  SWEET STRUGGLE I love my best friend, but I don't need to hang out with her all the time. I truly hope somebody can relate to this and that I don't want to sound like a horrible person. I am an introvert. I am so much of an introvert that I took this random quiz that is supposed to tell you how you rank on the introvert/extrovert spectrum. My results: I was ALL THE WAY on the introverted side. Y’all, I love to be alone. My idea of the perfect day is going to the gym alone, making my breakfast smoothie and eating alone at my dining table (I live with my family.lol) with the current series I am watching on Netflix, taking myself to the movies alone in the afternoon, taking myself to the rooftop with my laptop and writing whatever I’m inspired (mostly nothing) to write that day, and lastly curling up in my room to read some more or watch TV before I fall asleep. I don't even feel the need to spend every day with my family. We see eachother everyday and that’s it, I love it. I know that might sound so sad and incredibly solitary to a lot of people, but it works for me. There have been days that I realised I never spoke out loud, because I didn’t interact with anybody. Now, this isn’t everyday, obviously. I have a college where I have to talk to and deal with people the whole time and it’s fine. I just have a strong need to be alone to balance out all the people's time. The one problem with this is that my best friend THRIVES on people. If I’m on the introverted side of the seesaw, she’s on the other extroverted side trying to keep me up and out of my solitude, She is a med-student. She goes to college from home, but she really hates being home alone. If her roommate is ever out of town, she'll always make plans to have a little get together or to go out so she’s not in the house by herself for a long period of time. She has a LOT of friends. I met her a couple of times when I was in her city. If it were up to just me, our friendship probably wouldn't have lasted this long only because I’m terrible with keeping friendships going. I’m bad with keeping in touch and reaching out first to hang out. She keeps me social. I love her for that and I love hanging out with her. The only problem is that I feel like I’m being a bad friend if she calls me up to hang out and I say no only because I’m totally loving my current Netflix binge in my sweatpants. I just need a heads up. I need to prepare myself to be social. I rarely say yes to impromptu social plans because I haven't mentally prepared to be around a lot of people. It’s just how I’m wired. Once, I’m at a party and the people are nice and there’s music and the vibe is fun, I’m good. I can dance and have a good time with everyone. When I tell people I’m an introvert, sometimes they’re surprised. I’m good when I’m around people, but they just don't realise, I’m SO GOOD not being around people. I often feel so relieved to be back home alone once I leave a party. I can’t recharge around people. I feel emotionally drained after being in a crowd. I need to be alone to recharge. I really have some experiences with her.

I used to speak softly(sometimes). Although they were not very private, still I didn't want anyone else to hear that unnecessarily. But she used to ask me frequently, “why are you speaking so softly? Speak loudly.”

We both were in the same class during 11th & 12th. That’s how we became best friends. I used to sit at the last bench in the last corner where even a light can’t enter, sticking to the wall. Since she was my best friend, she had no other option than sitting somehow at the outer side of the bench. Many times, she used to tell me that she was not feeling well. She needed to sit comfortably resting her shoulder against the wall. But I never Left my place just because I was uncomfortable sitting outside. Now, I feel bad for that.

I feel that I was a burden on her sometimes. She deserves better friends than me & I think, in that case, she is on the right track now. Though we completed school together, the pursuing of each other's dreams separated us. She is a med-student & I am pursuing M.com. She loves everything and every human. It’s a beautiful balancing act. You both will balance the energies you bring to your friendship and each other in the process, WOW! She was that loud, funny, fun and everything you associate with an extrovert. And I was literally a PEOPLE PHOBIC PERSON.

She would make my “serious” outlook on life so much lighter! Something I would mull over with sadness or thoughtfulness all day in all seriousness, and when I would share with her, In jest she would give me such a light, easy perspective to look at it, I would be like woah! Why don’t I ever think like that?

She gave me courage and street smartness in moments of difficulty. And I had an equally neutralizing effect on all her madness from time to time. No one understood how we could be so different and still hang around so much together. But I owe some of the best days of school to her, because she made me see the fun side of things, the jokes, the true school craziness which I would have all missed out on being the born old soul that I was.

It’s not JUST because of her. But she still left a large impact on me and yeah I became more relaxed and talkative. Well not that talkative actually because I’m still quite introverted. Anyway, It’s really really fun to have an extrovert as your best friend as an introvert. I never speak much simply because I don't have much to say. But I love listening to her.

It’s really challenging having her beside me. Once we were sitting together in a mall and someone came, she addressed them with hi or hello while I am very bad at that. I just made an excuse and moved out of the sight.

It’s a bit weird to have a friend who’s ideas and plans are quite the opposite of yours. If you’re like me, you’ll end up having arguments & frequent fights just because of contrasting opinions and situations. We used to argue a lot. Once because of my introverted feeling, I almost lost her. I didn't realise how much it hurt until she told me herself.

Yeah I am not going to lie, I’m that type of possessive friend. If you’re part of my tight-knit circle, I want you all to MYSELF. That ain’t gonna happen with an extroverted best friend. Sometimes, I feel inadequate because she (being an extrovert) doesn't seem to need me as much as I need her. She spreads herself thin across as an endless list of friends and fun activities. As long as she makes time for me, I am happy. But I feel frustrated on the days when her busy social calendar means she can only “squeeze you in” for an hour, as if you're at a business luncheon or a PTA meeting, instead of her most loyal (and awesome) friend. And here comes the serious issue, Her FOMO always annoys me and my FOGO never fails to frustrate her.

Besides everything, One of the best reasons I am drawn to her in the first place is the way she makes life interesting and more exciting. She took me on adventures and helped me to see the world in a whole new perspective. There’s always plenty to read about how to deal with romantic breakups, but the biggest loss in my life is what it feels like a breakup with her. Yes you got it right, Geographical barriers (she lived near her college while I was still in our hometown) was the main reason. Two years back, we ran into each other once and made small talk, which is the worst. I find it excruciating to make small talk with a person with whom I once shared almost everything. I started wondering to myself, What do I do? Do I let go of the friendship? Do I try to sit her down and have a heart-to-heart? You know what it’s occasionally lousy and super inconvenient to be an introvert? Because of this. Because people. Because of ALL THE SAD FEELS.

We introverts don’t take friendships lightly. I mean, come on. Who wants to find a new best friend? It’s HARD making friends, and the thought of going through all the incremental steps of building intimacy again with someone else?

UGH. EW. NO, THANK YOU. I’LL HAVE THE TV DINNER FOR ME. I can feel the questions running in your mind : Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault? Yeah, Maybe I could have been better in this friendship. Maybe I could have called her more often. Maybe I could have shown up with takeout coffees and bagels. But really? I’d say it’s probably that I did just fine in this friendship. Once when I was bemoaning a terrible situation I could not seem to fix, a very wise soul asked me, “Did you break it?” “Did I break what?” I had asked. “Any of it,” he said. “Because if you didn't, maybe it’s not yours to fix.” Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I felt that. Maybe this friendship isn’t yours to fix anymore. I said to myself I tried for the better part.

I am especially grumpy in the presence of cliched statements like, “Maybe the friendship just ran its course.” But in this case, maybe it did. Some friendships are seasonal, part of the fall foliage or spring blooms in your life. With all that being said, I am so grateful that I have my friend in my life. In my life, If I didn’t have her, I’d definitely be lonely. I’ve finally exposed my introverted struggles to her so I know she understands. I hope She won’t take it personally even if she doesn’t hear from me for days. She made me appreciate how important it is to step out of your comfort zone and that life is meant to be shared, maybe just not EVERYDAY. Despite everything,

Dear Introverts, So free yourself. Be mad, Be sad - it’s all okay. The loss smarts, but it doesn’t have to keep smarting. Love from afar the-her-you-know, like a calm and collected super BUDDHA; love the friendship you had like a beautiful photograph; and be brave enough to let the-now-her-go. It doesn’t matter that she let go first, and it doesn’t matter why, not really. What matters is that you let yourself start healing and realize the only people worth your time are the ones who make you feel like you’re with everything.

~Sincerely, Fellow Introvert who is blessed with an Extrovert Best Friend


The temple of Apollo in Delphi was a glorious, golden-stone, sun-drenched ruin high in the mountains, which you could see perfectly well from the parking area. Fortunately, you could also access the coffee stand from the parking area, as the locals were pretty astute when it came to avoiding regulations. I used my fairly meagre retainer to grab a cup, which I figured was a better use than spending it on the entrance fee. Technically, my client might think otherwise. Technically, I wasn’t entirely convinced by some of the things my client was thinking, so the cup of coffee easily won out. I had a job. It was kind of a scammer’s job, but occasionally it paid. I’m a witch. None of that white-witch, blood-witch stuff, it’s more of a ‘whatever it takes to pay the rent’ kind of a deal. If I think it’s going to help, I wear a long flowy dress and a little sword thingy on a necklace. Sometimes I carry a few candles and sage in my purse. Luckily my reputation precedes me. Once, I cast a spell. It made the local news (here, where I’m also ‘that eccentric foreigner’, which probably helped). It wasn’t actually hocus pocus, but rather a sincere wish to understand what had happened, a purely coincidental arrangement of smoke and mirrors, and a blast of intuition so extreme and sudden that I found myself pointing at a bystander and shouting “she did it!” The woman in question tried to run away. It was all very dramatic. She’d been defacing monuments undetected for years. When you live in a land of millennia old temples, people take that sort of thing seriously. It hasn’t really happened again (the intuition, not the defacing monuments. That probably happens all the time, although that one lady went to jail). These days its just me traipsing around looking for clues and figuring things out like a regular detective. I get paid about the same either way, but my clients are far more gullible than a detective’s usually are, which makes things a bit easier. I took my cup and wandered over to the nearest park bench, where a cat came to join me. It sat half on my shoe, squinted at me, then sprawled out with it’s eyes closed. Which shows that a stray cat has better sense than I do. I arranged myself only slightly more upright and pulled out my binoculars. I’d been charged with finding a scrap of paper at a tourist site. My chances, I figured, were extremely low. What was worse, the scrap of paper held the phone number of a woman called Sophie, who my client assured me was the most beautiful woman in the world, and who he’d almost successfully picked up yesterday, then had second thoughts about, and now was having another change of heart and wanted to call her after all. Which is fine, you know, if it was all on his own time. But I couldn’t help thinking that if he was that hot for her he would have figured that out yesterday and getting someone else to do the running around afterwards is all a bit creepy. I mean, what if I actually found Sophie’s number? I’d be responsible for her having to let him down gently, or else for him needing to explain to her where her phone number had been before he actually called her. Wherever that may be. So my plan was this: I was going to sit here with my binoculars, taking in the sites from a distance. And if, chance against chance, I actually found what he was looking for - well and good. And if not, I’d phone him and say my witchy craft was on the blink, keep the retainer, and leave him to try to pick up some other woman. It was a good plan. I just hoped he never saw what it looked like in action as I soaked up the sun on a park bench outside a tourist site he thought he’d paid my entrance fee for. I could have stayed there all day. I’m pretty sure that cat was going to. But actually after an hour or so I was startled by a little golf cart rumbling up to empty the bins. Although that’s not really an auspicious moment to take my intuition from, I gave it a good hard look. And then I sat up straight and looked again. The golf-cart was being driven by an Amazon. I mean, she was gorgeous. Hair all swept up off her neck. A uniform shirt in khaki that showed off her strong arms. Collar bones peaking through at the collar. And she was looking at me with that slightly bemused look that the locals always gave tourists. Or smiling. Maybe she was just smiling. It felt like the sun was shining just for me, and I would do anything to get a bit more of that attention. “Hey, excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked her. “Nai,” she told me. Nodded her head. “How can I help?” Her voice was rich and warm. “A friend of mine lost something here yesterday. A scrap of paper”, which, as conversational gambits go, it wasn’t really ideal. “It must have been a very important scrap of paper?” “He thinks it was his fate” I told her solemnly. I could see her deciding whether or not to debate that one, but then with a shrug she gestured me to join her on her golf-cart. Let me tell you … I sat on her golf-cart. You better believe I did. And there wasn’t much room on that tiny bench seat. She was taller than me. And somehow more put together. I wracked my brains trying for some casual conversation. No luck. Except, probably a couple of minutes too late to sound sensible: “Hey, where are we going?” She smiled at me, all sunny competence. “You wanted to look through rubbish didn’t you?” Oh right. Yeah, of course. After a few more awkward moments she asked me, “He’s a good friend, this friend of yours?” It is very important in the witch-crafty detective business, not to make any assumptions about why people ask certain questions. Answer in long form, I counselled myself. Perhaps draw her out a little. My throat seemed a little dry. “Um, No?” “But he has you looking for his lost thing?” She pressed. “Oh well, no. He’s actually paying me to do that.” She gave me her full attention at that, so I felt I needed to elaborate. “I mean, I am a witch. Well, not a witch, actually, a detective, but he thinks I might be a witch and might magically find what he threw away yesterday. Because he thinks it might be his fate” “But he didn’t think that yesterday when he threw it away?” I gave her a rueful sort of smile. “Maybe he was fated to wait a day?” I suggested. “Maybe his fate deserved a chance for second thoughts?” She replied. The drive took us into the grounds-keeper’s shed. Inside, I felt I was glimpsing a very prosaic behind-the-scenes of the otherwise majestic national icon. A kitchenette, a work table, some gardening tools. The calendar above the sink was set to the wrong month, with a beautiful picture of a roof-top bar on the ocean. Turns out the rubbish was dumped into a big skip and my new friend was showing me exactly how I should climb in. The fates were pushing me. I had my good shoes on too. Never-the-less, I dutifully climbed into the skip. I rummaged half-heartedly, while the Amazonian grounds-keeper watched me with one eye-brow raised. “Are you really looking for a scrap of paper?” She asked me. I guess I wasn’t looking very hard. I didn’t bother answering, kind of half smiled. “Because if you are really looking, perhaps the oracle would have the answer you are seeking?” I laughed. “There’s no such thing as an Oracle, well not in this century anyway.” “It is true. She only spoke in riddles anyway. She may have made this man believe he had his fate on a piece of paper, when really she was trying for something else altogether.” “For him to waste his money, I suppose. Did she charge for her services?” I asked The Amazon had a lovely laugh. “She did! But then she was not a fake”. You know that record screeching sound? “You think I’m a fake?” I asked “You told me you are ‘fake’!” In my head a search party went out for the end of a sentence that started with “yeah, but …”. They didn’t find it. Missing in action. So I am a fake. I’d have had no chance at an Amazonian grounds-keeper anyway. And I was dirty now. I may as well look for the wretched phone number. I put a little more effort in, and was knee deep in ice cream wrappers when another grounds-keeper arrived. An older man, grouchy and worn, he gave me the once over then made his observations in his own language, to his colleague. I didn’t bother following along. I could understand the tone well enough. It started with ‘What the …?’ And ended somewhere around ‘Crazy lady’ with a brief bypass into ‘I hope she isn’t making a mess of the rubbish’. I think I mentioned I’m fairly intuitive? Well, the two of them discussed this for a few minutes, until the grouchy man threw his hands in the air, and the Amazon gave him a very loud ‘look’. She cleared her throat, then said to me “I’m heading off to finish my rounds. I hope you find what you are looking for”. I couldn’t think of anything to say in return, but watched her retreating back like it was the last sane thing I would ever see. How do I get myself into these messes? Grouchy man grumbled at me, then pointed at the clock. “You have half an hour before the rubbish truck comes” he told me. I’d like to say I spent that half an hour methodically and efficiently sifting and sorting through rubbish. Mostly I sulked. I did move things about a bit, and every time there was the slightest noise from outside, I looked up, hoping for something to brighten my day. Nothing did. I didn’t find any useful looking scraps of paper either. If I was a slightly worse person, I probably would have written a fresh one for him. Pick some likely looking ‘Sophie’ from a dating site, and help two strangers out, all for this one low fee! But truth is, I was too miserable to be bothered. So when a truck rumbled up outside and grouchy told me to get out of the skip, I actually felt pretty relieved. My shoes were filthy. I had sticky stains where ice cream wrappers and coffee cup lids had spilled on me. I had no phone number, and the one potential saving grace to the whole day was a brief encounter with someone who realised I was a fake and had stormed off. Perhaps it was time I rethought this witchy-detective thing. It wasn’t really working out. I washed my hands, and called my client and give him the news. At least I could express fairly genuine regret. I made the call in the grounds-keeper’s shed. I didn’t bother hiding what I was doing, and apart from a few sly looks, the grouch just turned his back and got on with what-ever it was he wasn’t doing. So I didn’t realise when that hot Amazon turned up again. I didn’t realise she was standing in the door eaves dropping on me trying to let the client down gently. I only noticed her at all, because grouchy snapped a stern “Sophie!” In her direction. Wait, What? Sophie? I looked at her. Well I had been told she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and clearly anyone wanting to find her could do so at her place of work. Had I spent an hour in a rubbish bin looking for her number when I could have just asked her? Actually, why didn’t I just ask her? She was looking straight at me, like maybe she knew what I had been looking for all along. I hung up on my client. My dress was not very clean. My shoes had seen better days. I’d failed to earn my fee. “Sophie?” I asked. I gave a tentative smile. “Do you think I could get your phone number?” Sophie took on a look of mock seriousness. “That depends” she told me. “What would you do with it, once you had it?” My smile got wider. I knew the answer to this one. “I don’t even need the number. I just want to ask you on a date. To a roof-top bar overlooking the ocean”. “No clients?” She asked. I shook my head. No way. This was my fate now and I wouldn’t be throwing it away for all the world. Sophie beamed at me and smiled and nodded, and told me to wait for her to finish work. Luckily I knew a good spot to get a coffee, and enjoy a spectacular view. Sophie joined me on the park bench not long after, the sunset laid out in hues of orange and gold in front of us, and that one cat still lying where I’d left it hours ago. It squinted up at us as Sophie took my hand, almost as though it understood the day we’d had, before it stretched and walked away, leaving behind the scrap of paper it had been lying on all day, and the phone number incautiously scrawled on it. A job well done, I’d say.


Magic is everywhere around us. In the way we sing, we love and we hate… How we create, dream and achieve. It's in that first cup of coffee in the morning. It's the kids that our parents give us when we scratch our knees on the playground. Magic is everywhere around us. But mine? Mine was in the back pocket of my jeans, in a pink, heart shaped bottle, and as I later found out, it was never ending. At first, it was nothing more than a little trinket a fortune teller had given me. And, well, it was a strawberry lip gloss, and I was right, so… Innocent. Right? I wore it everywhere. It smelled amazing, it had a bit of glitter and didn't have that annoying stickiness that gets on your hair when it's windy. As I grew older, I started to recognize its many, many benefits - for example, it never seemed to end, and no matter what happened to it, I was always able to find it. So, quite naturally, I wore it to my grandmother's funeral. The woman had died of old age, so it was an open casket. I loved her with all my being, which is why I leaned forward for one last kiss, before they buried her. Now imagine the magnitude of my surprise when she rose up from her silk casket and looked around, extremely confused. Doctors chalked it up to a coma (we were all confused), but, hey, I've got my grandma back, what do I care? The thing is that… Same thing happened when my cat gave birth and couldn't feed one of the kittens, so I found it frozen to death. Now, you might be thinking, “Elizabeth, there is a worrisome tendency in your behavior leading you to kissing dead things”, and you would have been correct. Now, in my defense, it wasn't like I went looking for dead people or animals on purpose, they just… Kind of… Appeared around me? And it took some trial and error, and, well, I was convinced I was going insane, but around the 15th ye“coincidence”, I was fully aware that whenever I kiss someone with my strawberry lips gloss… They come back to life. A lovely trick if I have decided to chase a career as a doctor. Alas, I had questions in dire need of answers, so I drifted towards higher education which would allow me to get access to researches and expeditions that were otherwise unavailable to the public. Now, there is an unwritten rule (I have checked!) that what's dead should be left dead. It's something like an universal rule, like the fact that you need to bring a towel, and you shouldn't be eating the yellow snow. Unfortunately, I was powerful and sensitive, and I couldn't bear the sight of… well, death and the pain that it was causing. This, combined with the lack of direct repercussions led to… Well, me, kissing corpses. Not too ideal, as I was strongly relying on my moral compass to decide who lives or dies, but… Well… I was a girl with strawberry lip gloss, running around, making out with the dead. Do I sound like someone with clear judgment? Anyway, it wasn't long before I actually heard from the other world. Actually, Death himself visited me, in my own room, non the less. Just as I was coming back from an expedition, having to spend the last few days digging through… Dust, mostly, to be honest. I had this very simple plan to take a shower, order Chinese food (with extra grease) and just sleep for the next few days. What I received instead was an extremely angry, surprisingly young looking man (not a man technically, as he loved to point out), who was giving it out to me. Now, a normal human reaction when you find an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-whatevering being in your room, accusing you (rightfully so) of throwing off the balance of the Universe and Life itself would be fear. What your man received, however, was… Me. Preparing to get into a screaming match. And succeeding. And I was really angry. I was mind numbingly, throwing things, screaming at the top of my lungs angry. I mean, who was he to decide who gets to live or die? (Apart from, the obvious, Death himself.) Anyway, we got into an incredibly heated argument. He was stating that I am just a simple human (I think he meant it in the sense of “dumb”) and I couldn't just mess around with the essence of life. Now, I will admit, bringing back to life a man who has died in a school shooting, only to find out that he was the one doing the shooting is, indeed, not one of my proudest moments, but I also get good ideas. For example, when the White Rhinos started to go extinct, I personally ensured their survival. (And got a rabies shot in a timely manner). Anyway, my point is that I was just a human and as such, I will sometimes make mistakes. Which was his point too. Naturally, I shared my highly educated point of view, in an extremely calm manner, that, as most men (not a man, technically), he was an emotionally unavailable prick, who excuses his lack of empathy and development under the pretense of rationalization. The fact that this was a job requirement in his case was absolutely besides the point. Anyway, We did not reach an agreement, because, well, who could reach an agreement with such a snobby, self-involved know-it-all? Sure, his hair looked nice and he had gorgeous blue eyes that pierced through my soul (literally), but like… Even this wasn't in his benefit, because it wasn't his actual shape, he just used it on Earth (as my small and tiny human brain could not comprehend his Majesty's actual form. Prick.) Moving forward. I really thought that there is nothing greater than Death (apart from my strawberry lip gloss), but I was wrong. Apparently, I was not the first human that played around with Life and there is a whole committee dedicated to dealing with “the likes of me”. (Direct quote from your man there. Snob.) The prick wouldn't even let me wash my hair before he transported me… God knows where, in my old jeans, with a nest on my head and boots that had three layers of mud. Not only that I was a human, but I was a dirty, unpresentable one. Was I scared? This time, actually yes. Did that stop me from defending myself? Absolutely not. And apparently I did defend myself a bit too well, because… I actually won? Not won-won, the Universe didn't just randomly decide that it's existence it's wrong and I,  Elizabeth Archibald, possess the eternal wisdom needed to change its ways… But I had some kind of a point. To the extent in which they admitted that Thomas (this is what I started calling Death, as it did annoy him greatly) was a bit too strict with his rules. So they paired us together. Basically, someone would die, wow would go on site and we would decide together whether he was going to do his thing or I was going to do mine. In the beginning, we would mostly argue, which became annoying quickly, especially when the soul decided to get in the argument too, but overtime… We started to understand each other. He helped me see that sometimes saving a soul would cause more damage than any actual saving, and, well… I helped him understand the opposite. Something else changed as well. In the beginning, we would just meet for business, but as the time passed… Okay, if someone dies in Japan, do you really expect me to *not* stay and explore the sights for a few days? I mean, I'm already there anyways, what's the harm? Yes, this did cause further arguments in the beginning, but sooner rather than later, he grew curious, and eventually find, of the humans. So fond that he decided to become one himself. Mostly because, and those are his words, not mine, I am such an irritating human being, I made him wish to die. Next to me, if possible. After we've spent whatever time we can on Earth together. So… To the committee we went. I had the crazy idea that if I just kissed him, he would become alive, but he had the crazy idea that this would piss off everybody, so maybe we should ask first. I was a firm believer that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, but we were in a relationship, those required compromise, so… Sure, let's ask first. I had this back up plan that when they deny, I can make out with my husband-to-be and have a tiny win before we get evaporated, or whatever it was that the Committee was doing with the likes of us. So I was highly disappointed when they said yes. I mean, I still got to make out with him, which was cool, but the rebel undertone was gone. There were a few things that we had to take care of, for example, we needed to find a new Death, and this is a whole other story, and I had to give up my strawberry lipgloss, which is why we had to buy you a new bunny and couldn't save the old one, but… Yes, this is pretty much how I met your father.


An ear-splitting ‘crack!’ filled the air as they hit the stone jetty. The tiny rowing boat split in two as if it were balsa wood. The black water swallowed both halves up with a reptilian slurp. Max and Steve fell backwards with a splash and found themselves neck deep in the water of the large lake. ‘Shit. That’s the spliff gone out,’ said Max. ‘Never mind the spliff,’ panicked Steve, ‘what about the boat? If we get caught, they’re going to kill us!’. The two friends waded and swam to the side of the lake and hoisted themselves on to the tennis court sized, neatly manicured lawn by the water’s edge. As they lay on their backs on the dew-soaked grass, Max and Steve realised that they were completely soaked through. They lay there breathing heavily. Drenched, shocked and shivering. Suddenly, Max was seized by paroxysms of laughter. Steve looked at him in confusion and then started laughing too. He just couldn’t help it. ‘Do you reckon they heard that up at the house?’ asked Steve. ‘Nah, not a chance’ replied Max confidently. ‘Everybody will be inside this time of night’. ‘Except for idiots like us’ laughed Steve. Max let out an amused snort in response The two friends lay there panting and laughing, gazing up at the full moon looking down on them through the fronds of the Monterey pine trees that surrounded them. They both felt the powerful warmth of eight per cent alcohol Belgian beer and brandy chasers swirling around their bodies. They had also smoked a couple of fully loaded joints of hydroponic White Widow cannabis.  They’d decided it would be a good idea to go on a post-closing time adventure in the fifty-acre estate owned by George Harrison. Now here they were. Very naughty. Very naughty indeed. The ex-Beatle’s property was surprisingly easy to get into. The perimeter walls next to the main road were only about seven feet tall and dated from Victorian times. Highly ornate with plenty of places to plant your hands and feet. All you had to do was to wait for a decent pause in the flow of traffic (which was easy after the pubs had closed). Then scramble over the wall as quickly as you could. There wasn’t even a drop on the other side because there was a small grassy bank above that sloped up about a foot and disappeared into a clump of small beech trees. ‘The lads are never going to believe this in the Tuns when we tell them about this tomorrow night,’ laughed Steve. ‘Nope’ agreed Max. ‘Shit. We’d better get out of here’, Max added, ‘We’re bloody soaked and I don’t want to catch my death. Neither do you’. ‘But let’s have another smoke first’ replied Steve. ‘OK. I’ll do the business’, said Max. ‘Good lad’, remarked Steve. Max expertly crumbled the fragrant white widow bud into a large cigarette paper. He added some moist tobacco from his pouch. Finally, Max picked up the paper and rolled the joint swiftly and smoothly. He shoved one end in his mouth and lit the other with a windproof lighter. He took a few tokes and exhaled loudly, handing the joint to Steve. The two friends lay there, propped up on their elbows, smoking and sniggering. They contemplated the magnificent lacquered wooden, Japanese-style bridge that arced across the lake. Beyond the bridge, on the opposite side of the lake, a ten-foot-tall statue of Buddha stared benevolently down upon them, a satisfied smile on his face. Both Max and Steve felt an immense sense of peace and well-being wash over them. They lay in a daze for about ten minutes. Until Max said ‘OK, we’d better make a move’. Max and Steve got to their feet, swaying unsteadily. With an intoxicated effort, they bent down to pick up their jackets, both almost losing their balance. The wind had become much stronger, and it was drying, but at the same time, freezing their soaked garments. A cloud had blown in front of the moon giving it a certain eerie, ominous quality. It made Steve experience an uneasy, queasy feeling in his stomach. Suddenly, Steve was aware of a bright flash across his peripheral vision. ‘Shit Max. Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘See what?’ asked Max. Both companions turned to look towards the main house. They saw what looked like three criss-crossing torch beams raking across the immense, immaculate lawn in their direction. Steve could swear he heard a dog barking. The main house, with its imposing mock-gothic façade, glowered down through its massive arched windows and angry turrets. They could almost swear that the house could see them. ‘Damn, they must realise someone’s in the garden!’ exclaimed Max. ‘You think?’ retorted Steve sarcastically. The torch beams suddenly veered off to the left, the way Max and Steve had entered the garden.  ‘Crap. They’re heading towards the main road’, said Max, ‘we can’t go back out that way!’  Steve’s stomach felt like it had shrunk to the size of a walnut as he offered ‘Someone told me that there’s a back gate off to the other side. That might be our only hope’ ‘I guess so too.’ said Max ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on.’. The surge of adrenaline from all this commotion charged both Max and Steve with an icy alertness. Almost cancelling out the effects of all that booze and weed. Sensibly, they decided on the opposite direction to the security detail. Setting off slowly and deliberately, the two friends picked their way up a steep pathway paved with glistening granite rocks. At the end of this path a tunnel loomed before them. As they stepped in, they noticed that it was dimly illuminated by ancient-looking, flickering electric candles. Max and Steve could vaguely make out that the walls and ceiling were covered in mock Egyptian hieroglyphs, Roman-style artwork and Freemason symbols. Momentarily forgetting their plight, Steve remarked ‘Wow this is so trippy. Let’s stay here for a bit’. ‘Christ no.’ said Max ‘Are you off your head? They’ll find us’. There was an uneasy silence. ‘Killjoy’ said Steve. They came to the end of the tunnel. Below them was a roughly five-foot drop down to another lawn which was dotted with three-foot tall concrete models of psilocybe semilanceata mushrooms. Better known as ‘magic’ mushrooms. ‘OK, let’s do this’ said Max. The pair dropped down, both bracing themselves for a heavy landing. Max landed first, springing up from a crouch as he righted himself. Steve landed a second later but lost his balance. He toppled over to his right towards one of the concrete magic mushrooms. As he put out his right hand to steady himself, his ring finger hit the top of the mushroom. He felt a sickening crack as his finger bent back agonisingly into a rather unnatural position. Steve let out a noisy howl. A gruff shout filled the air ‘Oi! Who the hell is that? Come here now!’. They could definitely hear a dog bark now. And a low snarling. ‘Run!’ said Max. They ran as fast as they could. Momentarily, Steve noticed that the pain of his broken finger was now barely perceptible with the freezing fear pulsing around his system. They saw that the household security detail was far closer than they thought. Too close. They were barely thirty yards away. With dogs. Big dogs. And now they realised they’d been spotted, as a torch beam shone blindingly in their faces. ‘Oi. Come here now you little bastards!’ an angry, gravelly voice demanded. Fortunately, the back gate loomed into view. Unfortunately, it was eight feet tall. Max reached it just ahead of Steve. With a lung-bursting jump, he managed to grab the top of the gate and lever himself over. Steve heard the crunch of gravel as Max hit the ground on the other side. As Steve grabbed the top of the gate and pulled himself up, he heard a guttural growl. He then felt a tug and noticed a dead weight hanging from the right leg of his jeans. He kicked out furiously. And felt a rip as the weight subsided. Steve heard a pitiful yelp as the Doberman hit the gravel beneath him. Steve commando rolled over the top of the gate and landed inelegantly on the concrete. On his hands and knees, he gradually looked up. He saw a pair of official-looking black boots and, beside them, a familiar looking pair of red Nike trainers. As his gaze came fully into focus, he noticed the yellow and blue Battenburg cake pattern on the Vauxhall squad car. There was no mistaking that. Max’s hands were cuffed in front of him, and he was leaning against the car wearing a deflated, downcast expression. Next to him stood a balding, overweight police officer in the familiar black uniform. He had a wry, amused look on his face. The radio tucked under his chin emitted a harsh electronic crackle. ‘Well well well. What have we got here then?’ queried the officer. ‘You two are a sight for sore eyes and no mistake’. ‘You’re nicked me old beauties!’.


I walked a mile to burn you, over parking lots and highways, across crowded children's playgrounds and the greenest of parks, through cricket games and grass half as tall as me, to a place under a tree where a man led me to ask for a lighter for his already-lit joint and to say I'd like a London kisser, a place littered with empty cans and torn up newspapers. It took three tries to light you, my thumb sore from endless fags and holding on to moving trains. Your smoke pooled around me despite how hard I tried to blow it all away, settling in my hair and skin. I immolated you while an aeroplane roared over the music in my head (praying for the death of a man i'll never meet) and cricketers shouted soundlessly, a field away. I watched you burn, cross-eyed, right down to your end, to the very first scrawled letter. It was your idea, really, writing names on cigarettes.


The bar sat in a glade in a mist-wrapped pine forest, and the first I knew of it was the blue neon sign cutting through the fog: *Juliet’s.* On one side of the sign was a flashing feathery wing, and on the other, a red-lit pitchfork or a trident. I couldn’t tell you how long I’d been wading through the mist before I found it. But I do know that my death, and my life prior to it, hung on the very distant edge of my memory. Trying to recollect it was like trying to grab a handful of the fog. I could tell you I had a wife and a daughter — but I couldn’t tell you their names or even their hair colour. The bar was pretty dim and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. Music hummed, drifted like waves in the background. Bluesy saxophone with a woman crooning in the gaps. The tables were slats of wood. Lights dangled low from the ceiling like orange bowls on threads of string. “What can I get you?” said a woman standing behind the bar. Her face was winter-pale, hair pumpkin-orange. She was drying a tumbler with a dishcloth. ”What is this place?” I said. ”Juliet’s. Didn’t you see the sign?” “I saw it. But... I don’t get what a bar is doing in a forest?” ”Serving spirits.” She laughed at that but I didn’t. ”Want to try a martini?” she asked. “I do a pretty good martini. On the rocks.” I shrugged. ”Sure.” What else was there to say? “You must be thirsty,” she said as she poured the gin. “Bet you haven’t had drink in a long time.” ”I guess I haven’t.” I looked arounds at the empty booths and stools. “Why am I the only one here?” She poured a shot of vermouth into the glass. “I only just opened. You’re the first to find me!” ”Oh.” “Try this.” She slid the glass across to me and it was only then I realised I had no money. For the first time since walking in those woods, I looked down at my clothes. Jeans. Striped tee with a smear of red on it. Blood, I guessed. No wallet or coins in my pockets. ”Relax,” Juliet said. “I don’t charge. I’m not here for profits. And certainly not for prophets.” She only grinned at that one. ”Who are you?“ I asked. ”What do you think of the drink?” she replied. ”I haven’t tried it yet.” ”You should. Before the ice melts and dilutes it.“ She put her tongue out and bit on it. Then she said, “I’m someone who has been above and been below. Someone a lot like you, except you’ve not been above or been below.” “I don’t follow,” I said. ”I used to be an angel. Then I used to be a demon.“ That should have probably bothered me, being inside a bar run by a demon, but it didn’t. Nothing seemed to bother me anymore. The numbness where my heart used to be was everything. Like my heart had been replaced by a wad of tissues. “Oh, now I get the logo,” I said. “The wing and pitchfork. Angel and devil.” ”Exactly.“ “Are you Lucifer,” I asked? ”Hardly,” she said. “I wasn’t cast out of anywhere. I’m just someone who got fed up with everything. You know, before I quit the final time, before I left hell, they tried mixing the entire thing up. Sinners went to heaven to be fixed up, while the pious went to hell for being too pious.“ The song changed. The sound of an old fashioned bass guitar rippled down my spine. “How did that go?” I asked. ”A disaster. But who cares, right?” ”A disaster?” ”At least,” she said, “in my opinion. Because then no one was happy. You died and you got fucked — excuse my french. You tried to live well, you got screwed, you lived the life of a sinner, you got screwed. Maybe rightfully in that case, but still, everyone got screwed. And that didn’t seem right to me. No nuance.” ”So you opened this place?” ”Yep.” ”And... Where is this place? Where are we?” ”Limbo,” she said. “They closed it down for centuries, you know? Because they couldn’t find anyone to run it. So everyone either went to heaven or to hell. Like I said, no nuance. You’re the first soul to arrive here, so that’s great.” ”Why did I come here?” I asked. ”Because I invited you! And I’m going to invite a lot more people.” I shook my head. ”I don’t remember that.” ”How’s the drink?” I still hadn’t tried it. I took a toothpick and stirred it idly. Finally, slowly, I took a sip. It didn’t taste of liquid. Or of alcohol. ”Careful,” she said. “It’s strong.” The drink tasted of memories. There I was at home. Hiding a bottle in cupboard beneath the stairs. There I was filling up a flask before work. ”Shit,” I said. There I was getting in the car. Drinking from the flask. ”*Shit*.” ”I told you it’s strong.” There was my beautiful daughter. My wife. Getting in the car after me. Headlights. Swerved too late. Screech. Scream. Shattered glass- “What the fuck,” I said, gasping, slamming the drink back down. ”Relax,” Juliet said. The drink had filled up my heart as if it had been an empty cup sitting in my chest just waiting for this. And now this poison had splashed into it, this black liquid. And it was being sent through my body, through my veins. This horror and self loathing, pumping through my being. ”Did I... Was that me?” Juliet placed a hand on mine. “Yes. But it’s okay.” ”Why am I here?” I whispered. “I should burn in hell if I did that. ” ”It’s never that simple,” said Juliet. “That’s why I opened the bar. It’ll be packed before you know it.” ”It is simple,” I said. “I killed them.” She shook her head. “It takes a lot of sun to grow a tree tall.” ”Huh?” ”Your childhood. Do you remember that? Your father? Do you remember being bullied at school? Losing your job?” ”What does that have to do with anything?” ”Take another sip,” she said. I stared at the glass. ”*No*. Never again.” “Take another sip,” she said. The way she said it, it was so gentle, so warm, that my body reacted before I had a chance to deny it. I picked up the glass and drank. ”Do you see?” she asked. I saw my daughter. I saw myself walking her to school every day. I saw myself skipping meals after I lost my job, so her and my wife ate. I saw myself having tea parties with her instead of socialising with work colleagues. I saw my wife, her mermaid-tailed dress as she glided across the church. ”You’re not good. Or bad,” said Juliet. ”You’re just a product of your life. Like everyone else.“ She took the glass from me and put it down behind the bar. I didn’t watch as she made a coffee, but I could taste it in the air. ”Here,“ she said. “This’ll suit you better. Why don’t you go sit at a booth? They’ll be here soon.” ”Be here? Who will be here?” ”I’ve invited a lot of people. Because there’s no one just good and no one just bad. Your family are on their way and they’ll want to sit with you.” A blade of ice-cold worry stabbed into my chest. ”*My family?* After what I did? I can’t...” ”You can,” she said. “This bar isn’t here to punish people. Or to reward them. It’s just a place where people can talk and be and help mend each other. And I’ll be here to help, too. So please, go sit down. It’s about to get very busy.


"How am I supposed to choose? To pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't there both so important to me" There I stood between the two most important people to me, my girlfriend and my best friend. They were my world but now my world was splitting in two. My girlfriend huffed and puffed and yelled a hurricane of complaints about my friend right at me, " LOUD! ", " MESSY! ", " WEIRD! ", " RUDE! ", She yelled with a face so red it would put even the ripest tomato to shame. My Best Friend with a force of equal magnitude roared a slew of insults in retaliation, " STUCK-UP! ", " NEEDY! ", " SELFISH! ", " CLINGY! ", his fists were balled so tightly I was afraid they were gonna burst. I shrunk back into my shell at the volume of the argument, I felt like a child watching the marriage of his parents fall apart. It was too much, my heartfelt low and groggy, my head was hot and fuzzy. I've never been able to handle conflict well. In a rush, I grabbed my coat and bolted for the door. The two still locked in their verbal battle didn't even notice me leave. I ran and I ran, I kept running as far as my skinny legs would take me until I arrived at a park. It was the afternoon and it was cold. The sun started to go down as I walked over to a bench and sat down. I just couldn't take it, this wasn't the first time that they had gotten into such a scuffle. Any time the two would come in contact with each other they always come to argue. I was tired of trying to make them come to terms. I've tried every trick and tactic in the book, I've wrung my brain dry trying to think of something, anything to stop their fighting, but the two were like oil and water they can never mix. I have tried to keep them apart, but they would just try to monopolize me to hurt the other. As much as they despise each other they are more similar than they would ever admit. One thing that they especially had in common was that they were both absolutely, unrelentingly spiteful, and they're both more stubborn than a mule. On my Bestfriend's last birthday, my girlfriend arranged a dinner party and invited her whole family just to spite my friend and on Christmas day which I was supposed to spend with my girlfriend my best friend had his parents invite my entire family on a trip. I'm out of options, if they can't stop fighting them I have to cut one out of my life, but how, how could I possibly do something like that. Both of them mean more to me than they could ever know, but if I don't do this they could end up hurting each other one of these days. Who, oh Who do I cast aside. I've been dating my girlfriend since high school, she's been driving me forward every day but what about my best friend we've been best buddies since prep school, he's held me up for years never let me fall. How am I supposed to choose, to pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't be both so important to me. Who do I discard my Sun or my earth, my gas or my break, my muse or my brush, I don't know. Even with my jacket the cold of the air still brushes my bones, I can't stop shivering, my teeth won't stop chattering. I get up ready to leave, the sky is lit up with a sea of stars but the only light near the ground is the dim shimmering of the lamp posts. My head begins to calm down at the sight of this scene but as my mind quiets my heart begins to race, the scenery through beautiful is unfamiliar, I am lost. Where am I, which way did I come from, is this park safe? these questions were boiling over in my brain. I began to walk, trying to find my way back, once I left the park I began to realize how truly terrifying it is to walk home in darkness. The Lights in the houses were off and there was hardly anyone on the streets. The quiet of my surroundings was absolutely maddening, the only sound was the faint noise of cars very far away and the clicking of my shoes on the concrete. I hope to find something familiar or recognizable so I can make my way home. The traffic light shone a bright red down onto me, the green man of light instructing me of my time to cross the street. I took a step onto the open road, I could hear a car approaching in the background, it sounded on its way so I had time to cross. About halfway across the street, the car was driving up. Its movement was unsteady and shaky. I hurried across as it approached, then suddenly, unexpectedly, I was on the ground, laying on my side. My mind is unsure of what had just occurred, my body still hadn't processed the reality of the situation. Red, a puddle of red, the darkest, most mesmerizing shade of red I'd ever seen laid beside me, Its size quickly growing till it surrounded me like a lake, Warm, it was warm, I felt so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open. The car stopped behind me, the driver got frantic and called out to me but I could barely hear him, it was so nice and comforting, this quiet was different from the one from before, it was soft and loving, it was tranquil. Darkness started to creep around my vision but I didn't mind, I just wanted to fall asleep. Bright, so bright, nothing like the loving darkness, a white light shone onto my face. I felt so cold once again. My eyes crept open and my sleep slowly faded away. There I lay in bed, on one side my girlfriend and on the other my best friend, they were crying, their faces were soaking wet. Protruding from my stomach was a bunch of tubes and pipes, A breathing mask was fastened around my face. My lips curled into a smile, they weren't fighting anymore, we were all together and no one was fighting, I was so happy. Their hands were coupled around both of mine, their hands were cold and trembling, my hands began to numb until I couldn't feel their hold anymore. Both of them were speaking to me but their words couldn't reach me even though they were so close, I couldn't hear anything, as I looked into their dripping faces my vision began to blur and darken, I was getting tired again. I layed in that bed with my two favorite people standing right beside me. I couldn't see them even though my eyes were still open. I couldn't hear them even though they were so close. I couldn't feel them but I knew they were there. I knew that once I closed my eyes I would have the most wonderful rest, I knew that I wouldn't wake up but that didn't bother me because at the moment the two people I love the most are with me. This quiet darkness is absolute bliss.


I stare at the cracked mirror in the dimly lit backstage room, trying to recognise the person staring back at me. The once vibrant eyes now carry a weariness that no amount of success can erase. My name is Jake, and I've poured every ounce of my being into becoming a rock star, but lately, I've begun to question if it was worth it. Our band, "The Fallen," was born in the dingy basement of a rundown apartment building. We were just a group of misfits with a shared dream and an insatiable hunger for music. Countless hours were spent rehearsing, writing songs, and playing in empty dive bars, hoping for that one breakthrough that could change our lives. And finally, it came. We secured our first tour, hopping from city to city in a rickety old van, living off fast food and cheap motels. The late nights and endless miles became our companions as we played our hearts out in front of dwindling audiences. But perseverance paid off when we caught the attention of a record label executive who saw the raw potential in us. Our first album, "Blood, Sweat & Tears," became an instant hit. It climbed the charts, and our faces adorned magazine covers. The relentless touring took its toll, but we revelled in the adoration of fans, the exhilaration of sold-out concerts, and the euphoria that surged through our veins with every chord struck on stage. However, the dark side of success soon reared its head. The constant pressure, the unrelenting expectations, and the ever-mounting stress began to wear us down. I, in particular, felt the weight of it all crushing my spirit. The exhaustion led to sleepless nights and moments of crippling self-doubt that turned into bouts of depression. And then came the blackouts. I wake up in unfamiliar places, covered in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribcage. My mind is blank, unable to account for the hours that slipped away. Panic grips me as I frantically search for clues, wondering what I might have said or done during those lost moments. The fear of becoming a stranger to myself consumes me, and I'm left questioning my sanity. Inside the band, tensions rise. The arguments that used to be minor disagreements now escalate into full-blown fights. Trust begins to erode as egos clash, and resentment festers beneath the surface. The harmony we once had as a united force of music becomes distorted, replaced by discordant notes that threaten to tear us apart. As the fame grows, so does the darkness that lingers around us. I can't help but wonder if this is the price we pay for chasing our dreams. The success that once felt like salvation now feels like a curse, and I'm left wondering if there's any way to escape the shadows that haunt us. The once vibrant energy of "The Fallen" now hangs heavy with an ominous tension. We've reached a crossroads where the very foundation of our band threatens to crumble beneath the weight of our personal demons. As the second act of our story unfolds, the true horrors lurking in the shadows are about to be unleashed. The strain on our relationships becomes unbearable, like a frayed guitar string on the verge of snapping. Each member of the band carries their own burdens, and the pressure cooker of emotions can no longer contain the mounting resentment. Arguments turn into bitter confrontations, hurling accusations and insults that cut deep into our souls. But the dissonance within us pales in comparison to the malevolent presence that seems to infiltrate our lives. Strange occurrences haunt our days and nights, testing the boundaries of our sanity. Instruments mysteriously detune, creating discordant melodies that grate on our nerves. Eerie whispers echo through the corridors of our tour bus, leaving us trembling in the darkness. My blackouts intensify, their duration stretching into hours, and the fear of what I might become during those lost moments gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It's as if a malevolent force takes control, using my body as a vessel for its own nefarious desires. I wake up with bloodstained hands, surrounded by shattered glass and broken memories. Paranoia takes hold, and we start to suspect each other. The camaraderie we once shared is replaced by a toxic cocktail of suspicion and fear. Our music, once a means of escape and expression, now becomes a conduit for something darker. The lyrics we pen are laced with sinister undertones, haunting melodies that seem to summon an otherworldly presence. As we delve deeper into the abyss, we discover a disturbing truth. Our rise to fame was not simply a product of talent and hard work but a pact we unknowingly made when we were desperate for success. The price we paid for our dreams was steeper than we ever imagined. An ancient curse, tied to the music we create, has awakened forces beyond our comprehension. Our very souls are entwined with the darkness, and it feeds on our anguish, our struggles, and our desperation. The success we once craved has become a prison, a never-ending nightmare from which we cannot escape. With each passing day, the malevolent presence grows stronger, its grip on our minds and bodies tightening like a vice. It's clear that we must confront the origins of this curse and find a way to break free, or risk losing ourselves entirely to the abyss. But can we find the strength to overcome the horrors that surround us and reclaim our lives, or are we destined to become mere instruments in a symphony of madness? The depths of despair have claimed my bandmates, leaving me standing amidst a gruesome tableau of carnage and unanswered questions. The discovery of their lifeless bodies shocks me to the core. Crimson splatters paint the walls, turning our once vibrant sanctuary into a macabre canvas. Their eyes, once filled with dreams and determination, now stare into the abyss, their souls forever silenced. How did it come to this? Did our pact with the shadows consume them, or is there a more sinister force at play? The room whispers secrets, but they remain locked within the shadows, refusing to reveal their dark truths. Fragmented memories of our recent days together haunt my mind, merging with the echoes of my blackouts. Did I become an unwitting puppet, dancing to the malevolent tune of the curse? Or was I merely a witness to a horror that defies comprehension? The weight of guilt presses upon my shoulders, threatening to break me. The once unbreakable bond we shared, the brotherhood forged in music, now feels like a curse. Doubt seeps into the cracks of my sanity, intertwining with the tendrils of the darkness that has plagued us from the beginning. How could I have let it come to this? Was there any way to save them, or was their fate sealed from the moment we struck that infamous bargain? As I stand amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams and shattered lives, the truth remains elusive, buried deep within the haunting melody of our story. The horror of the unknown lingers, forever shrouding our final chapter in mystery. Was it the curse that claimed their lives, or was it my own hand stained with their blood? The echoes of their music resonate within me, their voices mingling with the haunting questions that will haunt me until my last breath. So, as I stand above the four dead members of my band, covered in blood, I wonder, was it all worth it? The End.


A yearning propelled me forward. Freezing water lapped over my toes and made me gasp. I hesitated. Resolutely, I took a deep breath and shuffled a few more inches in. The murky water eddied around my ankles, but I already felt like I was in over my head. What was I thinking? Over my shoulder, onlookers gathered on shore.

“It’s a cold world out there,” they warned. The older ones huddled in their cozy blankets, staying warm and dry and safe. The younger ones built castles on the sand, watched the surf melt them, then started over. Yes, I was doing the right thing. There had to be more to life than the shallow monotony they represented. I broke out in goosebumps, more from exhilaration than the temperature. I waded in further and jumped up as a swell approached, only to have my legs jerked out from under me as it receded. Floundering, I was sucked into the fray.

Hecklers jeered, then quietened down and sank back into their chaise lounges. Now one of the flailing crowd, I swam blindly through the swirling mist blanketing the surface. I wondered what the others were after — a hidden treasure, an elusive 'happily ever after,' a missing piece to life’s puzzle? Who knew?

I sought meaning and purpose, and prayed I'd recognize it when I found it. Tossed by uneven swells, dumped on by crashing waves, and pushed around and down by others in their own selfish pursuit of what evaded them, I questioned my sanity. "Rocks!"

"Sharks!"

"Undertow!” Warnings hollered out, usually too late, caused a frenzy of thrashing as everyone did their best to steer clear of the dangers. Nearby, screams muffled to gurgling, then silence, as people were dragged under. A wave crashing on nearby rocks ended with a sickening grunt, the sound of a body slammed down like a discarded rag doll. Squawking signaled the scavengers swooping in and fighting over the choicest morsels. Shivering, I put more power behind each stroke and swam away as fast and as far as my tired limbs allowed. Unable to see through the hazy veil over the water, I couldn’t be sure I was safe. Tears and saltwater stung my eyes. Who was I in this sea of humanity, anyway? I certainly didn't know. No one seemed to care if I was struggling out here or back on land, as long as I didn’t interfere with them doing their own thing. I swore some were swimming in circles. Like everyone else, I worked to keep my head above water. Prickling at the back of my neck told me someone was watching me. I didn't know who was in the shadows, and I didn't want to know. I focused harder on the task at hand to distract myself.

A glow in my periphery revealed Father hovering nearby. I ignored him. He waited patiently. Stubbornness and pride spurred me on. Every now and then, his alluring song or reassuring whisper reached my ears, "I'm here for you when you're ready.”

Fueled by a determination to make it on my own, I doubled my efforts. The frigid water numbed my extremities and dulled my senses. This wasn’t the 'more' I’d been seeking when I started out. I doubted the outcome of this fateful quest. Fatigue and hopelessness settled in my bones. How could I find something when I didn't know what I was looking for? Was this even the right way? Exhausted, I sank to the rocky bottom, resigned to my soggy grave. A shaky voice I didn't recognize as my own caught me off guard, crying out from the depths of my being. My world dimmed. Rays of brilliant sunshine illuminated my Father’s hand as he reached for me and lifted me into his boat. I clung to him. My thankful tears mingled with the dripping seawater. “Dear one,” he said, wrapping me securely in his strong arms and kissing the top of my head. His embrace and the sun banished any hint of a chill. It dawned on me, this is what I'd been searching for all along. "Why didn't you tell me before I ventured out?” "Would you have listened?” he said, lifting my chin. There was no condemnation in those loving eyes. He raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head and lowered my gaze. “At least you were bold enough to step out. Some people feel the cold, wet sand underfoot and retreat. Some like to test the waters and go their own way, no matter what. Everyone's free to make their own choices, but they must live — or die — with the consequences.” I knew it was true, but that didn’t mean I liked it. We groped blindly but were oblivious to the pointlessness of it all. We were directionless despite our perseverance, clueless but too arrogant to admit it, and our mindless activity only wedged us deeper in our quandary. *** My mission, now, was to help others come into the light. We launched the boat once again. Father sang his usual love song, dispelling the darkness from around the boat, and I used his strong searchlight to part the fog further.

I wanted to trawl along with a net and scoop everyone up. Then they couldn’t choose to argue with me when I tried to get them to understand what they were missing out on, but I knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything except make people mad.

I spotted my brother Kamron plowing through the throng of people. I was relieved he was still afloat, but then, he was smart, athletic, and up on the latest of everything, the polar opposite of me, so I wasn’t surprised he’d do well for himself. He forged on, sometimes grabbing the shoulder of someone nearby to help propel him forward. Despite the increasing waves, he made good progress. Part of me thrilled at his success, part of me was saddened by it. Why would he be interested in anything I had to offer? When a burly man pushed him under, he sputtered and choked, but recovered quickly and pressed on. Father maneuvered the boat closer. “Here! Grab the rope!” I yelled. Several people scowled at me.

“Nah, don’t worry — I’ve got this!” Kamron assured me. I’d thrown the life preserver within arm’s reach, but he swam on. Tossed around in the melee, his lifeline soon drifted away, but others could still grab it if they wanted to. “Anyone?” No takers, only mockers. “Are you saying we’re weak and need rescuing?” “You think we can’t handle this?” “Come on — that’s for wimps!” “You’re going the wrong way! I know what you’re looking for,” I said, tugging on the rope and coiling it around my arm. I readied it to throw out again.

“You’ve already given up, so how would you know, Miss High-and-Mighty?” someone said, splashing me. “Just 'cause you’re up there and we’re down here, you think you’re better than us?”

“There isn’t a wrong way!” someone else piped up as they backstroked by, “We’ll all make it there eventually.” “Where is there? Do you even know where you’re going?” The sloshing of the ocean was my only answer. “Everyone’s going this way, so it must be right,” Kamron said. “What? And you’d swim through a swarm of box jellyfish if everyone else was?” I said, under my breath. Knowing him, he’d do it just to prove he could. “Sharks circling!” someone yelled. Screams followed by an ever-widening expanse of blood proved it was too late for at least one person. “Well, this is getting fun, isn’t it?” He laughed nervously. “Best get going then. Catch you later.” “Come on, Kamron! If you get in the boat, you’ll be safe. Then we can go home together.” “If I wanted safe, I would’ve stayed on the beach. Should I throw in the towel because you have? Don’t you see? I’m doing what’s best for me! Why is that so wrong?”

I guess I touched a nerve.

“I see more clearly than you do!” I said. I interrupted Father’s beautifully haunting singing and said, “You could make him get in.” “Yes,” he said, smiling, “but it’s got to be his choice.” “Yeah, I know,” I said, my voice flat, shoulders sagging. When I turned back, Kamron was long gone. “Let’s go. This is pointless.” “Listen!” Dad whispered, “There is one.”

I cupped my hand around my ear and focused. In the distance, a tiny voice pleaded, “Help! Please save me!” Warmth bloomed in my chest. Yes, someone was ready!


There's a one day in past no one remembers... "I wish people could see that. No one is going to believe us." Miró put his camera on. "You were saying?" Tomazo smiled. His friend was always here to solve his non-existent crisis. "So, what are you going to say to our fans?" Tomazo stuttered. "We-we're about to jump from the plane, you know," When he spotted Miró, he added: ",with other members of Wackos International." Miró rolled his eyes at the nervous youngster. "Tomazo, Tomazo, what I am going to do with you? You're not scared of jumping from 700 metres but speaking to the public it's mortifying? Unbelievable." Tomazo pulled on his friend's parachute to make sure everything was in perfect shape. "I can assure you- fine, fine, check it for the thousandth time." Miró let his friend do the checks and went to look for other boys. "Hello, Wackos! Some words of encouragement for our fans?" They began to shout: "We gonna jump, you better watch it. 700 metres and no one's dying!" Miró laughed and joined them with chanting. "Are you guys ready, an aeroplane is here in a minute?" Instead of an answer, they started to dress up. Joel, the oldest of the group, smiled at Miró. "If I want to show my abs, I would do it in a gym. Not with you grinning behind the lens. Shoo!" "You never let me have fun, do you, Joel?" Miró grinned when Joel threw his sweaty top at him. "I'll show my sixpack to anyone, Miró." Emmanuel laughed. The cameraman pointed the camera at him, smiling. Emmo twisted his top over his head, wiggling around with his hips. Other boys cheered. "Why are you not ready? The pilot's already here." Tomazo entered the locker room, then twisted himself to run away, embarrassed to death. "Tomazo! Our virgin boy, don't you worry, we're leaving so you can get ready," shouted Arno. Miró stared at him in disbelief. How dare is he? ", chill, I am on my way out." The youngster added and left the locker room, laughing. When only Miró left, secretly leaving the camera on, he asked Tomazo: "What's the issue? My younger brother sometimes doesn't think about what he's doing, hell, he never thinks. That doesn't mean he's right about you." "Some scars are better to stay hidden, Miró." "Let me help you, then. I think you can trust me, after all." Tomazo shivered but then let him help. "Is it safe to jump with this?" He poked the thin tube hanging off his stomach. "I'll be fine, believe me. I need a tape, and you need to hold it for a moment." Miró nodded. "Hey, you will not rip me apart, hold it tight!" Tomazo blushed. It sounded harsh but Miró waved it off. "Tomazo, calm down, we are both men. You can actually hit me, you know?" The younger of the men shook his head. "No, Miró, I will not. Besides, Wackos are ready to game on. Don't tell me you can't hear their bickering from outside." Mir´o slapped his arm and together they went outside. Every parachutist was checking its stuff, buckling themselves and joking about presidents and priests. Tomazo had to smile. They disagree, first, with this idea. But Miró was convincing and group of eight men and three women build up enough courage to set the meeting. To actually jump. With Tomazo, shy boy from Texas, first. He breathed in and out. He grabbed the rope. He breathed in and out again. Then he raised his thumb up and shouted: "On three!" Pilot laughed and slightly shifted the plane on the side. Tomazo screeched and he was gone. Free fall from the plane. Alone, dropping fast, yet he was relaxed. Screaming his lungs out, he let happiness fill him to the brink. Then he pulled the string and opened his parachute. At first nothing happened, then violent thrust of wind raised him up. Tomazo realized the parachute opened already and clutched the harness, maneuvering as he was taught in the class. Briefly, he could see Joel and Marianne, Wackos official founders, screaming and laughing around. Then others jumped in synchronized motion. Finally, they all reached Tomazo and caught him from both sides, creating a Wacko "circle of bravery". Tomazo couldn't hold back tears. Bunch of colleagues now turned into something Tomazo never had. A family. They were doing it for him. And with him. "That was amazing!" Emmo landed first, laughing his ass off from relief. "I'll kill you, when you land hard, men!" He shouted at the sky where men were falling. "It's not over. Next week, we are deep diving in Marine Trench." Miró remarked, being killed immediately with a look of slightly scared Emmanuel. "Are you okay, Tomazo?" When everyone landed, Miró run to his friend. He was white as a sheet, shivering. And big blotch of blood was trickling from his stomach. "Call an emergency, quick!" He shouted, breaking the panic silence. Joel run in search of signal while others were helping to unbuckle Tomazo from his parachute. "I'll be fine, no stress." He whispered, attempting to relax them. Arno shook his head and nipped: "You idiot! You cut yourself open and expect us to believe you'll be good?!" Miró wasn't in mood to scold him, focused on Tomazo, who was clutching his left arm in attempt to fight shivers. Emmanuel managed to free him from the harness and they lay him down. "The helicopter is on the way." Joel absent-mindedly wiped his face of sweat and announced the news. "Hey, buddy, what's that?" Hanzo, Joel's younger brother, commented when Miró accidentally pulled out Tomazo's suit. "Uhm," Tomazo went silent. "Heck no, Tomazo, they deserve to know. Now, grow into big boy pants and tell them!" Miró pinched his shoulder, sober look on his sweaty face. ",uh, I got PEG tube. Two years ago." Everyone went silent for a while, then Emmo sighed: "You ruined it now. I always thought you're gay vampire." The Wackos burst into a laugh. "Why gay? I get that part with not eating your food, but gay? Do you think you are turning me on? You're handsome, that's without doubt, but you know, I'm wet while looking at girls. Sorry, Marianne. It's rude to say it aloud." She waved it off, looking nervous as blood didn't stop trickling, making him less able to communicate. "Where's the-" Arno growled when they heard deafening noise from helicopter's rotating blades. After surgery, Tomazo was bored from watching cartoons and he switched the channel to evening news. He started to laugh, waking up his roommate. "Shush you, trying to get some sleep, wait- it's that you?" Tomazo swallowed tears and nodded. The evening news were full of his face. To be clear, Wackos International group was served as the main dish for local media. There was a record from Miró and also the part he was unaware of. The part of their conversation in the locker room. He reached for his phone, shaking. This hit him home. But before the phone connected to Miró, he knocked at the door and invited himself inside. With box of chocolates and grin plastered on his face. "I guess you would like to kick me. So I melted them first." "How could you? I trusted you with my- with this!" He pointed at his bandaged stomach. "Because you trusted me, I didn't tell a soul. Nor did you. Though you should be proud. Nothing of this would happen, if you didn't stand up for them. You save them, risking your own life. And now, you are part of us. Raining men. Wackos. Seize the day and save sorrow for the funeral." With these words he left the room, leaving Tomazo to think about the past he was running from. "What he was talking about? Who did you save?" His roommate wondered. "My name is Tomazo Fretta. I was deployed to rescue mission of American soldiers, held in captivity, in Iraq's war camps. I was attacked, bombed and I came home, damaged but saved them all. It was rainy, rainy day, when Tomazo Fretta, walked that way. I wanted to forget it, but Miró is right. I should be proud of what I did. Not pushing it away. And I owe them, my raining men...."


Maggie sighed and tossed her home renovation magazine aside. The glossy pages of beautifully decorated rooms seemed to mock the idea that she would ever get the beach house that she longed for. She was doomed to listen to Audrey and Maude burble on at the book club about their beach properties for ever. It was not for want of trying to convince her husband Tom that it would be a great investment for their retirement. She pushed the magazines under his nose, made him sit through hours of reality television about flipping houses and buying real estate and even dragged him to some open houses. Easy-going by nature, he rarely objected, but also showed no sign of acquiescing with her ideas. She looked at the clock. He should be home any moment now. She headed off to the kitchen to start dinner. An hour later, she was beginning to worry. He worked in construction, and she tended to go to worst case scenarios whenever he was late. She was equally irritated and relieved when she heard his key in the door. He came into the kitchen, beaming, and swept her off her feet into an extravagant hug. Maggie extricated herself and stepped back, surveying him anxiously. She hadn’t seen him this excited since their son was born thirty odd years ago. His usual greeting consisted of a peck on the cheek as he passed her on the way to the fridge to grab a beer. “Tom? Did you win the lottery?” He shook his head, grinning. “I wish. Next best thing. We’re going to look at a house at the beach tomorrow. That’s why I’m late. I was setting up an appointment with the realtor.” Maggie dropped her dish towel and flung her arms around his neck. “So, you were listening to me after all,” she said. “What’s it like? Where is it?” “It’s a surprise,” he said proudly. “You’ll see it all tomorrow.” Maggie tossed and turned that night, picturing herself admiring ocean views from the balcony, a glass of chilled chardonnay in her hand. She finally fell asleep with color schemes running through her mind. Sky blue, turquoise, azure and mint green perhaps, but absolutely no kitschy shell decorations. She woke early and heard Tom singing in the bathroom as she packed a lunch. It was a beautiful spring day. It occurred to her that she couldn’t remember the last time they had gone on an outing like this. Traffic was light and they made good time, singing along to the country music blasting on the radio. “Here we are,” said Tom as they reached the outskirts of the coastal town. Maggie eagerly gazed at the tourist shops, palm trees and seagulls, straining for a glimpse of the sea. She kept her eye open for ‘For Sale’ signs, but he continued past all the fancy, pastel colored ocean front houses with cute names like ‘Captain’s Rest’ and ‘Sea La Vie’ and turned down a residential street three streets back from the ocean. Parking the truck in front of a modest older home, he waved at a slim, well-dressed woman who appeared on the front porch. “This is Jenna, the realtor who’s been helping me look for properties,” he said. Jenna proffered her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Let me show you around. This place has so much potential.” Maggie’s heart sank. She knew what ‘potential’ meant from all the reality shows she’d watched. Inside, her worst fears were realized. There was peeling vinyl on the kitchen floor and dirty green shag carpet in the living room. The trim was dark brown. The kitchen appliances were avocado green and at least thirty years old. “Was this the only place you could find?” she said. “It’s going to be so much work.” Jenna, who had been hovering in the background, cleared her throat. “You could always tear down and rebuild,” she said. Maggie turned to Tom, a gleam of excitement in her eye. “What do you think?” “Excuse us for a moment,” he said to Jenna, who scurried outside. “This is the only thing I could find that fits our budget. It’s solid. I’ll renovate the kitchen and bathroom. You decorate to your heart’s desire. We’re not in the same income bracket as your fancy book club friends and I’m not going to get into debt to compete with them.” Looking at Tom’s hurt expression, Maggie flushed with shame at having been so transparent. “I’m sorry,” she said, hugging him. “You’re right. No point having champagne tastes on a beer income. We can make it special.” The next few months were a blur of activity. Tom was as good as his word and worked wonders with the kitchen and bathroom. Maggie was so busy stripping and repainting walls and sewing curtains and cushions that she had no time to hanker after her dream house. The result was cozy and eclectic, and if they didn’t have an ocean front balcony, they did have a screened back porch where she could enjoy her chilled chardonnay and Tom his cold beer. Even Maude and Audrey were impressed when they came to visit. “We thought about ocean front, you know,” said Maggie airily as she showed them around. “But this place has more personality than those cookie cutter McMansions.” Tom, in the background, smothered a grin. A few days later Tom and Maggie awoke to the sound of heavy equipment grinding away at the house next door. The house seemed to gradually double in size as a large extension was added. Tom followed the process with interest, chatting to the workers as all his old construction skills resurfaced. “Must be nice to have money like that,” Maggie said, with a pang of envy as they watched a large moving van pull up, followed by a car, a few weeks later. A tall, slim woman got out of the car and began directing the movers. “Beware the green eyed-monster,” Tom said, chuckling, as he headed out to the back garden where he was building a gazebo. Finally empty, the van left and the woman emerged from the house, stretching and looking weary. Maggie waved at her over the fence. “Hi, won’t you come in for a coffee? You must be exhausted.” “That sounds wonderful. I’m Val,” said the woman, smiling. “I’d love a cup and I’ll be glad to reciprocate whenever I can get unpacked and find my coffee maker.” Tom gave Val what he called the five-minute tour of their house while Maggie served cakes and coffee. “Your construction people did a good job,” he said. “That’s my line of work, so I know what I’m talking about.” “After seeing what you did here, I know that’s true,” Val said, gazing around at the house. “It’s so cozy.” “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Maggie wryly. “Having the extra space with your extension will be wonderful.” Val sighed and looked down at her coffee. “I’m glad you mentioned that. My husband was in a bad car accident a few years ago. It’s a miracle that he survived, but he sustained permanent brain damage. He has a mental age of about five.” Tom and Maggie stared, flabbergasted. “I am so sorry,” said Maggie, hurriedly passing Val the tissues as her tears welled. “You weren’t to know,” said Val, wiping her eyes. “Imagine a five-year-old six-foot-tall former football player and you’ll get the picture. He was in a private residential place for a while, but they claimed they couldn’t manage his behavior. The only other option was to send him to a state institution, but I wouldn’t keep a dog there if I could help it. We already had this house, so I used the insurance money from the accident to modify it and I’ve hired a nurse’s aide. I didn’t want you to be alarmed if you hear yelling or commotion from time to time. He would never hurt anyone intentionally, but like any child, he sometimes has a meltdown if he gets tired or his routine is changed. He’ll be fine once he gets settled.” “It sounds so inadequate but let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” said Tom. Val smiled wearily. “I will. Thanks for the coffee. Now I’d better get going. He’s arriving later today, and I have a lot to do.” That evening, as they sat on the porch, Maggie looked from their house to the house next door as if seeing the scene for the first time. “I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “I’ll be very careful what I wish for from now on.”


 The magician, simply known as The Great Bardot, has been in show business for thirty years. He started as a child by learning all the common tricks of magic. Disappearing coins and foam balls squeezed between your fingers suddenly appear as if from nowhere into full-size balls in your hand. And, of course, a plethora of card tricks.            Bardot entered many amateur talent shows and traveled with a troupe across Europe. As his talent improved, people started talking about him. Night clubs were his next venue. Now that his name was more recognizable, his pay increased, and he could purchase more expensive materials. With better equipment, Bardot was able to do more elaborate illusions. These illusions were so complicated that he would perform only one or two per show. These amazed and baffled the audience.   With the complexity of each trick would come the question, “How do you do that?” To which Bardot would only say, “A good magician never reveals his tricks.”            While Bardot is at the peak of his popularity, he epitomizes what a magician should be and what a magician should look like.  Suave and debonair, the forty-two-year-old Frenchman strikes quite the figure. He is tall and slender, wearing his dark hair pomaded straight back. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored to show his broad shoulders tapering down to his polished black shoes. He does, in fact, look like an exclamation point expressing the wonder of his performance. He doesn’t have an assistant preferring to work alone. If he needs someone to help him, he’ll ask for a volunteer from the audience. Using a live audience member enhances the effect of the magic. One night after a performance, there’s a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. “Yes. What is it?’ “I have a telegram for Mousieur.” The boy enters and hands the note to Bardot and waits. Bardot knows the young man is waiting for a tip and reaches into his vest pocket and produces a silver coin. Before handing it to the lad, Bordot flips it into the air, where it disappears. The young man stands slackjawed until Bardot reaches behind the child’s ear saying, “Ah, here it is.” He smiles as he watches the lad leave under a hail of thank yous.

Bardot’s pulse quickens. He sees that the note is an invitation from the world’s greatest magician, Monsieur Matteo Descoteaux. Descoteaux retired and bought a castle in the Hauts-de-France region near the Belgium border. He has lived there as a recluse, with no one seeing or hearing from him in over ten years. The note expresses that it is imperative that he sees Bardot, for he has something most important to share with him. Bardot lays the letter on his dressing table with trembling fingers, fearing he’ll drop it. The performer is dizzy with excitement at the thought of the world’s greatest magician wanting to share something with him. What could it be?                                                              … Bardot takes a train to Lille, where he rents an automobile.  He then drives for forty-five minutes to reach the entrance of the three-hundred-acre forested estate containing Descoteaux’castle. The woods are dark and foreboding, and the road condition is poor.  Bardot steps out of his car and feels a chill run up his spine. The air is cold and damp as he inhales deeply to bolster his courage. The clanging of the metal door knockers reverberates through the surrounding woods, scattering mobs of crows in its wake. As the massive oaken door screeches open, Bardot is greeted by an elderly servant. He is bent and rather shabby looking. “May I help you, Monsieur?” His voice is old and husky. Bardot presents the note. “Yes. I am here on the invitation of your master, Monsieur Descoteaux.”  The butler takes the letter and asks Bardot to please wait while he informs his master of his arrival. Returning a few moments later, he shuffles up to Bardot. “If you will kindly follow me, the Master is in the library.” Bardot finds the castle to be cold and dreary. The surrounding forest is so thick that it allows little sunlight to enter through the stained glass windows. Everywhere he looks, Bardot sees thick layers of dust. The library is enormous, with beams of sunlight streaming through windows high up near the ceiling. The surrounding bookshelves are several feet tall and packed tight with numerous volumes. There are stacks of books measuring three to four feet high on the floor. At the far end of the library is a maple desk where Descoteaux is sitting. “Come closer young man. Let me have a better look at you.” As he approaches, Bardot sees that Docsoteaux’ left eye is cloudy white, with an agitated red and slightly swollen rim. His complexion is dull and gray. He has an open ulcerated sore on his forehead that he scratches now and then with knarled, arthritic fingers. The top of his head is bald save a few wispy strands of grey hair falling to his shoulders.  His coat is thread worn and covered with dandruff. The ancient magician points to a nearby chair. “Sit.”  Bardot removes several books and sees how filthy the chair is.  He doesn’t wipe it clean, for that would be an insult to the Master. “Monsieur Bardot, I have been following your career rather closely. It seems you are quite successful. I’ve studied your illusions and have found them most clever. I was wondering if you would like to learn the secret of true magic?”

Bardot hesitates and thinks, “He says the word magic as if it is something different than what I’m doing, performing tricks which is what we magicians do. But if he’s suggesting another, purer form of magic, then what magician wouldn’t want to know it.” A smile escapes Bardot’s lips, “True magic?” “Yes.” hisses Descoteaux. “True magic. The ability to create something out of nothing. To perform miracles, to dabble in the divine! Would you like that, Bardot?”

Feeling like he’s drunk too much wine, Bardot murmurs, “What must I do?” “Come closer, my young friend, and lend me your ear.  I shall whisper all the secrets of the universe into it.” An hour later, Bardot leaves the castle and drives recklessly down the ruinous driveway to catch the next train to Paris. While packing for an extended tour of the United States, Bardot hears on the evening news that the world-famous magician, Matteo Descoteaux, was found dead in his library. The one-hundred-and-two-year-old entertainer died of natural causes. The year is 1959.                                                             … Over the next two decades, Bardot’s career soars. He appears on talk shows and variety shows like the Ed Sullivan Hour. Bardot receives a five-year contract to headline at Circus Circus in Las Vegas. He truly is “The Great Bardot.” But at last, no matter how great you are, people’s interests change. The world of magic is no different. With interest fading, Bardot continues to perform sparingly. Toward the end of the seventies, Bardot makes a rare appearance on the Tonight Show. Johnny Carson, once having been an amateur magician, introduces Bardot with great zeal. In the center of the stage is a common folding table and chairs. Bardot invites Johnny and co-host Ed McMahon to join him. He also requests that the cameras come close and focus only on the tabletop. Bardot addresses the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, what I will demonstrate tonight can only be true magic. Please watch closely.”  He asks the bandleader, Doc Severinsen, to come over and examine the table for hidden traps. Severinsen feels around the table and announces, “Looks good to me, man.” Bardot then asks McMahon to press his finger as hard as he can into the center of the tabletop to demonstrate that it is indeed solid. McMahon does and reassures the audience it is so. Bardot stands and walks to the edge of the stage. “Might I please have someone lend me a coin the size of a quarter or half-dollar?” An eager young man from the front row rushes forward and hands Bardot a quarter. Bardot thanks him and asks him to tell the audience if they have ever met. The young man confirms they have not. Bardot calls the fellow over to the edge of the stage and bends down. Then in a low voice, “Are you by any chance a magician too? If so, meet me after the show tonight.” Returning to the table, Bardot hands the coin to Johnny. “It is real, yes?” “Oh, it’s very real.” “Good.”  Bardot places the coin on its edge and holds it with his forefinger. He then tells Johnny to put his hand under the table about four inches from the bottom. “If I can have camera number one focus tightly on the quarter and camera number two focus on Mr. Carson’s hand, I shall begin.” Bardot closes his eyes and starts pushing down on the coin. His concentration is great, as evidenced by the beads of sweat on his forehead. As he pushes harder, the audience seems to hold their breath. There is dead silence. The intensity is so palpable that the TV audience at home can feel it. The coin beneath Bardot’s finger vibrates, echoing through the silent studio. As the camera records, the coin starts to shimmer and fades in and out until, all at once, it is gone. Camera number two catches it falling into Johnny Carson’s hand! Bardot leans back, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.   Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, Johnny exclaims, “It’s hot! Ed, how can this be? Doc, you checked the table. How did it pass through?”  The audience gives Bardot a standing ovation. Bardot bows and exits the stage. A short while later, there is a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. Knowing who it is, he lets the young magician in and locks the door behind him. “What is your name, young man?” “Aldrich, sir.” “You want to know how I performed this miraculous trick tonight. Please have a seat, Mr. Aldrich, and I shall tell you how I became “The Great Bardot.” I lived in France a long time back when I was invited to the home of the most famous magician in all the world, Matteo Decsoteaux. He told me he could teach me to employ real magic in my routine. But there was one condition.” Captivated, Aldrich utters, “What was the condition?” “I will tell you in a minute, my dear Mr. Aldrich, but first, look into my eyes. Look deeply into my eyes and listen to my voice. Over the course of several lifetimes, I have emersed myself in the study of ancient books of Alchemy. I have learned to control others and transport my spirit into them. You are on longer in control of your body or your will. They are both mine. When Bardot visited me those years ago, I tempted him with the promise of using real magic. I then took over his body.” Aldrich struggles to scream, only to find he has no voice. He can not so much as utter a faint squeak. “ I possessed his body to carry on my life work of magic. This body that I now inhabit has contracted cancer and shall die soon. So here you are, Mr. Aldrich! A new vessel for Descoteaux to occupy for years to come! “ Descoteaux throws his head back and laughs diabolically. Tears of terror stream from Aldrich’s eyes as he feels the warm breath of Dexcoteaux on his ear, whispering his death warrant.


The form before me is positively massive, the sea dripping off in rivulets. My mind can’t even begin to comprehend it, as if in its very nature, it is wrongness given shape. I want to run away, howling madly, but I have a job to do. People have to know what is happening. What this creature wants. It raises its face, if you can call it a face, to look at me. Tendrils pulse and whirl around where the mouth would be. Its eyes are like enormous rubies, with a raging fire burning within. Those massive crimson chasms lock onto me, pinning me in place. From the outside, I hear a deep bellowing rumble. But within my head, I could hear a deep basso say,” Why have you disturbed me, peon.” All I can do is stand there, mouth agape, gasping like a landed fish. I wanted to escape those eyes, their scrutiny seeming to reach even the deepest recesses of my mind. “Can your kind not form thought into speech yet, small one,” it asked. What I could only assume as his brow rose like the tide. “Yes, yes I can speak. My apologies, it is rare that such a being as you is ever heard. Let alone seen. What would you have me call you?” “My true name would send you shrieking into the depths of madness, flea. You may refer to me as the dead dreamer.” “Alright, well Mr. Dreamer, why are you here? Do you come in peace?” I was really hoping it was not the alternative. “I come, because I was rudely awoken. I believe your fellow fleas have disturbed me with your drills, and your pumps. Taking what isn’t rightfully yours. My city was heavily damaged by the aftershocks of such activity.” “I will wipe this tomb clean of the filth that has caked the surface. A cleansing purge is often necessary to remove disease.” I gulped nervously. That didn’t sound remotely peaceful. But I had to press on. I raised my microphone as high above my head as I could, shouting, “So your purpose is to destroy then? What of the people that have grown to inhabit the planet.” “Well, they shall be destroyed, of course. Would you, pardon the expression, allow fleas to exist upon the back of your dog? No! You would purge the hound clean of the parasites. So it must be.” “Would you allow some of us to live?” It was but a small hope. “Possibly, if they were willing to serve. I believe I have unbeknownst agents amongst you already, so they may prove useful.” So that was it then. Humanity, save a small indoctrinated portion, would be wiped out. I could tell this was a promise, not a threat. Who’d have thought? Instead of being subjugated by some extraterrestrial, the greatest threat came from our own oceans. Finally dropping the pretense of this ill-fated interview, I fled. Screaming the whole way back to the van. Ross, my cameraman, was already behind the wheel. His eyes wide with panic, we careened away from the shore. We had to get away, spend what time we had left with those we cared about. As we fled, I turned and stared out the rear windshield. The Dreamer just watched us, serene as a statue. But the eyes, those damnable eyes, never left mine. I saw how it would end in that brief connection. I believe a small part of me snapped in that moment, because Ross told me I started to giggle wildly, speaking of the endless depths and those who live there. I remember none of it, only the eyes remain. Those damn eyes. Those damn eyes.