Jenson flipped a switch and the bathroom lights flickered to life, revealing her figure in the mirror. She chuckled at the mess her long hair had become in the night and set to work making herself presentable. Doubtless Gray would be sending his private driver to fetch her at any moment. As if on cue, the second she finished dousing her made-up face in setting spray, there was a knock at the door. “Ms. Bradley, are you ready? Mr. Covington said he requests your presence promptly,” Colin’s voice barely sneaked through the closed door. Jenson took one last look at herself before darting out the door and joining Colin at his sleek black car. She slid into the back seat and hummed to the radio on the way to Gray’s manor. If Jenson had her way, she would just take the bus. But Gray insisted that Colin be her transportation; he wanted nothing but the best for her. Gray swung Jenson’s car door open the second the car came to a stop. He barely gave her time to stand up before grabbing her in a warm hug. “Good morning, beautiful!” Jenson breathed in the scent of expensive cologne and cigars that always lingered on him. “Merry anniversary!” Gray laughed. “Merry anniversary to you, too. Though, considering we’re still not married, I’d argue you can hardly call it that.” Jenson rolled her eyes, knowing what was about to happen. Gray dropped onto one knee and pulled out a dainty velvet box. He flipped it open, revealing an ornate diamond ring. “Marry me?” “And ruin the rest of your plans for the day? I couldn’t.” Gray didn’t even blink before putting the box back and rising to his feet. “I suppose that’s fair,” he shrugged. Typically, proposals are a big deal. They involve careful planning, precise timing, and emotional reactions. Even for Jenson and Gray, there was a time in which that was true. However, Jenson and Gray’s relationship was nothing if not atypical. Jenson was a senior in college when she met Gray. She was studying abroad in Scotland, and Gray’s mother worked at her university. Gray followed his mother to work one fateful day, and knew the second he set eyes on Jenson that she was ‘the one.’ Of course, Jenson took a bit more convincing. She had a family—however awful they were—back in the United States, and she only intended to live in Scotland for a semester. Luckily for Gray, though, his charm and wit surpassed even his devilish good looks. He eventually won Jenson’s heart and she packed up and moved to Scotland. One would think moving to another country would suggest a great deal of commitment already on Jenson’s part, but this was not enough for Mr. Gray Covington. At his parents’ Christmas Eve party, exactly a year after his first date with Jenson, Gray proposed the first time. Everyone at the party expected Jenson to be thrilled when he pulled out the ten-grand engagement ring. Jenson knew she should have burst into tears and barely choked out an ecstatic ‘yes.’ But she couldn’t. Instead, she ran away. She found herself in the Covingtons’ garden and hid in the rose bushes. Once Gray found her, Jenson was sure he had tracked her down to ask her to leave. It turned out to be quite the opposite, in fact. Gray was certain Jenson was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. So much so that he made her a unique promise: every year on the anniversary of their first date, he would propose once for each year they had spent together.               Jenson and Gray got back into the car, and an hour later, they were walking along the beach; the green-blue sea roaring on their right, cliffs jutting into the sapphire sky on their left. The air was crisp and still. The cold was perfect. The fewer people nearby, the better. Jenson hugged onto Gray’s entire arm as they walked—she was cold, but she also loved being close to him. Something about it made her feel safe and at home. As they walked, Jenson caught sight of a white blur in the distance. The closer they grew to the blur, the more horselike it became. Jenson groaned internally once she could no longer deny there was a stunning white horse standing alone on the shore, his bridle fastened with rope to a massive piece of driftwood. “You did not.” Gray grinned. “Oh, but I did. Would you join me for a ride?” “You did not buy me an entire horse,” she continued, stopping in her tracks. “Love,” he chuckled, “I get the feeling you would have been more upset had I purchased one in part. Don’t worry, he’s hardly even yours. He’ll be boarded at my parents’ estate in Aberdeen, and you’ll never have to see him again if you so choose. But for this one day, would you kindly join me on the horse?” “You’re unbelievable,” she sighed, stepping toward Gray and the horse. He untied the rope and they climbed onto the horse’s back. His hooves crunch crunch ed through the damp sand as he pranced with Jenson and Gray along the beach. “It’s not so bad, is it, love?” “I wasn’t worried about it being bad , Covey. It’s just…a lot.” “Aren’t you always accusing me of being, quote, ‘a lot?’” “Yes, I do often make such an accusation,” Jenson answered with a smile. She had been meaning to say more, but a tiny flash caught her eye. Threaded onto the leather reins was a ring. It was made of white gold shaped like a vine with emeralds for leaves and amethysts for berries. A lot, indeed. “Well?” Gray prompted once he saw Jenson had noticed the ring. “You know the answer, Covey.” “You’re holding out for when things get good, I understand.” Jenson sighed and slid the ring further down the reins until she could no longer reach or see it, wishing the horse and the day would speed up. The stallion was collected further down the beach by some of the Covingtons’ People, and Colin was at the ready to take Jenson and Gray to their next destination. “What are you going to do to me next?” “I believe the question is, what am I going to do for you next. One way or the other, the answer is obviously lunch at MacGavin’s.” “MacGavin’s? Really? I thought they were booked until the new year!”   “Not for my darling’s anniversary, they’re not.” When they pulled into the parking lot, Jenson was confused to see that there wasn’t a single other car there. “I think they’re closed, Covey. No one’s here.” “Oh, I assure you, they’re open.” Gray hopped out of the car and opened Jenson’s door, grabbing her hand and helping her to her feet. “What a gentleman you are,” she said facetiously. Once they pushed their way past the heavy oak doors, Jenson gasped. The restaurant was cleared save for one table in the center. There was a dusting of fake snow over everything, white Christmas lights strung up everywhere, ornaments hanging from the crystal chandelier, and a half-circle of decked-out waiters flanking the table. “Lovely, isn’t it?” Gray asked as they made their way to the table. “It’s beautiful. How did you pull this off?” Jenson asked in awe. “Oh, I had to pull a few strings, but nothing is too much for you, love. Especially not today.” Once they were seated, Jenson cringed at the menu. “Gray, some of these things cost more than my car payment!” “I know, I know. Order whatever you like, love. And, for the love of God, stop thinking about the money. You know that’s not a problem with me.” Jenson nodded and hunted quietly for the cheapest option, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Once the food was out, Jenson ate quickly, hoping (surely in vain) to avoid whatever display Gray had planned. She had just swallowed her last bite when a violin cried out into the quiet. Shortly thereafter, a cello and an upright bass piped up and the trio flowed through a haunting melody. It reminded Jenson of a dirge her grandfather used to sing her to sleep with. Gray smiled warmly at her. “Do you like the music?” “It’s wonderful, Gray. What are they playing?” “Oh, it’s an original. Bradley in C Minor , I think it’s called.” “A song? For me? How long has that been in the works?” “Jenson, sweetheart, please stop focusing on all the specifics. Just enjoy the music!” Gray stood up and reached toward her. “Care to dance?” Jenson lit up. “But you hate dancing, Covey.” “Not today, I don’t. Come on, join me!” For the next several minutes, Jenson and Gray twirled and swayed to the music. Once one song ended, another began. Sometime into their third dance, a choir of angelic voices sneaked in with the strings. They were singing her grandfather’s dirge! Jenson felt like she could cry as Gray spun her into his arms. “This is wonderful. Thank you.” Gray stayed quiet, but Jenson could feel him smirking. Oh, well. He deserved some self-congratulations. It seemed like he finally hit the nail on the head. At least, Jenson thought so until it happened. Gray freed her from his embrace, and she turned to the table. She was startled by the richly dressed waiters from earlier. Each of the men got down on one knee and flipped open a little box, showing off five pure gold rings. “Get it?” Gray asked excitedly. “It’s like that weird Christmas carol!” “It is…,” she responded through clenched teeth. “Am I supposed to marry all six of you?” “I was hoping just the one, but I suppose we could figure something out. Is that a yes?” “No, Gray. That is not a yes. Can we go, please?” His face fell and he waved the waiters off. “Yeah, we can.” “Are you okay, Covey?” Jenson asked once they were in the car, leaning her head on his shoulder. He nodded. “I am. It’s just…it seemed like that was going so well. I thought I might actually get a yes this time.” Jenson felt the uncomfortable tightness in her chest she always did when Gray proposed. When he did a lot of things, really. She loved Gray deeply, but there was a reason she couldn’t marry him. She just couldn’t tell him that, or even put it into words for herself. “It was great, Covey,” she said after a deep breath. “Couldn’t bear to let the next two go to waste, I guess. Tell me we’re going home next?” “To your apartment, in fact,” he answered, back to his usual, chipper self. Once they got to Jenson’s apartment, she was confused when Gray didn’t head inside. Instead, he led her to the car ports behind her apartment building. He slid the door to her space open, and there was a shiny black Corvette where her car belonged. “Where’s my car?” “Love, I bought you a new one! I know you were saving up to buy it yourself, but I just couldn’t resist. Merry anniversary!” Jenson’s face reddened, but Gray didn’t notice. “And there’s more! Look inside!” Reluctantly, Jenson swung the driver’s door open. On the seat was an envelope with her name on it. “Open it!” She did, and she found a pair of plane tickets and a picture of a gaudy beach house. “We’re going to Hawaii! You told me once that you’ve always wanted to go. The house in the picture? I bought it for us! Won’t it make an amazing vacation home?” Jenson’s head was spinning. When she looked back at Gray, he was on one knee just as she had expected him to be. What she didn’t expect was the ring in the box. It had a platinum band, it was studded with pink diamonds, and the diamond in the center was bigger than her thumbnail. “Will you marry me this time?” Jenson had finally had enough. Gray had been spoiling her for five years, but this was too much. She was infuriated, and she was tired of swallowing it down. “Gray, I can’t marry you. And I don’t just mean not now. I mean not ever! I love you, I really do, but you’re too much for me. I’ve never minded that you’re wealthy, but…I hate the way you throw your money around! You’re always taking me places and buying me things, and I love spending time with you, and I appreciate the thought, but I can’t stand that you try to buy my love. You can’t buy my love, and you certainly can’t buy me. You mean the world to me, but this is all too much, and I’ve had enough. I hate that things have to end this way, but it is what it is. Just… go find someone who wants your money as much as they want you, I guess.” Gray looked like he was going to respond, but Jenson couldn’t look at him any longer. She felt tears about to pour from her eyes, so she ran away. She ran into her apartment and threw herself on her couch. Jenson was never much of a crier, not even as a baby. But as she bawled over her final words with Gray, she was convinced she cried every tear she’d ever held back. She fell asleep long before the tears stopped flowing. Jenson wasn’t sure how long she was out, but it was dark outside when she woke up. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then heard a knock at the door. “Gray, if it’s you, go away! I meant what I said earlier.” “It’s me. But…please let me in? I promise I’ll leave you alone after this if you still want me to, but won’t you hear me out first?” Jenson sighed. “Fine. It’s unlocked.” Gray slipped in and Jenson was shocked to see that he looked as awful as she felt. He joined her on the couch, and they sat in silence for a while. Jenson was tempted to rest her head on his shoulder like she loved to, but she knew she shouldn’t. The sooner she started letting go, the better. A while later, Gray finally broke the silence. “I know I’m a little…loose with my money. That’s how I’ve always been. Would it help you to know that that’s kind of my love language?” “What do you mean?” “Well, my parents were always travelling for work. They felt bad for me, so whenever they were home, they’d give me gifts to make up for their absence. I guess I figured the stuff must have been proof that they loved me, because nothing else was. So, you see it as throwing my wealth around, and maybe that’s what it is. But it’s more to me.” “Aw, Gray,” Jenson said, scooting closer to him. “I’m sorry about your parents. But having a reason doesn’t change anything. I watched wealth destroy my parents’ marriage, and I just can’t sign myself up for a life like theirs.” “Before I met you, I didn’t know how to express myself in any way other than big gestures. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve gotten better since I’ve been with you. I get too caught up in the big stuff sometimes, but I know even you have noticed a change in me. “I go overboard on our anniversary, but the fact that I don’t go overboard every other day of the year should count for something, shouldn’t it? I know when just a hug and kiss goodbye would be better. I like movie nights at your apartment more than private dinner theater dates. I can say I love you instead of giving you an exorbitant gift to try and convince you of it. “I know I’m just a spoiled rich kid. I’ve never gone a day in my life without more money than I know what to do with. But…Jenson, I would rather give up every dime I’ll ever have than to lose you. “I won’t be able to change overnight, but I promise you that I will spend the rest of my life trying to be everything you deserve in a man. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life, and I know you love me, too. If you could please just give me one more chance, I will do everything in my power to make it up to you. I can get rid of all the gifts, I can pawn the rings, I can donate everything to charity. I just can’t lose you. Jenson Selena Bradley, will you do me the honor of giving me forever to fix myself for you?” He pulled out a little plastic ball. Inside it was a pale green glow-in-the-dark ring. Jenson started crying again and didn’t bother to hide it. “Where did you get that?” she asked through her tears. “The quarter machine at the convenience store across the street.” “It’s awful.” Gray laughed as a few tears found their way to his eyes. “It is awful. I’m just trying to make a point. Will you please marry me?” Jenson wiped her tears. “Of course, I will! But I don’t think I can put that thing on.” Gray grabbed Jenson in a tight embrace. “I’m sure we’ll find a compromise somehow. I love you so much, future Mrs. Jenson Covington.” “I love you, too, Covey. Merry anniversary.” “Merry anniversary, love. I look forward to many more.” “Yeah, me, too.”


"That's how the megacorps got control of this damned world," shouted the customer, a little too loudly, it was clear that he'd had too much to drink, "People stopped caring. Eventually, no-one gave a shit about justice or country. They just wanted more stuff to buy." "You're not wrong," said the Noodle Guy plopping noodles into the bowl, "But you're missing half the story." "What do you mean half the story? Are you deaf? That's all there was to it. That's why we're living in this shithole" The customer was a decent fellow. He was just one of those types that was always unpleasant to be around when drunk. Which unfortunately was around 50% of the time. "The other problem was all the people with a conscience," said the Noodle Guy, his eyes gazed down to a worn Bible in Mandarin along with a copy of Confucius's analects that he kept below the counter, "No-one agrees on right and wrong anymore. I've got a dozen guys and gals in here, all with their own opinions. Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Nationalists, Communists, Democrats," the Noodle Guy took a long drink of water. The area near the stove was hot and dehydrating, "But money? Everyone agrees on that. Everyone agrees on how to make that. So the world decided it had enough of people killing each other over good and evil and set its sights on the one standard everyone can agree on. Financial gain." The Noodle Guy served the soup, "That'll be 100 yuan sir." "All I got is dollars," said the Customer. The Noodle guy frowned then sighed, "Hand it over," he said, **To Sell Some Noodles - Part 2 - The Clerk** Again with the weary, tired customer. Forty-year-old woman. She wore an outdated 2010's suit. Like something her grandmother might have worn. Not the Eastern-inspired outfits that the corporate types did. Not the Retro-Victorian suits worn by the Heritage types. Just a plain outfit. The type that people used to wear when the West was just the default. "Noodles. Beef udon if you have that," she said collapsing at the bar. "Government?" asked the Noodle Guy, scooping noodles into the bowl. She nodded and didn't say anything. At least until after he had served her meal. "Worse," she said, "Honest." The Noodle guy whistled, pretending to be impressed. He wasn't though. There were three types of people who went into government. Honest people, corrupt bureaucrats and law enforcement who somehow managed to combine the two. "What area?" "Government housing," she said, "What do you think Liu Wei? My friends say you're a religious man. And I feel like I've just sold my soul to the devil." "We all work with what we have," said Liu Wei, "We all know the position the government is in nowadays. It's a bigger problem than one woman can be called on to fix." "I'm going to quit. Fast food funds for better housing was one thing, but now the drug companies have gotten involved," she sighed, "I'm going to the countryside. I'll marry a rancher." "Do those still exist?" asked Liu Wei half to himself. He honestly didn't know. "I don't know. But if one exists, they might be worth marrying. Heh, who am I kidding? But it's alright to fantasize once in awhile don't you think?" She didn't have much to say afterward. Just paid for the meal and left.


Nadia has always seen things that others couldn’t. Her parents were on board with her imaginary friends until she started school, where the teachers were concerned about just how vivid and detailed Nadia’s visions were getting. She learned to tamp it down, to conceal the things she saw. When she saw a man in what looked like a toga sailing an ancient-looking sailboat in the harbor, she turned the other way. Once, she opened her fridge and found a shrunken head sitting on the top shelf, perched on a tub of hummus. She simply closed the door and pushed the sight from her mind.

The image that proved too difficult to forget, though, was one she’d only started seeing when she moved out and started college.

A beautiful woman, wearing a dress of vibrant olive green that flowed like the curves of an ancient statue over her robust hips and full abdomen. Her plump arms were adorned with thick gold wires coiling from wrist to shoulder like a gilded snake. A wreath of green foliage rested upon her head, among wild chocolate curls. Nadia saw this woman every day since leaving home and living alone. Always in a different place, perched in a rocking chair in the living room, standing next to the clerk at the local deli as she ordered lunch, even in the exam room during doctor’s visits.

Her visions were ever-changing, with the exception of the woman. Sometimes she would just notice someone out of place from the corner of her eye. This was easier to ignore, and made it less complicated to feign normalcy. Of course she wasn’t seeing people and things that weren’t actually there, Nadia told herself. She expended most of her energy pretending to be perfectly ordinary. But Sasmoae knew that Nadia was anything but ordinary. - Sasmoae was rumored to be older than time. A nasty bit of scuttle-butt undoubtedly spread around by Umuesoci, that hopeless gossip. Sasmoae was a Watcher for only about 500 years, thank you very much. A mere fleeting moment, a simple blip compared to some of the other Watchers who weren't far from celebrating their first millennium. Sasmoae was born from the ashes of a grove of olive trees. The trees had been struck by one of the Ancients: Lovtluota. Lovtluota was tired of witnessing the horror and atrocity that the humans inflicted upon each other. She was so heartbroken by it, in fact, that she gathered the other Ancients to do something to punish the mortals. Together, they burned down the olive trees, and from the ashes they formed the Watchers, including Sasmoae. The Watchers were tasked with protecting the Voshriie, a special group of gifted mortals who would one day save humankind from themselves.

Or at least that’s what some lengthy prophecy said. Sasmoae never had gotten around to actually reading the darn thing. But she knew the gist. The Voshriie were the only humans allowed to see the Watchers in their personified forms, though Sasmoae and the others like her were forbidden from initiating any interaction with humans, Voshriie or otherwise.

Nadia didn’t know any of this though. If you asked her what a watcher was, she’d scratch her head, maybe pull out a dictionary to recite the exact definition. Sasmoae loved to watch Nadia commuting to work on her bicycle. She loved watching the corners of her mouth twitch upward at the smell of freshly baked bread or a newly opened bottle of good wine. Fear used to flicker in Nadia’s eyes when she caught sight of the Watcher. The fear dwindled as the years went by, until all that was left was a vague sort of recognition. As if to say “Ah yes, there you are. There you always are.” She yearned for conversation, interaction, anything but lurking in corners watching the world, and Nadia, go by. One day, a day like any other, Nadia was commuting home from work on foot. After a break in several days of relentless midwestern rainstorms, Detroit was finally experiencing a beautiful spring day. Nadia had decided to forgo her bike, favoring a nice walk with the sun warming her face. She even took off her cardigan to expose her pale shoulders, hoping to get lucky and capture a little tan. But Nadia didn't see him yet. She didn't see him standing in the shadows of an alley, leaning against a dumpster, and watching her. - Sasmoae saw him before Nadia did. In fact, she wasn't sure if Nadia saw him at all. She would have recognized Drur anywhere. It was uncharacteristic of him to be without at least a few members of his army of Irondemons, but there he was. Sasmoae could sense Drur’s hunger before she saw him, balancing on a cane, wearing dated but nonetheless modern clothes: a plaid button-up, moth-bitten beige sweater vest, and too-big slacks. His telltale sunken eyes and veiny reptilian skin caught Sasmoae’s eye. He craved the soul of a Voshriie, and would do just about anything to lead one down to his hidden corner of the Netherworld. Drur was a diety of trickery and deceit. His ideal night on the town included coming up from the Nether, crafting a disguise, and trancing through mortal towns wreaking havoc, getting all sorts of humans into all sorts of trouble. He and his kind had been the reason Lovtluota and the Ancients created the Watchers in the first place. Drur was everything bad about the universe; he was every awful thing any human had ever done.

And he stood a block and a half in front of Nadia. - The man standing next to the dumpster hadn't been there two seconds earlier, Nadia realized. She directed her eyes to the pavement, keeping track of the cracks in the sidewalk instead of the hallucination she wished nothing more than to be free of. She dared to glance around the quiet street again. The sun was going down, and the streetlights had just flickered on. The street was empty except for the man by the dumpster who wasn't really there. He's not really there , she told herself. I'm alone. I'm alone. She wondered how many of her friends muttered those words as a way to make themselves feel better. Who in their right mind would long to be alone? - Nadia was ignoring Drur, so Sasmoae pushed the boundaries of what she was allowed to do with the mortal present. Still not speaking, since such a thing was strictly forbidden, she sped up to match Nadia’s pace and looked over, desperate to meet her gaze. When Nadia finally noticed her would-be guardian angel, someone she'd seen every day for years, the angelic face that she was so accustomed to seeing was contorted, frenzied, and ghost-white. Nadia looked away, and she wore neither fear nor dismissal upon her face. Annoyance. Oh , Sasmoae thought, frantic, that won't do. Drur was moving closer, and Nadia was ignoring him. So Sasmoae had no choice. "You're not alone," she hissed. Nadia's attention darted to the Watcher, who cut her eyes to gesture toward Drur and said once more, maybe because it was necessary and maybe because it just felt nice to speak to someone, "We're not alone." She grabbed Nadia by the arm, and they started running.


I exist only as much as you let me. We spend hours, sometimes days together, you lying in the grass in the warm June sunlight, flipping the crisp white pages of your book, discovering me. You get to know me and I get to know you, too. You like earl grey tea and drink black coffee. You own two cats. You like microfiber throws. I know these things because you let me, because in the purest form, I exist because of you. I exist because you bought a book. Your image of me changes. You fall in love. You fall in love with someone who does not exist in your universe but rather the one that you created, the one that is only because you let it be. I tell you that I love you. I do. I wish more than anything that we could be together in more than just words on a page and me screaming, pleading to the clouds that just hide me from seeing what you look like. I wish that you could stay. And as you reach the end, those last faithful sentences, you realize that I will no longer be there. Your tears stain the pages and it rains in my world. It is okay, you will find other stories, you will read other books and maybe one day, you will happen upon mine again. Maybe for a couple hours of a couple days, you will let me exist again.


“Speak now…”            “What?”            “It’s just something I say when I go to the shows. ‘Speak now or forever just hold your…’”            She was just staring at me after that, but I knew that I got to her.            We had just had dinner at Alfreddy’s when I told her about the show, so it was a good meal…for a little while. She said that she didn’t even like the music, but I didn’t believe her. I mean, how could I believe that someone could not like music like that? How could anyone say that and mean it? She wanted to see a show, but she never said that she loved the music I played in the car. All the way to the band-shell and she just sat there, staring straight ahead at the strip of road that slowly grew crowded with traffic. It was an anniversary date (six months now; pretty good, I thought), and I promised her dinner and…a show (not a movie this time; pretty smart). So, I told her first and said, “Should I pick you up at 8?” She didn’t say anything first. And then, “Fine.” And then she just hung up like that. Really, she just left me hanging on the phone. Well, at least we had dinner first. She could not complain about her favourite restaurant (always told me she liked it). And there wasn’t anything new to see at the movies. So…I made sure that we were going to do something special that night. And I was really excited about things. She didn’t ask for the ticket, but I think she liked the seats (middle section, ten rows back). She had a beautiful outfit on, one I hadn’t seen before (I think). In the car, I found a radio station that played one of the musicians we were about to see. It was the bassist playing with an earlier quartet – very dull to hear it now; much better with the line he had tonight – and I explained that he was one of the people she would hear. She did not say a thing. It got quiet again. What to do, what to do… Well, I asked her again if she was excited (anniversary and all that). She said she really didn’t care about the music, didn’t she? Did not believe it at all.

We got to the parking lot and I found the tickets in the glove compartment, along with the flowers I knew she loved – roses; white and red – and then said, “Happy anniversary, baby!” At least we kissed for a bit and I knew that no one was around to bust us, even if she did push me away and opened the door for herself (chivalry is a dead animal, I guessed). We were there a few minutes before it all went down. I could see that they were still setting things up on stage for the group (one guy had the cable running from some speakers into a mixing board behind us – were they recording this one? Never found out).  She was so quiet when the lights went down. Couldn’t believe they were here. First time in our town. I almost jumped up and then had to repeat myself one more time: “Speak now, or…” Still, not a single word out of her… It was truly one of their best performances. Glorious, hotness and coolness, and then gloriosity (she hates it when I say things like that out loud, so I kept it to myself)! I am only thinking about that now because of what happened later. Never thought they’d play like that. Not like the records at all. There was a note hit by them that I had never felt before. It was really like the band got possessed by the demon that said they had to play for their lives. I just could not believe it. When I looked back, I could see the same guy with the cable looking just as lost as I was and drifting off into some dream in his head that they all just gave him…and me. Pure gloriousness, there. And my girl? She wasn’t saying anything. Like the rest of us, she was quiet. And I guess she didn’t know that he was gonna hit that note. I did. Didn’t say anything to let her know. And then, silent, like all the rest of us. Not a word. Like I said, at least we had dinner first because she said she had to use the bathroom as soon as the show was done (restroom, she said). We all filed out after the two hours that passed like it was church or something. Better than church, I think. At least you felt moved. Took her purse with her. That was strange to me because she was always asking me to hold it when we went out and she would only take out the things she needed. But this time… No big deal there. But she was down there for a while, so I went down to see what was going on. Could not find her by the doors of the restrooms, but there was nowhere else for her to go if she was down there. She said that she didn’t like that music. Total BS…and she proved it. Why was she talking to the bassist we just heard? I mean, the stage door was on the other side of the bathrooms and she was just there, right by the door to the parking lot talking to him and smiling and then looking at their bus. Why didn’t she tell me that she wanted to get on their bus for an autograph? I would have understood. Could have followed them if I got a heads up… I almost called out to her, but she was smiling, so…gloriously and her dress and everything was so nice (her lipstick was redone after our kiss and she had added something gold to her hair-do). And then she stepped outside. I was right by the doors and wondered and wondered about it all. A real anniversary and a real discovery. Some people really don’t know themselves at all; can’t even see what’s right in front of them. She really did like their music. Just had to give her a chance to prove it.


Psst. Hey you. Yes you. I wanted to give you a little sneak peek into my destructive mental health, if you're interested of course. So let me start out simple shall we, by using my schedule as an introduction. It goes as follow... My scheduled appointment with insomnia usually lasts from 12 AM to 3 AM every two weeks. Sometimes my appointments reschedule themselves, I personally think that it's due to the fact that I'm so very guilty of being a procrastination expert. Don't worry my multiple personalities and I were just arranging an intervention for when we're going to address my bad habit of procrastinating (we've been putting it off for 3 months now). Everytime that my insomnia episode happens my brain immediately sprints towards overthinking and turns my emotions up to the maximum. It's so loud music couldn't even block out the noise from the screeching voices of my thoughts. I was usually using this time to stress on myself. Trying to figure out why on God's green earth I couldn't sleep for the life of me because my body was definitely tired yet my mind was chock full of memories. Memories filled with anxiety, depression and a complete overdose of insecurities (for the people who don't understand, that's what you'd call my childhood or just everything up until now). The time that went by when I have my psychotic insomniac moments felt like a jail sentence. I later on took pride in it and made it my special time. Time to have mental breakdowns, cry and slowly gliding into my demons allowing them to eat away what's left of the glacier of this thing people call a heart. Don't get me wrong I do still emote and yes everytime my insomnia kicks in my thoughts immediately scream your name. That's when it starts, our memories start to echo at high frequencies throughout the mountains of my mind's prison. The echoes triggers the avalanche and it's all downhill from there. This particular type of avalanche starts in the mountains of my mind and went down to end up snowing on this organ called the heart. My melting glacier which when melted reveals a stone in the shape of a heart. The melted snow creates excess water allowing the tear ducts to burst like a dam. With all that water from crying myself to sleep and crying in my sleep it's a miracle that I haven't drowned in my own pool of tears. Don't get me wrong I'm an emotional wreck, certified in playing it off like she doesn't have feelings and a professional in crying over the dumbest things. Thing is I don't just cry over anyone or anything...but when you called it quits I was being a baby about it. Yes I know there's no point in crying over someone who doesn't want me, not to mention someone who has as much feeling as a robot. I constantly think of the could haves. I have so many questions I'm burning to ask you, but it's useless because it's not like I'll like the answer. I want to ask you if you ever really saw a future with me, if you ever pictured me as the mother of your children and if you'd stop loving me the moment that hell freezes over? Of course I'm a fool because I know robots like you don't have hearts so you don't really feel anything. Yes I do blame myself for believing you when you claimed to love me. I still wonder if your family would've liked me or if you're mother would've exploded at the site of someone as ugly as me. She'd probably prefer it if you settled down with someone more your type, like a toaster or a smart fridge. I'm so mad at your stupidity, you are the smartest, dumb person I've ever met. I've recited and prepared a speech for you, written from a dark place, spilling mad, twisted feelings, so full of fury from the time you took my love and jerked it around, broke it and threw it away. This speech will have you crying so much you might ruin your software, you might need an oil change. Better yet I'll call the fire department because my words might probably burn a hole through your hardware. I just don't know what it is or how you do it, but everytime I see you...I'm at a lost for words, my mouth doesn't know how to speak brain words. I completely freeze up. I hate that I have to keep reminding myself that it's over and that you're not coming back, you made that very clear. Eventhough my heart is waiting and my brain gets irritated by all the crashing waves and violent floods of the possibly that there could maby. By some miracle be a chance of an "Us". It's time for me to wake up and snap out of this trance. Everyone knows that happily ever after is only how fairytales end and life is definitely not a fairytale, very far from it I might add. You're just so amazing, a handsome face that could make any woman blush. A touch that would turn me to putty in your hands. Soft lips and a kiss that would any princess feel like this was the reason why she was born into this cruel world. Arms that provide comfort and safety. A personality that would have you enchanted and suck you in like a vortex. It's like I'm possessed by the power of you. Unfortunately, my high and mighty act drops dead as soon as my soul feels your presence near me. There are so many things that I want to say to you and pour my soul out to you, but how do I do that without malfunctioning your circuitry. So I'll leave my message in a bottle, open it when you learn the meaning of those rare three little words I told you or when you grow a heart. Take care of yourself my prince charming even though you haven't yet evolved from a toad, I still have faith that our fairytale is far from over.


Opening Scene            What is that sound? My ears are telling me that what I am hearing is the whistling of a kettle. But I just can’t believe my ears. It just couldn’t be. Do people actually hallucinate sounds? That’s probably what it is. I sometimes see things that aren’t really there, so why not sounds as well. I could be that lonely these days that my mind overrules my senses in what it wants to hear. Two Weeks Earlier            Gloria receives a much awaited phone call. It is good news. She then thinks about communicating it to her husband Bill at work in his job as a truck driver delivering supplies in their hometown.            Gloria wants to communicate this good news to her husband, but she thinks. ‘I wish that Bill wasn’t such a cell phone fogie. He never takes his phone with him when he leaves the house. It drives me crazy. I will just have to write my message down to him on paper. I know that he won’t like it that I will be away for a while, but I know that he will support me’. The Intended Message Bill: I got a phone call from the stage company. They are going to give me the part in the play. The actor who had the part before was in a car accident, so they need me to go to Calgary, learn the lines, and play the part this Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and the same days the week afterwards. You know how I am. I have to completely focus on the lines for the next two weeks. Please do not call me. I can’t be distracted. I wish it were otherwise, or that you could come with me. But I know that you can’t leave on the spur of the moment, as you are needed at work. I will tell you all about it when I get back. Thank you for your ever-present understanding. Gloria Gloria Receives an E-mail            Not long after writing down her message, Gloria receives an e-mail from the director of the play. She writes down the crucial words carefully with the pen she already has in her hands. It is important that she is able to read what it says, over and over, until memorized.

           Gloria leaves the lines she has just written on the table while she heads rather quickly to the bathroom. She then loads her suitcase up with her clothes and other necessities, and heads straight to the front door.

           “Damn. I almost forgot to take the lines with me. What a fool I am!”            She runs to the table and grabs while walking one of the two sheets of paper. Then she heads out the door and to her car. She quickly, carelessly and awkwardly stuffs what she is carrying into the trunk. She does not notice that in so doing she drops the sheet of paper onto the driveway. When she drives away, it blows off of the driveway onto the road. The wind will take it farther away.            Her drive takes four hours. It won’t be until she reaches her eventual destination, a small motel not far from the theatre, that she realizes what has happened. She calls up the director, and receives once again the lines that she has to memorize, and writes them out as he slowly, carefully reads them out to her so that she can write them down. In the Meantime Bill…            Around three hours after Gloria left speeding away in her car, Bill arrives back home. He is surprised that she isn’t at home, but that doesn’t bother him much. She is always on the go. And it looks like she placed a note on the dinner table that would explain everything. He hopes that it is good news about the play. Bill knows how much she wanted to get the part.            He picks up the notepaper and begins to read. It isn’t like anything she has ever written or even said to him before. He had no idea that she had the feelings that she is expressing in the note, and in big letters too.  He sits down in shock and surprise. Then he reads the paper over again to see whether the words are what he thought they were. To his dismay, his first impressions were bang-on.            It has been a long time since he has cried, but he certainly opens up the floodgates this time, and it takes him a while to stop the tears, and diminish his physical response to the note to mere sobs and sniffles.

           While Bill is going through his personal torture, Gloria is practicing her lines for the play. She has a hard time feeling the part, that’s for sure. This is not something she has even come close to feeling, and certainly not anything like what she had ever said to or felt about her husband Bill. Valerie’s Lines in the Play            The play is called “Who is the Real Albert?” The story is a kind of comedy/farce about a man and his very different relationships with four different women. One of those women, Valerie, appears in only one scene, in which she writes the following letter. His relationships with the other women is very different. The audience only gets to see and hear Albert in the last act. They can then decide what his true nature is.”            “I can’t hold back my feelings anymore. They are eating me up inside. Marrying you was by far the biggest mistake I have ever made. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret that I even met you. I had no idea before we got married that you were anything like that.            Here is my plan. I am going to leave you and never return. You will be hearing from my lawyer shortly, as I want to divorce you as fast as I can.            Be aware that I will be telling all of our close friends about what life with you is like, how incredibly BORING that you are. I have more interesting conversations talking to a wall. Your precious reputation in this town is going to be destroyed.            Don’t even try to call me. I won’t pick up.” We Return to the Beginning: Bill Hears a Familiar Sound            Bill hears what sounds like the whistling of a kettle.  He heads quickly to the kitchen, to find out whether he is imagining it. Yes, he got it right. He sees the steam rising, and then he is in for an even bigger surprise. There is Gloria with a box of doughnuts in her hands. She puts them down beside the kitchen sink, and then pours the hot water into the teapot. After putting the kettle down, she rushes over to Bill, gives him a big hug and a smoochy kiss. The hug lasts for a while. Neither of them wants to let go.            Then, pulling away to pour the tea for both of them, she tells him that the play she wrote to him about was a big success, and she was applauded at the end, even though she had to say lines that were definitely not her, about a horrible marriage. Bill looks surprised at first, and then has a thought, which he articulates quickly. “I think that I know what those lines were. You left them on the table.” It is Gloria’s turn to look surprised. Then she has a thought, and with a quickly spewed “Oh my God,” she renews the hug.


Fincher was once the most bullied kid in 5th grade. He always wore the classic nerd attire complete with curly hair, braces, a pair of glasses and a shirt with a quote from Star Wars or Marvel or some other comic. He wasn't like the other kids, and that's probably what drew me to him. I, on the other hand, was extremely popular at that time. For the wrong reasons, but still popular. Everyone had dubbed me the new girl to look out for and everyone glanced at me with that envious look on their faces, but I really didn't care. Fincher and I used to share a love for classic movies like Casablanca or Singing in the Rain and I would often find him at our local drive which played black and white films every weekend. I'd always wave to him, but he'd always wave back. I never understood my attraction to him because it certainly wasn't for his looks. I always loved him for his uniqueness. Inside, I was just a nerd who loved Marvel and Star Wars too. The sad thing is, I never got to tell him that. I never got to show him that side of me. And when 9th grade rolled around, O knew that not confessing was the biggest mistake I made, and that it was way too late now. After Fincher returned from the summers, everything had changed. I was no longer the popular girl, and just the quirky weirdo with like two friends who always made double Dutch braids and won the Spelling Bee once! But Fincher on the other hand, he became the hot guy that every girl (and guy) had a crush on. Like literally every girl ever tried to pursue him but only that snotty Miranda was able to secure a kiss from that Greek God. No, like really. He had the body of a Greek God, the face, uhm, of a Greek God and, uh, the smile of a Greek God? It's really hard to decribe, but yeah his whole physicality was that of a Greek God. I mean, sure that was one of the most appealing thing about him at the time, because I remember he was as bright as a 10 watt bulb. But I also really liked him because he was kind to everyone around him and never stuck chewing gum under my desk, unlike Brian from Physics, his best friend. I would occasionally make my moves on him, but my flirtation got no reaction from him. He just smiled at me and turned away. I never got to see any of the stationary that I gave him again. Erasers, sharpeners, pens, rulers, all gone. But I'd take his affection over anything, even today. I use told tutor Brian in 11th grade and he even told me that Well, flash forward to today. I matched with Fincher on Tinder today! I have called him up to meet me at the Sands Café and he only lives a few blocks away. I know, it's kind of pathetic to pursue a childhood crush, but I have been single for a year now and really not ready for a relationship with a stranger, it's always better to date someone you know. And I love walking along the beach, but it's way too hot today and I don't want to arrive sweating and running out of breath on the first date. This cafe is, uh, neat. That's the best compliment I could think of. I only chose it because he suggested it. At least he was polite enough to ask, I just jumped at the first option out of excitement. I see this guy wearing headphones and his cap turned backwards. I can hear through his headphones, that is definitely the Barbie Girl song. Not judging, but that's definitely not him. I guess he's not here yet. His profile says that he is a 'freelance healer'. Not sure what that means. Someone else just came in! That's not him. That's a lady with big hoop earrings wearing a latex suit and carrying a dog in her purse. Have I accidentally walked onto the set of Jersey Shore? 15 minutes have passed, I'm still waiting. I guess it's okay to be a little late, he must been busy or something. And oh boy! There he is! He looks just like I remember him! That same dirty blonde hair and those hazel eyes! Ah! Someone pinch me! Is this a dream? "Alison?" "Hey Fincher!" I shout. He walks in looking around and quietly sits at the booth seat opposite me. "Quiet there, nobody calls me Fincher anymore, it's such a lame name. I go by Finn." He said. "Oh sorry, I didn't know." I said softly. He proceeds to tell me about his life and I stumble across him describing our drive in, "Wait, was it Sydney's Movies?" I subtly dropped a hint. "Yes, but how do you know that?" He said. I suppose he doesn't remember me, I'll have to jog up his memory. "I went to Morley Academy and used to go to Sydney's to watch classic movies on the weekends!" He has to remember me now. "Oh, then why haven't we met before?" Huh, guess he still doesn't remember me. "I am Aly, Alison Scott. Remember me? We both had Ms. May's Physics together?" "Um, I'm sorry, I don't recall you." "Do you remember Brian? He used to stick chewing gums under my desk?" "I remember Brian, but I don't remember anything about chewing gums-" "Mr. Duchovny's Algebra? The teacher taht always used to drench the first row with spit?" "Oh I remember him! He was so funny." "So do you remember me now?" "Um, not really." "How can you not remeber me? Mr. Ryerson, he used to give my English papers as an example to show the class that I always wrote the best stories and poems and I gave you like A BILLION PENCILS, Finn! How do you still not remember me?" "Uh, this is getting weird I think I should lea-" "Don't! This was a mistake. I should be the one to leave. Goodbye." And with that I left. I am so dumb. I really thought that he would remember me. Of course he doesn't remember me! What was there really to remember about me? My round cheeks that Ms. Burberry always used to pull? My silky, ebony hair that were pretty unique because every darn girl dyed her hair pink and purple in high school? The English essay I wrote on what it means to be a woman in today's society? Who am I kidding? There is a lot to remember about me! I am memorable. He is dumb as a sack of hair for forgetting someone like me. What the hell was I thinking?


A FAMOUS FOOD CRITIC MASSACRES AN ENTIRE RESTAURANT, STAFF AND GUESTS, BECAUSE OF THE HORRIBLE FOOD It's kind of sick humour but whatever, here goes... "Was that a large with coke?" "Ye- what? No. Give me a medium, I can't afford that shit." "That'll be ten ninety five thanks, drive on through." Just another day on the headset. Handling miscommunication, getting beef from customers and multi-tasking my ass off. "Twenty six dollars seventy?!!" "You ordered three family meal deals." "I'm a big boy alright!" "Easy, I wasn't challenging your life choices, just explaining why it costs that much." Far out. For all I knew he could easily have had a large family hiding in that tinted SUV but apparently diet was a touchy subject for him. "My son nearly died choking on one of your waffle cones! I want a $50 bribe now or I'll sue Burger King for all it's worth!!" "Um, first of all this is the drive through, if you have any complaints you should take them to the manager. Second, you're not in the states anymore lady. The legal system in New Zealand doesn't really work like thaaaaaa..." I froze mid-sentence, my jaw dangling open like a Burmese python. Out of the corner of my eye I had just seen one of our customers fall down to his knees and then collapse on the pavement as I was speaking. "Like what?" the rude lady demanded, completely oblivious. The man was convulsing on the ground now, clutching his chest and gasping. A girl nearby caught sight of him and rushed over, pulling out her phone to call emergency services. I was too shocked to say anything more than a weak, "That dude does not look okay..." before blood started pooling around his torso and he stopped moving. The American lady turned round in her seat to follow my line of vision and screamed. She was just in time to see the girl with the phone get jolted by a sudden impact in her back and fall over in a similar manner. "Get down!" I commanded, "Now! Somebody out there has a silenced firearm." The lady stared at me blankly, paralysed in terror and unbelief. "Do it!" She finally responded and lurched out of the family car, closing the door behind her and crouching between the vehicle and the drive-through window. Panic started spreading through the carpark as people saw the bodies laying lifeless near the double doors and ran for cover. Some reached for their phones and were immediately fired upon and added to the growing list of casualties. My head spinning with fear and confusion I spun around and stepped out of my cashier cubicle into the restaurant. People inside were confused at the noise and unsure how to respond. No gunshots had been heard but it was clear to customers and staff alike that some hectic shit was going down. Before I could shed any light on the situation a window shattered and another customer slumped face-first into her sundae with a bullet hole clean through her skull. The result was immediate, it seemed that every person in the room had a different idea for the best course of action and they all tried to execute it at once. A schoolgirl yelped something incoherent and jumped backwards into her friend who got a mouthful of hair and sore teeth. Skinny teenage mum grabbed bubba from her pram and crouched under the table, probably the wisest move. One of the Shirley High boys kicked open the main entrance doors and bolted, only to be shot in the leg after a few paces. Chubby scooter boy muttered something about "gangsta shit" and flattened himself against the back wall next to the fizzy dispenser, pumping out as many free refills as possible in his last moments on earth. Mr Hi-Vis with the tattoo sleeve grabbed the remains of his burger and vaulted the counter to grab the ancient landline telephone we keep by the grill. My buddy Dee had moments ago been taking an order only to find himself dodging Hi-Vis and slapping an underage Mongrel Mob wannabe away from the open cash register. Then I noticed the dark form striding towards the double doors: a slender figure dressed in sooty jeans, glossy black leather high boots, black hoodie and a grey bandana over her nose and mouth. ...and an assault rifle in hand. Without a second thought she unleashed her first clip of bullets into the restaurant, spraying the premises in a deadly hail of shrapnel and jagged glass and tearing the doors from their hinges. The schoolgirls jumped behind a seat and avoided the worst of it. Hi-Vis was yelling something aggressive into the telephone, I just hoped it was the police that he'd called and not his mum or something. Mongrel boy took a bullet in the leg and flipped some intimidating gang signs. Scooter kid was sculling his fourth cup of coke mixed with L&P while the drinks dispenser started leaking from bullet holes. Dee was characteristically unfazed by the whole situation, this was East Side after all. The offender busted through the doors and threw down her gun, drawing a lengthy katana from a sheath on her back. What happened next was too gruesome to describe but let's just say that she was a martial arts master and very soon Dee and I were the only survivors. "Who... who are you?" I stammered. She barked out a short ugly laugh and took off the bandana, revealing a face that I knew only from cheesy reality TV. "Nigella Lawson!" I gasped, "Why?!" "Fast food is the devil," she replied, "I am saving you from a fate worse than death." And then she stabbed me in the eyeball and I bled out. Oh sorry, I said I wouldn't describe it... whoops.


Imagine life as a TV program where, at any moment, you could press a button to change the channel when things were not going your way. No longer would you have to endure discomfort or displeasure. With a remote control, you could effortlessly switch to a different scene, a new plot, or even an entirely different life genre without leaving your seat. Are you facing a difficult day at work? Just flip to a scene where you are on a tropical vacation. Are you encountering a challenging relationship issue? Change to a narrative where harmony and understanding prevail. The remote control becomes a powerful tool, allowing you to navigate life's difficulties easily and comfortably. Every moment could be curated to your liking in this fantastical scenario, offering a seamless transition from one pleasant experience to the next. The stress and unpredictability of daily life would be replaced by a tailored sequence of events, each chosen to bring you joy, satisfaction, and peace. It would be a world where your desires and preferences shape reality, managed from the comfort of your favorite chair. But it is not. I am living a lie, ensnared by deceptions from every direction. The world around me feels like a carefully constructed facade, each layer adding to the suffocating weight of falsehoods. For the first time, I wish that the devastating truth I uncovered was just another lie. Unless, of course, the fact itself is a cruel fabrication designed to wound me even deeper. In this turmoil, I am in an endless argument with the universe. I have long since abandoned the belief in a higher power; the notion of God became meaningless to me years ago. It was around the time of my first or second attempt to end my life. Who is counting anyway? The exact number does not matter; what matters is that those moments stripped away any remaining faith I had. Now, I face an unbearable paradox: I must relinquish the things that bring me joy. Despite my immense love for what I do and the countless hours of effort I have poured into it, I cannot continue—not from my current position. The harsh reality is that the environment I find myself in is stifling my passion and potential. The only viable solution left is to leave it all behind. Giving up what makes me happy feels like a betrayal of my very essence. It's not just about abandoning a job or a hobby; it's about letting go of a piece of my soul. The thought of walking away from everything I have worked so hard for is daunting and disheartening. Yet, staying means suffocating under the weight of lies and an environment that will never allow me to thrive. I decided to stop doing stand-up because there was no place for me at the top. I am turning to writing, my true love. It's a difficult path, but there are fewer stumbling blocks than on a stand-up comedian's path. I am not saying I won't miss making people laugh, but I can't function with so much anger inside me. I have never been so angry. Not even when I discovered that my parents had abandoned me, not even when I lost my teeth when I lived as a homeless person. I never felt the anger that I feel now. The glass of tolerance has filled to the edge. Now, I am going to look for a job. It won't be something I'll love and enjoy, but it will take my mind off stand-up and the whole mess. At least I will be calm for a while. Maybe people will ask about me—and perhaps they will not. Not because I was not worth being remembered but because comedians were already ready to jump in my place. Let them. Nobody is irreplaceable. Today, it is me; tomorrow, it can be them. That is life. True, I got new teeth—but at what price did I pay for them? Sometimes, I wish I hadn't even gotten them because, thanks to them, people look at me differently; they behave as if I got a new personality with new teeth. I did not. I am still the old me, just in a better, more pleasing-to-the-eye version. So why doesn't anyone notice me? Why am I sidelined? Why am I an observer of other people's success and happiness? Is there any point in that? I am tired, my friends, of asking questions and looking for answers. Sometimes, it is best to let everything go. And that is what I am doing. I am letting go and hoping to find peace. One morning, I walked into the comedy club, and all eyes were on me. Whispers followed me to the dressing room, a sense of dread gnawing at my insides. I spotted Jerry, another comedian, leaning against the wall. "Haven't you heard?" he said, his voice a mix of pity and curiosity. "Everyone's saying you're quitting stand-up because you had a breakdown. They're saying you're too angry to keep going." My heart sank. The rumors had started, and I was the topic. I had not spoken to anyone about my decision. The truth was, I was stepping back because the environment was suffocating me, not because I had lost my mind. But a hint of vulnerability quickly spiraled into scandal in the cutthroat comedy world. That night, I walked up to the mic with a storm brewing. The audience watched, waiting for me to crack. Instead, I channeled every ounce of my anger into my performance, turning the rumors into punchlines. "People are saying I'm quitting because I'm too angry," I began, pacing the stage. "Well, maybe I am angry. Maybe I am angry at a world that thinks it knows me but doesn't try to understand. Maybe I'm angry because the truth is too heavy to carry alone." The room fell silent. The audience, used to laughing with me, was now listening intently. "But here's the thing," I continued, leaning into the mic. "I'm not quitting because I can't handle it. I am stepping away because I deserve better. We all do. And if that makes me crazy, then so be it." Walking off the stage, I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. The rumors would continue, but I had taken control of the narrative. I was no longer just the topic of gossip; I was the author of my own story. These days, I feel like I am wandering through a maze, utterly lost and scared, like a bewildered child. Every path I choose seems to lead me astray, returning to the same desolate starting point. Sometimes, it feels like I'm not moving at all while the world shifts and changes around me, leaving me stranded, voiceless, and motionless. I am besieged by conflicting decisions, overwhelmed, as if I am attacked from all sides, bombarded by deafening screams, yet unable to discern the right course of action. I must confess that I have faced worse trials before, yet somehow, those trials seemed more bearable. Should I sever ties with the life that's altered my existence, granting me treasures while robbing me of dreams—albeit temporarily—or should I muster the strength to contend for acceptance in a society that fails to recognize my true worth? Or should I start a new? There are so many choices and so much weight on me, and I am in this - alone. The onset of the club's new season was meant to herald a fresh beginning, and I eagerly anticipated it, having spent the years proving my mettle to myself and others. Yet, reality delivered a cold, bitter blow. Not only did I fail to attain what I yearned for, but I also lost what little I had. "Be patient," they say. "Keep proving yourself, and things will change." But haven't I been doing exactly that for the past ten years? Must I continue to prove myself, biding my time for an elusive opportunity? How much longer must I endure this trial, and for whose validation? Anger, fury, and disappointment swirl within me, threatening to consume my very being. You cannot dangle the promise of my dreams before me only to snatch them away—it is cruel. I possess knowledge, talent, perseverance, and a deep love for my craft—aren't these qualities worth something in the end? I am exhausted, drained to the core. I feel like Don Quixote, mistaking windmills for lofty dreams. They drag me deeper into the abyss of despair and sorrow, and I succumb to their pull as if I lack the strength to resist and a reason to fight. Is it the solitude that weighs upon me? It never troubled me before. I was accustomed to solitude, or so I thought. But things have changed now. The stone in my chest has vanished, leaving behind a void. "I've lost that lovely feeling..."


Sunlight filtered through Madeline’s eyelids, dragging her from her sleep. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and glanced over at the window, confirming that the sky was still painted in the pinks and purples of dawn. The mattress scooted across the floor as she clambered out of bed. She stretched the stiffness from her muscles as she checked all was as she’d left it in the office-cum-bedroom. After grabbing her bucket, she made the familiar journey to the library garden, tracing her fingers along the wall as she went. “Morning,” Liam greeted her in the corridor before falling into step a couple of metres behind. “How’d you sleep?” “Same as usual. You?” “Okay.” “No nightmares?” He paused for a moment before answering. “Not the bad ones. Haven’t had one of them since a week or so after getting here.” “That’s good. Do let me know if they come back.” Madeline glanced over her shoulder to fix him with a teasingly stern look. “I know what you’re like when it comes to putting on a brave face.” “I will,” Liam chuckled. She paused to remove the bike lock that sealed the garden entrance. As the door swung open, crisp air flooded inside. She took in a deep breath and stepped through, wiggling her toes in the grass that glittered with morning dew. She crossed the garden in a couple of steps and began filling her bucket from one of the water butts. “So what did you want to do today?” she asked over the steady trickle. “What are our supplies like?” “We’re good for now.” “Then I guess it would be a good day to be productive in another way.” He scratched his head as he considered the possibilities, his eyes lighting up as inspiration struck. “Maybe you could teach me the next taekwondo pattern?” Madeline couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds good to me. As long as we fit some reading in there too.” “Of course,” Liam said with a grin. With the bucket full, she gestured for Liam to turn his back and started the process of washing herself. Her breath caught at the first splash of the cold water, but soon she was used to it. When she was done she called out, “Okay, your turn.” Respecting Liam’s continual need for space, she padded over to the furthest edge of the garden and turned her back. The rhythmic slosh of water filled the air as she studied the flowers growing out of the wall. It always impressed her how hardy some plants were, pushing their way through the smallest cracks and into the sunlight. Liam’s voice interrupted her musings. “All done!” “Great,” said Madeline, turning back around to see Liam refilling the bucket. She let him go first as she locked the door behind them, before following him to the small kitchen. While Liam started passing the water through a filter she fetched a box of cereal and the tub of powdered milk to prepare. “Ready for breakfast?” she asked when she was done. “Sure,” Liam replied, setting down the bucket. After pouring herself a bowl, she passed the cereal and milk to him and headed out of the kitchen and over to their usual table. He joined her moments later, taking his seat at the far end. Together they crunched their way through the meal, chatting and teasing and laughing as they did. \ “Alright, so this one starts just like the previous two,” Madeline said, positioning herself in the centre of the large open space in the library lobby. “You turn left into a walking stance and do a low block.” She executed the move and waited for Liam to copy. “Good. Now, you do a front kick, land in a long stance and double punch.” They went through the full set of moves together a few times. Madeline was careful not to look at him too much. She’d learnt early on in their lessons that he could concentrate better when he thought nobody was watching. But you could only get so far that way. When she was confident he at least had a basic grasp of the routine, she stopped. “Okay, you know the drill. This time I won’t do it myself so I can watch you, to make sure you’re doing it correctly.” Liam nodded, eyes resolutely fixed forward as if not looking at her helped him pretend she wasn’t looking at him. He performed the first steps well, requiring only minor adjustments to his stance, but as they came to the later, less familiar moves he started to struggle. “Okay, pause there,” she said. “With the knife hand, you’ve got to position it a little higher – like you’re aiming for someone’s neck. And try and straighten out your forearm a bit.” She waited for him to follow the instructions. “Better. But make sure to keep the thumb tucked in… Good, carry on.” It wasn’t long before she had to stop him again, and she could see the flush of frustration rising in his face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This one is harder than the first two. And it’s always difficult at first. You’re doing well.” “Doesn’t feel like it,” he murmured. “Well, there’s only one way to get better. Now, this stance is meant to be a back stance remember, so more weight should be on your back leg… Okay, bend the knee a little more.” “Like this?” “That’s definitely better. I know it feels a bit unnatural, but you should get used to it eventually.” “A bit?” he said, lip quirking up in a teasing smile. “Hey, no sassing your teacher. Now, about that knife hand block...” As she tried to guide him through the process of correcting his position, she felt a familiar irritation at how much more difficult this was without being able to touch him. After numerous failed attempts, struggling to hide her exasperation, she finally gave up. “Look, this will go so much quicker if you just let me come over and position you myself. I know you have this thing about your space, and I haven’t pushed you on it because I’m fairly certain everyone left alive has some issues at this point, but do you think you could cope with me being a bit closer just for a short time?” She watched the conflict twist his face as he came to his decision. Not wishing to increase the pressure, she fought to keep her impatience from showing. Finally, he spoke, voice halting in a way she hadn’t heard since she’d first met him. “I think that will b-be okay. As long as it… Just not for too long.” “Thank you,” she said as she crossed the distance between them. Though Liam was tense at first, he slowly seemed to become used to her closeness. The trembling in his hands finally subsided after the fourth run-through of the pattern. After that, the rest of the lesson went much more smoothly. “Okay, one more time with no input from me. In your own time,” Madeline said, taking a step back. Pride swelled in her chest, forcing a smile to spread across her face as Liam went through the moves. Just as he let out a shout to announce the end of the pattern, a crash echoed from somewhere else in the library. Madeline whipped around, knees bending and weight shifting to the balls of her feet as every muscle in her body tensed. “Get behind me,” she whispered. Liam complied, both of them straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. A scuttling sound broke the silence.


Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She was a mousy looking girl who wore rags of grey and blue. Her peers liked to tease her because of that (and other things, too). She walked home alone, her only company the voices in her head, mocking her. They were loud, an obnoxious din, and certainly unwelcome. The girl could do nothing to make them go away. She didnt like the voices, though they were her only company. People often told her to perk up a little, but the girl couldnt, or maybe she just wouldnt. She couldnt understand why it was important for them to see her ''perk up''. They never noticed her, except sometimes to offer advice on how to be like them - perky and carefree. Sometimes the girl thought about why she felt so different from the society around her. Life for her was like being at a party she wasnt invited to, and she didnt know how she came to be at this party. The more the girl thought about this, the more she got lost amidst her thoughts. The only escape from this maze was to slash and cut her way out. The day she smiled was a special day indeed! In fact, on that particular day, she smiled three times. Once, when she woke up in the morning knowing it was her last. Twice, when nobody was there to barge in, and ruin it for her. Lastly, when they found her.


It was the 16th of May , they had been roaming the countryside of England for 2 months and had ended up at the Grand Old Hotel. The name was appropriate, it felt as if the whole place had always had the air of being past it's prime, as if the chairs had sagged since the day they were installed in the lobby, the hedgerows were always overgrown, the discolored wallpaper peeling from the day it was installed and as if the plumbing had been finicky from the day the contractors left. There wasn't a lot of staff, but the few that were around carried themselves with the grace befitting servants of a royal court. As if their regular patrons were accustomed to a life of privilege and prestige , with exacting standards they would not hesitate to complain loudly if the tea wasn't the perfect drinking temperature when it was served. It was all a bit disconcerting for him. He had never exactly been poor, but interacting with self styled butlers, manservants and maids was an incredibly foreign affair to him. He always felt as if he should apologize to them all. His discomfort manifested itself in an over-courteousness that the help didn't seem to appreciate. It felt as if they looked at him with a kind condescension and even a bit of pity. *Look at the small town bumpkin who is in over his head* their gaze seemed to say, with no apparent recognition of how the Grand Old Edifice was no longer what it used to be and neither were the patrons. She had no such troubles, she carried a sense of effortless authority with herself that he found utterly captivating. Knowing what he knew about her, it seemed rather strange and even somewhat unfair that she could phrase a command in such generous terms that everyone wanted to wade on her hand and foot. She was never rude or brusque , but she never made requests. She never asked "Could I get a Pina colada" , instead it was simply "Could you please get me a Pina colada" , the difference was subtle , but it was mesmerizing and sometimes he simply found himself admiring her as she spoke to the help. Such effortless beauty, he thought. I wonder how much effort it takes to maintain? It was 2:30 in the afternoon and they had made their way to the old gazebo after lunch. He sat looking at nothing in particular, but noticing almost everything at once, the slightly overgrown hedges and the gentle breeze coming off of the ocean that was north of them. The breeze made the trees and bushes sway and played with her yellow sundress.. He stole glances at her here and there, not wanting to disturb her reverie and she let him, not wanting to disturb his. He felt a little guilty and she knew it. He felt as if he was getting away with something that the likes of him did not deserve. First there was the difference in age , not a lot but enough to raise eyebrows here and there. What was much more disconcerting than that though was how just being around her made the knot in his chest feel a little less... undecipherable. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this reprieve. In fact he was quite sure that the way he lived his life was pretty solid grounds for never feeling the way he felt and yet , here he was , sitting in the slightly overgrown , but still lovely, Grand old gardens letting his mind slip into day dreams of all that had happened here. He must have started to make a face, because suddenly she said "Tell me about it". The question jarred him back to reality and he looked at her sitting next to him, her large grey eyes peering up at him as if what he was about to say is all that she had ever wanted to hear. "Oh , I'm sorry , I must have gotten lost in a thought" he said. Mhm , she hummed , you've been doing it since we got here, just standing around looking at things and then you get this look. A look ? Yes , a look He smiled and looked deep into her eyes... He was too old for this he thought, well, not that old, but still So, will you tell me or do I have to get one of my butlers to torture the information out of you ? He laughed a genuine laugh , she knew what she was doing and she was enjoying it He must have simply gazed at her for a few more seconds and she seemed to almost lose interest in the question when he said "I love old places like this" Of course you do old man , this is your milieu right ? He laughed again, but it was tinged with a small bit of embarrassment.. How old do you think I am ? Old enough, she said with a shy look on her face Well, not old enough for any of this to be relate-able.. What then ? He thought for a second before saying .. Have you ever felt nostalgic about a life that you never lived ? It's so strange, being here, being separated in time from all those lives that this place has seen , all those parties that were held here , all those kisses that were stolen in this gazebo all the petty arguments and jealous rages. All the minor political intrigue and all the satisfied afternoons shared by people just like us. All the people that came before us and touched the silverware, the scuff marks on the old ceramic plates made by bygone patrons who are naught but ashes and dust now. It's breathtaking, the amount of life places like this see and now, he hesitated, glancing at the overgrown azaleas. Now what ? She asked earnestly .. Just , you know , Decay ? Irrelevance ? Memory ? It's almost as if the Grand remembers and while it still stands here, there is something of them still left , it stood a mute witness to all those lives and in a way as long as it stands , it will hold on to the memory of them all. Sounds sad. Yes, it's Quite melancholy , but , I like it. You like being sad ? She asked, more of a statement than a question , with barest tinges of hope and sadness mixed in with her delicate timbre. Yes, I do , he said and felt his breath pour out of him as she rest her head on his shoulder and gently nuzzled against his neck I understand, she said finally All he could do was smile weakly and enjoy the faint smell of the cheap hotel conditioner in her hair.. You can't fix me , you know... I know. She confirmed. You can't fix me either , but , do you mind trying for a bit ? He hesitated a few seconds too many .. I'll try too , she said weakly.. Ok, he said, k , she repeated. It was a lovely afternoon.


There are two men walking across the ground towards the forest. They are working together to carry a large bag. They are wearing black and posses the same blank, faceless expression accentuated by the night surrounding them. There are very few words exchanged on their journey.  The two men reach a clearing. The bag thuds to the ground. A collective sigh is heard as they stretch their arms. One of the faceless men reaches into the bag to reveal two shovels. It doesn't take long for the men to dig a sufficiently deep hole.  "You ready?" "Yeah."  The men drag the bag so that the opening touches the top of the hole. They heave. A body slips out. It's pale, bruised and a metal spike has ruined the face.  "Wanna say a word?" "Not really."  A short moment of silence.  "We loved ya buddy, it didn't have to be like this." "It didn't have to be like this" repeated the second man.  Another sigh and another moment of silence. The second man continued.  "He had to die, that's for sure. But what we did to him?" He points at the face before continuing "this ain't right, and what we're doing now? He deserves a proper funeral."  The first man breathes in to start a rebuttal, then hesitates.  "I guess. They'll always be time for a real send off. We-"  He looks at what's left of the face again.The second man's sadness has turned to anger "His family deserve to see the body."Their eyes meet as the first man replies "This body? NO ONE deserves to see this body, not even us. Look, he was a brother to me, just as you are. I hate to see him like this." He continues onto his next thought without taking a breath "And what are we to do? Dump him on his porch like a warning sign? Politely knock on their door and show them him in the trunk of the car? They'll be traumatized, we'll be ratted out, everyone loses."  "They deserve the truth." The second man said calmly, "even if it's horrible, they deserve time to sit with the body, process what's really happened."  The first man rolled his eyes "Even if they see the body, they won't know the truth. You know that yourself man. He told his whole family he has nothing to do with us now. They won't see the horrible things he's done to get himself into this mess. To them, he's a reformed man. They'll fuck us over cuz they don't know"  The second man "It's not about what he did in his life, it's about the fact that he's dead. They just need some time with him." "No." The first man's shovel raises. "We're not going down for this, if you feel this bad you shouldn't have killed him." "I don't care what you think, I'm giving his family the body" The second man's shovel rises.  Shovels clash, a skull is cracked and pushed into the grave. The grave is filled with dirt and a man drives off into the early morning.


It was dark, cold, and empty. She didn't know how long she had lain there; wounded and bound like an animal about to be slaughtered. She who was once the most powerful queen on earth, now lay battered, silently praying for death. It wasn't an incident that happened through luck. Her enemies couldn't get her with that alone. So they used what would most likely cause her to surrender, her people. She tried opening her eyes, but it was useless. She couldn't see anything. No sound was heard, which caused her ears to tingle strangely, almost making her seem like she was deaf. Her eyes closed, and then she forced them open again. She didn't know how long she had been unconscious, but it would do her right to be wide awake, especially while in her enemy's lair. "You are finally awake." A voice called out from the still silence, causing her heart to jump in fear. She looked around, her eyes widened, trying to know where the sound came from. "There is no need to try to see." The voice said, this time much closer. "Your sight has been taken from you." Pain like she had never known tore through her chest. Her eyesight, the one thing that aided her powers, had been taken away from her. She had expected to be jailed, beaten. She accepted it. But removing her eyesight was never part of the deal. "Damn you." She whispered, her voice hoarse. "You really can't blame me for this, darling." The voice called out. "All these wouldn't have happened, had you just accepted to be my bride." "I would rather die than be eternally tied to you." She spat. "I do not know what's so wrong about that." The voice said, slowly getting angry. "I love you. Can't you see that?!" She knew the voice perfectly. Could recognize it even in her sleep. To that day, she still couldn't get over the fact that someone she was very close to, could become so devoured by the hate he once fought against while he was young. She never knew if she had loved him then, but she was very sure that she would never feel anything for him, apart from the very hate that was slowly growing in her. "That is not love." She whispered. "Whatever you have for me, is not love. It's greed, obsession. To take power away from my hands, and rule my land. Sadly, as long as I live, I would never allow my people to be under your tyrannical reign." "Don't you dare dictate my feelings!" The voice shouted, causing her to wince. "You fight for the same people that would betray you in a blink of an eye." "Whether they do or not, doesn't matter to me. My kingdom is now in safe hands, free from your greedy ones." "Admit it. Just admit it." The voice said, eerily quiet this time. "You surrendered yourself to me because deep down, you still feel something for me. You wish to change me, is it not?" "I wear these chains, so that my people may live a life without knowing how it feels to have steel tied around their wrists and hanging from their bones. Not because of some perverse love for you." She said, her voice though hoarse, dripping with determination. "And if I have to do it a hundred times," she continued, "you can be rest assured that I would do it again without hesitation.


“Hello there, sir. Would you mind telling me what you are doing at this here Quick-Market?”            “Buying groceries, sir. My wife wants to make a tomato soup and she ran out of bread. She wanted me to get her a loaf. Sourdough, I think, for a toastie-“            “Good to know, sir. And would you mind giving your name?”            “James Watson, sir, and my wife’s is Anna-“            “I don’t actually care about her name right now. I’m here to interview you.”            “You’re from a news station?”            “Yes, hence why I’m standing in front of a camera and am holding a microphone.”            “Oh. I just thought you were one of those hippies.”            “Mr. Watson, sir, hippies went out of style five decades ago.”            “Well I’m sorry. There’s too many of these newfangled trends; I just want my tomato-“            “Anyway, Mr. Watson, sir, if you’re fine with beginning…”            “Yes, we can start.”            Camera ON.            “Hello and welcome to the Herald Town News; my name is Philip Bell, and I am here introducing eyewitness Mr. James Watson. Mr. Watson, sir, why are you here at the QuickShop?”            “To buy a loaf of bread—I thought you didn’t care about my wife-“            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, please just answer the question.”            Camera ON.            “Well, my wife wants to make a pot of soup and toasties but she’s all out of bread, so I came here to get a loaf of sourdough.”            “And tell me, did you notice anything suspicious while you were shopping.”            “Yes, yes, I think I heard a girl screaming.”            “Do you know who this girl is?”            “No, no, I don’t, but I think-”            Camera OFF.            “She’s a toddler. A toddler was screaming.”            “But I’m pretty sure I saw a cashier screaming. It sounded like a cashier.”            “Cashiers don’t have a particular sound, and even if they do, I want you to say it was a toddler.”            Camera ON.            “A toddler was screaming. She’s about two-and-a-half feet tall, I think, so maybe four years old? She could just be small for her age-“            “Thank you, Mr. Watson, sir. And do you happen to know why she was screaming?”            “If you mean the cashier then yes, I think it was something with her boss.”            Camera OFF.            “What is it I told you about the cashier?”            “To not talk about her, I know, but she’s all I remember seeing. There was no toddler.”            “There was, I’m telling you. A toddler was screaming because her mother refused to buy a cookie. Say that, okay?”            Camera ON.            “This little girl wanted a cookie—chocolate-chip, if I recall correctly, or maybe oatmeal—and her mother said no, or else she would spoil her dinner. But the poor girl had her heart set on that cookie and started to cry.”            “Would your children behave this way?”            “I don’t have children.”            “Mr. Watson, sir, do you know any children?”            “Yes, I do. My wife is a teacher-“            “And would these children behave like that young girl?”            “Would they work in a grocery store? No; as my wife says, they’re all brilliant and can aspire to much more-“            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, repeat to me what I told you about the cashier.”            “Ignore her. She doesn’t exist.”            “Precisely. Now, would you mind continuing?”            “Okay.”            Camera ON.            “As I said, Mr. Watson, sir, would your wife’s students behave this way?”            “I do think so. Every now and then, children get cranky: it’s what they do.”            “Would you have behaved this way?”            “I don’t think so, because I know I wouldn’t have gotten any dinner at all.”            “And here enlies the problem, Herald Town. Children these days do not receive the proper punishments, resulting in improper behavior. Mr. James Watson over here did not have a behavioral problem in his youth due to his parents’ firm discipline.”            “It wasn’t my parent’s—it was my aunt.”            Camera OFF.            “Who was it that withheld your dinner, Mr. Watson, sir?”            “My aunt. My parents both got polio, back when it was bad. Before the vaccine.”            “So your aunt raised you, I take it?”            “Yes. My aunt, and sometimes my uncle, but he was at work. Trying to treat polio, actually, so I knew that the more of his time I took, the less help my parents would receive. That was flawed logic, though, because my parents didn’t-“            “Mr. Watson, sir, I’d love to hear your personal history, but not right now. We have a news story to cover. Don’t you think more parents should treat their children like your aunt did to you?”            “No, not really. I was terrified for a few years that we were poor, and when I went to college, I purely stuffed myself, and then I had to go on a weight-loss plan, and now I’m still stressed when my wife runs out of food. That’s why I’m here, buying bread-“            “Wonderful. Well, unfortunately for you, that does not fit with the thread of the story at all, so you’re going to need to say that what your aunt did to you was good after all. Understand?”            “Yes, yes, I think I do.”            Camera ON.            “Mr. Watson, sir, didn’t your aunt’s disciplinary tactics shape you into who you are today?”            “They certainly did. Now I am a completely well-adjusted adult with absolutely no lingering anxiety. In fact, I’d go so far as to call myself exceptionally honest and moral -“            Camera OFF.            “You’re laying it on too thick, Mr. Watson.”            Camera ON.            “Thanks to my aunt, I never threw a tantrum as a child. Not once. Not like that little girl.”            “So I would be correct in my connection that parents these days are too lenient?”            “If you mean the parents of that cashier’s boss, then yes, parents are too lenient. What kind of a boss would make his employee scream?”            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, how well did you do in school?”            “Excuse me?”            “You are obviously lacking in basic comprehension. What part of-“            “I know, I know, don’t talk about the cashier! But I heard her scream and I saw her boss right there with her, and I think it would callous of me to not be suspicious as to why he was making her scream-“            “I literally could not care less.”            Camera ON.            “Well, um…well, I guess parents are a bit too lenient with their kids.”            “ Way too lenient.”            “Yes…way too lenient. They need to be better parents.”            “’Better parents’ is right. How, Mr. Watson, sir, do you think parents can improve?”            “Well…they can improve by disciplining their kids, and to discipline their kids without being lenient…I’d say they out to be stricter. Parents need to be firm, have confidence, and resist being knocked over by anybody else.”