In 2017, I was part of a secret maritime task force called The Leviathan Killers. We belonged to the US Navy and had close to sixty members, who were mostly handpicked from DEVGRU, Delta Force, and various NATO UDT teams. We were the best of the best in maritime combat, and we specialized and trained to kill deep-sea threats in heavy gear. We would usually operate between one to eight thousand feet, even more, so we used specialized and classified suits designed by the best combat engineers. We were all extremely proficient at swimming, weapons use, and every underwater combat technique was battered into our heads as second-hand nature. Given the rise of hostile activity in the deep oceans in the late 2010s, we frequently went on more operations. We would handle explosive disposal, naval sabotage, rescue, and intel, but we mainly found and destroyed extremely hostile deep-sea organisms with precision. The weapons we used were various modified underwater rifles and explosives, which were of an extremely high caliber due to the recoil of the guns being significantly lowered in the deep ocean. I joined while I was in DEVGRU, and I was offered a spot on The Leviathan Killers. I was a member for six years when I went on one of our most eventful operations. \*\*\* We were going to the Mariana Trench. It was deeper than any other operation we had ever been on, so we had to use experimental suits to survive the temperatures and insane pressure. Death would be mercy at those depths. Deep in the Mariana Trench, a distress signal from a US research submersible had gone out a day before we had deployed there. The researchers in that submersible were dead, but what caught our interest was the fact that the submersible's readings still showed that living organisms were surrounding the submersible, and were taken as hostile. The Leviathan Killers were deployed to investigate. We arrived on a large warship and dove directly into the trench in our suits, and as I put on the suit, I talked with the marine biologist and expert of the trench. "Doc," I said. "Any chance of leviathans down there?" "Possibly," the marine biologist said. "Hard to tell, the food sources down there are sparse if there are any." "Then what the fuck destroyed the submersible?" "We don't know." "How deep can these suits go?" "Fifteen thousand feet, at the absolute maximum." "Why that deep?" "The ocean is much deeper than we think." "I can't imagine the fucking things that live that deep." "There are horrors within the abyss." With the weight carrying us deeply, we descended fast into the abyss. I looked around to see the light disappearing, and I held onto my rifle as we descended. Two dozen other members descended along with me, and within a few hours, we had reached the destination, the bottom of the deepest place in the world, at the exact coordinates of the submersible's location. It was pitch black, and the darkness was pierced as we turned on our extremely bright helmet lights, and searched the wreckage. The research submersible was fucking destroyed, and it was clear that it wasn't just the pressure that had done to it. I walked over to the wreckage while the others watched for any signs of movement, and I noticed something inside the wreckage. I reached down, my light illuminating a wriggling, pale tendril inside. I showed it to my team, and we were instantly on guard. It was cut off recently. In the distance, my teammate spotted a red light blinking in the far distance, only visible due to the sheer blackness of the trench. It was far, but steadily approaching, and we couldn't hit it this far. When it got within six hundred meters, we began taking shots at it. As soon as the first bullet hit the red light, all our suit's lights, our floodlights, and any source of light instantly cut out. Now let me describe a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time. Fear. I had gone on raids on terrorist groups in the Middle East, assassinated the deadliest extremists and insurgency leaders, killed monsters both human and not, been shot, been stabbed, been gassed, been tortured, and had tortured countless people, and as a result, my sense of fear and adrenaline had significantly numbed. I had killed literal leviathans before. But at that moment, when all our lights went out at the deepest hell we could descend to, and as the red light approached, I felt every sense of fear and primal instinct come back to me. That feeling was primal, as if I recognized that red light from the worst nightmares of my ancestors, and standing at the bottom of the ocean holding a rifle, I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to seek refuge. We were blind, and anything we shot at, we would definitely miss. It was absolutely pitch black, darker than anything else I had experienced, even at depths close to these. It was the void, and there was only one thing penetrating it was something that I couldn't see, didn't want to see. It approached, and no matter how closely it got, it seemed to never grow or shrink. I had no idea where my teammates were, my lights, communications, and electronics weren't working, and the red light was rapidly approaching. I was stepping back blindly, into the void, slowly, as the light approached. It was only twenty feet away when it suddenly cut out, and everything turned black. All thoughts of my mission, my teammates, my family, and my country, all that I had fought so hard for instantly disappeared as I turned the other direction and ran. The water resistance made my footsteps feel like an eternity, and I would never escape this thing, but I sure as hell tried. I suddenly felt a commotion as water rushed around me, objects brushed past me, and suddenly my headlight, and only my headlight, turned on and I screamed. I was mostly used to extreme gore, but this was something else. Something else fucking entirely. My teammates, all who were married and had kids, the people who I had fought alongside and would die for, were now ripped to fucking shreds. Every single one of them, and their suits, was torn apart, and their organs were ripped out, their skin pale and crushed by the pressure, their faces were ripped off and floating in the water. The deepwater was flooded with crimson, and I saw the decapitated head of one of my teammates float in front of me with an expression of horror I can not describe. I dropped my rifle and ran. I ran slowly but I ran, my dying light illuminating the bare seafloor, as I constantly felt something brush against me. I was running, closing my eyes, slowly making I was across the seafloor, my steps dragged out as I kept screaming, and screaming until my lungs were hoarse. I coughed up blood. The suits were supposed to give us air for up to ten hours, and I ran and ran and ran across the seafloor, screaming and constantly turning back, only to see nothing. But there was something, hiding within the pitch black of the ocean, and the primal sense of utter dread was rising every second, besides the fact that I could neither see, feel, or hear anything near me anymore. But I could sense that there was something, something horrible, worse than anything I could imagine within that blackness. I must have run a mile or two the hours I ran, and I suddenly stopped. Only a few meters away from me, illuminated by my headlight, was an enormous, endless, black trench within the Mariana Trench. It was extremely deep, even from my limited visibility I could tell it was a true abyss. Something swam past me, something fucking huge, and I turned to see that fucking red light approaching me at breakneck speed. *Any chance of leviathans down there?* With no other options, I jumped into the abyss, the trench within the trench. *Possibly, hard to tell, the food sources down there are sparse if there are any.* I sunk deeper and my lungs burned as I screamed and screamed, and my headlight touched nothing illuminating nothing, as I descended into the void. *Then what the fuck destroyed the submersible?* I kept sinking, and the horror was so bad I wanted to kill myself, and I tried ripping my suit off to expose and kill myself to the deep. *We don't know.* I looked beneath me, to see nothing but utter black envelop me, and it kept ongoing, and I wondered how deep the ocean truly was. I had devoted so much of my life to it, and yet now it was going to kill me. *How deep can these suits go?* I sunk and continued to for hours. Time became irrelevant, and I was stuck in my mind, and I constantly punched my helmet, and the fear was driving me mad. *Fifteen thousand feet, at the absolute maximum.* I couldn't form thoughts, the utter dread was screaming at me that something huge and something unknown was watching me, following me as I sunk to my death. I closed my eyes and screamed, blood and pieces of my lung splattering the inside of my helmet. *Why that deep?* Hours and hours passed, my oxygen slowly ran out, and I finally hit the floor of the trench. I opened my eyes, the taste of copper in my mouth, my throat burning as I slowly walked forward, madness and fear pounding into my mind. I was at the bottom, the true end to the deepest point, the deepest hell on earth. *The ocean is much deeper than we think.* I walked aimlessly, waiting for my oxygen to run out so I could be granted the sweet bliss of death. In the distance, I saw the fucking red light, that fucking red light blink into sight, and it approached quickly as I screamed once more. *I can't imagine the fucking things that live that deep.* I wanted death. Death, and nothing else. I ran towards the light as it approached, screaming and closing my eyes, and waiting for the beautiful feeling of my flesh ripping as I died and left this wretched abyss. I ran and ran until I slowly stopped and I opened my eyes. The red light was in front of me, and my headlight was illuminating it. I looked up and floating in front of me, at the deepest hell on earth, I saw an organism, so horrifying, perfect, beautiful, dreadful, unholy, demonic, eldritch, and I fell to my knees and experienced a fate much worse than death.


Granddad of the Dead The necromancer lived in the mausoleum at the center of a graveyard, and the ancient stone building shone bone-white in the moonlight. It was a beautiful night, the dark navy fabric of the sky speckled with bright stars like jewels. Tonight, he was expecting visitors. Of all people, his son-in-law, his daughter, and their child, his grandchild. But not his only grandchild, oh no! His daughter was expecting, and they were dropping off Violet for a bit of well-earned time together. He was looking forward to it, even though it had been years (literally, years) since he had actually babysat. How, exactly, could he use his powers to entertain Violet? He wasn’t exactly good with children; he could barely remember his own daughter at that young age. But they’d find something to do, surely. He could be hip like the young adults that his daughter and son-in-law were. The necromancer was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the series of sharp knocks on the door. He walked through the mausoleum to the front door and pulled it open with a dull scrape. On the threshold stood his daughter, Hecate, and his son-in-law, Prometheus. In Hecate’s arms, Violet was squirming to be let down, wriggling like a fish. She wore a dress as purple as her name, adorned with yellow daisies. Her short, reddish-blonde curls were loose, and her bright green eyes seemed to sparkle, even in the damp, dark resting place that was his home. She was beautiful. “Okay, Daddy, we’re leaving now. We’ll be back in a few hours. And remember, no necromancy around the baby!” Hecate said, hissing the last part under her breath so Violet wouldn’t hear. She was dressed in a sparkling, wine-colored dress that showed off her baby bump, diamond earrings sparkling in her earlobes. Her long, dark curls were gathered in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck, and she tottered in five-inch heels; her father resisted the urge to laugh. Only his daughter would come to a graveyard in such fancy footwear. “I love you, Daddy.” Hecate murmured, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. Then she swooped down on Violet and kissed her forehead. “Please be good for your Granddad, okay, baby? We’ll be back in a few hours. Have fun. I love you!” Violet nodded, smiling up at her mother. Prometheus smiled at his father-in-law, handing off the diaper bag to him. “Thank you so much for this, Alastair, sir. We really appreciate it.” “How many times have I told you not to call me ‘sir’ anymore?” Alastair replied, laughing jovially. “You’ve been married to my daughter for almost five years now. Call me Al.” He winked. Hecate tugged on her husband’s arm, impatient to leave. “Come on, honey, I don’t want to mess our reservation at the restaurant.” With a final wave, the couple parted, with Hecate blowing kisses at Violet. \*\* “Grandad, let’s do something fun!” Violet squealed, jumping around him in circles. She was like a tiny little ball of sunshine, full of energy and so much joy. It made him wonder if he’d made the wrong choice, all those years ago, choosing to excel in the forbidden, dark arts. Perhaps his life would be entirely different, had he taken the alternate path. “What would you like to do, darling?” Alastair asked. He’d bought several coloring books, crayons and markers and colored pencils, as well as puzzles, sketch paper, and even an ancient TV and a bunch of kids’ movies. Just because he didn’t have company much didn’t mean that he couldn’t keep his granddaughter entertained. “Let’s have a dance party, Granddad!” Alastair hoped fervently that Hecate would not reprimand him. But surely this counted as an exception. “Very well!” The old man raised his arms and his fingers glowed bright lime green. At his gesture, there was a groaning, scraping sound, and then the dead were emerging from their stone coffins to dance around the child. Alastair hummed a jaunty tune, and in the middle of it all was Violet, spinning in circles and laughing happily. She clapped her hands and swayed back and forth, jumped up and down, and Alastair’s minions began to mimic her. Perhaps this magic wasn’t so useless after all.


I never questioned what my mother had told me. She didn't know who my father was. I only knew that somehow I would become something great, and he would know I was his son. My mother had come to America from Argentina when I was young. I was without my mother for a few years, living in my village with my aunt. The town was small but enough for a boy of five years old. I have fond, although very few memories of my family and I outside, all the time, considering we didn't have glass windows, just holes in the walls. One night, a snake was in my room, having climbed through our open windows, and no one was worried. A way of living, usual for us here in our bungalow and sleepy village. This way of living was how we all lived there in that part of Argentina. We had electricity but no running water. We would collect water from the streams nearby. I remember watching my grandmother catch our chickens to kill for dinner; I was always so hungry, especially for chicken, for our diet was consistently rice and beans. Poverty was why my mother went to America; to save me from this life.

However, to leave Argentina meant I would never see my father, a father that I didn't even know his name. A man that I would one day grow up and look like, and yet the face would be mine but carry a resemblance to a stranger. I had visions and daydreams of what would happen if I met him. I wanted to be something great, I wanted to be somebody, make a name for myself so he couldn't ignore me or pretend he didn't know I existed. I wanted to become more than the boy from Argentina. I didn't feel like a piece of me was missing by not knowing my father. Not knowing him had given me the resolve to become a fantastic athlete, to pursue a better life, and not waste the gift of being in America. The ironies of my life would occasionally beset me. I can watch people complain about the modern conveniences in this world while many starve and live on pennies a day. While the only way I escaped a fate as tragic is my mother's persistent need to give life to her son, a life that is better than the one she knew.

I supposed that was why I didn't ask more about my absent father. She had little emotion about him, so minimal feeling. I chalked the idea up to her, not knowing who my father was. I liked to imagine him as the kind of man I want to be. Present, persistent, and powerful. I tried to imagine that I could become somebody he could be proud of, whether he knew of me. I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother more. That is until I became a father. I had a son, and I didn't know what it meant to have your heart live outside your chest—this feeling of holding this child and knowing that I will be the role model in his life. I will be the one to show and give him a life that I hope is as good and better than mine. My mother could tell by the look in my eyes; I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a father. I had mentors who took me in and gave me advice throughout my life, and helped me along my journey. Yet, to be a father to this little personality in my arms, how could I do it and not have ever had a father?

These questions lead me back to Argentina, as I stand at the edge of finally knowing my father. My wife had found him with my mother's help, and they thought it would help me. I embarked alone to where he was. A trip as a young boy, I had only dreamed about. Finally, as I stood there, all the questions In my mind carefully aligning themselves together, with everything I ever wanted to tell him piling up in mind. I find that all the questions and all the mystery would remain. As I read the epitaph on his headstone, it said, "I was somebody," and his name. A name I had only learned days ago. He had died young, only a few years older than I was at that moment. At that moment, I realized I was granted a gift by my mother to have not been told a single thing until that moment. I was given a chance to hope that my father was out there waiting for me. And he was, he was waiting for me on the other side of this life. I had a feeling he was there with me as I kneeled by his grave. I would never know him, and I would never know what his voice sounded like, or even what he looked like. I know his life will be carried on through my son and all those who come after my son. I am somebody, just as my father was somebody. He was an idea to me, someone to strive for and to make proud. While I was sad, I was hopeful. I had the opportunity to be in my son's life and be the dad I had wanted in my life. I had a rare and so beautiful gift that I would continue to live my life to make my father proud. I put my hand on the grass, as the warm Earth gave me strength. The only thing I had was this moment with him—this one moment with my father. I didn't say anything, and the silence was speaking more volumes than anything I could try and say. I knew he would wait for me on the other side, and he would live on in me. I finally stood up and took one last look at the inscription. "I am somebody"-yes, Dad, we are.


I was dreaming about something, something that I didn’t know. Something far, far bigger than myself. Or maybe I wasn’t dreaming of anything at all. No, no. That’s not right at all. I was definitely, or at the very least, likely, dreaming of something. But then, maybe nothing is, in fact, far bigger than myself. Bigger than any of us, really. In that sense it is entirely likely that I was dreaming of nothing. But not nothing as in nothing. Nothing as in a vast space of darkness. I suppose darkness is some type of something then, even if it is entirely empty. I know I was sleeping, or at least not conscious by any means, when I began to hear a voice. It was less like a voice than what we know a voice as, such as words from a human mouth, and more like the voice of a calling of fate. Fate speaks in tongues. There I was, floating, if floating is what you do in nothingness, at least I was doing something similar to floating, when I started to hear it. I turned my head in one direction, then the other. There was nothing around me. But in a sense everything was around me at the same time. I managed to turn my entire body. But it wasn’t turning anywhere. It was like my eyes were able to see in every direction at once. I could hear the voice but it wasn’t coming from any direction in particular, it was just there. Like when you talk to yourself in your head. Is that where I was? In my head? Had I managed to implode into myself? If I imploded into myself, then I would be nowhere at all. Was it my own voice I was hearing? I tried to call out. “Hello?” No sound escaped me. I was entirely silent. Everything was entirely silent, not even ringing in my ears. Except for the indistinct voice calling me. Possibly my voice. It sounded as if I were under water and somebody from the surface was yelling for me. But not yelling, more like talking. Yes. It was like I was on the floor of the ocean and somebody was having a conversation on the surface. I opened my mouth to yell out again, and again no sound escaped me. I almost expected water to fill my lungs. It didn’t. I looked around me again, my eyes seemingly the only part of me that could move. Around and around they went but there was nothing for them to see. Suddenly, as if an earthquake had hit me, not around me but actually hit my body, I felt something around my arm. It was warm, soft, and gentle. But the feeling of it was like my body went entirely through an earthquake. Almost as if I was the earth. As if I were crust, mantle, and the outer and inner cores. I sat with it, only for a minute, that thing wrapped around my arm. Or maybe it was two seconds. Or an eon. A decade. Or five thousand years. It was a hand, that warm, soft, gentle thing wrapped around my arm. I tried to hold it, to grab it, to place my hand on top of it. I was frozen. I felt my eyes open and I was weightless. I saw the universe flash before my eyes. Every inch of it, and I was flying through it. I was on the sidewalk and a woman, gentle and kind, was holding onto my arm. She was knelt down next to me, brown hair pushed behind her ears. I looked at her. Not in a weird way, but in a way that somebody looks at something interesting. I watched people pass by, cars drive, birds fly, and this woman mouth something to somebody. I couldn’t hear a thing. Was there somebody else there? I tracked her eyes as she mouthed something. Yes. Yes, there had to be somebody else there. Her eyes were looking behind me. I moved my eyes to look behind me, and it felt odd to not be in the nothingness I was just in. I had to use muscles to move my eyes now. It was a man. A short man with gray hair, or at least gray enough. He had a clean face, not a single piece of stubble on it. The two were talking, and I could start to hear that voice again. The one that sounded like fate. Like I was moving through a tube of gelatinous liquid, I pulled my eyes back to the woman that was mouthing something to the man behind me. Her eyes caught mine and she mouthed something to me. I felt more pressure from her hand, as if she were squeezing it. Squeezing it. As if surfacing from the bottom of the ocean I could hear the words she was saying. That woman. “Are you hungry?” Me. Nothing. That woman. “Can you hear me?” Me. Nothing. Her voice trailed off again to something else. As though if she weren’t talking directly to me, I couldn’t hear her. But her voice, her voice was as gentle as her hand. I hadn’t realized it, but I was lying down. I felt my back stiff and hard against the pavement. But was I lying down? I had just been floating. Or at least the equivalence of floating. I was back under the water, words filtered through the thick waves. I couldn’t hear anything. Nothing. The only senses I had were touch and site. I felt the sidewalk underneath me. It was warm, hot almost. It was grainy, as if I were lying on the black and white static of an old television. One that had lost connection. Slowly, like a small stream flowing into the river, then into the vast ocean, my ears filled with the static noise of an ancient television. Not ancient in the way the beginning of the world is ancient. But old. Yes, not an ancient television but an old television. I opened my eyes again and this is not where I had remembered being. Even before I had imploded into myself into absolute nothingness, I was somewhere else completely before. Where, I do not currently know. Maybe I do. Yes. I was at home. At least a place I called my home. I was on a couch and there was a cat, an orange one, lying, purring on my chest. I was petting it, stroking it from its head down its back and to its tail. I remember it loving the way I did that. Was it my mother’s house? My house? Or was it a shelter. I’ve been in a few of those. It definitely wasn’t here. Where is here? Here is nothing. Here is nowhere. Now here. I could hear again. As if I had never lost my hearing. I could hear everything around me. The cars, the people, the birds, the wind, the grass. Everything was as if nothing had ever changed. Me. “No.” The man behind me. “Do you know where you are?” Me. “Yes.” Him. “Where are you?” Me. “I’m on the sidewalk.” The woman. “Do you know your name?” My name. My name. What was my name. Who was I? Was I anybody? Did I have a name? I reflected on that. Put a mirror in front of my soul and reflected on who I was. It was hideous, my soul was. Disgusting and putrid and rotten. I don’t know how it got that way, but that’s how it was. Me. “Robert.” The woman. “Robert, what’s your last name?” The questions. All of these questions. They were starting to piss me off. I felt myself getting angry. I wasn’t angry at her for asking them, but at the questions themselves. As if they were alive, living and breathing, questions. Like they had a face and a name and a history. These questions. Rage. Rage. Rage. Me. “Somewhere.” Was I still dreaming? I could be. I could not be. There probably isn’t that much of a difference. Not really. Not between the human experience and a dream. The woman. “Do you know what happened to you?” Me. “Nothing happened to me.” Was that right? No. Yes. Yes, something had happened to me. What was it? Me. “Something happened to me.” I had only just realized that the man and the woman were paramedics, that they had on blue uniforms with badges and they were wearing latex gloves. I got up, all the way up onto my feet and I was extremely dizzy. I managed to catch myself, to find balance. Or at least something similar to balance. The man. “Hold steady now.” He let me place a hand on his shoulder. He was shorter than me. Not by much, but by a little. Enough. The woman started talking into a radio that was clipped to her lapel. I didn’t hear what she said. The woman. “You tried to kill yourself last night.” Me. “Kill myself?” That would mean I was something. I had to be something. You can’t kill nothing. Nothing has never existed. But it has. I’ve seen it. Nothing is absolutely everything. Now here. The man. “You remember that?” Me. “No.” The woman. Why were they always switching? “Will you go to the hospital with us?” Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” The woman. “What happened last night?” If I knew, I would tell her. She seemed nice enough. If I had any way of replaying the previous night, I would tell her all about it. The entire thing. I would tell her my entire life story if she had time to listen. Explain to her every single thing that I knew. But there was nothing for me to tell. My name wasn’t Robert. It was something else entirely. It wasn’t Justin or Zach. Not Theodore or Alabaster. It ran and hid from me. My name did. Leapt through the forest and hid in the shadows. I could not catch it, could not catch anything like a breath. My breath. Long, raspy, and heavy as it was. I focused on it and it was difficult, trying. I was still leaning on the man. I now expected him to hold me the way we expect floors to not collapse beneath us. The way we expect misery to follow grief. Me. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.” The woman. “Do you know today’s date?” The date. The date. If I guessed the date, I would have an infinite number of guesses. Monday January 19, 1280. Friday September 2, 1934. Wednesday April 39, 0000. 0000. As if it existed. Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” The woman. “Do you know today’s date?” I forgot that I never answered her, only myself. Me. “It’s Monday.” The two people looked at each other, confusion in their eyes. Not confusion, concern. Yes. They were concerned. For me? The woman. “Do you know where you are?” I was still leaning on the man. He didn’t seem to mind. Like he was doing a duty for me. Now here. Me. “In Kentucky.” Her. “Do you know which city?” It was frustrating me that they never told me if I was right or not with my answers. I couldn’t ask if I was right because then it would seem like I was guessing. Me. “Lexington.” I had lived there before. Ten years ago. Again, the two paramedics looked at each other. If I had thought about it, I would have looked at the badges on their uniforms before. Atlanta Emergency Squad. Atlanta? There wasn’t much difference between Atlanta and Lexington. Not much at all. Other than geographic location. I was in Atlanta. The night before I could have been in Lexington like I could have been in San Francisco. Or like how I could have been on Neptune, or Pluto, or some other galaxy all together. Now here. Me. “Atlanta, Georgia.” Me. “It’s Wednesday.” Me. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Me. “I don’t want to kill myself.” Me. “I was in Lexington. I came here to visit my sister. She doesn’t live far from here.” I had no sister. The woman. “We can’t force you, but if you would sign here indicating you are refusing medical assistance, then we can be out of your way. Are you sure you don’t need anything? I have a granola bar in the truck.” I signed her papers, it was on a clipboard. I signed them with no clear letters, just a line of loopty loops. My name. What was my name. It wasn’t anything. I had no name. No past. No future. No present. But I had to have a name. Somebody had to name me. I had to be somewhere. Atlanta, Georgia is where I was, but I don’t mean somewhere in that sense. I mean somewhere in the sense of existence. They left, the man and the woman. I was left alone, all alone. Entirely alone. I laid back down on the sidewalk, hoping to be transported back into the nothingness that I remembered. But nothing happened. I felt the hard concrete underneath me. I was back to life and could never go back to the dark nothing. But what did that mean. I didn’t know. I wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep. A long, deep sleep. Not death. I did not want to die. That was, is, the truth. I stood up again, stared directly at the sun for a few seconds, and when I couldn’t see anything because of big, flashing blobs of black circles, I began to walk nowhere in particular. Nowhere. Now here. Repeating. Repeating. Repeating. Now here. Now here. Now here. Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. Did I want to kill myself? To stop. To cease. To end. It is possible, but not entirely. Not completely possible. My pockets were empty. I walked into the nearest gas station, asked to use a phone, dialed a number that I had memorized. It could have been centuries old. The first phone number ever invented. The voice. “Hello?” Me. “Can you pick me up? I’m in Atlanta.” The voice. “Who is this?” My name escaped me. I was alone. Completely, entirely, alone. Me. “It’s me.”


“With a mouth like yours, you better learn how to fight or run away,” is probably the second-best piece of advice I’ve ever received. I was given it by a big oaf that also happened to be my classmate. Can’t remember his name, but it starts with an A. Adam, Alex, Asshole? Yeah, that last one. He taught it to me while he was smashing my face in, his buddies cheering him on and watching out for teachers somewhere behind him. I couldn’t see them. Couldn’t see anything except the concrete towers stretching up to blot out the only sunlight this little slice of nature in the middle of the city got, and then even that was blocked out by the bottom of his boot. Then I stopped seeing much of anything for a while. I think that was the sum of my experience back then. Family packs up to move to the city and drags me along because I was too young to screw off somewhere elsewhere. And too old to fit in. Too many other things too. Didn’t know how to leave well enough alone, so I’d respond to insults about my family and where I was from in kind. Might’ve been tall, but I was too scrawny to fight back when I actually struck a nerve, and my gangly limbs couldn’t propel me anywhere at a considerable speed except into the ground, which I preferred to make people like Asshole waste their time doing for me. Another mark against me – apparently I had a chip on my shoulder. Whatever the hell that meant. As much as the principal, and my teachers, and even my parents and once in a while my siblings like to say that to me, nobody wanted to stop and ask why I was always ready to get my ass whooped. My fuse was so short because it was always burning. Sensory overload, I guess. The neon lights, the constant noise, everybody with a word to get in last and a laundry list of shit to get done for the day. Back in the rural town we came from, people would say there was so much to do in the city. But they never said there was so much going on. I guess most people would figure those to be the same, but it never really clicked for me until I was there. So I was always on edge, feeling like I was being bombarded because I was, and then Asshole comes along and calls me a sister-fucker because I’m from Virginia. So yeah, maybe I should’ve let it go instead of making some rude gestures…and maybe insinuating some incestuous happenings in his own family tree, given his general appearance which I would then go onto describe as- “The wrong end of a diseased cow.” That was when he punched me. He threw in some kicks, a kidney shot I really didn’t appreciate, and finally stomped me in the head and I blacked out. When I came to, I was still laid out in the grass of the city park. It was darker than I remembered it being when I was getting my ass kicked, though the time of day wasn’t my focus. I also wasn’t alone. “You look like shit,” that person said. Wasn’t Asshole or his goons, that much was clear since I wasn’t being kicked. Didn’t recognize the voice, must be some guy who found me afterward. “Feel worse,” I croaked. Jesus, was that my voice? Sounded like I was on my deathbed. “Yeah, I bet,” they chuckled. “Need a hand up?” “Need a doctor…but I’ll take what I can get.” I reached up, and they moved into my field of view. Yup, didn’t recognize them. He looked a little older than me, college-age, but like things were going much better in his life. He had a boyishly handsome face, dark eyes, and was dressed…I don’t know, athletically might be the word? Loose tee, shorts that were easy to move in, had a backpack on. His hands, though. That’s what really caught my attention. There were rough, callused, and covered in tiny scratches. Like if you slapped your hand against asphalt. Not enough to skin your palms or feel anything but a slight sting and leave a red mark. Later, when he took me back to his place to clean up so I didn’t have to go home looking like I was mugged, which I kinda was, I’d discover where those were from. Much, much later, this would be the man to give me the first-best piece of advice I’d ever receive. Max is what he went by. What he did was free-run. Also parkour, but he was quick to differentiate the two. “Art, man. If parkour’s a textbook, freerunning is like writing poetry.” I figured that was a pompous way to say he liked to do dangerous stunts in places he shouldn’t be. And, yeah, that was kinda true, if reductive. But when that was what he’d been coming back from doing when he found me in a heap in the park, and decided to stick around to make sure I wasn’t dead and nobody did anything to me, I couldn’t complain too much. No denying he was an odd duck, though. City-born and raised, so you know something wasn’t quite right in his head. The kind of thing that made him think running around and doing backflips off of twenty-story buildings was fun and not the sort of thing to make you shit yourself. But at least he was good at it, or must’ve been to make it this far without dying. Or to think it was something other people should do. When I told him about what happened, mentioning what Asshole said, he’d laughed. Then, when he was done enjoying my misery, he suggested I learn how to do parkour. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. But nobody pegged me as being smart. I was hooked the first time I jumped from the top of a building. Oh, I was terrible at it. I didn’t know how to bend my legs right, I nearly faceplanted, and I scratched up my hands so bad I thought I might need to go to the hospital. But it was exhilarating. The sense of having nothing below you as you sail through the air, briefly wondering if you’re going to make it or if this is where the falling begins… Max helped me up and he knew too that I was in. It was written all over my face in the stupid way I was grinning. It was only a matter of course from there. I stopped spending so much time at home and lied to my parents the few times they asked what I was doing, though I had to wonder if they’d even tried to stop me if they knew. School sucked same as always, that wasn’t going to magically change, but it’s incredible what having some release for your stress will do. I didn’t care that it was bad anymore. What I cared about was getting out as soon as I could and running over to Max’s. Should go without saying I wasn’t taking the normal route, either. That was part of my practice. He was a good teacher, too. A week in and I stopped shaking before a jump. A month in and I could take a decent fall without too much trouble. Later we’d start getting into the freerunning aspects and focus less on the parkour. He was right – it was poetry, or like music in motion. Parkour had been about getting from point A to point B, swift as possible. But this was new. It was the death of the ego that was me and the birth of something new that could only be expressed through fluid movement above the city. Far below everything continued on as normal, but it couldn’t reach up here. The noise was muted, the lights dim, the awkwardness I once felt in my own body moved to a world far away. Instead it was just Max and me, and the thuds of our footsteps, and the whistling air as we twisted, turned, rolled, pirouetted. It would rain and the concrete would become slick and dark, but we’d still run once I became better at it. The thrill of it was intoxicating, knowing that death could be so close and the only thing keeping it away was a steady sense of balance. A year passed. I hardly paid Asshole any mind when the new semester started, and didn’t have an issue in keeping away when he sought me out. My parents couldn’t care less I was never home because the school stopped calling them to complain. Things were going great between Max and me. We’d moved past being teacher and student, and were now more like partners as we leaped and bounded from the rooftops and slid down railings. But here’s where reality has to come back in, and I had to learn the best piece of advice I ever would…or at least it was the one I’d never forget, no matter how much I tried since. “Sometimes you need to let go.” Yeah, ironic. And I don’t think he meant it to be prophetic. ‘Course not, how could he? But that’s what Max told me the last day I’d ever see him. We met up same as usual and went out to eat some lunch before going on a run. I’d complained a bit about school – sure, things were going better, but nothing was perfect, and I wanted to vent about one of my teachers. Nothing was perfect. Right. Yeah. Should’ve been a normal day and a normal run. Done the path more times than I can count. Were we cocky? Nah, Max made sure I learned that lesson. Had something changed? Maybe. Maybe the ledge was worn a little too thin, didn’t offer enough traction. If I’d gone after him, it might’ve been me. But I landed and rolled forward, and he landed a moment after me and slipped backward. Then he was gone. He fell from our heaven above the city into the hell below. I didn’t really know what to do about it except look down and watch. Then when the cops and the ambulance showed up, I ran. Then I stopped running. Never started back up. I’m not really sure if it was out of fear or…or if it was my way of mourning, but I never did it again. Things moved on. Nobody knew I was connected to Max or that I’d been there, though I had the irrational fear the cops would show up to ask questions about what we’d been doing up there for a few weeks after. Nobody showed up. I just numbly shuffled through life for a while until the numbness faded. Went to college. Got a job and the city stopped feeling like this weird place I was trapped in until I worked up the courage to move on. Then I met a nice guy, fell in love. We married, then adopted. My youth started to feel like it happened to someone else, but that’s time’s trickery for you. Life continued as though nothing happened, but I carried the memory of Max with me. “Funny how things work out like that,” I said to myself. “Not even sure why I came back here today.” That wasn’t true, actually. I came back to say goodbye. There wasn’t anything to mark the spot where he had fallen, but why would there be? It’d happened over a decade ago. “I’m leaving, finally. We bought a quaint place out in the middle of nowhere.” “Wish we could’ve spent more time together.” “I’m sorry.” “I don’t know what else I can say.” “…” I started and stopped a dozen times, searching for the right words. Something to close this chapter of my life that I’d spent in this city, some way I could wrap a neat bow over it all. But there wasn’t any way I could do that. There was no closure to be found, only what I made for myself. And while it would never be sufficient, I had to make do. “Thank you,” I finally said and looked up the sky. “You taught me a lot more than how not to bust my ass, and I appreciate it.” For what it’s worth.


Brandon looked out over the floor – with its winding counter and Plexiglas shield segregating hundreds of staff from a legion of customers, with its myriad stanchions webbed together by criss-crossing tape that formed Möbius lines, with its three lazy fans that did little more than shuffle the stale sweat air from armpit to nostril, with its never-ending symphony of phone-rings and baby-shrieks and tired-grumbles accented by improvised solos of the irate, with its Byzantine maze of signs and symbols and arrows hanging from the ceiling, with its vague jaundiced grey hue that covered everything in a sticky film of neglect – and gasped. “Well, hello ,” sang a woman, startling Brandon all over again. She was a head shorter than him, wore a frizzy lilac sweater – hand knit – and held a clipboard. Her pink lipstick smeared a bit at the corners of her mouth, and her nametag said, Pamela Rosen, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager III . “You must be the new hire!” she continued. She glanced down at her clipboard and then up again, her eyes gleeful wide. “Bradley!” Brandon glanced at the writhing mass of human misery, doing its best to stay within the ever-shifting lines, and swallowed hard. “Um, it’s Brandon, Ma'am.” She clicked her tongue and wagged her finger. “No Ma’ams here, Bradley . That’ll be (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela, if you please. Although,” she giggled, “my friends call me Junior Shift Manager Pam. Play your cards right, and you can too.” She unclipped a nametag from her clipboard. “Now, onto business. Your nametag,” she said, affixing it to his shirt, “says Bradley . And gosh golly gee, it would be pretty silly if a nametag was wrong, wouldn’t it?” “Um…” “And we do so love team players here, Bradley . You are a team player, right, Bradley? ” “Um… yes Ma–(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela.” He swallowed again. “I’m a team player. I really need this job.” He could feel his rent run a bony finger down his spine, and the prospect of unexpected medical bills whispered sweet everythings into his ear. Her grin spread as wide as her eyes narrowed. “Good.” She glanced down at her clipboard again. “All right, it says here you completed the classroom training with a grade of ‘Yes’, so why don’t we head over to your station?” It wasn’t really a question. Pam walked down the winding line of stations, each filled with a bloodshot-eyed co-worker, their monotone drone a pleasant backdrop to the lamentations of the customers. After what felt like an hour of walking they finally came to an empty desk. Nothing there but a worn plastic chair, a forty year old computer, a little sign that could be toggled between a green Open , a red Closed , and a yellow Notice , two stamps ( Denied and Approved ) and a three-inch ring binder chained to the desk, labeled Manual of Procedures . “Please sit, Bradley,” Pam said. “And toggle your station to Open . It’s time to serve our customers.” “But,” he felt a lump in his throat as he opened the heavy manual. “In class we only had a three page pamphlet, and we only covered one case, and we didn’t even–” “Shh shh shh,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “There there, it’ll be all right. You’re a trainee . We don’t expect you to be an expert out of the gate. You’ll learn on the job, and that’s what I’m here to help you with.” “You are?” “Oh yes, of course. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go far. Now, you just smile, open your station, and we’ll go through the manual together. Relax, Bradley. Customers are very understanding of new hires.” Bradley toggled his sign to open, and a gaunt woman with wide-eyes stepped forward. “Hello, Ma’am,” Brandon said. Pam tutted and tapped the manual with her finger. “Please look at your script.” Greet the customer with, “Hello (Sir/Madam).” “Oh, sorry.” He turned to the customer again. “Hello Madam.” The woman didn’t reply. She only placed her forms on the counter with a shaking hand. Pam tapped the manual again, and the next step said to confirm her identification. “Do you have any ID, Ma’am–er–Madam?” The woman dug out a driver’s licence. Next Pam walked him through validating the customer’s forms, which required flipping back and forth through the manual, which frequently told him to reference things on different pages. With each form, the customer’s eyes grew wider. At one point, she stopped blinking. At another, she stopped breathing. But finally, after nearly two hours, Brandon stamped the last of her forms Approved and the woman finally gasped for air. “Congratulations, Madam! It looks like your application is app–” Pam tutted, and tapped the manual again. The final step was validating the customer’s personal details. Brandon went through the steps on page 334, and when he got to the month-of-birth section, he scanned down to March, which told him to go to page 998. The customer is declined. Please inform them to try again at a later date. “Oh,” Brandon said, crestfallen. “I’m so sorry, Madam, it looks like, um, you’re actually declined.” The woman wailed soundlessly and crumpled to the floor, and Pam tapped the desk, beside the second stamp. Brandon picked it up, unsure of what he should stamp, since all her forms were already Approved . Pam tapped the woman’s licence. “But, that’s her driver’s–” “–It doesn’t matter, sweetie,” Pam said. Brandon stamped Declined over her photo and slid all the customer’s materials back to her. “NEXT!” Pam shouted. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Bradley. I should have let you do that, but I just love that part.” The next customer was ultimately declined because he didn’t fill out the optional section of form 114-D-21. The one after that, because she misspelled October on form 56-F as Oct . The one after that, because the approval process took more than thirty minutes – which Brandon apologized for profusely, but it didn’t make a difference. The one after that, because it was 3:12 PM. And so it went, always ending up on page 998. By the time Brandon went home that evening he hadn’t helped a single customer, but Pam didn’t seem worried. Indeed, she had told him he was doing just fine and would be a great addition to the team. He wasn’t so sure, but he hoped so. The money was a welcome thing. The rest of the week went much the same. Pam was more and more hands off, and he got a little faster at flipping through the manual, but every customer still resulted in a Declined for one reason or another. By Friday he had declined fifty-seven customers. Some nodded stoically, expecting no less. Others broke down and wept, or screamed at him, or argued, or threw things. He didn’t even realize when it happened, but he had taken up smoking again, and he knew he had to say something to Pam. She came to him for a Friday-end-of-day check-in. “How did you find your first week, Bradley?” “(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s going well. I keep declining everyone. And these people, these poor people, I swear some of them have been waiting in line for days! It just breaks my heart. Surely there’s got to be some wiggle room?” “Aw,” she said. “Your concern for the customers’ wellbeing is commendable. We put our customers’ satisfaction above everything, after all. But no, no wiggling. Just follow the manual. Trust the process.” “Yeah, right,” he said, “but here’s the thing. I was reading the manual during my spare time–” “– Ooh! You go-getter you,” she grinned, fanning herself. “Er, right. Well, so I just came up with a bunch of hypothetical situations, and no matter what I do, I end up at page 998.” “If that’s what the manual says.” She shrugged. Brandon leaned in closer and whispered, “(Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela, I think there might be a problem. I’ve talked with some of the other staff too. I think maybe all roads lead to page 998. Like, there’s no way for a customer to be approved.” Her smile strained, and her blinks sharpened. “What an… interesting observation, Bradley. Tell you what. How about I bring this to the attention of my manager.” “Thank you,” Brandon said, feeling relief surge through his muscles. “And how about you spend the weekend thinking about what this might mean, with a particular focus on how it might affect your continued employment.” Brandon’s muscles cramped again. He didn’t sleep over the weekend, and Monday rolled up much too quickly for his liking. Had that been a threat? Did he misread how nice Pamela had been? Well, at least how not-overtly-hostile she had been? When he got into the office on Monday morning, he found her already waiting by his desk, standing there with a wide grin and her clipboard. “Good morning ,” she sang. “Good morning, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela.” She giggled. “Oh, I have some great news for you, Bradley.” He gulped. She unclipped a piece of paper from her board and handed it to him. “Ta-da!” Brandon frowned at the sheet, labeled Front-line Memo #88992-DR-231-09 . It was written in 6 point Comic Sans, even though the bottom third was all whitespace. “What’s this?” “Management was impressed by your finding, and it turns out: you’re right! It’s basically a widespread typo, a terrible mistake. We should never have been sending people to page 998 in all of those circumstances.” “Oh, that’s fantastic!” Brandon said. He felt himself smiling, and actually looking forward to the work day. Maybe he misjudged this job, and Pam, entirely. Maybe he could make a difference. “The memo just goes to say that we basically spent the whole weekend printing off a new manual for everyone, where all the places we redirected people to page 998 should now go to page 753.” Brandon flipped to page 753. The customer is approved. Please congratulate them, and thank them for their business. Ask them if they would like to fill out a satisfaction survey, and either way, pat yourself on the back – you did well today! His grin widened and he actually chuckled. Oh yes, this week was going to be much better. He took his seat and prepared for the morning rush. Pam set down a pen and a jar of correctional fluid on the counter. “What’s this?” Brandon said. “There’s a second memo this morning,” she said, and then unclipped it and passed it to Brandon. Attention: all front line staff. Please remove pages 998 and 753 from your manual. Then apply the correctional fluid to each page number, and once it dries, re-page page 998 as page 753, and re-page page 753 as 998, and replace the pages in your manual. Brandon’s jaw dropped. “This doesn’t change anything!” “What do you mean? Nobody will be sent to page 998 anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?” “No! Yes! I mean–people will still keep getting rejected! I wanted to start approving people!” Pam’s face softened. “Oh, Bradley. Approving people costs money. If we spend money on approving people, we won’t have it to spend on employee wages. You do like earning money, don’t you?” “I–” Brandon’s words tripped him up. “I do, but not like this.” “What if I told you, you get a bonus for every one thousand declines? Think about it. You already know the secret of the manual. You could fast-track each customer to page 753. Accumulate those bonuses. Afford your own nifty hand knit sweaters. Heck, afford to dream of retirement one day. But, you know, just dream.” “A bonus?” he asked. “What, uh, what kind of bonus are we talking?” Pam leaned in and whispered lustily, “A ten dollar gift card to Starbucks, and access to the leftovers from Management’s Thursday pizza lunch.” Brandon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He grit his teeth. He weighed his needs against his morals, his rent against everything his parents taught him. “No.” He opened his eyes. “Sorry, (Acting) Junior Shift Manager Pamela. I can’t in good conscience do that.” “I see.” She drew away from him, straightened her back. “Then you know what this means?” “Yes, I think I do. I’m resigning.” “That’s a shame, Bradley. I thought you had a lot of promise. I thought you were one of the good ones.” She unclipped a sheet from her board and handed it to him. “Please fill out form 114-D-21, Notice of Two-Weeks’ Notice , and get in line.” Brandon took his form and lined up.


        WRATH OF EARTH

“RUN , RUN ,RUN , RUN OTHERWISE WE WILL BE IN DANGER”. Do not stress your mind by reading these lines because these lines are now familiar to our ears. We live in a world where nothing is normal . Now do not confuse your mind by thinking that we are aliens having superpowers . We are normal humans but not living in a normal World. We are living on a earth but not on a peaceful earth. It is an earth which you can not imagine in your wildest dreams. In our solar system earth was considered as the most appropriate planet for humans to live but now this is not the case . Now earth is considered as the most inappropriate planet to dwell on .We are the reason of this disaster. So let’s start the story that apprise you about the pathetic condition of earth.

           I am a nature lover so I decided to explore a nearby forest with my friends. We all saw beautiful flowers, inimitable birds and beauty of nature. We all were enjoying but suddenly we heard a roar of thunder and in a blink of an eye there was fire all around. By God’s grace we escaped safely from there and we thought that it was just a incident but that was the beginning. After that there was Chaos all over in the world. There was forest fires, climate changes, floods , melting of glaciers and many more things which you can not imagine. Now nothing is normal. Nothing is simple. Everyday we struggle for our lives.    Now we do not go to school. On regular basis we experience heavy rainfall like similar to flood and so government closed all the schools. Now we attend our classes online. I really miss my friends , my teachers and school environment. Educated citizens are the integral part in nation’s growth but now because these climate change is a hindrance in the growth of a nation. Food is such an integral part of us but now we don’t get farm’s fresh food like earlier. Extreme weather events and more frequent droughts affect crop production. Earlier we used to eat many vegetables and fruits but now we only get artificial food . Soil has become infertile and they are incapable of growing crops so our scientists now prepare food in laboratory. This food can fill your empty stomach but not your heart. These laboratory food are very costly so it is impossible for poor people to buy it. It is like a condition of rent. Tress give us oxygen but now they are being destroyed in forest fires and maximum of tress were already destroyed by people for their own selfish needs. People are displaced from their homes because of serve weather events and this results in social instability and conflict when these people move to new place.          Now global warming is at its high peak. And it is reducing the capacity of ocean to absorb oxygen. Geoscientists have found that anaerobic microbes would have thrived in these conditions and produced vast amount of hydrogen sulfide gas which is very toxic causing extinction of both plant and animal on land as well as in water. In news we see that one or other pandemic outbreak is going in the world . This is because of rising temperature gives a suitable condition for development of harmful viruses . Now economically poor people are dependent on meat based diet, which rises the risk of outbreak of diseases which can be very dangerous to humans. The combination of humidity and heat can impair the human body’s ability to cool itself, leading to hyperthermia, a potentially life threatening condition. In some or another part of the country glaciers are melting because of global warming. The harmful greenhouse gases have destroyed our ozone layer , which is leading to many incurable diseases . From all above activities happening in our world can give you a clear Idea that it is a climate apocalypse . Yes it is a climate apocalypse.               We daily experience earthquakes , condition of flood and drought. Now we cannot go to parks or sit under the trees to experience the idyllic happiness. We cannot go to forests ,zoo and to malls instead we can only see the dreadful condition of our earth from our homes in our television .

     People in past have destroyed our environment. They did deforestation for their needs without supporting afforestation. They used plastics and threw them away in Oceans . They used vehicles , industries which released harmful gases . They did everything for their pleasure without thinking about their next generation . It is truly said that your past deeds affect your future. In this condition we can do nothing but just kindle the light of hope in ourselves. Though everywhere there are clouds of darkness but I believe that Every cloud has a silver lining. It is not a piece of cake to survive in this era. This climate apocalypse involve the global collapse of human civilization and potential human extinction as either a direct or indirect result of anthropogenic climate change. Earth is now rendered uninhabitable as a result of extreme temperatures, severe weather events ,an inability to grow crops and an altered composition of the earth’s atmosphere.      Now it is impossible for us to live with this environment and we are just hoping for best. Our scientists also working very diligently day and night for some solution. They were finding solutions from many years . They were also going in space to find a solution and now finally they found a solution . They found a planet which is suitable for humans to live . After such travail they did it . It is truly said “ Obstacles are the cost of greatness”.

           Now today is the day when we are going on other planet to establish human civilization once again with peace. We are feeling sad but there is no other option. I hope for best. I hope that now people will take a lesson from this and from now onwards they will not take nature for granted .

   If you want to save yourself then save your environment.


I never imagined that I’d be a widow at 27 and six months pregnant to boot, but here I am at my husband’s visitation, sitting in the front row, literally crying on my mother’s shoulder. Her arm tightens around me. “Hey, I was also a single mom and I managed. You’ll manage, too. And of course, I’m always here to help.” “But that was different. You were a teenager. Luke and I were married and in love. It was like we were born for each other. And he didn’t run off on me; he died.” I know I’m bordering on histrionic, but a mere week ago Luke was here, massaging my sore feet and rubbing my protruding belly. Now he’s lying lifeless in the casket several feet from me, the victim of a drunk driver. I’d like to have the perspective to say that he’s now reunited with his mother - who died 5 years previous - but the wound is still too fresh. Luke’s father, on the other hand, is very much alive, and very much not here. As though she’s read my mind, my mother asks, “Didn’t you say his father was coming?” I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand. “He called me to say he was, but I wouldn’t count on it, 'cause it's been years since he and Luke spoke. I mean, he didn’t even show up to our wedding. But now that Luke’s gone, I’ll probably never get to see his face now.” I sniffle. “Which suits me just fine; he was never there for Luke anyway.” My mother hands me a tissue. “Rat bastard.” When visitation hours are over and our fellow mourners have filed out (after offering hugs and condolences) my mother and I slowly take our leave, stopping short when we see a man standing in the foyer of the funeral home, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?” I ask. The man looks up at me: eyes tinted pink, face sagging with remorse. Awkwardly, he extends a hand. “I’m um, Luke’s father. I’ve been standing out here for 20 minutes, deciding whether I should come in…” Just when a bitter retort rises up in my throat like bile, my mother pales. “Wait a minute...Jeffrey?” Luke’s father’s wet eyes focus on my mother. “A-Anita?” Now his glance is darting back and forth between my mother and I. “Oh my God, is this…” My mother releases a choked sob, collapsing to her knees on the carpeted floor. “No…” As Luke’s father clutches at his hair, the realization of their discovery hits me like a freight train. And that’s when I feel the baby kick for the first time.


TW: bullying, slurs Two years had passed since the extinction of the virus. Yet here I was. In the principal’s office. Captive so as to narrate the events of the previous Sunday night.

“You Chinese f-ck,”. All windows were sealed shut, yet a wind of bewilderment managed to blow me straight in the face. All the remarks I had heard till now; all the “go back to China”s’ in the bathroom stalls and all the hostile leers I would constantly receive in cafes and supermarkets; they had never succeeded at  bringing about my incredulity. Having grown up as a “ching chong ” little boy during the pandemic , I was more than aware of the cruelty uneducated human beings have the potential of letting loose into the air along with each and every breath they release.Yet coming out of the principal’s mouth? These words suddenly seemed to transform into heart-burning flames, firing through an opened and fervent furnace. “You should have known better than to attend that party. Didn’t it seem suspicious to you that you were the only .. wide-eyed there?” The latter even stinged. My eyes must have froze somewhere in between his shirt’s two huge blue collar buttons, resulting in his uncomfortable back and forth movement. “ Mr. Douglas, are you really suggesting this is my fault? When it was them who actually organized this so.. ill minded prank?”. My heart was pounding immensely, like it was warning me of an overflow of emotion that was soon to come. I gulped, in hopes that along with my saliva I would also swallow the tears and pain. He must have realized that, for his sturdy voice softened: “ I didn’t say it was your fault.. I’m just saying you could have avoided all of this by not going to the party and staying in your dorm. There are ,after all ,guidelines for students

of your kind . In any case, don’t worry. The rest of your classmates will be forced to undertake community work for the whole following week. You can rest assur..” Suddenly, his voice started to sound clogged; as if I had just taken a deep dive and my ears had become plugged with water.

Anything else that he might have said I didn’t hear. My mind lurched away from the reality and revisited the events of the previous night in the lake.

I remember thinking for a moment that acceptance was finally being conferred on me. When handing me the invitation, Lisa had seemed so sincere. Her teasing had generally ceased to be as far reaching as it was during the pandemic.Moreover, we had begun engaging ourselves in inconsequential chatter in between our shared English Lit. lectures. Hence,  when she greeted me upon my arrival at that party, I truly believed that a genuine friendship was quivering on the horizon. She handed me one of those cherry red beer glasses and piloted me to a table surrounded by a swirl of people. The vitality radiating from the youth was so immense that the whole lake seem to ring full of it. We played beer pong for about an hour and even though I sucked at it, as it was a game till then unknown for me, I was genuinely enjoying myself. And I was simultaneously feeling a heart warming relation to the sun; despite my origins making me so different and distinct, I was ultimately fitting in. So it figures that when I heard Lisa’s shrill voice vocalizing her desire of me joining her to a helping of some smorgasbords at the lavish buffet across, I jovially accepted it. At that moment I was a little tipsy; I didn’t  notice the innumerable pair of eyes that were falling on us as we sauntered across;I didn’t notice them even though they must have fell upon us like the lens of a projector lighting up a theater stage. Nor did I notice the leers, nor the sneers of their playful eyes. I did however wonder a bit for the sudden convocation that was forming around me. I was nevertheless too pure. Too naive to understand. And I was unaware of the urgency of my understanding; I raised a small sandwich at the height of my lips and let it slip onto my mouth. Not a second later than a crunchy sound was made, did everyone burst into laughter. I spat the sandwich at the florid tissue that I had picked up along with it, startled by its gruesome taste; and I  at last realized that the inside of the sandwich consisted of crickets and grasser-hopers. Are you aware of the conjecture concerning the reason behind people‘s inability to remember their younger years? It is said to be because of the embarrassment they feel while adjusting to life. Well, for me the same thing must have applied for that cold and horrendous night. Because the rest of it is a complete blur.

The sharp and peremptory scream of the old fashioned telephone sitting at the principal’s desk lurched me back into reality. Dazzled by the extent of my absent-mindedness, I forced my brain to return to my seated body.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Morris. Yes, yes of course, I’ll be right there” uttered the principal in his ordinary and formal manner.

He clumsily put the telephone back in its place and simultaneously buoyed up as a balloon. “Well, kid, I’m glad we got this sorted out and that there will be no further trouble. No need to perplex your parents in such a childish matter. I need to go now, so you can see yourself out. Im certain that after our discussion you’ll try not to stray too far away from your comfort and you’ll keep out of trouble.” I stood up and headed for the door. I saw myself out of the office and was ready to seal the door closed, when the air slipped outside of the office and carried some last words the principal had to say:

“Oh, and don’t forget to see the university’s psychologist.” My dorm wasn’t that far away from that frivolous office. I only had to hurry through two flights of stairs and walk five feet to find myself back in my so comforting ,yet so desolate, dorm. I was almost there when i saw Lisa dressed in athletic attire exiting her own dorm, just two doors over mine.

She saw me. I tried to speak to her, but she wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. She trotted to the staircase with such a hurry that the sound of her footsteps reminded of the heavy rain falling outside in the ground.

Languid, i uttered a fading sigh and entered my solacing shelter. I had left the window open and found some of the rain lying upon the wooden floor. I hastily approached it with the intention of sealing it shut. I really wanted to avoid the further unrest of mopping on such an already strenuous day . But the nearer I came to the window, the harder it became for me to close it off.

I soon found myself riding the window shelf. The rain was so heavy that it clutched on my leggings as if it was solid matter. And it started to  alarmingly weigh me down towards nothingness. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to escape the imminent threat of death. Then my beloved mother came into my mind. And suddenly, any suicidal thought that I might have had until then, vanished completely; I could never do that to her.. I decisively raised my leg up to the level of the small panoramic windowpane in order to bring it back into were it belonged. I decided that I wouldn’t let anyone dictate the worth of my existence. But it didn’t matter what I had decided. For all it mattered, the little hook on the pipe outside the window had already decided my fate. I remember looking at my bed stand and then straight up at the sky.


Olive perked awake as she realized the music had begun. The vibrations had almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels.  Her whiskers twitched in a satisfied hum as her heart adjusted to the comfortable rhythm. This nightly ritual made the long months of hiding, scurrying away scraps, and swaying of the earth worth it.  She ran the well-worn path up the wooden beams, bouncing back and forth to stick to the darkness between flame-lit lamps, and squeezed into her gap up to the open deck. It was an especially cold, moonless night, and she crept up the mast to perch on a poorly-laid plank that had been retro-fitted to keep rusted nails from crumbling out. This was the best view.  Olive squeaked as she took in the scene. The deck had been laid out with branches from pine trees and open candles. Glasses were filled with a dark red liquid instead of the usual clear and the air hung thick with smells of cinnamon and oranges. The whole crew was on deck, wrapped in scarves and stomping boots in time to the steady beat.  As the sailors moved from one song to the next, Olive looked at her paw. She concentrated hard and tapped just her front right foot in time. It barely made a sound.  She wrapped herself up into a ball, tucking her tail under for warmth, and let the music work its way through her bones. Today’s set was elaborate and joyful. Olive wondered if this meant they were close to home - the humans always seemed to like that. She didn’t understand why they kept sailing away when all they seemed to want was to return. But she was grateful for the music, and it was best not to dwell. *A curious mouse is a dead mouse*, her father always said.  The song ended and the crew raised their glasses with a shout. As everyone downed their cups, several of the smaller men brought up and unpacked a large chest. They placed four wooden barrels - but smaller, with more tones of brown, and some shiny bits Olive didn’t recognize - and a boxy thing with a vertical stack of white bars among the singers.  Olive shivered in the sea breeze and debated climbing back down towards a candle in the back corner. It would be warmer, but the sound was much clearer up here. And who knows how long it would be before she’d hear this new set again. She decided to stay.  One of the singers picked up the box and began strumming his fingers up and down the white bars. It exuded sounds, haunting and beautiful and perfectly harmonic. Olive closed her eyes and swayed as the others joined in with complimentary voices.  Finally, they began to tapping on the barrels, creating a sound as deep and rich as the luscious white-rinded cheese she’d stumbled on in the kitchen a few days prior. She forgot the cold and the sea-sawing of the ship and the weariness. Sometimes, Olive felt she could live on just sounds, strung together all lovely like this. She felt whole.  Olive relaxed into the melody, sinking down onto the plank with satisfaction.  Until the ground disappeared from under her feet. Her eyes darted open to a blur. The wind bit into her as she fell, and fell, and fell, and landed in water.  Olive panicked, paddling around in all sorts of directions as she realized it was too dark, too thick, too sweet to be seawater - she’d landed in an open barrel of red drink. She stopped scrambling for a moment and found herself floating to the top, head bobbing back in the night air.  The song had ended but the humans remained distracted with their chats, so Olive swam to the edge of the barrel and hopped over. The chill set in harder into her soaked fur as it clumped together.  But there would be time to dry up later. Now, she had to find a spot to finish listening to the set.  Olive scurried over to the candle in the back corner of the deck. The sailors here were mostly asleep or distracted by the challenge of standing on two legs. The flame’s heat enveloped Olive’s back like a blanket.  She shook her head repeatedly to stay awake as she waited for the next song. The fall had really knocked the energy out of her. *No matter, though, once the song starts,* she thought as her heart raced.  Several minutes passed and still they had not resumed. Olive scurried up the side of the deck for a better view.  The singers were tapping the odd barrels and moving their mouths. But there was no sound.  *No sound.*  Olive listened for the familiar hum of the wind. For the clanking of the kitchens. For the low voices of men gossiping.  She heard nothing.  Olive panicked, looking around. Groups of men around the deck all moved their mouths, chatting. The singers slammed their boots upon the deck more vigorously and the rest of the crew joined in. But it was all silence to her now.  She bounced down to the deck and towards the singers. Her ears were just clogged from the fall. She just needed to get closer.  A sharp pain launched up her tail as she turned and found a boot on it. The man turned to look down as she darted into a gap to the kitchens below.  The kitchen was always the loudest, busiest part of the ship, but silence was all that remained for Olive. She leaped through shortcuts to her bed behind the barrels. Olive climbed onto the ledge and curled up into a ball, panting. As her breathing slowed, exhaustion hit, quieting her racing thoughts. She fell asleep.  —  The ledge vibrated Olive awake with the familiar clang of a fallen pot. She yawned and twitched her whiskers, memory slowly filling in as knots clenched her stomach.  She scurried out behind the barrels and into the neighboring room, where the sailors often sat around exchanging colorful cards and cheering. There were a dozen men there now.  But Olive did not hear their familiar low voices. As one group raised their fists in unison, she did not hear the accompanying shout. As a sailor brought in a stew, she did not hear the background pots clanging.  Olive was deaf.  She sat up on her hind legs, like the humans did, and sniffed around. The tang of alcohol filled the air, with wafts of rosemary and orange drifting in from the kitchen. She licked the plank she stood on and felt the familiar flavors of salt and bitterness. She could still see, and smell, and feel, and taste.  But she couldn’t hear. And that was really all that mattered.  Yet Olive did not despair. She felt a strange resistance in her mind, a disbelief.  She scurried back to her bed, deciding that sleep was the best cure. If she just went to sleep, her hearing would return, heal itself. If she just went to sleep, this would all be a dream.  —  Olive awoke for moments, to gather scraps of bread and stew, and returned to bed. Once, twice, half a dozen times. She lost count. You couldn’t see the sun from below deck, so you couldn’t track the days. That was okay. Days didn’t matter to Olive, anyway.  —  Olive perked awake as vibrations almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels.  The ledge shook in a rhythm Olive knew well. She couldn’t hear it, but she knew this was one of her favorite songs.  She scurried up the well-worn path through her gap to the open deck and climbed up to her place on the mast. The pine trees were gone, but the entire crew was gathered again, each holding a candle. The flickering cast pretty shadows on the sideboards. The singers moved their mouths and hit their odd barrels, the men stomped, and she could hear nothing.  Olive felt like she was falling all over again. She’d left her family, her wax bed that curved just right for her back, the bakery bread scraps with toasted seeds, and all her other comforts behind because she’d been entranced on the docks by the sounds of this ship. She’d been sailing for eight months on uneven ground, eating nothing but stale crumbs and gray stew, and circling the same few rooms among the same low voices, all alone. It had all been worth it for the music.  She watched the singers moving their mouths and suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Olive scurried down the mast towards her gap in the deck just as the stomping chorus began.  She had to stop to let a sleepy sailor pass. On the deck, she felt the vibrations heightening in a familiar rhythm. She still heard the words in her head, still remembered the tune well. Olive closed her eyes and pretended the sounds in her head were also in her ears.  As she focused on the rhythm, she felt a new texture to the vibrations. They didn’t just stomp. They had layers. She’d never noticed before. There was a dominant beat of boots. A middle layer of barrel taps. And a soft topcoat, the light vibrato of air from the sailors’ voices.  Olive swayed, eyes closed. Her heart slowly gave in and beat to the middle layer rhythm. Her paw tapped to the boots. Her whiskers twitched to the top coat. Her whole body became one with the vibrations.  The song ended and Olive opened her eyes. The crew milled around, chatting and drinking and cheering. The cold night breezed again. Candles flickered. And if Olive paid attention, she could feel a faint vibration for each of these.  They were not the rich, deep envelope of a good melody. But they had nuance. The vibrations persisted through everyone and everything. She wondered if, perhaps, mice had a vibration. If her family had one. If *she* had one.  Olive scurried down the side of the ship, hugging the lip of the deck. The sailors had gathered in the center, taking the light with them, as they stepped in rhythm to the next song. It struck her that she’d never been this far up the ship - she’d kept her distance so as to better appreciate the sounds. But now, the closer she got, the more layered the vibrations became.  She found a new spot at the very top of the ship, where the long sides came together in a point. The wooden floorboards curved up so that Olive was level with the knees of the singers further down the boat.  The planks hummed a melody for her. She listened with her paws, her tail, and her whiskers.  Olive sighed a heavy sigh as she recognized the beat again, the melody playing in her head. She didn’t know this one as well, and so there were pieces missing, like a skipped record.  Still, she let herself sink into the rhythm, paying attention to new layers as the beats enveloped her. She felt the quick jitter of a small man’s solo, the unsteady clinks of glasses, and the low rumble of the waves.  Perhaps she would be whole again.


Lydia saw the car pull up in the driveway, she watched as her fiance stepped out of the car but she couldn't find the motivation to cheer herself up or run to welcome him like she normally did; it had been a rough couple of weeks and it seemed like it was starting to take it's toll on her. Daniel walked into the house and was quite surprised to find her sitting by the window, legs crossed on the wooden chair, with a sullen look. Curiously, he moved towards her but she didn't even move from where she sat or glance his way.

"Babe,' he called and she looked up at him teary eyed, 'hey, what's wrong?" "My manuscript got rejected again." She said

"Oh that, sorry to hear." He replied but she noticed the sudden lack of interest in his tone.

"You don't sound sorry at all." She said and he sighed.

"I have to go shower, I stink." He said as he turned to leave.

"If there is something you want to say, say it Dan." She prompted. He stopped and faced her as he contemplated if he should really be honest with her.

"Say it Dan!" She urged "It's just that... this is like the 100th time your work had been rejected since we left College three years ago. You spend so much time writing, researching and everytime it gets rejected..." "Why are you saying it like its my fault?" "I'm not saying its your fault. I'm saying that maybe it's time for you to forget about this writing stuff and focus on something real like getting a job."

"Writing stuff? Writing is real to me, it is what I do. I love writing and you know that Dan!" "But it hasn't been working out for you so far, has it?" He asked "I can't believe you are saying this to me." "Maybe it is time you used your certificate and find a realistic job to help out financially." "I don't help out financially? That's it?" "No. You are a certified botanist, you can get a job Lydia." "I didn't graduate first class like you did Dan! I will barely get a job as a third class graduate in this economy. My best shot is getting my manuscripts approved for publication. I am a good writer, I know it." She argued

"Well you are the only one that seems to think that you are." He said and immediately regretted it. Lydia stopped and gaped at him for a second as her brain processed that.

"You don't think I'm good enough?" she asked and he let out a sigh.

"Lydia..." He began subtly

"I think I need to go for a walk." she cut in, walked past him, out of the three bedroom apartment they had bought two years ago, into the quiet street of the Lagos estate they occupied, to clear her head. The evening breeze gladly welcomed her.

  She tried to process everything ... she needed to or else she might just explode. She loved Dan a lot, he had been her high school sweetheart and not once did he stop believing in her or in her dream to become a renowned writer someday, that was why it really hurt to hear him say all that to her. They had been through so much together, survived four years long distance relationship all through college and when he had gotten a job as a senior programmer in a prominent company, she had relocated across the continent to join him.

  Unlike him though, she had done very poorly in the course her father had forced her to study in college. Being an only child of a domineering father, he had predestined every detail of her life - from her college to his dream job for her, down to a perfect suitor for her ( which most certainly wasn't Daniel) - and where her efforts weren't enough, the money had spoken for her, that was how she had been able to graduate college despite her grades. It wasn't like she was not smart or something like that, she had just wanted to write but her father hated the very idea of it, he believed it was a waste of time. He preferred she become a botanist like him and take over his research company eventually so he had gone to great lengths to stop her from writing but like they say, you can force a horse to the stream but you can't force it to drink, right? She continued writing which had pissed him off greatly and after College they had barely been on speaking terms. Her moving in with Daniel when he suggested it had been the last straw of her madness for her father; he swore never to have anything to do with her ever again. But she was stubborn like him that way.

  Daniel and her had spent the last two years having all the fun they had missed in the years apart. Daniel was a good person, smart and they were in love, that much she knew and just two months ago he had proposed. However, with her inability to a get a job or a breakthrough in her writing, things have been quite rough between them these last couple of weeks. Although she baked some snacks for sale once in a while, he was the sole provider and she felt hurt that he thought she was just being lazy. The truth was, she always felt like she needed to prove to her father that writing wasn't a waste, that he had been wrong to stop her from pursuing her dreams, probably that was why she had clung onto that dream despite the negative feedbacks but when your last motivator has given up on you, wasn't it a cue for you to just give up too? What if she really wasn't that good? Every manuscript she had submitted, she had been told it wasn't what they needed... well not all the manuscripts, some were yet to be reviewed. She had even tried writing contests but failed many times and it hurt so badly. Maybe Daniel was right, maybe it was time to bring her head out of the clouds and face reality but then she had been pampered all her life, she couldn't think of any other skill except writing - she was so confused at that moment that it all seemed very devastating.

  It was already dark outside when she returned home after a long walk that left her still confused. Daniel was in the sitting room and as soon as she walked in, he stood up with an apologetic look.

"Lydia, let's talk please." He said as she made to walk past him "You already said what you wanted... " "No,' he cut in as he held her arm, gently pulled her back to face him, 'I'm sorry about earlier. You are good enough, believe me. Any writing establishment would be lucky to have someone as dedicated and talented as you are..." "You don't need to butter me up Dan..." "I'm not, trust me. What i was trying to say was perhaps you should get a side job or start up something while looking for other writing options, I don't know why I didn't just say that earlier, I was an ass. I think all the negative comments are making you depressed, I mean I haven't seen you smile or laugh genuinely in weeks, I miss that. You are an amazing writer but you just need a break from it all, love." He said then placed one hand on her cheek and caressed it gently. It felt comforting to hear all that but possibly he was just saying that to avoid a fight.

"I believe you." She replied regardless

"I love you." He said as he looked into her eyes intently. A smile spread across her face and she kissed him on the lips, he kissed her back and shortly afterwards their clothes were flying off their bodies as they fell on the couch and made passionate love.

  *

                 *

                *   Dan helped her get a job as a cook in a restaurant just a stone throw from the company he worked in - Maggie's kitchen. It was a new restaurant in the urban part of town, not all that fancy but decent enough for those in the middle class. There were three cooks ( Mr Bibo, a huge man in his early forties who seemed experienced in all areas of life, Hassan a nineteen year old high school dropout and then there was Lydia). The pay wasn't much but at least she wasn't sitting idly at home anticipating calls from editors. Also, she had a chance to catch a glimpse of Dan everyday during his lunch break as he frequented the place. Not to mention the fact that she got to make new friends, being such a free spirit, she immediately bonded with her boss, Maggie - a divorced woman in her late fifties, Mr Bibo and Hassan who had a really good sense of humor. She was basically a sweetheart and she loved the feeling that came with being busy.

  Weeks later though , while at work, she got a mail from a publishing company informing her that her story had won a monthly writing contest she had applied for. What excited her wasn't just the $700 cash prize, it was the news that her book would be published and she would have a free online platform to post her works. The news was too great for her to contain so took permission from Maggie and raced down to Dan's office.

"I won $700 and my book will be published." She yelled in hysteria as she ran into his arms the second she laid eyes on him.

"What? Wow... that's mind blowing,' he replied really surprised, ' I am so proud of you babe. We need to celebrate." "What are you thinking?" She asked with a broad grin "Our favorite restaurant. You and me. Tonight. How does that sound?" "Amazing. I will try to get off early from work." she said. When she went back, she informed Maggie she needed to leave earlier than usual and being an understanding woman, she agreed. She went about her remaining hours there with joy bubbling in her heart, preparing every recipe wholeheartedly as it seemed like her dreams were finally coming true.

  It was minutes later when Lydia smelt it before she heard Hassan shout, 'fire!', she turned and saw that the microwave had caught fire. In a panic, Hassan grabbed a bucket of water and threw it at the microwave before anyone could stop him. The flames rose higher immediately and the fire made its way towards the gas cylinder.

"Turn off the fuse box!" Mr Bibo yelled and in that moment, Lydia who was standing by the door literally froze in fear as she watched the tragedy unfolding before her eyes. Seconds later the sound of an explosion rocked the air, adding to the chaos of the busy afternoon hustles.

  Daniel was on his way out of his office when he heard the explosion. Almost immediately, he heard screams and his coworkers began hurrying outside.

"What's going on?" He inquired "Maggie's kitchen is on fire!" one of them shouted.

"Lydia." He said then dashed towards the entrance, joining the group of people curious to view the incident. He literally raced all the way to the restaurant where people were already gathered outside - some were customers who had managed to escape, mildly injured and pretty spoken up, others were just curious bystanders. Maggie was sprawled on the ground, wailing, a cut on her forehead. He saw the ambulance and the fire service truck approaching and he glanced around anxiously for Lydia. "Lydia! Lydia!" He shouted as he looked around but there was no sign of her. He glanced at the burning building and panic built up inside of him as he wondered if she was still inside. She had mentioned getting off early right? He was about to call her cellphone when he heard someone yelling to the paramedics that had just arrived at the scene. "The cooks are still inside!" "Lydia!" He exclaimed and impulsively he dashed into the burning building. "Sir, come back!" He heard someone yell but the thought of Lydia in there alone and helpless was just too agonizing. Once inside, he unintentionally inhaled the smoke and coughed violently, he brought out a handkerchief, covered his nose but that didn't help much as the smoke that had formed a dark fog, stung his eyes making it almost impossible for him to see a thing. As he made his way further into the building, burning woods from the ceiling fell to the ground, some on the plastic chairs and tables which in turn rapidly caught fire. The good thing was that he had visited the place so often that he was certain he could grope his way to the kitchen.

"Lydia." He called as he made his way further into the building. Another bolt of cough seized him and he coughed violently for seconds, his chest was starting to ache badly. He walked a few more metres then his eyes fell on a figure passed out on the ground, just close to the counter. He hurried forward and was relieved to see that it was Lydia. The heat from the kitchen greeted him as he got closer so he quickly picked her up and made his way back to the entrance door which turned out to be a more difficult task than expected considering Lydia's weight, his lungs killing him and the fact that he was trying to avoid the burning woods falling in his part. When he eventually managed to get to the door, hands dragged him out, somebody took Lydia from him as he broke into a coughing fit. Paramedics surrounded him and an oxygen mask was placed on his nose. "She isn't breathing." was all he kept saying as they tried to get him to sit down. "Sir, you need to relax." A young man said but he couldn't. He insisted on going with her when they put her in an ambulance. Fortunately the burns on her skin weren't major but she had inhaled too much of the toxic gases.

  He was so scared that he barely sat at a place all through the hours that the doctors monitored her condition. It was in the early hours of the morning that she regained consciousness but the doctors administered so many painkillers that she dozed off minutes later. He sat by her side all through, praying silently. Later that day her eyes fluttered opened, he was so glad when she looked up at him with that familiar twinkle in her eyes.

"Hey." he called as he leaned in towards her from where he sat "Hey... So, I heard you were the fool who ran into a burning building to save a girl." She said and he grinned.

"Well, I am a fool for you Lydia. Always." He said, he was most glad that she was in a joking mood, she needed to be happy before hearing about the condition of the other cooks - Hassan was in critical condition, the doctors were not sure if he would make it, Mr Bibo who had suffered first degree burns was still in a coma. It was almost a miracle that she had gotten out of that kitchen in time but Lydia had always been a strong girl, no doubt about that.

"Thank you." she said

"Wait until you see who made today's paper." "I made the news?" she asked with glee in her eyes

"We made the news. I know, right? MOST HEROIC DEED EVER: MAN RUNS INTO A BURNING BUILDING TO SAVE FIANNCEE. They captured all my good sides." He said with a dramatic gesture that made Lydia burst into laughter and in that moment she knew she was just blessed to have someone like him in her life. Despite the fights and their differences, Dan loved her and he would always try to be there for her, that she was most certain of.