Sensitive data for Australian Aborigines. Suicide. Phenomena ************************************** Australia does not have castles, nor have I ever been in a castle. The official date of European occupation occurred on the 26th of January, 1777. The dark history of colonisation started the terror forever placed in the ancestrial genetic memory of all Aboriginal people continuing today. On January 1st, 1901, a group of hairy, long bearded, glim men sweltered under canvas shelters established the Commonwealth of Australia for Whites to govern in their own right. The washout photographs remind me of garden gnomes piled together in the overgrown weeds and grass of an abandoned house. The sensitive land energy, the Ley lines, the Dreaming paths became agriculture, mining, and cattle stations to fill our coffers. The original nomadic caretakers were hunted, killed, or indoctrinated with Christianity, and children put in reserves stolen from their families. They were depersonalised, demoralised, and segregated as slaves and non citizens. As a child, a mansion was a double storey brick house with three or four bedrooms with maybe a shed and chicken coup in the backyard. The old, large residences in my hometown of Ipswich, often from wealthy landowners, once boarded and lodged house staff, such as cooks, nannies and farmhands. In my childhood in the 1970's. Ipswich was built up and I rarely travelled to Brisbane. There was a song called "Little Boxes," sung by Malvena Reynolds, a Californian lass. I remember once a week, the higher primary school grades, grades 4,5,6, and 7 would be tuned into ABC radio for children's singing lessons broadcast, today that would be probably be called a podcast. Before the broadcast at 2pm would start, we would be instructed to find our music books, printed and delivered to our school before each school term in our desks. We had four school terms per year and between the earlier school terms, usually two weeks holidays and end of year term, a six week holiday. Our music books, under our table, on an open wooden shelf, would be found and opened on our desks tops in a sort of passive military fashion; that day, we turned to page 42.

The broadcast did its usual format of playing the full song first. There would be a basic discourse and a space in the broadcast of around 15 minutes, where the teacher and class discussed the context of the song and its deeper meaning. Little Boxes was a satire on suburbian housing development. We would then learn the chorus followed by the verses. I still remember today joyously singing with the rest of the students., "Little Boxes on the hillside little boxes made of ticky tacky... ...Little boxes all the same..." My husband belonged to the middle class, he worked a teacher's job. Mine was a sewing job from home where I could work and mother my kids. We were renting and, to our delight, had saved money for a bigger family home, one where I might have a sewing room. The local Queensland Times newspaper, each Saturday, printed a life out local real estate section. There in the tiolet, my only private place and refuge of uninterrupted reading, I saw our home! A fibro teal house, with three bedrooms and sleep out. The price is $35,000.

We bought the house, now our home. I remember being told to always start a garden first, as an established garden, in the future, could add at least $20,000 to the sale of property. Tall gum trees and two Acacia trees shaded the property, so we added rose bushes, salvaged native cuttings and ground covers from our late afternoon pram walks, bought shrubs, and hung old man's beards in the front garden on the Acacia. The shade gave easy growth and along with summer high humidity and rainfalls the samplings flourished. We polished the floors, fixed the plumbing, painted the walls, and hung fairy lights on the verandah. Soon, we had our own oasis. The local children would say to my daughter, as they walked home together after school that our home was "The Witch's House" I got to know all three neighbours adjacent to us, we lived near a bend in the street. One an older lady with disabled adult son, another a married couple expecting their first child, and the last a couple of childless Swingers.

Danni, the Swinger, would often visit me in the afternoon for a cup of tea and chat. I think she was basically lonely, but i could not dismiss the fact that it was around 3pm, the time our school would finish and my husband would usually arrive around 3.30 pm, where she would sheepishly smile at him entering the front door. That day, my 3 year old son sat on the lounge, sheet draped over him talking to his imaginery friend. Danni heard him. "Does he do that often?" With a raised eyebrow, I replied, "Kids have imaginary friends, " Danni persisted, "I knew the last owners of this place. I visited them once here, and it put chills through my spine!" Half heartedly, tired from a sleepless night, I gave, "Ah ha" Danni persisted, "Mrs Rodgers across there had to have her house blessed. A child spirit switched on her television, flushed her tiolet and could be heard laughing and playing with two other spirit children. She taped it so she would be taken seriously by the catholic priest"

Squinting my eyes and looking at my tea, "Yer?" As Danni left, "He could be talking to one of those spirits?" I said nothing. Two years later, the memory of what Danni had said come to mind, when the usual smell of burning toast came from the kitchen, the usual cafe curtains rolling and tangling themselves on the curtain rod above the kitchen sink, the usual feeling of the house feeling 40 degrees Celsius occurred on that winter's day. I wondered?

To put an end to thoughts, I had time on my hands as my son was in Grade one then. I decided to visit the City's house and land history library. A beginner, I asked for assistance from the grey haired volunteer librarian. Scattered copies of our land and home covered the table to reveal our land was once a rental home for defence personnel. The original home was destroyed in a house fire June 23, 1978. The land was left vacant until 1983, where a private buyer built our current home. My first thought was our home was very differently structure from the layout of all the old Officers homes built around us. It was the same cheap fibro, yes, the same all the other houses in the neighbourhood however the house layout was different. Our bedrooms were larger, we had a sleep out and we had heaps of storage cupboards. The wood floors were mahogany coloured and tight in their placement. The kitchen and entrance was where the original homes loungeroom was. Our laundry was outside and we had a large wheelchair access ramp to our backyard. We had a lock up carport also! A hasty, investigative, fast car drive took me to the Queensland Times archives at Warwick Road, Ipswich. I explained, "Um I'm researching a house fire that happened June 23rd, 1978 at 9 Berry Street, Leichhardt". After showing my drivers license of the same address, I was lead to a dim lit room.

A large square dinosaur computer hogged the space and chair was available. The secretary pull a square box from the archived high shelf labelled with a sticker, "June 1978". A microfilm roll was placed on a gadget and rolled out and fastened to a permanent empty roll on the left hand side of the viewer, so the film would roll. The computer screen, revealed photographs of the day after the fire. The front page showed the construction of a new shopping centre. There was a car yard sale, adds for Holden's and the next page had a car sale yard for Fords and Country Women's association stall of knitting, crocheted coat hangers, shawls and a close up of a group of women posing casually.

The secretary invited me to sit. I was shown how to operate the machine by pushing a fast forward button and as the film noisly whirred thru the contraption. There it was! Cover story 25th June, 1978, "House Inferno kills Leichhardt mother and three children" The secretary interrupted, "It's 10 cents per photocopy?"

After a couple of hours, I left with a manilla folder of papers of information about our home. My husband browsed that, "Well we have a bit of a haunting here then?"

"Hmph, yer guess so?" Each afternoon, I would tend to our garden, it was relaxing. Hand hosing our herb section near the mailbox. Mrs Rodgers saw me, quicly went inside her house, a her screen door banged. I looked up from my meditative state. Next, she returned, walking towards me with letters in her hand. "Hi Georgia" Extending her hand,she passed me the letters wrongly delivered, "New postman I think"

They were mostly junk mail except for a Christmas card. "Sorry, I forgot all about them" Smiling and rolling my eyes, "It happens" She stood still. "Hey look" I said walking to the tap, with her following, I turned off the water supply and spied her out of the corner of my eye as I rolled up the hose on a partly rusted car tyre rim bolted to the stump. I casually spoke, knowing she had something on her mind. "Do you want a cuppa" The tension went from her body, "Yes, that would be nice lovey". The kettle boiled and small talk followed something deeper. She broke the ice of polite conversation to her own subject, her son was moving into State care, as he needed extra care. Saddened, I listened to the brief details, but they were very brief, I felt like she had not finished. "Your husband mentioned you know about the fire?" My mind changed to a different gear. "Yah" I replied fumbling the tea cup "What another cuppa?". Shc followed me to the kichen with her cup. I rinsed our cups placed new teabags in them and got the milk from the fridge. She persisted, "The family was a nice family. The kids were friends with my son and daughter you know. It was tragic. Our loungeroom windows cracked from the heat..."

Going to our lounge with new fluid, "... When the new people built, they had teenagers. They would often travel and those kids would have noisy parties..."

I remembered myself , those time in the 1980s. The Airforce kids were called "RAAF (Royal Australian Airforce) brats". I had attended Ipswich State High. The RAAF brats stuck together. I was included at school with my age RAAF friends but never allowed to go to the parties. "Too Wild", my father said frowning. Mrs Rodgers touched me on my hand interrupting my thoughts. "At the parties, the kids would get drunk and hold seances with oujii board..." Her eyes grew large as she clutched her tarnished silver cross securely on her necklace, draped near her heart. Her cashmere jumper so soft reminded me she was a conservative, neatly presented person even in her home clothes. "...My daughter was at one of those parties, where they summoned the dead mother and her kids. I remember her banging on our door, "Mum, let me in", she yelled near midnight. "Our Kelly had the hairs of her head standing on ends, her face was white, and she was shaking" In the disclosure, Mrs Rodgers said our home had to be exorcised. The house was freezing even in the middle of Summer. A dark heavy shadow enveloped the house. A rancid smell of sulphur would catch her nose and stay in her nostrils when the wind blew from that direction. She would emphasise, "I said my protection prayers for my family and the neighbourhood. I was worried" The previous owners had strange things happen like doors opening and closing by themselves, the lights flickered all day, curtains would plait, spectres appeared in their garden, but the worst could not be ignored!

Mrs Rodgers asked me for a paper and pen. She scawled our front porch, horror rocking the pen, to sketch an outline of what looked like two oval sticks in the ground at the base of our stairs, Pointing Mrs Rodgers exclaimed, "I saw that myself! They found the handle of their two knives, which disappeared found buried so the blades stuck up. Mrs Smyt was pushed by something at that staircase. She fell rolling and grabbed the rail to be pierced in her thigh by that knife." Mrs Rodgers pointed at the left knife. "I mean lucky her. she was able to stop her fall or who knows? Blood! ambulance! And the likes". I learnt a fairly happy family became angry, fighting. The kids were having nightmares, they became more than rebellious and the marriage was strained with Mr Smyt loosing his job. The eldest child was killed in a road accident, so bad the police could not identify him. And Mr Smyt hung himself exactly where Kelly told me they had the oujii board. A catholic priest and his trainee were called to our home. The exorcism started. The loungeroom where the seance occurred was the pit of activity. The blinds rolled up and down by themselves. The main window glass bubbled inwards, then pushed out exploding shatters of glass out towards the street and then pulled back in to be its original state. The house temperature went below zero and then orange light moved with an airy, gluey force through the house returning to blow both priests off their feet, onto the floor. Their clothes were scorched and their body and face had third-degree burns. A loud otherworldly voice on the exorcism tape yelled, "Get out!" Mrs Ridgers finished, "As it started, it finished!" Peace was returned to our previous owners home with the price of cataclysm, a child's and husband's death, and a knife accident. The youngest training priest left the priesthood. Mrs Rodgers lightened up, "They say that poor young fellow, the priest, went to Byron Bay Hippy community , probably smoking dope, to forget. Bless pom and his poor soul" We were living in an Australia's Amityville horror house and like the American current owners, had really not experienced any phenomenon that could be not explained. Our toaster was quirky. Some of the mold growth suggested artisian waters from earlier mining, not recorded, and maybe causing heating or coldness in areas of the home. My son had grown and forgotten his imaginery friends opting for computer games like Sim City. If we were haunted, at the very least, it could be tolerated!


The night is resoundingly quiet, not a soul wanders the cool streets. So the clicking of my heels thunders like the clouds above me. I can’t even hold back the cliche melancholy washing over me anymore.

I should be in the packed gymnasium, visiting my old best friends, my old teammates, my favorite teachers, but instead, I’m wandering the street like a lost puppy looking for its mom. I tried to go, I really did. But as soon as I walked in the entrance, dressed in a casual dress I usually wear to work and my “attorney heels” as my husband calls them, I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t force my feet to pass the threshold, they shook and my toes curled in terror every time I tried to lift them off their station on the floor. So I stood there for 30 minutes until a man that looked strikingly familiar tapped my shoulder and I elbowed him out of the way and took off into the night.

It’s really pathetic. I even told my husband, James, he didn’t have to come because I could do it alone just fine, but apparently I was lying through my teeth. I wanted to hear one of his cheesy jokes about my hoity-toity high school, with its Olympic sized pool and planetarium. I wanted his warmth close by my side instead of the biting cold of a solitary bench on the street corner I’m perched on.

My legs had begun to ache in these heels, they aren’t usually for walking. They’re usually what I wear in court. I’ve found that 5’ 10” woman with confident resounding voices are more intimidating than 5’4” women who are just as loud. These heels come with me to every court case and meeting prior to the hearing, hence their coined name “attorney heels''. James loves them, he always smiles and says “There’s my spitfire goin’ to work!” when I get them out; I still blush every time, despite 10 years of marriage and 2 children.

Thinking of my husband and our kids at home makes me wanna hop on a plane and fly back to New York this instant and leave this tiny town behind, but then James would know something is wrong.

I look down at my watch, it’s 9:30, Sammy and Duke should be in bed right now but I know they aren’t, they’re probably up watching football with James who's likely saying “just another minute and then off to bed with you two!”. I always find them sprawled out on the couch the next morning after waking up in a cold bed--I act angry and scold them every time but secretly, I’m smiling at the little family we’ve made.

I had wanted to brag about my success at this foolish reunion, I wanted to say that despite all of their tyranny and bullying I came out alright. I know I came out better than alright. I live in a 3 story house with 2 beautiful children, a super hot and sweet husband, and a job I love. But I couldn’t do it! I was too much of a wimp! Perhaps I haven’t changed that much since high school.

The thought makes me clench my fist and bang it against the damp metal I’m sitting on. The blow rings in the hand but I just grit my teeth and try to hold back the tears of pain that want to escape.

“Allie?” A voice behind me makes me spin around. It’s my old friend Maya, the one who ditched me my Senior year when I was deemed too weird to be seen with.

“Hello, Maya.” I must remain cordial and she will go away. I secretly cross my fingers and pray for the clacking of her heels to grow fainter and fainter but they do the opposite.

She plops down beside me and looks over.

“Smoke?” She asks, holding out a pink box of cigarettes. I decline with a shake of my head. I look back over at her, her face more visible in the light of the streetlamp. I can’t help the shocked look on my face as I take in her sallow skin and sunk eyes, under her eyes are a heavy set purple and her face is the uncanny orange of discolored foundation, her mouth is shakily lined with cheap red lipstick and her hair is patchy and hanging out by chunks.

Her previous beauty and the youthfulness that drew in every boy at our school is gone, long gone. Now she just looks sad and, strangely enough, used.

I quickly look away. “So, how’s life?” Her voice is scratching, with emotion or tobacco, I’m not sure.

“Fine, I’ve got 2 kids. A daughter and a son Samantha and Duke.” I keep my answer short but try to give enough information to satisfy.

“I got a few of those,” she takes a long drag from her cigarette.

“Sons or daughters?” “Eh, both?” She poses the words like a question, does she not know about her children?

“How many?” I say the words slowly, suddenly curious.

“Um, lost count ages ago. At least 7?” Her words take me aback. She doesn’t know how many children she has? What happened to my Valedictorian best friend from high school? “Oh.” Is all I can bring myself to say. I want to ask her why she doesn’t know the number, but I don’t want this conversation to last much longer, her cigarette is giving me a headache. “Seems you turned out better than most of us. Michael, Caleb, and Carra are dead, various things like cancer or whatever.” She takes a drag between each name. “Jackie is a drunk, got hammered just an hour into the reunion. Daniel, well we don’t know. We didn’t know about you either, you never talked to us anymore. Annie said she thought you’d died, but here ya are.” “I went to college, and law school. I decided to stop being a screw-up.” My mouth is open and forming words before I can process what I’m saying. “I met my husband there, James Earl, he’s an absolute nerd and we argue all the time, but I love him. And he was by my side every day, when I was giving birth he held my hand and kept telling me I was beautiful and strong and perfect for him.” A smile creeps over my face as warmth fills my chest.

“Eh, good for you.” She takes a drag and pauses, studying me the warmth quickly recedes. “Really Allie, I’m glad you’re doin’ good. I’m glad you got out and away from this little shart town. If you can’t tell, it chewed me up and spit me back out.” She looks at me, her cigarette hanging out of her two fingers like how we used to when we sang with Rizo during our Grease marathons.

I don’t know what to reply so I don’t. I look down at my lap instead, picking at a loose string in my dress. She takes another drag and speaks again, “I got pregnant,” she pauses for a drag, “my first year of college, a guy named David.” Drag,” real bastard he was.” Drag,” After that, I got into sex work, I was a young woman and beautiful, made some good money for a bit.” Drag, “and then-” She starts lifting the cigarette to her mouth but I pluck it from her and stamp it into the bench, almost smothering it on her skin tight cheetah print dress. She stares at me for a second as my ears flame red, but then she bursts into a resounding fit of laughter that ends in a violent series of coughs, each time her throat rattles I flinch. Finally, she gets herself under control and looks up at me from under her chunky eyelashes.

“God Allie, I missed you.” She smiles at me sadly as unspoken words are exchanged.

I realize now that the peak of her life was high school and when it ended, her life ended with it.

Maybe that’s what drove me to wrap my arm around her slim shoulder despite the rancid smell emitting from her form, or maybe it was just the guilt I feel for leaving her behind here, or perhaps we both just need this little bit of warmth to thaw the bitter ice coating those 4 years. I may never know.

But for now, I let her cling to me and cry as I hold back tears of my own, our roles reversed after all these years, on the park bench where we first met.


Hey everyone, I'm Matt. I work at a state park as a ranger. I am a historian by training and oversee all of the historic and archaeological features. I feel like I am at the bottom of the totem pole because I am not in wildlife or land management. Something weird is going down around here, but no one believes me. I hope that *someone* out there will take this seriously and get someone to investigate it. It started a couple weeks ago when I got called to the campground around 1:00 in the morning. Our quiet hours start at 11:00 PM and this group was keeping other campers awake. The caller said she had gone over and asked them to keep it down but they seemed to take that as a challenge to be as loud as possible. I quickly dressed in my uniform, jumped in my truck, and headed for the campground. Going over a hill, I began to hear the ruckus. The chanting of five 20-somethings instantly caught my attention. It was like they were speaking in tongues; no coherent words or patterns to their chants. My heart started racing and crazy thoughts started pouring into my head. *WTF?! Are these people possessed? Did they get some bad beer? Should I just call for backup now?* I am not a law enforcement ranger, so I am not issued a gun or endowed with any authority to detain or arrest people. I parked my truck and, armed with just my dull pocket knife, a flashlight, and some padding from my dad bod, walked toward the group. "Excuse me! I'm Matt, I'm a ranger here." I called once I was within earshot. "Hey! Sir? Ma'am? Folks, I need to talk to you guys real quick." Chanting young adults was strange on its own. What really caught my attention, though, was how they laid out their camp. Five tents arranged like points of a star, with a round platform in the middle. Four posts surrounded the platform. I would have to talk to them about whether they paid the fees for the extra tents. And I had so many questions about the platform. "Hey! You guys are being *way* too loud! Quiet down or you will have to leave." The chanting grew louder. Each person was sitting around the fire with their chairs arranged in the same way as their tents. Nothing was strange about their behavior other than the loud chanting. Everyone was just casually sitting, some roasting marshmallows, some with cans of beer. Just chanting louder and louder. I approached the fire, repeating that they were being inconsiderate and breaking our campground rules. No one reacted. I started breathing heavily and feeling a bit dizzy. I have overcome confrontation anxiety enough that I can approach people who are breaking rules. Usually people see my truck and my uniform then apologize and change what they are doing. A lot of them don't even realize they were breaking a rule so it really isn't a big deal. Getting nowhere with these weird people and growing anxious, I turned to head back to my truck. I could say I tried to contact them and just call the county dispatch to send a sheriff's deputy. Which is exactly what I did. Three deputies responded and when one came to get a statement from me, she said there had been no people there. No tents. No fire--in fact the fire pit was cold and hadn't been used for several hours. They had woken up campers from surrounding sites and none had reported any noise issues or suspicious behavior. I gave my statement and she left, saying something about crying wolf to the dispatcher.


Not so long ago, there was a young man. He was tall and strong. The kind of young man often called respectable, impressive even. He walked gallantly with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out, almost as if he wanted you to meet his gaze. He certainly met the eyes of any and all, regardless of station, stature, or title. This young man dripped with confidence like a daunting glazier melting into the sea. He never feared to share his thoughts, to raise his concerns. He was quick with a comment and quicker with a criticism. The young man was loved and admired, but many held him in contempt. Many were quick to whisper when he left the room; quick to gossip angrily about the arrogance so obvious in the set of his jaw. Oh if they'd known. If they'd only known how much he wanted to impress and to be loved, to be admired, respected, revered and maybe a little feared, like one of those knights or ancient kings in the old stories. If they'd only known the depths of his desire to achieve, to make something of himself. If they'd only known he woke before the dawn to fall on his knees and ask for love, to fall on his knees and pray for peace and forgiveness for one more day. If they'd only known the exhaustion of his body and the calluses on his hands. All in an effort to escape the legacy of an unhealthy past. All in an effort to turn heads and silence whispers when he walked into a room. If only they'd know this young man was not the product of accident or chance, not more or less than any other man. He'd formed himself to be something more, or at least he'd tried, really tried. He formed his body, rolled and folded over like hot steel slowly hardening and taking shape. He swung the hammer of learning against the anvil of his mind, over and over he swung. He sharpened his whit and forged his intellect. He dug the well of his knowledge with his bare hands, he'd scraped the soil of his mind until his fingers bled. The young man knew, no he believed, if he simply dug a bit deeper, swung the hammer once more, folded the steel one last time, then it'd be enough - then he'd be enough. Yet, with each bloody handful of dirt painfully scraped from the well of his mind, with each resounding clang of hammer against anvil, with each fold of white hot steel, he came closer and and closer to the truth. The truth at the bottom of the well, the truth at the end of his accomplishments, the truth that he'd never done any of this for anyone else. The truth that he hadn't sought the love and respect of the masses. He hadn't sought to silence the idle gossipers. He hadn't sought to convince anyone of anything. He'd been digging his well, forging his steel, swinging his hammer, thinking, believing, hoping that one day when his work was done he'd have finally done enough to simply love himself.


“Lizzy!” Momma shouted at me. I was running out into the field. All four legs at max speed. The wind was pushing against my face and the wheat was barely getting caught in my fur. I was running to the forest, which Momma always said wasn’t safe.

The forests are separated into two, the wildlife, and the big tall animals. I can’t remember what these animals are called, but they only have two legs and wear stuff over their fur. Humans? Something like that.

I was a curious pup. My siblings and I don’t like being in the same old places. We want to explore, but Momma hates it. Mrs. Grizzly says it drives her nuts! I get to the opening of the forest, but I hesitate. I look back, but Momma isn’t in sight. I take slow steps into the forest, scared that a possum might jump out on me, or worse, maybe a human!

A loud, drilling noise rings in my ears. What was that horrible sound? I trotted over to the sound, and hid behind the trees. There it was, a human! The human was sitting in this big drive-y thingy. “A little deeper!” One of the humans shouted. The man nodded and kept drilling. “Ah, there it is!” He shouted, as the tree came crashing down, pulling a couple other trees down with it. They all cheered, then hit their paws together. Is that a paw five? Cool! But not cool at the same time. I ran as fast as my little paws could go, back to Momma.

I had forgotten how mad she was but I put that aside. This was more important. “Momma! Momma!” I howled, out of breath. “My little cub decided to come back? What’s wrong pup?” She asks confused, sitting on the log covered in leaves. I layed on my back, twisting and swerving into the leaves. “The humans t-they were drilling the t-trees!” I managed to say, out of breath. “Did they fall?” She asked worriedly. “Of course they did, Momma!” I bark, jumping onto all fours. She turned her head to Mrs. Grizzly. When did she get here? “You knew this time would come Sarah.” Mrs. Grizzly said sternly. Momma huffed. She got up and her tail stood in between her legs. Momma wasn’t happy. “Well, I guess we shall have a stern family talk, why don’t you call her brothers and sisters? Dinner is almost prepared and your father will be here soon.”

“Poppy, Jackson, Violet, Cooper, and Oliver! Dinners ready and Mommas just about to give us a stern talking to!” I said catching up to them at the creek. “Coming!” Barked Violet. “Seriously?” Asked Cooper. “Just five more paws?” Jackson and Oliver asked, throwing rocks into the creek. “Guys-” I started. But I didn't finish my sentence as they were all already running. “Wait up!” I howled as I started chasing after them.

“How was Tod Class?” Momma asked Papa. (That's a boy group in fox language!) “Why it was just alright Sarah! How were the pups?” Momma stared me down. “Why they were just pleasant.” I smiled at Momma, but she gave me that look saying I’d have to pay her back. Papa turned to all six of us. “How was your day pups?” He asked, taking a bite of the leaf and stem salad. “Great!” “We threw rocks in the creek!” “I saw a blue jay!” “Me and Poppy played tag in the grass!” We all barked at the same time. “Woah woah woah. Slow down pups!” He smiled. “Well, from what I’m hearing you had a excellent day! Now enough howling, why don’t we dig into this lovely salad?” He asked, his eyes falling to Momma. She blushed.

Everyone was asleep except me. I wasn’t tired, and my eyes wouldn’t shut. I was too worried about the trees, and the humans. Momma said that they might come for us, and what if they did? The wind whistled, and the moon shimmered in between the trees. I layed on my bed, but it wasn’t right. I turned around to my siblings. They were all asleep. I walked over to the end of the forest, hearing the owls snore. I looked at the field, it was empty. Not even a sound of crickets. The drilling had stopped, but the big drive-y thingy was still there. I trotted over, across the field, and punched right at it. Nothing happened? It was bright yellow, and stared at me, but had no eyes. I could just sense it.

“Marks eh?”

“Yeah man! I think some animal got at it!”

“Those creatures. Think they own everything.”

“Probably a bear.”

“No, a coyote!”

My ears perked up. They wouldn’t suspect me, would they? Clack. I jump around to see Papa trotting over. “Where were you!” He shouted. “You had me and your mother worried! You shouldn’t be out here it isn-” he couldn’t finish his sentence. “Get them!” A man shouted. “Run!” Papa shouted, getting hold of the fur around my neck. He panted, running as fast as he could, getting out of the man's sight. The man had a gun in his hand, and we all knew that wasn’t good. “Papa! What’s going on?” I shouted over the sound of his paws against the ground. I knew what was going on, but why? We were running, and he pulled the trigger.

Boom. Papa stopped, his body dropping to the ground. “Little fox too slow for me eh? See Jerald, I don’t miss a single shot.”’ He said brushing off his shoulder and walking away. “Papa!” I shouted, and then I saw it. The blood dripping from this leg consistently. “No! No, this can’t be. I-I didn’t mean to..” How could I do this? It was all my fault! I shouldn’t have left!

“Momma!” I howled running back to the forest, my legs pumping with pain. She looked at me worriedly. “It’s Papa! He’s been shot!”

I leapt straight out of my bed. Was it all just a dream? Maybe I was seeing into the future. I wasn’t sure what just happened. But I knew that I had to protect my family from the humans.


I posed this about a year ago on /r/tipofmytongue and didn't get it, so maybe you guys might know anything about it. Details I can remember: Once he gets his mind uploaded onto the android, he witnesses his previous body very much still alive even though the technicians say it isn't. He goes to Mars (I think) and finds someone else there in the same situation. They both spend a while (centuries I think) together before she disconnects her brain after she realized there was no point in life. After that, he spends a few million years traveling the universe. He then sits down, body broken, on a planet and just waits for the end of the universe. At the end of the story humanity has attained group transcendence and came looking for him because they missed him. I read it a couple years ago and it's really stuck with me. I haven't been able to find it anywhere on google, as I just read it on some web page.


They had cleared the brush forest that had built up over years of no maintenance. They had drained the swampy marsh that now engulfed half the property. All in all things were going perfect. Frank and Esther devised this plan to encourage a search party, the police would have people clearing their land in no time; just in time for planting this season's crops. With any luck, Frank could play off his wife's "disappearance" as a spell of Dementia. Finally things were looking up as the couple dreamed to sell their land and move south. Lieutenant Jacobs had seen his share of missing persons cases. None of these cases were as peculiar as this. Esther Monroe had vanished, no trace, no evidence, even the husband was ruled out in the first couple days. This was truly a hunt for the ages. Having been leading the dredging party in the drained marsh, he was losing hope when he heard the cry of a volunteer. "We have remains here sir,this may be her." All of the available squad cars had reported to county road 36 to aid in the digging efforts. So far enough bones and remains have been found to amount a dozen casualties. Looking back at the top of the hill Jacobs spots a panicked Frank Monroe, and an even more surprising Esther by his side, weeping, but alive. Back at the station, the Monroe's laid out there elaborate plan. It seems they had the initial phone call, press conferences, even Frank's alibi worked out. They talked about having Esther "reappear" from a dementia spell in the woods. It seems like they're telling the truth, albeit a far fetched plan for free landscaping, I couldn't imagine making something up that was so in depth. Even if the story is true however, it doesn't explain the growing number of identified bodies hidden in a shallow mass grave on their property. This was just the beginning of a long night. Half a pack of smokes and 7 hours later a stack of folders compiled an encompassing list on the bodies found thus far. Identities and backgrounds show no significant connections, not even geographically. The newest victim showed within the last 6 months, the Monroe's would become the prime suspects. Pleading for innocence, the Monroe's are ushered In separate directions, they are to be further interrogated separately. Initial interrogations show to no avail, Frank is adamant of his and his wife's innocence. Esther is a bit more puzzling, holes in her stories, inconsistency in memory, maybe she did suffer memory problems after all. Suddenly a break in the case is found in the wine cellar where Esther was hidden during her "disappearance". A pile of blooded laden clothes haphazardly buried with a locked journal. Pages of the journal depict how the victims were lured into the house though fake sale ads and claims of work needing to be done. Ironically, several of the people had came to landscape the yard. We had found Frank dead in his cell the next morning, before we got a chance to read the page about him. It seems his wife had poisoned him the day they were arrested. It seems she wanted to finish him off and collect on his life insurance. It was an open and shut case, Esther was the only one who could have written that journal. When the news broke that 3 more bodies had appeared at the house on county road 36, authorities were stunned and heartbroken. Esther had never left custody, and now Lieutenant Jacobs was to be autopsied the next day; he had fell victim to an unknown killer. The case ran cold after a few years went by, tapes of the interrogations and of Esther Monroe mourning her husband from a jail cell are all we have for testimony. Never a motive found, the notebook that was retrieved revealed much; but so little at the same time. Even though the death toll officially had climbed to 28, the media ran with "the 36 ghosts of 36". I've came out of retirement for this. A large contract with a popular tv streaming service sees something in a washed up reporter. There is to be a documentary built on an unfinished case, and I to be its author. But now as I stand in an excavated swamp behind the house where so many does, it feels eerie to say the least. Cameras roll as I speak of the lives lost from an unknown killer. Some of the victims had families, some had criminal records, and 3 wore the Maren county trooper badge. "Blood soaked clothes covered the killers bible, an extensive journal with entries of every victim." I speak to the camera. Continuing my report, "the blood found on the clothes belongs to several victims, and one set of DNA is speculated to belong to the killer." As I shuffle through the leaves around the infamous wine cellar "even Frank and Esther couldn't find a killer that lived under their nose" are. my closing remarks for the day. My cameraman, Mark packs up the van for the night, and I decided to linger around just a while longer since I drove here separately this morning. It's a shame that this location had to be home to such heinous crime. This land is beautiful, and with a little work, this home would be a prize on the market. Striking a match, I watch the van pull off as I light the first smoke off the evening. Staring off into the woods, I wonder about how I'm killing myself with cigarettes and vodka. My grandkids hate that I smoke. What's the use of quitting now? I hear the leaves rustle begins me and I turn to a familiar face, one I haven't seen in years. "I know you! You aren't supposed to be alive, this can't be!" I stutter. The man smiles at me before he cracks a smile, furnishing a .45 . I really wish I could show the world, this case is not over. Hunched over with blood spilling from my chest, I draw shallowed breaths. I've became number 29. The tapes from the documentary went viral before their release date was set. Someone had leaked the tapes to online forum sites and it caught fire. The late Mario Montana was a championed reporter for his 40 year career in journalism; but his last work took his life and legacy. Police quarantined the house off county road 36. Some say it should be burned, others say it should never be touched again. One thing is for sure, the people remain terrified of the thought of a killer on the loose.


 Margaret steadied herself on the ladder. She held on with one hand as the other was pressed against her white blouse trying to calm her heart against the height she had climbed. She lifted the same hand to run a finger along the heavy tomes stored up here. Coats of Arms. Heraldry. Gwynn-Jones. Emblems. Black, Farrel, Howells, Rowlands, Ward.    Margaret looked down. At the foot the rolling library ladder was a knight, a toad, and a cat, looking up at her, expectantly. Of course, Margaret wasn’t sure it was a knight at all. It was a suit of armor certainly, that had appeared when she was closing up for the evening. It did not speak. She could not make out eyes in the slots of the knight’s helm, but she checked that the bottom edge of her skirt wasn’t riding up. Just to be sure. Margaret adjusted her winged glasses to try to get a look again at the design of the surcoat the knight was wearing. It showed some sort of red lion and a thistle, on a shield, over a fallen dragon, or the loch ness monster for all Margaret knew.    She removed a heavy oversized tome on Scottish Heraldry and juggled it down with her, until her feet were once again safe on the floor. She put it on an old long wooden table. The knight moved to the other side of the table. He held up a gauntlet pointing to his chest.    “Yes, I know.” Margaret snapped. “It might help if you talked. If you told me what you want. I’m trying to find out where you’re from. That might be a clue. Unless you have a clue for me?”    The knight shook its head. It held something in its right gauntlet which Margaret had not really looked at before now. It was a toad. The knight was holding a toad. A pudgy cat jumped up on a nearby chair and onto the wooden table. It marched across the table to the toad in the knight’s gauntlet. The knight was quick enough to hold the toad away before the cat could get it.    The cat gave up the prey and walked on Margaret’s now open book and sat himself on it. He started to clean himself, nonchalantly. Margaret grabbed the cat gently by the scruff and underneath the arms. “Yes, I remember you when he came in.” She said. She stopped for a moment noticing a collar around the cat. She inspected the tag. ‘Mr. Cuddles’.    Mr. Cuddles bit at her hand twice, holding the second time. They locked eyes. Mr. Cuddles had not broken her skin. He changed tactics and decided to lick her hand instead. Margaret rolled her eyes and removed him from the table, lowering him to the floor. He headbutted her ankles and did figure eights around them.    Margaret turned the pages of the tome with care. She looked up to see the knight shaking his head and tapping his chest. Only he wasn’t making any sound. She could see the gauntlet tapping the breast plate, but there wasn’t any sound. She closed the book.    “Look, this is a waste of time. All this information is available on computers out there in the main branch. We’re not even supposed to be in here. This area is closed to be renovated and restored when we can get the funding. Now, let me go out there and just put your… your symbols into the computer’s search engine and it will tell us who you are. Possibly.”    The knight stood his ground. He held the toad in one gauntlet, while pointing with other back and forth to the worn, dusty, shelves surrounding them. Mr. Cuddles had set himself down on the floor between them, licking his paws. Margaret folded her arms in a stand off.    The held their places until Mr. Cuddles got up and came over to Margaret and attacked her ankles.   “Alright!” she said, reaching down to push away Mr. Cuddles. “But you have to give me a clue.” She shouted at the knight.    The knight offered her the toad. After a moment she dug through her purse on the long table and found some tissues. She held up a hand covered in several tissues and the knight placed the toad on it. Mr. Cuddles cried for the toad, but she held it up from him. The knight bent and picked up Mr. Cuddles. Mr. Cuddles, despite his size, managed to turned about in midair, and run up the knight’s chain mail and arm guard, to perch on his shoulder plate.    The knight moved to the shelves, as if he and Mr. Cuddles often travelled this way.    The knight went to the far left of the three-storey room to begin his search of the book shelves. Mr. Cuddles wagged his tail to show he was unhappy with this choice. The knight moved along the shelves. The tail wagging got stronger. The knight did not tary, smoothly gliding further right. Finally, they came to a stop. Mr. Cuddles purred on the shoulder plate, brushing against the knight’s helm.    As Margaret approached, Mr. Cuddles pawed at the books on the shelf in front of the knight. Margaret looked.    “This is poetry. This is the poetry section. You want me to read to you?”    The knight tilted its helm as if aghast by the suggestion. Mr. Cuddles was thrown off balance and dropped to the floor. The knight gestured to the shelf.    Margaret began on the left of the shelf taking each book out and examining its title and author. This gave her no clues. She saw a book further down slightly pulled out from the rest. It had a tear on its spine. She looked down to see Mr. Cuddles chewing on one of his paws. A small thin patch of leather appeared to be stuck on one of his claws. She looked at the tear on book.    “Oh, you’re a terror, aren’t you.” She admonished. Mr. Cuddles stretched and ignored her.    Margaret looked at the knight who was nodding. She still held the toad in one tissued hand. She tried to leaf through the small book of poetry with the other. As awkward as it was, she got to the middle of the book to find a pressed flower inside. It may have lain there for centuries.    The knight reached over and took the withered petals. From these dry crumbled fragments, a fresh white flower bloomed in his gauntlet. He held it to his chest and then faded away. He was gone.    Mr. Cuddles broke the silence with a cry for food. Margaret held the toad closer to protect it. “So, he was pointing to his heart the whole time. I thought it was his shirt. His coat of arms. Well, he’s a knight, right?” She seemed to be talking to the toad. “How was I supposed to know that?”    She sat down at the long table with the toad. With her free hand she started rummaging through her purse. “Well, I don’t need a knight, anyway. And I don’t… I don’t think… I’m not going to need you, either. Sorry.” She pulled out more tissues. Nail clippers. A tiny travelling sewing kit. Glass cleaner and a little shammy. Two wrapped butterscotch hard candies. And finally, a slightly linty, wrapped chocolate kiss.    She unwrapped the chocolate kiss. “Here.” She offered the toad. The toad’s tongue shot out and pulled the kiss back into its mouth. After some swollen breathing, or some swollen swallowing motion, Margaret was unsure which, the toad disappeared and a doubletted prince appeared. The freckled faced youth looked about the room in confusion. He smiled shyly at Margaret.    “Yeah, I’m really, not looking for you, either. Sorry.”

   Margaret led the young man to the front exit. She didn’t even question why he hadn’t disappeared as the knight had done. She left him on the stoop to go out and discover the new world while she returned to the oldest wing of the library to finish locking up.    When she got back, Mr. Cuddles was halfway into her purse, and scratching and burrowing his way deeper. “Mr. Cuddles!”    He stopped and stuck his head out above the purse. Margaret sat down and looked at him. “So, you’re the third one of this lonely trio. What are you looking for?”    Mr. Cuddles looked at her and sat back on his haunches, exposing his ample belly. He rolled onto his back completely and his eyes widened inviting her attention. She laughed, and started putting things back in her purse. She stopped when she reached the sewing kit. She unwound a length of thread from the kit and dangled it over Mr. Cuddles.    He batted at it, manically. Mr. Cuddles righted himself on his paws and chased the thread about. At times Margaret would dangle it above him, and at other times she would slowly draw it away from him across the table. He would crouch frequently into pounce mode before making his attempts to conquer the string.    As Margaret’s evening got even later, they played.


Greetings! I come from /r/TalesFromTheSnoo! It's a brand new subreddit where you can submit writing or art in any form for others to enjoy and also for the magazine proper. Readers will always be able to read and vote on every submission. At the end of every month, we'll take the top submissions and put them together in a big bad beautiful .pdf/.epub file. All for free! It's some good exposure for aspiring writers and artists, as well as some fantastic content for anyone and everyone. Submissions can evolve over the course of the month, and serials are certainly welcome! Ideally, we're looking for novellas, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, prose; all with any degree of science fiction and fantasy. Art submissions are welcome as well, particularly if they are pointed towards one particular story. Submissions can be from anyone, and of anything. Your brother's short story idea, some art you found online (we'll handle the permissions and rights), your own anything! Post it in the subreddit, and the community will vote on it! Please try and make sure that A) you get permission from the creator(s) and B) it hasn't been published before.


Moscow, December 18th, 2021 I felt exhausted. It had been a long journey and I felt the sharp pain from the blisters on my feet with every step I made. But the night was fast approaching and the temperature was dropping drastically with every minute past since sundown. I needed to find a place to settle for the night, somewhere that could protect me from the elements. As the sky was getting darker, the city started to pick up a nefarious vibe. With every direction I turned, I saw evil looks lurking from behind the flickering impromptu fires that littered the dark street corners, the kind of sinister looks from the steely cold eyes that told me to get lost or else. I found a dark abandoned building nearby. These places are notoriously dangerous at night and could harbour the most vicious populations but beggars can not be choosers, besides, I really couldn’t walk any further in this condition and I was used to this way of life. I found a corner that shielded me from the cold wind and snow. I was beyond hungry and soon asleep. ‘Alexei, look what I found!’

‘What did you find Igor?’ ‘A Chink!’ Loud laughing noises and bright light on my face woke me up to a young man standing in front of me with a torchlight in his hand. He looked in his early 20s, dark hair and was in a thick green winter coat. A second young man about the same age came right after him and looked at me from a safe distance with a suspicious gaze. He was in a leather jacket and had fairer hair than the first man. I instinctively grabbed the knife in my pocket. ‘Igor, could you not.’

‘Not what?’ ‘Not use that word. I don’t like it.’ ‘Oh, really, what do you care?’ ‘Chinese people are people just like us, Igor!’ ‘Sure, Jesus, never knew you are such a saint.’ ‘Shut the fuck up Igor. Hey, you, still alive?’ He was obviously talking to me. ‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘You speak Russian?’ ‘Only a little.’ I covered my face from the torchlight. Alexei pushed Igor’s hand down and came closer to me. ‘You don’t sound Russian, you Chinese?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You alone?’ ‘Why? You gonna rob me?’ ‘I’m just trying to help, is all. I will leave you alone if you wish to but it’s getting too cold for you to survive the night in a place like this.’ ‘Hey, Alexei, not our business, let’s go.’ Igor nudged Alexei but he held up his hand. ‘We are the nightguards that look after this site. You are welcome to come to our office with us, it’s just around the corner and it’s warm there.’ I was still holding on to my knife tightly as I slowly got up from the cold concrete floor. Suddenly I felt dizzy and fell against the wall. ‘Hey, hey, you ok?’ Alexei caught hold of my arm and steadied me. ‘Look, I don’t know what happened to you and I’m not gonna ask if you don’t want to say but you are safe and you are coming with me ok?’ ‘Ok.’ I nodded and held onto Alexei’s arm as he slowly helped me get to my feet and walk to his office. ‘Igor, finish doing the round then get some snacks from the shop, will you?’ Alexei took out his wallet and stuffed some money into Igor’s hands. ‘I don’t believe this is fucking happening! Back in a few minutes.’ Igor reluctantly took the money and shuffled on. With each step I took, the half-healed blisters broke again and fresh sharp pains shoot up my feet like electric shocks. But we made it to his office quickly and as he opened the door, a sudden flood of light and warmth washed over me. ‘Sit.’ Alexei pulled out a chair for me and took out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ ‘No.’ I shook my head and smiled faintly. Alexei lighted up his cigarette, put the kettle on, pulled out a chair for himself, and sat next to me. ‘A woman like you, in a place like this, alone. Hmmm…’ He puffed on his cigarette and breathed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Is there a particular place you were going to?’ ‘No.’ ‘No? I see, a woman with few words. Maybe you are just hungry and lack energy. Don’t worry, Igor will be back soon, in the meantime…’ He suddenly stood up as he heard the kettle was boiled and went to the desk in the corner of the room. ‘Coffee?’ ‘Hot water if you don’t mind.’ ‘Just hot water?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’ I nodded. ‘Ok, you got it.’ He nodded and poured hot water into a cup and brought it to me. ‘Here ya, hold on to the cup and warm your hands up. ‘Thank you.’ ‘No worries.’ Alexei sat back in his chair and puffed another smoke. ‘You sound well educated I must say. It is strange that you end up like this. Look, I mean you no harm, and I probably understand a lot more than you think, you can talk to me if you wish. We got all night. But it’s ok if you don’t want to.’ ‘It’s ok.’ I slurped some hot water and nodded. ‘We can talk.’ ‘Yeah?’ Alexei looked up and smiled. ‘Yeah.’ I smiled back faintly. ‘I, um, many years ago, decided to become a ghost.’ ‘A ghost?’ ‘Yes. Wiping myself off the grid completely, become none existence. I am no one, so I can be anyone, anywhere, doing anything.’

‘That sounds, insane.’ Alexei pulled another puff and continued. ‘But you don’t appear insane to me. There’s a thin line between genius and madness and I guess you are the former.’ ‘I don’t know about that but I realized since an early age that the only way to know the whole truth is not to be bound by the biased truth. Only then, one can be truly free to choose one’s own identity and life path.’ ‘And how free are we talking about here?’ ‘I have traveled on foot across continents, slept under streetlights, ship decks and stars studded night skies. I have witnessed exceptional cruelty and tremendous kindness. All I learned is this: there’s no good or evil, we are all capable of anything. You live what you manifest. And you Alexei, manifest positivity in this world.’ Suddenly Alexei paused and looked at me, ‘I have heard that gods walk among people in ancient Greek legends, but…’


If I’m truly being honest, my life didn’t really begin until I died. That might sound contradictory. That’s because it is. But just because something is contradictory doesn’t mean it’s a lie. I’m living – excuse me, *dead* – proof. \~ In my twenty-three years of living, I didn’t do anything spectacular. I wasn’t particularly gifted at anything; I wasn’t particularly loved. My parents had raised me, but never given much of a shit about how I turned out. Though to be fair, neither did I. I barely made it through high school. College was out of the question. At twenty-three, I was working a minimum wage job at a fast food chain, living in an old three-bedroom house with two roommates I’d never had a conversation with for more than ten minutes. I could call them acquaintances, but friends would have been stretching it. One worked the night shift and one had a serious girlfriend whose place he often stayed over at, so I didn’t see either of them much. I remember January 11th perfectly. It started off like any other Thursday. I worked a double shift at work, came home exhausted, made myself dinner, watched some Netflix before bed. At midnight, I brushed my teeth and headed back to my bedroom, planning to get to sleep at a reasonable hour since I had a morning shift the next day. Halfway back to my room, I saw flashes of light downstairs. Leaning over the railing, I could just barely see that the television in the living room had been left on. Ryan must have been watching it and neglected to turn it off before leaving for his graveyard shift an hour ago. I could hear it from here, too; some obnoxious laugh track from a sitcom rerun. I almost left it on, but decided it was worth the trip downstairs to turn it off: I’d be able to hear the laughter from my room, and besides, none of us wanted to pay any more than necessary for the electric bills. Cursing, I turned around and made a beeline for the stairs. It was dark; the lights upstairs were all off, and the only light downstairs was the dim glow of the television. I should have turned a light on, but I didn’t. Because I didn’t, I didn’t see the books stacked by the top step, probably Evan’s. He was a part-time student, after all. He’d left while I’d been in my room too, to go see his girlfriend, and must have left them there. I didn’t know that then. One second I was hurrying to the stairs, telling Ryan heatedly that he was a piece of shit under my breath, and the next, I was tumbling down, having tripped over the books. It happened so fast, I barely felt the pain. A few pangs as my limbs and back collided with the sharp corners of the wooden stairs, but there wasn’t enough time to register much. At the bottom, I was able to gather my thoughts. I ached all over, especially my head. I was laying at the lower landing, and could already feel emerging bruises everywhere. What a fall. It hurt like hell. All because Ryan didn’t turn off the damn television and Evan didn’t put away his damn books. Groaning, I slowly sat up, then stood. I held my hand to my head. While I was down here, I’d better get an icepack. Suddenly, the pain was gone, all of it. My back, my knees, my head. I felt lighter, somehow, too. It was an odd feeling. Was this what it felt like if I was about to pass out? The answer was no. Some sixth sense told me to turn around, and I slowly did. I was greeted with the sight of me. Me, my body, still laying on the bottom landing. My arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and a dark pool of blood was gathered around my head like a halo. My heart sank, but some part of me had expected to see it. I wasn’t entirely surprised. I sat down on the stair, still staring at my body. When I tried to touch my own arm, I couldn’t; I went right through. I’d never believed in ghosts, but here I was, staring at my own corpse. A ghost, or spirit, or whatever – I supposed it didn’t matter now. Whatever I believed in or didn’t, I was clearly dead, and yet still here. I laughed harshly. Imagine when Ryan or Evan came home and found me. Would they miss me? Would they realize they had played a role in this? Probably not. Would my parents even care? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t spoken to them in months. *What a stupid way to die,* I thought. You heard stories of people falling down stairs, sure, but who actually dies from hitting their head after a fall down some stairs in their own house? I couldn’t even *die* right. I sat there for hours, waiting, unsure what to do. I didn’t really expect to see some glowing light or holy force come to collect me, and they didn’t. No grim reapers or anything of the sort either. Just me, suspended, waiting. \~ Ryan and Evan moved out soon after. I watched them go. Evan was first, leaving just days later to move in with his girlfriend. I was hardly surprised; they basically lived together already, except in formality. Ryan left not long after, unable to bear the stain on the stairs that wouldn’t quite leave the wood no matter how it was treated. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking around the house but not at the stairs, and whispered that he was sorry. I stood beside him and told him it was okay, I didn’t really blame him anymore, but he didn’t hear me. Once they left, I was alone. I wandered through the house, but I couldn’t leave it. Which was unfortunate, since the house wasn’t any more interesting than it had ever been, and now it was empty: no television, no books, no pool table. Not that I would have been able to use them anyway. I was stuck. After a few months, once the novelty of the event had worn off, the landlord finally decided to rent it again. I saw her put up the FOR RENT sign out front. I watched, too, and waited some more, wondering if anyone would move in, and if they did, if it would even matter. I’d never been noticed or loved when I was alive; why would that change now that I was dead? The new group moved in at the end of June. I remember because they were all excited, talking about various summer plans and their schedules for the next months. There were three of them; Leslie and Noah were students at the local college, both taking summer classes, and Kyle was working two part-time jobs. I felt like I was prying by listening in to all their conversations as they carried in their new furniture, but I couldn’t help it; how else was I supposed to amuse myself? And if I was stuck here with them, I may as well get to know them. They brought in a new television, a foosball table, a dartboard, bookshelves, beds. They moved in themselves, using a U-Haul, Kyle declaring loudly that moving companies were a waste of money. Noah had my old room. I was glad about that. He was soft-spoken, but when he said something, it was always the right thing to say. I’d taken a liking to him immediately. The more I saw of him, the more I knew he was my favorite of the three, and the more I wished to be friends with him. I’d never thought much of friends, but I found myself wishing I was alive, so that maybe I could have made my first friend in Noah. Not that I tried to approach him; I mostly watched from the dark corners of rooms. I knew they couldn’t see me, had no idea I was there, but it felt wrong somehow to just stand among them, or to have them walk through me and shiver at the “cold spot.” That lasted for a while. Another few months passed that way, with me watching and learning about my new roommates but never doing much more. A few months, but not forever. \~ The new school year started in August. By the first week of September, Leslie and Noah were inordinately more stressed than they’d ever been during the summer. They were spending more and more time in their respective bedrooms, studying and writing essays and doing problem sets. Most often, I was in Noah’s room. It was nice to watch him; he was so focused, his concentration displayed all over his face. He tapped his pencil when he was thinking. He played instrumental movie soundtracks while he worked, which I liked. I only knew some of them, but it was fun to guess. I was enjoying myself more than I had since dying, and probably more than I had for most of my life too. One of those nights, I was into the music: it was a piece he’d played often, a track from *Aladdin.* Noah was tapping his pencil vaguely in accordance with the beat, sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading from his psychology textbook. Hardly noticing I was doing it, I stepped out of the corner and strode across the room, swaying my head to the music. I sat cross-legged, mimicking him, on the floor next to his bed, only a few feet from him. Smiling for the first time in ages, I closed my eyes, continuing to move my head in rhythm. When I opened them, Noah was looking directly at me, eyes wide. I stared back at him. Surely he couldn’t see me. Was it something behind me? I turned my head to look; nope, nothing new there. I turned back, and he was still staring at me. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, found me still there. “You…you’re the guy who died here,” he whispered. “I recognize you from your picture. We looked up the story before we moved in.” I knew they had; they’d talked about it. Still, it pleased me that he recognized me. It also shocked me that he saw me at all. “Yeah, I am,” I said. “But you’re…still here?” he said. His voice was impressively even, calm. “Yeah, I am,” I said again. He nodded like he wasn’t surprised. “I thought this house had an odd feeling about it,” he said. “I thought I’d seen glimpses of you around, in corners of rooms. I assumed I was imagining it, but maybe not. Or maybe I’m just going crazy after staring at this textbook for too long.” He shook his head. “Must be lonely. Why didn’t you show yourself before?” He looked thoughtful. He had no idea how much his words meant. No one had shown me this much care before, even when I was alive. “I’ve been around the whole time,” I finally answered, after a long hesitation. “I didn’t think anyone could see me.” He paused, considering. “I don’t think they can,” he said. “They’ve never seen you when I have.” “But you can.” He nodded. “I can.” Then he gave me a tentative grin. “I’m Noah, but you probably know that.” I smiled back. It felt weird, to smile. I hadn’t done it much in my twenty-three years, and not much after they ended either. “Yeah, I do. I’m Oliver, but if you read about me, you probably know that.” “Yeah, I do,” he said. I was so drawn to him; I couldn’t explain it. The first person who’d ever been nice to me, the first person I’d ever wanted to befriend – maybe more than befriend, if I was honest with myself – and I couldn’t even touch him. At least I could talk to him. At least he could see me. One step at a time. Suddenly he reached out and touched my arm. I stared, open-mouthed. His hand didn’t go through me, like everything else did. His hand touched me like I was corporal, like my arm was every bit as flesh and bone as his was. “Oh my God,” I said softly. He grinned. “Must be a first.” “It is,” I breathed. And then, overcome with a desire like I’d never felt before, I grabbed his hand in mine, intertwining our fingers. His skin was warm, alive; I could tell mine felt like ice. I wished it didn’t. I wished I was alive again. But maybe this was enough. If Noah could see me, could touch me, maybe it was all I needed. He blushed. “Oh, uh, you’re very forward.” Seeing his cheeks redden made me feel giddy. It would have made my heart pound, filled my stomach with butterflies, if I’d physically had either of those things anymore. I didn’t, and yet somehow I felt more alive than I ever had when I *did* have them. I tentatively smiled. “But you don’t mind it?” He met my eyes, then firmly shook his head. “No, I don’t. I…don’t mind it at all,” he said. “Good,” I said. Keeping his hand in mine, I pulled gently, until he got the hint and came to sit beside me on the floor, bringing his textbook with him. I waited until he was settled, the instrumental version of *A Whole New World* playing on in the background, before I rested my head on his shoulder. He shivered but smiled. “Now,” I said. “Tell me all about psychology.” \~ The days only got better from there. Noah was the one who made me happy, the one who made me want to *exist.* For the first time ever, I felt loved. Someone finally gave a shit about me, and it was the best feeling in the world. It had taken me dying to find a life. I supposed that was ironic, but I didn’t much care. I had Noah, and Noah turned out to be all I needed. I had been dead for months, but really, my life had finally just begun.


She knew the cafe well, but today something was wrong. The shadows would sway and breathe as if responding to her movement while she made her way to her seat. She adjusted her sunglasses and swallowed, widening her eyes as the darkness filled the air around her like thick fumes. She felt as if something were reaching into her chest, squeezing her heart to feel whether it were ripe enough to pick. As she takes her usual seat in the corner she notices a man, his gaze locked on her as she settles. She trembles and fidgets with her glasses once more, unable to hide from the swirls of black ebbing and flowing around her. "It's all right" she said to herself, as she looked to find her server. It was like trying to see through a blizzard. As she scanned the room, she noticed the man was gone from his seat. "It's all right" he whispered into her ear. Startled, she turned to face him not a foot from her face. She couldn't move, she could only feel a rush and a chill. He lifted her glasses, and she stared into his eyes. Black--nothing but black. She tilted her head back, gasping for air as she drowned in the darkness. He pulled back; she exhaled, collapsing on the small table, her cheek pressed to the cold sanitized surface. A feeling of comforting familiarity washed over her, "maybe this is just how I will always feel" she says without a single blink, as she reads the writing carved into the table: "And the rugged wheel is turning another round". In truth, She felt nothing. And she liked it. She learned to like it. She watched the man standing there, her heart in his fist. The darkness continued to fill the room, until there was nothing but the sound of distant beating.


“Leave now!” I heard a voice scream. My upper body shot up in bed and I tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness. The moon did not manage to shine its light through the thick curtains of my bedroom. Despite the late hour and my otherwise deep sleep, I was wide awake and groped for my mobile phone on my bedside table. My heart began to race when I saw the multitude of notifications from my surveillance camera. Someone was trying to break into my house. Once at 1:48 a.m. Once at 1:56 a.m. Once at 2:14 a.m. and once at 2:37 a.m. My gaze fell to the top corner of the screen. 2:39 a.m. An ice-cold shiver spread over my whole body. I jumped out of bed as if by remote control and locked all the windows and doors. In my mind I went through all the entrances to my bungalow. The front door is locked, as is the door to the garden. The big window in the living room is locked. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and locked myself in my bedroom. With trembling fingers, I opened my laptop to look at the camera footage. In the background of the tape I recognise a movement and a red dot. A few seconds later, the screen was soaked in a red, milky light and nothing could be seen. I fast-forward the video a little - black. Whoever wanted to break into my house knew what they were doing. He had taped off the lens but forgotten the motion detector. Again my gaze falls to my smartphone. No further notification. Still, I didn't feel comfortable. Not alone. I could not be alone now. Determined, I pressed one of the speed dial buttons. Before I could even bring the phone to my ear, a sharp pain ran through my head. I dropped the phone and pressed both hands against my temples. This must be the sleep deprivation. "Babe? Are you there? Hello?" I heard softly. I picked up the phone again. "Yes I'm here. Can you come here please? Someone tried to break in and I don't feel safe," I explained, on the verge of tears. My boyfriend assured me he would be with me in a short while, as he was just nearby anyway. A few minutes later, my doorbell rang. I turned the key around and let my boyfriend in. I hastily told him a short version of the events. He accompanied me back to my bed. He stroked my hair soothingly while I told him about the voice in my head and the pain that went through me. "I guess my subconscious didn't want me to call you," I quipped. He turned me towards him and smiled at me. His fingers ran down my cheek towards my chin. His smile was different. Not so soft and warm. His eyes. There was something in his eyes I never saw before. It was cold and unsettling. The moment he wrapped his fingers around my neck with a painful force, I suddenly realised why he was near my house. Desperately I fumbled for the knife that I had taken with me for this very reason. But it was too late. Just before I lost consciousness forever, his words echoed in my head. "You should have listened to your subconscious.


Working at the mall was rarely intriguing. Interesting occasionally, funny sometimes, but always with a thick blanket of boredom and monotony. Helping customers and stocking the small shelves had become an essentially autonomous process for me, and most days my mind would settle into a trance, only waking when my scheduled breaks gave me a moment of escape. Of course, escape is a pretty limited ordeal when you have to be back at the store in 10 minutes. When there's nothing but mall and parking lots for half a mile in every direction, there just aren't many options. People watching, wandering the mall, every now and then a brief moment of curiosity when a new shop moves in. Trying to guess what sort of goods or services will be offered based on the newly installed sign. Meeting the new shift regulars. But Precision Offerings was different than the other new stores, and that, for once, made my job intriguing. For starters, no one seemed to even know they were looking to move in before they opened. Usually a space is open for a month or two between one seasonal shop and the next. Not so for Precision Offerings. One Friday, space C-18 was the Summer Supply Store, on Saturday they were completely hauled out, and Precision Offerings was open by 10AM Sunday. At least, they had a sign up saying they were open. I'd only caught a glimpse from a floor above on my way in that morning, it looked like their store was still pretty empty. But the lights were on and the door was open. I decided I'd wait until lunch to take a closer look. I clocked in, tranced out, and before long it was time to eat. Unpacking my bag lunch, I'm faced with a new dilemma. My gluten-free, vegan room mate has prepared a lovely concoction of garlicky herbal spreads and strange super-fruits that I'm sure he'd been looking forward to. But instead, he's probably unwrapping my leftovers from Taco Macho and the potato wedges I'd tossed together for lunch. Damn. On my way to the food court, I can take a small detour to check out the new store. There's no line, but that's not too surprising for the very first day. Walking into the mostly white store, I'm struck by my inability to identify what kind of place it is. One one shelf, there's some motor oil and an.. alternator? I'm not great with car parts. Another shelf has a very finely crafted Victorian style doll. Near what I took to be the checkout counter, there was a small food case with a single muffin, a pastrami on rye sandwich, and two oranges. Each shelf in the store was bare except for a single item or small collection of related things, but I couldn't come up with any reasoning to link them all together. "Would you like a sandwich, or some oranges?" the clerk asked me. Wearing mostly white, I'd almost not noticed him standing behind the counter. He looked like most mall clerks do, young, well kept, but with a smile that says "I'd rather be on my phone". "Oh, actually.." I replied, suddenly remembering my lunch dilemma, ".. a sandwich does sound pretty good. How much is it?" "$6.17 with tax" he said. Not a bad deal for lunch, and worth trying out the new grub. Plus I wouldn't have to wait in line at the Wendy's downstairs. "So, first day, huh? I work a couple floors down. How's business?" I asked. "It's been just fine, like usual. New place, same store, you know?" "Oh, so you moved in from somewhere else? That explains how you got set up so quick. It's usually a longer process" I said, with a slightly impressed tone. "Well, truth is, it's really easy to set up a Perfect Offerings store. No signage, no displays, just a few shelves and a tiny inventory" he explained, gesturing to the mostly empty floor. "Setting up on the first day is almost exactly the same as any other day, just in a new spot." "Ok, well, now you've got me stumped. I see what you have on display here, but.. what kind of shop is this, exactly?" I asked, finally letting my curiosity get the best of me. He smiled, and with a practiced delivery said "Precision Offerings sells exactly what you need, when you need it, and not a single thing more. Guaranteed." I waited for the punchline, but he said no more. His phone rang, and he quickly thanked me for my business before getting into a conversation with someone who was having car troubles. While I ate lunch, which was pretty tasty actually, I wondered just what he'd meant. It was surely some corporate slogan that only holds up when interpreted in a specific way, but usually I can figure out what they mean. I'll have to come back to it sometime, break is just about up and I still need to piss. Over the next few days, I can't stop wondering about Precision Offerings. I started using my morning break to walk by, and peer in through the windows. Every day, there were new items in the store. Strangely, they were entirely new each day. A pinata, recliner, and hand made wooden loom one day, balloons, duct tape, and tax software the next. Nothing was ever on sale for more than a day. It wasn't long before I realized what I was actually seeing, and the revelation made me angry. The only way someone could make money selling such a diverse selection of stuff is if the stuff is coming to them for free. This wasn't a pawn shop trying to sell anything worth anything, it was something different. I started to suspect this was some sort of specialized fencing operation. Steal a few things here, a few things there, from shops and stores around the mall, then sell them in a weird little store. Like I said before, the mall was usually pretty boring, so my mind had lots of time to speculate. That's how I found myself devising a plan to follow the clerk one night. I stayed late after my shift, and waited for him to close the store. As usual, the shelves were empty at this point, I still hadn't figured out what he did with the unsold items. He turned off the lights, pulled down the security gate, and locked up. Then, with almost uncanny precision, he turned to look straight at me. "Hello, I have seen you watching my store. I think you're ready to ask some questions, but it will be much easier if you meet me here in the morning before I open. Will you come?" he asked, as though he were casually inviting me to go get a drink. "I.. uh.. sure" I uttered, the words barely making it out over my surprise at being called out so swiftly. "Great. See you then!" And with that, he put on his headphones and strolled off. I considered following him, but just as I did, he looked back and gave me a friendly wave. Maybe I shouldn't. I didn't sleep very well that night. "Ok, I'm not going to beat around the bush. I'm going to tell you how this works, and you won't believe me, but it's the truth." The clerk, who's name turned out to be Claude, was giving me an earnest look with no indication of sarcasm. "Every morning, when I open the store, there's a box behind the counter. In the box is The List, and today's items. The List tells me what each thing is, and how much it will sell for. I set the things up, and then wait for the customers." "Everything sells, every single day. I don't know how, or why, but every thing I put up on the shelves gets bought. I've put things up there that make absolutely no sense to sell, old newspapers, broken plates, VHS tapes, you name it. But no matter what it is, if it comes from the box and it's on the list, it gets bought. That's it. That's the whole store." "Bullshit" I said. "Everyone knows mall shops are games of margins. No one sells 100% of their stock, regardless of what they sell." "I know, I know. I didn't believe it at first either. But it always works. Every single day." His expression was still serious. I was starting to wonder just how committed he was to this trolling. "Well, I guess that makes your job pretty easy then, huh?" I asked. "It is effortless. I do not have to manage inventory, deal with complaints or returns, or run promotions. I open the store, I sell the items, and I go home." "Huh. How's the pay?" I asked, deciding to entertain this little nonsense for the moment. "It's pretty good." He showed me. It was. "Hah. Wow. How do you wind up with such a sweet gig?" "Here's the part you really won't believe. You just.. ask." He said, looking expectantly at me. "So I just say, 'Can I have a job?'" I asked. "Don't you already have one?" he replied. "This is a full time position, you can't work a second job with it." "Sure, but for that pay, and such an easy gig, I'd leave my old shop behind in a heartbeat. You know, if it was real, and not some elaborate prank." "Of course" he said. "I just realized, I didn't ask you your name yet." "Me? I'm Nick." I told him, surprised it hadn't come up yet. "Nick, check this out." He reached into a drawer, pulled out a box knife, and cut into the box behind the counter. Lying neatly on top was a small metal nametag. "Nick". He handed it to me. "Size L, waist 38?" he asked, as he handed me a shrunk wrapped pile of white clothing. "What the hell is this?" I asked. "Nick, this is your new job. Assuming you're still interested?" And that's how I started at Precision Offerings. The easiest job I've ever had, at the weirdest shop that mall ever had, which was maybe the worst decision I ever made.


Alessia followed me around the corner. “So you’re going to just follow that cable and…” She arrived next to me, staring straight down the barrel of the gun pointed at us. “Uh.” “How many more of you are there?” the woman holding the gun asked. “None. Just us,” I replied. “Let’s be clear. If you are telling the truth, the first bullet enters your skull. If you are lying, the first one enters your little toe, and I work my way up centimeter by centimeter, you understand? How many more of you are there?” “Just us,” I repeated. The woman nodded to the gun in my hand. “You dare even think of raising that thing, you will be dead.” “I know.” “What are you doing here?” “Trying to leave,” Alessia replied. “Answer the question.” Alessia rolled her eyes, some of her old attitude reemerging. Compared to the beasts from the forests and the frightened people fighting with spears and rocks, having a gun pointed at us felt like a step back to normal. The situation was dire, but it felt within the world we knew. “We landed here, were captured by some group of people, they took us to the river to be sacrificed to you, we jumped in, here we are.” “You met the islanders?” “Yes.” The woman looked to the others around her, all dressed in the same identical white smocks that draped across the floor. “Find out who they met. We’ll cleanse them.” “So that’s how you work then?” Alessia waited for the woman’s face to snap back before she continued. “Wait till someone imagines something other than your rules, and then murder them.” “We’re preserving nature,” the woman stated with a neutral tone. “Uh huh,” Alessia smirked. “Is that what you call all this? And that gun in your hand?” “We are not part of nature. We, the Leviathans, preserve it. We make the sacrifice so that the rest of the islanders can be one with the Earth.” “Yeah. I can see the sacrifice you're making.” Alessia's eyes glanced up to the building around us, and the lights hanging from the ceiling. “You are mistaken if you think this is not a sacrifice. Each one of us would rather be on the other side of the tunnel, being part of our world around us. No one can ever achieve peace and harmony, while surrounded by this depravity. We are corrupted by it. We will never be one. It is a sacrifice.” “Then why choose this?” I asked. “Why do you choose to be here rather than out there?” The woman shook her head, letting out a sigh. “We did not choose. We were chosen. Sent down by tribes, and offered to the Leviathans. Every Leviathan alive was born the other side of the tunnel. Tasted true freedom and beauty, and then was sent here. It’s our calling, to sacrifice our own lives so that they can be free from humanity’s mistakes.” I started trying to eye up my surroundings. I glanced at the electric lights above me, then to the windowless walls. My pupils flickered back and forth while I spoke, unsure if my words were a mere delaying tactic or a genuine attempt to understand. “So why not leave? Stop being Leviathans and return.” “Because civilization is like a vine on a tree. The tree is already perfect. Yet, left unchecked, a vine will always grow. It climbs up the bark, steals nutrients, and blocks the light, until the tree suffocates. Civilisation is a parasite. Only by cutting back the vine, stopping it before it grows, can the tree live. So when the island decided to seek nature, the Leviathans were chosen to always keep watch. To trim the vine.” “You… you really believe this, don’t you?” Alessia said, the smallest chuckle escaping her lips as she finished. “Why do you doubt it?” “Have you seen life on the other side of the tunnel?” Alessia’s shoulders twitched, but she forced her arms to remain still, aware of the gun still aimed at us. Instead, the emotion poured through her face. Her eyes filled with rage, her lips curled into a snarl, her cheeks flushed red. “People are murdering each other just to survive. I saw some creature twice the size of a dog, tear chunks off a man while he was still breathing. They’re not at peace. They’re dying.” “But it is natural. It is how the Earth is meant to be. It is the instinct of the wolf to seek meat. Instinct of any creature to seek sustenance from the Earth.” The woman raised her left hand, her eyes glancing to the heavens above. “The Earth will provide it to some, and in turn remain in balance and in harmony. But humans decided that they were above nature. Demanded to be more than part of a greater system, but to invent their own system - civilisation. And what about the sins of your world? Greed, corruption, murder. Did civilization cure those?” “No. But we learned how to share knowledge, how to treat injuries, how to live a life that was more than suffering-” “-All life that is with technology is suffering,” the woman interrupted, her sermonly tone replaced with venom. “All of it.” She jolted her arm with the gun forward, her fingers tensing around it. I looked to my right. There was a series of crates stacked in a random order, thin gaps between them. But, to my left, is where my eyes kept returning, back to that series of electrical circuits. That mess of wires beckoned me. “So to be clear. There is no chance you will let us leave peacefully?” “None,” the woman asked. “You are the vine. The weed. The parasite. And you will be eliminated.” “Okay,” I nodded. “Well, I hope you’ve never used that gun properly.” As the woman opened her mouth to speak, I turned and charged at Alessia, my arms outstretched. I wrapped them around her, grabbing her and tackling her to the ground. Two shots were fired, but I had no idea where they went. I rolled over and fired three shots at the circuits on the wall. The gun recoiled with each shot, flicking back in my unsteady hand. The first two bullets met wood, the sides of the building splintering as the metal tore through the plank. But the last found the circuitry, hitting the delicate web of wires. The room went black. I turned to find Alessia, grabbing a limb, and pulling her between two of the crates nearby. “Find them,” the woman barked. I reached down Alessia’s arm and found her hand. I held it. She squeezed back. I couldn’t see her. I dare not speak. But she was alive. I gently pulled her arm towards me as she got to her feet, crouching next to me. “Someone watch the door,” the woman ordered. “Don’t let them escape.” Footsteps entered the room, maybe only three of four metres from us. A gun fired. Crates shattered, wooden debris smacked into my side as I closed my eyes, praying the shots strayed no closer. The Leviathan let out a frustrated growl as they listened to the sounds of their bullets finding only wood. “Someone fix those lights.” A man screeched across the warehouse. I pulled on Alessia’s hand, and keeping low we began finding our way. My hand was held out in front of me as I retraced our steps back towards the rear of the warehouse. I tried to keep a mental picture of where we were. I listened to the Leviathans. The shuffling of shoes across the floor, or the irritated thuds of knees meeting errant crates. We turned the corner into the previous room, but as I did, my shoe slipped briefly against the concrete floor. A small squeak left my sole. A body turned. Shots were fired. More wood fractured. A glass bottle shattered. An empty box fell off a shelf, landing on my back, bouncing off me and onto the ground. Silence. Then more shots. One found metal, a pinging noise echoed through the building as the bullet ricocheted off. The second bounced off the floor inches away from me, and I could feel the small rush of wind as it passed by my thigh. I pulled on Alessia’s hand once more and we scrambled through to the next room, sneaking our way between the boxes until we reached that small backroom and the ditch to the outside. Now, in pure darkness, what little light the night provided summoned us out not in. I dove into the hole, wrestling my body against the space. I squirmed at every creak of the wood above me, at every scraping of the dirt by my torso. But after a few seconds, my hips made it past the thinnest points, and I could wrestle my body through to the other side. I stood up and turned as Alessia began making her way through. I watched as her arms and then head appeared through the small tight space. “I think I see one of them. Back here,” I heard a voice from the inside shout. Alessia’s head jolted up at me. Her eyes were solemn and glassy, her mouth opened, panting. I leaned down and grabbed her arm as a string of shots were fired, an entire clip emptied in seconds. But the shots didn’t sound as though they were only a metre or so away, but deeper, far within the building. As soon as Alessia was through I let go and turned to inspect her. Not a scratch. The bullets were meant for some other ghost in the darkness. “You okay?” I whispered. Alessia rolled over, looking up at me with a wide smile. “Never been better.” Getting to her feet, Alessia pointed to the gun in my hand. “I lost mine when you tackled me.” “Hopefully we won’t need this one anymore.” I rotated the awkward metal object in my hand. “Keep it. Just in case.” We began sneaking around the side of the building, the Leviathans hopefully still hunting for us in the blackness. We kept close to the wall, with our eyes pointed forward. I kept the gun in my hand, feeling the weight of it drag the limb down. But I primed the muscles in my arm, ready to lift it at a moment’s notice, the tendons slowly aching with tension. We reached the front of the warehouse and I looked out across the courtyard. It was empty. At the front of the building I could see the warehouse door, the bolt slid back into the open position. “Start heading to the boat,” I whispered. “Get it untied.” Alessia shook her head, biting back what she wanted to say. “Be quick.” As Alessia headed down to the boat I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes, preparing myself for the run. I visualized each pace, where my body would hit the metal door, where my arm would have to be to cleanly grab the bolt. With every moment pictured, I sprinted, charging with all my energy into the huge door. It swung around, smacking into the shut position, as I grabbed the bolt and slid it across. I turned back as angry shouts bellowed from the building. More bullets were fired, the wood breaking behind me, as metal whistled through the air. I ducked my head, holding my arms up as I sprinted along the front of the warehouse, and down towards the ocean. As I reached the boat, Alessia was just unfurling the sail, tying it to the rigging. The boat was small, no more than five metres long. It wouldn’t survive the ocean, but it might get us to the sea. “Untie the ropes,” Alessia said. I ran into the water, my legs kicking up splashes, as I waded in up to my thighs. I reached the front, untied the knot, and grabbed the hull, giving it the hardest tug I could, forcing it the first metre in the correct direction. I lifted myself out of the water as Alessia dragged me aboard, my clothes soaking once more. “Hey. Come back!” I looked over to the shore to see a man running down, the cassock billowing in the wind, but still showing no movement beneath the knees. It was the youngest of the Leviathans. The one who was still a boy, his face still morphing into adulthood. He stood at the shore, looking down at the ocean, unsure of how to go any further. Slowly, he raised his hand. His arm was shaking, as he fired the gun. The elbow bent with each shot, sending ammo off in wild and inaccurate directions Alessia pulled me down to the floor. I lay prone for a second, waiting for a break. Then I lifted myself up to my knees, pointed the gun back to the shore, and for the first time in my life, fired a gun with malice. The first two shots missed, but I got lucky with the third and fourth. Hitting him in the right arm and shoulder. The boy flew back to the ground. He let out an agonized scream as his body convulsed in pain. He was alive. But he didn’t return fire again. He merely lay there. Spasms of pain shooting through his body as he wept. I stared at the gun in my hand. Feeling disgust seep into my soul as the boy’s anguished screams echoed out across the ocean. The sensation grew too much, and I reflexively flung the gun off the side of the boat, watching it sink into the water. My body was free of a weight that threatened to crush it. Yet, inside, I could still feel that slow compression tightening around my chest. It didn’t go. It refused. Even as the man’s voice was drowned out by the sloshing of the tide against the hull, even as the village of the Leviathans was obscured by the cliffs, my heart felt like lead. The boat sailed out of a small cove and we navigated around the island, back to the beach where we had first landed. The incoming tides had pushed both boats over towards a series of rocks. The pirates’ vessel had been wedged upon them, but in turn had protected Alessia’s. We retrieved the stash of items from the forest and quickly headed back aboard Alessia’s boat, determined to leave as soon as we could. At last, Outer Fastanet was behind us. Alessia held the wheel in her hands, feeling the familiar sense of the boat at her palms. She held her head up, feeling the sea breeze push her hair. Her chest swelled as she took deep lungfuls of ocean air, recalibrating herself to what felt right. However, I couldn’t seem to find the same peace. I sat on the steps, my body twitching, and my eyes glancing around, unable to stay looking at one point for too long lest demons creep into view. “You okay?” Alessia said, leaning over the wheel. I turned to her. “I shot a man… a boy,” I corrected myself, a splutter of revulsion escaping in a laugh. “You got him in the shoulder. He’ll likely live.” “On that place? Without proper care?” I closed my eyes, shaking my head. “Don’t coddle me, Alessia.” She tied the small piece of rope around the wheel, and walked over to the steps, sitting down beside me. Alessia placed a hand on my back. “He was shooting at you. You were protecting yourself. And me.” “He was a kid. Younger than Cameron. Probably the same as Robin. And I shot him.” “I know.” Alessia looked out to sea. “Sometimes we do really shitty things because we have to. They’re right at the time, but they still feel bad. So, I’m not telling you to feel okay about it. Because that guilt is good, it’s what makes you a good person. But, just know, from me, what you did was right at the time.” I sniffed. Two small tears ran down my cheeks. “I know, it’s just…” I trailed off, as my eyes watered once more. “Ferdinand. What you did tonight… It was brave. And not something I’ve ever seen from you. You saved my life tonight. I hope - truly - that you never have to do that ever again. I hope we both don’t have to. But, *you* saved us.” I turned to face Alessia. She stared at me with a half-smile, her brow raised slightly. “Thank you,” I muttered. “I… I’m going to need to recover though…” Alessia chuckled. “Me too. That was the worst place I have ever been.” “You seem to be coping better than me.” I wiped away the damp on my cheek with my arm. “Different ways of coping,” Alessia said, tilting her head. “I still feel it.” “I need…” I struggled to find the words. “Can we… breathe for a while… I’m not ready for another adventure right now.” Alessia burst out laughing. “Oh, Ferdinand, how I’ve longed to hear you say that.” She stood up and turned to face me. “How’s this? We go to Talin Barier. We ask around. If we get word of Sannaz then we go find him. But, we stay there for a while. Maybe I pick up a couple of quick trading routes to pay our way every so often. But otherwise, for a little while, we stay put. If something comes up, we go. Otherwise… no adventuring.” I looked up at her with a smile brought about from a moment of certainty creepy across my face. “That sounds great.” Alessia reached out a hand, and pulled me up to my feet. “Onwards to the next… not an adventure then.