I used to get the sexy Hollywood types like Keanu Reeves, Brad Pitt and Kid Rock—you know, the long hair skinny types—but as I’ve gotten older and fatter (still got a head full of hair at least) my doppelgangers have gotten worse. They’ve downgraded, if you will. These days I’m lucky to get Gary Busey, Ozzy, or if the moon is in its correct orbital path—Christopher Walken. Or sometimes, Dave. I was the chef at a cozy little joint called Birdsong Bistro—best chili in Frisco if you ask me—and I played drums in a band called Rickie and the Renegades, making pretty good green. One night, me and some bandmates met up at a dive bar called The Arena, a real shithole. I don’t know why I like those kinda places, I just do. Maybe it’s the privacy—nobody gives a rat’s asshole about you at The Arena, plus they’ve got the best jukebox in town. Things got weird fast. I arrived first. The bar was lined with barstools, each one filled; a Coors Light sign was flashing on and off next to the 49ers mural behind the bar; other sports paraphernalia (mostly 49ers) hung haphazardly throughout the dimly lit bar. I spotted a vacant booth at the back. “Brett! Good to see ya.” Kimmy the Bartender said. Kimmy was a fine bartender. One of the best. She was like a hummingbird. Always moving, talking fast, never stopping. A real piece of work. “Whatcha having tonight, Brett?” “Beer and whiskey, Kimmy. Make it a double.” I was about to strike up a conversation but she’d run off to another booth, so I removed my jacket (the one your mother bought for me) and looked around the bar; a group of factory workers, still in their work clothes, were sitting at the booth adjacent to mine, yelling obscenities and throwing peanuts and at the TV, something about the Warriors—one bounced and landed on my head, so I ate it. George Thorogood came on. "Wanna tell you a story, ‘bout the house rent blues.” Yeah, I was diggin’ it. I was feeling better than I had in years. I was thinking about finally opening up my own restaurant. Be my own boss. Make your mother proud. Kimmy shot over with drinks, took my money, smiled, then flew off. I was sipping on my Jack, drumming to the music, loosening up, feeling the room, watching paychecks being spent; Kimmy catches it all and is back before you can say Long Island Iced Tea. I looked at my phone. *Where the hell* are *they?* These joints won’t smoke themselves. *Or will they?* I gave Kimmy the signal—you know, going out for a smoke. I stepped out of the booth, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. An attractive Spanish woman was sitting at the booth by the door talking on her phone, staring straight at me. She looked terrified. So did the woman next to her. They watched in utter anguish as I passed them and left the bar, forgetting them instantly. The parking lot was littered with stragglers lounging about; it was still early, the freaks come out at night. I reached for my phone—*They’re late*. I decided against texting them. No one likes a whiny texter. I sauntered behind the plaza and sparked up a joint, took a good long toke and got lost inside memories. I remembered the night you were born. I was on my way to a gig that night when your mother called me. I remembered the last time I saw you; how beautiful you looked, so small and fragile and safe—life was good then. I walked the long way around the building and finished a cigarette and then bought a fresh pack at the Circle K. When I stepped back into the Arena, Folsom Prison Blues was playing on the juke box—*I hear the train a-comin*—I spotted Erika talking up a storm with Kimmy by the bar and headed to the booth where Tyrone and Dave were having an argument. “Damn, brother. Where you been?” Tyrone says to me. He’s pimped out in his brown Stetson hat, checkered suite jacket, white collared shirt with the top four buttons down, gold cross dangling around his muscled neck. “Eat my ass, T.” “Woah bro, that’s some fightin’ words you sayin’. You lucky you a drummer. And why’d you drag me to this old folk’s bar anyway? Ain’t no dancin’ or girlies here. Just a bunch of ugly-assed old folks. Um, no offence.” His slippery smile boasted a perfect set of pearly white’s. Dave got up and left for a smoke without saying a word. Dave was tall and lanky with full beard and short brown hair. As Dave got up to leave Erika returned with drinks. “That’s my girl,” Tyrone says. Erika had blue hair, nice thighs and visible tattoos. She was just opening her mouth to speak when the door swung open and seven cops raced into the bar, guns drawn, heading straight toward me. The lead officer smashed my head against the table—BAM—and pointed his gun at my head. “Keep your hands where I can see them!” Immediately, I was handcuffed. I heard the cops screaming orders at me but everything sounded under water. I don’t know how many times my head was slammed against the table, but it was plenty. I remember saying something clever. Bad idea. The next thing I know I’m being hauled outside, thrown against a cop car, searched *very* thoroughly, thrown into a cop car, and asked the same questions over and over until we reached the police station, where they took my mugshot and fingerprints before throwing my sorry ass in a holding cell. Fortunately, not for long. Unbeknownst to me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika were answering their own questions and they smoothed things out in a hurry (apparently, the pretty Spanish Lady thought I was the asshole who mugged her the previous night) and I was back on the street two hours later with a heck of a story. Check that one off the bucket list. \* \* \* Turns out, that incident was just the soundcheck, the pre-show, the opening act if you will; the Birdsong Bistro was forced to shut down in March and I was out of work. Just like that. Work disappeared. Gigs were cancelled. Bills unpaid. Let’s face it, the summer of 2020 was a nightmare, especially in Cali. My car was sold, my drums were pawned, my savings depleted, I considered putting my Glock into my mouth and pulling the trigger, that’s how bad things were. But then I received that wonderful call from Rickie; he found work in Palmetto, Florida. And just like that, I’m off to the Sunshine State. Me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika hopped into Rickie’s Econoline van and hauled ass out of Frisco and drove straight to Palmetto, hardly ever stopping. Needless to say, I took to Florida like shit on shiny carpet. I made dinner right away. Rickie claims the real reason he hired an old fart like me was for my cooking. We unpacked what little we had and headed to a club called Master Gator’s, our first gig. The place was sparsely packed, the radio was playing rockabilly and everybody was lit. At some point, I glanced up at one of the TVs above the bar and did a double take, spitting my beer all over Tyrone’s black button-up shirt. “Hey, you asshole!” I pointed. There I was on the TV. I read the subtitles: **Armed Robbery Suspect Wanted Across State of Florida**. The man on the screen could have easily passed for my twin brother. Except, I was better looking. “That dude looks just like you,” Tyson said, matter-of-factly. And just like that my face was gone, replaced by a vacuum commercial which apparently sucked. By the end of the first month the honeymoon was over; the promoter stiffed us (surprise, surprise) and your mother’s lawyer was threatening me again. Things were bad. I checked my bank account; I couldn’t buy my way into church. I thought about that guy on TV, my doppelganger, maybe *h*e was my ticket. I bet I could walk into any bank in Florida wearing a mask and robbed them sonsofbitches and he would take the fall. I looked at my Glock—*whatcha think Baby? You up for it?* I searched the internet until I found the guy; his name was Axel Roberts. I found a pic of him standing beside a blue Ford pickup truck, wearing a greasy tank top with white suspenders and shit-stained overalls—a real dirtbag. I could totally pass as this dude. I went downtown to case a couple joints. *Just in case*. When I returned to the house later that afternoon Tyrone was shirtless, waiving pink panties over his head, beer bottles were scattered all over the floor and the fridge was left open and all my beer was gone. Something inside me snapped. That’s when I decided to rob the bank. Right away. Before I lost my nerve. \* \* \* That night I dreamed of the old west. I was a cowboy—Billy the Kid—and I was being chased by angry men on furious horses. I kept riding. I rode and rode toward the flickering sun; my horse kicking up clouds of warm desert sand as I squinted to see ahead. The day was as hot a pig in a frying pan. Don’t tell your friends that one. They were gaining on me. A bullet struck my shoulder and I tell you, Kat, it hurt. Even in my dream, it hurt. Next thing I know, I’m eating dirt and bleeding everywhere. Standing over me, casting a tall shadow, was the Sheriff. The Sheriff's pointed badge glistened under the hot sun; the long-rounded barrel of his Winchester rifle fit nicely under my chin. He gazed at me with hard-blue eyes—cold as blue steel—and finally spoke, “Got any last words, Pardner?” I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. “Thanks alright, Son. Now yer gonna die.” I watched as his long anxious finger twitched over the trigger. His smile was long and sharp—CLICK. \* \* \* I snapped open my eyes and screamed. A dream, I thought, relieved. I felt a warm patch on my crotch—*Jeez, did I piss myself?* I was coming unglued. I cleaned myself up, scarfed down a bowl of cereal, drank three cups of coffee and checked for any news on Axel Roberts and found nothing. My doppelganger had been quiet lately—too quiet. But that was about to change. I wore a plain black tee-shirt, black cargo pants, black cloth mask and black shoes. Hell, I was the Man in fucking Black. I took the van and parked it two blocks south of Wells Fargo bank. I felt for my gun in my knapsack, making sure it was loaded. *Just in case*. I left the van doors unlocked. No worries. Who would be dumb enough to steal a van in broad daylight? I found myself standing outside the bank, frozen with fear, trying to remind myself why I was here in the first place. *This* *is it; last chance to turn back*. My heart was beating like a bass drum at a hip-hop concert. I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. The bank was long and straight and cluttered with bright blue signs announcing great deals on mortgages, interest rates and all that jazz. Hand sanitizer everywhere. I found the end of the line and waited, keeping social distance. The people ahead of me were either staring awkwardly at their phones or staring at their shoes, or both. Every one of them was wearing a mask. To me, they all looked like bank robbers. Nobody noticed me. I held tightly to my duffle bag, feeling the Glock pressed against my stomach, took a deep breath, waited. My left leg started vibrating profusely and my hands were shaking; I couldn’t stop them. I was starting to panic. I decided to abort. *What the hell was I doing here? There’s no way I can stick up a bank. Not in Florida. Every. Person. In. This. Bank. Is. Packing. Heat.* Everyone was staring at me—*They Knew*. “Sir—” I tried to gain control of myself. “Sir—” I looked up. “Ready to take the next customer.” At that moment I wished I’d put more thought into this. I was petrified. I gathered my nerve—*I can do this*—and walked to the counter. The teller—a string bean looking man with sandy brown hair pulled back into a manbun and glasses that kept fogging up—was looking at me with little interest. His face twitched as he adjusted his face mask for the third time. Another teller walked past him counting cash then disappeared behind a blue door. When I tried to speak, nothing came out except gibberish. “I beg your pardon?” I took out my gun and pointed it at him. His eyes popped out of his head. “Keep your mouth shut and do as I say.” The teller stood there like a fool. “Make one funny move and I’ll blow your brains through the roof. I want as much money as you can give me in sixty seconds. And it better be a lot.” The teller looked as brave as the Cowardly Lion. I almost felt sorry for him. “You got fifty seconds left. Go Now.” He grabbed some envelopes and went for cash. I was certain he sounded the alarm. I was terrified. I thought of you, Kat. How wonderful it would be to have some money to spend on you. My hands steadied. The teller reappeared with four envelopes of cash. I grabbed them greedily. I tried to think of something clever to say but couldn’t, probably a good thing, right? I stuffed my Glock and the envelopes into my knapsack and headed for the exit. I was almost home free. Everyone in the bank was avoiding eye contact, social distancing, making this much easier than it ought to be. When I reached the exit, I felt a hand grab my shoulder—*This* *is it—*I turned around slowly, reaching for my gun, and saw an elderly man wearing a MEGA mask holding out an envelope. “You dropped this, young feller.” I reached for the envelope. It was wonderfully heavy. His old eyes squinted, looked me up and down and he said “You know Son, you look a lot like my nephew David. He’s—” I left. The sirens were getting louder so I picked up the pace, finally reaching the spot where the van should have been. I called an Uber. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I was as nervous as a Spinal Tap drummer, but I still rocked three forty-five-minute sets and did a helluva job. Erika was blowing that ‘bone, Rickie dancing on tables, Tyrone locked in tight on bass and Dave tickling his black Strat. The trouble started during set break. The Men’s restroom smelled like a dozen dirty dicks. I did a couple lines in the stall—*I* *deserve this*; halfway through my second bump I heard a couple men enter. They sounded tough. “You sure he’s down here?” One guy says. The other guy says, “Yup. Saw him come down here a minute ago.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Hey! You in there, Pal?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “C’mon Pal. We ain’t got all day.” Tap. Tap. Tap. I swung the stall open, chest out, making myself seem bigger than I really was. “Yup. That’s the motherfucker.” I had a second to register the two bikers standing in front of me: the short one was wearing a greasy blue bandana, crazy long beard and neck tattoos; the taller man, shaved head and lines chiselled into his hideously weathered face, was holding a long switchblade knife. “I’m gonna carve you up good, you dirty motherfucker.” He lunged at me, knife first—I fell backwards and cracked my head on the toilet seat. I saw stars. I started swinging my fists and feet like an idiot, toilet water splashing everywhere, when I heard the shorter man say, “Woah! Woah! Woah! That ain’t him!” He looked almost as stupid and confused as I did. “Jeez, Pal—I almost carved you up good.” The taller guy reached out his hand and eventually I took it. He put away his knife—I heard the SWOOSH as the blade disappeared back into its handle. He grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re lucky, Pal. Thought you was someone else.” He studied me for a moment and added, “Hey, anyone tell you, you look like what’s his name—You know—That guy from that movie?” “Fuck off.” Shorty laughed. “Wise guy. I like him. Here.” He pulled out his wallet, “Buy yourself a drink.” He dropped a fiver on the floor and the pair of goons fled. After cleaning myself up, I headed up the long dark stairwell and bought myself that drink. It tasted better than sex. Tyrone spotted me at the bar and his demeanor changed at once. “Don’t ask.” “You’re one strange cat. You know that?” He drank. “But you one helluva drummer. You also lucky Brett, you know that? *Lucky*.” He winked then pointed to the TV. Axel Roberts was being arrested. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I sat alone in my room counting the cash in the envelopes. There was almost $20,000. Problems solved. I was expecting some green powder to spring out all over me, or the money to be counterfeit or traceable somehow, but the money was legit. Benjamin Franklin never looked so fine. I stashed the money in my gym bag and spent the rest of the night wondering how the hell I pulled it off. I took an awkward flight back to Frisco and paid your mother a pile of cash. Suddenly everything was cool again. Things couldn’t have worked out any better. Or so I thought. A week later I woke up to banging on the door—Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. *Who the hell could that be?* I put on some pants and made my way to the front door, wiping the sleep from my eyes—BANG. BANG. BANG. “Hold on, hold on.” I spied out the little hole in the door and froze. It was the cops; five of them, at least. “Open up.” I remembered the cash under my mattress. BANG. BANG. BANG. “Open up—This is the police. We see you through the spy hole—Open up now.” I opened the door and was immediately subdued—*good thing I’ve had practice at this.* They forced me to my knees and cuffed me. They weren’t gentle. They were pointing guns at my face. *Did I actually think I would get away with it?* *There were cameras everywhere*. *You can’t get away with farting in the breeze anymore, let alone robbing a bank in broad-fucking daylight.* “Are you Brett Turner?” “Yes, officer.” “Is this your residence?” “Yes, officer.” “Where were you last Tuesday night?” “Huh?” “Last Tuesday night. Where were you?” *Last Tuesday? Last Tuesday night I was watching Netflix in my boxers while eating leftover birthday cake on top a pile of stolen cash. What the hell did last Tuesday have to do with anything?* I was more confused than scared at this point. “We have video footage of you at the protest Tuesday evening, firing shots into a crowd and killing at least two civilians and an officer. We’re placing you under arrest on two counts of second-degree murder and one count of first-degree murder.


My whole life, there has been this figure always looming behind me, only visible to me. No noticeable features, no noticeable clothing, just this dark humanoid figure. It’s never really done anything. It is just…there. Sometimes it is simply standing there, sometimes it’s messing with something in the background like a ball or phone, sometimes it’s even crawling on the ceiling. It stopped bothering me when I was six or seven. The only thing about it that has always bothered me is the chill I feel when I see it. The feeling isn’t the same kind of chill as being scared. It’s similar to the chill you get on a winter morning while waiting for the school bus. I actually felt a little safer when I remembered it was there. It was almost like a guardian angel, constantly watching over me. The difference being that it looked more menacing than protective and kind. Nobody has ever believed me, so when I got my first phone, I started trying to get a picture of it. But every single time, it disappears and reappears somewhere else. At first this was terrifying to me, but after a while I got bored of its disappearing act and became more annoyed. I'd end up making myself dizzy, spinning around constantly, spamming the picture button to try and catch it, but the fruits of my labor have only gotten me blurry pictures of my surroundings. So, I came up with a plan. My friend, Emma, was the only one who believed that I was telling the truth. She was really into the paranormal, so when I first told her, she was intrigued. When we first started talking, she was really only interested in the annoying figure that was “obsessed with me like I was famous,” as she put it. Her jokes about the figure made the whole situation much less scary. She’s the biggest reason it never really bothers me anymore. We came up with the plan over text. It was very uncomfortable, since I had to make sure it couldn’t peek over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it could read, much less see. It was better to be safe than sorry. I covered myself with a blanket while sitting against the wall. The only place it could be while staying as close to me as possible was right in front of me. Its head peeking over my phone, staring at me with its nonexistent eyes was more awkward than scary. The plan was that she would take the picture with her polaroid camera from the second floor of the school in a classroom. We passed each other and waved, the signal that the plan was still on. I sat down under a tree and started reading. Leaves from the tree fell onto the pages. I looked up and saw its “face” hanging from the tree, inches away from mine. I scooted over to make some distance between us. Its head followed me like it could see me moving. I looked at its legs to see that they were wrapped around a tree branch, making it hang upside down. I just sighed and continued reading, but it was hard to focus with its void of a face hanging so close to mine. Then, its head suddenly snapped towards the school. It seemed like it was looking at the window Emma was supposed to take the picture from. “Damn, still camera shy?” I said to the figure with a smirk, thinking we had gotten it. I looked up to see that it was gone. I turned my head around, expecting to see it behind a tree, under one of the picnic tables, or in a bush, trying to hide from the camera. After a good 30 seconds of not being able to find it, I started to feel uneasy. I tried to keep myself calm, but the out of character behavior wasn’t right. The behaviors of the figure were always constant. Its reactions to different situations stayed the same. If you threw something at it, whatever you threw would go right through. If you tried to touch it, it would back away. If you tried to get a picture of it, it would vanish then appear somewhere close by, sometimes in a hiding spot that would barely put it out of view. This is why it reacting differently to something made me so uncomfortable. I felt its gaze on my back again, despite it being nowhere in sight. Looking around frantically, I got a glimpse of a figure in a window on the second floor of the school. For a second, I thought that it was Emma, since it was the same window she was supposed to be taking the picture from. But I got that familiar chill that told me otherwise. A pit in my stomach opened up. It was painfully nauseating. With wobbly vision, I sprinted towards the front doors of the school, stumbling up the stairs to the second floor. I ran to the classroom and flew open the door. Emma wasn't there. The only thing that was there was a single polaroid picture on the floor by the window. My skin turned white as the nauseous feeling grew stronger, and the unnatural bitter cold pierced my body. I spun around to see it leaning over me, much taller than it usually was, like how the sun casts a shadow in a certain way so that it appears taller than you on the floor. Its blank face was inches away from mine, as if it was ready to bite off my head. I stepped backwards and ran to the picture and picked it up.

The only thing in the picture, taking up the whole frame, was its face. The face that it didn’t have. The face that it never had. The face that didn’t exist. Its wide, hollow white eyes. Its drooling, sharp smile that stretched to the back of its head. The faces of agony etched into its skin like an art project. It was the last thing I saw when I lowered the picture from my view.


“…and the first will bring the Light, and the second the Strength. Then Darkness will fall upon the crest of day and there will be a third and she will be the Foretold.” He spoke her name in whispers even inside his head, in the night which was her namesake. He heard it in the rolling waves of the sea beyond his window as if she murmured it to him across the water. I’m here. Don’t forget me. How could he? She came to him in dreams, in quiet moments. He felt her in the power which thrummed between his palms. They said it was she who held him back, who prevented him from realizing his full potential. His brother cursed her in these moments, blaming her for the impediment he knew they both felt. But no matter how their brother scorned her, Leon could not summon his twin’s ire. He scoffed at this word, his head falling back against the window casing where he sat as he did every night looking out at the lonely water. The Twins. The Kings. The Ones Who Were Chosen. There were dozens of names for them. He and his brother were celebrated across the land, toasted in taverns and prayed to in dark moments. As if he could somehow hear their silent words, as if the manner of his birth could save their dying child. Luca certainly seemed to think so. His brother, The Firstborn, The Bringer of Light, took to his role with the bravado of royalty, though his right had yet to be bestowed. Always stronger, always faster, always more cunning and ruthless. He had found his power ages before Leon, ignoring the gnawing ache that accompanied. Leon always wondered if he felt it as strongly, if his brother felt the repercussions of tapping into the source of their power. If he knew that she was the source of their power. For Leon had felt it, that first time, standing at the edge of the water, letting it bubble over his feet, his face screwed up in concentration, his body weary and spent from the hours of training he’d been put through that day. But even as the sun sank toward the horizon, his brother would not allow him to quit. “Try again.” “I can’t, we both know I can’t.” “You have to,” Luca snapped. “We are the only ones who can. How do you not understand that? How can you give up so easily? How can you let them starve, let them die, when you know that you could help them if you only tried?” “I am trying.” “Then try harder. Come now. Again.” Leon breathed deep of the salty brine, filled his lungs with it. He let the sound of the waves surround him, the cool breeze playing across his skin, raising his dark hair. He murmured the words given to him by The Ancients, the words which had been meant for him. On a whim, he thought of her. He thought of the music she sent him through the wind, of her laughter in the sway of the trees. He thought of the one word which was forbidden. The rush he’d felt was so strong he’d nearly toppled over. The air burst from his chest, an intense rushing sound filling his ears, his mouth, his pores. He saw the light which gathered between his palms, felt the heat, the power. Feel me, she said. I’m here. He laughed, reaching out, filled with the most euphoric sense of joy. The sounds of his brother’s elation faded beneath the voice of their sister, a voice which he had heard only in dreams. And then the exhilaration melted, twisting into pain, into fear, the anguish so intense his eyes filled, his heart constricting. Don’t forget me. Please. Save me. Leon fell back with a cry. He hadn’t even realized he’d hit the sand until his vision cleared and Luca was kneeling over him, grinning with pride. “Don’t worry, little brother,” Luca said, using the endearment though they were born within the same hour. “It won’t be so hard next time.” “Did you hear her?” Luca’s face darkened. “Hear whom?” Leon almost said her name, the syllables on his tongue, begging to burst forth. His brother rose. “Cast her away,” he warned. “She is a siren; she seeks to lure us into freeing her so she can steal our power. We must not be tempted, brother. We must stay strong for our people.” “She’s so alone,” Leon gasped, staring up into his brother’s darkening face. “And that she must stay. You know the prophecy as well as I. You needed the connection to tap into your power, but never use it near the water again lest she pulls you in. Cast her aside, brother, and keep your eyes on your purpose.” Leon could still hear her, feel her, and rubbed the ache at the base of his skull. “Did you hear her too?” Luca seemed to be debating whether or not to answer him. He rose and watched the sun sink below the ocean’s edge. Then spat in it. “I curse her existence every day.” “But without her we would not be.” Luca turned back towards their house, the grand mansion towering on the cliffs which had been bestowed upon them on the day of their birth. “The only reason I haven’t set fire to the sea.” . . . It was said that night fell the moment she was born, though it was high noon on the longest day of the year. Luca had been brought into the world at the break of dawn and Leon shortly after. Their mother had labored for hours with their sister, The Ancients descending upon the brothel where she struggled. They did not step foot inside; they did not intervene. The first triplets brought forth in centuries and yet they refused to lay a hand on the tiring woman. The townspeople gathered at the doors, filling the streets, praying to The Ancients. Women surrounded the nameless vagrant who screamed into the morning, urging her on. Men crippled their horses in their eagerness to share the news. And when she came, when that baby girl shouted her first cry into the world, the sky fell and all were bathed in darkness. The Ancients took the babe from her lifeless mother’s breast and brought the three of them to the very shore where Leon had found his power. There, they sealed the girl beneath the waves and marked the brothers as gods. The boys had grown together, learned together, carried their burden together. Leon could feel his brother in his bones, in his power. His brother never waned in their training, his hand always there to help Leon off the floor, his words always encouraging. “All will be well, brother,” he could hear Luca say in their difficult moments. “Trust in us. Trust in me.” When scores of desperate mothers and troubled farmers came to their step it was Luca who met them at the door, kneeling on the ground with them, his eyes closed as he placed a hand on their head, whispering words of healing. Then Luca would lift his eyes. “Help me, brother. I cannot do this without you.” And every time Leon would kneel. And every time he would speak the silent words. Help me, sister. I cannot do this without you. He never knew if their spells alleviated their burdens, if their prayers to The Ancients were ever answered, but the people who left looked lighter, their suffering eased if only for a moment, so he told himself that they helped. Now Leon wondered, in this darkest moment before the dawn, what those people would pray for when this terrible morning rose. He wondered what they would say as they bowed over their measly gruel, as they knelt before their paltry mattresses. Did they wish his sister dead, as his brother did? Did they wish to ban an innocent girl to eternal perdition to relieve their aching bellies? He scowled at the dark ocean, watching the waves crash against the shore. Of course they did. He wasn’t even sure if he could blame them. He’d never felt hunger, never felt true cold or fear, but he saw it in their eyes, in the eyes of his people. And only he could ease their suffering. For at the break of dawn on this day, the day of his twenty-fifth birthday, his coming of age, he would join his brother at their sister’s prison and together they would consume her power, banish her from this earth. With her exile the fields would become fertile once more, the wars between lands would cease, and peace would reign. Leon felt his brother approach. Luca didn’t need doors to enter a room. “You’re listening to her.” Leon said nothing. “You know she lies, little brother.” “I know.” “As do you.” Leon turned. His brother seemed older than he had yesterday, the lines of his face deeper somehow. Though seemingly identical, Leon could see small differences in the tilt of his dark eyes, in the small pinch at the corner of his brother’s mouth. A look of fettered disapproval. “I understand you’ve always struggled with our task,” he said softly, joining him at the window, looking out at the sea, at the waves which held their sister so tightly. “We’ve been burdened with the hardest choice a man can make. But we must. You know we must.” Leon sighed, looking down at his hardened hands, his fingers curling as if he could hold her there. “I know.” Luca’s hand came to his shoulder as always and he could feel the warmth his brother radiated for him, only for him. The strength he gave to his disappointing little brother. Luca’s fingers tightened. “You’ve never disappointed me,” he said softly, reading him as always. “I know you think I do not feel what you do…but it’s not true. I feel her. I know she’s the reason why I have these powers. But she’s also the reason why we must destroy her.” “Why?” Leon asked, saying out loud what he had always felt. “Why must she be the cost?” “Because she is that which holds back the Light,” Luca said, reciting the Foretold. “We are not the first to make this sacrifice. The Ancients willing, however, we will be the last.” Leon knew this. He knew the words. He knew the stories. The Archaic Triads. Two boys and a girl. The men giving their sisters, as was prophesied, to obtain the entirety of their powers. To ease their aching lands. The men’s powers would eventually wane over hundreds of years, their voices growing dim until they were no more. They would rise then to the peaks of Mount Vis where they would live out their days as The Ancients, watching over the earth until the next Triad appeared. “Why us?” Leon sighed. Luca’s hand tightened. “So that it does not have to be others.” Leon knew the weight Luca carried was even heavier as the Firstborn. Maybe he even heard her as intensely as Leon did, but he never let it show because this was his task, what he had been burdened with at his first breath. No matter how stern he’d had to be, Luca had always been at Leon’s side, had always eased his way, shouldering the responsibilities thrust upon them. He’d always been the strong one, even though it was supposed to be Leon’s duty. “I need you now, brother,” Luca breathed, meeting his eye. “I cannot do this without you.” Don’t forget me. I won’t. Save me. I can’t. . . . Leon watched from the cliffs as his people came, in carts, in wagons, in droves. They filled the beach, every inch of it. He could feel their eyes gazing up at him expectantly, pleadingly. Though thousands of bodies gathered not a single voice spoke, for it was known that words belonged only to The Twins that day. As the sky lightened his stomach twisted. He tried to focus on the screeching of the gulls, on the frothy waves as they fell upon each other, but his dread mounted. Luca’s hand came to his shoulder once more, pressing calm upon him. Breathe, brother. All will be well. The people parted, some with their heads bent, others with their hands clasped, as a dozen robed figures descended upon the sand. They wore red as a mark of their penance, the color he would bear from this day on. The Ancients, The Silent Ones, the ones who had given their kin for the sake of their people. Leon watched as they neared the water and knew he would do the same one day, leading the way for two young men to mark their atonement and embrace their prophecy. The Ancients lined up at the water, leaving a gap between them. Six on one side. Six on the other. Six Firstborns. Six Strength-Bringers. Twelve former men who had paid the highest price for their powers. Luca’s hand fell. The Silent Ones raised their eyes to where The Twins stood upon the cliffs. In the space of a breath they joined The Ancients at the waterline. As promised, Leon had not used his power near the ocean again and could feel the reason as the waves tugged at his core, pulling him in. He fought it, turning to his brother who looked similarly distraught. The Oldest One stood before Luca. Though a head shorter, power radiated off him. His hood concealed most of his face, but Leon could see that the skin was white as snow, pulled tight across his bones. His leathery hands rose to Luca’s shoulders and Leon felt a stab of trepidation that was not his own. The Strength-Bringer took the Firstborn’s hand. Then his brother’s voice rose upon the wind. “…and so it is known that the Light shall cast out the Dark, for the First will bring the Last and at last the End of the Night. So it is writ; so it shall be Foretold.” As dawn broke, Luca dropped his hand and stepped forth into the sea. He convulsed, the water swirling and rising, bubbling as the waves grew. Leon could hear the gasps of fear behind him, but he had eyes for naught but his brother. Luca fell to his knees and Leon could hear his sobs as the Bringer of Light brought his hands to the waves. The Oldest One stepped aside. Leon shuddered as The Strongest One stood before him, lifting his weathered hands to his shoulders. He felt a shock of power filling him, felt it thrumming in his blood, fierce, beyond anything he’d ever felt before. Beneath it, however, was something else, something simmering, cold and sharp. Regret. Leon met The Strongest One’s eyes. They were nearly white; everything he’d ever been, every hope and ambition and memory washed away through time. Not everything. Leon started, then cried out as the image of a girl with golden curls filled his mind. He felt an overwhelming sadness break over him. Fulfill your prophecy. The image was gone the moment The Strongest One stepped away, but the feeling remained. A sorrow which clung to his bones, weighing on his vocal cords. Luca was still on his knees in the water, his body quaking. “Please, brother,” he grated out, and Leon knew he suffered. Please, brother. Her voice shook Leon to his core. “…and so the Second would bring Strength to the First and to his Mother, for she could not bring the Dark without him. And he would bear the Dark upon him and together they will End the Night. So it is writ; so it shall be Foretold.” Leon looked down at his shaking hands, could feel the meager power within them, knew that if he could only have the strength to shoulder this burden he would have powers beyond his wildest imaginings. The people behind him would never again go without food, without shelter or medicine. “Brother,” Luca groaned, and Leon knew the Lightbringer could not do this without him. He had to bear the Dark so his brother could cast it out. He stepped into the sea. The water raged, filling him with the dominion of the earth and he could hear it breathe, hear every soul speak, every mountain sigh, every tree dance. He felt it all and beneath it, felt the Dark – cold, cruel, evil. He felt it rise and when he lifted his eyes she was there. His sister stood before Luca in the roiling sea, her black hair billowing in the wind, her eyes, so like theirs, full of anguish. He felt what The Strongest One had shown him. Leon stepped forward and his hands no longer shook. They were wrong, he told his siblings. They’ve been wrong this whole time. Leon please, Luca begged him, his face streaked with tears. Do not listen for she lies! She can’t lie, brother, for she has never spoken. They took that from her, from all of them. Their eyes met and understanding crashed over him. …and the third would bring the Dark and with the Dark, the Night. And the Dark would have a name and the name, once spoken, would be the Beginning of the End. So it is writ; so it shall be Foretold. They were wrong. She wasn’t the End. She was the Beginning. Leon placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Then held out the other. As her cool fingers slid into his, the Dark thundered to life and Night fell. “Layla.”


Because I’m sad Daddy found me a new friend. He’s not a pedigreez. I called him Scruffy because his fur is all tufty and scruffy. His old owner lives in the next town and Daddy says Scruffy can visit her sometimes. Scruffy was sleeping earlier. I think he was dreaming of his old owner because he kept saying Mrs Banks in his sleep. That’s his old owner’s name. I hope I can be a good owner to Scruffy. Scruffy and me were talking about Mrs Banks more today. She was very old and poorly and that’s why she had to move to a homes. Scruffy hadn’t even been with Mrs Banks long enough for her to give him a name. That’s why I had to name him. I asked him if he liked being called Scruffy. He said he liked it as much as he likes doggy biscuits. And that’s a lot. Scruffy and me are definitely friends now. We were playing with his bouncy ball in the park and afterwards he said it was the best day of his life so far. I loved it too. Daddy was crying last night. He misses Mummy like I do. I tried to be nice to Daddy but when he saw me he told me that he needed to be alone and then he shut the door. We went to the park again today. Scruffy asked Daddy to buy us all ice creams but Daddy couldn’t hear him. I don’t think he can understand Scruffy like I do. Daddy doesn’t play with us either he just sits on the bench by the big trees. He doesn’t talk to any of the other grownups anymore either. Scruffy did a widdle on the carpet today and Daddy got very mad. Scruffy was trying to say sorry to him but Daddy wouldn’t listen. He just shouted at him and said he was a bad dog. That upset Scruffy and I had to cuddle him and tell him that everything would be okay. Scruffy said later that I was a good mummy. I’ve never been more prouder. Daddy was looking at old pictures of Mummy today and they make him very sad. He knew Mummy before I was born and they did lots of things together before they had me. They met at big school and were together ever since. Their honeymoon was in Paris. Scruffy came up with the best ever plan whilst we were at the park today and told it to me. I hope it works. Today it was time to put Scruffy’s plan into action. I told Daddy that I’m going to be the new mummy of the family and do all the things Mummy used to do. I’m going to look after Daddy. I’m going to look after myself and I’m going to look after Scruffy too. Mummy loved our family and it needs to carry on even if we’re sad. Daddy was agreed. I saw Daddy playing with Scruffy today. Scruffy was wagging his tail and Daddy was laughing when Scruffy chased after his bouncy ball. Daddy says all three of us are going to go and visit Mummy’s grave tomorrow as a family. I think Scruffy’s plan has worked.


First stop Aruba.

On a muggy June Baltimore evening, my husband sat in our family room in front of our television, impassively watching his favorite science fiction programming. "Destination Aruba is canceled," he said mechanically, almost as robotic as the show he was viewing. "I love going yearly, but we can't afford to go this year." An eerie white noise filled the room, only to discover a programming disruption, perfect timing. I couldn't reply to his announcement since his words were muted by the pressures of life, sandwiched between parents and grandkids, among whom, without knowing, clipped my wings. Aruba was our haven that we traveled to every August. I prepare for all vacations at least three months in advance, but not this year. This was a strange year. I couldn't work because of caring for my parents, thus forcing me to take money from my savings to pay bills. I kept saying to everyone, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind," though no one heard me; they were too busy pleading their cases of despair. It seems the year was acting strangely for everyone. Months went by, and I tried to convince myself that time spent at home was just as pleasant as being on vacation in Aruba, but it wasn't. I avoided phone calls, read books, and wrote stories, yet felt nothing. I couldn't find the feeling of pure comfort and the effervescent spirit that Eagle Beach, Aruba, provided. In September, I screamed again, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind." My husband heard my desperation and said, "You know what, Honey, let's go." Last-minute plans were made for November travel at the peak of hurricane season. No worries, Aruba didn’t experience hurricanes. However, the connecting flight in Florida did. Hurricane Nicole canceled everything, destroying all possibilities and clipping my wings again. Tears fell. My husband, concerned about my misery, though no doubt was experiencing something similar, stayed up all night devising an expensive flight to Aruba as everything economy had been booked or canceled. He managed to get first-class flights to Aruba with a layover in New York. We were both thrilled, although feeling somewhat strange. I don't know if it was the exhaustion of fighting for time away or the discernment of what may come because sometimes trouble travels in a pack. Once on the plane, the pilot announced that several airplanes, including ours, required de-icing. Five minutes later, the pilot announced that the machine that de-ices the aircraft had broken.

"Why would our plane need de-icing? It's not even cold outside." Getting another machine and departing from the runway took at least fifteen to twenty minutes. While in the air, I looked at my watch and noticed that it was 6:50am, and our flight to Aruba left JFK airport at 7:20am.

"We are pushing the time." We arrived at JFK Airport at 7:05am.

"Good. I think we have enough time to get to our gate. We are only two gates over." Then the Flight Attendant said, "Anyone flying to Aruba, no need to run." My husband took her statement to mean the plane was going to wait for us. But I insisted we should hurry, so we ran to the boarding area. Our flight left. Consequently, there was no need to run. But I did run; I ran to the desk in the boarding area. "Good Morning. Can I help you?" "Yes, I think my flight may have left?" I was breathless from running. "Can you provide me with your ticket, please?" Cool, calm, she put out her hand. I handed the Agent the ticket. Her eyes never met mine. If the description of an airline agent was a person who gave no eye contact and showed no emotions, this person excelled at their job. "That is correct; your flight just left.” She continued to look only at her screen and not at me. “I can get you another flight tomorrow morning. There is nothing available today." "Wait… nothing today. We've paid for a seven-day resort, and we can't get there until tomorrow?” My tone did not match hers, for I could feel heat rising, my heart fluttering, and my voice deepening. “You cannot be serious?" I closed my eyes and breathed in, intensely remembering what it took to get this far. "Are you at least paying for our hotel?" "No, I'm sorry. We don't pay for a hotel stay if the cause of you missing your flight was because of the weather." Still no emotion. My husband walked over to the desk, angry but trying his best to be calm. "I need to speak with a manager because the weather didn't cause our delay. The machine that de-ices the plane broke down." After a long conversation with the manager, they decided they would pay for our hotel stay. Still, we lost a day at our resort in Aruba. The next day was early. The flight was at 6:15 am. We were comfortably seated on the plane, anxiously waiting to fill our thoughts with the ocean, sand, and sun that would make up for the lost day. Then. "Babe, what is that smell?"

"I can't smell anything. Wait…there it is. What is that?" The most heinous odor was filling the aircraft. Directly behind me, a woman began screeching. "I cannot believe you would take a laxative before a flight. Now you've crapped your clothes and the seats. Why would you be so stupid." The elderly gentleman who sat behind me had to change clothes, and we had to leave our first-class seats because the odor was shocking. The poor flight Attendants had to clean the chairs. Finally, Aruba. It was a stunning ocean getaway, especially Eagle Beach. The waves of teal and aqua mesmerized as the waters flowed gently. Its sands were milky and soft on the toes, with bonsai-looking trees growing out of the sand. The November rains prevented nothing from changing. The morning set intentions: its creative process inevitably occurred when I enjoyed its beauty. There were lessons to learn in the water; it didn’t ask permission to relax me. Its glory followed deliberately. Six days and every day served a purpose. I thought, "How do I keep these intentions and the purpose?" On the second day, I went for a run early in the morning. It had rained the day before (pretty hard for Aruba), which left huge puddles on the street. Cars and buses would drive by, honking their horns slowly to avoid splashing water. For the first time, while running, I didn't need to listen to music. I didn't need a diversion. At home, I blocked all of the world's sounds, smells, and pleasure interference. In Aruba, I'm free; I could fly. Six days went by very quickly. The flight coming home was late, complicated, and tiresome. We flew into Dulles, VA, airport and decided to stay at a hotel in Virginia before driving back home to Baltimore, Maryland. While at the hotel, I woke up early and went downstairs to the gym for a quick run. Upon returning to my room, I showered and got dressed for breakfast. We sat down in the dining area. There was a family with a mother and four kids. The youngest looked around three or four years old. A long ponytail pinned up in a bun, beautiful brown eyes beaming like daylight. To be honest, I thought he was a little girl because of his delicate features and long curly locks that surrounded his face. He looked at the breakfast plate with waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, and fruit. After he scarfed down his entire meal, he leaped on top of his chair and began to dance. He danced freely with no music playing in the background, just to whatever was playing in his head. His siblings watched curiously and tried to get him to sit civilized like everyone else in the room, but he was appreciating his life. The long, arduous flight had not bothered him. I walked over to the coffee machine, looked at whom I presumed to be his mother, and stated, "She is so adorable." The mother said, "Actually, he's adorable." I quickly apologized for assuming and grabbed another cup of coffee. A gentleman stood beside me and said, "You are right; he is adorable. I was on the elevator with them, and he put his arms like the wings of a plane. ‘I'm a helicopter…brrrrrr…. brrrrr., I’m free!’ His mother told him, ‘No, you are not.’" I looked at the joy presented before me, the freedom of a child, and said to the gentleman who spoke to me, "It was a strange year, sometimes… just sometimes, you gotta be a helicopter."


Alarms. Screaming. Gunfire. Before you have time to wake up you are pulled out of the tent into the chaotic morning, Government trucks surrounding the encampment. *They found us* Your mother pulls at your arm sprinting with pure, primal fear. Heart pounding, bullets flying, there is only one searing thought. *Get Out* You turn a corner. Officers ahead. No escape. Their bulky weapons stare at your chest. You look around, you’re surrounded. They escort you to the center, where the others are being held. “Facedown on the ground, hands above your heads” The Officers patrol through the crowd, inspecting each person. The moments drag with each gun hanging over your back. Someone tries to flee. They don’t even make it off the ground. ***Ratatata*** Instantly suppressed. The silence grows. One of them finally reaches you. Time comes to halt. You’re sure they didn’t spend as long on the others. “The Child,” the guard barks, “take it.” Dread drips from your throat into your chest. A hand grabs your neck and pulls you up. Your mother screams. “Please! Not my child! Anybody but my child! Take me! Take--” “Inhuman scum” A kick hammers down. You catch a glimpse of red as the Officer holding you begins to pull you toward a truck. “Funny isn’t it?” he says ***Ratatata*** “The inhuman believed it deserved something” Tears well below your eyes as the firm leather glove digs into your jaw. You know any slight movement could decide your fate. “What do we do with the rest of them?” “Take their miserable lives” The sound of Gunfire rattles your skull as you are thrown into the truck. You stare out at the ruins for perhaps the last time, before the door slams shut and darkness covers your eyes. You fall into an unnatural sleep as slowly and as noticeably as drifting off at night. Your dreams are pure in thought, nothing to see, nothing to feel, nothing to hear. There is only a single sensation: Digging. It feels as though your very soul is ripped apart and examined thoroughly. Time passes immeasurably as your feverish thoughts fill your very essence. Light. Reality. Your eyes are filled with a small white room, void of any defining details. You look down. You seem to be strapped to some sort of metal chair, Your arms and legs are bound with medical-seeming straps. You feel small felt pads on your head. You dare not to struggle, in fear of revealing how truly helpless you are. Suddenly, the straps release. You move your arms in disbelief. *Freedom, But How? Why?* “You’re welcome, by the way” You spin around to see a small squat woman, poking electrical tools into an access port on the machine. You stare at her blankly. “You don’t talk much, do you?” She continues her work. A small pile of tools lays beside her, some that you even recognise. Wire cutters, a soldering iron, even a small wrench sits at the edge of the pile. “Aha! Finally! Exactly what I needed.” She pulls out a small plastic box that has some wires hanging out. It’s labeled neatly with a small piece of tape reading “53722A” “Come on, Follow me” With nowhere else to go, You comply. You walk down endless hallways, lined with indistinguishable doors apart from a small number similar to the one on the box. As the white corridors blend together, you feel something in your pocket. You stop. You pull out the small faded photograph, one you have kept with you since before you can remember. As you stare down at it, your sister stares back at you with a familiar smile. She was taken by the government when you were young. She might be in this very building. “What are you doing? I said follow me!” You look up. Several yards ahead stands the woman you were following. You had forgotten all about her. You begin to walk, photo still in hand. “What’s that?” You show her. “Your... Friend? ...Sister?” You nod. “Huh” She turns back around and continues walking. You remember to follow her this time. As you continue past glistening doors and humming fluorescent lights, minutes begin to feel like hours. *Where are we going?* Suddenly, the woman quickly turns and barges open a door. She pulls a strange gun from her hip you hadn’t noticed before, its strange colors and curves a far cry from the sleek black terrors you’ve seen in the ruins *Pop! Pop!* You peer into the room to see a large computer screen and two small terminals. Two men lie on the floor with bright darts protruding from their backs. “Come on, we don’t have long until they wake up” You enter the room, and the woman quickly rushes to the closer terminal and begins to type. She pulls out the box from earlier and inserts it into the machine. You see hundreds of numbers and faces scroll down the screen, their broken expressions staring into nothingness. *Maybe she’s here* You have to try. You approach the woman, photo in hand. “Yeah, we’re leaving soon, don’t worry” You show her the photo. She takes a quick glance and goes back to work. “Yeah, you showed me before” The woman taps away. You point at the card. You point at the screen. She looks down at it again, but ponders it this time. “Oh! She’s here, isn’t she?” You nod. “Hey, Maybe with the photo we can cross reference and find her? What do you think of that” You nod again. “Man, you really don’t talk do you? Cat got your tongue?” You stare back at her. The woman sighs, takes the photo and inserts it into the machine. Instantly, the computer returns a single entry. It’s her. “72448H. That’s not too far from here, follow me” You follow her out of the room and back down the never-ending hallways. Eons of maddening perfect white pass before you finally reach your destination “Here it is! 72448H” You open the door. There she is, strapped to a similar machine as you were. You quickly rush over and begin to undo them manually. “Stop! You need to release her the correct way, otherwise you could cause some serious brain damage” You back off. The woman pulls out her tools and gets to work. In minutes the bindings are released, and her eyes flutter open. She looks around confused. You begin to think about how many hours, days, months, years she has spent away from reality. She tries to stand up, but instantly falls over, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Careful, the ones that have been in for a long time usually don’t adjust well to reality again, She’ll probably be fine in a day or two” You help the woman carry her out of the room and down the hall. She begins to come to and mumble incomprehensibly. Soon, she’s walking on her own feet, only with you and the woman to keep her going straight. *This is what she has been turned into?* A tear slides down your face and drips onto the floor. You can’t handle seeing her like this. “Don’t worry, like I said, it’s a temporary condition” After another uneventful walk, you reach a mechanical metal door. It seems familiar to something you’ve heard about before… *An Elevator* Stepping in, you see a no wall of sleek stainless steel buttons as has been described to you, only a small keypad and a place to insert a keycard. The woman types in a few numbers and swipes a card. With a quick glance you notice it isn’t her’s. *Where is she taking us?* *Where is there even to go?* You’ve heard stories about the city. The last bastion of civilization surrounded by the endless ruins, the only place free from constant gunfire and government raids. You’ve heard of it as a golden place of glass and steel, perfect towers reaching into the sky. And then there’s the facility, a building that towers even the most magnificent of skyscrapers, a cement and glass mind factory powering the city. Nobody knows what exactly happens inside, nobody really wants to, even the inhumans whose families have been taken there. You’ve gotten lucky, broken out quickly, perhaps you and your sister could live a new life in the city as humans. Besides, nobody can really tell the difference. “*Yeah, I have two. Both young, fresh minds. I have their logs, it’ll be easy from there.”* The woman Speaks in a hushed tone over the phone. You feel a shot of dread crawl down your spine. *4000? Is that a joke? 8000 credits each. Final offer”* There’s a long pause. Your hair stands up on the back of your head. “*Fine, That’s a deal*” As the doors open, you hear a click, a real gun this time. You see a man with dark glasses stand in front of a truck. The woman pushes the pistol into your spine as she drags your sister forward. “Look honey, It was nice to meet you, really, but I… I have my own needs.” *A long time ago there were two classes, Uppers and lowers. Uppers had it all, food, money, jobs, power, there was nothing they couldn’t get. Lowers, they had nothing. They toiled in the factories and fields and got nothing for it. Food was scarce, housing was cramped, and dirt, grime, and pollution became nothing but familiar to them. The Uppers didn’t care, they only cared for themselves, millions in their accounts and not a single penny spent in the name of charity. The Lowers wanted change, they wanted fairness. The Uppers might have had the money, but they had the numbers. Society was nothing without their hard work. So that’s exactly what happened. A civil war on the scale not seen before. When the dust had settled, the lowers had won. The Uppers, in their oppression, in their detachment from the world, had lost their humanity, they had become inhuman. THE inhumans.


The Last Sad song (a tale for children of a certain disposition)- This is a story about horrible things happening to children. This tale is likely true for countless children throughout the universe, but we will focus on one particular child, on one particular planet, in one particular galaxy. This tale is about Penelope. Penelope lived on a planet very much like our own except for the fact that it wasnt. It had a name which is of no significant importance to our tale but which for the sake of useful uselessness is called Clifford. Cliffordian children did not enjoy parties, or birthdays, Halloween or Christmases. The very thought of children laughing in enjoyment could have caused blue apoplexy, which is the very worst kind of apoplexy. Happy music was deemed unnecessary and to ensure it stayed that way, blues music was piped loudly through large loudspeakers placed on each street corner with a dose of Swedelfish dirges each second Sunday. It wasn’t always so. There was a time when Cliffordians had been happy. Howlingers, Tinglers and Wormers who made up most of the population, lived in harmony; that is until the day some children accidentally broke the Light that lit the world. From that day children were banned from growing up and punished daily for their sins. Penelope for posterity is nine years old. Shes been nine for a long time. As is the custom, the ban was given a name. It is called The Walter Principle. It came about when the Howlinger kids were told to come in for tea but they’d disobeyed and continued to play and Walter Howlinger the Third had thrown a high pass; a very high pass.

The ball flew upwards and onwards until it broke the Light that lit the world and Clifford was plunged into everlasting darkness. From that day, children were punished for mass disobedience. The Grand Precedent, who in reality was the Grand President but because the darkening darkness meant the typographer had misspelt his name on the Declaration of Office, had declared children had to submit to daily doses of asafoetida and have their earwax removed painfully to make candles, for that was now the only source of light in the twilight world of Clifford. Penelope was a Wormer. Wormers were different to Howlingers in the fact that they had one blue eye and one brown eye whereas the Howlingers had one brown eye and one blue eye. The Tinglers had one brown eye, one blue eye and a mole on their left cheek to distinguish themselves from Howlingers but since it was so dark, identity had become a lost cause. Penelope Wormer lived with parents who treated her with unkindly abuse. Occasionally she asked Why? and her parents would stare in disbelief and administer an extra dose of asafoetida for talking out of turn and life would continue. On the first day of Wintertide things began to change. Penelope and Joshua Howlinger, the neighbours kid, were walking to school. It was a long walk as both families had obeyed the Grand Precedents Fifth Edict which was to live as far away from schools as was possible. The small ear wax candle they’d been given at the start of the journey seemed wholly inadequate. ”Do you feel like dying?” Joshua said. ”I guess”, she answered and thought about it a little more. ”If we did, all of us I mean, they’d have no one to blame.” ”They’d blame Howlingers.” replied Joshua, “It was my great, great uncle that broke the Light and folks see us differently. We dont have a Tingler mole and our eyes are brown and blue, not blue and brown. We’d be blamed, then when all the Howlingers are killed off the Wormers would declare war on the Tinglers for having that darned mole and soon there’d be no-one left at all.” Penelope opened her bag and pulled out a mirror. She held it up and in the dying flame of the ear wax candle held it close to their faces. “Look.” She pointed to their reflection. “Now I’m a Howlinger and you’re a Wormer.” Joshua smiled. He felt an inexplicable sensation. Had he known what a sensation was he may have been able to explain what happened next? He kissed Penelope Wormer. It was just a quick peck, on the cheek, short but decidedly sweet. It changed everything. The dark became a little less black and the blues had a little more swing. At bedtime although it was difficult, they communicated by throwing paper planes over the garden fence inscribed with words written in cold cabbage ink and sealed with a kiss And with each kiss life became less burdensome. Joshua never really understood what was happening but he liked it all the same. On the last evening of Wintertide with the temperature gauge on Grandpa Wormers barometer showing Bone Snapping , Penelope Wormer climbed out of her bedroom window, ran across the yard and out towards the Leafless Forest where she and Joshua had agreed that afternoon to meet before running away. However, an unfortunate misunderstanding at the Howlingers household where both Ma and Pa Howlinger had unknowingly and separately doled out a measure of asafoetida to a protesting Joshua had resulted in the poor boy being tied to a toilet seat for the whole evening and therefore unable to escape. Penelope waited under the branches of a Whenworther tree and listened to the refrain of Billie Whatsaholiday, singing something sad but nice; real nice. She closed her eyes and never once felt cold. She would never go home. Next day, Cliffordians woke up to a day; a real day with morning and birdsong and light. They swarmed out of their houses, looked around and saw each other as they really were. They hugged their children and went out and bought each and every one a cherry topped sundae. The Grand Precedent announced Christmas would last three weeks then set all precedents aside including himself and ordered as his final edict that the world should listen only to Fifties rock n roll. Joshua Howlinger ran as fast as he could to the place where he should have been and found nothing. He called out but she never replied. He fell onto his knees and cried; then slowly, lifted up his eyes towards the sky, where from the centre of a bright ball of light he saw the face of Penelope Wormer smiling down at him and he understood everything. There would be no more sad songs.


Three spiders of unknown origin were recently discovered by the Insect Research Facility or IRF for short. They look like tarantulas but without it's fur and replaced by black armour, their legs are six inches long, and the spiders themselves are the size of golf balls. Doctor Kaber wanted to see if these spiders are poisonous or not, he decided to use three convicts as test subjects to see what capabilities these creatures have. When the test subjects entered the chamber, a researcher reluctantly unleashed the spiders out from their little container, as soon as they crawled out onto the floor, they immediately started jumping at the subjects like frogs going onto another lily pad. The three subjects yelp in pain as their fangs pierced through their skin like bullets. After a few seconds of this, the spiders dropped dead off them. The subjects lied on the ground, writhing and making horrified moans. This lasted for hours until they were able to get back up again, even though they complain that they feel a little nauseous. Doctor Kaber wasn't done yet, he wanted see the side effects, so all he did now was wait. Day three. The test subjects begin to show symptoms of back pain, complaining that they feel like something is moving in them. Their skin have also noticeably turned into a light grey colour, yet they don't seem concern about it. Day five. One of the subjects began violently vomiting a black tar-like liquid, but the other two show no concern whatsoever. It had been seven minutes before the other two started vomiting the same liquid, they were also suffering hair loss. After hours of spewing, the test subjects began drawing and writing messages on the wall with the black liquid. The messages that wrote said; "IT'S INSIDE OF ME", "WE ARE SLAVES", "GOD CAN'T HELP US NOW". Doctor Kaber's assistant tried to convince him that the experiment must end now and put these souls out of their misery, but he ignored his demands and wanted to see more of it. Day thirteen. The test subjects are now laying on the foul-smelling ground, still breathing. Their skin have turned into a pure grey and their eyes foggy. Doctor Kaber had seen enough, he ordered janitors in hazmats to get rid of the bodies and clean up the chamber. When they entered the chamber, two of the bodies started twitching, then something bursted out from their backs. They were large spider-like legs that had black hardened armour, similar to it's former selves. A few janitors managed to get out, but the other four ended up getting impaled and ripped apart by the legs. Unfortunately, one of the janitors forgot to close the doors behind him, causing the two zombies to escape and wreak havoc in the facility. Doctor Kaber hid under the table with a shotgun in his shivering palms, embracing for anything that attacks him, he took a deep calming breath before getting out from the table with his shotgun pointing at the observation window. He noticed that only one was left inside, the third test subject. He entered the chamber despite the putrid odour, he then looked at the woman who was face-first into the ground. He pushed her over with the shotgun, only to discover that she had a bloated belly, like she was pregnant. Doctor Kaber realised his arrogance got the best of him. Then the belly started to moving, as if something is trying to get out. He points his shotgun and was about to pull the trigger, but it was too late as millions of spiders showered from her stomach like a foundation. They crawled on him as each one inserted their fangs into his skin and died. Eight years later, the IRF building was left to rot but it's still not abandoned.


Murdoch eyed his opponent. The game had settled on this one hand. Murdoch could see the chips in front of him and quickly calculated that he had only this shot to turn the corner. He kept his composure as he eyed the three of hearts and three of spades in his hand. But is was not his own hand that was important to him, it was Carrigan’s.

Michael Carrigan was not one of those gamblers that roamed from town to town trying to set up a game and then move on. He owned the largest ranch in the area, he owned the bank and loaned much of the money to the business in the small little town of Milton Creek. He donated the land for the town church hall, and many of his men were diverted from their normal ranch duties to build it. He was known to be quick to laugh and quick to anger. He was generous and greedy all at the same time. But his biggest weakness was the tables.

“Martha will only let me come to town with 100 dollars,” he would say before starting each game. But everyone knew he could get more if he needed it. He never needed it. Often walking away with double or triple what he came to town with, Carrigan was known through the region as one to beat.

 Murdoch knew that if he bet wrong the tide would turn one way or the other. He studied his opponent looking for any tell that would give the old man away. He realized he was looking to long and had to resist the urge to abruptly take is eyes off his opponent. He had been told that THIS was his tell. Boone always said he could tell Murdoch had a questionable hand.

“That’s when you get all serious,” Boone would say. Boone was Murdoch’s foreman at the Circle ranch a town over in Chester Hollow. “It’s like you were a Mountain Lion closing in on his prey, only not so sneaky.” Murdoch swore to himself; he had struggled to keep this tell at bay, and Carrigan didn’t give him any indication whether or not he noticed such things. Yet he had a feeling he did.

“This here, game its kinda mix of Stud and Draw, almost like a game out of Omaha,” Carrigan said. “I learned it from a German ranch hand, his family settled in Texas before he started pushing cattle. I don’t know its name.” Murdoch replied trying to keep the mood light. To Murdoch this game meant everything. He had ridden to town with only a few dollars and what was on his back, or in his saddlebags. He had a good horse and knew he could hold his own with any cowhand. Many men would be content with that, but Murdoch wanted more. Nothing extravagant just a small piece of land to keep a small herd of cattle, and simple and comfortable home.

There was a piece of land just at the mouth of the devil’s canyon that would suit him fine. Carrigan owned it but had it up for sale, and Murdoch heard there were several others eying the land. Carrigan would sell off the smaller pieces of his large stake. He knew that as the town grew so would his opportunities. He would even loan the money with a low payment and reasonable interest. Carrigan was a man with grand plans so most of the land he sold he retained the water rights or sold them separately at a premium. The devil’s canyon property was different. It was a little bit further away from town and the ground was rocky and tough to work. And the grazing land was good but much higher in elevation and spread out across the mountains up to Coyote peak. Carrigan wanted nothing to do with it so he was selling the land, water, and mineral rights all in one. But it wasn’t cheap. He was asking 85 dollars for everything.

Murdoch was looking down at his pile of winnings, 75 dollars he was so close to having the money--so close to having everything he wanted. Carrigan had matched Murdoch’s bet and raised him 2 dollars. Murdoch called. The first card came out as the queen of spades, then the 8 of clubs, and finally the three of hearts. Murdoch kept his eyes on his hand, overcompensating for his tell. He glanced at his opponent and was greeted by a smile. Murdoch combed his hand through his dirty blonde hair and then readjusted his shirt with his free hand. His work-worn boots were licked tightly to the floor, Murdoch knew that if he wasn’t vigilant his feet would start bouncing.

“Mr. Murdoch, what’s your bet?” Carrigan urged. Murdoch knew that three of a kind was not enough to win. Should he risk more? Right now, he could take his winnings and wait a few months of riding for the Circle s Ranch in Chester Hollow. But it would be nice to get started right away. With ten more dollars, he could buy his property but would have to wait at least another season to start doing anything with it. “Ten dollars,” Murdoch said as he pushed the money to the center. Everyone in the bar, who had been watching the game in peripheral, quickly turned their full attention to the game. Ten dollars was a large bet, one could buy a good horse or even a reasonable horse and a gun with that money. You could make a living with a horse and a gun. That is if you didn’t drink it all away at the local saloon. Or lose it all in a game like this. “I’ll see that ten,” Carrigan said and wryly glanced at his cards. Murdoch sensed that Carrigan was pausing only for effect. “here is another 20.” A chatter surged out among the spectators. It had been a while since a game had been raised to such stakes. “Call!” Murdoch said not letting his eyes off Carrigan. The dealer flips the next card over, 2 of clubs. Murdoch swore to himself again. He was already into this hand too far, and even if he walked away now, he likely would not be able to have the money to buy his land for quite some time. It probably would be sold long before.

“20 more!” Murdoch announced trying to show the anxiety blossoming in his stomach. “Call” Then the last card was down. 2 of spades. There it was, a full house, but was it good enough? As full houses go this was not the best. But Murdoch figured he had come this far. “I’m putting it all in!” Murdoch said disregarding any hope to conceal his fear and excitement. The smile left Carrigan’s face as he tried to decipher the clues on the man in front of him. This was a new side of his opponent, and Murdoch struggled to know what it meant. A focus had come of Carrigan, unlike anything Murdoch had remembered seeing before. “Mr. Murdoch,” Carrigan said. “I have a feeling this one’s on a knifes edge. And let me say it has been a pleasure. And whichever way this goes, I have a sneaky feeling you and I are destined to work together. Talk to me later, because I have a proposition for you.” With that, he matched Murdoch’s money and said “Call”


Before I got second Mummy and second Daddy, I remember how first Mummy used to lock me in the cupboard.

The first time it happened it was late at night, maybe nine or ten pm. I was playing with my two plastic dolls, Melissa and Sweetum. Somebody must have given them to us from abroad because they were both white-girl dolls, Melissa with long blond hair and Sweetum with short, curly-blond hair. Blond must have been the in color then. As perhaps it still is now.

I don’t remember asking why the dolls had hair the color of sunshine, when my own was the color of midnight. I seem to have accepted many things as they were, at that time.

Anyway, we three were having a tea party, and I had just seated the two dolls opposite each other on the floor, each sitting on a little padded cushion, the fabric being ikat - or was it paisley? - and placed tiny plates with little red swirlies in front of each, and tiny teacups and saucers with blue flowers drawn in, on the side, and was pouring what passed for doll’s tea, just plain old H2O from a rusty tap, into those cups, that’s when it happened.

The front door swung open noisily and I heard first Daddy shouting for first Mummy, and before she went to him, to the door, she gathered me up in her arms and made for the cupboard.

“Mummy, you’ve spilt the tea,” I screamed, as the little plastic teapot fell over, the water spilling on the ikat or paisley, but she didn’t care.

She put me in the cupboard, made me crouch down, and said, “Beta, ssh, do not come out of here till I come to get you,” and shut the door. Then I heard a lot of shouting and crashing and shoving, and then first Mummy screaming, and I was about to push open the door to run to her, when I remembered that she said to stay in there. So I crouched there in the dark, listening to those sounds. Then everything went very quiet and I was trembling. I wanted to hear first Mummy’s voice, and then much later I heard her crying. And I remember feeling much better, because even the sound of her crying was still part of her music. The next day there was a big black mark on her eye, and I asked her what it was, and she said the crow had kissed her. I told her to tell the crow to kiss her hair next time so it would blend in with her midnight. She laughed but her eyes were wet. After the second time in the cupboard, I started to take Melissa and Sweetum in there with me. With the three of us there, things were much better. We had long conversations, about tea parties, spiders and other things. I was in the cupboard a lot that year. She put me in there so often, that after the first few times, we decided she should remove the first shelf and make it more comfortable for me.

In the beginning I used to tremble in the cupboard, but later on, I liked it in there.

One time I saw a spider in there and I screamed. I heard first Daddy say, “What was that?” and then first Mummy started to sing, some song from a film, very loudly, and I heard the sound of her anklets. I put a shoe on the spider so it wouldn’t crawl on me. But then I felt sad in the morning when it wouldn’t move any more. The crow was always kissing first Mummy those days. I could see the kisses the next day. Sometimes on her fleshy arms, sometimes on her neck. But always, always on her face. Then there was that last time I was in the cupboard. Usually, first Mummy let me out of there in the morning, but this time she didn’t come. There had been a lot of shouting and things crashing that night. I remember I had a bad feeling in my tummy. Later, I heard first Daddy snoring. Then it was dawn and I could see the light creeping in under the cupboard. I saw a spider running inside, but this time I didn’t put a shoe on it. I just let it build its web.

I stayed there a long time. Maybe it was more than a day. Then first Mummy’s friend came by, and I heard her scream. “Hai, Ram,” she said, calling on one of our favorite guys up in the heavens. But even he’d doubted the virtue of his wife, after she’d been kidnapped. Another story. None of our gods are perfect. Anyway, she must have known about our cupboard system, because she came to get me from there. She told me that first Mummy was now in the sky with the stars. I asked, “When is she going to come back down? Does she have a ladder to come back?” and she said not for a long, long time. Then I got her meaning and I cried.

They didn’t tell me at the time, but they took first Daddy away, and put him in jail. This I found out later on. He writes letters to me, but I have not written back. *** After that I got placed with second Mummy and second Daddy. Everybody tells me I’m very lucky because usually no one wants a child after they’re no longer a baby. Especially a child that has suffered trauma. But because of the trauma, my story appeared in the newspaper, and second Mummy read about me and wanted to help me.

Second Mummy is a famous actress and she’s adopted lots of children, and I’m the pick from India. So now I have toys, food, a nice room and nice clothes. I practice my American accent. I am never put in a cupboard. But however lucky I am, all I wish is that I could be back in first Mummy’s cupboard, and hear her sad song awaken me at dawn.


It wasn’t what I was expecting. No, I wasn’t expecting this at all. I’ll find us a place, you said. A place just for the two of us. A place that we can call home, where they won’t bother us, you said. I met you at the start of spring. I saw you as I came out from school. You were tall, skinny, long black hair, clothes that said you didn’t give a damn. You smiled, I blushed, lowered my head, walked away. The next day you were there again. You smiled again. I smiled back before blushing, lowering my head, walking away. And each day you and your smiles got closer. You waved, you said ‘Hi’, and soon you were walking with me, talking with me.

Making me feel special. Carrie mocked me. Carrie said you were no good, from the wrong end of town. What did she know? She was just jealous, jealous because you had chosen me instead of her. Okay, so your clothes weren’t so good, you’d not had the advantages she’s had. And if that’s the way you choose to dress, who’s she to judge? Carrie’s never been my friend anyway. Stuck up cow. Bella and Jade are the same about you, don’t think you’re right for me, but that’s because they care, because they don’t want to lose me as a friend. They don’t understand either. They’ve not had boyfriends before, they don’t understand. They say I’m too young, but I don’t feel too young.

Age is just a number, right? It’s not as if you’re old. You’re just three years older than me, seventeen to my fourteen. You smoke, which I don’t like, but those rollups make you appear older than you are. They’re just jealous I decide. They don’t know what it’s like to be kissed. Or perhaps they do, you say, perhaps they’re a couple of lesbians. Leave them to have each other, you say. And we laugh at that. I don’t tell my parents about you. They wouldn’t understand, and they have busy lives. Callum, my brother, can’t wait for me to leave home. Can’t wait for me to take my GCSEs, take my A levels, go to uni. Then, he says, then he can have my room.

I’ve always been the model student, always expected to do well in exams, but you tell me it’s a waste of time. You’ve finished school, and still you can’t get a job. Though when I ask about your schooling, you just shrug. We soon stop talking education. Kissing you is all the education I need for now. My grades start to slip. At parents evening, mum and dad are asked if there’s problems at home.  My attention, they’re told, is elsewhere. To my parents this is news, but they’re always so busy they don’t see what’s in my life. At home, they question me about it. I say Bella and Jade don’t want to be my friends anymore. Simple as. It upset me at the time, but I’m over it now. Callum, my lovely, hateful brother, tells them I have a boyfriend. We go to the same school, so of course he’s seen you. They ask about you, but I go to my room and won’t tell.  After all, we’ve only kissed. And touched a little bit, though I can tell you want more. Every day my parents ask about you. They say I’m too young, only fourteen. Yeah, but I’ll be fifteen in the summer, and once I’m fifteen, I’ll be almost sixteen, old enough. It’s bad at home, and you say it’s bad for you too. Your mother drinks, her boyfriend’s violent, so she drinks more.  I ask about your dad, and you say “What dad? There’s never been a dad, only boyfriends.” And all the while my parents are getting worse. They take me to school each morning to make sure I get there, but I leave before the end of the day to spend time with you. As the year moves into summer, we find quiet places to be together, to kiss, to touch, but nothing more. You ask, “If I find a place for us, if I find a place, will you come with me?” I realise what you’re asking. I realise you’re asking me to give myself to you. I’m not sure, but Carrie mocks me, Bella and Jade aren’t talking to me, Callum torments me, and my parents won’t get off my case. So I say yes. If you find a place, if you find a love nest for us, then yes, I’ll come. And I say it expecting it to not come true, because how would we manage? How could we if you didn’t have a job and I hadn’t finished my education. But I say yes, because it’s my dream to be with you. I say yes, because I’m in love with the idea of us being together, of building a life for ourselves. And one day you come. You say you’ve found a place. It’s not much, you say, but it’s a start. And you’ve got work. I’m shocked, surprised. What work, I ask. Helping a friend out, you say. But what’s this place? You’ll see, you tell me. Nothing much, but it’s a start. I ask about furniture and you say not to worry about that. So, it’s furnished, or so I think. And I imagine a small place, a tiny place even, a bedsit, or a room over a shop. Somewhere where there’s a small stove, just enough to heat up a tin of soup, a twenty-year-old sofa where we can sit in the evening. A too-small bed in the corner where we’ll finally make love. I’m scared, but I’m excited too. My parents have really been getting on my nerves, really having a go at me, trying to ground me. We agree to meet. I go to school, but I’ve stuffed some clothes in my school bag. I post the key back through the letterbox. I’m done with family. And when I leave school, you’re there to meet me. As I look at you, smoking your roll-ups, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Then you see me, and I realise it’s too late. And you brought me to this place, not some squalid bedsit with 20-year-old furniture, but this place. A large house, a large garden, lower than squalid. A squat. We share the house with your new friends, with Baker, the friend who you’re doing the favours for, with Dulcie, his girl. Baker leers, grins knowingly when I come in, and you don’t even notice the way he looks at me, how uncomfortable I feel. Dulcie, in her short, short skirt and laddered tights, just smiles vacantly, as if she’s listening to the best sounds in the world. I wonder if there’s something wrong with her. There’s a sofa downstairs, covered in mould where it sat in the rain for a week before it was rescued for this place. It’s in the back room. The front room we can’t use because the floorboards are rotten. You mutter something in Baker’s ear who looks at me, raises his eyebrows and smiles knowingly. Then you take me upstairs to our ‘room’, to the cosy little ‘love-nest’. To the room that’s bare except for an ancient, stained mattress and a sleeping bag. I ask if this is a joke. I thought this was supposed to be better than what we had. You say it is, for you it is better, better than having to watch your mother drink herself into an early grave, watch her being beaten by her boyfriend, knowing that if you got in the way it would be you that was beaten. She won’t even realise I’ve gone, you say of your mother. I wonder then about my parents, what they must be thinking. Have they missed me yet? I look at my phone. Too early for my parents to be home, but my brother will be back from school, will have found the key. Will he realise what it means? And then you take hold of me.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it,” you ask.

And not taking any notice of my answer, no, not here, you lay me down on that disgusting mattress and take me. You call it making love. It hurts, but then it should the first time, shouldn’t it? Afterwards you kiss me, say it’ll be better next time and leave me, telling me you’ll be back later – you have to go to work. I lie on that mattress and cry for a while, wondering what I’ve done, listening as you go out the house. Then I see him, Baker. He’s at the door, grinning. “Just wondered if you were okay,” he says. I don’t answer but pull my knees up to my chest, turn over so he can’t see my tears. He laughs, walks away. I hear others coming into the house, but I don’t go down. Eventually you return and you bring me downstairs. There’s another two girls there, Dee and Zoe. They say hi, sit down.  You sit on the mouldy sofa and pull me possessively onto your knee. Someone’s bought a couple of Pizzas to eat, and they’re shared about. I realise how hungry I am and take my share. Dulcie wanders in and is offered a slice, but she says she’s not hungry. She so skinny, she looks like she hasn’t eaten in a week. You’re smoking again, one of your rollups, and you offer it to me. I say no, I don’t smoke, and everyone laughs. The cigarette is passed round, and Baker leans in towards me, blows smoke in my face. “You should try some love, good stuff this.” I feel dizzy, lightheaded as I realise what it is. Soon you drag me up. I’m partly relieved, it means I can get out of that room, but upstairs you make is clear that you want me for one thing only. And after, when you’ve gone to sleep, I move apart from you and cry myself to sleep. The following morning, or is it afternoon by now, I find that my phone and my watch are gone. When I ask about them, I’m told we all have to contribute. Baker gives you something, some packets, and you leave to sell your wares. Baker gets a call, says he has to go out. “Keep an eye on that one,” he tells Dee and Zoe. Dulcie’s still sleeping. Zoe goes to the bathroom, and Dee takes me to one side. “Got family?” I don’t answer straight away. “Yeah, I can see you have. What did you think you were getting yourself into? Some sort of little love nest?” I nod. “Look girl, I can’t let you go now, more than my life’s worth, but as soon as you can, get the fuck out of here. Otherwise you’ll end up like her.” She nods towards Dulcie. When I look blank, she pulls up the unconscious Dulcie’s sleeve and I see the needle marks.

“It’s the only way she can cope with what they make her do to earn her keep. She was like you, a nice girl. Zoe and I grew up streetwise. We don’t like it, but we cope. Do a bit of weed, but that’s all. Baker keeps Dulcie like this so she won’t complain too much. So, first chance you get, go.” I tell her how we only came here to be together, how you needed to get away from your alcoholic mother and her violent boyfriend.

“That’s as maybe, love, but you mark my words, Baker’ll soon have you working, and soon the rosy glow of escaping your mum and dad’ll wear off.” That night, after we’d had sex – I was already seeing it as having sex, not making love – I lay there thinking about how much he smelt, and not just from what it was he was smoking. I thought I must smell too. I hadn’t had a wash of any sort in over two days. There was no water in this place, no power, no lights. It wasn’t long before I was put to work. Did you know? Or did you just ignore it, pretend that I didn’t exist once you were outside working? That first time Baker brought home a friend he thought I might like to meet. Not that this friend wanted to chat. When I tried to protest, I was told I had to pull your weight. The money from my phone, my watch, that had long gone. Afterwards Dee came to see me. “First one’s always the worst. Here.” She handed me a tablet. When I asked what it was, she said, “Only a sleeping tablet. Help you sleep tonight.” I accepted the tablet, not really caring if it was anything more, but I didn’t hear you come back that night. There were others, of course there were, and still you didn’t seem to notice. And sometimes you didn’t even seem to notice me at all. And it came so that I didn’t notice who I shared that mattress with either. One evening, you were still working, Baker was on the phone. Dulcie had not looked well all week, hadn’t eaten anything for days that I had seen. I went in to see if she was okay, only to see that she’d finally checked out of this place. Her body was beginning to turn blue, the needle still in her arm. Her skeletal frame would not have to turn any more tricks. When I told Baker, he threw a fit, as if it was my fault, not his, that she’d died. “We’ll have to get out of here,” he said. He told me to get my coat, we were leaving. I didn’t have a coat, I’d arrived in summer and now we were edging towards winter, so I took Dulcie’s.  I didn’t think she’d miss it. Baker dragged me out, took hold of me by the wrist, pulling me along. It was the first time I’d been out the place since I got there. We went through the town, along deadbeat roads. We were going to another place, he said. I wondered what would become of you, you who I thought I’d loved so much, but maybe he was just throwing you to the dogs as well. Maybe he thought you’d take the rap for Dulcie. It’s as he was dragging me through town that I saw her. We‘d got to some traffic lights, Baker was trying to drag me across the road when I looked at the stopped car. There was Carrie, Carrie with her dad and her brother. I remembered what Dee had said, to get out when I could. Carrie and I had never been friends, but I had to try. I stopped, pulled my hand from his and ran to that car. Baker tried to grab my arm, tried to drag me away, but I screamed. I could see Carrie’s face as she recognized me, recognized who I was. Carrie, who told her dad and her brother to help me. Carrie who shouted attracting the attention of others so Baker had no other option but to run away alone. I was taken back then.  Back home, back to where I used to belong. There were hugs, there were tears. Even my brother was glad to see me, and he hadn’t taken my room. It’s early days, and we’re still trying to work it out, still trying to see if we can fit the pieces back together. I’m sorry you’ve not got a roof over your head. If you did have a roof, it’d probably be a prison cell. At least my statement saved you from that. But now you’re on the streets, and I don’t know what I can do about that. I wish you’d go and get help. You’re not like Baker. I wish you’d get clean, turn your life around. Then you could get a room, a small place, a tiny place even, a bedsit, or a room over a shop. And maybe then you could take a girl there, heat up some soup on the small stove, sit together on the twenty-year-old sofa, sleep in that too-small bed. Start a new life.