Summer had begun early that year, and in an effort to beat the punctuality of the coming seasons, I was already crafting willow reindeer for Christmas. Wrapped in lights and perfectly complementing any front yard, the reindeer were a sellout every year, and besides needing the extra cash, the willow field, colloquially known as ‘the cut’, was a serene place of peace, and the few combined hours I’d spent cutting that season were enough to ease even the worst nerves. Although my fondest memories of the field will always be with me, the worst always resurfaces. I was lucky enough to escape that day, though my mind never could. Sometimes a faint whistle will echo over the leaves and blend with the neighboring sounds of the cut, almost like she’s trying to draw me back through the stick. I’ve revisited, reviewed and rethought my daydreams in the months since, and this was no dream. The heat taxed my pores as the noon sun beat down on the birds and the brush around me. I had already cut a fairly large pile of willow, which I then trimmed down to easily transport to my car. Then, as every good willower would do, I collected my pile of excess and walked them around to my ‘secret dead stick hiding spot’- a spot that every good willower should have. It should be somewhere around the back of the cut, unnoticed by passersby, and not disrupting the vibes of nature. Luckily for me, the path to my hiding spot was coated in grass and untouched by the plague of stinging nettle. As I approached the high grass, I noticed something I hadn’t before in the ten years I’ve frequented this field: an immensely idyllic passageway leading into what looked to be a very narrow trail. My heart sank into my stomach before my mind could break the fall. I knew what I was seeing was real, but my soul hurt so badly; I had genuinely convinced myself that I had to have been suffering from derealization or some type of hallucinatory disorder. I felt more sad than insane, though. Was this the conclusion of every drug or drink my brain had filtered out just to bring me back to reality? How many times had I carelessly stepped past that entrance? There’s no way I could’ve missed it. Aside from my fear of disgusting spiders, my curiosity overwhelmed me. I stepped through the molded pathway and grasped my loppers tightly. Forget-me-nots and bellflowers and bleeding hearts nourished the dirt path on either side, stretching across to nearly greet their paralleled peers. The path quickly began to narrow and, after trudging through the knotted wood for about ten minutes, I realized that if I wasn’t on the other side of the small field by then, I might as well be in Canada. I stopped to gaze up at the sun when I heard a faint whistle, like wind snaking its way through the leaves. It wasn’t a sound I was unfamiliar with. The wind whistled through the willow almost constantly, but this sounded so… human. The path led into a lifeless latticed dead-end wall of brush. Looking through was a field. I was relieved to have found the other side. I chopped through three or four switches to release me from the thickening forest of tall shrubs and peered through to make out the train tracks that ran alongside. They were gone, replaced by a thick, black dirt clearing that expanded about 50 yards on all sides from a scarlet system of bare stems ripping up from the ground, enshrined in long, white thorns. The wicked tree sat directly in the center of the giant scorched circle. The cramped field wasn’t that big before. The path and entryway hadn’t been there before, and I wasn’t crazy. From the corner of my eye were a pair of pants and a t-shirt, propped up with several bundles of sticks, shoved through the pant legs and poking out the neck like a stick puppet. To the left was a sundress organized in the same manner, and behind that, a number of various clothing items perfectly set upright on their respective branches. I stepped onto the charred sand to get a better glimpse of the phenomenon when I tripped on a small stump and sent myself flying onto the jet-black earth. A strong, almost orchestrated gust of wind immediately ripped through the willow and kicked up the ash around me. I coughed and wiped my eyelids clean of the dust before I came back to my feet. I was growing more eager to leave, but I needed proof that this existence-defying plane did, in fact, exist. I made my way toward the rotted corpse-like tree in the center, loppers in hand. “Please don’t cut her,” the shrill voice of a young girl pierced my ear canal, cutting and slicing its way to the drum. I was completely frozen. My brain refused to tell my hands to move. This wasn’t paralysis. Something had my body in a tight iron grip. I couldn’t see where the voice originated, but I could still open my mouth to form words. “I’m not going to cut it. I’m just lost ma’am,” I muttered with everything left in my chest. “Liar!”, she roared through the leaves, falling to a sobbing stutter. “You always take her from me!” Her voice became weathered and raspy but filled with conviction. The shelled prison restraining my movement was slowly unbinding itself. I was finally able to turn my face to her. She stood on the outside edge of the circle, just within eyesight. She was much older than her voice had led on. Had I not been so alarmed, I would’ve assumed she was some passerby or maybe even a groundskeeper for the area, though I knew that field to be public land. Her hair was thin and gray, and through the shadows on her face I could see her eyes slowly changing from blue to green, then to a dark stone color in swift repetition. I swear at one point her iris had entirely disappeared, leaving her eyes as yellow as her jaundiced skin and crooked teeth. She was clothed in an almost-white, dirt-covered homemade dress, bare feet sunken into the muck. I didn’t give my brain a chance to respond with words. Instead, I dropped my loppers and turned tail toward the wall I entered through. She let off a wail like an injured goat, sending a sharp guttural tremor down my neck. I was able to jump through the wilted willow cage surrounding the clearing, but not without crashing onto the soft unstained dirt that blessed the other side. Her wailing and screaming ceased immediately. I didn’t stop long enough to show gratitude. The light of the sun was beaming through the entryway, presenting the opportunity to finally escape the palpable purgatory. I sprung from the field, overcome with relief but still incredibly uneased. She was still inside there. She easily could have followed me. My eyes widened at the willow, watching for any movement besides the blowing brush or whippoorwill whistles. It took me a second to accept that I was completely alone again. I walked through the grass until I caught sight of my isolated car parked in the remote lot. What a sight for my sore eyes. Like the grown man I am, I wanted to drive straight to my mom and explain to her what I had seen. I wanted to phone all of my friends and try to make sense of it. I’ve only kept it to myself up until writing this. It wasn’t until a few weeks had passed before the daydreams turned to nightmares. I began to see faces I’ve never seen, the same faces that caught my eye on missing posters in the grocery stores and gas stations around town. People long thought to have been kidnapped. I noticed their outfits were similar to the clothes on the branches. I see their open mouths screaming through dead silence, looking into their eyes before she takes them away. Maybe I’m still there with her and I never left at all. Maybe I’m a shell of clothing pinned up in the stick like her game trophy. I can’t defeat her from my memory.


"Fine, but I want real cash. Not hundreds, thousands," Ben had a bad feeling in his gut, one he couldn't seem to shake. "Ben, buddy, you know we don't have that kind of money," Maximus said on behalf of the group. "Listen to me, you idiots. This thing that you want me to do? It's expensive. It's worth a lot. If you think I'm going to do this for five hundred, then you really are that. Idiots, I mean-" "But-" "It's going to take me 24 hours to get the job done. At most. You have until then. Real cash, Max. Real cash." *** The smell of county jail was of sweaty biker guys and rusty metal. Ben was chipping away at the paint on the wall. "What are you in for?" A purple-haired girl asked him. Ben turned toward her and grinned. "Have you heard of the Whitmore Mansion? The one that belongs to that old, racist, homophobic, white guy?" A nod. "My friends dared me to break in and steal the most expensive thing in there. So I told them I'd do it. If they pay me. Now here is where my friends end up looking really bad. They said they'd find a few thousand to pay me, even though I was going to keep what I steal anyway. I'm pretty smart. "Doesn't look that way," the girl said. "What?" "Show me what you stole," the girl brushed off the comment she made before. Ben rolled his eyes and reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bejeweled egg. "It's a miracle they didn't take it when they put me in here," Ben's eyes lit up when he was looking at the egg. It was worth 10K, maybe more. "A mirror to how our world is dead," the girl laughed at her joke and reached for the egg. "What do you think you're doing?" Ben's tone changed drastically from boastful to serious. "I wanna see it," She continued to grasp for the egg while Ben tried to carefully hold it out of her reach. "I don't even know anything about you," Ben grinned. "My name's Mimi, I'm eighteen, and I want to see the bejeweled egg that this weird guy has in his hand!" Ben looked into Mimi's eyes before handing her the egg. "But be careful! If you drop it, you're dead!" "Oh please, you won't kill a girl," Mimi giggled. "a cute girl." "You are not that cute," Ben was trying to stop the urge to take the egg out of Mimi's hands and cradle it in his. "Just for that, I keep the egg for longer. Now tell me the story. How did you get into the Whitmore Mansion?" "I borrowed a lead pipe from my friend, in case someone got in my way-" "What? You'd bludgeon a ninety-year-old man to death?" "I wouldn't bludgeon," Ben explained. "I'd knock him out long enough to steal his belongings." "And how'd that turn out for you?" Mimi placed the egg on the ground and inched closer to Ben. "Just listen, will you?" Another nod. "So I ran to the house, walked through a bush to get into the garden, that's why half my body has scratches and rashes, and then I just pretended to be a gardener until I saw the doors to the house open. I slipped in, like a spy, and grabbed the first thing I saw." "Do you think you'd rob that place again? God forbid, you get out of here?" Mimi smiled. "God forbid? Who's side are you on?" "Mine." "Good. You always have to look out for number one. Okay, lemme answer your question now. In peace ." "Okay." "You can't tell anyone, but I toured the house and found this fake wall in the kitchen. It takes you up some stairs and to the roof. So that's my plan for next time." "How'd you get caught?" Mimi was filled with curiosity. "I was walking down the street in dirty clothes and a bejeweled egg in my hand. It would be amazing if someone didn't think that was suspicious." "But if you had just hidden the egg in a paper bag or something, you wouldn't be here." "I'm kinda glad I am here," Ben winked at Mimi, who only rolled her eyes. "Cute now, am I?" "The cutest," Ben leaned in to kiss her, but Mimi backed away and got up. She took the egg and held it tightly. A figure approached the cell. "Maximus." "Hey what's up buddy?" Maximus yelled happily. "Did you come here to get me out?" Ben asked, hopeful. "Not as much get you out as get my girlfriend out," Maximus kissed Mimi on the cheek. "I don't understand." Mimi spoke up. "It's simple, really. Max dared you to rob the mansion, you did it, and wound up here. I loitered and also wound up here, to jail and a guy spilling his guts on how to break into the house with the most expensive valuables. Now I have a way of entering and exiting." "Sorry dude. I need money to buy this girl an engagement ring. Do what you gotta do, right?" Ben was sitting there, shocked. "What was it you said?" Mimi was laughing along with Maximus. "Oh right. 'You always have to look out for number one.' I gotta hand it to you, Ben. Wise words. Nice last words, you know." "Last words?" "Well remember that thing I said about the world being dead?" Mimi twirled with her hair. "Well, it's way dead-er than we thought. All we have to do to get you executed, even though that ain't a thing no more, is give that guy right there some money. Turns out, he works for the mafia and is working this job as a cover. Delightful!" Mimi sarcastically exclaimed. "He'll just take you behind the building, shoot your stupid brains out, and we ride off into the sunset with... what? A million dollars safely in our Benjamin Delgado fund." "Benjamin Delgado?" "In Memorium, buddy," Maximus slyly said. "Have a nice rest of your life. See you in hell."


Each day became a routine. I would meet Kit in the town, walk with her to the market, and we’d visit a few of the stalls. Then she’d go off to do her own thing, bartering with the various buyers and sellers, before we’d meet up in the evening and walk back. During my alone time, I would walk around the market hoping for some miracle-book to catch my eye, or I would sit down in the nearby fields and keep a journal of my experiences so far. I was walking aimlessly through the market at the end of my seventh day on the island, when I spotted Kit by a small stall, flicking through a pile of disorganized books. “Got anything good?” I asked. Kit glanced up to me. “You got any use for space travel? ‘How humans can colonize other planets, terraforming our solar system’. I mean shit, it takes a week to get between some islands, I think Neptune’s a little out of reach right now.” The market seller let out a grunt of disapproval. “Calm down, Joe. I’ll find someone to buy your crap.” She left the stall and walked over to me. “How are you?” I sighed. “Frustrated.” “Give it time. The books will come.” “Just feel… useless, I guess.” I tried to shrug off the doubt. “Ready for the walk home?” “How about we get a drink here instead?” “You sure?” I asked. “Yeah. Nowhere else to be. A drink with you sounds like a nice evening.” Kit led me to a small cafe perched on the cliffs by the quay. Over the wall to my right, I could see ships resting against the quay; their sails furled and the masts silhouetted in the twilight. I watched the ships sleeping for a few minutes until Kit cleared her throat, turning my attention back to her. “Your books aren’t on those boats you know?” “Sorry.” I turned to face her. “Do you ever feel like the books should be staying here?” “What’ya mean?” “Instead of selling them off. You keep them here. Preserve it.” “Maybe. Sure. But people gotta sell stuff to eat. Besides, you have no idea how big that thing is. They’ll still be bringing stuff out after I’m long gone.” “Just...” I paused trying to extract the nagging feeling at the back of my head. “You have all this knowledge and information, and you’re just breaking it up bit-by-bit. If it stayed, then you know where it is. But, once it’s sold, you can’t replace it.” “You’re just grumpy because we haven’t found *your* books yet.” Kit stuck out her tongue. “That’s probably more true than I like to admit,” I chuckled. A waiter arrived and placed two small glasses. The drink was smaller than I expected, and it looked like it would only take a gulp or two to get rid of it. I picked it up, inspecting the pale liquid. I sniffed it, feeling my nose tingle at the strong alcoholic smell. Kit lifted her glass and smiled. “Have a taste, see what you think.” I complied, letting the drink briefly taste my tongue. I felt my sinuses burn, and my eyes watered. Kit burst out laughing, struggling not to choke on her drink. “They not have alcohol on Kadear?” “We do, but…” I let out a quick cough. “Not as strong as that.” “We’re a tough people on Ringatoy.” “Clearly.” I looked down at the glass, gently swirling the liquid, hoping the aeration might dilute it. “I have a question. Why have you been so helpful to me?” “I don’t know. You see a tall handsome guy spinning in a circle looking lost, what else would you do? Maybe I’m just a sucker for a helpless man in need.” She took another sip, sitting back in her chair. “Helpless? Is that what you think of me?” I said with raised eyebrows. “Maybe. At first I just thought I’d try and help you out and earn a bit of money. But I guess I realized you aren’t like most people here. I know pretty much everyone on Ringatoy; the visitors I usually only know for a day or two. You’re different. And I like that.” I smiled. Kit continued. “Plus, I get to toy with you, and watch you get drunk off alcohol that’s too strong for your delicate Kadear body.” She leant forward, propping her elbows on the table between us. “So why do you trust me?” “Can’t say I know. But you’ve been good to me so far.” “Well dang. I was hoping you were gonna say feminine charm,” she said. She let out a brief twitch as she did before she returned reclining in her chair. “Why d’ya wanna know what happened anyway?” I looked at her in confusion. “Like, why d’ya care about how The Archipelago formed? Ain’t gonna make any difference to our lives now.” I felt a brief shiver as the nighttime air wrapped around me. “Because it wasn’t always like this. A few hundred years ago, something happened, and the whole planet got flipped on its head, and now we’re all living on these tiny little islands. And I want to know how we got here. Don’t you want to know?” “I do,” she said, nodding in thought. “But I also want to be happy, you know. Live a life. Get a home, a job, a family. Don’t you want that?” I winced down another sip of my drink. “I had that, back on Kadear. I had a great job and had this whole life plan ahead of me. However, truth be told - though I’m tired, frightened, frustrated - I’m happier now than I was.” “And that’s it. You just keep searching for your answer?” “Until I find something else that makes me happy.” I smiled. We continued drinking until the cold made the tips of our fingers numb, and the walk back to the town was a jagged stumble through the fields. The strong liquor had no doubt impacted my coordination, and a few times either Kit or I found ourselves leaning onto the other for support. The next morning, I woke with a dry mouth and a small rolling sensation in my stomach. I stumbled out of bed, got dressed, and stepped outside prepared for a slow, studdery walk to the market. The morning sun stung my tired eyes, but as the brightness cleared, I could see Kit walking towards me, as lively as ever. “How are you this morning?” she said. “Slight headache. Been better, been worse.” I slowly began walking alongside her towards the market. “You know what I was thinking would help with that?” “What’s that?” “I was thinking you could buy my breakfast.” Kit grabbed my arm and leaned into me. “Could I indeed?” I chortled. “There’s an excellent pastry place at the north end of the market. I think you’ll like it.” “I assume you will too?” I tilted my head to her. She looked at me with a smirk. “Oh definitely.” “I see you’ve still got your guest,” came a loud call from behind us. I turned, to see a tall muscular man, with thick bulging arms; his height enough to cast a shadow over me. “Haddee.” Kit gave a wide smile before walking up to the man and hugging him. “How are things going?” “So so.” He rocked his head from side to side. “Ferdinand. This is Haddee, he runs one of the crews going to the library.” “Good to meet you,” I said. “You too. I’ve heard a lot about you, especially with Kit going lunar since you got here.” “Lunar?” I replied. “Shut it Haddee,” Kit interrupted, sending a mock fist his way. Haddee reciprocated with his own dramatized flinch in fright. “Just got back?” Haddee nodded. “You just got back from the library?” I asked, my aching mind suddenly waking up to the conversation. “Well, those two did,” Haddee pointed a thumb to two other crew members behind him, their long hair dripping wet, forming a small trail of water where they walked. I looked at the plastic tubs behind them. A foolish glint of hope crossed my mind, as I imagined some of the answers I sort in the boxes. “Did you find anything useful?” Haddee shrugged. “We’ve got a way in, but we’re mostly getting fiction. The stuff that really sells is way deeper in.” “Unreachable?” “There’s probably a way through all the rubble and things. But - too risky.” He shook his head. It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up. The slow droning ache in my head, replaced with new thoughts and ideas. “Haddee, you know a way into the library, right?” He looked at me condescendingly, and let out a long slow nod. “Take me down there,” I said. Haddee burst out laughing. “No way. Not a chance.” “Why not?” “That entrance is what keeps me and those two guys employed. It keeps us alive. If I let you sell off that secret to someone then I gotta go back to hauling books at the docks hoping for tips.” “I’m not going to sell it...” “Too risky. The three of us know and no one else. Not my mum, my girlfriend, no one.” “You can trust me…” “With all due respect, I don’t know you from shit.” I paused for a moment, rethinking my approach. “Okay. You reckon there’s probably a path through to more valuable books, right?” Haddee furrowed his brow. There was a growing frustration in his voice. “Yeah, but as I said - too dangerous to go fishing through that rubble.” “I’ll go.” I responded. For the first time Haddee didn’t respond immediately, his face frozen while he processed my response. “I’m going to have to go dig deeper to find what I’m after. So I take a crate with me and I grab anything of value, and I record how I got there. When I come back, I’ll tell you how to get to the better stuff, and you can keep everything I find.” Haddee paused, scratching his chin. “You know how dangerous it is down there right?” “Kit reminds me daily,” I replied, trying to force humour into the moment. “Can you swim?” “Yes.” “Like properly. You’ll need to hold your breath for over a minute.” “Fine.” “Wait? You’re not actually considering this are you?” Kit walked between Haddee and I, turning to face him. Haddee ignored her. “You have to return with something I can sell and use. You come back with nothing and I’ll bury you down there.” “Understood,” I nodded. “Haddee, listen. You can’t do this. You can’t let him go down there.” Kit walked up to Haddee, standing at his feet. “He’s offering to go do it,” Haddee retorted. “And you have the sense to stop him.” “We need the money Kit. We need to get something we can sell that will buy us more than scraps.” Haddee looked over Kit’s shoulder towards me. “You’ll have to provide your own supplies. I’ll tell you what you need, but you gotta get it.” “Agreed,” I nodded. Kit turned to face me. “Please, listen. The books will come to the market. You gotta give it time.” “And what? Wait a year? Two years? For books that may have already been sold or may never come? I’ve got to try something.” “You have no idea how stupid an idea this is,” she pleaded, the whites of her eyes glassy. “I’ve done plenty of dangerous things.” I looked back over Kit’s shoulder. “Haddee, when can you take me down?” Haddee rocked his head back and forth for a second. “Three days’ time? At dawn?” “Fine. Just tell me what to get.” Kit walked away from us both shaking her head. I could hear her short, sharp breaths, as her body tensed. Then, with a sudden flinch, she turned to face us. “Fine. You take him, you take me too.” “What?” I replied. “You know nothing about the library. I do. I know what it takes to survive down there. You go without me, you die. I go too, then maybe you live.” Her eyes quivered in fright, while her chin clenched in rage. “Kit. You don’t have to do this...” “I know. I choose to,” she interrupted; her stance firmly planted against the ground. I turned to Haddee. “This okay with you?” He shrugged. “Heck. I trust Kit more than you. You get those books and a route to more…” I looked to Kit. I took a deep breath, trying to slow down the pace of conversation. “You sure about this?” “You go. I go.” “Okay,” I gave a slow, reluctant nod. I walked up to Haddee and offered out a hand. “Three days, at sunrise?” “Done.” He shook my hand. \ Next chapter released 17th May.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I threw up again twice that night. By the third time, I was dry heaving, my body trying to squeeze every last piece of food out of my system, wrapping my guts up in knots like a wrung cloth. Nothing would be left. My throat burned, my mouth tasted of bile and with every inhale, my sinuses filled with the stench of my own insides. The dropped carcass and the spew were only a metre from me, but I couldn’t move. Moving hurt. I just closed my eyes, faced away from it, and tried to ignore the revulsion. Flies landed on me, sucking on my sweat for a light snack as they looked down at the offering like kings from a cliff. What a waste that kill was. I had murdered a gull only for it to end up as hurled-up chunks and discarded sinew on the stones. The next day, as the knives in my stomach began to dissolve, I found the energy to move, albeit slow and ragged. The gagging had cleared me of fluids and I was aware of the risk of dehydration. With the waters from the last storm dried up, I’d have to resort to blood for my liquid. I looked down at the flies swarming around yesterday’s meal. I couldn’t eat that. One hand clutching to my stomach, the other dragging the bird along the floor, I walked over to my usual spot. I tried to think of some other choice than to try this madness again, to keep eating raw, gamey gull - hoping I held it down - until by some miracle someone arrived to rescue me. But I was out of options. This was it. This was my last hope, my last stand. I placed the bird down and hobbled back to my spot, nestling down into my position one knee at a time. Lying down again, it was difficult to stay conscious. I could feel the blood pool in the bottom of my body, weighing me down, my back feeling cold and numb. My breath still tasted of the retching from last night, and each inhalation made me dizzy. Luckily the gulls seemed more attracted by day-old raw meat than any other bait, and soon the first one descended to the ground, and inched closer to the enticing meal. I waited, going through the motions, letting them pick once or twice at the meat before swinging the club as hard as I could. But my arms were tired, my timing off. The great lever merely prodded the bird. It was enough to push it over, but not stun it. I rose to my feet, seething as my stomach found a stray knife still remaining, and limped forward. The gull looked at me confused, then turned, and flew away. It wasn’t even close. It wasn’t till the fourth attempt that I even got a good hit. I pushed myself up to my feet, but the lethargy in my legs remained, the muscles were empty, and I languidly faltered to the bird as it flew away, barely sensing the danger. Again, and again, and again I tried. But with each attempt, as each bird stretched its wings and took flight, I could feel my body growing wearier. It was futile. And by the end of the day, I began to wonder if the birds even saw me as a threat. They would look at me, seemingly weighing up which of us was the predator and which of us was the prey. Maybe it wasn’t just the bait that drew them down, but my own decay. They were waiting. The next day I was too weak to even try and hunt. I shuffled through the forest, my spine hunched, lacking the strength to overcome gravity. I picked what berries I could find, before eating them with more fury, gulping the insipid beads down in handfuls. Who even knew if they were toxic? It didn’t matter. The island was tiny, I had to squeeze every gram of life out of it that I could. And I was running out. ——————————————————— I had lost track of how long I had been stranded. About four weeks was my estimate. Slowly, I could feel the malnutrition and the dehydration taking effect. My skin felt dry, and dead, like it was no longer a part of me, as though I was a skeleton wrapped in cloth for dignity. Even at the height of the afternoon, when the bright sun could bring warmth to the stones beneath me, I shivered. My heart beat slowed, awaiting a hibernation it would never wake from. When I walked, the world spun, and I struggled to decipher between the trees and the sky and the land and the sea. Everything was a blur, indistinct shapes that took time to settle in categorization. My stomach didn’t ache anymore. Aching cost energy. I just felt dry. My mouth empty of saliva, my eyes crusted with dirt, and the inside of my nose scratched with every breath. As I stumbled along the coastline, hoping desperately for food or water, I found myself looking at the sea. I knew I couldn’t drink. It was the kind of fact drilled into you as a kid, and never forgotten. Yet the lapping waters, the small flickers of droplets teased me like a siren. My mind was slowly slipping. I was on the beach, thinking of the water, imagining its taste on my lips, and before I even realised, I was stepping into the ocean. The water washed around my ankles. It was cold. Icy cold. Yet it felt wet. Gloriously wet. I sucked, guzzling air. No. That didn’t work. There was no hydration there. But my shins. They felt the relief. Maybe I didn’t need to drink, I could simply hydrate through the skin. I sat down, the ocean pooling over my thighs and hips, as I began shovelling handfuls of water over my arms and my face. I could feel the liquid soak into me. The hairs on my arms prickled with life like a germinating plant. A desert fresh with life again. It took a few minutes for the reality, the stupidity, the suicide to catch up to me. I stumbled back to the shore, already knowing it was too late. Soon the sun set, and a frosty autumn breeze blew up cold sea air onto the beach, turning the salt water in my pores to frost. My shivers were more like convulsions. My jaw spasmed rather than my teeth chattered. I wanted to sleep, but maybe the urge to close my eyes was more than tiredness. Maybe this was something else. Now, I battled against the instinct I had spent most nights on this island craving. I had to stay awake. Or else I may not get another chance. I began reciting stories from my past, talking myself through good times. I told old jokes, and forced myself to laugh, hoping the grinning muscles and chuckling would force vitality. My mind rolled through happy memories. The song of Deer Drum. Lachlann and his guitar as the whole ship sang with him; sometimes out of tune, often out of time, always full of spirit. My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song? The sweet notes where the nightingale flows? For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale, I sang the words to myself until I could see myself back on that boat. I floated over the seas, over time, and sat with my friends singing the refrain. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. I continued to float as the music continued. I was still singing, but the voice was outside of myself. As though I was singing to me, rather than from me. A disembodied vocalist serenading my body through the skies. My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail, Safe home to a harbour we’ll go. You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale I find myself looking at Kadear. Back before it became Pomafauc, before I left. The Citadel was fully pristine again, how I had known it growing up, before the truth had collapsed it as fraud. I saw the residents, those who had worked hardest, enjoying the fruits of their labours. Two children in white shirts chased each other on clipped grass, as parents watched on, her arm wrapped around his. Elsewhere, a man painted. A swirl of greens and browns representative of a nearby tree slowly filled the blank white canvas. He looked free. There was no pressure to each dab of the brush, just expression. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. Then, among them, I saw Thomas. I was on the ground now. He saw me and walked towards me. “How’s the Archipelago?” He asked. “Found out what caused it yet?” I ignored the question. It didn’t matter. “I’m sorry.” “What for?” he asked. As his brow narrowed in confusion, there was the flash of red lines across his neck, deep purple bruises from the rope. They disappeared as he smiled again. “So tell me, what’s the best thing you’ve seen?” “I wish… I wish I could’ve saved you. I’m so sorry.” Those purple bruises returned again. “Don’t be. I made the decisions I made. I could’ve apologised and recanted and survived.” “Yet you didn’t.” “Like I said. Faint faith is better than a strong heresy. Better to win with your heart, than survive but lose in here.” He pointed to his chest. “You never knew you were right.” The words were hard to say, and they choked at the back of my throat. “We all end in ignorance. All of us. We will all never know what comes after we’re gone. We can only try to give those left behind the best chance.” “You did that,” I smiled. The bruises faded again. “So tell me, what was the best thing in the Archipelago?” “You want to tell him?” I heard the voice behind me. Soft, gentle and feminine. I could sense the wet dripping of her hair. But I didn’t turn around. Instead I thought back to Deer Drum. Alessia insisted we save the islanders. So we bought them a boat, and taught them to sail. I remembered when we first left. My feet were planted on the deck. It was a calm day, and I could feel a light breeze from the west push my hair forwards. Eir was there, steering the ship. Alessia stood calmly beside her, teaching her how to get a feel for the wheel in her hands, how to sense what the wind and the tides were saying. Ahead, I could see Xander playing with Novak and Mirai. Kurbani stood to the, her arms resting on her thighs, bent over in laughter.. “This is how I remember them all too.” Lachlann appeared next to me. “My friends, happy with an ocean breeze.” He held the guitar in his arms. They didn’t move, but the melody played anyway. \*That\* melody. I, that other me, that disembodied me, sang along. The present me spoke. “We never heard your last verse.” “Some things don’t get resolved.” He replied. “Sometimes, things end prematurely.” I still think of my home, where I’d lands of my own. The spirit of Deer Drum’s hard as stone, We will hear the fond tale, of the sweet nightingale “It deserved a better end… a longer end. It never should have finished when it did.” He chuckled. “It’s almost like you’re not talking about the song.” In a moment the sky turned black, and the seas swelled as the left side of his face became a gaping wound. His skull was crushed in, and his eye hung loose from his socket. My throat tightened, and my stomach sank. “Too many stories ended too soon.” On the ship behind Lachlann I could see the boy from Outer Fastanet, the pirates from the beach, Marshall on Aila Flagstones, Rory on Granite Vorhorn. “If they were too soon, when were they meant to end?” Lachlann asked, the broken face contorting as he spoke. “Longer. Just longer. Can’t I keep yours going?” “Only in your mind.” He smiled, loose tendons hanging from the jawbone “I’m not there for it.” My eyes looked down, avoiding the sight. “What point does that serve?” “Because if you keep that love alive, then maybe you can pass it onto the next person. If we take our love for the dead, and pass it onto the living, maybe we can build a better Archipelago.” I looked back up. A blue sky was restored along with his face. The old ghosts, too, had gone with the storm. “Why am I here? What do you need?” “Oh, I don’t need anything. I can’t. I’m not around to need.” As he spoke, his face briefly transformed to a concave bloody mess, before it flashed to skin again. “This is for you, not for me. You are. I am not.” “Then what do I need?” It was Thomas, in Lachlann’s place, that replied. “To know that even if the final thoughts were horror, my mind held more good memories than bad. Good memories given by you.” I blinked. Lachlann returned. “To know that life is for the living. That there is nothing you can do for me now. You have to do what is best for you and those still around to experience what you have to give.” As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. “Goodbye then.” I said, a bittersweet smile crossing my lips. His face turned sour. “Just be sure to say goodbye to everyone.” I could feel a sensation behind me. Cold, cold water. I could hear the sea trickle off long damp hair. “I’m not saying goodbye to her.” I planted my feet and tensed my shoulders. The guitar vanished as Lachlann began marching towards me. “You have to.” “No I don’t. Because that hasn’t happened.” “You saw it, Ferdinand.” He placed his arms on my shoulder and began trying to usher me round. Wet footprints slapped against the deck. The wind grew to a gale, and the sky blackened again. “I’m not turning.” “You have to face things, Ferdinand. Your own fears. Your own loss.” Lachlann bared his teeth as he tightened his grip. “Turn to face it. Face your own thoughts.” He wrestled me as my arms flinched to keep him off. “These are your conclusions, Ferdinand. You came to this thought. I’m not here to turn you. You are. Face your failure.” He jolted me hard, and my feet gave way. I wheeled around, falling, and screamed. “NO!” I was on the beach again. Lying down. The sea was slowly cascading onto the shore in dull, delayed tones. The splash of the waves morphed with the drag of the sand back out to sea. My breathing was slow. Too slow. My eyes were struggling to focus, and as the evening light glanced off the sea, it became a white slate, stretching off to the horizon. “I’m dying. I’m dying, and I don’t want to.” “It’s okay,” came the voice. The stones beneath my head became a lap. Black denim jeans, clogged with water. Soft and cool. “I’m here.” “You’re not here. You can’t be here.” I shook my head. “Why not?” I looked up at Alessia’s face above me. Droplets from her hair fell down and landed on my skin. “Because you’re alive.” “The living don’t tend to have ghosts.” I felt like a dagger had been driven through my chest. Alessia saw my face squirm, and placed a hand on my head, running her fingers through my hair. “Are you…” I stopped. I didn’t want to finish the sentence. “Are you dead? Did you die?” “What do you want to believe?” “That you’re okay. That even as I die here, you’re out there, sailing.” A breeze blew her hair back, revealing the same calm face she had when she was at the helm of her ship. “Then let’s choose to believe that.” “But what’s the truth?” My voice was thin and raspy, struggling to contain the bitter confusion it held. “You know neither of us know that. Let’s focus on you for now.” I could feel my heart rate slow a little more. “I don’t want to be alone. Not now.” “You’re not. I’m here.” “I tried. I tried to survive here. I wasn’t strong enough.” My limbs felt numb with the cold. Her fingers played with tussle of my hair. “We’re all only as strong as those around us.” “I needed you.” My tear ducts squeezed a tear from the corner of my eye, and it tracked down my cheek. “I know.” I turned to face the ocean again. “I love you.” “Its okay. Close your eyes.” I blinked, the eyelids staying shut for a couple of seconds before I found the strength to open them. “I wish I could’ve told you. I wish I could tell you I loved you. How you made me feel.” “I’m sorry you can’t.” I felt her hand running across my head in soft pets until I no longer felt those either. “I don’t want to die not telling you.” My eyes blinked again, more time passed before they opened. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” My eyes closed. In the darkness, the music began again. At first it was my own voice, accompanying Lachlann’s guitar. But as the verses transitioned the guitar stopped, and my own voice faded to silence. Then, in the emptiness, I could hear other voices. Ones I recognized, but couldn’t place. \*Pray sit yourself down, with me on the ground,\* \*On this bank where sweet primroses grow,\* \*You shall hear the fond tale,of the sweet nightingale.\* I felt myself being lifted up from the ground, carried into the sky. \*As she sings in the valley below,\* \*As she sings in the valley below.\* Then everything faded. For time, there was nothing. Then my eyes flicked open. I blinked, the pupils shocked by light. I cracked them open again. I fluttered. Between each flick of my eyelids, I could see a bit more detail of my hazy surroundings. Old nerve endings returned to life. There was something beneath me. Not stone. But fabric. A bed. Slowly, focus came. There were walls, wooden panelling on all four sides. Footsteps scurried away followed by a young woman’s voice. One I recognized. “Mum! Dad! He’s awake!” I closed my eyes and squinted hard, clearing the mist from my vision. When I opened them, I saw three faces at the foot of my bed. Mirai to my right. And to the left, Xander and Kurbani, smiling down at me. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


“Three, two, one.” The sound of thrusters taking on heat beyond measure. “Three, two one,” the sound of spot checks, buttons flicking with green, yellow and red lights sparking on. “Three, two, one,” the feeling of force of an unmeasurable nature pushing you back in a seat you have been strapped on, a position you have trained rigorously for months and years on end only to not believe it when you come into full throttle into the very limits of your own atmosphere, brought by minds of a higher understanding that I couldn’t hope to scratch the surface of their thoughts, yet marvel inside the metal confines of their great creation. Your life flashes before your eyes when you die, or so they say. The same is said when you first hear that count and take off out of your own atmosphere. They never train you for that, it’s almost a dead silent pact you make, an unspoken understanding of what is to come. How should I put it into words? Your own unique experience of your own life narrated through your mind in an epiphany moment in mid flight. Flying through the skies, now breaking through the cusp of the earths’ atmosphere, that’s when I Watched myself go to one of the finest tech universities because my father sold off his farm and took a life in the city because of a belief and a hope in his only son after losing his wife to cancer. That’s when I relived marrying Amber May under an old oak tree in the backyard of her daddy’s home. Or when my own daughter cried for the first time, her brown eyes gazing upon me with a life I helped create through a love built on time and trust. That’s what I saw, and when I finally had my own eyes back, peeled forward now to where we were headed, not reflecting on where I had been, that’s when I saw it. A vast beauty of colour, with a background of mystery layered in an endless black. An ocean of stars, those that had already died, and some yet unborn in this constant galaxy that we marvel at. When we touched into space, my body lifted, gravity had disappeared from underneath me like water through your fingertips. Even now my fellow astronauts spoke back with base command, telling them of status updates, of arrival times and oxygen levels, I simply floated and admired the unfamiliar territory of the cosmos. I wish I could say it was one of the most invigorating sites my green eyes had ever glanced upon, but when we touched down on Mars and I looked back, I saw home in its most honest form. Blue oceans that curved around the worlds surface with patches of green and brown that looked so small and almost insignificant, as if I had only been looking at a plastic miniature globe through a scope ten hundred thousand miles away. When you look at the Earth from another planet, to call it mesmerizing is an insult because it’s not true. What you ask is how? How are you standing here, in a place where there is no gravity or oxygen in a perpetual dark cold as cruel to life as it was beautiful in living. How are you of all the billions of inhabitants of the small circular blue and green and brown planet standing amongst gods finest tapestry? It was hard being called back into the Endeavour, but my mission wasn’t to be trapped in thought. We had received an unknown signal from this planet a year ago. The best I could describe it was a high pitch cry, like the call of an orca but stretched out for so long. We had never received a call like this. “Houston this is the Endeavour, do you read me?” Commander Halloway asked, the radio crackling loud. “This is Mission Control, how are the three of you doing up there?” the voice hissing through. “We have made touchdown on Red. I repeat we have made touchdown on red.” said Commander Halloway. “According to our information, you should have made touchdown half an hour ago, Commander. Should we be concerned with the delays. That’s when the Commander looked back at me and winked, “Sorry Houston, Command Pilot Dalton just lost his space cherry.” “Thank you, Commander. Welcome to Red, Dalton. We hope you enjoy your stay, sir.” I pretended to salute, “Thank you Houston. I certainly am. Command Pilot Dalton signing off.” Backup Command Pilot Buddy Durston had been enjoying his third ramen package he had snuck on board. When I managed my way into the middeck, he laughed at my ‘floating technique’ as he called it when we were in midflight. “Dalton, you still getting used to such little gravity here on the big red rock, huh?” laughed Buddy, handing me a package of his prized noodles. “I jumped out there, got over three feet, thought I would float right off the plant.” I said with excitement. He could tell how badly I wanted to gear back up and head out into the red sands of Mars. “Funny story, kid. When I was your age, I was so excited for space. I volunteered first for the zero-gravity training.” “How did it go?” I asked. “Terrible, I panicked like my first time out in the water and started doggy paddling. They called me ‘Air Bud’ for months.” I listened with such excitement, Buddy Durston and Commander Halloway were legends in space travel. To be on this planet, ‘Red’, ‘Mars’, the planet named after the god of war, yet I felt an ironic tingling of peace when I looked out and watched the red sands swirl about, dancing in a primitive state, a dance that had been happening for a time before ones imagination, before time itself was even the twinkling concept behind the eyes of a man with an excellent mind long before his time. We had slept for a few hours before Buddy and Commander Halloway had told me to take one final walk out in the great beyond before we packed up and took off. I took my steps out, jumping as high as I could with every step. I looked back and could see the boys smiling back at me from the window of the Endeavour. They waved until an orange, blue and red flame crackled from within as they had warmed up the thrusters. A deaf burst came from within, the calls from Houston asking for a status report. Then the Endeavour exploded. Not like back home on earth. The sound would be deafening, I’d be projected backwards and onto the ground in pain. This was not the case. The explosion was near soundless. The waves of destruction floated away lifelessly along with my comrades. Only the satellite and damaged communications remained amongst the hunk of ruin that was once the Endeavour. In an instant this had gone from a glimmering moment in a long stretch of moments in my life to my last. The explosion had caused my helmet to crack and air was fast escaping. “Houston this is C.P Dalton. The Endeavour is gone. I repeat the Endeavour is gone. A malfunction has caused the Endeavour to explode and there is a leak in my mask. I am afraid I have little time.” From back in the command center in Houston Texas, Control command Dean Sanders took my call. He was sweating, the malfunction report was directly in front of him on a blue screen in front of hundreds of employees. Everyone was speechless. “This is Houston. What remains of the Endeavour?” B.C Dalton replied grimly. “The Endeavour is in ruin. Half the vessel remains, communications…ruin…severely damaged. Backup?” he asked with broken words that barely scratched out from behind heavy static. “Dalton this is… Dean Sanders. We will not be able to retrieve you in time if there is damage to your mask. I’m so sorry Dalton. I am so sorry.” Dalton could hear the agony in Dean’s voice. “I wiggled the satellite a little, am I coming in clear?” Dalton asked, only some static remained. “Loud and clear, Dalton.” Dean replied, his head staring down at the microphone, knowing it was only time before the inevitable. “It’s crazy isn’t it, Dean?” he asked, static picking up again. “What’s that?” Dean asked. “It was three days ago I was terrified with excitement about this trip to Red. It was yesterday I finally broke through our atmosphere and touched a planet few have stepped foot on. I can see everyone right now. Everyone, everything. Somewhere amongst all this blue and green is my family at home, waiting for me. I wish I could just float home, you know?” His words had Dean choke up, fighting back tears. “You should be proud of yourself. We will take care of your family, we promise.” He said, trying to re-assure the abandoned space pilot. The entire room nodded with agreement. “You took care of my family when you picked me out of thousands of recruits, sir. Now my time has come. I will die here. I will die on the planet I have dreamed to travel to, I will be buried in the red sands of a planet not ours, far from the Hospital I made my first cry in, the same hospital that my baby girl had cried for the first time. I will die here, at my goal, but you know what Dean?” Dean took a moment, everyone was breathless. People crying from the last man of the Endeavours words. We were all silent. “What is it, Dalton?” Dean asked. The tears finally rolled down stubborn eyelids and against red cheeks. “You tell my wife a message for me?” he asked, a final request. “Anything, sir. Simply say the words.” Dean requested, pen and paper in hand. The room could hear Dalton laughing, the sound of his mask loosening. The loud static was coming back. “Amber May, baby, I made it. You let my little girl know Daddy wasn’t scared. That he can’t come home but my god will I always be there. You tell my angel I’ll be watching down on her like I am right now when she dances her first time at prom. You tell her that Daddy will be listening when she has her heart broken for the first time, and that I will be smiling when she dances at her wedding. You tell Amber May I love her, and it literally goes beyond the moon and back.” “This is Command Pilot Dalton Andrew Jamison signing off one last time, thank you Dean Sanders.” For one last time Dalton looked at the earth, watching it with a smile, knowing somewhere on that vast planet his girl and wife were at home. He slowly took off his helmet, he could feel the red sand push against his face before the galaxy claimed him.


You know, this whole thing is really crazy. At the moment, I'm on a small yacht. In the middle of the ocean. I haven't seen land in weeks, maybe even months. It's been so long since I've seen a calendar. Oh yeah, I bet you wonder what happened to get me here. It's actually impossibly crazy. So, let me tell you what happened. It was a few years ago when I first realized that the world was going to a dark place. It was obvious that something was going on that would change the planet forever. The summer was getting hotter, the winter was getting less snowy. And, I know most people would say how this was global warming, but it was happening so much faster than ever before. Also, not too far off base, California had another wildfire. Which didn't help the environment in any way, obviously. And this one was the worst one yet, it spread out to all of the coast, and even all the way to Texas in some places. It was not good, to be short about it. That was disturbing. Although, in the end, it did get put out. Although, not before the next disaster started. It wasn't really a disaster, other than the fact that it really messed the world up. The poles were moving, rapidly. Which, with it, came the change in the weather. It started off with something small. I lived in Ohio at the time. Which, if you don't know, is pretty much ignored by any costal storms (Hurricanes, tropical storms, etc…) And then Ohio got hit with a hurricane. We usually get hit with the backlash of it, but this time it was still a level 3 when it got to us. And the coast got hit by tornadoes. That was even crazier. It was really horrible. They had no preparations made. And not a lot of people there have a use for basements, so they don't have them. At least Ohio was ready for storms. Heavy storms at that. At this moment I was on the road to the one place nearby that hasn't been affected by anything abnormal yet. Canada. But as soon as I settled in stuff got bad. Have you watched the movie 'the day after tomorrow'? If so, it was like that scene where everything is freezing crazily fast. It started in the upper part and slowly came down. It happened slowly. 5 degrees lower in one day. Then it happened the next few days. That was when I decided to leave. I was driving back to the U.S. When I got a call from someone I hadn't talked to in months. My brother. He told me about everything that happened. Oh yeah, he was a meteorologist. He said that the deep ocean, about the mid-pacific hadn't been affected by anything yet. I kept him on the phone for hours. He said the reason this was happening was because the poles were moving rapidly. Miles in days. I came to his house in California and we caught up. He told me it was time to go. I went out and bought a ton of water. He had an oven on the boat so we could boil water from salt to drink. I also grabbed about 100 boxes of those nature valley crunch™ bars. Also a few fishing rods. When I came back I saw a storm coming from the mainland. I saw so much rain pouring out of it. When I got back I ran to the boat with my bags of food and water and got on. He was already there. He said he had hundreds of gallons of gas in the floor. We wouldn't need to go back on land for months, maybe years. And, obviously, I've survived till now. No problems yet. I hope this somehow ends soon. Although I hope I find more people. I'm starting to go crazy here. I love my brother, but, after a year of only talking to one person. It gets boring. But, I gotta go help stable the boat. The waves are starting to pick up. I'll keep you updated.


The Last Light The last of the world’s artificial night light just went out. Crusted with rust, the flashlight has served its function, and now the last bit of power from its batteries has come to its end. People huddled as they watched the flashlight flickered, and then darkness. Pitch black surrounding enveloped them. They will never know that it is the last artificial night light in the world, as different cities in the world are no longer able to communicate with one another. Before, the world was brimming with light. Fossil fuels and nuclear power plants powered homes and different industries. Bitcoin consumed a lot of energy and produced a lot of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere. Industrialization, despite the progress it offered, led to the depletion of natural resources. Oil wells are now depleted, and explorations for new oil reserves are suspended as the oceans are now filled with trash. As our Mother Earth suffered and cried for the destructive acts of humanity, innovators sought after “green solutions” as the world was warming up. People turned to wind energy, biomass, solar energy and hydroelectric energy. These solutions were too late. Acid rains damaged infrastructures, killed trees and damaged innovative solutions for clean energy. Glaciers melted, submerging one-fourths of the cities of the world.  Scientists left Earth in search of a new planet, a new home for everyone but they haven’t returned to Earth for 13 years. The last lamp just went out. People cannot use open fires as the air is now highly combustible. A single match lit on the first day of the worldwide blackout caused an explosion that killed residents in a city in China. Similar incidents happened to wherever fire is generated. Since then people are afraid to make a fire lest they suffer the same fate as those who perished. As dawn broke on that same day, they all rejoiced for a moment. The pitch black night is consumed by gray light from the sun. People came out of their shelters to forage and scavenge for anything to put in their empty bellies. They collected grass (those unaffected by acid rains) and boiled them in water, to provide sustenance they need for the day. A starving boy sat on a window sill of their shelter, wondering why people are still fighting to survive even if Earth is dying. He just sat there, looking out in the horizon, an endless sea of trash. He thought he saw a cockroach scampering around the trash and he went after it. “Food”, he thought. Unfortunately, he have said his thought aloud and now a dozen more people are going after the prized cockroach. A woman caught it and gave it to her little girl who was watching the spectacle from their shelter. The girl bit the cockroach hungrily and with a second thought, offered half of it to her mother but her mother just waved her off. The starving boy, at the present, is cursing himself for being so careless. If it had not been for his fat mouth, he could have secured the cockroach. Unknowingly, he had trodden on a path towards the city circle. He heard a baby cry in a distance. He suddenly remembered his little brother, who died in his sleep because of hunger. He had to bury him the next day, and he had felt so alone. A crashing bottle brought him back to the present. A group of teenagers are throwing bottles on a nearby building, and laughing hysterically while they are at it. A shard of glass pierced through the sole of his foot, and he immediately removed it as blood gushed out in a steady stream. He ripped his worn shirt and wrapped it around his foot to stop the bleeding and he made a mental note not to cross that part of the city again. His quest for food resumed. He saw a group of old women coming from the west with bundles of weed, laughing heartily for their day’s forage. He knew better than ask them for some for when his brother was still alive and tried to beg for some food from an elderly man, he was just met with a heavy hand. Now, he ran towards the direction the group came from and he slumped at the sight. A patch of newly dug soil. The old women had greedily took all the weeds, including the roots. His stomach growled. He instantly went to his knees and search the patch of land for any root or seed that was left behind. He has collected three seeds and is now feasting on them, savoring each one with a miserable longing for food. He went back to his shelter with a trail of blood. He removed his makeshift bandage and examined the cut. It was deep and the blood is still gushing out. As the last of the daylight faded, his strength also decline. His temperature rose, and he started shivering. He started remembering his better days. When his father, mother and little brother were still alive. When his father brought them a rat the size of a chicken, they had a feast and he reminisced his little brother dancing to his mother’s upbeat songs. He reminisced when his mother fought with other women catching a cockroach. It was such a spectacle. Claws and hairs were everywhere. A low chuckle slipped his dry lips. He dragged himself to where he was keeping his rusty tumbler. The water was slightly acidic and his stomach complained as he gargled half of the contents of the tumbler but he couldn’t stop. Afterwards, he clutched his rusty tumbler to a peaceful sleep. A new day has come. He took his last breath. As his vision shifted from the gray color of sunlight to a blinding white, residents of the city are awakened by a loud crash. From a distance, the people saw a lifepod and a white clad man. The white clad man climbed out of his pod and shouted jubilantly to the spectators, “We finally found a new home”.


Tara Tarot On a dismal day such as one might expect on a day that one loses their job, Tara walks with her sister, Scarlett, and Scarlett’s scruffy little mutt, Bozo.

“What I need is a need a new job altogether,” Tara says. “Like what?” Scarlett moves behind Tara as a teenaged boy with a tall barking dog passes. He’s got a loose hold on the leash. Bozo growls.

“Like something where my talents are appreciated.”

“How about this? Scarlett pulls a poster from a lamp post.

Tara grabs it and reads aloud: “ Psychic needed for party. Serious inquiries only.”

There’s an email. No phone number .

“ I think that’s called an oxymoron,” Tara says. Who takes psychics seriously? I mean, seriously. “Come on, it’s tonight. And it’s two hundred dollars. Maybe they still need someone. Worth a call, right?”1 “I think they need someone with intuition. I never saw my job loss coming.” “Not a job loss. It’s a leave, Tara. There’s a difference.” “What else do I have to lose?” Tara says. She’s lost her marriage, her mother as well as the job. “Maybe mom will come through and tell us where she hid the gold.” “That joke never gets old,” Scarlett said. “Remember she’d flop down and pretend she was saying her last words… the gold is in the …” Tara emails the address as soon as she enters her basement bedroom of the house she’s been living in with Scarlett and her niece, Raine, since her marital separation in the spring.

The reply from the party host is immediate. “Please call me.” Scarlett enters the room as the phone connection is made. She paces, mouthing questions to ask the party host, Sherry. Tara shoos her away, pointing to her ear. I can’t hear. I’m on the phone for godsake.

Scarlett starts texting talk notes to her instead: s ay you’re experienced (cos you’ve had a reading before but don’t say that part) you’ll need a private room for the readings ask if she needs tea leaves or tarot or both Tara pushes the page away and hangs up. She’s got all the info she needs for the party tonight. Sherry will email the “deets and coordinates.” Gawd .

Scarlett hollers to the kids that they’ll be back upstairs in twenty minutes because she’s busy with Tara. “I don’t have twenty minutes to spend with you. The party’s at 8 p.m.. I’ve got to shower and find a flowy scarf and a Tarot deck. Do you think they sell them at the convenience store?” “I’ve got those things.” “Of course you do. No doubt they’re in labelled bins stacked in alphabetical order. I have no bins.

“We need time to plan what you’re going to do and say during the mystical readings. How many clients are there?” “Six old gals. It’s Sherry’s sixty-fifth birthday. They are open to Tarot cards, tea leaves, whatever.” “Maybe this could be your new career?” Scarlett says. “Let’s start with this party. Show me the paraphernalia.” Let’s log onto Facebook and find some background on this lady. Find her eldest friends.

                                ************** By the time Tara arrives, the ladies are hard into the daiquiris. Lots of giggles and talking over each other, and asking people to repeat what they’ve said. Sherry wears a flowy scarf around her head and looks more like a medium than Tara whose gear is in the backpack slung over her shoulder.

Sherry shows Tara to the library where incense sends up a thin fragrant smoke, candles are lit and a cloth flows over a card table. A plastic-wrapped Tarot deck sits in the centre of the table. There’s a magic eight ball. A pot of tea and tiny cups. Spiritual music—a harp maybe — and some buzzing and tweeting sounds.

Tara unpacks her backpack. She dons the borrowed silk robe and tucks Scarlett’s cheat sheet in the pocket. “I’ve got my own gear, but whatever floats your boat.” “It’ll be more legit if it’s a new deck, if that’s okay with you. The last psychic had cards up her sleeve which made it awkward for all of us,” Sherry says. “You sure you didn’t hire a magician?” Tara tries to keep the sarcasm to a minimum as these ladies are much classier ladies than she expected. Sherry rolls her eyes and doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “No, her business card said clairvoyant and medium or something like that. What a scam. We paid for the real deal. You’ll be a breath of fresh air.” “You said ten minutes per reading. Six readings right? No video recordings. You can do audio. Twenty bucks each, cash up-front. I’ll need a break halfway through to use the bathroom and recover. The brain work takes a lot out of me.” It occurs to her that her teaching job would have been more palatable if she’d charged $20 for each parent interview. She could, in fact, read the parents’ minds in most cases. Their kid was destined for university and thus needed her full attention and the highest mark in the class. It was kindergarten for godsake.

“I’ll go first, Sherry says. Here’s a new deck of Tarot cards if you want to shuffle them.” Tara rolls up her sleeves, shuffles the deck, passes it to Sherry and sets her cell phone timer for ten minutes. “What you want to do,” Sherry says, “is to place them like this.” She shows Tara a photo on her cell phone screen of Tarot cards on a table that appears to be strikingly similar to the one before which they are sitting.

“That’s not how it works for me,” Tara says. “How then?” Sherry opens her mouth to speak again, but Tara shushes her with a finger to her lips.

“Just chill and listen up for a minute okay? The spirits won’t come through if we don’t do what works for me.”

If you want to use you ten minutes doing the in-service you are welcome to do so. “But before we start, I just need to mention that Jill’s mother died recently tragically and unexpectedly. If she comes through, don’t focus on the way she died but what a lovely woman she was, a good baker, devoted grandmother and that she is probably with her cat, Simon, etc. As far as Lydia goes…” Tara stops the timer. These tips are everything she needs. No charge. “Anything else?”

Maybe you can give me their pets’ names and favourite numbers so I can access their bank accounts too . “Diane died last year. She was a soprano. We’re all part of a Sweet Adelines’ barbershop choir. If she comes through I’m not sure if we’re ready to hear from her. Long story.”

Tara hands the deck to Sherry. “You do yours now,” she says.

Sherry puts three cards face down, one face up but upside down and then toys with another before placing it at the top of the table.

“I’d offer you a cup of tea but I see you have a Daiquiri.” “That’s for reading the tea leaves,” Sherry says. “But whatever floats your boat, as you say.” Tara surveys the condo furnishings and sees her chance. “I mentioned tea leaves are five dollars extra and past lives ten dollars extra, right?”

“You didn’t, but that’s fine. Money is no object. Don’t say something like there won’t be travel in the next year. I think we all know that. If you see a vacation in their future mention a location such as the topics and say that if they’re going alone there’ll be dancing, etc. We are all single except for Trish.” “Gotcha,” Tara says. “Now let’s start with me.  Do you see my mom?” “Your mom?

Oh yeah, I’ve gotta make some crap up now .“Hang on, there’s a big lady who’s been trying to get a word in. She’s a mother figure. An aunt if not a mother. She’s wearing heels and a pastel sweater…” “I meant do you see my mom coming on my vacation. That must be her sister, Ann who you see. We weren’t close after she hurt my feelings so I don’t know why she’s coming through. Maybe it’s an apology?” “Maybe. Wait! I see a man. Your ex-husband maybe? Name starts with a J or a G? Grey hair…balding. The waist of his pants are pulled up to his chest.”

Is that what the guy looked like on Facebook? “ Not mine. Sounds like Jo’s ex.” “Ah yes, that. happens sometimes. How’s about you send her in and I’ll call you back in at the end?” Sherry returns with a trembling Jo who bears a box of tissues, one already in use. One by one, each tipsier than the last, the women enjoy their readings. Tara hears laughter and squeals between readings as they share details of their readings with each other in the next room.

Tara comes up with the occasional past life as a small child in a remote village in China or India, describes exotic travel, riches, gentleman callers. They are thrilled with all of it.

As the night wears on, Tara boldly gets more specific and more accurate.

“Exactly,” Edna says. “You hit the nail on the head. He really was an arse. I went on a cruise with some girlfriends after I kicked him to the curb. And yes I won some cash on the slots. Incredible.” The last patron is in tears before she sits. This has gotta be Jill . She won’t mention her mother’s tragic death. Won’t mention her mother at all. She sticks to safe topics, the tropics, new love interests, taking up hobbies, and making a goal of getting more exercise this year. “Any word from my mom?” Jill asks.

Damn. “She loves you and misses you terribly.” Tara says. How could that hurt? Tara packs up after finishing with Sherry who pouts when the spirits move away soon after she sits down.

Tara drops the cheat sheet but retrieves it before Sherry can see it. “I told them in advance there would be six readings and so that was what was what they were prepared for, I’m afraid. You can have me back if y’all need to hear more and your reading will be free of charge.”

***************** Scarlett is waiting up when Tara arrives home. “I wish I’d been a fly on the wall,” she says after hearing the recap. “It sounds like it was hilarious.” “There were serious bits. One old gal really wanted to hear from her mother but the hostess cautioned me against giving any message from her. I just told her she loved her and that she was too shy to come forward tonight.” “Good thinking. It would thrill me to hear mom come through and say she loves and misses us.” “She did in her own unique way. Imagine if she had come through?” ***************** Tara’s niece wakes her too early in the morning. Tara puts a pillow over her face and pulls up her covers. “This psychic mind of mine needs to rest.”

“Yeah, but you need to see this, Auntie Tara. You’re blowing up on social media. A barbershop ladies choir is going wild about how accurate your readings were. People want to book parties.

Thank the maker they don’t know my full name. Sherry’s got my phone number though.

“There’s this lady who says it’s urgent.” Tara takes the phone from Raine and mumbles a sleepy hello.

Please be anyone but Jill . “It’s mom,” the voice says. “Can we meet up?” Tara hangs up abruptly then rethinks it.

What if I’ve lost the connection? A text follows.

How rude . One of her mother’s expressions. Tara texts back. Let’s meet. Time and place? Tomorrow at 4 pm at Anchor Park. Come alone and bring the pack. Tarot? No, smokes. You’re a little rusty with the readings and we can help. Forget the house parties and the teaching job. We’re gonna need a bigger venue. Don’t sell yourself short. Twenty bucks a reading is too low.

I can’t believe this. Is this for real? It’s all real. I was waiting to come through til you were ready.

Tell me something that only you know. The gold is in the……


Saving the Fate of Coffee Express

By: Haripriya

 “Do you think... people are going to visit our coffee shop?” I asked, looking at my mom.

“I

know  that people are going to come... it’s just that, maybe right now is not our time.” my mom told me, trying not to sound worried.

“No one has been coming to our café for almost a month!! We are losing that much money! MOM!!" I paused glanced at my mom, angrily, who had a blank expression on her face, staring in to nowhere,

"Are you even listening to me? You couldn’t pay the rent, or any bills!” I yelled with pain and worry.

“Yes, I am listening to you. It’s just...well, people are going to come. I know it. Now, you go play outside... and I will figure everything out.” my mom told me.

I wish she could just understand that no one was visiting

Coffee Express  anymore because of the coffee shop downtown. It was fancier and had more options. It also had more staff members to help the place run quicker and the customers get their coffee and snacks nice and hot. I get that we don’t have any of those things, but... there had to be other reasons why no one was visiting out place!! It was so unfair! I can’t believe that people would do this. The worst part is the manager of

Coffee Express  threatened my mom by saying that if no else comes in the next 2 weeks, they were going to close and he wouldn’t pay my mom anything, and he won’t let us live here. My mom couldn’t say anything. She had nothing with her, other than me. She worried every day, but whenever I asked her, she would hide her fear and tell me to be hopeful. She expects that everything will come to her instead of persuading people, and advertising people. She thinks that all good will come to us when we haven’t done anything to figure out why the other café is getting so much publicity. I told her that we need to devise a plan to figure out what is better with them, and we could do something even better to improve our shop! But no, she won’t even listen to what I have in mind. All she cares about is trying to look innocent and helpless in front of everyone.

Well I would always ignore her when she would say, “Good comes to you when you need it at most.” because that saying wasn’t true neither logical at all.

What did make sense is me trying to figure out what made their shop better than ours and try to use that to attract more people to our café. Now that was a solid plan.

Of course, my mom wouldn't  listen to me when I tried to persuade her about doing this. So, I just had to figure out what it was all by myself. Now you see, that was the hardest part. Not just coming up with a plan, but to also execute it properly. That was the real key of doing this entire mission, and if that didn’t work, we would be stranded in the streets. That is the last thing which I would want to happen to us." Every day I would think about our lives and would just go, “Wow... I can’t believe it. This is how our lifestyle is.”

Complaining was not going to work. Nobody was going to help us get more publicity and customers, so the entire fate of

Coffee Express  and our life depended on my two hands. I needed to find the perfect excuse to get out of the store for once and go downtown, but... what would it be? What should I tell her? I didn’t know, but I was sure to figure out an excuse sometime later today. After all, my mom’s café was very important to me and I cared about it. Even if I was potentially going to get in trouble, it was going to be worth it.

I thought about what I would say for a lot more time. Turns out that trying to come up with a smart, logical, and thoughtful excuse was a lot harder than I thought it would be. But soon enough, I did think of a great one.

“Hey Mom, can I go to the park and possibly make some friends?” I My mom did know something weird was going on with me, but as always, she agreed. Now, it was time to execute the real plan. I was excited that I forgot to say ‘Bye’ to my mom. I was too excited. I was so sure that I was going to find the secret that made their café attract more people.

But it turns out that I didn’t need to do that because, well I looked down at the colored floor. It was filled with different colors and types of leaves. It was like it sprinkled the floor.

WAIT A SECOND, SPRINKLED!! THAT’S IT!! We need to make new Autumn flavored drinks and we can top each one with many different types of sprinkles!! Yes!! We could make a lot more drinks, and even limited addition snacks, and deserts!! YES!! THAT IS WHAT WE CAN DO TO BOOST A LOT OF PUBLICITY!! I need to tell mom, and the manager about this! I can almost feel this plan working! All we must do is buy a lot of flavors and other supplies and we will have our new line of drinks and pastries! Another thing we must do is make a lot of posters, signs, shoot advertisements, and spread the news about our new drinks and this could really save

Coffee Express ! I can’t believe that this entire time the answer was all around us!! Not just for Autumn though, we need to have seasonal snacks and drinks for each season! This way we can let the customers try new things and at the same time have different food choices that will make all the customers wait for something totally unique and simply delicious!!

My mind had almost blown with such an amazing discovery. Now, all I had to do was convince my mom to do this. Soon, I went back inside the shop and told my mom about my new idea. I told her that it would be fine if she took a little time to think about this. After all, it was a big decision to make.

After some time, as I had hoped, she agreed, and we had officially introduced out new line of autumnal drinks and pastries. I had to squeeze my way outside because of the rush we had after my discovery. I couldn’t believe this had worked!! I can officially say that we have saved the fate of

Coffee Express .

~The End~


 “We’ve been on this road for almost an hour.” Reeves snorted at his complaint. “You’re even drunker you look. It’s only been twenty minutes since we left the bar.” The old pot-holed, cracked tarmac road winds through a large field of dead, yet tall grasses, unwilling to surrender the surrounding dryness. Maurice kept his eyes bulging as he stared wordlessly at the road ahead which appeared to be whirling.  “These damn grasses are getting in the way.” Reeves cursed under his breath, eyes on the road. “Heck, how can they be this damn tall?” Maurice was finally certain about something, they were lost –or so it appears, and it scared him. “Maybe we should have slept the night off at the bar.” He pressed his temple, wincing from the sudden headache. How much of that did I take in? He turned to Reeves and saw that he was driving just fine. The alcohol seemed to have no effect on him, or maybe it did and he was struggling hard to get his act together. Either ways Reeves was clearly drunk too. Maurice felt an unpleasant rush of adrenaline after a thud sounded beside the car, awakening his five senses. The bump jarred his entire body, making him feel the impact to the depth of his bone. Then he felt the car move over something. “I think we hit something.” The headlights which bated the long, steep driveway revealed nothing in its path. “Prolly a stupid cat that’d refused to get out of the way.” Reeves grunted in annoyance. That was quit a bump. Maurice knew it wasn’t a cat. It couldn’t be. “Shouldn’t we stop to check it?” “Not sure that would be such a great idea, and, besides we’re already nearing the house. We’ll check it at dusk.” Reeves was obviously exhausted. Within minutes, the road emptied into a broad highway, though well-lighted, yet silent and devoid of life. At least they were no longer surrounded by tall, dead grasses, but proper residential houses just a few blocks away, and for this Maurice was grateful. Reeves drove ahead, not towards any of those buildings, but down a labyrinth track off the highway. At the end lies a desolate manor house. The Gothic style is the staple of many medieval churches and castle. He then parked in a deserted lot and approached the ramshackled rusty gate on foot. Reeves gave it a gentle push. The screech of the gate echoed through the endless skeletal forest. Maurice stepped in tentatively, quickly following behind Reeves as they approached the grand, arched, old oak front door. Although no lights were on inside or outside the house, the light from the street bathed the facade of a georgian manor condo. “This is where you live?” Reeves didn’t answer, unsure of what to say. When he turned the key in the front door, he found that it was already unlocked. He knew he had locked it when he left, unless… He turned the knob back down and shifted his weight against the door. While Reeves quickly got into the house, Maurice stood outside, distracted by something in the dark. Beside the garden(now overgrown with insect threatening plants), where the light from the street couldn’t penetrate, he thought he saw something –or someone, watching him. He stepped into the house and closed the door gently behind, unwilling to give his subconscious the satisfaction of a second glance. Then clang, the wooden door, having a will of its own, suddenly shut, sealing them inside. Maurice was startled by this. And much to his dismay, he found that the room inside was eerie and filled with dead light. If not for the street light which illuminated the room partially, they would have both been in absolute darkness. Even so, it was difficult to move around without bumping into something. How can anybody live in a place like this , he wondered but kept his comment to himself. Reeves walked across the room to a door hidden behind tattered curtains. That’s his aged mother’s room. Maybe she’d been waiting for him to come home that she forgot to lock the door. He folded his fist to knock on the door but then hesitated. What if she’s already asleep? He wouldn’t want to disturb her. Cobwebs wrapped his face after he backed away from the door and he quickly pulled them off. His footsteps creaked on the old, mouldy floorboard. He stopped moving and remained still, but the footsteps didn’t. It didn’t bother him though, for he was already used to it. Maurice took out his phone and turned on his flash. The light illuminated the room and he glanced around, his eyes darting in all direction. He stared at the peeling wallpapers, then at the chandelier with broken strings of crystals suspended from the ceiling.  A photograph high up on the cinderblock wall caught his attention and he neared for a good look. In the picture was an odd-looking child, her smile somewhat abnormal, and condescending. He turned to Reeves, unintentionally bathing his face with the light. “Your daughter?” Reeves winced, shielding his face from the light. “She died two years. Car accident.” Concern grew over his face. “I’m really sorry man. I never knew you had a daughter. I feel so retarded.” “Don’t beat yourself up. I never really told anyone about it.” Maurice then realised he was holding the flash directly to his face and quickly pulled away. “Sorry about that.” The light found a guitar sitting across the room, leaning at the corner. Just then, he was hit by a realisation. “You stopped playing two years ago. Is it because of your---“ “N-No, it is not.” He tried to avoid his gaze. “It’s something else. I’d rather we don’t talk about it.” Whatever killed Reeves’ daughter, Maurice was now convinced it wasn’t a car, but something else, something less conspicuous. He decided to question him no further, making a mental note to find out the truth when the night is past. A knock came to the door and both men quickly turn to gaze at it. The light which leaked underneath the door carried no shadow along with it which seemed abnormal. Then came the second knock. Unlike Reeves who was totally overwhelmed with anxiety, Maurice was totally calm. He gave a half smile. “Are you expecting someone at this hour?” Their eyes locked in shared understanding. “If by someone you mean a call girl, then you still don’t know me. The new me, I mean. The old habit died after I moved in with my mom.” Who then is at the door? Maurice felt himself getting disturbed. Even though he knew little about Reeves, the new Reeves, he knew for sure he would never call in a whore now he's staying together with his aged mother. Even though he’d called a whore over, no girl in her right mind would step foot anywhere near the manor no matter how desperate she might seem. After a moment was past, there came no knock. Reeves surmised that whoever was knocking was now gone. But Maurice on the other hand thought otherwise, for he’d heard no sound of footsteps leaving, just deafening silence.  Reeves, wanting to be certain his uninvited guest was truly gone, moved towards the lancet window festooned with mouldy green gargoyles and pushed the ripped curtains to the side. He stole a peak outside through the old dusty glass. The midnight appeared deadly still. His wondering gaze caught a glimpse of an old woman, covered in black overall clothing which reached up to her face, standing outside the door. He arched an eyebrow to give her a once over. Recognition crossed his face. “Mom?” He wasn’t sure. She had a vaguely similar body size as his mother. “How much longer do I have to wait out here before you open the damn door?” came the gravelly voice outside. It was truly his mom, his ever bossy mom. He could tell from the tone in her voice. Without hesitation, he unlatched the heavy wooden door and threw it open. “Golly! You were outside the whole time? I really thought you were fast asleep in your room.”  An old woman, pitch black hair, wearing filthy nightgown, stood at the entrance. “Do you know I was up late just waiting for you to come home?” She was very crossed and she made it obvious. “How could you stay out until past midnight? You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought something bad had happened.” A yeasty beer smell that hung in the air found its way into her sniffing nose. “I’m fine mom.” As much as he tried to sound as sober as possible, his stench had betrayed this intension. She pretended not to notice the odd smell. “Still, what if something bad had happened---“ “I said I’m fine.” he said, almost raising his voice. She shot him a venomous glance, and then finally stepped in. “I spotted the light from afar, that’s how I knew someone was home.” The old woman stopped in her path when she saw that the light wasn’t in Reeves’ possession, but was being held by someone unfamiliar. “Who is this?” She gazed upon Maurice in displeasure. Maurice was taken aback by her abruptness. She seemed rather rude, than friendly. “T-this is my friend.” he slurred, jabbing a finger into his chest. He lives very far away, and seemed stranded and a little bit drunk at the time I met him at the bar. Little bit drunk? Reeves glanced up at Maurice. His bleary, red, watery eyes were visible under the light. Not quite so. Maurice was heavily drunk, and still is. But of course he couldn’t let her find out.  “Iamlettinghimsleepitoffatthehouse.” He was mentally congratulating himself for getting his act together, oblivious to him that his tone had already given him out.

The old woman, uninterested in his explanation, watched in silence as the words were tumbling from his mouth in a rush of barely distinguishable syllables. And without a word, she retired to her room. She would have to deal with him the following morning. For now she is exhausted. Soon after she was gone, they collapsed on the floorboard, and exhausted, they fell into a restless sleep. Barely an hour after they’d gone to sleep, Maurice came awake to a sharp cry which drifted through the unholy night. It was a bird. When he glanced down at his watch, only fifty minutes had passed. It was a long night, he observed. Each second seemed to go by as though they were minute, and each minute like hour. He turned to Reeves who was lying on his stomach, apparently fast asleep. The amount of light pouring into the room became suspicious, and Maurice glanced up and found that the window was open; Reeves forgot to return the curtain. Too tired to get up, he decided to lie on his back and gaze at the street light pouring its light over the lonely highway. He smiled at the sight. Then a feminine figure sitting on top smiled broadly back at him. His heart shot up as he quickly rose. He looked closely again and saw that there was no figure sitting up there. Maybe it was just his imagination. He hoped. He trotted towards the window. The moonlight crept deeper into the room as if locked in some strength contest of might with the street lights. Yet, without much effort the street lights always seemed to get the upper hand with every increasing glare of the moon. Peering through the window, he stared sightlessly at the top of the street light, then at the lonely road and finally at the front porch of the building. The empty night, devoid of life, stared back at him, whispering with the hollow tone. After he released the curtains from where they hung suspended by the side of the window, they returned to their original position, sealing out partial trace of light. Only little portion of it penetrated the translucent curtain. Then he returned, not to the floor where he’d laid, but to a beat-up wooden table far across the room. He took the chair beside it and reached for the guitar few inches from where he sat. He couldn’t get his mind off the figure he saw just a few minutes ago. Had it been watching me the whole time?  The more he thought about it, the more his worries grew. He felt his anxiety being drained away with string noise the guitar gave off. Then he started to strike the strings more rapidly until an ear-worthy noise was formed. And soon he was lost in the sweat rhythm.  His finger suddenly missed a string when he felt something brush his ankles. He thought a rodent must have walk past him. He kept playing, and felt it again. He looked under the chair and saw nothing. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him, and he froze. A shiver curled through the hairs on the back of his neck then cascaded down his backbone. He looked up saw the silhouette of a strange figure standing beyond the window quickly moving away to the side. Fear swelled inside him. He gently placed the guitar atop the table and started towards the window, again. As he inched towards it, he thought of waking Reeves but then decided against it. Reaching the window, he pulled the curtain away and the frigid tendrils of the cold morning air found his face. He saw nothing. The eeriness of the dark lonely street sent shiver travelling down the length of his spine. A sound of a twig snapping behind him echoed and he quickly turned, coming nose-to-nose with an ungodly creature. Gasping, he backed away, into the wall, his chest heaving rapidly. When he opened his mouth, to scream, to wake Reeves from his slumber, his voice had abandoned him; only the slightest breath escaped his trembling lips. The room had grown colder, filled with a numbing chill. And when he took a second glance at the creature, he saw that it wasn't a ghost, as he thought, but Reeves mother. “When I heard the guitar play, I thought it was my son.” Her words were calm, and sad, totally different from what it was barely an hour ago. “I haven’t seen him play in two years.” Maurice, still recovering from the fright, watched in silence, unable to move from the window. She walked to the table and picked the guitar. Examining it, she turned towards him. “Do you mind?” He hesitated for a moment, but her sad eyes were begging him. They compelled him to walk towards her, not of his own will though. Collecting the guitar, he sat on the chair. Carefully rehearsing the notes in his head, he set his finger to start playing, but then stopped. He turned to her, then gestured towards the photograph on the wall.  “How did she die?” She looked up at the photograph. “Actually, Reeves killed her. Accidentally.” He paled. “How did it happen?” He sat in silence, watching her contemplate within herself. The dark room silenced too, desperate to hear the tale. It was a story she wasn’t eager to tell. He could see that the distressed woman was doing her best to leave what had happened in the past. She let out a heavy sign, her sad eyes filled with defeat. “This time of the night, two years ago, on that same stool, Reeve sat, playing his guitar. And then, little Janie around two at the time, playful as she was, crawled underneath and grabbed his ankle. He thought it was some rodent, and quickly brought down his heavy boot, cracking the little girl's head open.” She heard him gasp. The attentive walls too, in a creak. Maurice was filled with horror. He quickly ran to wake Reeves. “Reeves, you have to get up.” He shook him hard. W-w-what… is it morning yet?” He slurred, still drowsy. When he turned, the old woman was gone. “Something is very wrong with this house. We have to get out now.” But his cries fell on sleepy ears. With little over an hour of daytime left, Maurice yanked him up and dragged him towards the door. Unfastening the door, they stepped into the chilly waft of the early morning, towards the gate. The surrounding scanty trees was bent almost double by gusts of icy winds. The streetlights which sat at the side of the highway fought the darkness from taking total control of the hour. Reeves, barely awake, asked, “Where the hell are you taking me?” “You hit something on our way down here, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a cat. We have to check it out.” “Can’t we wait until daylight to check it?” “We would already be dead by then. Trust me.” They ran past the car, and took a sharp turn into the thin road, away from the protective gaze of the streetlight. Taking out his phone, Maurice turned on the light. The uneasy breeze slashed at his face with every step he took, grasping him with chilly touch. Several inches away, he could already spot something lying dead at the side of the road. It was too big to be a cat. As they neared, Maurice could now see that it was definitely not a cat, but mistily human-like. His eyes found the form lurking among the shadows at the side of the road and quickly ignored it. Only fear anchored his feet in the darkness. Soon, they got to where the body lay. It was truly human. They stood over the dead human covered on black garment. Reeves recognized her. "Mom?" His spirit sank.