Since he retired back in February, Jeremy had a lot of time to kill. Like most retiree rookies, he vowed to exercise more. He started watching yoga videos on YouTube. He began walking the beach near his home. Huffing down the beach and back would help burn calories and keep him occupied until happy hour, he figured. As he settled into his near-daily routine of strolling the shore, Jeremy started recognizing the same characters along the way. One regular was an attractive older woman who always wore a bikini no matter the weather. She had a melanoma-level tan, punctuated with peroxide-perfect shoulder-length hair. The woman was always barefoot, and she appeared nearly every time Jeremy was out. Like clockwork. Lifeguards, too, became familiar fixtures on the sand. Most were buffed-out young men in their early twenties, he guessed, but he had lost his ability to judge age once he hit his fifties. The lifeguards would slowly patrol the beach in their fire engine-red JEEPs outfitted with the tools to save a drowning soul in those precious first minutes. The young lifeguard acknowledged Jeremy with a wave, and he eagerly responded in kind. Jeremy began taking a dog poop bag on his walks to pick up trash that had washed ashore. The low tide left it all stranded: caps from water bottles, snack wrappers, plastic spoons, toothbrushes, straws, and even the occasional flip-flop or baseball hat—thrashed apart by its violent time at sea. Jeremy found that low tide also created the best walking conditions, so he downloaded a tides app on his phone to track them. He became fascinated by the graphic bell curves charting the rise and fall of the mighty ocean. Never-ending. Day after day. Hour after hour. This particular day brought about the lowest tide he had ever witnessed. He walked down to the waterline and was strangely transfixed. He watched the glassy swells rise and curl over, crashing into white foamy chaos. Jeremy closed his eyes to focus on the fear-inducing roar of the waves in his ears. He took a deep breath of salty air and let out an open-mouth exhale. “Namaste!” he yelled to the universe. Jeremy turned to retrace his path back to the pier. The lifeguard was still idling in his JEEP in the exact spot he passed nearly an hour ago. The lifeguard waved out of the open-sided vehicle. “That’s odd,” Jeremy thought, “I just saw the kid. Maybe he didn’t recognize me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he detected the tanned bikini lady walking her identical route toward him, oblivious to the strange sensation that had overtaken Jeremy. What was going on?

Eyeing the large clock on the lifeguard headquarters building, Jeremy was stunned to see that the clock was still displaying 1:15—the time he had set out nearly two hours ago! Sure, retirement had caused some days to blur together, he thought, but this was something else. Jeremy had smoked a lot of pot in his younger years. Could he be having a flashback? He was scared and thrilled at the same time. Jeremy began to wonder if his meditation at the water’s edge had unleased some sort of cosmic time bend. He tried to recall Einstein’s theory of relativity. Distances in space and time are relative. They change depending on how fast you’re moving. They pass at different rates for different people blah blah blah. He had no idea how to even wrap his head around it. Jeremy was never any good at physics. Did he just fall into a fucking wormhole or something? Nobody else seemed to be running around in a panic that their watches and phones stopped moving forward. The ocean just continued with its rhythmic pulse like a metronome.

The next day at low tide (3:41 p.m.) Jeremy returned to the scene of the crime, just past lifeguard station number five. He brought his phone this time to prove his theory. Facing the water, Jeremy closed his eyes, took another deep breath of sea air, and exhaled, proclaiming “Namaste!” to the waves. He began walking back toward his car, taking out his phone after several minutes. 3:41. As soon as he stepped off the beach and back onto the pavement, his phone’s clock started ticking forward again. Was the sand acting as the proverbial sand in an hourglass? Was low tide possibly the skinny part of that hourglass, stopping up the space-time continuum like a cork? Jeremy returned the following day at the time when the tide would be highest. He again walked down to the water and conjured up his mystical trance. “Namaste!” he yelled like the previous two days. He pulled out his iPhone. The clock kept ticking. So, what if it was the low tide that paused time, Jeremy wondered. What would he do with the information? Could he make a killing in stocks? Doubt it. Stop the aging process? Standing on the beach would only increase the aging process with the constant sun exposure, he reasoned. Just look at the tan lady. (Speaking of which, was she in on the secret?). Eventually, time would have to march forward so he could use the bathroom after standing there. Or would time pause his bladder too? His head was about to explode. He decided that for such a cool parlor trick of stopping time (he did plan on bringing his wife down to show her— when she had the time, Ba Dum CHING! ) it didn’t have any practical use. Who really wants to live forever?

When Jeremy first retired, he sat down and wrote a list of goals to accomplish and new hobbies to learn. Travel more. Make new friends. Worry less. Volunteer. Lose weight. Pick the guitar back up. Maybe learn how to surf. The usual. Yet while simply trying to kill time, Jeremy discovered a way to actually pause it, at least for a while.

“Way to go, Einstein,” he laughed to himself. “Not bad for retired old guy.”


Poor Man’s Game By Alpha Tooni “You either work this weekend, or you’re fired!!!” My boss pointed a stubby finger at me as fire burned in his eye. He breathed heavily after his violent outburst. As I weighed the consequences of my response, a heavy silence filled the space between us.

Where had I gone wrong? Every decision I made in life led to this fateful moment but truth was, I never wanted to go into finance. When I was young, I always wanted to become a writer. Every story I had, I would write down in my private notebook that I kept hidden from the world but when I was nine, Uncle Steve got his hands on a story I wrote about a puppy who had to save a family of butterflies. When he finished reading through it, he looked up at me with his iconic goofy smile. “You have a gift,” he said , “Most writers don’t know how to use their imagination like you do. This is good work.” It was the confidence boost I needed. From that moment on, I felt emboldened to blast my manuscripts out to everyone I knew but also made sure that Uncle Steve got first dibs. Every time I brought him one, he would eagerly read through it and tell me that he was proud of my work. Unfortunately, my father did not share the sentiment and made his opinion known. “Writing is a poor man’s game,” he would say. Luckily, Uncle Steve had my back, winking at me every time he had to push Dad off his high horse. I learned a lot from Uncle Steve, most notably to follow what I was passionate about in life. “Never forget what makes you happy,” were the last words I remember him saying before he passed away from cancer. Being in high school at the time, it was a devastating blow. I felt lost without him. Every story I wrote after he passed only received backlash from my father. “Why do you waste your time?” Dad preached, “If you want to be successful, learn about money.” I followed his advice and got accepted into a good university to learn about finance. I tried to get myself interested in the subject but I would constantly find myself staring out the window with visions of new stories playing out in my head. My pencil would hover over my notebook, itching to write out what I saw.

Halfway through college, I yearned to tell my parents how much I hated my major and how I desperately wanted to drop out to pursue something else. During one of our phone calls, I briefly mentioned my discontent, but Father simply responded, “Fake it until you make it, son.” So I kept my mouth shut, put my head down, and pushed through my remaining semesters with a zombified vigor. The further I progressed, the more I forced myself to study, and the less I found myself looking out the window during class. My vivid daydreams came less frequently.

During my final semester, while everyone else was focusing on trying to land a job after graduation, I was talking with my girlfriend about how we should travel the world when we finish college. “We can take a year or two off and just backpack through the mountains!” She beamed at me with eyes that shone like polished emeralds.

“Which mountains?” she asked as she played with her wavy blonde hair, something she did whenever our interests aligned. “Any mountains!” I laughed. These plans were dashed the moment Dad called after I aced my final exams. “I have some excellent news, son,” he said and sounded more upbeat that usual.

“What is it?” I asked. “I pulled some strings and got you an internship at Golden Sacks! You can start the week after you graduate. ” When I didn’t immediately respond, he grew concerned. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted.”

“Yeah, but…” my voice trailed off for a moment and then I said, “Cynthia and I made plans to travel.” “That’s a swell plan. Choose a place to go the weekend after you graduate and I’ll pay for everything. My gift to you for finishing top of your class.” I wanted to say that we planned to be gone for at least a year but I also knew securing a internship at Golden Sacks was no easy thing to do, even with my father’s clout. Cynthia cried when I told her we would only be able to travel for a weekend. “You said we would travel the world together. Just us,” she said. Tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks. I felt terrible doing this to her. “I know, baby, but father says this internship could really jump start my career.” She didn’t respond; she only sobbed into her hands. I leaned in and held her close. “Think about it. Dad says that once I get a full time job with these guys, I will make enough money for us to travel anywhere in the world.” Cynthia wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “You really think that?”

I paused. Our relationship might not survive another false promise. “Yes,” I said not too convincingly, “Give me a year and I promise that we will be sipping bellinis in Santorini.” I took me five grueling years to secure a full time position at Golden Sacks and not once did I call in sick or take time off. Upon promotion, the boss shook my hand, smiled though his crooked teeth, and said, “Take this Friday off. My treat for all your hard work.” That night I took Cynthia our favorite high rise restaurant in the heart of downtown. “I’m happy for you,” she said and smiled unconvincingly. While we sat at the table, I would catch her staring out the restaurant window to the mountains beyond the city skyline. I grabbed her hand and leaned in close.

“Don’t worry, once I get settled and find my rhythm, I’ll put in a request so we can take off for a couple weeks. Father says that finding a rhythm is key to surviving in this industry.” Three years later, I still hadn’t found my rhythm and I made few friends along the way. The ones I made when I first started, I ended up turning my back on in order to secure my path forward. It unsettled me to act so callous toward them but my father reassured me that, “They would do the same to you. I’ve been around this industry long enough to know everyone is cut-throat.”

I tried to talk to Cynthia about it, but she was so preoccupied with her own work that she allotted me little time to vent. “Don’t worry, son,” Dad said, “She’ll appreciate all your hard work when you are older and living comfortably. Just look at your mother and I. She has the biggest smile whenever I give her the credit card and send her to the mall.” While he laughed, I thought about how I rarely remembered seeing my mother smile. One morning, Father woke up, went to do his morning stretches, and was hit with a massive heart attack. At the funeral, people said good things about him but no one really mourned his passing. Mother got most of the inheritance but ended up spending it all and had to move in with my brother. Cynthia called me after the funeral. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “Fine.”

There was a pause between us.

“I can’t remember the last time I dreamt.” I could hear her fingers busily clacking away at a keyboard. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt lost again. Not knowing what to do, I devoted all of my time to work often going days without talking to Cynthia. Whenever my boss saw me at the office after everyone else had left, he smiled, patted me on the back and would say, “You’re going to go far kid.” I would smile back, but then glance at picture on my desk of Cynthia. Her smile was like a punch to my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her that happy in person. Where had all the years gone? “Did you hear me!?” my boss screamed, “I said…” “Yes,” I shouted, “I heard you.” “And!? Are you going to work this weekend or not? We have a lot riding on this deal! Your plans to go hold hands with your girlfriend can wait…” As he ranted, my eyes instinctively went to the window behind him and I was suddenly watching a vision play out before me. Cynthia and I backpacking along a mountainous trail, deep in conversation. We both looked happy. Two small kids ran past us, laughing as one grabbed the walking stick from me and continued off down the trail. Cynthia and I laughed and ran after them. I picked up the nearest one, a little girl that couldn’t have been more than five or six. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. Suddenly the vision faded and I was back at the office. My boss stared at me with an impatient glare but I didn’t say anything to him. I just smiled and left. I rushed down to the parking garage, hopped in my Mercedes, and drove as fast as I could to Cynthia’s apartment. When I got there, I stormed up three flights of stairs, and ran to her door.

“Cynthia?!” I cried as I flung it open.

The hollow echo of my voice was the only greeting I received in the empty apartment. All that was left were a few nail holes in the wall and outlines in the carpet where the furniture had been. My legs gave out and I dropped to my knees and wept. I was too late. “Excuse me?” a voice shouted, “What are you doing here?” I was on my feet in an instant and wheeled about to see a woman standing in the doorway. “Cynthia! The woman who used to live here! Do you know where she is?” The woman eyed me, nervously. “Leave before I call the police!” Defeated and disheartened, I returned to my apartment hoping that its homely vibe would bring me comfort, but I took one look around and felt nothing but disgust. I walked over to the mini bar, grabbed a bottle of Jameson, and stared out my high rise window. The mountains loomed in the distance but never had they looked so far away. Tears welled up in my eyes and I took a long swig from the bottle, plopped down on the couch, and stared at the wall. Hours later, I heard a faint knocking at the door. I ignored it, but when the door opened I knew it could only be one person. “Cynthia!” I cried and stumbled over to her with a half drunken swagger. I went to hug her but she pulled away before I got the chance.

“What happening to you?” she demanded, “I heard you came by my old apartment. I tried calling your phone but you didn’t pick up. I called your office and they told me you quit! Why would you do such a thing!? ” “Why did you move?” I asked in a somber tone. She gave me a blank stare and I knew she was about to give me an answer I didn’t want to hear. Immediately, I intervened. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a receipt for two plane tickets. I held it out in front of me as if they were a desperate plea. “Look! It’s the beginning of the journey we should have taken so long ago.” Cynthia stared at it for a moment and then started playing with her hair. I put the receipt back into my pocket and took her delicate hand in mine. “For all of my adult life I had followed my father’s instruction and it brought me nothing but emptiness. It’s time I focus on what’s really important in life.” Cynthia stared at me, not knowing how to respond but, before I could say anything else, she lunged forward and hugged me tight. “I’ve been so lost without this side of you,” she said. I wrapped my arms around her. “Me too.”


Course mates are like wounds that leave their marks on your skin at times on your soul even years after being cured. Some of those wounds behaves as if they came into this planet with you, so it’s their right never privilege to lay claim of attachment if not that of ownership on you. You have no choice but to go along praying that mother nature will reason with you and restore your skin to it’s original position.

That’s exactly what some course mates are. Wounds that refused to heal properly. If the course mates in question happened to be your friend, carpool or any one of those attachment that last years, it’s wounds were even more difficult to heal. The funny thing about this brand of wound is that naturally, you don’t pay critical attention to the scar even years after the wound had healed. This type can be referred to as Chickenpox that usually stamp it’s claim, authorities on the virtue of being a paddy to the victim.

Nigbo was my guy before, yeah before for I don’t know what he is to me now. He was my paddy during our undergraduate years, I don’t even remember exactly how the friendship started, but I think it was one of those evaluation process some use to line themselves up with another person. I believe he found me trust worthy or something nearer to it. Many always read me from that angle first, reason I honestly don’t know. We went up and down for four years together and after graduation, we went out different routes. He to his State, I to mine. When after years without any meaningful thing doing, I found my way out of the country. A year abroad, he was one of those course mates I got in touch first from my base. We talked, exchange new numbers again but I noticed that the guy was struggling from the way he sounds, I myself was struggling to find my feet in foreign land too. So that made two of us. I wasn’t usually with spear change to call him and he don't either. I Know that I was better off than him. Imagine his situation, I was struggling seriously then in foreign land and I was still better off than him. At times, when I save enough change to call those course mates, especially that my guy, I will be hearing children’s noise at the background. One day, I summoned courage to ask him about those background noises. Truly, I thought he was living in one of those “You face me, I face you” buildings that it’s occupants are one step ahead of classless. I said one step ahead, yeah because, it’s not equivalent of ghetto, ghetto is one step behind and those ‘you face' occupants gets offended when being referred to as ghetto people. They are 3rd class citizens. Some Eastern Europeans that found their way into Africa looking for oil well at the back of the village government don’t know exist live in those 'You Face me' places when they couldn’t find oil and lost themselves too. Imagine living in a place with those mental drained and wretched white guys, they use the same public restroom with you, fuck around like you, carry Jerry can around morning and Evening and yet still being grouped as ghetto don’t sit pretty with some locals hence the nomenclatures. I was told that the background noise belonged to his uncle’s kids that he was temporary clashing with them. That was when I realized that “There was fire on the mountain” in my guys life. Bad government had turned my guy into house maid just for oil to enter his mouth. Shit!, This life can be something else within an twinkling of an eye. Boy, it’s not easy to be an adult in some third world countries.

That call was the last time I called my guy Nigbo before I had problem and found myself inside for years. After about 12 years of severing communication, my term came to an end and I was deported. Months later when I finally got my own phone, I was trying all the old contact numbers and only two was still working and this my guy number was one of them. “Hello, is that Nigbo?” “Ah, are you who I believed you to be?” “Yeah, I am who I am, don’t know who you believe it go be?” “ Are you Philip, or ghost?” “I am Philip, no ghost answers that name” I narrated my ordeals to him and he was thanking heaven on my behalf which made me to start thinking whether he has became born again for he was not particularly Religious person since I know him. again, I heard those children background noise I heard last about 13 years ago. I was wondering if he is still living with his Uncle. This time, I didn’t enquire for I was seriously wondering if those his uncle’s kids don’t grow up. Surely, they can’t remain under five for 13 years. It was on his next call that he hinted that the kids were his.

Married with two kids. He had joined real estate business and was acting as link between buyers and sellers. The first real money he made, he got married to one of his years gone sweet heart. In bad economy like that Nigeria, nothing is stable and so it was with his business. What I gleamed from what he was saying, his accounts were in red. Believing me to be his chance of getting out of the red he usually found himself, my situation and conditions must have given his hope a mighty blow for who he was hoping on was emptier than him. Since he knew who knew my younger sister and her husband, knowing them to be relatively well off and believing logically that they will fix me up and the fixing up will get to him through me. He was in the same City with my sister and I in another city. Meanwhile, almost a year I came into the country, I have not seen him life only in Facebook. I really don’t know again exactly who I am dealing with. My judgement of him was that of twenty- something years ago. From the story I heard, he travelled to my village years ago looking for me when he don’t know I was inside and one old man told him I was inside and he faced his life till I called months back.

When his calculations weren’t materializing as he calculated, he stopped calling and when I call, he would tell me that he would call me back in an hour time that he was tied down then. When the incident repeated itself thrice, I relegated him to the second division and from look of things, it seems as if he did that before me for about four months now, I have not heard from him.


I suddenly become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake. I open my eyes, and sit up. I am in an empty room, a very large, very white room. Taking a second glance, I notice that in the distance, something is on the wall almost at the top. Some sort of a silver structure jutting out? I look to my right, a small trickle of water is flowing a few feet away from me. I stand up, and walk in the direction of the water. I gasp with sudden realization of pain. My chest aches as if from a fresh injury, but I seem to be unharmed upon inspection. I reach the small amount of water trickling by, a stream maybe a foot wide, but it appears to grow as it travels towards the other end of the room, the strange white room. A shadowed, hooded figure appears suddenly before me, as if out thin air. His garments are dirty, and torn, very out of place in this pristine room. I jump backwards startled, almost tripping over my own feet. I gaze at the stranger, the aura around him is very odd, almost like a wizard of sorts? Which is strange, because I have never met a wizard. He looks directly at me, and for the first time I see his face. Twisted, and wrinkled, but there was a sort of wisdom in his piercing stare. His eyes are pure white no other color at all, a stark contrast to dirt on his face. He looks at me as if looking on an old friend, someone I have met many times, but I did not know him. In one swift motion he was by my side, staring as if into my very soul, staring through my soul. “Follow the water” he said, his voice was dry and raspy, like nails on a chalkboard. I shivered slightly, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice or care. “Follow the water and you will see your destiny” he croaked. I stared at the stream flowing down and across the floor, there was no stream bed, just whiteness for as far as I could see. I took a step forwards, toward the far end of the room. “Good choice” I hear from behind me, I whirl around but the old man has gone, vanished impossibly in an empty environment. Confused, scared, and a little bit hungry to be honest, I start walking next to the water. As I walk, I notice the stream does indeed begin to grow in width, spreading out across the floor, branching into multiple different streams. On the horizon I see some objects come into view, on the floor, underneath the silver structure, on the wall. I continue walking towards them, the water is running faster now and wider than ever. I can hear a sound as well, almost like a whirlpool or a waterfall? I pick up my pace, going into a half jog, fearful, but excited of what I might find. The closer I get the louder the noises become, until suddenly before me is indeed a whirlpool. The water is swirling and dancing before disappearing into to a large drain or grate? I look around, across, on the other side of the drain, I see a large mirror. I look closer, edging as close as I dare to the rushing water. In the mirror,or window, or whatever it is, I see a women. A beautiful women, absolutely perfection, standing in front of a perfect house. I see myself in the mirror, well is it me? It’s like a perfect version of me muscular, attractive, and I’m playing catch with my son while holding my daughter in my other arm. There’s flowers blooming and the weather looks perfect, like a vision of perfection. “Looks nice doesn’t it?” Rasps a voice in my ear. I jump startled, the hooded old man is back staring at me. “Just walk over to them and it all becomes your reality” he says with a half smile on his lips. “What about the water?” I say, my voice cracks with fear. The old man smiles, “there’s no water son, that’s just your fear, go ahead, trust me” I take another look at the mirror, the women is waving to me, with an almost pleading look in her eyes, begging me to take the step,to rescue them from this perfection hell they are trapped inside. I take a step forward, cautiously towards the water that supposedly isn’t there. I take one more look at the old man, “don’t hesitate” he says. I turn and leap towards the other side with every bit of power I can muster. The water hits me such force the air is knocked from my lungs. I struggle to breath as I am forced round and round, and then suddenly down into darkness. I land with a plop, air rushing back into my lungs and I am screaming as loud as I can. I can see nothing only darkness, there appears to be a sort of slime that I have landed in. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, I appear to be in another room this one circular, almost like a tube. To the one side I see movement, the old man is back sitting on a giant ball of hair? Surely not my eyes must be playing tricks on me. I approach him, it is indeed a ball of hair, fashioned into a sort of chair, that he is perched on, like a of king of the underworld. “Who are you?” I scream. “What is this place? Why am I here?” He simply stares back at me, a huge smile splitting his face. “I am called many things” he finally says, “but most call me Life.” As to where you are and why you are here, you allowed fear to grab you and you are now down the drain.” “Why?” I ask pleadingly. “Why what?” He says smirking. “Why me, what is it about me that caused that to happen?” “Nothing about you caused it to happen” he says the smirk is now gone replaced by a twisted frown. “We simply needed a human to feed on.” “We?” I ask. “Yes, we,” he gestures across the room into the darkest corner. As I turn a creature I can only describe as beast stands, and idles towards me. It is pure blackness almost seeming to suck up the what little light filters into the room from the grate above. It stopped right in front of me, I tremble with trepidation of what will happen next. Black drool comes from where a mouth should be and it’s wispy body seems to float. It moves closer to me there is no body heat at all, in fact the air around it seems to be colder. It comes closer and closer, then suddenly everything goes both hot and cold at the same time, I struggle to breath my mind goes into hyper drive and starts to race out of control. A sudden burning deep inside my chest like somebody ripped out my heart, and lungs, and stomach, and replaced them with hot burning tar. It was a pain that cannot be put into words, it simply was the feeling of darkness inside me. I stand up as straight as I can, struggling to breathe. The monster has vanished from my vision, I turn around and yell at the old man, who is giggling like a school girl. “What was that, and where did it go?” He looks at me and stops laughing, “that, that was a demon we call depression and he is inside you now, that’s where he needs to live.” I stutter, unable to get words out, “what,why,why why wh w” My body goes weak, my legs unable to support me. I stumble and fall, the world goes starts to disappear, “see you tomorrow” the old man crackles. This is the last thing I hear. Then there is nothing, blissful unadulterated nothing. Suddenly I become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake......


For twenty-three years, this photo has held within it what I have lost; tantalising me with what could be, the fantasy guarded safely within the limbs of its silver frame. Every now and then, I get a glimpse back in time; back to when my ambivalence was obsession and my contempt was passion. Now and then he’ll smile with his eyes, or laugh with his heart, like he always used to. At these times, I think to myself: *There’s still a chance. I’m starting to recognise him again.* And when I’ve been reeled back in, I realise I’ve been fooled for the thousandth time – then I must fight to forgive myself for my flawed generosity. The hardest part is when you know it’s hopeless but yet you cling to dead memories, trying to revive them. Those pleasant times are trapped within your mind, destined to wither away with you – unless you live through them, as I have been, feeding them with your weakened spirit. They say that memories eventually fade, but although I cannot always recall things with precise clarity, they have simply manifested themselves in different ways. Have you not ever been stopped in your tracks, for you’ve picked up on a familiar scent which upon inhaling, travels through the intricacies of your soul with a warm familiarity, yet you can’t quite recognise it? Have you never felt the wind weave its way through your hair, caress your face, and you know you’ve been touched so gently before, but you wonder: by whom other than the soft breath of the wind? These memories hold me hostage to my happiness: I must let them go to be free. I know at the point where I have been living entirely within my mind that something is wrong. I can no longer wait for him to return – his body lives here, a parasite, full of blood and hunger and nothing else. *He*, however, left a long time ago. Maybe I can find him embodied within another. Or maybe I never will – then perhaps I might finally surrender… completely lose myself in these thoughts which provide me nothing but sweet agony. See, some nights I dream of past times. In my denial of what is, I find my mind intertwined with dreams and reality, creating a blur between the two. At these times, I near go mad as I try to discern the two worlds, and I go even madder when the mist slowly disappears and I find myself here again. For my own wellbeing, I must finally move on. Sever my heart strings from all which he has tainted. I must leave his side. Find my own place. Find my own life. I must destroy every possession he has gifted me, and every possession which reminds me of him. The trinkets and perfume he gave me. The elegant, silver heels I wore on our first anniversary. The photo I hated because it emphasised the ugly shape of my chin (to which he would remark that I was not just my chin, but a delicate ensemble of all things beautiful and joyous). The birthday cards from those first few years in which he wrote me enchanting poems…he had such a way with words… where has he gone? Oh, here I am, grasping at the ghost he left behind, surprised that my hands are falling right through. But if doing so brings me such pleasure, is it really such a sin to indulge in innocent memories? I am old. My life nears an end. Why am I wasting my energy trying to tear myself apart? All I wish for is *him*, and he exists only in my mind now; there’s no need to be anywhere else.


Mo and Bo lived together in a forest in Northern Ontario. More specifically they lived in a tent on the edge of a cliff by a lake. Mo was always taking good care of the animals who lived in the forest, including Bo, whom Mo humorously considered the most endearing animal of them all (Bo and Mo were both humans). Bo on the other hand was a bit more careless, but because of this Bo was more willing to be put at risk in order to protect Mo and the animals. Despite their differences Mo loved Bo and Bo loved Mo. That is, despite even their different needs for the bonfire they kept outside to warm themselves in the cold winter nights, they found a way to live harmoniously. Mo didn’t need much heat from the bonfire to feel warm, so if too much lumber were added to the fire Mo would feel hot and uncomfortable. Bo felt cold fairly easily, so if not enough lumber were added to the fire Bo would feel cold and uncomfortable. Most nights they would keep the fire at a nice even level. Mo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit warmer than Mo needed, if it meant that Bo would feel a bit more comfortable. Bo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit cooler than Bo needed, if it meant that Mo would feel a bit more comfortable. Sometimes Mo would even add a bit more lumber to the fire to make it warmer, because Mo wanted Bo to be happy. In the same way Bo would sometimes add less lumber to the fire to make it colder, because Bo wanted Mo to be happy. One very cold night however, Bo decided to add more lumber to the fire than usual, Bo thought Mo would not complain, as it was a very cold night after all. But alas, when Mo and Bo sat down by the fire to stargaze Mo started to feel a lot warmer than usual, even though Mo hadn’t added any extra lumber that night. Mo was uncomfortable about this. “Bo did you add more lumber to the fire tonight?” asked Mo, cautiously. “Yeah it was really cold today so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I added some extra lumber.” replied Bo, with a defensive tone. “Well I’m really warm right now” Mo retorted, grabbing the iron stick they kept by the fire and pulling some of the lumber out. “How could Bo not care about how I feel?” Mo thought. Bo was visibly frustrated, Mo was deliberately removing lumber to make Bo more cold! “How could Mo not care about how I feel?” Bo thought. “I’m freezing cold now Mo, what’s the big deal?” Bo furiously inquired. Bo grabbed some of the extra lumber they kept some feet away from the fire and threw it into the flames. This time, Bo added more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even warmer now. “Well I’m really hot with all that lumber, don’t you care?” Mo exclaimed and once again removed some lumber. This time, Mo removed more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even colder now. This back and forth continued, Bo added more lumber, and Mo removed more lumber, each time the temperature of the fire getting more extreme and Bo’s and Mo’s temperaments likewise. Bo and Mo were no longer acting like themselves - Bo wanted Bo to be happy, Mo wanted Mo to be happy. Mo became exhausted of this tug-of-war and to create a stop to this Mo started throwing the lumber they removed down the cliff and into the lake. Bo was not happy at all about this “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see how much I’m shivering?”. In fact at this point the fire was so weak even Mo was shivering, but Mo was so upset that Bo would make the fire so hot it would hurt that Mo preferred to feel cold. The back-and-forth continued, but each time Bo had less and less lumber to feed into the fire. The fire got weaker and weaker, and Bo could no longer sustain a fire warm enough. Noticing Mo was also cold, Bo gave up, hoping that Mo would start adding more lumber themself. Maybe without Bo’s pressure, Mo would feel comfortable with a warmer fire. But what Mo gave Bo was what Bo least wanted, and least expected. “This fire is so weak there’s no point in even keeping it alive, we might as well light it off. We can each just build our own fires and go our separate ways.” Mo said, in a sad, defeated tone. This is not what Bo wanted, Bo didn’t want to lose Mo, and deep down Bo knew Mo didn’t want to lose Bo either. Mo cared for Bo and didn’t want Bo to feel cold. Mo also cared for Mo and didn’t want Mo to feel hot, so even though it hurt, Mo thought this seemed like the best solution. “I don’t want that, you can build the fire and add as much lumber as you want, I’m okay with feeling a bit cold.” Bo finally managed to respond after a long silent pause. “No I care about you I don’t want you to feel cold, you’ll feel warmer somewhere else.” Mo said. Bo knew this wasn’t right, and for very good reason. “There’s nowhere in the world I’ll feel warmer than in your arms.” Bo, with a calm yet poignant demeanor told Mo. Bo’s and Mo’s eyes locked for what felt like minutes, and before moving their gaze away Bo saw Mo’s eyes slightly brighten up. Reluctantly but with a more relaxed tone, without saying anything Mo grabbed a piece of lumber that was still lying around and threw it into the fire.


The dark-haired woman walked away from the graveside, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Her two young children, a boy and a girl, clung tightly to her long, black woolen coat, unsure why their mummy was sad, and and not liking the feeling of the light rain on their faces. They were too young to understand the concept of death, or funerals, but they didn't like seeing mummy upset. She led them, in silence, back to the car, opening the rear doors in turn and securing them into their seats, before walking around the car and climbing into the driver's seat. She wiped away one last tear with the back of her hand, before starting the engine and slowly pulling the car away. As she drove carefully down the quiet lane, she was unaware of the white mist trailing behind the car. The two young children stared out of their car windows for the entire journey home. Neither she, nor they, said a single word until the car finally arrived outside their home. As she turned off the engine, the white mist gently floated, unseen, up towards the roof of the house. “I'm hungry, mummy!” the little girl wailed. “Me too!” the little boy agreed, with a mischievous smile. Wearily, she got out of the car, and then opened each of the rear doors alternately, helping her children to unfasten their seatbelts, and watching as they raced up to the porch. She locked the car, then followed behind them, unlocking the front door and ushering them inside, out of the drizzle.

It was just beginning to get dark on this late October afternoon, so she switched on the hallway light and let out a light laugh, despite her sadness, as her children ran eagerly into the kitchen. As the siblings settled themselves at the kitchen table, she began to prepare tea for everyone, and the three of them were soon eating in silence. As she ate, with her back towards the kitchen door, she did not notice the white mist lingering there, having made its way down from the attic.

After tea, the dark-haired woman ushered her children upstairs for their baths, allowing her son to watch television in her bedroom whilst she bathed her daughter. Then, having supervised the little girl getting into her pyjamas and putting her to bed, she called her son into the bathroom. As soon as her son was ready for bed, she kissed both children goodnight and headed downstairs. The dark-haired woman switched on the television, and began to watch a movie, but due to the stress of the day, and the darkness of the living room, she soon fell asleep. Whilst she slept, she was unaware of the mist hovering silently above her, seeming to watch over her. A couple of hours later, she was awoken by the sound of 'white noise' on the television, indicating that the night's programs on that channel had come to an end.  Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the clock on the fireplace. It was almost 2am, so she wearily stood up from the sofa, turned off the television and crossed the room. Turning off the one single table lamp, she made her way up to her bedroom. On the way, she glanced into each of her children's rooms in turn, and saw that they were both sleeping peacefully. With a contented sigh, she crept into her own bedroom, closed the door, undressed quickly and slipped into bed. Turning off the bedside lamp, she lay down, pulling the duvet up over herself, and was asleep within seconds. * The following day, Sunday, was the second day of the half-term holidays, and it was the day before Halloween. After breakfast, the dark-haired woman asked her children if they would like to decorate the house, ready for the big day. Of course, they were very excited by the idea, so she went up into the attic and began to bring down various bags and boxes of decorations. Despite many trips up and down the attic ladder, she did not notice a faint, white glow in the far corner. Grandma's ghost watched in silence as her daughter carried the boxes down, feeling proud at the fantastic job the dark-haired woman was doing of raising her children alone. She really wanted to reveal her presence to her daughter, but did not know how she might react, so she decided to wait until later.

For the next few hours, the trio busied themselves with a mountain of Halloween decorations, and by the time they had finished, they had the best-decorated house in the entire street (in their opinion, of course!) * Everything had faded to black for the old woman at first, as she left her old life behind, but then the light had slowly returned. Now Grandma found herself back in her daughter's house once again, this time unseen by anyone. 'So this is what it feels like to be dead'. Grandma had thought to herself. She had often wondered whether the 'afterlife' actually existed, and now she knew for sure. The family had no idea she was now watching over them. She was 'sitting' on the stairs in the hallway, watching them through the open kitchen door. They all looked so happy! They were laughing and joking, flicking flour at each other as they now made spooky biscuits and other treats for a little Halloween party, and for any Trick or Treaters who might pay them a visit. “Stay here, I'll be back in a minute. Be good!” the dark-haired woman smiled, as she left the kitchen briefly, to use the bathroom. As soon as she entered the hallway, the white mist that had been hovering on the stairs instantly faded away. Seconds later, it reappeared in the kitchen, floating above the kitchen table, glowing slightly under the overhead light. The two young children gazed up at the mist, but were unafraid.

“Hi Grandma!” the little girl said brightly. The little boy said nothing, but he smiled as he saw the mist seeming to glow more intensely in response to his sister's voice. Minutes later , the dark-haired woman returned to the kitchen, but as she reached the open door, she paused, and listened. She could hear her children talking and laughing with someone, but it was clear that they were definitely not talking to each other. She frowned and walked back into the room, just as the mist vanished again.

“Hey, guys. Who were you talking to?” The dark-haired woman asked. The children glanced at each other and shrugged. “No-one.” They answered in unison. She could tell from their expressions that they were hiding something, but, not wanting to upset them after such a sad day yesterday, she did not press them. “OK, come on guys, bedtime!” the dark-haired woman said, firmly but with a kind smile. So the children pushed their chairs back from the table, with a loud scraping sound, and ran obediently from the room and up the stairs. Within half an hour, both children were safely tucked up in their beds, reading their favourite books, and the dark-haired woman went downstairs to tidy the kitchen.

Later that night, when the family were asleep, the glowing mist floated gently back and forth between their three bedrooms, seemingly making sure they were all safe and sound. Then, apparently satisfied, it floated up through the ceiling, to take up residence in the attic. * The following day was Halloween, and the two children could not wait to go out 'Trick or Treating'. It was dark by 4pm, so the dark-haired woman helped them to put on their coats, gave them each a Halloween bag to put their goodies in, then ushered them out the front door. Thankfully, it was a dry afternoon, although it was very cold. The dark-haired woman blew hot breath into her hands, rubbing them together as she led the children down the road. Not wanting to wear the children out completely, they simply walked around the block, and were back home again within an hour. The children eagerly ran into the living room to examine their impressive haul, whilst the dark-haired woman slipped into the kitchen to prepare their tea. * Grandma's misty form floated a few inches over the fireplace, looking down on them as they emptied their 'Trick or Treat' sacks onto the living room rug. She smiled warmly at them, watching in silence as they sorted through their booty. The little girl held up a sweet, offering it to her relative, but the spectral old lady slowly shook her head. So the little girl shrugged, and popped it into her own mouth with a giggle. “K-I-I-I-D-S! TEA'S READY!” The dark-haired woman yelled suddenly, from the kitchen. When she got no response, she walked out of the kitchen, across the hallway and into the living room to fetch them. As she did so, the white mist floated up through the ceiling, out of sight. Then, as she returned to the kitchen, the mist reappeared in the passage, and followed silently behind her. Finally, the dark-haired woman heard her offspring trotting into the kitchen behind her, and she turned around to face them. The dark-haired woman gazed in horror at the white cloud, now floating in the kitchen doorway, and she dropped the open bottle of fizzy orange drink that she had been about to pour into spooky plastic glasses for her children. Just as the liquid began to spread across the kitchen floor, the doorbell rang. The children instantly ran back into the hallway, to answer the door. ”Damn!” she thought, snapping back to reality. “It can't be the party guests already, surely?!” A fraction of a second before the doorbell rang, Grandma's ghost, apparently sensing the visitors' approach, vanished into thin air. The dark-haired woman quickly mopped up the spillage and put the bottle on the kitchen table, then she walked quickly into the hallway, just as her children began to open the front door. “TRICK OR TREAT?!” came a loud shout from behind the front door. It wasn't the party guests after all; merely some hopeful children from down the street. Suddenly, the entire group screamed in terror and ran back up the path, most of them dropping their bags of sweets in their haste to get away. The dark-haired woman and her children turned around, to see her mum's ghost floating in the middle of the hallway behind them, silently laughing to herself. Realizing that the white cloud she had seen earlier, in the kitchen, was in fact also the ghost of her dear mum, the dark-haired woman heaved a sigh of relief, tinged with sorrow. The sight of Grandma's ghost laughing, coupled with the sweets littering the path, caused the two children to giggle. Seeing the two of them so happy, and 'reunited' with Grandma, the dark-haired woman began laughing, too. As they went back indoors, the dark-haired woman began to wonder if they could have some fun with Grandma's ghost during the party. She noticed that the mist had floated up into the attic after scaring the Trick or Treaters, so she made up her mind to go up there later, and see if she could persuade the spirit to make an appearance downstairs again, in front of all of the party guests. * Ten minutes later, everyone finally began to arrive for the party, and soon the house was ringing with laughter, and almost trembling with the rhythmn of spooky party tunes coming from the stereo. After making sure all of her guests were supplied with snacks and drinks, and encouraging them to mingle, she quietly slipped into the hallway again. Having overcome her initial fears, and sadness, at seeing her mother's ghost, the dark-haired woman now found herself actively seeking out the entity, whilst the Halloween party continued in the living room and the kitchen. As she heard laughter, and shrieks of delight in the kitchen, she crept back upstairs, opened the attic hatch, pulled down the ladder, and climbed up. “Mum? Are you up here?” She asked, hesitantly. As she waited, her heart pounded nervously in her chest. After a few moments, the mist slowly reappeared in the corner of the attic, glowing brightly.

“We're having a little Halloween party downstairs, with the kids and a few friends.” The dark-haired woman said to the mist. “Would you like to...join us?” It felt a bit strange asking a ghost to come to a party but, after a few seconds the mist began to pulse slowly with a bright white glow. She still had no idea that her children had already been communicating with her mum's ghost earlier in the day, but something told her that the pulsing light within the mist was, indeed, the spirit's way of responding to her offer. “OK, see you later”, the dark-haired woman said, before heading back down the attic ladder and making her way to the kitchen.

The party was in full swing now, and so the dark-haired woman decided to play a game with the visiting children. “Hey, kids.” She asked playfully. “Who wants to see...a real life ghost?” A few of the children shook their heads nervously, but the rest began jumping up and down, raising their hands, and calling out, “Me! Me! Me!” The dark-haired woman laughed, and then tried to quieten the children down. “Shush, shush, shush! OK, let's see if we can make her appear then, shall we?” she said. “I want everyone to shout out 'Grandma, where are you?' as loudly as possible, OK? After three. One...Two... Three!” “GRANDMA-A-A! WHERE A-A-ARE YOU-U-U?!” The children called in unison. Seconds later, the ceiling light began to flicker repeatedly, causing one or two of the children to scream, and then, a white mist began to seep through the ceiling, getting larger and larger. In spite of their fear, the visiting children watched open-mouthed, as the mist suddenly began to take the shape of an elderly woman.

The ghost hovered just above the floor in front of the children, smiling, then she began to wave slowly at them. Sensing that this was a 'good' ghost, rather than a 'bad' one, the children soon began to wave back. So Grandma's ghost began to put on a show for them, gliding through the walls and the ceiling, changing shape into various animals and cartoon characters, and pulling ridiculous faces.

The party guests were soon laughing and dancing around the room as Grandma's ghost entertained them, and, before they knew it, it was time for everyone to go home. As they left the house, each of the departing guests, including the adults, called out, “Bye Grandma!” * A few hours later, after all the guests had gone home, and her children were safely tucked up in bed, the dark-haired woman returned to the attic. As she knelt on the floor, the glowing white mist enveloped her entire body, giving her an immense feeling of euphoria. Finally at peace, the dark-haired woman crossed the attic, and made her way slowly back down the ladder to the hallway, just as the mist faded away for the very last time. “Goodbye Mum,” The young woman said quietly. “I love you.” THE END


First time writing in almost 10 years, this is a plot line I have that I've always loved, which I've re-written in a different way so I can see what my writing is like ten years on. Thank you! —— There are those sounds again of birds chirping and cars humming. Rays seeping through the uncovered gaps in the curtains begging me to finally wake up and get out of our bed, I feel a chill and slight melancholy - but why? I shrug it off, coffee time. I have a week off, bosses orders I’m not sure why he’s being so kind as I haven’t had a week off since I started my job. I sluggishly put my dressing gown on and head to the kitchen to see what I can muster up. “You’re finally awake, are you?” giggled a sleek silhouette behind the counter. “I’m not sure what you mean!” I paused, with a smirk. “You’re right, I just feel different today, sorry” “Don’t ever be sorry, do you want some coffee, love?” As the shadow began pottering away. My wife, my muse, my soul-bound lover. She always knows what to say, always knows what to do when I’m depressed - but why do I feel so alone right now? Life’s many mysteries I assume and plop myself down on the settee. Everything is so dark today, I can barely see my own wife but I feel her there and that’s good enough for me. The warmth of the coffee passed my lips as it filled my soul again with life. “Hun, as usual this is a great cup of coffee” I yelled from the living room to the kitchen not taking my eyes off this morning’s football results. Silence. She must have gone to get ready for our morning walk. I can’t wait to see her in one of her cute navy dresses she’s always spinning and twirling in, like a natural ballerina. “Where do you want to walk today? I was thinking of the riverside by that old church you’ve always liked - “ I pause. I feel a vibration within my pocket, who could possibly be calling me today? No one usually calls me on my days off except my wife, and of course she’s right here. I dig into my pocket and slip out my mobile with a reluctant sigh. “Hi honey” the voice shakily starts. “Morning, mum. Are you feeling okay? This is unusual” I inquisitively ask. “Do you not remember what day it is?” my mother has a concerned tone in her voice now. “No, it’s just my day off. Charlotte and I are just making coffee” I start to hear a soft sobbing on the other end of the phone. “It’s the 5th of June, your wife’s funeral is today” she quivers. “That’s impossible, she’s in the kitchen making breakfast” I chuckle. I brought the phone down to my chest. Mothers do say the darndest things sometimes, I wish she wasn’t playing such a cruel joke so early in the morning though. She knows how I get when I haven’t had my coffee yet. I took a deep sigh and placed the phone back to my ear, all I could hear was the sniffling and sobbing. Mum bursts out crying and all I heard was: “Charlotte is dead, Nick. It’s been two months and she's not here anymore. Look at the shadows, Nick. Look at what they really are!” I hear a sudden break in the telephone connection, she hung up. My heart rate is increasing now, I start to slowly look from the counter that I hung my head, to the corner where my wife was supposed to be. Just a cupboard, nothing else. That’s when it all came back to me, each tear at a time… it came back. Piercing sirens and blinding blue lights, shouting and crying with a car now slowly being lost to the blue abyss. I was frozen, out of body and out of mind… reliving a Hell my brain must have locked away for my own safety. I clutch my chest where my heart would be with an ache, not a dull one, but a million knives slicing at my will to live now. My throat is closing up, I can’t breathe a simulation of suffocating but it feels real. This explains the week off, this explains the sorrow I woke up with. My journey through life in these two months was nothing but a walk in the darkness, I never saw where I went, I never saw where I left, all I thought about was her. But I’m here now, Charlotte. I'm beside you. I’m at your grave, I’m sorry. I love you. The gravestone read: 1991 - 2020 Charlotte Bishop ‘Heart of steel, as a wife and as a lover.


“You will take 12 paces and turn”. The referee paused and looked to both men to ensure he had their attention. “Upon turning you may fire when the flag I hold hits the ground. As per the agreement this is a duel to the death and you may continue to fire until only one is left standing.” The referee realised the folly of such words but tradition dictated he say his passage. “Do you understand gentlemen?”. Alfred and Franklin both turned their heads to the referee and nodded their acceptance at the rules and the understanding that this was a duel to the death. The referee continued, “If either man fires before the flag hit the grounds...” A voice called from the crowd “We know the rules grand master pomp, take your rules shove em up your arse and give us the blood we came for, let them have at it!” The referee twitched as he always did when his ceremony was interrupted, none the less he acquiesced and once again noticed his life was to please the hoards. “Very well. Gentlemen you may begin the walk.” One. Alfred took his first step. In 16 years he had fought and won 53 duels, some for honour, some for fun but all for power. Now only Franklin stood in his way of being the greatest duelist in the land of Seackhan and with that came the fame, fortune and power that make a man grow old and fat. Maybe he would grow old and fat but today he only wanted his guns. His trigger finger twitched, it knew it would soon have to the pull the ring one final time, the hardest time, but his legacy demanded it. Two. Franklin’s right foot moved like a club hammer to its second step. His knee’s felt weak, his guts a wreathing mess of nerves and terror. It was not the duel he feared but his hands that wielded a gun. His father had taught him to shoot before he could walk and by the time he could walk he was already on the path of the duelist. He had vowed after his last duel 10 years ago to never lift a gun again but then Alfred had walked back into his life. Now he found himself taking the walk of the duelist, readying for the dance of the gunslinger one final time. Three. Alfred felt stronger with every step. His guns light on his hips, his mind focussed on the dot he envisioned between Franklin’s eyes. Franklin, the one everyone said could shoot the eye of an eagle from a hundred paces, Franklin the merciful who gave quarter to his opponents, Franklin the coward who had thrown his guns down because he could not walk the path of the duelist. Everywhere he went they spoke of Franklin, after today they would speak of him, Alfred Dead Eye. Four. Franklin stuttered, he was back in the town of Faldago staring at the face of a mere boy who lay dying with a gunshot to the neck. Franklin had missed, the boy should be dead and the ritual complete. He watched as the life flowed from the body of the dying duelist into his own, slowly the boys eyes became glass, the chest moved slower, the breath left his body and finally the twitching ceased. Franklin stared at the face of the boy and then turned to see the streaked face of a girl, the boys lover he guessed. He turned back to the boy and for the first time ever found himself repulsed. Five. “When you kill a man, you do it fast and you do it straight”. They were the words of Alfred’s father but Alfred had learnt there is no killing fast or straight, only killing. People have these notions of honour and chivalry. Fools, all of them, Alfred thought. What honour is there blowing a man’s head open? No, the path of the duelist is not honourable or chivalrous and there is no room for love or kin. The path of the duelist is a path of power. Today, Alfred thought, that power will be mine. Six: Franklin’s mind lurched again, back to the time when he had won his guns. The gun, it is said, picks its owner and the gun can be wielded by no other until it is won. Franklin knew this not to be true, he had not won his guns, he had taken them. He had set out on the long walk, him and five companions set to find their guns as apprentice duelists were sent to do. Those that returned with their guns would be deemed duelists, those that did not would be set to go on the great wander. Franklin returned a duelist Seven: Alfred seethed with hatred, for 16 years he had wandered. He had won his dueling guns in the first year, using common pistols he had shot an old slinger who thought he could still duel, he had his dueling guns. In the second year he made his name, by the tenth year he was accepted as one of the great duelists. Now, today, in this moment, he would win the guns that belonged to him. Franklin the great? Franklin the robber more like. Alfred steadied his finger, he steadied his mind. He took another step. Eight: Franklin saw the guns at the same time as Alfred, they both saw the guns. They hung in the air as only unclaimed dueling guns do and they called to their owner. Alfred was faster, more adept and more determined to claim the guns. Franklin was slow, hesitant but he feared the wander, more he feared his father. He unslung his bow, nocked his arrow and followed the motion of Alfred. He asked Alfred for forgiveness and let the arrow loose. Alfred fell from his horse and Franklin rode past to claim the guns. Nine: Alfred’s father looked at him, shame in his eyes. For generations the family had all been duelists, none set for the long wander. Alfred protested he had been robbed but his father said the gun chooses not the person. “You wander now boy, you find the path, you find your honour and maybe one day you can return.” Alfred looked at his father but no forgiveness was there, only a hard stare that set him on his way. Ten: For ten years Franklin had not dueled. He vowed to never consume the life force from another duelist ever again, to never stare at the face of pain again and to never take that which was not his to take. The guns felt heavy on his hips, his finger was moist, his breathing ragged. Now Alfred had come, Franklin always knew he would. In 6 years as a duelist he had slain 35 people but none of them were Alfred. The guns called to Alfred, the guns compelled Franklin to answer. Eleven: Alfred stared at the people in front of him, did they remember who he was? He looked for his fathers face in the crowd but knew he would not find it. He had heard he died but two years after he was set to wandering, a drunken brawl, it sounded fitting to Alfred. Alfred heard the clink of Franklin’s boot, time to duel. Twelve: The final step was all Franklin needed, he was a killer. He senses heightened and his palms dried. I am prepared to die, I am prepared to kill, the gun is me and I am the gun. His finger twitched, it itched. He was ready to kill. The duelists turned, the flag dropped, the brothers fired.


Blackness greeted me when I woke. It took me a few more seconds to realize that the darkness was probably attributed to the fact that my eyes were closed. There was no improvement upon opening them, however, and I grew more and more concerned. I seemed to be in a box of some kind. I knew not where I was, or how I had gotten there. After a moment of panic I noticed a gentle soothing sound, almost similar to the sound of water rushing along rocks. I listened to it for a few more seconds, attempting to gain control of my mounting panic. The control failed and my imagination took over. The sound began to seem more and more like the sound of dirt falling slowly onto a coffin. Was I being buried alive? My body stiffened at the thought. My hands ran over the inside of my box, searching for a way out. I would dig out if I had to. The air seemed to becoming thinner. How long would it be before I suffocated completely? I strained against the walls. I kicked the roof. I scratched the floor. Everything was smooth and metallic in texture except the soft memory-foam like material that I was resting on. Then, my fingers caught on a depression in the metal, just above my chest. I brought both of my hands up to try and figure out what it was. A click and a soft hissing noise filled my small enclosure as I pushed the button. Light spilled in from the sides, as the lid of what I had thought was my casket began to open automatically. I sat up slowly, blinking away the spots that had showed up in response to the light. The sight that greeted me was hardly the dark gloomy setting of a cemetery. I seemed to be in a long white hallway. What looked like windows on the walls were made from one-way glass, blocking my view of what was outside of my mysterious hallway. All around me were more of the coffin-shaped boxes, although I could see now that they were very modern in their design. They were made of the same white plastic material that made up the rest of the hallway and each had a gently glowing blue light on the end. Upon closer examination I realized that my light had turned to a harsh red. I began to try and stand up when a screen suddenly came to life on the wall across from mine and a thin, almost fake-looking woman’s face appeared in the center. Her voice rang through the halls with a short message: “Hello, and welcome to the future! It is very possible that you are experiencing momentary memory loss. We apologize for the inconvenience, but we assure you that it is only temporary. To help your memory recover, please watch the following film summarizing your own history and that of the others around you. Enjoy!” The screen flickered and images began to run across the screen of what I assumed were important events in the past. I saw ruined cities, flooded plains, dried-out farms, and homes on fire. A new, gentler voice began to narrate the images. “In the past, it became clear to us that history was repeating itself over and over again. The same problems were reccurring every few hundred years, sometimes with disastrous consequences. After going through the same types of issues many times, it became obvious that the outcomes of those events were based mainly on the leading people of the nations involved. Environmental problems were best addressed when someone with the correct motivation and personality was able to come out and lead others away from destructive tendencies. Social problems were an enigma to those who did not have an intuitive sense of how to deal with them. Wars were lost without leaders who truly understood the principles or war. That is why we developed a way to keep those types of people in reserve for a rainy day. You are aboard the product of that research right now. You are on the Starship Ares.” Once the video stopped, all that remained was the strange watery sound that I had heard before. I figured now that it was the sound of some sort of machinery aboard the ship, but it still made me somewhat nervous. I had never been aboard a spaceship that I could remember, no matter what the lady in the television was telling me. Then again, I couldn’t remember much of anything. I began to try and stand up, but just as I started to move, a door opened at the end of the corridor and an extremely pale man walked through. I tried to rise faster, but found that my legs were almost completely useless. I could barely move them. “Just a moment, master. I’ll be right there,” said the pale man as he came towards me. “Your leg muscles have atrophied a bit, I imagine. It has been a long time since you were last woken.” I didn’t respond, but stared warily at the stranger. He seemed to know me, and yet his face was not familiar. He came up to the side of my box and knelt beside it. He was very tall, and even on his knees he towered over me. He wore a flowing robe of white, with four separate pockets sewed in to the sides. Out of one he pulled what looked like a gun. I strained my legs in trying to rise and defend myself, but he pushed me gently back down onto the foam beneath me. “Relax, master. It will help you to move your legs and the rest of your body. It is a drug that will stimulate growth in your muscles. You have been in one position for a very long time, and though the ship has done its best to care for you, there are some side-effects. This will counter them.” Realizing that I didn’t have much of a choice, I relaxed my body back down and allowed him to inject me with whatever it was. He applied it to each separate major muscle in my legs, and I could feel a cool soothing feeling travelling up my legs. I found I could move my toes and eventually I was able to shift my legs. He continued with the same process around the rest of my body. I had been very sore initially, and this brought great relief. “Who are you?” I asked. “What am I doing here?” He looked at me with an almost bemused look. His face was long and his eyes were an almost luminous blue. He had no hair or eyebrows, and when he opened his mouth, I could see that it was almost black. Even with this somewhat alarming combination of facial features, he had a kind face. “I am hurt, master. You do not remember me? I have served by your side for many years, and in many battles. I am Frederick, but you usually call me Fred unless you are angry at me,” he said, smiling. “As for what you are doing here, the video explained that. You are here to save the world,” he continued, before saying finally, “again.


A crashing halt. The cacophonous resonance of thunder blared through the sky, rousing me from a restless sleep. I looked outside. We were nowhere near Greymade Station, the train had stopped. Violent rain pelted the window where I pressed my forehead against the glass. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or filled with resentment. The longer it took to reach my sister’s cottage, the longer I could prolong the inevitable. Part of me wished the train would never move again.

I sat up and craned my neck to see as far out the window as possible. Dark clouds circled from the south. From what I could tell, the worst was yet to come. I could see black smog floating towards the furthestmost car where I sat. It must be the reason we stopped. I heard the sound of other passengers moving from the hall, worried voices asking each other questions about what happened. Nobody had any clue but saw the smog the same way I did. I joined the frenzied crowd that amassed beyond my compartment. While the others feared how long we would remain stagnant, I feared what would happen when we moved.

There was a small window in the door at the back of the train car, I could see nothing by endless skies of black. Not to say looking forward was much better. The train appeared to have stopped on a bridge above a large chasm. Between the storm and the smog, nobody could see what was at the bottom of the chasm. Was it a river? Or a lake? Perhaps it was just a cliff. Or maybe, nothing at all. Maybe the only thing to reside at the base of the chasm was an endless black void. Either way, nobody was bound to be leaving that train anytime soon.

I intended to visit my sister and her family in the northern country, but I knew what really awaited me when I arrived. On one of my few precious weekends away from the drudgery of corporate life, I would spend my days being told how far behind in life I was. No husband. No children. No house to call my own, just a lofty apartment above an old bakery run by a man who’s passions died decades ago. There I could watch from the window as mounds and mounds of unsold bread were tossed into the streets. Stale, unwanted, useless. Day in and day out I worked for others, nothing more than the secretary to men who only cared to see me if I were stark naked. My weekends were scarce respite to an otherwise meaningless existence, and yet, I was headed for a place where I would be equally unseen.

A clap of lightning dashed across the sky, I heard gasps from the nearby passengers, startled by the sudden flash. But I remained still. To my left, two men in gray suits left the confines of their compartment and stepped into the hall. They spoke so loudly, that I didn’t think it would be considered eavesdropping if I listened. And so I did.

“I knew I never should have left when I did. If I stayed at work for an extra hour I could have taken the next train and missed this mess.” the first of the men declared. “I could be in a meeting with the president of sales, not stuck on some junk heap of a train!” “You think you have it bad? My wife is awaiting my return. I have mouths to feed, and woman to satisfy! I can’t be stuck here when there’s so much to do back home!” The second man replied.

“You say that as though you didn’t spend your entire ‘business trip’ satisfying women!” The first man bellowed, slapping his companion on the back proudly.

“You’re one to talk! At least I know how to live outside of work! My existence isn’t tied to some dingy office!”

Both men laughed heartily while I rolled my eyes. All anyone seems to care about is a life of work or the pursuit of domesticity. I thought, at the very least, my precious weekend would spare me from the talk of the corporate world. Another boom of lightning rattled the train car. The laughter of the men ceased, and the wail of a child began. The discordant cries were the most harrowing sound to my ears.

I walked to the back of the car, hoping to distance myself as much as physically possible from everyone else. I gazed out the only southward-facing window, staring directly into the oncoming storm. The closer it grew, the less I could see of the tracks behind. I could no longer see where we came from, leaving the only direction to be the one ahead, the one with infinitesimally less to look forward to. I could see it in my mind, the moment I stepped onto the platform at Greymade Station my sister would rush to me and complain about my tardiness. She’d tell me she had no time to make dinner, the kids were running rampant and her husband was nowhere to be found. In a huff, she’d drag me to her small house where clutter filled the space she had no time to clean. I’d look at her with pity, unable to recognize the woman she once was, her ambitions choked out of her the moment she said ‘I do’. And still, I’d see myself in her eyes, the same shade of gray as mine, and I would feel the blood rush from my face. But at the end of the night, when he husband finally appeared, the meals were consumed and the children in bed, she would try to convince me this was the life of her dreams. She would feign a smile and tell me she wanted nothing more out life, and could die tomorrow in complete satisfaction.

The wind outside picked up, and the train car rattled bringing me back to reality. I shook my head, losing the lump in my throat. This was my weekend. My precious time away from the real world. How ungrateful I must be to harbor such negative thoughts. I turned around to find myself alone once again. Everyone had since retreated into their compartments while I was lost in my twisted thoughts. I strolled to the opposite end of the car, my heart racing abnormally. Rain began to pound upon the windows to my right. Each drop struck so hard, that I feared it would break through the glass. I faced the small window that peered into the next train car. I could only see inside as the smog swallowed the northern tracks. I watched an elderly man and woman hold hands in one compartment. I saw children playing games with their father in another. The lights inside that car glowed softly, with warmth and invitation. A surge of yearning swelled within me, if only for a moment.

I thought back to my week. Every day was the same. I awoke before the break of dawn, ate a meal of plain porridge and eggs, and then went to work until the sun began to set. I’d listen to complaints, organize things that would only fall into disarray in a matter of days, suffer constant belittlement from my superiors, and leave without making a difference. Day in and day out I worked only for a paycheck that embarrassed me to receive. This isn’t the life I set out to create. Men told me day in and day out how ‘independent’ I was, but never meant it as a good thing. Women expressed their admiration for me and still looked down on me with judgment. For a while, I believed it. I believed my monotonous life was an act of bravery and expression but I remain unfulfilled. I return to my darkened flat every night without a soul to greet me. Not a person to care whether I awoke the next morning or not. I began to wonder whether I would be remembered at all. There was a woman with whom I worked, her youth had long since abandoned her. Allegedly, long ago she had the habit of lighting up a room. It was rare to see a woman in the office when she first began, but that didn’t stop her. On occasion she told me about the dreams she once had, warning me against making her foolish mistakes, because now, she was old and tired. Any hopes and ambitions she might have had once upon a time have been admonished and forgotten in the many years she rotted in that lifeless office. Over time her will was beaten down, and her passions withered like stones on the ocean floor. I’d heard the lecture before but never heeded her words now I fear it may be too late, and all this time I’ve been looking into a mirror of myself from another age.

Wherever I was, people told me I should be somewhere else. There seemed to be no true path. Nothing would satisfy the hunger for more, and satisfaction in the little things was a fantasy. Whether I faced storm or smog there was no happy ending. The choice to live a life of quiet domesticity or to pursue the reality of working for myself left me feeling like a dog chasing its tail. My only solace came from this brief respite, the unmoving train, and my weekend. As long as nothing moved, I didn’t have to face the reality I drowned in, the reality where I swam for miles and barely kept my head above water.

With a final crash of lightning, clouded with smog and rain, the world outside began to inch forward. My heart stopped and my stomach dropped. My only moment of peace, the only rest between two horrors came to a crashing halt. I closed my eyes, hoping it was a trick of the mind, an illusion. But I could feel the train moving beneath my feet, and ever so slowly, we carried on. I was reminded that in life there are no breaks, no time for pauses or hesitation. Every day I floundered in place was a day the world carried on without me.

Rain turned to hail, and soon everything outside was enveloped in a thick black cloud. No longer could I see what surrounded me. I stumbled to the back of the car for the last time, desperate to find some way to stop myself from moving forward. I was running nowhere. I couldn’t go on and I couldn’t go back. I needed some way to stay still without running around in circles! Nothing changes! Nothing can ever be how it was!  I couldn’t take it anymore, I reached the limit. I couldn’t live like that any longer. I reached the back door and pried it open in a frenzy. Immediately my skirts and hair were whisked in a storm of wind and hail. I threw myself onto the vestibule, clinging to the railing along the perimeter, and the door slammed behind me. I didn’t care, I wouldn’t go back. I could see virtually nothing, the foul odor of sulfur filled my nose and made my head spin. I pulled myself up by the railing, hail and rain pounding into my flesh. It felt like the end of the world standing out there. I could see nothing behind me, nor could I see what was ahead. Even the bottom of the chasm roared with uncertainty. There was no sky, no ground, nothing but bitter air and the cold. My heart pounded through my chest as I found the strength to face the unknown. As the train passed over the final stretch of the chasm, I made my choice. It was the first choice that felt like my own. I raised one foot over the edge of the vestibule, and let go of everything holding me back. As I closed my eyes one last time, I heard the gentle sound of laughter. A giddy song rang through my ears, and the voice was my own. I hadn’t laughed in such a long time. At last, I recalled the only remaining joy in my life. Until then, I forgot the simple elation that kept me afloat.

As with everything else, that too, amounted to nothing.


“As a boy, he would have been found exploring the woods around his village, climbing the oaks and pines. In the upper most branches, where the wind swayed the tree and solid footing was a distant memory, he would look to the great mountain in the distance. Taller than even the highest tree in his forest, he yearned to one day see the world looking down from it. Every chance to slip away from his parents was taken, his hunger for adventure insatiable. Headstrong and brimming with the energy of a child yet to understand the harsh realities of the world, he would explore until long after supper. Gladly he weathered his mother’s yelling, as well as whatever blunt object was near his father when he came back. Never one to learn his lesson, back in the forest he would be the next day, searching for nothing and everything. Of course, boys have to grow up. As he became older, more responsibilities were thrust on him. He had to chop wood, start the fire, tend to the livestock, and make sure his father’s inn was presentable. Though he couldn’t explore as much as he had as a child, his father’s occupation gave him plenty of opportunity to meet all kinds of travelers, and promptly berate them with questions. With every story his need to see the world grew, and again he would look to the mountain and wonder about its secrets. He saw it so often he felt he knew it as one knows an old friend… that is until one day, when he looked to the mountain to see that something had changed. He couldn’t quite place why, or what had changed, but for the first time in his life he looked to that mountain with something other than longing. Now, it was unease that he felt. Something was different, was wrong, and he didn’t know what. Time passed and soon he found himself on the cusp of manhood, working almost all day to help his father. With less and less time for himself, his adventures dwindled, happening only on the rare occasion when little needed to be done. One day, when the urge to go back into the woods became too strong to resist, he fled his responsibilities and went deep into his forest. Years had passed since he’d come this far, but it felt familiar, like he was visiting home after a long trip away. Again he found himself climbing, higher than any sane person dared, and looking. Taking in the world that he was able to see and dreaming of what he couldn’t. All day he stayed there, and felt truly happy. Unfortunately, it would be one of the last times he felt such childlike wonder. All through the night he stayed up there, looking to the stars. Until something caught his eye. A flicker of orange, from the direction of his village. A flicker that grew, and lit up the night. As it spread his horror grew, and he scrambled down the tree. By the time he made it back, it was too late. Something had come through his home, and destroyed everyone and everything he had ever known. Still numb from his loss, he gathered what supplies he could. He walked, stopping and working for food when he had to, and kept walking. Through great mountain ridges and across sprawling plains, traversing a continent more beautiful than he had ever imagined. Eventually he found himself in a city unlike any he had seen before, home to an emperor and grand architecture older than time. Here, he finally discovered what had happened. In taverns he dug up the rumors from sailors and merchants alike, some sort of monster had descended from its great stone dwelling, and was destroying everything in its path. Obsessed, he never stopped asking about the beast, trying to learn as much about it as he could. Eventually, he stumbled upon a scholar who claimed to have the knowledge necessary to defeat this monster through some ancient text, and found a renowned fighter willing to teach him. Day in and day out he trained, obsessed to the point of what most would consider insanity, until he became a great warrior and was prepared to kill this monstrosity that had destroyed his life, and his home. No longer a boy, the man left the city. Back to his village he went, the charred remains a skeleton of his youth. One final time, his forest called to him. Again he climbed the branches, and again he looked to the mountain. In his eyes one would see grim determination, a smoldering anger that had built for years. Finally, he would climb the mountain. And climb he did, higher than any before him. He was a force of sheer will, and he did not rest until he found that creatures’ home. Inside of a massive cavern he met the great beast, a source of unfathomable pain and anguish to those it had killed, and even more so to those it hadn’t. Here, man and monster fought. Here, our hero slays the source of his torment, exacting his revenge. The battle came at a cost, however. Mortally wounded and weary beyond belief, the hero crawled out of the cave and propped himself up against the mountain. The mountain that was now his. Before him lay a view he could never have imagined. He saw the valley of his youth, sprawling forests and sapphire rivers cutting through the trees. He wondered how many of those trees he had climbed, looking to this mountain. There, on the edge of eternity, he finally found the peace that had eluded him for so long. A smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes.” “That’s it”, the son asked, “He dies?” “Yes.” The father replied. “But the hero always lives” Sighing, the father says, “That’s because the hero’s that die often have trouble telling others their tale” “Then how do you know this story?” The son replied. “I once heard-” “I mean, how could a story about someone who died alone possibly be real?” Glaring at his son, the father replies, “You ask too many damn questions. Now eat your dinner and be quiet.” Later that night, the father stood alone behind the bar of his inn. He polished the gleaming wood, engrossed completely in his thoughts. They swirled around in his head, dark and unyielding. His father before him had given him this inn and he ran it to the best of his ability, which turned out to be very good. The man grabbed a glass and stared into it, sighing. He’d found success, at least in the monetary sense, throughout his life and his kids wouldn’t have to worry about much when they came of age. These things should make him happy, as they would most men. Instead he feels like the empty glass in his hands. As a glass should be filled with drink, so too should he have been filled with adventures. Always the road had called to him, and always he had allowed responsibility to stop his feet. Sometimes, late at night when all the world was asleep and none could hear, he secretly wished a beast had come to his village. He wishes to feel the branches beneath him one more time, a final glance to the mountain, a dream of adventure in his heart. Note: This is pretty much the first short story I've ever written. Decided to post it on here because I'd love to hear some honest feedback from people who aren't friends and family. I have personal things I don't like about the story, but I would love to hear some constructive feedback from you guys. Feel free to be as brutal as you like.


I endlessly floated in the tapestry of space for an unknown length of time; maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe years — I couldn’t tell and I lost count after a day or two. In that time I thought about the day Death came to me. I was sitting in my living room, reading a book, when a burning pain exploded over my chest. I gripped my chest, dug my nails into my flesh, as if I could reach into my body and rip the problem out with my own two hands. I couldn’t catch my breath, no matter how much I gulped up the air. Sweat and tears streaked my beet-red face as I toppled onto the floor. I struggled to stand, get to the phone sitting on the kitchen counter, but my body wouldn't listen to anything beyond the sharp, enveloping pain piercing through me. Then, he appeared, looming like a black monolith. His tattered black robes slithered in the air like coils, melting, moving, across the carpet, up the walls, sticking to the ceiling. Oily tar dripped from the cloth stalactites that formed above him, hissing as it hit the floor, burning holes. Putrid decay wafted through the apartment like a breeze from the dankest, deepest well, housing corpses upon corpses long perished. A fine, greenish fog billowed out from his black, bottomless hood, drifting over everything, making my once livable apartment until a swamp without the murk, mud, or water. “I’ve come to take you,” he said with a hollow, deep voice. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to yelp, and cats hissed. “No— please,” I grunted, turning over onto my back, the pain ebbing like waves of fire. “I’ll do— anything— please.” Death glanced over my apartment, then looked down to me. His cloak vanished, the fog dissipated; the smell, the oily tar; everything disappeared. He store before me in a black suit, gleaming black shoes, with a overhanging hood over his head, casting his face in impenetrable shadows. “This is such a small place to live in and, look, you don’t even have a view.” He glided across the floor to the french doors, overlooking the small grassy lot in between apartment complexes. Death threw open the doors, and leaned out over the painted chipped railing. He inhaled heavily, then coughed. “And, God, it smells, too.” He returned inside, without closing the doors, and appeared before me again. If it wasn’t for the pain or for me slowly dying, I would’ve wondered why Death was so strange. “Life,” I gasped. “What?” He bent forward. “Didn’t hear you, sorry, you have to speak up.” “Life!” He laughed, holding his stomach and leaning back. “Life!" he bellowed, ash puffed out from the hood, forming small motes in the air. "Why does everyone want more than what they have? ‘Give me more! I don’t deserve to die yet! Please, please! I have kids! I have a family! I have a level 83 monk with ultra-rare armor! Blah blah blah!‘ Annoying species, you are. You know some animals accept and recognize when their time comes? They make the best of what they have, lie down and let go? Why can’t humans be like that? They always want more, stay just a little bit longer, as if that extra time mattered at all, even if it’s for naught. “But luckily for you, you poor, poor soul, you began dying at the right time. I’ve been meaning to test this out, so why not now? I will grant you immortality, but once all human life has ended, I will come to you and take you to the other side. No more begging, no more pleading, no more asking for more; you will accept it without question. Got it?” He knelt and poked my forehead with his pointer finger, stripped of flesh, blood, muscle; a long, thin bone. A cold, numbing sensation spread across my face, settling in the back of my head. It oddly feel soothing, like an icy snake flowing through my veins, wrapping around my organs, settling my innards down for a long, comfortable sleep. “That sound good to you?” I nodded, feverishly. "Yes, please—" “Fine, then let's begin” He took his finger away, then spread his open, skeletal palm over my face, and a Novocain numbness and winter frigidness flooded through me, and I immediately blacked out. When I came to, maybe three weeks later, I was still on the carpet. Slowly I got up, switched on the TV, and went into the kitchen. The news announcer said that scientists have discovered that the earth was on the brink of exploding — something to do with the inner core, atoms, implosion — and soon thereafter, the sun would soon follow-suit by dying out. And now I was there, sometime later, endlessly floating in space. The Earth exploded and the Sun died out, blackness gave way to more blackness. “Looks like you’re in a pickle. Pick, pick, pickle.” He laughed from somewhere in the nothingness surrounding me. “God I loved that show. Too bad I’ll never see a reunion or a reboot.” “Just kill me already.” I said, flatly. “Oh? Yes, I almost forgot... No, no, I won’t be killing you, not now, or anytime soon I'd think, at least.” I strained my eyes to look into the darkness in front of me, seeing nothing, then looked over my shoulder to receive the same results. Where the hell was here? “What— Why?” “You’re not the only human who survived.” “Bullshit.” “No — you would think that — but no. There’s still a couple hundred floating elsewhere in this darkness; some rich folk were smart enough to build their own space shuttles before disaster struck and what-not so they could live in space. I think they’re trying to find a sustainable life on other planets.” “But, but—” “You accepted the bargain, now you must deal with it.” “But I’m out here! In the middle of fucking nowhere, literal nothingness!” Before his voice disappeared, he said, “Like the old saying goes, 'Don’t ask for what you can’t handle.