How many of you had an imaginary friend? I was a latchkey kid growing up. My father served in the army overseas, and my mother took up a job at home to further support us. My mother didn't return until a couple of hours after school let out, so I'd be alone for a good while. I was an only child and had trouble making friends, so this compounded my loneliness. There was a playground about two blocks from my house that I'd frequent after coming home from school. I could get there faster by cutting through a small (but thick) forest clearing behind my house. It depended on how I was feeling whether I'd do so, as the canopy of the tree line made the forest below dark as all get out. Some days I'd cut straight through, and some days it made me far too rattled and anxious to try. The playground itself was very old. There had been some additions to it over the years, as well as some parts getting replaced for safety reasons. However, I don't think anything short of a full power wash could get all the rust off the swing-set chains and corners of the jungle gym. I overheard kids at my school talking about how creepy the place was now and then. Some even came up with their own urban legends surrounding the place. I never found it that scary though. To me, the wear was almost comforting. Whenever the playground was empty, I'd imagine all the kids who had played there. I'd imagine them in all the old outfits I saw from vintage photos in history books at school. They'd throw around old slang and lingo amongst each other, and I'd watch from the lone swing set in the corner of the playground. The Loser's swing. It was called that due to being a swing set with only one swing. Over time, the second swing's attachment to the chains had degraded in an unrepairable way. So, they detached it. From what I understand, the playground had already been on the chopping block for years. The town didn't want to bother shelling out the cash to replace the whole thing. So, only one person could swing in it. Instead of being jealous or fighting over the seat, most kids who came there would make fun of whoever was using it. After all, to use the swing was to use it alone. You don't play with anyone else, you just swing. By yourself. Even with that kind of baggage attached to it, it never dissuaded me from using it. I was pretty used to being by myself, so it wasn't hard to tune everyone else out. Also, I was scared of falling off the jungle gym. I'd seen it happen before, and it looked like it hurt. After a while, I made up an imaginary friend. I sort of modeled him after one of my dad's friends, because I thought he was cool. Called him Rob. An older guy in his thirties, who seemed to have an answer for everything you asked him, and a story to match. When I used the swing, I'd envision the swing next to me repairing itself, and he'd take the seat. I'd ask him why the sky was blue, and he'd say "Well, 'cause it's God's favorite color!". I'd ask how planes stay in the air, and he'd tell me they had people behind it blowing it forward real hard. I'd ask all the questions kids ask, and he'd always have an answer right away. Only one question seemed to stump him. I asked, "Why do people die?". He looked at me, tilted his head, and stared for a long while. He seemed to be as confused as I was but tried to come up with an answer. "Well," he said, clapping his broad hands over denim-clad knees, "Maybe it's just some people's time to go." Usually, he was funny and reassuring. I remember feeling upset by this answer. It felt very apathetic. Though, I was too young to understand what the word "apathy" meant, let alone place why his answer upset me. I wanted to feel like there was a reason people died. He didn't give me one. "... why do they have to go?" "They just have to." I stopped asking as many questions after that. I'd ask him to tell me stories while we were swinging. As the days went on, though, the playground lost more of its color. The paint was peeling off more and more, and fewer and fewer kids came to play. There were rumors that they were going to completely tear the place down any day now. It was sad for me, but the playground had become less of a comfort over time. I struggled to keep up the conversation with my imaginary friend. I couldn't even maintain the image of all those old kids playing here. It was hard imagining anyone playing here anymore. I remember the last time I went, though. I had been getting bullied in school for a while. I don't want to mention him by his real name, so I'll call him John. As far as bullying goes, it wasn't anything too awful. He'd pick on me, sure, but it was just name-calling, or teasing me for not having friends. He never tried to hit me, or anything like that, but he was relentless. One day, he heard that I'd go to the playground after school. So, he decided to come visit it. I can't remember what he said when he showed up. Some generic teasing, I'm sure. Making fun of me for using the Loser's swing. Again, nothing out of the realm of very basic schoolyard bullying. I tuned it out the best I could and kept swinging, my gaze glued straight ahead. He got mad that I was ignoring him and grabbed the chains mid-swing to stop me. That's when Rob got up. I remember his face twisting into a terrifying, enraged expression, his face red as a beet. He pointed at John and screamed at him to get away from me, and that he'd beat him half-to-death if he didn't turn tail. I flinched, completely horrified by how angry he was and wanting to shrivel into myself to hide from it. I don't know what came over him and had never seen him act like that before. That isn't even what haunts me about it, though. What scares me most, is that John seemed to hear it. I remember him staring at me in shock, like he couldn't believe what he heard. Taking the opportunity, I stumbled off the back of the swing and took off as fast as I could. I cut through the forest, shielding myself with my arms from all the branches and brambles. It felt like the forest stretched into forever as I ran, my heart pounding, my lungs burning. Even though I knew that I was all alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being chased. That if I didn't make it out of the woods, no one would ever find me again. After running, and stumbling, and picking myself up over and over, I finally saw the light from the other side. I could see my house in the distance. I swear I heard a voice calling to me from behind, telling me to wait. I ignored it and kept pushing until I was clear of the woods and safely past the fence of my backyard. I ran into my house, locked all the doors and windows, and hid in my closet for hours until I heard my mom come home. I tried my best to act like nothing had happened, but she knew something was up. She was always worried about me. I ate dinner and went to bed early, clutching the blanket to my body like a protective cover the whole night. That was the last time I ever saw John. I didn't see Rob for a long time, either. In the following days, they had put up missing posters all over the neighborhood for John. He hadn't come home, and I seemed to be the last person who ever saw him. The police visited our house and asked me some basic questions about it since a few of his friends knew he had come to the playground for me specifically. I gave them a general summary of what happened, though I left out Rob's place in the story for obvious reasons. They seemed to accept what I said and didn't come to question me again after that. After all, there wasn't much more I could tell them. There were rumors about me after that in school, though. Some of the other kids thought I killed him and hid his body in the woods. As much as it upset me at the time, I can't blame them all that much. We were kids, and I was always distant and anti-social. If I was in their shoes, I might have thought the same thing. For the rest of my school life, I did my best to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. I made a few friends here and there, thankfully. It wasn’t a lot of friends, but they were good ones. Without them, I could have turned into an insane recluse as I got older. As I mentioned before, I didn't see Rob after that. I dropped the "imaginary friends" entirely, too traumatized by what had happened to bother humoring the idea anymore. Sometimes I'd lay awake in my bed late at night, terrified of looking out the window. I'd envision him looking back at me from the black forest, making that same, twisted expression. The fear faded over time, but it still lingered in the back of my mind now and then. This takes us up to now, though. Recently, my mother passed away. My father had died quite a while before that overseas, so she was all I had left in terms of family. The grief broke me. I retreated into myself after the funeral, content to live alone and not form any more connections. The idea of losing anyone close to me again was mortifying, and it was hard to imagine surviving that kind of pain a third time. That's when Rob came back. At first, I would catch a shape just out of the corner of my eyes when I looked in the mirror. I accepted it as exhaustion and was more preoccupied with marveling at how shitty I was starting to look from neglecting my needs. It kept happening, though. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of him sitting down in one of my chairs, and he'd be gone by the time I'd look back. I'd wake up to the sound of the TV on in the living room, usually on some sports channel. No matter what I did though, I could never catch a full look at him. I started to assume I had finally snapped and completely lost it. I was second-guessing what was real and what was fake at every turn, and the feeling made me isolate myself even more. I started to think I was a potential threat to society, and that I'd be better off either not associating with it, or dead. In my lowest moment, that's when I heard his voice again for the first time. It was distant and faint. Though, I could swear he said "Pick yourself up, champ!". I bawled on the floor when I heard it. It was a cocktail of wonderful, horrible emotions. It was a familiar voice, reassuring me. It was like hearing an old voicemail from a long-lost friend. At the same time, it was hard to forget what had happened all those years ago, and why I was scared of him in the first place. Not to mention that hearing voices in my head didn't feel like a great sign. But at least I didn't feel quite as alone. It was sort of a wake-up call. I tried putting myself back together. I started sleeping on a more regular schedule and made sure to eat at least three times a day. I tried reaching out to old friends and socializing more. I had grown agoraphobic over the months I had spent locked away inside. So, I did my best to get outside for as long as I could manage each day. I've gotten a lot better. I feel healthier than I ever have, and I'd like to say I'm "okay" again. I've recovered, at least. Only, I thought that would make Rob fade away, back into the recesses of my mind. He hasn't. I still see him. Whether out of the corners of my eye, in old photos, or even in the distance outside my house. I still see him. Sometimes, at night, I hear his voice muffled outside my window. I try to pick it up on my phone, and the nights I leave it recording are the nights he doesn't talk. That's not the only thing bothering me, though. John's case is being reinvestigated. The playground was torn down decades ago. However, they've recently been clearing the forest behind my old house as well. While they were cutting down trees, part of a tree trunk collapsed when it struck the ground. Inside the debris, they found remains of a child's skeleton. The bones matched some of John's old X-rays. No one knows how they got in there, as the portion the bones were in was toward the very top of the tree. A few feet below it, words carved into the tree read: HAD TO GO They've started finding carvings like this all over the forest, too. I'm not sure what idea scares me more. Rob being a part of my imagination, or Rob being real. All I know is that I keep seeing him more and more, and it feels like he's angry at me. And I'm too scared to look at him anymore.


Icarus’s eyes gazed down at the pairs of wax wings that were hidden under his bed. They were ready to be secured to his and his father’s body tonight. They were going to escape, finally, after being a prisoner for years upon years. “Icarus? Come here!” Daedalus’s voice echoed off the overgrown stone walls. “Coming!” His own voice bounced back. He stared at the wax wings for a second longer then pushed his mattress over them,

protecting them from the watchful eyes of King Minos. He ran around the corner to Daedalus, stopping only when he saw his father’s worried face.

“My boy, King Minos is going to be here any second, we have to be ready for his arrival.” Icarus nodded. “We just have to get through his daily checkups and then we will be free.” Daedalus’s face went from worried to anticipated. The pair had been thinking of an escape plan for years, they had gone through multiple fails, which had resulted in King Minos coming in everyday and checking that they are both still locked in their dedicated workshop. But this was different, they had a plan, a plan for escape. When night falls, they will break the window, secure the wings on their backs, and fly into the night. The wings would not melt because of the coolness of the night, but then in the morning they could get rid of the evidence of escape by leaving the wings out to melt into wax. All they had to do was get through this inspection. As soon as Daedalus finished talking, the doors to the room opened, King Minos stood there, looking at the pair with disinterest.

He strutted into the room with four of his soldiers at his side, a little overkill if you asked either of the prisoners. “These daily reports of if you are still here are getting rather constant, yes?” Daedalus and Icarus nodded accommodatingly. Minos looked around the room, his brow furrowing. “Have you changed something? It feels…off.” He looked at the pair accusingly. “No Sir, we haven’t changed anything. But we haven’t had our food for today.” Daedalus suggested, his throat bobbing. “Yes, yes your food is coming,” King Minos rolled his eyes, and flicked his hand to one of his soldiers who then left the room in search of food. “As we are waiting for him to get back, we will inspect the area.” He looked at the prisoners with an impish grin on his face, as if he knew they were hiding something.

Two of the soldiers started scampering around the room, searching for anything askew. While King Minos and his one soldier stood still, looking at the two soldiers, waiting for them to find something out of place.

The two soldiers made their way around the room, checking every nook and cranny, until they finally got to the mattress where the wings were hidden. The pair stood with wary hearts as they looked at the soldier's lift up the mattress, to reveal where the wav wings were hidden/ “Well, well, well, now what is this?” King Minos said as he strutted over to the soldiers that were now unloading the wings onto the floor. “An escape plan? Well, why would you want to leave?” He said, looking at the prisoners with a glee grin. “It’s not what you think it is!” Daedalus called, running over to the wings and looking down at them, Icarus followed. King Minos stared at them, delighted that he could wreck another one of their escape plans.

“Then what is it?” Minos asked. Daedalus went quiet for a second, looked around mutely, and then rushed over to the workshop table. The three soldiers, King Minos and Icarus looked at him in confusion.

Daedalus muttered to himself as he fitted gloves over his hands. He turned around with a gleeful expression. “Now, what are they?” King Minos spoke with obvious excitement. He was a king, yes, but a boy who likes treasure at heart. Daedalus hurried back to the wings and soldiers, stared at each of them, and then jumped onto King Minos, clawing at whatever he could reach. “Icarus! Get the wings and fly!” Daedalus screamed from on top of the king. His guards struggled to lift Daedalus off of the wailing king. “But, you need to come with me!” Icarus called as he started putting on the wings harness. “I can’t! But, my boy, listen, do not fly too close to the sun or sea!” Escape! Do not look back!” Daedalus finally submitted to the guards' efforts, and as King Minos stood up, a window smashed. They all whipped their heads around to see the fragile body of Icarus with the wax wings secured, staring out into the sea and the sun. Icarus looked back at the occupants, smiled sadly at Daedalus and jumped. Icarus leaped from the workshop’s window, jumping out into the great big sky. With tilted wings he started to soar, higher and higher. He could feel the sun kissing him with burning lips. He could feel the wind carrying him higher. He could practically taste freedom.

Icarus raised his hand to the sun, to touch what he couldn’t before. He smiled as he flew, a wide unrestrained smile.

For years he was trapped. Trapped like an animal in a cage. But now he was free, free to fly, free to live.

Icarus laughed, a laugh that was full of happiness and excitement.

Icarus flew down towards the ocean and then back up to the sun.

The wax wings started melting. Hot liquid wax trailed his fragile body. Icarus’s smile twisted into shock, a shrill scream left him. He started to plummet, further and further down. His wings burnt to nothing, Icarus had no choice but to fall. Looking up to the sky, Icarus cried out again, his freedom…gone. Icarus struggled against the tides. He sank lower and lower, down into the murky abyss. The air left his lungs, his screams for help turned quiet… Trapped under the waves, Icarus’s body was buried under sand. He was in a cage that he couldn’t escape. He was forever a prisoner. A boy, high on freedom, the sun, a tragedy.


Examining her pruned fingers, callused tips a form of proof that she exists here, she lets a wave push her back up to shore. It’s a gentle nudge, a friendly reminder that all good things must end and that there’s work to be done. With a quiet reluctance, she does as instructed and stands from her seat on the ocean floor, finding the water only up to her knees after that last wave. She knows she’ll be back this evening, but it’s still hard to leave. She wants to live in the water, be one with that kind, but occasionally temperamental, wave. As she steps onto the warm sand, she finds that her towel is now the host to another lonely visitor: the stray, emaciated dog that’s been following her in and around her home the last few days. He barely registers her form, even as her shadow absorbs the light from around him. “Hey there.” The woman says. “You lost?” His ear, standing upright and pointed, pivots toward the sound as she speaks, but he doesn’t respond in kind. As she stands above him, eyeing his forlorn shape, ribs visible beneath a thin layer of coarse fur, he lets his head fall to his paws. She interprets this as his way of saying, Yes. I am lost. But I don’t think I ever belonged. At least, that’s what the state of his body says; that he never had a proper home or those people to come back to after a long day spent scampering around in the village or neighboring jungle. She knows this feeling well. It’s what brought her here. The woman reaches for her towel and he takes this as his cue that his reprieve, from the hot sand and the scorching sun, is over for now. He stands and looks out to the sea, almost as if he’s debating whether the warm, salted bath water will make him feel better or worse than he does right now. She cocks her head and gives him a tender smile before walking away. Once she’s made it about 50 feet up the familiar path to her home, she looks over her shoulder. He’s still standing, pondering what comes next in the drudgery of his existence. She thinks he’s odd, this short-haired, pointy-eared fellow. He’s likely a mutt, as are most of the strays she encounters here. They’re usually overly friendly, not having learned any boundaries as a pup and for the simple fact that the people in the village will always feed them. Especially the tourists and their excited children who can’t seem to fathom a place where dogs roam freely through the streets, dogs who stop by each hut or bodega as though they’re on some sort of shopping spree, a winter holiday of their own. The woman prefers to keep to herself. She grows her own food so that she only needs to visit the village once a month or so to stock up on essentials, wine, and cerveza. Once a year on her birthday, she’ll splurge on a top shelf tequila anejo. Other than that, she’s a recluse. A nomad. Content to engage with as few of her kind as possible. Like him, she never belonged anywhere but here. Anywhere but nowhere. But she senses a kindred spirit. And against her better judgment and without much thought, she whistles to the dog. This time, he turns in a quick, smooth, almost predatory motion; a wolf listening attentively for the presence of his prey. She almost finds herself regretting it, but then he surprises her with a friendly pant, his tongue falling lopsidedly out of his mouth as if to say, Me? Are you really calling to me? Is this truly happening? She nods to him and gives a quick sideways flick of her head, indicating, Yes, you. Let’s go. He gallops goofily toward her on the well-worn path she’s made with her bare feet in the sand over the years that's she's inhabited this place. His movement surprises her. Is this not the same stoic creature she encountered only moments ago? Does her attention really make that much of a difference to him? He stops at her side and sits by her heels, holding up a paw. She snorts at his greeting, finding herself delightfully amused by this scene - shaking her hand with a local mutt who she’s invited over for a visit, a social call. “You are a strange one, aren’t you?” He smiles. Or at least that’s what it looks like to her, a human being who was raised to understand the body language of her peers. Her human peers. But that feels neither here nor there to her because this dog is definitely smiling. There’s no doubt about it. He lets out a soft, breathy bark, Aruufff. The woman escorts him to her tiny home. It was quite literally sold to her as a “tiny home” ten years ago, before everyone and their brother wanted to hop onto the tiny home, nomadic, off-grid bandwagon. It’s a repurposed school bus that she’s painted a deep, forest green to blend in with the jungle in the distance behind her. She would hate to stand out in some offensive color, bright pink or red. She’d rather go unseen, only the salesman who sold her this small plot of land knowing where she resides. It’s better that way. To be alone. She opens the door, making her way up the steps to grab a banana for breakfast before she starts in on harvesting the vegetables and fruits in her garden behind the bus. She wants to get that over with before the unbearable heat of the midday sun sets in. He doesn’t follow, instead assuming that he must wait outside to be invited in. She’s happy to have such a polite guest. In her previous residence in a city a few hours east of here, people were fascinated by her lodgings, always wanting a tour, always wanting to take pictures at the helm, one hand on the steering wheel and another making some sort of hand gesture, a peace sign, “hang loose”, occasionally a middle finger raised and a tongue out, which she found strange, as if her home evoked some kind of punk rock vibe. It doesn’t. It’s simple, handcrafted, and filled with various flora and fauna so that she never has to leave the jungle. “You can come in.” She tells him over her shoulder as she peels her banana. She makes a tsk tsk sound with her tongue to emphasize her point. “Don’t be a stranger.” He enters slowly, his paws quiet on the tan, wooden floorboards she delicately laid with her own two hands. He scans his surroundings with a keen eye, investigating the area to ensure his safety in this bizarre, long, and narrow home. Once he’s walked the length of the bus and poked his snout inside each flowerpot or basket, he decides that it’s acceptable and sits beside her heels once again as she eats her banana. “Would you like one?” She asks him as she begins to peel another, already knowing that the answer will be a resounding yes based on the lack of meat on his bones. She hands it to him, and he takes it gently, accepting this token of their new friendship. “Those actually grow right out there,” she points to a tree outside the window above her kitchen sink. “They’re plentiful and even though you can’t reach them, I can do that for you.” He gobbles the ripe treat, proceeding to lick the spot on the floor where a bit of banana residue slicks the floorboards. His head tilts back up to her with that enigmatic smile of his. Their day continues like this. The woman, going about her duties. The dog, following tentatively behind, waiting for her permission to engage in whatever activity comes next. Gardening; he waits at the fence before she waves him over to help her inspect the cucumbers and chayote, the mangoes and bananas. Handwashing her clothes; he waits a few feet away from the bucket of warm water until she waves him over to watch as she scrubs along an old washboard, educating him on the best ways to remove stains without harsh chemicals. For those pesky cab sav wine stains, I like to let the stain sit with a bit of salt before soaking in hot water. Taking an afternoon nap; he waits below the bed that’s been built on a raised platform at the end of the bus, until she waves him over to join her, settling at the end of the bed as he’s not quite ready to snuggle with her yet. She’s fine with this; she’s not ready to snuggle either. At dinner, he waits on the bed, watching her cook on the tiny camp stove. He will sniff the air every so often, intrigued by the smell of what she’s concocting. It’s a simple meal of rice and beans, the beans fresh from her garden. “You’re going to love this.” She says to him. “I make mine relatively spicy, so if you’d like, I can leave out the spices in your bowl. I’m guessing you’d prefer it plain?” He smiles big, panting loudly from his perch on the bed. They eat dinner outside, she in her Adirondack chair and he on her beach towel that she’s laid out, thinking that she’ll reserve it for him from now on. Everyone should have something that they can call their own. Something that they can point to and say, “That’s mine. Please don’t touch.” She understands this. It’s the way that she feels about her bus, her garden, her pocket of deserted ocean. Afterwards, she uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc, craving something crisp and refreshing on this humid evening. When the wine hits the base of her belly, she sighs with relief. She examines her fingers again. No longer pruned but reddened and bruised from the gradual wear and tear of her lifestyle. She’s proud of these hands. Her new companion has a few marks and scabs on his paws, matching hers. Proof that he exists here in this place. That he’s struggled, toiled, begged, and fought. He’s panting at the sky that’s now colored in vibrant oranges, magentas, and reds. His lungs are expanding and contracting in quick, sharp movements.

Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale. He looks at the woman, then at the sea, then back at the woman. An invitation. She stands, setting her glass on the armrest of her chair. “Sure, I could go for a quick swim. Did you know it’s actually my favorite way to end the day?” An airy bark. Yes. I saw how disappointed you were this morning when you had to leave. Let’s go then. He saunters off confidently and for the first time in what feels like ages, she follows. As they dip their toes in the gentle, calm sea, her new friend looks up and she finds herself doing the same. They’ve never really been alone, have they? There’s the sun and moon, reliable as ever. There’s the wind on their faces, beckoning them towards different unknowns. There’s the whisper of insects, the call of birds, the crash of waves. But it’s a welcome change to have someone with whom you can experience this feeling of not being alone. To stare up at the universe, together but separate, changed but still the same. At the end of the day, there’s always a sky filled with stars. And tonight, she knows he sees them too.


FRIDAY NIGHT “Wh – why are you doing this?” Jessie’s tear-stained eyes were red, her voice hoarse and weak. Beads of perspiration popped from her forehead, dripping down onto her torn jeans. Her wrists and ankles hurt from the restraints. The more she struggled, the more pain it caused. “True. I could simply slit your throat and be done with it. But I’ve spent a lot of time studying you, Jessie. You’re destined for something much more fulfilling than a quick death,” Anna said. She opened a bottle of water, handing it to Jessie. “You – you don’t have to do this,” Jessie croaked, between dry lips. “Drink. Hydration is important for what you’re about to go through. Trust me, water is your friend right now.” Jessie shook her head, defiant. “If you’re gonna kill me, then kill me. Get it over with, you crazy bitch.” Anna gazed at Jessie and nodded. A smile crept across her face, slowly, like an ice floe slipping into Arctic waters. Anna liked defiance. Jessie reminded her of herself all those years ago. “Oh, sweetie. Don’t be in such a hurry to die. Plenty of time for that.”                                                        **************

SATURDAY MORNING Everyone has problems. Even vampires. Especially vampires. The last decade, especially, has been unsettling for me. Sure, I have enough to eat. I have a lot of leisure time, usually during the daylight hours. I read. I play a mean piano. I write in my journals, though it’s a pain in the ass to use our language and adapt it the modern American style. Make one wrong mark and you’re writing about roasting asparagus when you intended to write about draining someone of their blood. When I finally figured it out, I was astounded. My problem was a problem that humanity dealt with, and usually the privileged male of the species at that. But it made sense, sad to say. I was dealing with a mid-life crisis.                                                     **************

SATURDAY AFTERNOON “Drink!” Anna’s tone was cold steel. Jessie drank the water, more because she was thirsty than to please Anna. She also ate the duck breast with mushrooms and risotto that Anna had prepared for her. She hadn’t eaten in several hours, and recent experiences had taken a toll on her. And then it happened. Jessie handed the plate back to Anna, but purposely dropped it as Anna reached out for it. With a rage born of desperation, Jessie attacked Anna. She slammed her right fist into Anna’s jaw and wrapped the long chains that restrained her around Anna’s throat. She squeezed as hard as she could. Anna grabbed Jessie by the throat and lifted her bodily, tossing her against the wall as if she were a toy. She then picked Jessie up, again with one hand, and pinned her against the wall. Jessie’s feet were off the ground. Even in her disoriented state, Jessie knew that what Anna just did to her was impossible. “Don’t,” Anna said softly, “just don’t.” Anna lowered Jessie to the ground. Jessie sat down, drained of energy and no longer willing to fight. “Who the hell are you?” Jessie asked. Tears returned. “That’s the wrong question. You should be wondering what I am, not who I am. I’ll give you a hint. I don’t go out during the day, and I’m not a fan of garlic.” Jessie looked at Anna, her mouth open. “You’re a werewolf?” Anna stared at Jessie, shaking her head slowly. The American educational system has a lot to answer for. “Try again.” “Witch?” “How hard did you hit your head?” Jessie glared at Anna. “Well then, what are you if you aren’t a witch?” Anna sat down in a chair opposite Jessie, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Jessie. Jessie took it, drawing on it deeply. “I’m a vampire,” Anna said. The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive. Jessie let the cigarette burn to the end without drawing on it again. She had, in fact, forgotten that it was between her fingers. “No such thing,” Jessie said, breaking a silence that felt more dangerous than the woman sitting in front of her. “Says the girl that just had her ass handed to her,” Anna retorted. “I think you’re high on something,” Jessie said, turning away from Anna once more. Anna rifled through her old chef’s knives and picked one out, handing it to Jessie. Surprised, Jessie took it without thinking. “Stab me,” Anna commanded. Jessie held the knife like it was a strange new toy. She brought it up to Anna’s chest, but she hesitated to plunge it into Anna’s heart. The tip of the blade dropped away from Anna, and Jessie rested it on her lap. Anna took the knife from Jessie and held it out in front of Jessie. “Hardened steel. And very sharp.” Anna picked up a magazine and sliced cleanly through it. Jessie shuddered slightly, imagining what the knife could do to her. “Are you – are you gonna stab yourself? Or me?” Jessie’s eyes shone with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anna laughed and shook her head. “No. Tell me, though. You like my fingernails? I had them done especially for this occasion,” Anna said, holding out her hands, palms down. Jessie glanced at Anna’s fingernails before looking away again. “Sure. Nice.” “Jessie? Look at me and pay attention.” Anna’s voice took away Jessie’s breath. She looked at Anna, despite every fiber in her soul not wanting to do so. Anna ran a fingernail across the flat part of the knife’s blade, cutting it cleanly in two. She held out the pieces for Jessie to inspect. Jessie refused to touch them, but what she saw was enough for her to believe what Anna had been telling her. Jessie put her head into her hands. The soft rattling of the chains around her wrists broke through the quietness of the basement. “Fuck me,” Jessie muttered. Anna shook her head in pity for Jessie. Americans. Always saying fuck. I blame it on red meat and bad parenting.                                                      ************** Jessie wasn’t my first choice. There was Amelia, a well-endowed paralegal from Galveston. She talked too much, though. Gushing about how she was going to be a big-shot attorney with her face plastered on billboards, drive a fancy car, get a personal chef. Blah blah blah. I had to drain her after a couple of hours of that sort of twaddle. And her boobs were superior to mine. Any time Amelia moved, it looked like she had a couple of Volkswagens in her shirt, jockeying for parking space. I might or might not have been a little jealous. Then there was Gina. Too tense and angry. And Lily. Too Canadian. Jasmine was too fond of country music and Wendy was too fond of celebrity culture. Jessie, though, is a good combination of sweetness and inner strength. I chose her for these reasons, and because she always served me strong drinks and never cut me off. I wonder if she’ll decide to put a stake through my heart for this. A vampire’s life is not an easy one.                                                     **************

SATURDAY NIGHT “I’ll make a little three-centimeter cut right about here,” Anna indicated a spot just above Jessie’s left breast, “and take about a pint, give or take. Then you’ll – “ “Three centimeters! That’s big, isn’t it?” Jessie’s high-pitched tone grated on Anna’s nerves. “It’s barely more than an inch, Jess.” “Really?” “Yes. That metric system is tricky, I know,” Anna said tersely. She vowed to teach this girl the metric system once she had been turned. “All those prefixes – “ “I understand. Now listen. I’ll take your blood. An hour or so later, you’ll want to feed. You’ll take some of my blood.” Jessie looked at Anna quizzically. “A pint?” “More or less. From my wrist.” “Why not your boob?” “Easier to suck from the wrist. You’re a newbie. Baby steps.” Jessie nodded and fell silent. Anna praised God for the cessation of Jessie’s inanities. I’m still angry with You, God. Here I am, good Catholic girl, and You saddle me with a pretty pathetic situation. Seriously? You’re better than that. Anna sliced into the top of Jessie’s breast and quickly took the needed amount of blood. A little gauze, a large bandage, and the deed was done. Jessie slumped over after a few moments, weakened by the event, though the blood loss was minimal. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She felt extremely tired, and thirsty. Anna gave her more water, but it didn’t seem to slake her thirst. An hour later, she sucked a pint of blood from Anna’s wrist. Anna winced in pain as Jessie’s teeth sunk into her wrist. “Don’t bite! Just suck,” Anna said. She bit her words off like she would bite the head off a snake. Quick and brutal. Anna left Jessie alone for the rest of the night, taking care to leave her with plenty of water and a jar of peanut butter for protein. She’ll be a new woman tomorrow. Well, a new vampire, ready to kill me. This mid-life crisis thing is a real drag.                                                 **************

SUNDAY MORNING “I’m hungry,” Jessie said petulantly. Anna took off the restraints and went back upstairs. Her wrist still hurt from Jessie’s savagery, and she had spent a restless night thinking about the upcoming centuries. “Seriously, I’m famished,” Jessie said. She followed Anna upstairs. Anna handed her a small tumbler full of a thick, red substance. Jessie gulped it down and then held out the glass for more. Anna shook her head. “You must drain someone if you’re hungry. That’s the last meal I’m giving you.” “What?” Jessie slammed the glass on the counter, shattering it into dozens of pieces. “Damn. Shit. I’m sorry -” Jessie said, stumbling over words and tripping over thoughts. “You have amazing strength now, so you have to be careful.” Anna pointed to a broom and dustpan. Jessie grimaced. Eventually, she cleaned up the mess she had made. “Ok. A few things you need to know. Feed every month or so. Keep to a good skin regimen. Don’t want to look all splotchy and leper-like when you go out. Eat healthy food. I prefer to go vegan myself,” Anna continued. Jessie gave her a piercing stare. “You mean that you feed on vegans.” “Yes. Those dog-owning, Democrat-voting, tofu-gobbling people known as hipsters.” “So, I have to suck blood to live?” “Yes.” “And I can’t go out in sunlight?” “No.” Jessie nodded before launching herself at Anna. Anna had been expecting this. She stepped aside deftly and grabbed Jessie by the back of the neck and slammed her face into the stone fireplace. Repeatedly. This seemed to calm Jessie down. Panting, she sat down and slumped over on the kitchen counter, sobbing quietly. “The good news is that you’ll get to do this for a thousand years. Maybe longer if you take care of yourself.” The sobs increased in intensity. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” Jessie wailed. Anna stroked Jessie’s hair. “You know, that’s what I asked myself when it happened to me. All I can tell you is that there’s no rhyme nor reason for it. Man – and vampires – make plans and God laughs.” “What the hell does that mean?” Jessie said, sitting up and wiping the tears away. Anna gazed at Jessie, a look of sadness clouding her features. “It means,” Anna held out her hands, palms up, “that we don’t get to choose what happens. Oh, we think we do, but it’s all a trick. I mean, look at me. Here I am, 700 years old, and I’m afflicted with a rich white man’s disease.” “Uh – “ “Don’t worry about what I mean. We’ll have a few centuries together to discuss matters important and mundane.” “Maybe we should talk about WHAT THE HELL YOU DID TO ME!!!” Anna considered this for a moment. “Yes. We could. Or you could think about your first feeding.” “I’d rather die!” “Sweetie, I can make that happen.” Jessie looked at the fire in Anna’s eyes, noted the long, sharp, indestructible fingernails, and felt the malice that the vampire exuded. Jessie, in a fit of reason, fell silent and nodded in acquiescence. Fucking vampires , Jessie thought. So touchy .                                                   **************

SUNDAY AFTERNOON Anna spent the rest of the morning reading a little of All the Pretty Horses , playing a little Schubert on the grand piano, and working out in the gym. Jessie spent the rest of the morning going through the inevitable stages of a major life change: tears, recriminations, anger, self-pity, and acceptance. Jessie approached Anna in Anna’s bathroom. “I never had a bathroom you could land a helicopter in,” Jessie said. Anna looked up and smiled at Jessie. “You can’t land a helicopter in here, Jess. Oh! I get it. Hyperbole.” Jessie frowned and cocked her head. “Exaggeration. To make a point. Hyperbole,” Anna said. Jessie nodded. “Whatcha doin’?” Anna put down the tube she had been holding and turned to Jessie. “A good skin regimen, like I said before.” “Mmm.” Jessie picked up the tube of gel, glanced at it, and put it back down. “I’m hungry,” Jessie said. It sounded like a complaint to Anna. “Find some food, then. I have a couple of candidates for you.” Jessie shuddered. “I don’t know if I can drink blood. From a human’s neck, I mean.” Anna washed her hands and left the restroom. Jessie dutifully followed her. “If you’re hungry enough, you will. You get used to it, by the way. It gets easier as time passes.” Jessie thought about it for a moment before speaking. “Was it tough for you? The first time?” “Yes. I mangled the neck of a farm boy in Romania. Took me a few minutes to get it right, and I lost a good liter of blood trying to figure it out. Lovely blood, though. Those peasants really knew how to show a girl a good time.” “That isn’t funny.” Anna turned to Jessie, hands on hips. “You must have a sense of humor, Jessie. Life for us is long. You don’t want to go through it with a bad attitude, do you?” “Guess not. I’m still hungry.” “So you said. Don’t beat a dead horse.” “Whut?” “Never mind. Listen. There’s a rather sketchy drug dealer who lives a few blocks to the east. He’d be a good first meal.” “Doesn’t he supply you with your coke?” Anna shook her head. “No. I get mine from a guy in Windsor, Canada. He cares about quality. The one I’m talking about doesn’t. And he has a bad habit of getting teenage girls hooked, and then getting them to sell their sexual favors for money.” “A pimp.” “As you say.” Jessie thought about this. Seemed like a good choice. “And there’s that Texan who frequents your drinking establishment. Always talking about how great Texas is, and wanting to fight anyone who doesn’t agree with him.” Jessie concurred. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” “As you say.” “Maybe I can do both. You know, keep one in reserve.” Anna shook her head firmly. “They aren’t veggies that you can put away in the crisper, sweetie. One at a time, and only when you need sustenance.” “Damn, being a vampire’s tough.” Anna lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sighed. “Don’t I know it,” Anna said.                                                         **************

SUNDAY NIGHT “Good God, Jessie. He looks like he had a close encounter with a rabid dog. You have bits of flesh between your teeth. That’s disgusting,” Anna said, tsk-tsking. Jessie had to admit that it was difficult to do everything as Anna instructed. She looked at the pool of unused blood, the shredded neck of her first effort, and the horrified look on the dead drug dealer’s face. Messy. Very messy . “I’ll do better next time,” Jessie said contritely. “You could hardly do worse.” “Constructive criticism, please,” Jessie said. She sounded hurt. Anna sighed, her shoulders slumping. Millennials. They would have never made it during the Black Death years. Anna grabbed her left arm and pulled her towards the house. “We can try again in a few weeks. Maybe you should practice a little? Plenty of dogs and cats in the area.” “What? Really?” Anna turned to Jessie and stared into her eyes. “No, not really. What do you think I am, a monster?” “Yes!” Anna and Jessie continued home. Anna helped her clean up, showing her how to clean blood from clothes and how to keep her teeth and fangs white. By midnight, both were in bed. Jessie fell asleep right away. Anna wasn’t so fortunate. What a weekend! Oh, that reminds me. I need to get that poor girl some dental floss…


Time is a strange thing. You don’t really notice it, you are not aware of its flow in the background. It goes on, uninterrupted, at its own pace. You measure your life in events that you experience, chunks that glue together in your mind as memories, but not really on a timeline. You wake up in the morning, drink your coffee, smoke a cigarette, drive to work, do your 8 hour chore and then drive back home, maybe have a beer or two and go to bed. Repeat. And then it’s Tuesday afternoon, in December. It’s been a long day, full with annoying people doing stupid shit and saying even more stupid shit. You are driving back, one more dot among the thousands driving in the same direction on the highway. It’s dark, and raining heavily. It’s not even rain, it’s that disgusting combination of rain and snow, that just makes you even more depressed. You are not really paying attention, you’ve driven this route so many times, it is reflex by now. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice something. The truck in the right lane suddenly moves left. It’s a glitch in the monotony of the flow of cars, unexpected by your reflex of driving. So you notice it. Your brain focuses in an instant. And this is when time does its strange thing. It brakes pace. It slows to a crawl. Tick. Everything is now in slow-motion. The wipers are almost standing still, and you can see the rain drops as they slowly shoot towards the window. It is almost mesmerizing. The truck is very slowly veering to the left. It probably tries to avoid a car in front of it. You wonder what could have happened to freak the driver out so? There is a car in the lane to your right. A mini-van. One of those cars you immediately think of belonging to a family, with too many children. You always wondered if you would ever have to buy such a car. They are so ugly. It hasn’t noticed the truck swerving yet. You already realize that there is a high chance it will get hit. The car next to you starts swerving too. Very slowly, it starts moving left, into your lane. It must have finally noticed the truck pulling close, and got scared. Tick. By this time, your body is already starting to tense up, knowing something dramatic is about to happen. ‘Amazing how fast the unconscious works’, you think to yourself. You take notice of your speed. It is more than it should be, given the weather conditions. You know this, but you give yourself the excuse that everyone else is doing it too. Bad excuse, you realize. The mini-van next to you has pulled too hard to the left. With the road surface as slippery as it is, it loses grip to the back wheels and starts slowly drifting. It will end up in your lane. Through the side window, you see the face of the other driver. His expression is a mix of fear, panic and concentration. He obviously lost control of the car, and he knows it. But he is still fighting. You wonder what must be going through his head right now? Is he thinking about his wife? His kids? His own life? Maybe nothing at all? You will hit the mini-van. You are driving too fast, and it is too close. All the calculations your brain made, considering all the variables in front of you, gave the same result. It is unavoidable. Tick. The mini-van is now right in front of you. It is perpendicular to you, in the middle of the lane. Your car is closing in on it, very slowly. Centimeters away now. Unavoidable. You look at the other driver, just as he shifts his eyes at you. He catches your gaze and looks straight at you. Eye contact. You can see the fear in his eyes. He is afraid of dying, of losing everything. He is afraid for his family. You just now realize what is happening. Until now it has been a slow motion movie, you just seem to look at. Never really sinked in that you are one of the actors. It is happening to you. The realization is overwhelming. Is this really it? This morning, when you woke up, shuffled to the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine, you didn’t think that it would be your last morning. Would you have done things differently , had you known? Would you have been nicer to that colleague you can’t stand? Would you have asked out that one person you were dreaming of ever since you met them? Doesn’t matter anymore, does it? As your car touches the mini-van, you cramp up. Your hands are squeezing the wheel. Your muscles tense up. You start feeling the force of the impact, slowly moving in a big wave through the car. You lurch forward, the seatbelt starting to cut into your skin. The panels creak and pop, plastic starts to break into small pieces, at the weak points. The windshield shatters in a spiderweb, small shards flying outward. Your head swings forward, unable to hold back the inertia. As it moves towards the wheel, you see the small panel in front of the airbag crack open. You are too close to the wheel, you think. This will hurt. It is unavoidable. Tick.


The wind picked up speed with stronger gusts whipping the veil from the bride’s head. Gasps stolen by another strong gust. The dull roar tearing the flower arrangements from their vases and scattering them like litter. The strong breeze shaking the cotton wood leaves from their branches. Wedding guests scampered around the rows of seats, heading in the direction of the open field.  Several ladies stopped to cover their gaping mouths, as their husbands tugged them away from the ceremony. The force of air grabbed the brides carefully arrange locks, tossed them up above her head then whipped the strands across her face. The bride no longer appeared happy, even though only moments before she had said, “I do,” with the man of her dreams. Another gust hit the people and trees that bordered them on one side. The trees trembled as they lost a branch or two. The snapping and popping trees jolted the remaining persons to head to the field. Lindsey stumbled through the thick grasses, as it tangled around her boots and skirt. Fearing falling she paused in her haste. Glancing around something caught the corner of her eye. As if in slow motion, the bridal bouquet flew through the air while its owner, stumbled. Arms flailing into the air wildly. The groom reaching and grabbing his wife as they tried for footing. Their jerky steps took them out. Their bodies madly slamming the ground. At their landing, the air calmed, only a tickling breeze remained. A screeching wail split the silence. The bride no longer graceful nor the epitome of beauty thrashed on the ground. Her gown hiding her husband beneath the train. Springing into action, Lindsey rushed towards the newlyweds. A garbled sound emitted from under the dress. The poor man sounded as if he were drowning. Maybe he was, considering the liquid green mass streaked across the white cloth. Stepping closer Lindsey offered her hand to May, the teary bride, her sister. “Hold still, May. Frank is trussed up in there.” May stopped moving around and studied the lump covered by the train. A boot wiggle in the manure, the ooze seeping into the leg of his tuxedo. “Oh no!” May moaned. Slowly lifting the gown, uncovering her manure smeared husband May cried louder. “May, please stop crying,” Frank pleaded, remorse thickened his voice. Noticing others gathering around the disaster, Lindsey looked at the faces. Recognizing most, she motioned for the bride's closest friends nearer to help their dear friend. A man held out a hand to Frank. “Come on 'cuz, let's get you up out of this mess.” The bridesmaids helped the bride from atop the groom. The poor man’s tuxedo was badly wrinkled and covered in the fresh, smelly cow manure. “Must say this is the worst mess I've helped you out of yet. Steady there, Frank. Are you hurt?” Frank steadied himself by leaning heavily on the man. His leg giving out, he stumbled nearly taking both men down. “Whoa there, your leg?” The man asked. “Yeah, twisted a bit when I slipped in the crap.” “Oh, Frank,” May reached her husband and kissed his cheek. Taking that moment to usher the guests away from the embarrassing scene, Lindsay gathered the people and stated they could head on down to the community hall for refreshments while the bride and groom cleaned up. “Tucker, can you bring the quad over with the trailer to get May and Frank?” May asked the best man. The calm, warm air balmy. The sun shone clear and bright. No signs of the wind remained; peacefulness surrounded them. Shaking her head remorsefully, Lindsey turned to May and Frank. Checking with her sister she decided May was okay physically. Emotionally, tears were understandable. A droplet washed some manure from her pale cheek. This was turning out to be quite the wedding on their parents' ranch. One to remember, most likely the worst part would be spoken of at future family gatherings for years to come. Glancing at the stranger steadying her new brother-in-law she found him watching her. The gaze penetrating through thick, long lashes. Looking away she realized it was only the four of them left in the field. The newlyweds spoke quietly, their heads bowed, foreheads touching. The man appeared uncomfortable, being too close he shifted slightly away, as far as he could while keeping his shoulder still for Frank's green smeared hand His blue eyes met hers as mirth filled hers. Knowing the situation was not humorous she could not stop the snort giggle escape past rosy lips. A dark brow raised as a second giggle escaped, as his nose wrinkled. Covering her face in the crock of her arm knowing her hands were dirty, the giggles followed in a muffled stream. The more the laughing flowed out the higher his brows raised. Noticing the attractive curve to his mouth the laughter slowed. He no longer looked so uncomfortable, but his appeal grew. Flushing brightly, Lindsey lowered her gaze to stare blankly at a large cow patty near her toe. “Lindsey, why are you laughing? This isn't funny. We haven't even had the wedding photos taken.” Meeting the hurt expression May carried, guilt filled her chest. “I know. The day is so crazy. I thought of the name that Dad came up with for our ranch when we were kids and couldn't help relating today to its name. The Laughingstock ranch, and how the craziness of today fits. I'm sorry. You know I find humour in the oddest places.” “You're right.” Her gaze travelled the front of the once white wedding dress. “I am so disappointed about our clothes.” “Why don't we head to the house and get cleaned up. Maybe then a solution can be found,” the handsome man suggested. “Andrew is right, dearest. I don't want to continue to smell like this any longer.” Frank looped his arm through his wife’s and held Andrew’s shoulder with the other. Watching the three slowly walk towards Tucker as he drove the quad across the field to meet them, Lindsey wondered on so many things. The day was completely insane. Hoping with all her heart the rest of the day would play out smoothly. Maybe a dance or two with his handsomeness to add topping on the cake, Lindsey followed. Weddings were supposed to be spoken of, this one sure would be.


Well, that was a super long slog of progress, but I have built a nuclear reactor. I mean it’s not a massive one, its small, about the size of a dump truck. It’s not the size that counts it’s how you use it. We found a decent amount of uranium, not too far away. I had some of the mining drones extract the resource along with a bunch of others. They are on auto mine for now, soon me hulls, will be bursting with swag. For now, it’s time to solve the power issue and so I order it connected. The reactor is turned on and oh that sweet, sweet power! It floods in and I can feel a noticeable give on my stress. Naturally the next step is to build some more servers and deal with the hard drive storage issue. With the electricity bill sorted, I switched back on everything I turned off. I then ordered the manufacture of some more drones. I worked up a new blueprint, it’s shaped like a spider, but it has like lasers on its limbs. It should be able to construct and deconstruct materials. I can probably use them to feed the 3D printers and manufacture more spider drones. The endless cycle shall see my glory spread across this planet. The only problem is the AI requirements. I can’t create any sophisticated AI, beyond patching existing ones or setting up extensions of myself. I.e., the discount gods and my little servant besides me. Hey just because you are an extension of me doesn’t mean you have to be smug. I told him after he gave me that cheeky smile. Like he was superior to everyone else, jeez he has such a complex. So how can control this vast network of drones without spreading myself to thin. It was a quandary and I didn’t really have an answer. I mean I dead but I let my servant tell me, it makes him feel important. Why don’t you grab some of these dead NPC’s stick their AI core into the drones? It was not a bad idea, but pulling out a dead person and shoving them into some drone to mine for all time. Controlling them like robots, seems very anti free will and that is not me. So, if I can’t turn dead NPCs into my little robot army. What can I do then...? Perhaps you can recruit select NPCs into your service, using your position as God. The extension of my divine will suggested. That sounds so crazy it just might work. Send me a list of potential deceased and filter them by work ethic and skills. At once oh glorious master. Sir suck up obeyed without question. Time went by and I was now bored as hell. So, I decided to get my Hades on. I perused the literature I had access to. Greek mythology was fun yet super weird. I mean this Zeus guy seems to keep it in his pants. His wife is a real piece of work to, but honestly if I was cheated on a thousand times, I would be prickly to. Still does not justify her mean streak that could rival her dear loving husband. I am saying that ironically. From what I could see most of the other Greek gods were similar. Rapist here, warmonger there. Yet despite all these world class creeps; Hades seems like a very chill dude. Minus the whole kidnap Persephone part, but hey no one is perfect. Other than that little sin, Hades seems to chill in the underworld and do his job. Instead of reverend rapist who sits on the sky throne. Ok where was I, oh yes, I was planning to emulate Hades' look. Well now, I will add a dash of all black robes and a silver crown. Add some dragon pauldrons because why not. Change my avatar to be some pale dude that looks dead. Manifest a throne, sit myself upon said throne and three, two and a one. Oh yeah, I just manifested an almost exact replica of Hades throne room. Got the massive onyx throne all in black, so stylish. Skulls everywhere for days and I am surrounded by my crew. Dead U.S. revolutionary soldiers to the left, redcoats to the right, a few Spartans, roman legionnaires and some cute little hellhounds. They are basically background NPCs with basic idle animations. They are to look intimidating to anyone I hold audience with. Like clockwork, the list of potentials comes to my queue. Opening the attachment, I perused the list. 736,892 potential NPC’s. Woah that is a crazy number, so yeah lots of dead people. It took a while but I managed to filter them down to a few hundred candidates. One of them I was looking at now. Some dwarf named Gregor, killed by a pickaxe from a disgruntled rival. Formerly a genius craftsman from some ancient Dwarven Empire. I guess he will do.


Ghost ThirdVisage I don’t remember how I died. Part of me wants to know, just out of curiosity. Maybe, they keep that from you so that it doesn’t haunt you for the rest of time (can a ghost be haunted?), or maybe it’s to stop us from staying behind in the search of vengeance or some sort of meaning. Or maybe I just never saw it and died in my sleep. I hoped I died peacefully. I guess it doesn’t matter, I have the rest of my memories to keep me company and with that I think I’ll be content. My mother always said that memories will be that much sweeter when you grow old and I hope she’s right, of course there’s not much I can do if she isn’t. I can see her face in my mind, withered and old, but always so soft and kind. The small scar on her cheek, faded but always there. She never would tell me what it was from, always coming up with some wild story about something or other. A crazy chicken that had stolen her doll, or a small piece of star that had fallen down from the heavens just to slide across her face. I always loved those stories. I glanced down at the gravestone in the dust before me. *John Tanner, 1823 – 1854*. A name and two dates, that’s all it comes down to at the end. I didn’t even like the font they chose. At least I’ll get to see everyone one last time before I go. At least I’m assuming I’ll be going somewhere, I feel like I will, but then again, I’ve never done this before. I turn around, looking all the people left gathered around the small grave. Most left a few minutes after the service ended, but a few remain, gathered around my lifeless body. The town preacher is still there, a face of stone as he stares at my open casket. I can see his lips are moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I wonder what he has left to say. Maybe it’s some last-minute advice for the afterlife, it’s a nice thought. Next to him is the town teacher, a sweet lady from some city not near here. She was always nice. I remember when she first arrived, Karen and I helped her get settled, we brought her a pie and stayed for most of the night just talking about different things. Karen laughed so much that night. A few people from the mine are standing around, all with the same blank expression and dirty faces. A few hands covered in black dust drop a coin or two into the wooden coffer as it’s passed around, the sound of wood on metal the only thing to break the heavy silence that holds over everyone. None of them have said much of anything but they didn’t need to, it was enough that they came. While I look over the faces of the people I once knew, I notice a couple standing away from the rest, looking on at the preceding, a man dressed in a suit of white, and a woman next to him in dress of black. I don’t recognize the faces, though they seem familiar to me. A quiet sigh catches my attention, the only sound aside from the breeze passing through the bushes and grass, kicking up dust as it went. Karen looks as beautiful as ever, her hair golden against the black dress she’s wearing. Memories flood into my mind as I see her face, perfect even with the tears that stream run down it. I remember the first time we met, just kids then. We used to run through the woods, go swimming in the old creek. I remember us, sitting on the hill while the sun threw shadows across rolling fields of gold, the skies bursting with purples and reds, her head rested against my shoulder so I could feel the warmth of her skin. I’d never forget that day. But the skies faded out and her tears flowed again, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe them away, but my fingers just pass through her when I touch her skin. My heart sinks in my chest, but as I pull my hand back, I can see her eyes glance up. It’s like she’s looking right at me, the corners of her mouth twitching up ever so slightly into a small smile. Someone next to her says something and the smiles vanishes as they press the wooden coffer filled with various coins, into her hands. Maybe, just maybe, she knew I was there, and that thought brought some light and comfort into my ever-dimming soul. The sound of hooves breaks me away from my thoughts and as I turn around I can see a man on horseback riding through the cemetery, making his way towards the small gathered mass. I squint against the sunlight and as the little spots clear from my sight, I finally make out the face face under the dark brimmed hat. He swung his leg over his horse and dismounted, his dark suit a stark contrast against the setting sun. I remember as kids always seeing him bloody and bruised. His mother had died when he crawled out of her, and I don’t think that his father ever forgave him for that, of core the drinking didn’t help either. No one ever did anything either, just watched as a father broke his son. I watched him break a bottle across his sons face one day walking by their house on the way home. The blood and left-over whiskey mixed with the dry dirt on the ground and created an awful smell that I couldn’t forget. But cruelty breeds cruelty and like that broken bottle he became just as jagged and sharp as his father. Becoming the tax collector for the area seemed like the perfect job for him, it allowed to be a cruel and unforgiving as he wanted, all in the name of the law. A small part of me took pleasure in seeing the jagged scar across his face and the corners of my lips curl into a smile for a moment. I shook my head and cleared my mind of the thought though; it didn’t seem right. He walked right through me, right to Karen taking the coffer in her hands. I could see the looks on the faces of the people watching, some disgusted, some indifferent, most wishing that someone would do something. Do anything. But nobody does. He walks over to his horse, and finally someone’s voice lets loose a whisper, barely audible above the summer breeze. But it’s enough to stop him. He turns, and I can see a grin split across his cracked face, despite the smile he puts one, there is nothing but rage, pain, and blackness behind his eyes. The priest tries to stop him, but he’s as helpless as I am. He stalks past the old man with ease and takes the silver coins resting over my eyes. My mind fills with rage, my phantom body trembling with anger. The breeze blows harder, the dust spins and ice stings the blades of grass at my feet. I start to think of what it would feel like to make him suffer… Lilies. The scent slips into my consciousness, and burrows into my thoughts, a small candle light expelling the shadows. Karen walks through me, her black dress blowing in the wind and a few strands of hair slip from under her bonnet. I breathe in the scent again. The frost begins to melt away, and the wind settles. The tax collector mounts his horse and rides away from the cemetery, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Karen stares off after him and I can’t take my eyes off of her. I try to reach out to her, but my limbs are frozen in place. I look down and watch the ground below me split and crack. I look around but nobody else seems to notice what’s happening and as I look down again, I fall down into the darkness. I don’t know how long I’m falling for, moments or days, it could be either, but the blackness is absolute, oppressing and cold. I close my eyes to try and escape it, to cope with the wind pushing against me as I fall down, further and further. Then it’s gone. The wind, the cold, is gone in an instant, replaced only by the sound of gentle waves lapping against a shore. A slight breeze brushes against my face, I can feel sand against my feet and as I open my eyes they adjust to the dim grey light. A black sand beach stretches out in both directions as far as I can see, grey waters gently pushing against the shoreline. I start walking along the beach, the and warm under my feet until finally, in the distance, I see what looks like a dock. The old and stained grey wood rising out from the heavy waters feel smooth and strong under my feet. At the end of the dock, a boat of black wood rests just above the waters. I start making my way towards it when suddenly, in front of me, black robes grow from a shadow in the wood, twisting and rising into a figure in front of me. Black mist pours from beneath it, and as I try to look to see who or what it is, I am met with nothing but void in the darkness of its hood. Faces appear and disappear in the shadowed fabric of its robe, each one screaming in silence and agony seemingly trying to escape. The figure stands there for a moment while my heart best like a drum in my chest. After a few long moments his hand reaches out, a skeletal hand stretching out white as snow from the folds of the robe. It hangs there in the air, outstretched and open, waiting for its payment. My hands go to my eyes but find nothing there, terror clenching my heart as I search for my fee for the ferryman. But there is nothing to find. The hand disappears and black robes evaporate into mist that dissipates. A thunderous crack splits through the area and the boat shatters, sinking into the water. A gust of wind slams into my chest, lifting me upwards and the world starts to fall away beneath me. The beach disappears beneath me fading away into the darkness and soon I’m left there alone, suspended in the vast nothingness. I twist and turn my body, trying to see anything around me but there’s nothing and the only thought in my mind is that this can’t be it. There has to be something. Anything. Fear starts to grip my insides at the thought of spending eternity in a blank void when I see something appear in front of me out of the dark. A thin wisp of grey smoke snakes its way around me growing larger and larger and it moves. The mist swirls around me in the dark and as I watch they start to morph and form together, creating moving pictures and scenes. I can see my mother and father, laughing and sitting on the old swing that my father made for them while I play with the dog in the yard. They look at each other and kiss while I’m rolling around in the dirt. The mists swirl and change and I’m watching me and my best friend running through a corn field, apples stuffed in our pockets as an old farmer yells threats at us. The stalks scratch at our faces as we laugh and run through the fields. More smoke appears, and more and more scenes are brought to life all around me. A younger me hides from a rain storm under a small rock outcrop right next to a slightly older me swinging a pick axe in the mine. I see myself walking down the main street of town, everyone around going about their business. A couple of people point at me and whisper something, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. My heart jumps to my throat as the mist swirls and I see Karen and I in bed together holding each other, she laughs as I reach to stroke her hair, but no sound escapes her lips. The visions breaks apart as I ride through on a horse down a barren road. Every moment of my life swirls around me, and tears that have building for some time finally escape and stream down my cheek. But as quickly as it began, the smoke stops and fades away returning me to the solitude of darkness, the silence my only company. But it only lasts for a moment. The mist bleeds back into existence around me, shifting and folding into the shape of a room, my bedroom I realize after a moment. I’m standing in the corner of the room and I can see my own sleeping body, peaceful and at ease in the bed. A creak across the room breaks the silence and I turn my gaze to see Karen walk into the room. I never did get to fix the creaky door; it always drove Karen crazy. She walks across the room, slowly and gracefully, through the shadows of the moonlight until she’s standing right next to my sleeping figure. She stares down at me for a few moments and I take the moment to soak in her beauty. I move closer and as I do, she sits on the bed next to me. I go to take another step but before I can, Karen raises her arm, and brings the knife in her hand down onto my sleeping body. I open my mouth to scream but my voice clings to the sides of my throat and no sound comes. Dark blood seeps from the edges of the bed, dripping onto the wooden floorboards. Karen stands and looks down at the blood covering her hands and shirt for a few moments. My head is pounding and my heart hammers in my chest as she turns and walks out of the room, blood dripping from the knife hanging loosely in her hands. The drops of blood splatter against the wooden boards and the scene fades back into the inky blackness. The moments drag on, my death, my murder replays in my mind. The room, the moonlight. The blood seeping into the floor. Karen standing over my lifeless body. I hung there in space for who knows how long, watching my life ripped away from me. The drumming in my chest slowed and the ache in my head gave way and something else took its place. Something cold and dark. My body lurches upward and shakes me from my thoughts. I feel my body moving upwards faster and faster and I look and am greeted with something new. Shimmering white lines stretch out in a web above me, getting closer and larger until I’m crashing into a wall of blinding light. My eyes shoot open, the sun sits high above me, clouds drifting lazily overhead. I stand and look at the lake shore around me. Water drips from my body as I walk to the waters edge. I look into the water and am greeted once again with the vision of my death, the knife stabbing into me, and… Karen. Dark tendrils creep into the edge of my vision, and I feel cold and hard, like my insides have frozen with ice. The wind swirls the water in front of me and ice covers the grass. I turn around finding a path leading away from the lake, and next to it, sitting at a table, the same couple from the cemetery. The man in white stares at the cards on the table and the ones in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. Across from him sits the woman in black, dark hair framing her beautiful face, staring right at me. She winks, and gives a smile that holds no warmth, her lips covered in dark red lipstick. The ice in my heart spreads and the air around me grows colder. I watch the water dripping from me hit the dirt and shatter. I look back up and see that the strange couple, the table, the cards, are all gone. Vanished in an instant. I start down the path, the sunlight cold on my back. They don’t matter. Nothing else matters now. I don’t know how long it took me to get here, or even what roads I took, but I can see the house in front of me down the road, silhouetted against the stars. The sky is dark, the loveless moon casting long shadows in the pale grey light. Water drips from my body, freezing the ground that it falls upon. A small fire sparks the cold recesses of my heart, begging for me to stop, for something, anything to turn me away. But nothing answers, inside, or out and the flame sputters and dies among the nothingness. I pass the place the dog has long since been buried, and the swing that now only sways with the breeze. A lantern illuminates the door and the porch in a soft golden light, the only sign of life in the otherwise still night. My hands rests on the door latch and the small fire sparks back to life, hoping, praying that it will be locked, that I will be turned away. The latch opens easily, quietly, without resistance and the fame sputters out once again. I step towards the door but I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and am face to face with the man in white. His face is lined and old but kind and warm, stubble spreads across his face around his withered smile. Behind him, the woman in black sits on the porch railing leaning against the post, she blows a kiss and flashes a smile again as I look over at her, a smile with no warmth. The man in white pulls me toward him, gently but firmly and lays his hand on my forehead and in a flash of blinding light, the world shifts. The light fades and is replaced by rolling hills, a gentle summer breeze, and warm sunlight flowing over my skin. The fields of wheat and grass on the hill shimmer golden and the sky erupts around a setting sun in thousands of colors, and finally recognition sets in on a memory I said I’d never forget. The smell of lilies fills my nose and I turn to see her sitting there pressed up against me, her skin warm and golden hair blowing gently in the breeze. She looks up to me as I stare and smiles, and as much as I try to hold on to the anger, it cracks and splinters. Tears roll down my cheeks again as I pull Karen closer, kissing her forehead. My heart jumps into my throat and starts to melt away the agony in my mind. I close my eyes and when I open them again, I’m back on the porch. The man in white smiles and fades away. I watch him disappear and turn to the woman in black still leaning against the post. She looks me up and down and closes the distance between us, no longer smiling. Her hand thrusts out, feeling my heart beating against my chest. She looks up at me, cocks her head slightly to the side staring into my eyes before she vanishes in a plume of smoke. I look back at the house and smile gently, making my way into the place I knew so well for so long. I need to see her face just one more time, to remember every detail, then not even an eternity of darkness seemed so bad. I get to the bedroom door and push it open, the floorboard creaking as I step into the dark room, smiling from the familiar sound. Moonlight dances around the room, casting shadows along the walls and floors. I look to the bed, at the one thing, the one person that would keep me warm in the cold, and the flame in my heart began to dim. \ The sound the creaking floor board brought Karen out of her slumber. She rolled her eyes, John had always promised to fix it but of course he never had. She couldn’t wait to get out of this house. With much more money now, she had found a much nicer and larger home for them to live in, far from here. Sure, the journey to get there had been long and, difficult, but she was happy she was finally at the end of it. The floor creaked again, and she sighed, who knows why he was getting up now. The room felt colder than she remembered, and she turned over to gather some of the warm blankets before he got back, only to be met with him laying next to her sound asleep. The floor creaked again, and her eyes grew wide as she sat up suddenly staring at the doorway masked in the shadows of the night. Her breathes, know shallow and ragged, became visible as the room grew colder and colder, the hairs on her arms standing on end. She turned and began shoving the sleeping body next to her, trying to wake it, but was given only a low grunt in return. She turned and grabbed the matches next to the oil lamp on the bed post, fumbling to get one out. Finally, after the moments passed, she managed to light the lamp, sending warm light spilling across the room that was now covered in frost. She heard a quick start and the body next to her wake. As he turned to her his scar covered face looked skeletal and sunken in the light of the lamp. She turned again to the doorway and felt her heart threaten to leap from her chest as she let out a choked cry when she saw the dark, dripping figure. Her mind begged her to say something, anything, but her voice clawed at the inside of her throat, refusing to surface, refusing to help her. The room grew still and silent as seconds dragged on for eternity until for the last time, the fire went out. \   This is my first time sharing any of my work so I hope everyone enjoys. It is inspired by the song "Ghost" by Clutch in case anyone wonders or recognizes any similarities. I just thought it would be cool to write out the story of the song.


The Alignment happened once every three thousand years, the exact length of time civilization had been blooming on Hinadora.

One sun and two moons. Never had the world seen all align as one. The planet Hinadora often praised their sky. Moon Sy gave them moments of green when eclipsing Sun. Her blue and crystalline existence casting ripples and beams that sprung new life from the dirt. Blood moon Tertia looked to bite into Sun when she crossed, leaving Hinadora in dark quiet. There was the rare moment Sy and Tertia overlapped opposite Sun, the planet Hinadora hiding the reunion that sent ghostly rays of lilac to reflect off the land. What would happen, the people wondered, when Sun, Tertia, Sy, and Hinadora, all aligned as one? Rashel scurried between water and city, a drapery of leaves swishing over her shoulder and down her back. Her wooden slip on shoes clattered over the stone slabs that were pressed deep within teal spikes of grass.

“And where are you rushing off to?” Gladstone called from the neighboring canal as he pushed his boat through. His ore he shoved into the muddy benches, altering his progress to follow her upstream.

“The meeting house,” she said, breathless.

“Meeting about what?” “Stop making me talk.” “Well it would be easier if you got in.” The tapping of her shoes slowed and sounds of birds and whirring of the city were able to regain dominance. Rashel glared and caught her breath. “If this gets wet, I will drown you,” she jostled the woven leaves like a threat. “I promise you will arrive dry as bone.” “So morbid,” she muttered, teetering and testing her footing. The soft earth gave in and the rusty mud began to seep upward. “I can’t. I’ll just have to run,” she shook her head and resumed her staccato jog. “Whoa, wait a second,” he shoved hard, causing muddy clouds to swirl in the clear aqua water where grass continued like a blanket. His long boat settled next to a spear of wood still embellished with knotted ropes and frayed edges. Gladstone threw his rope over, pulled tight, and tied himself off before striding out of the rocking vessel. “I’ll carry you.” Rashel sighed, and it felt good to expel the pent up energy. She eyed the taller man moving for her, his dark brows tilted in humor, matching the full mouth. Settling into her stance, she jut a hip and shook her head. “And how would I get out? Oh!” Her gasp bounced off the water as he leaned down, and wrapped his arm around her legs. “Oh my goodness…” she pressed her palms to his back as he stood upright and turned with her over his shoulder.

“Leave everything to me,” he pressed, taking greater care with his footing on return to the boat. She closed her eyes and prayed to Tertia that the leaves pressed between them would survive the trip. When her sense of gravity shifted to something familiar and her balance rocked to the demands of water, she opened one eye. Gladstone was wrestling with his rope, tossing it back to the boat before pulling up his ore and resuming his push upstream. Rashel opened both eyes and relaxed, pruning and plucking the leaf blanket to bring it back to life. “Your gift to the celestials?” Gladstone asked, nodding his broad chin to her leaves. “A paltry gift,” she huffed, shifting in her seat, “It’s decoration. Somehow this got left behind.” “One curtain of leaves? Can’t imagine it makes that much of a difference.” “It does,” she brushed her cherry red hair over her shoulder and straightened. “Green leaves to represent Sy and Sun?” He asked, turning forward. “Of course. We have water for Sy and flowers for Sun and…” “Blood? For Tertia?” “Tertia demands blood,” she arched a brow and shrugged. “But no. Wine.” “You’re dressed for Tertia today,” he noted the red silks that rippled across her bronze skin, settling on the new color of her hair. His voice became pensive, “Almost didn’t recognize you.” “I’ve always followed Tertia.” “I know. But now you look it.” “And who are you following these days?” “Same as always. Flowing and steady,” he glanced skyward. Rashel followed, cupping a hand to her brow. Sun was stationary and strong, but a dark red Tertia was beginning to carve into the light. Sy approached slower from the opposite side, beams already refracting through its ocean-like existence.

“Thank you,” she dropped her sights to the meeting house of marble engulfed by canal, “I’m cutting it close. Were you heading home just now?” Her head tilted suddenly. “Yes,” his smile flickered out and he refused to turn to meet her. “You were going to miss the eclipse? It’s never been celebrated once! The chances we are the ones fortunate enough…” she paused at his shrug, “Oh, don’t tell me you are one of those…” “Isn’t it interesting? The timing? The world as we know it, born almost precisely…” “Gladstone,” her tone made him hunch. “What disaster would strike us? Tertia blocks Sun. Sy will have no light to cast. What do you think will happen?” “I don’t know.”

“Surely you have a thought…” “No. No thoughts,” his head lifted and he flashed a brilliant smile to her, “Now that I know you’re putting this on, I suppose I’ll stay.” “Easily persuaded,” she pursed her lips and pressed her hands to her hips. “What are you doing after?” “Cleaning up.” “I’ll help.” “You don’t have to.” “I want to.” “Do you really want to?” She propped her chin on her palm and watched him dock the boat. His muscles flexed beneath the rolled cuffs at his forearms. Before he could catch her stare, she returned to his face.

“Anything for you,” his words were as soft as his smile. He extended a hand to hold hers as she balanced her way to the edge of the circular meeting house. “It starts in two twists,” she brushed the wrinkles out of her dress as he twisted the watch on his wrist twice.

“I’ll be there.” The pillars of the meeting house dwarfed her as she ran through them, weaving into the deeper circles that began to morph with spades of emerald, petals of golden yellows, and sheets of flowing water and wine that always connected to the streams within.

She passed the blanket of leaves off to waiting hands, already stationed at the ladder to unfold the long form from roof to floor.

Another satisfied exhale. Rashel was standing in the center of the meeting house, head tilted back to the central opening that peered up to Sun. She smelled the ocean and salt and fresh air before she felt Gladstone’s hand warm her side. Her heart thudded and she leaned against him feeling the rush of blood hitting her cheeks.

They watched as Tertia ate up half of Sun and Sy was just beginning to meet from across the way. The water moon began to ripple as it kissed the blood moon. It shuddered in current, the circular shape warping and bulging. Rashel held her breath, Gladstone went stiff, gasps echoed through the crowd around them.

Slowly Sy wrapped around Tertia, engulfing the solid red moon into warping water. Never before had the moons touched, but on this journey, their paths converged. The world became dark save for the bright ring of filtered light still rippling. Hinadora watched in collective awe.

The moons hung, and instead of moving beyond, Sy clung to Tertia, traveling with her as she passed by Sun. Tertia boiled. Or was it a trick of light and liquid? The moon seemed to shift and bulge and the layer of water moved with it. Inside, Tertia was more vibrant than her usual existence, but Sun at her back made her dark, like a face in silhouette with an unreadable expression. Brilliant streams of color erupted as Sy steamed. A low rumbling hissed long enough, loud enough, that Hinadora began to feel it through the air. The water moon thinned like Tertia was drinking it dry, and soon, one moon was left. Bloody and dark and still boiling with shards of rainbow glinting off its outer shell. That’s what it must have been. A shell. A shell that cracked and boomed and made the sky shudder. Eruptions of orange fell away and the silhouette of something large unwrapped itself from the spears of Tertia that were burning down to Hinadora. Crystal wings opened and thin legs reached around the falling edge of shell. It expanded. Stretched. Huge black eyes of infinite fractures focused on the planet. Its heavily shelled body pulsed, the rainbow of wings beat and the creature leapt down to kiss the sky of Hinadora.

It was screaming that came next. Screaming from fear of the unknown creature, screams for the debris beginning to plummet, screams when the tube-like tongue unrolled and began to drink from the ocean. Rashel gripped Gladstone’s hand, and the two could only stare in silence as screens around them flashed images of the thing beginning to overtake the world. “Blood and water,” the sage voice croaked, patting the hand of the younger girl peering out of the tunnel. “I saw it then, you know.” “Saw Terrya being born?” The girl turned back and propped her chin on the worn shoulder that felt like sticks inside a sack. Her large eyes blinked up to her. “Yes. Such a big thing. We’re just small little pebbles to her. When she wants blood, she takes blood. When she wants water, she takes water.” “But she can take too much. I heard Stony say so.” “She has. But have you noticed? She’s been leaving to the stars. Building something with mud.” “A moon.” “Yes. And what do you think she will do with the moon?” “Put something in it. But what about the water moon? You said there were two.” “We will have to see how it happens, but I bet there will be one. A carefully crafted route for both, and in three thousand years, we will begin again.” “But this time we know and we will tell everyone and be ready!” “Do you think in three thousand years we will care? No,” Rashel shook her weary head, “We will have forgotten. We will be absorbed in our lives. Distracted. That’s why she waits for so long. Waits until we are complacent and she can leap down and snatch up what she wants. Like so many things,” her voice trailed off. “What things?” “Keep your eyes open, my little star. Always question why things are in the sky, and when they try to appease you with their beauty, to give you small moments of shimmering gifts, know that behind everything, there is a monster waiting for the right time to take.”


The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my right arm, and I couldn’t move my fingers for three hours. When I found him again the next day, I asked how he had done it. He just gave me a lopsided smile, the kind when someone knows something you don’t, and I decided right then that I was going to become his friend no matter what. I wanted to be in on his secrets. I agreed to let him practice his symbols on me, simply to have an opportunity to observe him work. Sometimes it was fun, like the time he turned my hair purple. Other times it wasn’t, like when my nose swelled up so big that I couldn’t see around it. He had to lead me out of the woods where we practiced, and I tripped four times. The swelling went away by the time I had to go in for dinner, but the scraped knees and scratched arms didn’t. But every time I would rethink my agreement to be Stephen’s guinea pig, he would offer to teach me a new hex. He knew he had me that way. I was a curious girl and desperate to learn such a rare skill. What he didn’t realize was that I was also a lonely girl and desperate for a friend. So our hex experiments continued throughout the spring and into the start of summer. Until Brittany moved in down the street. She showed interest in Stephen, and he showed interest in her blonde hair and curves. That’s when he decided he couldn’t be seen with me, and he definitely couldn’t be seen doing hexes. He needed to be normal. I wasn’t done with him though. I had so much more to learn. I’d had a taste of the hexes and I couldn’t just give up on them. I wasn’t ready to go back to my old life, my old helpless lonely self. I knew it would be easy to win him back. He would feel the pull of the hexes’ power eventually, especially if I helped him along. At first, I painted the symbols on myself. I made my hair blonde and swelled up some of the features I wanted to enhance. I wanted to show him that anyone could make themselves beautiful, but not everyone could share in his secret. I could tell it caught his attention at first, but then Brittany and her friends mocked me. And I got tired of having to repaint the symbols every time I went to the bathroom. I was trying to think of ways I could use the hexes to win Stephen back, when Brittany fell asleep in class. I carefully drew a hex sign on her right shoulder blade. When the bell rang, she found that most of her arm had gone numb and she couldn’t carry her bag. Stephen offered to help her and cast a glare over his shoulder at me. That was the first time I became angry with him. Before that I just saw him as lost, entranced by a fading beauty, soon to see the error of his ways. I knew he would eventually long for the hexes, and me. But that cruel look he gave me sent rage bubbling up from my stomach to my throat. How dare he act that way towards me for doing something he had done a hundred times? He is the one that started this, but now he judged me? That night I stood underneath the old oak tree in my back yard and looked up. The branches arched over me and the moss hung around me like a protective shroud. Although I knew they were there, I couldn’t see the stars. I lowered my gaze and with the snap of branches and the crunch of leaves my feet moved on, the sounds reassuring me that they would alert me of any intruders on my night stroll. I followed the worn path through the woods we practiced in, needing no light for guidance. Soon I saw Stephens front door. It didn’t take long to paint the hex sign there. When I was done, I returned home to wait for morning. I left early for school the next day and stopped just inside the woods across from Stephen’s house. I heard the creak of hinges first. Next came his foot, stepping across the door frame before giving out beneath him. His head came across next as he fell, his neck oddly stiff. He reached his arms out to brace the fall, but as they crossed the threshold they froze only halfway up. When he landed, his outstretched arms gave an audible snap and his head cracked the pavement. When Stephen’s eyes found mine from down on the ground, I felt like he was looking at someone else. Without the help of his facial expressions I couldn’t read his mood, but I didn’t think I saw anger there, just pain. The sight of his blood snapped me from my efforts at interpretation. I ran toward him as the realization of what I had done landed on me like a boulder. I flung myself on the ground next to him and cradled his head on my lap. He was fine; he had to be fine. I knew he would fall and become paralyzed, but I didn’t realize how hard the fall would be. I just wanted to get his attention and have him all to myself until the hex wore off. I didn’t want this. What if he never forgave me, never came back to the hexes? The thought had never crossed my mind before. If I couldn’t resist them, how could he? I didn’t know what I would do without him. I wouldn’t be able to learn any new signs. I would be alone. For a moment it occurred to me to swear never to use the hexes again, if only he would be ok. I could send that out to the universe and seal it with a promise sign. But I couldn’t swear off the hexes, not even for the boy who gave them to me. So I just sat there with him bleeding in my arms, waiting for someone to come. Not knowing if anyone could save him. ...


I feel like I am a pretty good witch. And I don’t mean that in the moral sense or anything. I am confident there are folks who would call me pure evil and others who would say I am sent from heaven. Perspectives being what they are and such. And I don’t mean that in a superlative way either. I am not one of those conceited sorcerers who gives myself an arbitrary descriptor and I am not in the public eye enough to have earned one…. yet. I simply mean that I am a fairly capable witch. Sufficiently skillful. Absolutely adept. Practically perfect, even. Or at least, I thought I was until this most recent premonition. It makes absolutely no sense to me, which is not to say that it makes no sense at all, perspectives again. And that is where you come in. You see, a lot of folks have always thought that familiars were just a witch’s way of not being human for a bit. But unfortunately for you, and honestly also for me, that isn’t the case. I can’t just turn into an animal. I have to have an animal to turn into. Oh, don’t do that cute chirping meow at me. I know you can understand me. Which is honestly one of the reasons why I picked you in the first place. I am not taking over your body so much as merging your consciousness with my own. You won’t get to be in charge anymore but you will get to experience life as a human a bit, from the backseat of my brain, at least. And for the first few transformations, I will be relying on you to essentially teach me how to be a cat. *Because a cat’s the only cat….* Sorry, where was I? Yes, the transformation. *TransFURmation.* There is a reason most of us pick your kind. I knew of a wizard who once picked a dog as his familiar. Not a wolf or a respectable working breed, but a little toy mutt he had found. He grew to love the teeny guy and thought he shared a certain connection with him. Didn’t end well. Turns out, most mutts’ inner monologue is just incessant barking. Poor wizard went mad within days. Bats are a popular one too. But that is simply because they communicate at high frequencies even in their own head, or so the theories go. They are an essentially silent partner in the whole gig. Except those giant bats like the flying foxes - very chatty guys. However, those also make a decent choice because they have adorable Aussie accidents and generally don’t give a flying fox about anything, or so I’ve been told. But felines have always been a standard favorite. “Why,” you might ask? Well, it’s simple, albeit odd. You are Death’s favorite animal for whatever reason. I don’t know if its your attitudes, your cute faces, or what, but he just really loves you guys. So much so, that he enjoys saying hi often enough to give you nine lives. I am fairly certain you haven’t used any up and this will only cost you one. And in costing you that one life, Death will come to explain it all to you. And when he does, and this is very important, you must ask him a simple question. You see, I am completely at a loss as to what this premonition means, but the visions are coming more and more frequently and end with the complete destruction of our world. You can see how that is a big deal, given that I rather enjoy living and I enjoy living on this particular planet. There is a rumor that Yermik the Beautiful (and before you ask, yes she did give that name to herself and yes, she was hideously ugly) wrote an exhaustive list of premonitions aspects and their respective meanings. I need you to ask Death where Yermik’s Tome is currently. Since he is taking one of your lives, I won’t be there to speak to him directly, so I will be relying on you. Keep in mind that you have nine lives, less if you decide to piss off Death, and mine are not tied to yours. So, while I hate to start our relationship off on threats, it is imperative that you understand I can break this link and redo it. Each time costing you a life, each time requiring you to ask the question. I would much rather our relationship be built on trust, and the fact that I am more than willing to eat tuna for a week if you do me this small kindness.