives. And she did not remember who she'd been before or what she'd have wanted to be. She was trained. Ria had done her best, tried her nicest to hold him in but he'd taught her something called hope and love. They were foreign things to her but it was a warm feeling, circling about like an embrace. Take, for instance, their first dance. It had been a reckless swaying of the hips and a mesmerizing swoop of curled fists. They'd locked eyes in the middle of the dancefloor with the jukebox playing solo. And he'd loved her to an unbearable end. That look in her eyes as she laughed had seemed real. How had she faked it? "You should be surprised I want to kill you," she said, dropping to her knees in front of him. "I mean, you woke up this morning and kissed me and you told me you loved me. Don't you want to know how quickly things could change?" "I don't want to know." He did not want to because he knew. He'd changed for her, made time for her, loved her unconditionally. Knowing could kill him and maybe, for now, he needed to die by her hands with her Latin dagger lodged in his chest.

"I'll tell you," she folded her hands across her chest. "People change." He waited, arched an eyebrow, and said, "I thought you were going to explain." "You know me. I don't do explanations." "I don't know you." "Too bad for you then." But if she'd been much of a talker, she'd have told him about the Academy. That she was not human in any way. That she was a decoy to a world waiting to overshadow reality. But she was not a talker.

Ria picked up her dagger and placed it on his thighs. He took a deep breath, said, "This is wrong, Ria." She nodded, "I know." She raised the dagger, flashing it above him, so he could see the end.

But he said, "What went wrong?" "I don't know," she was honest and she did not know why. "But I'll give you a quick one." "I suppose I should thank you." "You should." After he'd stopped breathing, she raised herself from his lifeless form and tiptoed outside. The air was chilly but it tickled her. "You should," she repeated to herself. There was no one around and she doubted anyone would be around in weeks. She stood there, watching the Blue Moon, sniffing. The air smelt like autumn but she could not tell. Ria walked back into her home and poked at the fire again. The flames filled the space up and she saw him now. He was dead, she knew, but she wanted to hear his voice again. She untied him and watched as he dropped to the carpet. "What a shame, man!" she groaned. Her voice greeted her from the kitchen, same throaty, same carelessness. "A shame, I suppose." She allowed the sun to touch her hair in the morning. And then she changed her phone and drank alcohol. He was still on the floor by evening. In the night, she poked at the fire and laughed.


Jamie slithered her hands inside the cushioned gloves, wondering how many other people had stuffed their sweaty fists inside these faded leather mitts. As she flexed her fingers, she felt the heft of the boxing gloves and stretchy tautness of the wraps wound in intricate loops around her knuckles and wrists. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies fluttering in her stomach, but the lycra workout top she’d donned for this evening suddenly felt as tight as a straight jacket. Her underarms wept with perspiration. She should have peed. Jamie’s pulse quickened when Shannon slapped on her own gloves and tightened her wrist straps like she was donning battle armor. Attired in black compression shorts and a red racer-back top, her instructor looked like a superhero ready to kick some serious ass. The look was complete when she stepped toward the heavy bag and lifted her fists to her chin. Jamie had just met Shannon a few days ago while jogging through the neighborhood and nearly tripped over her as she hauled a sandwich board sign onto the sidewalk. Chagrined, she stopped to apologize but couldn’t hear her own words over the Beyonce anthem blasting through her earbuds. The broad-shouldered, blonde-haired woman just smiled and gestured toward the placard. The Upper Cut New Member Special “We’re running a special for new members. Think you might be interested in kickboxing?” Absolutely not. Her older brother Justin had loved televised MMA fights when they were teenagers. Once, when she was watching American Idol in the family den, he snatched the remote control from her hand, flipping the channel from a glittery Jordin Sparks delivering a glorious solo performance to a brutal cage match between two bare-chested men roiled in violent combat on a blood-spattered canvas. “Um, I don’t know. I’m not into… uh… contact sports.” Shannon laughed. Her gray-blue eyes possessed a spritely quality and her face radiated with a healthy glow. “Don’t worry, no one’s gonna punch you, but you’ll get a great workout.” Intrigued, Jamie had shown up for tonight’s kickboxing class. “Ok, so this is a jab.” Shannon threw a left-handed punch at the bag. A kaleidoscopic swirl of tattoos cascaded down her sinewy arm. "And this is a cross." She pivoted and struck the bag with a hard right. “You wanna focus on striking the bag with your first two knuckles.” She pounded the bag with four rapid punches, causing it to sway jerkily from its metal chain. “Now, you try.” As soon as Jamie positioned herself in front of the bag, Shannon’s simple instructions evaporated from her mind. When she angled her elbows and raised her mitts, a loose strand of hair tickled her forehead. She reached up to brush it away but ended up thumping her face with the back of her glove. For a moment, she was ten years old again and Justin was laughing at her after he’d bounced a Nerf football off her forehead. Jamie lowered her gloves and swallowed hard, bracing for a stifled snicker or teasing comment. “Oh, I’ve done that too,” Shannon said. Jamie took a deep breath then pitched her shoulders back. She positioned herself in accordance with Shannon’s instructions, then threw a jab, feeling the knuckles of her left hand press into the thick cushioning of her glove. It was a weak punch, though, not even strong enough to cause the bag to budge. Shannon stepped in front of her and corrected her stance, nudging her right hip into the proper position. Jamie wobbled and took a step back. "You wanna put your weight into it." Shannon threw a set of jabs at the heavy bag, each strike landing like a jackhammer. A frenetic Lady Gaga song reverberated through the overhead speakers, the thumping bass matching the rhythm of Shannon’s punches. Pow. Pow. Pow. The bag bobbed and swayed. Jamie lifted her gloves to her chin and reset in her fighter’s stance. This time, she drove her fist into the bag and it landed with a satisfying thud. “That’s it! Hit it again!” Shannon urged. Jamie cocked her fist under her chin. It felt strangely satisfying, like some kind of primal release when she smacked her gloved fist into the bag. She reset and threw a series of jabs, aiming for the wrinkled leather crease just below the gym logo. “Now, throw a cross with your right hand.” Imagining herself as some kind of superheroine about to deliver the knockout blow to her arch nemesis, Jamie drew her right elbow behind her ear like she was pulling back the elastic strap on a slingshot. “That’s a good way to hurt your shoulder,” Shannon cautioned. “Keep your elbows tucked in. The power comes from your lower body.” Jamie lowered her gloves and repositioned her feet. So much for Supergirl. She tucked her elbows by her ribcage, then fired her right fist at the bag. It landed with a satisfying thwack. “Again,” Shannon instructed. Jamie threw another punch, pivoting on her back foot and turning her hips as she extended her right arm. She smiled when the bag swayed. “Now put the combination together like this.” Shannon’s muscular arms churned like pistons as she hammered the bag with alternating fists. Jamie watched, mesmerized by the blonde-haired woman who pummeled the bag like some kind of Valkyrie warrior. When it was Jamie’s turn, she attempted to emulate Shannon’s rhythmic display of power, but her punches were slow and awkward. Just like her softball throw when she played right field for one long season in ninth grade. “You throw like a girl,” Justin teased after her first game. She’d misplayed a fly ball in the outfield then shorted the throw to second base. Shannon stepped in front of her again. “Don’t overthink it. Just let your body move naturally.” Jamie felt a blush rise in her cheeks and tried to hide it by lifting her gloves to either side of her face. She stepped up to the bag, then threw a jab with her left hand, quickly followed by a cross with her right. “Nice,” Shannon said with a grin. “Now let's try a hook.” Jamie furrowed her brow, not entirely sure what a hook was or how to execute one. Shannon demonstrated the punch with a smooth, fluid motion that made it look effortless. “Give it a shot,” Shannon said, stepping back to give her some space. Jamie took a deep breath, angled her left elbow, and threw a hook, feeling the power of the punch as it connected with the bag. "Good job!" Shannon praised her. "Now let's try it again but put some more weight into it this time." Jamie nodded, determined to do better. She set herself up in front of the bag once more, and this time put all the force she could muster into her punches. Sweat trickled down her forehead as she attacked the bag with a furious left-right-left flurry. “That’s it!” Shannon encouraged. “Keep going.” Jamie threw another combination, feeling more confident with each punch. She was no longer thinking about each individual movement but allowing her body to move more naturally. For someone who had never thrown a punch in her life, she was enjoying the satisfying thuds that her glove made with each hit. “That was great,” Shannon said, tapping her cherry-red gloves against Jamie’s faded black mitts. As Jamie dropped her shoulders and shook out her arms, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the window. Her face looked as pink as a pencil eraser and unruly strands of dark brown hair curled against her forehead. Her pale, willowy arms hung by her sides, a startling contrast to Shannon’s taut musculature and colorfully inked flesh. “Alright everyone, let’s get started!” Shannon shouted, clapping her hands together. As the class of eager students gathered around their instructor, Jamie felt a nervous twinge. They must have been watching her solo workout with Shannon. What were they thinking? That she showed promise? That she looked pathetic? She’d never considered herself much of an athlete. That was her brother’s domain. "Let's welcome Jamie, our newest student, to The Upper Cut!" said Shannon as she wrapped her arm around her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. The students clapped and offered Jamie high-fives, their boisterous welcome boosting her confidence. She also enjoyed the comforting sensation of Shannon's strong arm enveloping her upper body. "We're going to start with some basic drills," Shannon explained, her voice carrying easily over the chatter in the gym. "First up, I want you all to practice your jabs. Remember, keep your elbows tucked in." Jamie stepped forward and lifted her gloves, focusing on the bag in front of her. She drew her arm back, then threw a quick jab, feeling the satisfying thud as her glove made contact with the bag. As she continued to practice, she felt more at ease. The nervousness that had gripped her earlier was fading away, replaced by a growing sense of confidence. Shannon moved among the students, correcting their form and offering encouragement. As the class went on, Jamie stole glances at her instructor, hoping she would return to her side and give her more pointers. When Shannon stopped at the bag beside Jamie's to adjust the woman's form, Jamie punched her own bag with renewed energy. “All right, everyone,” Shannon called out to the class. “Time for partner drills.” Jamie's heart rate spiked. It was one thing to practice her combinations on the bag. Now, she needed to do it with another human being. As the other students began to pair up, Jamie scanned the room for a partner. It was like she was back in middle school gym class, waiting anxiously to be picked for a team. Please don’t let me be the last one. She could hear her brother snickering. "Need a partner?" Jamie turned to face a middle-aged Hispanic woman with the taut physique of a gymnast. "Yeah," answered Jamie, shifting her weight from foot to foot. As Shannon called out the drill, Jamie and her partner took turns throwing punches and blocking them. At first, Jamie was hesitant, worried that she might hit her partner too hard or miss entirely. But as they continued, Jamie's confidence grew. She found that she could trust her partner, and that they moved together with a certain grace and synchronicity. At the end of class, she peeled off her gloves and grabbed her water bottle, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. As she gulped down the last ounce of water in the plastic container, Shannon strode across the gym with a gleeful smile. "You did great today!” She patted Jamie on the back, making her heart skip a beat. "Thanks. I really enjoyed it.” "I knew you would! Will I see you at my next class on Thursday?" Jamie pretended to swig more water from her empty bottle, trying to buy some time as she considered how to respond to Shannon's invitation. She'd considered herself fit, but tonight’s class had kicked her ass. An hour later, she clomped up the three flights of stairs to her condo, feeling like cinderblocks were attached to the soles of her feet. She was going to take a hot shower then chill with a cold glass of wine, but as she dropped her gym bag on the floor, her cell phone buzzed. Justin had called and left a message. What did he want this time? She took a deep breath, steeling herself to hear her brother's voice, but the level of anger in his terse message unsettled her:

Call me back when you get this message. I need to speak to you. Jamie had left small-town life in Sidney, Illinois a decade year ago when she accepted a full academic scholarship to attend the University of Chicago. There was only reason that she ever returned to Sidney. To see her precocious niece Katie and check in with her sister-in-law Laura, who was like the sister she’d never had growing up. "Hey, what's going on?" Jamie asked, trying to sound calm. "It's Laura," Justin said, his voice choking with rage. "She's been hit by a car." "Oh, my god!" Jamie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. "I'm at the hospital right now. They've got her in intensive care." A wave of fear and anxiety rushed over her again as she remembered her little niece. "Was Katie with her?" "No," Justin growled. Jamie exhaled and sank back into the sofa cushion as she realized Katie had not been injured. "What happened?" Justin breathed noisily into the phone. "I'd dropped her and Katie off at the soccer field on my way to work. Apparently Laura decided to walk over to Starbucks to get some coffee while Katie was warming up for the game. That's when some asshole ran the red light and slammed right into her. I will sue his ass!" Jamie could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her mind was spinning as she tried to process the news. "Is Laura gonna be okay?" "They don't know yet." Muffled voices and intermittent beeping competed with Justin's response. What was Laura going through right now? Was she conscious? Was she in pain? Laura had developed an Oxy addiction after being prescribed the drug for her recurrent back pain. While she'd been in recovery for several years now, Jamie worried that her sister-in-law would again receive heavy-duty opioids for her pain.  "She's in rough shape. They had to operate on her leg, and she has a few broken ribs. Gonna be in the hospital for a while.” Justin sighed. “And you know what that means." Jamie felt her heart sink. "What?" "The medical bills are gonna cost me a fortune!" Was her brother really more concerned about his bank account that his injured wife? Jamie's stomach churned. Her brother was too proud to ask for financial assistance, but he would find other ways to extract what he needed from her. She pushed the thought aside, reminding herself that this wasn't about money. It wasn't even about Justin. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” "The doctor's calling me," Justin grumbled. "I gotta go." “Wait!" Jamie called out, a familiar dread nestling into the pit of her stomach, but the line was already dead.


The dream begins as it always does. I stand in a small room with 3 blank, white walls. On the fourth wall, directly in front of me, are two doors. The doors themselves are unremarkable. Simple, solid, wooden doors, white to match the walls, each fitted with a single knob. The knobs are not fancy, nor are they old and rusty. Just knobs. On just doors. In just a room. I’ve had this dream frequently, for over a year. And every time I do, I choose the door on the left. I don’t know why, but I always do. And every time, it leads me to my own home. I enter, wearing ripped, old jeans and a faded sweatshirt. My hair is swept up in a ponytail, but it’s a mess, as if I’ve been out in the wind, sweaty tendrils falling in my eyes and on my neck. At the kitchen table, there is a blue notebook and a pencil.  I sit down and rip open the seal on the book to reveal an exam marked “FINAL.” I never know what the exam is for. The questions aren’t relevant. But the feelings of panic are. I don’t know the answers. I pick up the pencil just as a voice intones, “Five minutes left.” Five minutes! I scramble to write anything I can on the pages but my pencil breaks. The jagged wood pierces my skin, drawing blood. A faceless man sweeps past and collects my exam as he goes. “Disappointing,” he says. “But it’s not fair!” I protest, “I didn’t know there would be a test!” My pleas are ignored. The floor opens up and I fall, endlessly, engulfed in the smell of dying flowers and defeat, until I wake up in a cold sweat. The dream is the same every time. Every time, that is, until now. In the all white room, I reach for the door on the left and pause. I see a dandelion on the floor. It wasn’t there a moment ago. Yet, it is familiar. “Yes,” I whisper, “I see it now.” I can remember many meditation sessions during which I tried to memorize every aspect of this dandelion. The bright yellow, the pointy leaves. It is my symbol. My talisman, if you will. Something to call to my attention that I am dreaming and allow me to take control. I bend to pick the dandelion from where it is illogically growing right out of the white linoleum floor. I take it with me and cautiously open the door on the right. Instantly, I am swept up in a flurry of activity. Rabbits fret about taking my measurements. I look down and I am naked, though somehow, I am not bothered by it. “Come, come,” says a small baby, who really shouldn’t be able to talk yet. She is also naked as she takes my hand and leads me forward. That is when I notice I am outside. Lush green fields stretch for miles in every direction. The smell of grass and wildflowers fills my nostrils. My entourage of rabbits have stopped measuring and the birds are now playing with my hair. It smells freshly washed – such a wonderful smell. As the baby and I walk across the fields, the birds follow, braiding my hair into intricate designs. “We’ve been waiting EVER so long,” the baby says, smiling with such joy I almost forget that I am dreaming. I want to hold this baby and care for her and make sure she never has reason to stop smiling like that. I see the dandelion in my hand. “Where am I?” I ask. “Don’t you know?” The birds twitter with amusement. “You are here. But you need to go there,” says the baby girl. She is not pointing in any direction. “Where?” I ask. “You’ll know when you get there,” she says with a laugh. The rabbits return with robes made of the softest material I have ever felt. They drape them over my head and let them fall; they fit perfectly, just brushing the grass as I spin around. The birds hold up mirrors all around me, letting me see the robes in all their glory. They are a pale pink but all throughout, gold threads shimmer in the sunlight. Behind me, a loud bang startles us all. I turn and see black smoke billowing from where we came. “Well that’s that,” says the baby girl. Confused, I try to see what caused the explosion, but the baby pulls me forward by the hand again. “Not back,” she says, “only forward. Never back.” I follow her over the next hill, clutching my dandelion all the while. We come upon an old style river boat and a sleek black stallion, standing on 2 legs, beckons me forward. “Will you leave it behind?” he asks. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Leave what behind?” I turn to the baby, hoping for an explanation, but she is no longer a baby. The girl has grown and she is me. “You can’t move forward if you don’t leave it behind,” she says sadly. The stallion reaches for my hand. Suddenly he has hands, strong and warm, instead of hooves. As I look questioningly into his eyes, he transforms into the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His black hair and black eyes gleam brilliantly in the sunlight. He takes the dandelion from my hand and says, “You won’t need this again. The other door is gone. But to get where you need to be, you have to stop trying to stay where you were.” I take his hand and step onto the boat. We begin to move on the water. I watch the dandelion float downstream. I am still in control, I think. I watch myself standing on the shore behind us as the stallion and I drift along the river, on and on until I lose sight of myself. The stallion says to me, “Where does the wind go? When it fails to knock you off your feet, where does it go?” I look into the distance in the direction the wind is blowing. The stallion man dissolves into a mist and as it swirls around me, I slowly wake. The sun is just rising now, and a fresh breeze blows through my window. I shower and pick some comfortable clothes for travelling. I pack my bag – not too much, just what I absolutely need. I pick up my phone, think better of it and place it back on the kitchen table. I take my car keys, and head off into the world. I won’t be coming back here again.


Grell was hunched down among the willows and shrubs, hiding among the shadows of full moon. Watching the tall elven priestess bathe under the light of her goddess. His heart burned with a passion, knowing the scandal their affair would create. That was how Ashen found them, appearing to Grell as a voice in his head. "What do you hope to accomplish, throwing your lives away?" At first, Grell froze in his heart, believing himself discovered. "Do not be afraid. If I wanted to hurt, I could pick a better vessel than you." The voice was almost mocking. "Are you a demon? Or my imagination?" Grell thought. "Neither. Your definitions change so much, but demon is inadequate." The voice replied. "She is a lovely creature in your eyes?" "And I in hers." Grell replied, taking the defence at this intrusion. "Who are you, and what do you want?" "Forgive my rudeness, but I am Ashen. I have always been, and will witness the last god of the last star die." Ashen responded. "Sounds like a demon to me." Grell thought. "No demon, and not a god. I am simply Ashen." "Go away." Grell thought fiercly, starting to sweat, trying to remain silent and still in his hiding place. "You can't dismiss me. And if you like, I can decimate your love to a regretful memory in her long life if you don't tell me what I want to know." The voice turned threatening. "I don't have to be polite." "What do you want?" Grell demanded in thought. "Only what I asked. Why throw your lives away?" Grell replied, "for love." "For love you say?" Ashen teased, back to a mocking tone. "What is your love to her? You will age before her eyes, withering in decades. She will be finally be old when your great grandchildren's teeth fall out." Grell suddenly became sick at the phantoms words. Was this the goddess Seline tempting him? Or his own god Reroic trying to deter him? "I'm not a god of any kind." Ashen responded to his host's thoughts. "You have no secrets from me, Grell, son of Breen, who fought the Star-Men from the ocean, and married his own half sister to produce you. A xenophilic human with a taste for hallucinogenic roots, and long legs." Grell was stunned, Ashen continued, "your first murder was a black bird, and you killed it thinking your father would approve, but instead he reprimanded you for taking life without need." "Stop!" Grell nearly shouted. "Answer my question then." Ashen responded. "Love doesn't need an answer." Grell replied. "I've asked myself a thousand times why. The answer is still the same. Love." "You would rip her from her people, and her goddess, and you call it love?" Ashen asked, accusation sharp as a knife. "Love will last longer than my life." Grell replied. "Love will outlast our gods, and your star gods. Love will remain when all else is gone." "Love eternal?" Ashen asked. "Yes. Love eternal." "We shall see, Grell, son of Breen." And with as much indication as his coming, Ashen left. Let the human and his elf have their love.


tw: death Why can't I see anything? Are my eyelids glued to my eyeballs? I try to force them open, but they won't budge. Neither will my hand as I attempt to lift it off the table to pry them open. Is this a table? Why am I on a table? Everything is dark, and I can't make out a thing.

Wait, I think that's a beep. There goes another. Slow and steady, patient, unlike myself. I want to, need to know what's going on. "Oh, Perdita," I hear. I recognize the voice. It's my mom. The one that was too busy to come to my birthday tonight. If that was tonight. I can't tell how fast time is moving, or if at all. Maybe it's officially 6:37, and I'm officially sixteen. Maybe Mama, my other, more caring mother, has made good on her word and let me drive to dinner tonight. I remember passing my permit test, but I can't remember if she handed me the keys. Did I order the lobster raviolis like last year? I feel her placing her arms around me, gently. Something is wet, and I can't tell if she's freshly showered, or if they're tears. Mom never cries. Mama is the emotional one. Where is she? Maybe she ran off for coffee, or to relieve herself.

My lips refuse to open. I shouldn't be surprised, as nothing else seems to be working, save for my brain, which has hauled itself into overdrive, trying to make sense of it all. "Baby girl, I'm so sorry," she says, and I'm pretty sure now that they're tears, because I can feel her eyelashes batting against my shoulder. It's probably smeared with mascara stains now. I want to ask her what she is sorry for. Mom also never admits her faults, and feeling remorse is one of them. This has to be huge. Did she glue my eyes shut? Some sort of accidental fake eyelash incident? Still doesn't explain the rest of my body though... "Mrs. Rowland?" There's a voice I can't recognize, but Mom must, because she's pulling away from my body. I want to focus, but I'm suddenly tired, abnormally so, given that it can't be later than eight, and I never can fall asleep before midnight. Is it past midnight? My focus leaves me and I accept the darkness. I let it encompass me for what feels like hours until I hear another familiar voice. "Deets, wake up, it's me." It's my best friend Emilia. I want to reach out to her, tug on that braid of hers, tell her that I am awake. Ask her to pry my eyes open so that everything isn't so dark.

I can hear my brain saying " Em ," but my vocal chords aren't relaying the message.

I can't hear any other voices, so I assume she is on her own. She's still only fifteen, so I'm guessing her mother dropped her off. Either that or her mom is off chatting with Mama. I still haven't heard her voice yet, unless she came while I was asleep. "You gotta wake up, Deets. I don't know what I'd do without you. I brought your favorite, lobster raviolis." There's the sound of a Styrofoam box opening, and the smell wafts underneath my nose. I'm guessing I didn't make it to dinner last night. If she could pry my mouth open and give me those raviolis, I could forget the panic that's settling in me. What the heck happened last night? Last I remember is Mom calling to say that she was stuck at work and couldn't make it. She'd mentioned something about a box hidden underneath the sofa. Did I ever open the box? She moves the box away from my nose to shut it. There's a loud sniffle, and then she starts talking. A lot. Emilia has a habit of word vomit when she gets nervous, to shut out all the negative thoughts. It's usually endearing, but today she's going on about some sort of accident at the four way stop by my house. Somebody ran a red light. There's one dead, and another in critical condition. I wish she'd change topics. That foreign voice enters the room again, and then my friend is gone, the raviolis with her. There's multiple voices this time, and I do my best to tune them out. I wonder if Emilia will eat my dinner for me. She knows I hate wasting food. But I know that she's on a low carb diet, because despite my protests, she thinks her badonkadonk has too much donk.

Her words, not mine. Time passes, and there's another familiar voice at my bed. It's Cam.

"It's funny, you know. I was talking with Milo a few days ago, and he was like, 'dude, you don't have forever ' and I was all, 'but I'm not ready, ' and now you're like this. He was right. I just wish he hadn't been so on the nose." I have no idea what he's talking about. What wasn't he ready to do? And what exactly was this? I've heard the word Doctor tossed around a few times, and I think this table is a hospital bed, but everything else is a blur.

A dark, confusing blur. "I guess it's not funny, ha ha, but ironic," he says. Cam is really bad with silences. Unlike his brother Milo, who only speaks when he has something to say. Which he must have, because he said that there wasn't forever. Forever for what? His lips on my forehead. It's a two second blip on my radar. "If you come out of this, I'm taking you to get those lobster raviolis. Not through that intersection though. Who knows how often he goes through that intersection. They still haven't caught him yet." It's that same story Emilia was telling.

He leaves shortly after, and Milo takes his place.

"Perry, hey." He strokes my hair back behind my ear. He hasn't done this in years, not since we were little, and my dog had to be put down. It soothes me, like before, and I want to lean into his touch. I can't see him, but I can picture his worried eyes crinkling, looking into mine. My eyelids anyway.

He grabs for my hand. "I'm sure by now Cam has told you about his crush on you. He's been dying to kiss you for years, Perry. I told him he needs to do something about it before someone else scoops you up." What? Milo leans up to my ear, his voice lowering to a whisper.

"Don't tell Cam, but I'm that someone else." Double what? He kisses my forehead, right in that same spot. I can feel the heat. It burns, and I so desperately want to open my eyes, just to close them again, with purpose. Nobody should kiss with their eyes open. But what about Cam? I don't want to hurt him. Where's Mama? She'd know what to say, but it's been a few days, and still no sign of her. I miss Mama. Visiting hours are over, and I'm alone again. No friends, no mothers. Just me, my thoughts, and that incessant beeping sound. I try to relax and sink into sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. Mama, where are you? Finally, a light. "Perdita, sweet angel," I hear. Suddenly I can see. It's Mama, and she's in a white gown. She never wears white. "Mama," I cry, finding my voice. My legs can move again, and I step towards her. She puts her hand out. Instead of it reaching for me, it's commanding me to stop. I'm hurt. "Don't follow the light," she says. I've been in the dark for so long that I want nothing more. The light, my Mama, what more could a girl want? Besides lobster raviolis. "Where have you been?" I ask. "I'm going to be away for a long while. One day you'll be with me again." "Mama?" "Don't forget that I love you, Perdita." She holds her hand up to her heart. "Stay strong, and remember Mama loves you. Now turn around. This isn't your light." There's a blinding light ignited behind me, and I drag my feet. I walk to the edge, and squinting, I can see Emilia over my bedside, reading a magazine. She's telling me all the latest celebrity gossip.

I close my eyes, and step into the light. I open my eyes. "Deets?" she interrupts herself. The magazine flutters to the floor. I blink. There's a panic of people rushing in. She picks up her magazine and steps into the hall, promising to return. She does, a long while later, with the boys and Mom.

Mom is in sweats, her hair in a knot. She's never this undone. "Thank God. I don't think I would have survived losing both of you." She crushes me in a hug, and it hits me. The white gown, the light. That car came at me so fast, I didn't know what to do. They hit us from the passenger's side. Mama didn't make it. I'm finally out of the dark, but in this very moment, one thing is true. I hate the light.


"Tell us a story, baba," the children asked, hungry for another tale woven to lull them to sleep "The one with the rose and the beast." "No, it is too girly, tell us a story about the pirates." Their grandpa smiled benevolently over them, his smile reached his eyes, lighting his dim grey eyes, he said, "Fine, I'll tell you a story, but it is a real one, of the times when we could talk to the plants and animals, the gods and the spirits." "Pfft! it is impossible." said the elder ones, turning their noses up and looking scornfully at young ones, who still believed that Santa Claus came down their chimney covered in soot, to give them presents. "Ah, but it is true, you see, you can still hear them whispering when it is the hour of peace and calm, at night when the horns aren't honking and only the bird's chirp can be heard, lulling their little ones to sleep or the nocturnal ones, hunting for prey." "If you listen closely, you will hear them speak, of the times when they were young, recounting the adventures they had experienced." "What sort of adventures, babu?" they asked, hanging on his every word. "Like, when the Winter Lord tried to take over the world," he said in a hushed tone. The Winter Lord?" "Yes, him, who rules at the time of Winter." "Mom, tell me a story, the one about the pirates." "Fine, dear, I'll tell you a story, but not the pirates this time." "Aww, why not?" "Because I am going to tell you a new story this time, about a boy and a prophecy." "Ooh, what prophecy?" "A prophecy about a boy born on the Eve of July." "Just like me!" The mother smiled, ruefully, the boy thought. "Yes dear, just like you." "His mother had a dream, the night before he was born.....it was a message from God's angels." "Woah, what did they say?" "He is The Savior, he will bring joy and warmth back into the world when the time comes. Keep him safe. At all costs, they said, even if it meant she should die. "But why mother?" "Because he was the saviour, dearie." his mother told him tiredly, exhausted from a long day of keeping enemies at bay. "Then what happened?" "His mother protected him, just as she was told to. She never let him out of her sight, even in school, she would come disguised as a maid and keep an eye on her son. She loved him a lot. He was her precious gem. But he was also The Savior." "Then what happened, Ma?" "There was a boy in the same school, he dreamt. Dreams are dangerous, son. They keep changing, for better or for the worse. He dreamt and his dreams became nightmares. He dreamt and his dreams to him, were deliciously red apples, but to the world were poison, a poison that spread, slowly but surely, and destructed everything along the way." "What did he dream of?" "He dreamt of power, he dreamt of riches, he dreamt of luxuries, and he fell. He fell hard, yet God sympathized with him and helped him up again and made him the Lord of Winter, to inspire faith in him. He faltered, and he fell, but always had got help, until he fell too hard. He fell so hard, that the ground swallowed him, and his fate became his only. No one could help him now, he was his fate now and his fate was him." "He hated The Saviour, for he knew what was written in The Book, and he knew his forthcoming doom. Yet, he continued to fall and felt joy in it, and the adrenaline propelled him forwards. He decided he was happier falling, than rising and so he fell deeper and faster. But his happiness was shallow, like a dirty pond, which from above looks deep, but when you put your hand inside, it gets stuck in the mud. But he did not know and lusted for more power than he already had. He, he aspired to be a King, a King of the World, of a World which heard and saw darkness and spoke darkness. "And then?" "The Lords of Spring and Summer feared, for The Lord of Autumn had joined Lord Winter, and their army was the biggest the universe had ever seen and Lord Winter trained, and he grew, he grew powerful and he knew everything. But, even the most powerful have flaws, and his flaw was arrogance. He had barely completed his First Year of Training when he felt he was ready for war. So, he gathered his armies and marched, conquering lands. But then, The Saviour came along, and he, he knew nothing yet he knew everything, for he hadn't seen the light of day, since Lord Winter came into existence. "Then how did he know everything?" "He knew everything because of his mother, she was an Oracle, she had told him everything she had foreseen, yet she didn't tell him it was about him. "Why?"

"Because she was destined not to tell, and she hadn't foreseen the battle between The Savior and Lord Winter. She was about to, but she died before she could." "How did she die?" "Protecting The Savior" "Do you know, what happened after? "No dearie, no one knows." "Then how will the story get finished?" "The story, Jeremy, is for you to finish." "The story, Jeremy, is for you to finish" "His mother died soon after, just like she had prophesized and in the meanwhile, war was going on. He did not know, and wandered the streets, open to friend and foe alike." "A battle had been going on, unbeknownst to him." "Both sides were eager to win and kept fighting desperately. They retired as soon as the sun sank. But, the forces of evil were at work that night, the forces of The Lord of Winter. He sent some men from his army and they stabbed all the warriors to their death in their sleep. It was a dishonourable act, yes, thus he was cursed. He was cursed with the ability to read minds, as soon as he came before The Savior and it was his doom." "How so? Isn't reading minds a superpower?" "It can be, and it cannot be, depends whether you can harness it and he couldn't and he went mad. Jeremy by now knew everything about the battle, learning facts from the vegetable sellers, who were always ready for gossip, yet he was clueless about who was The Savior. There had been a call for the world's young and brave men, and he set out to war, in hopes of fighting for Lord Summer and Spring and when he faced the enemy at the battlefront, the curse of Lord Winter started working. He knew everything, he knew the Lord of Summer and Spring's plans and defeated them easily and they had to retreat for the day. The Lords sat around a table and discussed their plans, and they fought, they were disunited in action, united in a goal. They loathed their lieges and betrayed them to the other side, so the Lords gathered, and decided to put an end to it. They came up with a plan. A plan is the base of war and strategy, without it, you are lost. They knew The Savior had come, but they knew not who it was. But they had come up with a plan now, and Jeremy volunteered to execute it. Thus, the prophecy started working. Jeremy slipped inside Lord Winter's tent and told him he could help him defeat his enemies. In the evening, when everyone was resting, Jeremy took him to a small room, in the enemies camp, where he proclaimed their weapons were kept.

But in the room, he found nothing, yet he sensed several presences, each planning his doom, he heard them whispering, a thousand voices, ununited in nature, united to kill him. He was desperate to live, as he tried to source them, to destroy them and under this pressure, his hand withered away. His feet withered away. Yet he noticed not, for his senses stopped working, his brain froze, and his heart stopped. Yet, he lunged for the door, to kill all the lords who triumphed over their victory. Jeremy felt pity, yet he had no choice, for if Lord Winter had become the King, the World would have withered away, instead. Thus, the Lord died. Afterwards, thousands of soldiers and lords poured in from the door, cheering, while the other side surrendered their arms. The war was over. "Then what happened?" "People went back to what they used to do before, sometimes stopping to remember the ones they had lost in the war, telling and re-telling of the time when Lord Winter tried taking over the world. About the brave Jeremy. "Do you know Jeremy, baba?" "Jeremy? He is I."


[11:00AM] Ugh… I hate this place. I can’t wait to go back to college. Only a week left and I’ll be on the road to my final year and the next step to my dream job, which is not a frozen yogurt cashier. I am happy, though, after tonight I will have a day off and I can spend time with my mom before I head back. Just one double shift and I will have a free day. [2:00PM] Now that I am on lunch, I can finally check my phone. I hate that my boss makes me put my phone in her office. Like, I am old enough to keep it in my pocket. But, I just have to keep my head down for this week and then I will be on my way. [8:00PM] I can’t believe she wants me to clean out the freezer tonight. I am going to be here forever, and the new person can’t stay and help. So I will have to stay here and close the shop then I have to clean the freezer out, all because the new person spilled yogurt all over. At least I will be getting paid overtime for staying late and I still have tomorrow off. [10:00PM] The shop is finally closed and the new person is gone, so I can hurry and get this done. The hardest part will be taking all the boxes out and putting them in the back freezer where we keep all the spare food. I have to turn off the freezer, then I’ll have to mop up the mess and then I can leave because the ground will need to dry before I move the boxes back and turn the freezer back on. I rush to prop the door open on the spare freezer, it is stuck. My boss has had a broken key inside for as long as I can remember. [11:00PM] Taking the last box to the freezer and I am sweating. These candy boxes are so heavy. When I put the last box on the shelf I noticed the door to the freezer latched behind me. This freezer always gets stuck and you have to push pretty hard to open it. I wasn’t too worried about it. I put the box on the shelf and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I walked back to the door and tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed even harder but still wouldn’t open. My shoulder hurt a little but I had to keep trying. I wipe my hands on my pant leg to get the sweat off, and continue to push but the door won’t move. I am starting to panic, if I can’t get the door open I will freeze in here. [12:00AM] The door must be frozen shut, I can’t get it open. I feel my heart racing as I reach for my phone, forgetting it is in my boss’s office. I sit on the ground and look at my watch. 12:32AM. The shop doesn’t open until 11:00AM. So I will just have to keep my blood pumping until then. I stand up, and as I start jumping in place, it’s so cold that I can see my breath. [1:00AM] I am doing jumping jacks every five or so minutes, but it’s getting so cold that it is hard to breathe. I am having trouble breathing but I cannot tell if I am just out of shape or it is just cold. I start to hop around and shake my hands, because they are getting tingly. I bounce some more and can barely keep my breath. I stop and squat down; I put my arms and my head in my shirt. I blow on my hands and rub them together. I look at my watch; it’s now 1:42AM. I sigh and think about how long it felt since I looked last. [2:30AM] I am bouncing around and talking to myself now. I heard that talking while doing physical exercise helps you keep your breath. I am not sure if that is true, but anything to make time go by faster. I look at my hands, and I swear they are turning purple. It might just be from rubbing and clapping them a lot. Or maybe I am dying, who knows. I put my hands in my pockets and keep walking around. I am starting to feel tired, but I know I can’t stop moving. If I do, I could die in here. Freezing to death would be so painful. I don’t even want to think about it. But it keeps coming up in my head. A chill goes down my spine and I think about my mom and what would happen to her. She would be left all alone because I am all she has left. I shake the thought from my head and keep moving. [4:00AM] I am rocking back and forth on the ground. My chest is so tight. I feel like my lungs are barely working. You know the feeling when you run a mile for the first time and your chest is on fire but you can’t seem to catch your breath? I am starting to panic, and a pit in my stomach starts to form. I might be hungry; I look over at the boxes I loaded in here hours ago. There are only yogurt toppings and that just doesn’t sound good. I feel like I could eat my own hand right now, I stare down at my fist and push the thought from my mind. I am not that desperate. I look at my watch and I can’t tell if the hands are moving. Or maybe time just stop when you are close to death, it gives you time to remember the good days… and the bad. I try to stand and stumble a little. I am feeling weak. I have been nonstop moving for about five hours now. I feel like there are 500 pound weights on my legs. I lean against the door and try to shout but I know no one could ever hear me. I slide down the door and rest for a bit. [5:00AM] I start to jump around to get my blood moving. My feet and hands definitely are getting frostbitten. I can feel my chest getting tight again. I lie on the ground, and try to focus on my breathing. It is now becoming impossible to stand on my feet. The pain is too much for me to keep jumping. I turn onto my side and curl my knees up to my stomach. I think about my life and wonder if people will miss me. I know my mom would, she is my best friend and all I have left. [7:00AM] I feel something drip on my face. Was that water? I can’t believe I fell asleep my head is swimming and I can barely keep my eyes open. My body is so cold and my heart rate is slower. I know I need to increase it but I just can’t deal with the pain of standing up. My knees are shaking as I fall back to the ground. I lay on my back to do a sit up, but the pit in my stomach hurts more than it did before. I am so scared I can’t help but cry. My breathing increases uncontrollably and my chest gets even tighter. I lay flat on my back and try to calm down. My body is shutting down, am I dying? It is almost 11:00AM and I am going to die before someone can get me out of here. I just need to make it three more hours. I rub my eyes and start to see discoloration. [8:00AM] I try to stand and prop myself on the wall. I try to walk towards the door, and I feel my feet slip from under me. I feel a sharp pain form in the back of my head and starts to travel to the front. I am so scared, I can’t stop crying. My body is so numb, I can’t move my legs. I feel warmth over my head and touch my wet hair, I pull my fingers back and they are covered in blood. I start to panic, my breathing increases and my mouth starts to go numb. My whole body is paralyzed; I close my eyes one last time. [10:30AM] I arrive for my shift and notice Greg’s beat up car still in the parking lot. I wonder if his car broke down again and had to get a ride home with the newbie. I walk up to the door and notice the inside lights are still on. I wonder what else he forgot to do last night. I walk to put my stuff in the office and notice his keys and phone still there. I walk to the back of the store and notice the freezer a huge puddle of yogurt on the floor. I am not cleaning that up. I shiver and close the door, why did he have the door propped open to clean it but leave the freezer on? I walk to the spare freezer to grab the topping and the door seems to be stuck. I pull as hard as I could and hear something fall. I look down and see the broken key sitting by my foot. It has been in there since I started and always caused the door to stick. I open the door and the first thing I see is a pudding of red. Did they spill yogurt in here too? As I pull the door open even more I see him lying on the floor. I freeze in my tracks, my legs won’t move. I need to get my phone I keep thinking. I blink and take off running towards the office. I call 911 and they ask if he is breathing. I rush to him and kneel down next to him. I am scared to touch him. I place my finger on his neck and feel no heartbeat. The door closes behind me and I start to sweat. I look around and see that things are melting. I rush to prop the door open and see the control panel. The freezer is off. The paramedics arrive, along with: the cops, my boss and some woman I don’t recognize. Maybe that is Greg’s mom. The cops keep us back until the paramedics declare that Greg is gone. They completed an autopsy and found that Greg had died from a heart attack. He ran out of oxygen and couldn’t breathe. I quit my job at the yogurt shop. I couldn’t bear to see the freezer and pretend that I was okay. My boss eventually closed her shop and moved out of state. I still visit Greg’s mom and she tells me that she still feels Greg with her. I will never forget him.


I am the person you pass on the street without noticing, the person you cross the road to avoid. I am the one you turn your head away from in disgust, as though just looking at me tarnishes your good name. Oh, don't act like you don't understand. Don't deny it, don't you dare. You see, to you I might be another piece of trash lying at the side of the road, but to me; to me you are everything. Think. Think back to the last time we spoke. Do you remember? I was once like you, a long time ago. I, too, had a job and a family, and friends and a dog that yelped excitedly every night when I came home. Can you see it now? Does my face look familiar? You don't even stop to look me in the eyes as you drop a penny or two into my outstretched hands. No wonder you don't recognise me. You move on quickly lest I begin to pester you for more change; lest I inquire why a man such as you leaves me only a few pennies when you could obviously spare much more. I, too, once wore a suit just like yours. I know how the silk feels against skin, and how the polished leather shoes enhance the illusion. Now my shoes are torn and tattered, dirty and battered. And you know what? That doesn't make me any less of a person. So why won't you look at me? Tell me, please. Why won't you recognise me? Do you still have the picture we took, the one where we're fishing? You caught so many fish and I caught nothing, only a dirty old boot that you threw back into the water. As an act of kindness you shared yours with me; I had been grateful because we hadn't brought anything else to eat. Life gave you fish, and me it gave a dirty old boot. Unlucky, I guess. Now the only fishing I do is in old trashcans. I live with the night, and go where it takes me. Everyday is a new day - a day with a start, middle and end. The days dont flow into each other anymore, that is one thing I am thankful for. You're still stuck in your endless cycles. Wake up, go to work, come home at night, go to sleep. Repeat. Over and over, day in and day out. Now, I don't understand you. How can you stand it, the monotony, the boredom? As children life was exciting and fun. Somehow the innocence mutated, became something else, something so much worse. So. I don't envy you. Can you understand that? I rage, but I don't envy you at all.


She was on a footbridge, sitting precariously on the railing with one leg tucked under her while the other dangled over the edge. Her lavender skirt rustled gently around her upper calf as the breeze tickled her bare toes. The golden light of the late afternoon danced down from the leaves above and wove itself into her auburn braid. Oddly, she also had what appeared to be watercress tucked in her braid, as if it were a rose. She had a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows and the tip of her tongue peeked out from her rose-bud mouth as she studied the family of ducks splashing about in the stream below her, deftly holding a pencil and nearly-filled sketchbook in her lap. She didn’t hear the man approach. In fact, she had not noticed any of the other people as they passed by her on the wooden bridge. Joggers, walkers, dogs, bikes, they all passed by, giving the artist a brief glance before continuing on with their lives, relishing the warmth of the sun on their faces as winter finally removed it’s final grasps from the earth and spring took hold with full-force. It had been a long winter, and the forest had come alive the first chance it got, not only with it’s regular inhabitants, but with the various visitors as well. The man was no exception to those that were itching to taste the sun. Late night, snow-covered ice, and a driver that had had a few too many glasses of wine had resulted in the man ending up with several spinal surgeries and an extensive stay in the hospital. Only a few days ago was he able to walk on his own and leave the hospital. The golden rays seemed to have their own method of healing him. The breeze rippled in his hair and he seemed to gain strength in his muscles, each step more comfortable and sure than the last. He moved slowly, hoping to hold on to the sweet taste in his mouth of the fresh, crisp air. He used to walk this path at least once a week the previous summer. It picked up near his apartment, and a couple of miles down there was a small ice cream shop that he loved to frequent. He used the walk as an excuse to satisfy his ever-persistent sweet-tooth. One of his favorite places to stop and take a few moments to observe any critters that happened to be scurrying by was the old wooden footbridge that crossed over a small babbling brook. If you looked at the railing, you could see carvings of initials, some faded, some yet to be filled in with algae and moss. Ghosts desperate to keep the bridge from forgetting their footprints. Sometimes he would make up stories to go along with the initials, other times he would absentmindedly trace the divets of the letters in the wood as he watched the water dance and ripple over smooth stones of the stream. As he came up on the footbridge, he saw the artist perched on the right side railing. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he paused and leaned against the left side railing. He began to think that he had been too ambitious in his decision to take a walk, fiery fingers walking themselves up and down his back, squeezing themselves around his spine. He supposed this was not what the nurses meant when they told him to do some “light walking” every day. He shifted himself to the end of the bridge, where the post was large enough to rest the full width of his back against. Grimacing, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground, groaning as he got into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as a wave of nausea washed over him from the pain. When it passed, he opened his eyes again and gazed at the artist, who had still taken no notice of him. She was too focused on re-creating the image of the ducks below her. He wondered what it was about the ducks that compelled her to pick them to draw. There was a robin that was nesting in the tree right beside the bridge, as well as a squirrel stretched out napping on a branch that hung over the brook on his side of the bridge. She could have just as easily picked either of them to draw. He contemplated asking her, but something told him that he shouldn’t break her concentration. There was a beauty in her focus, how she gracefully balanced on the railing, looking at the world with learned eyes that caught details that he would never see. He wondered if she saw colors differently. If she could see the brushstrokes in the earth. He did not open his mouth to ask these questions, but she turned to look at him as if she somehow heard him. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it all day, and he was startled by how her eyes seemed to match perfectly with the color of the late afternoon sun shining through the freshly-budded leaves. “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” said the man, suppressing a groan. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in the woman’s lap. The woman glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. She then turned back towards the creek. “Oh, you aren’t interrupting…” the woman trailed off, her gaze focusing on the small group of ducks now swimming under the bridge and away from her. She puffed out her cheeks slightly and exhaled roughly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She looked back down at her work in progress, twiddling her pencil between her index finger and thumb, uncertain. “I suppose it will have to be done, then,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, biting his lower lip nervously. “No, no, it’s really not your fault. Things move on whether you are ready for them to or not,” the woman shrugged. She deftly slid off the railing and stood, facing the man. Out of the corner of the man’s eye he thought he saw the current of the stream below shift strangely with the woman’s movement, but he figured there was just a fish or something that was swimming close to the surface. Her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you are okay?” “Oh, I mean, I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a bit.” He looked at the ground sheepishly. “Are you hurt?” The woman took a tentative step closer, as if looking for a way to help somehow. Another strange flutter in the water. “On the mend, actually. But I may have overdone it, today,” the man said with a slight chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced away from the woman. “Bad car accident. Several back surgeries later and I may have been too ambitious with having the freedom from the confines of a hospital room after a couple of months.” The artist watched him for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. There was a slight breeze that carried the scent of rain off of the woman, and the man vaguely wondered where she found a perfume like that. Her eyes then softened, and the man could see pity bloom across her face. For a moment, it even looked as though she were about to cry. She swiftly closed the gap between the two of them and knelt in front of him, and now the man was sure that the water was dancing with her every movement as he saw it spring from the otherwise calm current, lapping up onto the bridge. It was as if her body was the moon and she was pulling the water towards herself. The man’s heart rate sped up and a cold, nauseous feeling began to pool in the bottom of his stomach. He suddenly realized how quiet the forest had become since he had interrupted the artist. How he hadn’t seen anyone else pass by on the bridge. “What are y-” started the man, but he was abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fistful of hair on both sides of his head and pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were strangely cold and slippery. He tried to push her away, but he was shocked at the strength she had as she held her mouth firmly against his. She then began to force his mouth open with her own, and the man began wildly kicking and pounding on the woman as cold water burst forth from her mouth into his. He focused on breathing through his nose as he dug his fingers into the woman’s arms, leaving blossoming streaks of bright blood as he clawed at her. Suddenly he felt the back of his head crack against the boards of the bridge and his back seized in agony as she twisted his body so that he was laying on the dock, her legs pinning him down. She let go of his hair with one hand, keeping a firm grasp with the other, and pinched his nose between her thumb and middle finger. Water still was cascading from her into his mouth as pure panic flooded his body. As the man’s lungs filled with water, searing pain ripped through his chest and spine as he continued to try and fight off the woman with his quickly diminishing strength. His vision began clouding, and a strange sensation overcame him. He was losing the ability to move his limbs, and his body began to feel cool and fluid. It was as if he were spreading himself out, thinner and thinner, like butter being spread across toast. The pain was no longer there, just a gentle swaying sensation, as if being rocked to sleep. At some point the woman had pulled away to get a last glimpse before the man was gone. When everything was over, tears were gently dripping from her cheeks and into the pool of water that now replaced the man that had been sitting there. “I hope that you find peace,” she whispered softly, as water from the stream surged up onto the small footbridge, sweeping the woman and what had once been the man into a cool embrace.


How could both fullfil the mission together? It was impossible! She didn't want to push her luck, she really wanted to take this mission. On the other hand, doing such this mission with him... She couldn't stand it. Then, she desperately asked, "Excuse me, but can't I choose my partner myself?" to her boss. Their boss was a bit of a moody man. He frowned and stared her, "If you didn't like my chosen, you can quit this mission and I can choose a more compatible agent." said in a dangerous tone. "Okay," she said. "Of course I want this and there is no problem. I'll do it with him." and she gave an angry look at her partner for a moment, she hated him extremely. Besides, she didn't know what to do. Agatha knew why the boss gave the mission both of them. She was more knowledgeable about technological devices, and more skillful and faster on field missions, whereas Leonard could make smarter plans and decisions, and see the dangers better than her. They fitted each other like a key and lock. She knew that their boss probably had thought he was the excellent person to go with her, he knew their situation though. However, Agatha didn't care about any of these. She didn't care how much she went over the speed limit. While she went to her house by her car with her watery eyes that blur her vision, two drops of tears from the past rolled down her cheeks. The person Agatha knew best about romantic relationships was her mother. Her mother had known her husband had had another relationship with another woman, but she also had children. How a mother could put her children in such a difficult situation? So, she had decided to try not to let her children realize that their marriage had been on a thin thread, and tried very hard to prevent their marriage from spoiling. However, as the children grew older, they could easily understand the situation. They had begun to hate their mother for not divorcing their father because of her weakness. They couldn't understand that their mother had been trying to protect them, until it was too late, and siblings had left each other. After Agatha had studied extremely hard to be an agent in a secret service, she had achieved her goal. She was now working for the FBI, and she was proud of herself for achieving this on her own. She had known that being weakness bring just worse things. So, she had built thick, invisible walls around herself. She had taught herself having her chin up and her shoulders back, and developed her own self-esteem. Nobody would see the wounds in her. Three years after her started work there, she had just got back from a mission, and her boss had been looking for one more agent for someone's mission. When Agatha had got back, he had known he had found the right agent. Agatha and Leonard had met this way, although both of them had been working for a long time. However, it wasn't that surprising. There were many agents there, and usually half of them were there, while half were on duty. And it would go on like this. You could never get to know everybody there. At the first sight Agatha had thought, "What a beautiful and penetrating green eyes he has." at the first sight, while Leonard had thought, "What a strong, tough and cold looking woman, but the colder a steel is, the more fragile it is." and he had felt warm to her and smiled. After their mission had been over... Agatha had never forgotten those times. She couldn't forget the kiss he gave her the day before they had returned. In that afternoon, they had been under the cherry trees in Tokyo. There had been only one hour for the flight. They had been waiting. A cherry blossom had fallen down on her hair with a wind blowing, Agatha hadn't noticed it, but Leonard had noticed. He had taken it slowly and said, "Do you know, you are as delicate as a cherry blossom," to Agatha, who was looking at him with curiosity, while he had been examining the blossom. He had looked into her eyes, and continued "as strong as roots of a cherry tree and as charming as a cherry?" He had put a tiny kiss on her lips. Agatha could not speak, but had thought, "Well, do you know the power of this kiss, Leonard?" She had felt the sounds of the walls crumbling within herself. Although she had thought everything would be perfect, before long he inflicted more wounds her heart. After their relationship had started, Leonard had got back from one of his missions with a woman he had saved from terrorists. He had seemed to pay too much attention to her. The first person that had come to Agatha's mind had been of course her mother. She couldn't make the same mistake, she couldn't go on with someone who cheated on her. She had wanted no explanation. She had just broken up with him. Everything had been over. How had she believed? How had she thought she found peace in his green eyes? There had been water under the bridge. * * * Next day, while she was leaving the house in a hurry to catch the plane, Leonard called to pick her up if she wanted. He had been waiting for her for minutes at the airport. "If you become a little more gentleman, I'll throw up, and be late. I have a car. So, I can get there, before you get here. See you." said Agatha angrily. Leonard said, "OK. If you cannot reach, I won't tell anyone to wait." calmly. Just a few minutes later, Agatha was swearing in the car. There were more traffic jams than ever before. Then, she missed the plane. When she arrived the airport, she couldn't believe. He had indeed left without waiting for her. Before they start their mission, a cold war had begun between them. Her only wish was to be able to return without ruining things, but first, she had to wait for the next flight. * * * Maybe they will make peace, who knows?


“I quit,” he said. It was so sudden and so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, mouth open so wide the wind almost blew one of her blonde pigtails in. “What– what do you mean ‘you quit’,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You can’t quit. We’re a team. We’re Maggie and Jake. Peter and Jane. Luke and bloody Leia!” He snorted and shook his head. “Not anymore. You can take on the Death Star. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. All that singing. All the walking. The climbing. The falling. The broken bones. No. Nonononono! I’ve had enough.” He had moments like this. At first it was funny and infrequent, but now it was happening more and more. He always talked about other things, but this was the first time he’d ever said he was quitting. She grabbed his hand, trying to soothe it. To soothe him. She knew he had a temper. They always had. Being brother and sister, basically twins, she knew him better than anyone. Better than he himself sometimes. He wasn’t going to quit. He couldn’t. She had to get him back, to calm him down. She could do it, she just had to be reasonable. “Come on,” she said softly. “We’re here. We came all this way so why not finish it? Remember the times we did it before? How much fun we had?” “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he said, pulling his hand free. “I’m tired of it. Every single day we do this and every single time it’s the same result. What did Einstein say? ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results’. Well we’ve been doing this every day for god-knows how long and the same shit happens every single time! “The real question is, how aren’t you sick of it?” She shrugged. She had to admit there were times it got tiresome, but she was a simple girl with simple needs and this was how they earned their crust. How they got their water so-to-speak. “Look, I get it. It sucks. But we have to do it, you know?” “Why do we have to do it?” he whined. She hated when he whined. He was the older brother, the next in line to look after everyone if Dad carked it. But he could really be a petulant child sometimes. “Because it’s just the way it is. It’s how we survive.” “Every bloody time we do it we almost don’t survive.” She shrugged, “It’s just the way it is.” “Why is it?” he said. He indicated around us. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The sun warmed our skin, the grass was green and full of flowers. Birds sang in the trees and bees buzzed happily. In the distance were snow-capped mountains, and dark green forests, while near us was our tiny village where kids laughed and played. “Look around us. Look at what exists at our doorstep-” Here we go, she thought. This again. “-mountains and forests,” he continued. “Don’t you ever wonder what dwells within? Fairies? Monsters? Our first great love? Our genesis or our demise? There are so many possibilities out there for us. But do you ever wonder? No. You’re content living this sheltered little life. Doing the same damn thing every day. How aren’t you bored?” She sighed, “Look. I get it. There is a lot of promise out there. But if you actually look around us, you will see what we do is important. It ensures our survival. Sure, you like the romantic notion of wandering into the unknown with your sword and shield and saving the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. Or soaring high in the sky on the backs of dragons. Sure, you think you can handle the danger and the death. But here’s a little bit of reality for you, dear brother of mine. You can’t even handle this one little job without complaining about it like a spoiled little brat! You take a little tumble and suddenly the whole world is ending.” She was angry now, her words bit at him like a snake in the grass and she knew it but she didn’t care. “It’s time you put on your big boy pants and understand this is the way of the world we live in. This is what we do. We’re not like the others. You’re not a prince. I’m not a fairy queen. We don’t blow down houses or climb beanstalks. We are simply a brother and sister trying to help our village survive. “I-” he began but she cut him off. “-You know what. I’ve had enough of it. Do it.” “What?” he said, visibility confused. “Go. Quit. Go run off and play swords with dragons. Go home, go to your room and get your tiny wooden sword and your shield and go.” She held her arms out to the bright, sunny world before them. “There you are,” she said. “The world awaits its newest hero with open arms!” Her brother's mouth gaped like a fish out of water before his eyes hardened and she knew the insults were coming. He was a wimp but he loved to double down and he loved to insult people because he was never ever wrong. “You’re an ass, you know that?” “Ahuh.” “A real cow.” “Moo.” “I should leave.” “Yep. You should.” “I can do it.” She gave an appropriately sarcastic sound of agreement. “Just you watch.” “I will.” “I’ll come back a hero.” “I’ll wait here every night hoping to see my triumphant brother return as the new king of whatever fairy tale he dreamed up with the sexy, virgin, and always faithful, queen by his side.” They continued trading barbs until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was beading on their forehead. It was always like this and she always just waited until he lost steam. “I… I– I– shut up ok?” She sighed, he’d finally finished his tantrum. Picking up the bucket she held it out to him. “Ready to go?” “I’m not doing it. I’m serious. I’ve had enough.” “This is our story.” “I know, but I’m over it. I’m over the kids singing it. I’m over the falls. I’m over the injuries.” She wanted to say something but this felt different. Usually his anger dissipated by now and he dutifully did what was sung. But now, there was something else in his voice. Was it sorrow? Was it tiredness? He glanced at the mountains and the forests. Maybe this time he would actually do it. It was going to happen one day. Deep down she knew it would and that thought scared her more than anything. Maybe today was the day. Despite how much of a baby he was, she needed him. There was no other way this could work and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the lead. She wasn’t breaking her crown. It looked like it hurt! All around them she heard singing and knew it was almost their time to start. “Come on,” she tried, holding out the bucket. “Let’s go. We can talk later.” Jack took the bucket and tossed it away, “Forget it, Jill. There is no way I’m going back up that hill to fetch a pail of *fucking* water.


(Sorry for low quality, super tired after school. Hope you like it. First time posting in this sub reddit. Any pointers/ opinions appreciated greatly.) Would any one care if I was gone? He wondered, the morose thoughts once again seeping into his brain. The wind whipped around him as he shuffled home, the bulging duffle bag swinging on his back. He didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to face the yelling and hurting and the smell. The smell was as intoxicating as it was addictive, clutching and dragging him down into the depths of alcohol dependence. He could never enjoy the beverages at parties as his friends did, lest get addicted and be thrown into the stereotype of white trash and nothingness that his family so proudly claimed. School was safe. There wasn’t fear at school, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke seemed to escape from his clothes as soon as he entered the wrought iron gates. For six hours he was free, even though the burden of home still shattered his spirit, it began to rebuild itself. Slowly. Yet it was ripped from him when the bell rang. As everyone exploded out into the streets surrounding the institution, eager to go home and relax, he was emptied once more. Sometimes he wished he could fly away, soaring on the breeze as birds did, diving and dancing with the wind as it ripped leaves from trees. Escaping. Free. The wind seemed to grow in intensity as he climbed the hill. He could see everything from the top. The dilapidated rows of worn houses seemed to shudder under the weight of the smoke and heavy hearted inhabitants. It appeared as though one gust of wind would knock them all down, one by one, like dominos. From the top of the hill, he couldn’t hear the swearing and yelling and screams, and for a moment he could forget. If he climbed one of the numerous trees on the hill, it seemed as if the sky was in reach. No smoke or pain covered his view, just the wide, empty blue. He shuddered. Unzipping the bag slowly, he felt an ache come over his body. The tightness present in his shoulders suddenly seemed to clench over him. Each breathe came heavier than the last. The shiny black object glistened in the afternoon light, it’s cold frame heavy in his palm. One shot. That was all it would take. He raised it slightly, wondering as he had a thousand times if this was his only way out. Breathes came ragged and desperate from his body as he plunged it against his temple. ‘Look at the sky’, he thought. ‘Just pretend you’re a bird. Just close you’re eyes and fly away’. Silence enveloped him. He was scared, but he would fly. (For L and C, I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re still here. I’m sorry I didn’t know, and wish I could’ve been there for you both.