September spring, a happy evening it was. My parents, siblings and everybody at that party were dancing in ecstasy. The mood was jubilant. The effect of two rounds of vodka made me speak to the prettiest girls at the party. At twelfth I had already secretly made up with four girls in the bathroom. It was the greatest Sunday of my life. The joy and excitement went on until two in the morning. That was the morning I remembered I had a DAT test to write four hours later. DAT was a test written to determine the probability of students likely to be granted scholarship to study abroad. All the fun had been reciprocated into a ball of stress and anxiety. I dodged my cousins and stumbled to my room. The door was locked from the inside. I was drunk and struggled more than a minute before I got the key out of my pocket. I directed the golden key into the lock and moved back and forth at the effect of the vodka. The lock unlocked and the door shot open. The glass of water that was positioned next to my bed fell and broke when my girlfriend Jenny jumped naked out of bed. My best friend Dave sat in dismay astonished of my presence in that room. "This is just a misunderstanding." Dave tried to explain. Jenny was wrapped in a soft see-through blanket and her left breast stood stiff. Her womanly figure could be seen from the see-through blanket and her hair was messy. Dave was sweaty, and bravely got out of bed and walked towards me. "Look man. I know this is alot to take in, but please believe me man it's not what it looks like."Dave startled as he drew closer to me. He was naked. I was still standing at the door. I shed tears and loathed the fruits my jubilant night had beared. Jenny cried of shame. Without muttering a word, I grabbed the bat that I hung on my door for emergency purposes. I didn't hesitate and gave Dave a big blow to the head with my bat. He fell head-first on the tiled floor and never woke up. Jenny shook her head eyes-wide with her hand covering her shaking lips. "No! No! No! Not Dave!" Jenny said while rushing towards Dave who was lying on the floor. "Oh no! The pulse? No!this can't be. You killed him" Jenny kept crying. I only hit him once and my intentions were not to kill my best friend. I was still drunk, but fear engeneered it's way through me. I sat leaning against the door in view of Jenny crying at the loss of Dave. Young Thug's lifestyle was loudly being played at the party. The music and the screaming screened Jenny's mourning. I, for fright sake shed tears too while we waited for early darkness.

The shouts and screams at the party were becoming less. Breaking bottles were now heard from the road opposite the room Jenny and I miserably fell asleep. The party was approaching its terminus. The sun had only shown its upper-self to the world. Birds sang and whistled in all trees of the town. "Skunk! Wake up!" Jenny shouted. "How on earth does a killer fall asleep knowing there's alot out there?" she continued. I was awake before she asked the question. She was wearing red tight Jeans, a grey jersey and her favourite yellow cap. Her look did not satisfy my expectations. She looked calm and less troubled in my tired but awake eyes. "My uncle Tolido understood the dilemma and assured us help in hiding the body." she spoke again, right after she opened the window. "Wait what? You told someone? Why? I thought, I thought we were together in this. Did you really tell? You want me to go down for good?" I spoke with verbosity. "He is my uncle. I'm the fault behind all this mess. If I didn't sleep with Dave, you wouldn't have held that bat, I wouldn't have called my long lost uncle and Dave would still have had breath rushing through his smoked lungs. Can you honestly not see that?" Jenny imagined and a tear dropped down her left chick. The whole room was now painted with light. The sun had risen so that half of it could be seen, above the mountains, in the east. I obesserved steadily as Jenny pulled out a huge sack,it was black with a grey zip. She demanded we put the deceased body in the bag and wait for her uncle's arrival. I held Dave's body with my right and left arms positioned under the body's armpits,and struggled to lift the body into the black sack. Flies flew from the surroundings to fist on the rotting body. I placed the body inside the sack, and Jenny pulled the zip from the feet of the sack to the head and it closed. The vast variety of flies irritated my presence, I moved from the body and leaned against the door. Jenny sat on the bed, as we prayed and waited for her uncle's arrival. Time never stood, the arms on the clock I hung next to my bed danced, like the monkeys we watched near the eastern mountains, when my best friend still had breath. My thoughts drove me to a world of discomfort, a place where my heart bled on sight of the memories that lied before it. The moment came, when a car hooted at the back of my room. A yellow Jeep, with rims the size of our food drums, it reflected light into our eyes, and the blackness of the tyres was spoiled with the long-drive dust. It's mirrors made it look like a winter cat, those only found in our wild, a place of solitude, I shared with my best friend. Tolido, a middle aged man, with a beard the size of my eye lashes sat in the front sit of the Jeep. Jenny and I dragged the body sack towards the car, and laid it in the big comfortable hoot. I held Jenny's hand in my own as we watched the car drive away. A crowd of dust built every time the Jeep made turns, on the corners of the dusty roads. Sighs of relief filled both of us, as we walked into the house, and passed the day on the corner café.


I was six, still with my family but not for long. As my seventh birthday neared, my parents prepared me for hardship. *You must listen to your teacher.* *You must train every day, even throughout the night.* *Embrace your hunger, only steal enough to get by, but do not get caught.* They reminded me daily of the rules I must follow in order to survive, but the only one that really stuck with me, was the only one I broke. *Remain distant, a friendship will only mean your downfall.* Once I was taken to the agoge, I tried to remember everything my parents told me however, no matter what they said, it would never have prepared me for what I was going to face. The hunger was almost unbearable, the cloak, my only article of clothing, provided no warmth, and the slab of wood I used for a bed caused nothing but exhaustion and pain. They only fed us one meal a day so if we wanted more, we had to find it ourselves, but get caught, and the food would no longer be worth it. It had been three weeks since I was taken and I could feel the weakness throughout my body. It hurt to run and every time my stomach growled, it felt like I had been stabbed. I tried to avoid stealing food from fear of being caught but, I decided that I needed to take the risk if I wanted to survive this place. I made my way into the agora. Evening was approaching and most of the citizens were packing up their shop. I figured while they were distracted, I could try to swipe some bread or fruit. I weaved in between the different stands, carefully analyzing, determining where the best location for theft would be. I decided on a stand that was run by an older woman, one that sold bread, in hopes that the dough would fill me up more than fruit would. The stands around her were already packed up so she was ultimately alone. I walked up, almost silently, ensuring that no one else was around, and while she was bent over, placing her food into baskets, I swiped a loaf. I smirked as I started to turn away, proud that I had successfully stolen some food however, it quickly vanished when I stumbled over the handle of a wheel barrel, knocking over a basket of bread. She looked up quickly, seeing the bread in my hand, and as about to call for help. *I am a Spartan*… I should’ve been able to think quicker, I should’ve been able to understand and run immediately but, I froze. I thought of the punishment I would have to face once I was caught, the pain I would have to suffer. I wasn’t prepared for this, I’m only seven, I should be able to stay with my parents, I should have a bed and food. I shouldn’t have to steal. Hundreds of thoughts flowed through my mind in the split second after stumbling when suddenly, the women turned back the other way, her entire table of bread falling to the ground. Snapped from my thoughts, I looked and saw a boy, my age, coming at me. I couldn’t get a good look at his face because I could only notice the cloak around his shoulders… it was the same as mine. He grabbed my arm, forcing me to run away with him. We sprinted, the loaf of bread still in my hand, my legs burning and each breath I took was suffocating. We had made it to the woods, just slightly outside of the agoge, when we finally stopped running. Immediately I collapsed, darkness circling around until it completely shrouded my eyes. I tried to steady my breathing in order to prevent my body from losing consciousness. It was a slow process until I felt water pour over my head, adding light back into my sight. When I could finally see again, I looked at the boy that helped me. He had wavy, brown hair, brown eyes, and a prominent scar across his left cheek. He smiled, reaching his hand out, “Hi. My name is Eleni.” And that, was when I decided that I could break one of the rules that my parents had given me. From that day, I considered Eleni to be my one and only friend. We helped each other out, often teaming up to steal food and since that day, my strength started to come back, my hunger only enough to motivate me to become stronger. Eleni and I continued together, side by side, encouraging one another until we were part of the top soldiers in the academy. Now, it is year 480 and I am twenty-seven, Eleni twenty-eight. Rumor flew around the city of Sparta many years ago concerning the Persians and their plans to invade. I was sixteen when they started. It has been eighteen years since then, and we’ve just found out that a shepherd betrayed us to the Persians. Our position in Thermopylae had been pristine, surprising the Persians with our perseverance and military expertise. *We are Spartans. We will hold the Persians back, allowing our neighbors to fall back, regroup, and create a better standing against our enemies. As Spartans, this is our duty. We do not run from battle.* King Leonidas made it very clear, we were on a suicide mission, a last chance in ensuring Greek victory in the long run. I had been sitting with Eleni, away from our comrades, trying to understand how the battle took such a sharp turn against us. “I just don’t understand Eleni… why would a Greek conspire against his own people? He should want his freedom, even fight for it himself.” I buried my head into my hands, worried for myself and Eleni however, he was unusually quiet, unresponsive to anything I was saying. “Nikolaos.” I looked up. “I understand why a Greek would betray us. You speak of freedom and yet, we never knew it. From age seven we’re thrown into a pit, expected to survive harsh conditions. No food, no clothes, no bed… constantly fighting. We were expected to fight for our lives every day, or die. Sparta had no mercy for us. They gave us no freedom. Is the Greek really wrong for trying to find another alternative, a hope for a better life?” “Eleni, what are you–” I never got to finish my question. The Persians had finally arrived. There were only three-hundred Spartans but within the first few minutes, we had already lost a couple dozen. I grabbed my sword and shield, charging into battle. I remembered all the times that Eleni and I had practice against each other, we fought harder and harder, ensuring that we would both make it through the academy… we would both make it out, and earn our freedom. We *needed* each other in order to make it. I was fighting one Persian after another, noticing Eleni behind me. Back to back, we fought… fought to protect Greece, protect ourselves, and protect each other… when suddenly, I heard him scream. *Remain distant, a friendship will only mean your downfall.* I turned, eyes widening as I noticed his right arm drench in blood, cut so he could no longer hold his sword up. I screamed, throwing myself into the enemy, preventing him making the final blow. I knocked him over, impaling him with my sword several times, enough so he could feel it in Hades. Seething with anger, drunk off rage, I was ignorant of what was coming from behind, a gift of bronze heading straight towards my back. I turned, no longer angry, but terrified with the realization that I was going to die and yet, Death never embraced me. Eleni accepted the Persian’s gift, protecting me, and with his last good arm, he embedded his sword in the rival’s neck. I caught Eleni as his fell back, “Eleni! Why? Why would you do that? I could’ve survived his attack. You were already injured. You’re a fool!” “Nikolaos, that pathway the Persians took… when this is over, you should walk through it. The sights are beautiful.” I was confused. What was he even talking about? How did he know what sights the path held? When did he go? “Eleni, what are you talking about? I don’t underst—” He looked at me, tears streaming towards his ears. “It wasn’t a shepherd, brother, that betrayed the Greeks.” I blinked, still unsure what he was doing. “I just wanted us to be free… the life of a Spartan isn’t just. I thought when the Persians attacked, we could escape… escape somewhere unlike Sparta.” My mind was reeling. I could hear the screaming and agony from Greeks and Persians alike and I could see the blood spilling near me from all sides as I stared at Eleni. My best friend, my brother… I always thought he wanted to be the greatest Spartan, encouraging me to follow in his footsteps but in reality, he just needed to be strong enough to survive on his own and lead us both to freedom. He never wanted to be a Spartan. *Remain distant, a friendship will only mean your downfall.* I understand now. This friendship between Eleni and I, regardless of the fact that he betrayed the Greeks, betrayed me… it wouldn’t matter. Our fates were sealed the day we chose to become friends in a ruthless environment. Death was the only person that could provide the freedom that Eleni tried to achieve. *I am a Spartan.* *“*Nikolaos?” I knew what needed to be done. I knew what I could do for my friend, an act so painful for me, but necessary for him. *I am a Spartan.* “Nikola—” I push the sword into his stomach. *I am a Spartan.* I turned it, my hand over his mouth to prevent the Persians from hearing us. His eyes went wide with shock but then relaxed when he realized the internal conclusion I had come to. *I am a Spartan.* Tears streaming down my face, regret smothering me and then receding. This is what he wants, his freedom. His body is still, his eyes no longer focused on anything specific. I sat there, not fully comprehending what has happened in the last twenty-four hours. My heart is pounding… I can’t hear. My mind is shutting down…I can’t see. But I can feel… I can feel that the bronze gift finally found its recipient. The spear piercing my back, right through my chest. My last thought: *Remain distant, a friendship will only mean your downfall… but, I am a Spartan, and I was born to endure all of this.


When the world ended 44 years ago, we were told a prophecy from below. Tearing through the molten core, the mantle, the crust, the soil, the flora, the fauna, the air, and the atmosphere, in our world that had ended, we heard the voice of that thing on the tympanum of Notre Dame, the goat headed, nameless harbinger of death, the king lower than the embers of the Earth, and it said to us, "Buy flowers in year 45."

No one imagined that the sound which came at the end of world, which prophesied, presumably, our survival, would fall on the shoulders of the florists and their consumers therein. And yet here we are, in year 44, on the cusp of 45, trying to grow nemophila and nasturtiums and alliums and the covetous rose in ground that couldn't even bear a potato or a weed.

Within the first year of the end of the world, all the wood had rotted, all the grass had died, and all mammals ceased producing milk. Pregnant women gave birth to piles of ash and died from the shock. Small children began to grow third eyes from their foreheads which saw too much, resulting in blindness.

In year two, the Great Replacement saw car engines suddenly swapped with husbands so that their spouses would wake next to the pistons of a Toyota leaking oil onto the bed spread, while their husbands lay mottled and curled under the hoods of their own obsolete vehicles. Lightbulbs were swapped with giant, silvery deposits of mercury which poisoned anyone who ever dared to turn on a light. All microwaves were replaced with condors which squawked and pecked to death the humans who foolishly entered their kitchens thinking the asinine would remain logical if nothing else.

And so now we stand on the disaster that is year 44, on the cusp of year 45, eating cans of spam and drinking mountain dew which were the only two sources of food that had survived and which had, in complete surreality, multiplied innumerably all over the world, washing up on shores and even growing from trees which had previously born fruit. How the seeds of flowers were not replaced or otherwise tampered with by the End remains a mystery, but it led us all to believe that the prophecy was literal, and that we were meant to plant them at the right time in the right way to free ourselves from the limitless capacity for the bizarre in our new, but ended, planet Earth.

Yet not a single seed would take to the soil. The End made sure of that for all other plants. But how were we to buy flowers in year 45 if there were no flowers to sell? We hadn't even gotten to how we'd pay for them yet, but that impending and inevitable catastrophe was tabled until the gardens seeded properly at the least. There were 48 hours to make these flowers grow. Will the Devil offer them to us? Will they suddenly sprout the moment we reach year 45? Will we all find ourselves with bank accounts and some semblance of normalcy, just enough that we can do as the prophecy had foretold? The Devil was not clear in his instructions and the details were inventions of the human mind, desperate for just one breath of clean air as our world spiraled through all its many possibilities of chaos. 48 hours. 47 hours. 40 hours. 35. 29. 15. The time ebbed and stalled as our panic rose. Nothing had yet grown. Nothing had yet bloomed. The prospect of buying flowers seemed more futile and absurd with each passing, aching minute. We looked at our calendars, another thing which remained somewhat normal although they appeared in unusual places (in the cans of spam, sandwiched between two slabs of concrete which appeared in bathtubs or linen closets, and so on and so on), and watched, feverishly hopeful, as night fell. Midnight came announced by our time keepers who had spent the last 44 years doing nothing but counting the seconds and minutes and hours of every day of every week of every year since the clocks stopped working the day the End began. We looked at our fruitless gardens, really just smatterings of seeds on 8x5 sections of slightly browner ash, and still not a single one had taken to the Earth.

"So what now?" A person shouted here and there around the world. We looked at our calendars again. It was Friday. The Friday after Thanksgiving. The day the world ended 45 years prior. To call the day the world ended "Black Friday" was an irony beyond words, but it stuck. It was effective. And it was all we knew to call the string of hopeless phenomena that followed. Today was Black Friday, year 45. And not a single flower had grown for us to buy.

There was a stampede of people in varying stages of malnutrition, preserved like specimens by a diet that would make any doctor before the End cringe and throw up, observed by a set of spectators sitting on lawn chairs or digging in the ash to make ash castles or just to put some manmade texture into the barren ground. Everyone was dressed to the nines of absurdity, bedecked in nonsensical amalgamations of cloth and rope and torn up newspapers from 45 years ago. And somehow this was all familiar, reminding those of us with any remaining mental faculties or memories from before the End of the mad scramble for Macy's early-bird sales, gathering every cent of our Kohls' cash and Starbucks gift cards to buy and buy and buy some more. We consumed our world like it was from a can, and trampled each other to death to get the better cut of meat, better savings on things we never needed, preparing for Jesus' birthday like His predecessor’s hoards of locusts descending on Egypt to take Pharaoh's son. Our last Black Friday was a prophetic nightmare that we assumed had been avoided by extending the sales to two weeks instead of one day and moving most of the consumption online. Trampling incidents had gone down that year, and it seemed like things were under control. But when the sun rose on the day of reckoning, the last ditch day for those Christmas sales we all participated in, we woke to a world where the stores were suddenly gone, the 50% off stickers lying comically, mockingly, along the sidewalks, peppering the parking lots with finger pointing despair.

"Where have the stores gone?" Not a single package was received, not a single confirmation email was sent, and every single Etsy seller lost all traces of their digital footprints within minutes of midnight. As the strangeness set in over the years, we had forgotten about this first tragedy of failed pseudo-Santa moments. Christmas that year was resiliently celebrated as a solemn, confusing, but optimistic affair. We had hoped it would all go back to normal someday. We figured we'd know how to adapt. This was our world after all.

But the words of the Devil were damning. The prophecy quickly scrambled our resolve, and the strangeness was completely untrackable and unfathomable horror. Our last memories of our world were spent hoarding anxious abundance for the impending holiday season. Our last thoughts were of the money we'd spent and how much such things meant to us. Call us superficial, but our world had already fallen apart in every other way — the only reliable thing we had left before the End was the power of the American dollar in a department store.

The rest of the world felt it too. Christmas was everywhere. Money was everywhere. Even places which had no concept of the proverbial "holidays" and which could not be compelled to care less than they already did about consumerist economies, were impacted by the strangeness following the world's last designated Black Friday. Grappling with the guilt, the loss, the chaos — very few human minds made it to year 45 intact. Perhaps we could have planted flowers to be bought, as foretold by the Devil, had we not all completely lost our minds 45 years prior. Perhaps that was the point all along.

Year 45’s Black Friday began and in a way, it was as grotesque as those who survived up until now recalled it being before the End. There were no cameras to capture the horror, but it would have made an easy, persistent, and proliferative oral history, stained into minds laden with fear and which ran on nothing but dregs of caffeine and salt and ghastly air quality. The noon sun rose into the sky and with it, the Devil spoke again, up from the molten core and into the atmosphere, to all of us, and he asked, "Where have all the flowers gone?". The planet went still.

The way humanity turned to each other in the aftermath of that egregious offense — with murderous looks in our eyes, having fought insanity for nearly half a century on the hope of one thing alone — was a vestige of ourselves as a species and our capacity to rise against and spot injustice faster than injustice could realize itself as unpopular. It reminded us of that last Black Friday. That for all the shame and embarrassment and rabid self-centeredness this consumerist culture forced us into, we, at heart, just wanted joy. We thought of our children and how happy they would be with the things we gave them, how much we endeavored just to see them smile. As we all struggled to put food on the table and keep roofs over our heads, all we could afford after being worked half to death on abysmal hourly wages was a Barbie for 60% off at Walmart — and dammit, that's what we were gonna get. Our desire to make someone's day, to cooperate with chaos to survive, to find joy and show our love for each other, even superficially, even in callous disregard for dignity and civility, was what our proverbial "holidays" of a now bygone era were really all about. After the End, 45 years into it, with all the trauma and the strangeness and the hopelessness and pain to boot, all we wanted was us again. The flowers were supposed to give us back to each other. But when the Devil asked where the flowers had gone, we felt all at once the aching, back-breaking truth: there were never going to be flowers in year 45.

We looked at each other. Really looked. And then turned to the Devil. We needed somewhere to direct our pain. We needed something to look at that wasn't each other, burnt by insanity and fear and betrayal. We needed something to look at that wasn't the useless seeds on the useless ground planted by our useless hands for a useless hope, stolen on Black Friday like the world was stolen half a century ago. We were naked, barely recognizable as alive, and carried the blame and the shame and the rage and the trauma of losing everything on the day we were to gain all that we were permitted to have. But our souls had been sold long ago as one does when surviving. We knew now where to point our gaze. And perhaps for the first time in the history of Heaven, the Devil looked scared.


There has always been one god I praise: Wendy. You might not know who Wendy is, but I’ll explain everything. There’s this restaurant I go to named Wendy’s to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The mascot is like the mom I never had. I praise her for the hole of depression she pulled me out of from not having someone to care for me. I praise her daily and thank her for my food. I have at least tried everything on the menu 473 times. My sister says I am obsessed but I say she’s crazy. Nobody could understand my feelings. I woke up in the morning feeling refreshed from the chicken nugget sense still lingering in my shirt. I do my morning routine with the hourly praise included. I then head to Wendy’s for the Honey Butter Chicken Biscuit with some orange juice. What a perfect meal and restaurant to start daily. I head inside sniffing the air to know I am really at home. I then wait in back of an elderly anxiously to spit out my order. “Next in line,” the worker says. Moving forward quickly, I say my order and pull the exact amount of money out of my wallet for the meal plus tax. I stop in my tracks bewildered as she didn’t ask for the payment. “We have a special today! You can also get a four piece chicken nugget meal with sixty cents more!” I thought quickly and opened my wallet once more. “Yes, I would like to have the nuggs with my meal, please,” I comply as I hand her my money. I was super excited that I could barely stand and breath to have such a deal! “Alright, you can have a seat. Your meal will be right out.” I sit down clutching my hands trying not to cry. How could I be so lucky?! I had so many thoughts and I could barely think until they called me up for my meal. I thanked them and sat down my tray at the table quickly as I do so too. I open the wrapper with the senseful scents filling my nostrils. “I’m so blessed,” I thought as I stared at my nuggets, ignoring everything else. I then stop and look over at my phone. Wendy’s has a Twitter! I will tweet at them to see if I can get some nuggs for free! I put a nugget into my mouth quickly as I grab my phone to locate Twitter. I press the bird and look up their profile. I quickly write a tweet asking how much retweets would I need to get free nuggs for a year. I wait anxiously as I finish my nuggets and drink my orange juice. Bzzt! I quickly grab my phone and see that they have replied. “18 Million,” I read as I get excited. I send this to all my friends and they share it with the world. This is my destiny. My past. My future.


Wrote this one a little while ago but never really shared it with anyone, criticism welcome The old man died in the house he had built. Every floorboard, every door and window, was his. And he had built it well; it was a good house. Of course he had built it well, he had done it for her. Sure, sometimes he’d have to climb the roof to fix a leak, or crawl underneath to attend to the plumbing. But it was a sturdy house, with foundations built to last. She lived with him in the house at first, and for years they were happy. They never had children, but he didn’t need them. He had her, and he had their house. When she died, he had only the house. He lived alone in the house for a long time. They grew older, and sadder, together. He put up hedges and fences, and they retreated from the world. On his weekly trips to town the people would whisper and pretend not to stare. The older folks remembered when she had lived with him. He would smile, and talk, and share the joys of his life with his neighbors. The children of course never knew him as a happy man. They all said if he caught you within his fences at night he would kill you and eat you, or leave you to rot in one of the many empty rooms in the creepy old building. He would hear the whispers, but he didn’t care. He had his house. He didn’t need people. But as years passed both his house and his body began to fall apart. At a certain age, he could no longer take care of the house, and there was no one to take care of him. The old man died in the house he had built. But he never really left it. It took two weeks for anyone to check on the old man, two weeks for anyone to find his body. He had no next of kin, and the bank took control of the house. They tried to sell it, but once word spread that the old man had died there in the kitchen, no one wanted to buy. The house sat, unused and empty for years. That was fine with him. His body had built the house. It had died there. It had started its long, slow decay there on the kitchen floor. When they finally took his body away, some of him stayed put. The old man wasn’t going to let death separate him from the building that had been his whole life. He could still wander from room to room. He could still peer angrily from the window whenever someone walked by. He could no longer repair the house, but he no longer cared if the roof leaked when it rained. In many ways, the first years of his death were much like the last years of his life, hiding unseen and growing more and more bitter as time passed. The young man looked up at the house he had bought, his eyes full of hope and excitement. He saw his future in that house, a piece of land he could call his own. The young woman with him looked up at the house as well. She was as excited as her husband to start their new lives in a new town, but noticed the house was somewhat worse off than they had been led to believe. It would require a lot of work before they could really call it their home. The little girl spoke first. “Is it haunted? It looks haunted.” "No, it’s not haunted,” her father laughed. He had heard what happened to the previous owner, of course. But that was years ago, and ghosts weren’t real. Still, he and his wife had decided not to tell their daughter about the old man’s death in the house that she would grow up in. It looked spooky enough as it is, no need to add scary stories to the mix. “I don’t like it. Why couldn’t we stay at our old house?” The woman answered this time. “Honey we talked about this. Just give this place a chance, you’ll grow to love it.” The old man glared at them from the front window, invisible to the family but enraged by their presence. How dare they? This house had been his since before either of the parents had been born. He had built it from nothing, and now he was as much a part of it as any brick or beam of wood. These people had no right to intrude on his seclusion. “Ok, say hello to our new home!” the man said as he unlocked the door and let his family inside. They were relieved to find that the interior was in better shape than the outside was. It needed work, and a good cleaning, but it was livable. “Why don’t you go pick out a room, then we’ll start moving all our stuff in.” The old man watched as over the next few days the intruders made themselves at home. The husband and wife had the nerve to claim his bedroom as their own, while the little girl set out to explore all the rooms and corridors, every discovery a fresh violation. When they stripped the paint from the walls he felt himself stripped, exposed and raw for the world to see. When they shattered the front windows he felt his own eyes gauged and blinded, and the new panes they put in were shiny glass eyes, beautiful but sightless for the old man, for they were not his. The pain was worse than anything his body had felt when it was alive. Slowly they picked and chiseled away at him, as less and less of what he had built remained. But the foundations of the house were still sturdy, and they could not destroy the old man completely. The bones of his creation were kept intact, and so he lingered, forced to endure as his sanctuary was defiled. As long as a part of his house remained, buried under their sacrilegious renovations, he would linger as well, as unseen and unmoving as the stone foundation itself. He hated watching the family. But he was unable to leave, and they were unwilling to, and in time he learned to coexist. The young woman reminded him of the young woman he had once loved. Not in appearance, they looked nothing alike. But in other ways. In the way she kept a row of flowers in the planter he had built by the kitchen window. In the way she greeted her husband with a kiss every day when he came home. In the way she teased him about all the work he was putting into the old fixer-upper. It was clear that the house was the young man’s passion; that he believed he was creating something real, a future for his family here in the old house he had found. His wife and young child had come along on his adventure, trusting in the vision of the future that the young man saw so clearly And the child. Even when the old man had lived there with his wife, and he shared so much of his life with the house that he and it had become one, it had never felt as alive as when the child ran through its halls. The house was far too big for two people, it always had been. It never felt empty to the old man before, but now it felt full. Before the family moved in, the old man had forgotten what a child’s laughter sounded like. In the last decades of his life, children fell silent as the old man approached, or ran in terror if he caught them near his property. After his death he heard no laughter at all, only increasing frustration in the voices of realtors as they failed to sell his home. He had enjoyed hearing the anger in the realtors’ voices, and most of all he enjoyed the silence once they had left. But now there was noise, and there was laughter, and there was life. What started as agonizing racket grew softer to the old man as time passed. He began to take comfort in their routine. He enjoyed the bustle in the morning as all three prepared for their day. He enjoyed when the woman would come home in the afternoon, with the little girl in tow, and he would listen as she told her mom about her day. He would watch as the man came home a few hours later, and the family would sit down to dinner together. He would listen as the man read to the little girl each night in the room that, the old man had to admit, was better off with her in it. As he watched their routine, he was present for their milestones as well. He was there when they rushed home one Saturday, the little girl’s arm in a cast and worry etched on her parents’ faces. He waited anxiously with the parents on the night of the girl’s first sleepover, missing the story that would not be read that night. And he shared in their joy, when the family left the house and returned two days later as a family of four, and a little boy moved into the nursery they had set up in a room the old man had once built. He stopped thinking of them as the family, and thought of them as his family. For too long the old house had been his hideout, now it was a home again. As he watched them grow, he was reminded why he had built it all those years ago. This was its purpose, to shelter, provide, and protect. For the first time since his wife died, he felt proud of what he had built. The fire started slowly, as fires often do. The basement hadn’t been changed much since the old man had built it, and the wires in the walls were old and frayed. A spark ignited in the wall, smoldering at first but steadily spreading. When the insulation caught the basement erupted, kindling at the base of a wooden structure. The first floor was engulfed in a heartbeat, and the family awoke to smoke and fire, and a blaring alarm sounding a warning that had come too late. The old man had seen the first spark, but he had no voice to shout, no hands to shake his family awake. He could watch though, as the woman ran to the nursery and the man gathered his daughter from her room. He followed them as they rushed downstairs, and felt their fear as they found their way blocked by an inferno that had once been their home. When the fire department arrived the house that had been the old man’s tomb was now a pyre, a towering blaze that could not be put out, only contained and prevented from spreading. When the fire burned out, little was left besides the scorched remains of the house and the family that had lived in it. Splintered wood littered the property. Charred toys and furniture, empty, blackened flowerpots. Rubble and ashy chaos where there had once been a home. But underneath it all, the stone foundations remained, burnt but unbroken. The bones of his creation were kept intact, so the old man lingered, and once again was alone.


My Alternate Self and His Advice            This is the third time now that I have seen this fellow. He looks a lot like me, and he smiles at me when I look at him. I didn’t have the nerve to go up to talk to him before, but this time I feel that I must. I simply have to do it.            When I walk up to him, he says to me, “Say, you are certainly a handsome fellow.” My obvious reply is: “yourself as well.”            Not so obvious is what he says next.            “I have wanted us to get together for a while now, as I have a few things I need to tell you, things that will benefit you in the long run.”            While I was a little suspicious of what he had just said, my curiosity got the better of me.            “Okay, there is a coffee shop just around the corner. We can go there, swill down some coffee and stuff down a doughnut or two.”            “Let’s do it.”            When we get there, I almost forget what I always order there. Fortunately, the server knew.  I really need to hear what he has to say. My life is pretty boring these days, 25 years old, with no wife or girlfriend in sight (although there are two sisters at work that I wouldn’t mind seeing outside of work), and no hobbies but writing stories for contests (never won one yet or even came close) to fill my off work hours.            “You are probably not going to believe what I am going to say to you at first. You have an imagination, just like I have, and I feel that like me, you like to write stories. So I hope that you can receive my words with your imaginative mind, not the one you use at work.”            “Well, you are right there on both counts. I love to write as it is the way my mind can take wing, but my mind at work involves balancing figures. Imaginative accountants are not really appreciated in a company like the one that I work for. Say what you have to say.”            “Well, here it goes. Hold onto your imagination. You are going to need it. I am you in an alternate reality that you have never heard of. Our lives are very, very similar. That’s why I can give you some advice. What do you think?”            “As I would say at work, ‘that doesn’t add up, or compute’, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to hear what you have to say. Go ahead. I need to ask you how you get here from your alternate reality?”            “There is a special wind that blows on occasion between our two realities. It is easily identified if you know what to look for. It blows soft at first, and yet there is a kind of howl to it that starts low and then high, then low again. You walk straight into where it is coming from right after the second low howl. Few know about it in your reality and mine.”            “I knew that you would be skeptical.  But I also know that you would be willing to listen. I will tell you what happened to me. Like you, I am not married, but unlike you, a wedding is in the offing, next week in fact. That wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t made a mistake first and learned from it.”            “There are two young women, sisters, that work where I do as an accountant (just like you do). One Friday afternoon as work was ending, I decided to make my move. One of them I was more interested in than the other one was– not by much, but enough.  Knowing that the two sisters are hardly ever more than a step or two away from each other, I couldn’t ask one of them for a date while shutting the other one down, I needed to have a plan. Fortunately, I had done some thinking on the subject and obtained an object that could solve the problem. It was a two-headed coin. But I didn’t know which one I would show both sides to. I was more attracted to the flashy, bold-speaking one who had what looked looks like she was designed by a Hollywood director, so I thought that she would be the one to see the coin for what it was.”            “Fortunately, earlier that day, I talked to my buddy Frank at lunch. When I said who my choice would be he shook his head, and told me stories of men he knew who had been briefly been involved with her and couldn’t get away from her fast enough. That convinced me that I should not show both sides of the coin to her. Neither should you.”            “The sister you have to go for is not the flashy, bold speaking Hollywood-styled one, but the one who is quieter, shyer in her self-presentation. That is the one that I will be marrying soon. The other one was no fit partner for me, and doubtless for you as well.

           Face each one and mention that you have a coin to flip for the date choice. Do not let the bold one see both sides of it. The quieter one you face and show that it is a two-headed coin, so she will know what to call. Give her first call.”            He puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out the two-headed coin and hands it to me. Shortly thereafter I hear the wind that he spoke of earlier, he turns away and soon disappears.            The coming Friday I am ready. Early in the morning I tell the two sisters (separately) that I want to meet them briefly at closing time for a special reason. At lunch, one of my budgeting buddies rushes up to me, and says to me. “I hear you are meeting with the two lovely sisters Marge and Mabel, later. I have a word of warning for you. One of them is not very nice.”            I reply to him saying “I have already been warned, don’t worry”. He pats me on the back and walks away.            When we meet up with the sisters after work, I say to them, “I have a proposal [a dangerous word I know]. But first, I have a question. Are either of you married, engaged or in a significant relationship.?            They both shook their heads as my alternate told me they would. The flashier one put a little more enthusiasm into the gesture than did her sister.            I turned to the flashy one, and showed her one side of the coin. The other, the quieter one, I showed both sides of the coin and winked at her and she winked back.  Then I asked the two sisters to discuss what their choices would be. I walked out of the room so I wouldn’t overhear what they were saying. I returned when the bold one called out ‘Ready. Come back into the room.”            I walk briskly back into the room and make a big show of flipping the coin very high. Then, as I catch it and turn it over, I call out in an over-loud voice, “It’s heads”. Then I ask the quiet one first what her call was. Much to my surprise, she says, “tails. I wanted tails” The flashy one smiled at me and said, “Good, I wanted heads right from the beginning.” I go through the dramatic motions of flipping the coin and of course callout it’s heads.’ The flashy one reaches out and gives me a big hug. The quiet one just smiles and walks away.            We had a great time that night, Marge and I, and I got the distinct feeling that she is the one for me. I will have to tell my alternate when I see him next, and I feel sure that will be soon, that ‘alternate reality’ does not necessarily mean the same reality. As long as there is choice, there is difference.


The man stepped onto the plane. He was sweating, not profusely, but small beads of sweat were noticeable on his upper lip and forehead. The flight attendant took his flight ticket, inspected it, looked up, and smiled at him in an artificially saccharine way. Just like she was trained to do. “Welcome on board Flight 305,” she said, gesturing to the back of the plane. He nodded a terse thank you and moved to his seat. The flight attendant was already busy greeting the next passenger in the same rehearsed way.

He had asked for a window seat, at the very back of the cabin. Thankfully the seat next to him was vacant.

He slid his briefcase under the seat in front of him and settled into his seat. He removed his sunglasses and placed them inside his jacket pocket.

“Can I place your briefcase in the overhead bin?” asked a new attendant. More artificial cheer. “No, thank you,” he answered, without smiling. He was nervous. He didn’t like flying at the best of times.

“Sir, it really is more secure in the overhead bin,” she said, still smiling. “I would prefer it near me, please,” he said, getting rather agitated.

“I understand. If you would prefer, the captain has special storage for…”

“I said no. Thank you,” he said, firmer this time, but not too loud. He didn’t want to cause a scene. The attendant’s smile slipped momentarily, but she regained her composure quickly.

“Alright,” she answered, straightening her back and walking down the aisle toward the galley at the front of the plane.

The man in the seat across the aisle glanced at him from the corner of his eye, raising his eyebrow at this stranger’s perceived rudeness. Certainly the flight attendant did not deserve his ire. After all, she was just doing her job.

Well, he didn’t care. After this flight is over, he will never see any of these people again- not his fellow passengers, not the captain, not the flight attendant. They could think of him what they wanted. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker clicked into life, “this is your captain speaking. We will be departing shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts. Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.” He could hear the engine pick up speed outside the window. His sweating was becoming worse.

Taking his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he mopped his brow and upper lip, before returning the kerchief to his pocket again. He could see the ground crew working quickly to seal the doors from the outside. The cabin crew was positioned at various spots throughout the cabin, demonstrating the safety equipment as the public address system droned on about floatation devices and emergency exits. He wasn’t paying attention. He could feel sick anticipation rise up in his throat. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes. Soon they would be airborne and the feeling would have dissipated.

A flight attendant walked by, towards the aft of the aircraft. He raised his hand to gain her attention. It worked.

“Yes, sir?” she said, beaming a smile at him.

“May I please have a scotch and soda before we take off?” She frowned slightly. The airplane had started moving towards the runway, ready for take-off. “Sir, we’re just about to take off. I would gladly serve you after we are airborne and the captain had turned off the seatbelt signs,” she said. “Please. I’m a nervous flyer. It would help settle my nerves,” he pleaded. This solicited another raised eyebrow from the man on the opposite side of the aisle. She hurried off without a word. She returned a few moments later with the drink. She placed the drink on the tray table in front of him. “I will return in a few minutes to collect the glass. Tray tables must be stored for takeoff.”

True to her word, she returned for his empty glass. As she took the glass, he handed her a note, folded closed to hide the message.

The air hostess folded it again and moved to place the note in her pocket. “Miss, I think you’d better read that,” he said to her.

She unfolded the note and read it silently. Her eyes grew wide with fright. “I think you’d better sit next to me, don’t you?” he said. She sat down, still clutching the empty glass in her hand.

“Buckle up,” he said, smiling. She fastened her seatbelt without a word. Her colleagues frowned as they saw her seated in a passenger seat, rather than the jumpseats reserved for cabin crew. As another flight attendant slowed to inevitably ask why she was seated here, she just shook her head. Her colleague moved on without a word. The airplane hurtled down the runway. He closed his eyes, not daring to look out of the window or at the flight attendant next to him.

The friction of the wheels of tarmac disappeared as the airplane left the runway. The eerie quiet that always followed take-off was especially oppressive today.

Once the airplane had leveled off, the captain turned the public address system back on. The ping made the flight attendant jump. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain William Scott…” he introduced himself.

He wasn’t very interested in who the captain was. “What’s your name?” he asked, turning toward the flight attendant.

“Florence,” she replied breathlessly. Her eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, don’t cry, Florence. This will soon be over,” he said. She nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Poor girl.

“Can I see it?” she asked, once she was more composed. He reached forward for his briefcase. He opened it a crack- just large enough for Florence to peer inside. He slammed the briefcase shut again.

A ping announced that it was now safe to remove seatbelts. “Better go tell the captain,” he said. Florence removed her seatbelt and hurried to the cockpit. She returned moments later. He had removed the sunglasses from his pocket and was wearing them again. “Sir, he said they will make arrangements,” she said, before hurrying to the back of the aircraft. Twenty minutes later, the public address system pinged back into life. “Folks, this is your captain speaking again. Due to technical difficulties, our arrival at our destination may be delayed,” he said.

“Miss,” he said, as a flight attendant passed. She paused and gave a nervous smile. “Yes, sir?” “May I please have another scotch and soda?” he asked. She returned moments later with the drink. He had placed the money for this drink as well as the previous drink on the tray table next to him. The flight attendant picked up the money. “Thank you,” he said, smiling. “You may keep the change.” Two hours later, the plane still hadn’t landed. “What in the damned hell is going on?” demanded the man across the aisle to no one in particular, looking toward the front of the plane. The cockpit doors remained firmly shut. The rest of the passengers were looking both nervous and agitated at the same time.

He looked at his watch. 17:20.

Florence approached his seat. “Sir, everything is in order,” she whispered. “Thank you. Please tell the captain we can land. Ask him to taxi to the northeast corner of the airport and to have a bus waiting for the passengers,” he said. She turned to leave. “One last thing, Florence,” he said. She turned to look at him. “Please ask all passengers to close the window blinds before landing.” The captain announced that they were ready to land as the flight attendants walked through the cabin, ensuring the window blinds were shut.

The plane landed. The disgruntled passengers collected their belongings and filed off the plane.

Everyone was kept seated. “I have never been on a worse flight in my life,” complained one passenger.

“How can a 30-minute flight take two hours?” complained another. The flight attendants apologised profusely to each complainant, never once dropping their trained smiles.

After a couple of minutes, the flight attendant who served him his drink earlier approached his seat with two canvas sacks. She opened the sacks to reveal their contents. “Thank you. All seems in order. The passengers may disembark,” he said. Once the last passenger had left, he turned to the crew, who had assembled near the cockpit door. “Thank you for all your help. Don’t worry. Your ordeal ends now,” he said.

“Everyone except the captain, co-pilot, flight engineer, and one flight attendant may leave.” Not waiting to be told twice, the cabin crew gathered their belongings and left the plane.

He turned to the captain.

“Once re-fueling has taken place, head south towards Mexico City. Keep the speed steady enough to avoid stalling- round about 100 knots. Fly at an altitude of 3000 metres. Nothing more, nothing less. Keep the cabin unpressurised. Do not retract the landing gear after takeoff and keep the wing flaps at 15 degrees.” A tense nod from the captain.

“We will be flying about 1000 miles below our specified flight configuration. At that altitude, we will need to refuel again before we reach Mexico City,” said the copilot. He hadn’t considered that.

“Where do you suggest we refuel?” he asked.

“Maybe somewhere in Arizona? Or Nevada?” “I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Let’s refuel in Nevada.” The plans were communicated to the ground crew. The copilot, pilot, and flight engineer took their positions in the cockpit again, ready for take-off.

He returned to the seat he was sitting in earlier. “I think you’d better join the captain in the cockpit,” he said to the flight attendant, shortly after takeoff. She complied. He looked at his watch. 20:15. He walked to the back and lowered the aft staircase. He removed one parachute from the sack that was delivered earlier and strapped himself in. He secured the other sack firmly to the front of his chest, under his shirt, to prevent the contents from flying out of the sack. He took the briefcase in his hand. He gave a final salute and jumped from the plane into an uncertain fate. Except his fate wasn’t that uncertain. D.B. Cooper, as the press dubbed him, survived the jump. I know because “D.B Cooper” was my grandfather. This is a secret only my family knows.


Morpheus: "Mr. Pilkington, this is your last chance. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. " *Morpheus displays the pills in his hands as if he's on a tele-shopping advert or something* Karl: "I'm not havin' this like. Ya tellin' me to take these pills in yer hands, and I don't know where you've gotten 'em from. It's not on." *Karl shrugs his shoulders and refuses both offers* Morpheus: "Remember... all I'm offering is the truth. Nothing more." Karl: "I think it's a loada bullshit, I'm not doing it." Karl: "Look, I've had it with these blokes following 'is around in black suits and sunglasses. I can't go to Burger King with these tossers stalking 'is constantly." Morpheus: "Take the desired pill, and you will no longer have to endure such behaviour." Karl: "Y'know, this could be a trap n' all that. I mean like, you've got some nice IKEA furniture here and all that... but your telly is shit, has the Freeview package and that's about it. I can't exactly trust ya. I'm not takin' any of your pills, mate. You're like a druggie trying to sell 'is a Capri-Sun without a straw." Karl: "I'm not playing with ya, this is bloody daft this. Take 'is back to Tescos, I was in the middle of a shop and ye screwing around with these pills n' that. I'm not having that." *Karl gets up, only to be interrupted by Morpheus and told, politely, to sit down* Morpheus: "You will be able to manipulate what you have always perceived as reality." Karl: "No, I'm not doing it. I don't like it. It's weird." Morpheus: "We're in the Matrix, a simulated reality that we have always perceived as true reality. You and many others have been enslaved by intelligent machines, intelligent machines that use as batteries." *Morpheus displays a Duracell battery* Karl: "You're havin' a laugh, mate. It's not happening. I'm sticking with the usual. My arse is freezing, I wanna go home. *Morpheus glances at Karl in intrigue* Morpheus: "Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself." Karl: "I'm not doing this bloody deal, I just want these twats to stop following 'is around and let 'is eat a whopper." Morpheus: "What is real? How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain." Karl: "Your bullshit is unreal, mate. I'm not havin' it. I'm going home.


“I’ll never leave you” is the funniest statement to me in any love story. It doesn’t always happen as you have always known. Never once did I imagine he could do this to me, no, us. Not just the two of us, but another two of our own kind. He could have waited for our silver wedding but… He left me. Too much in a hurry to leave. Not stopping once to think what and who he’ll be leaving behind. He just left. Before that, he was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is not me writing a tribute of some sort. He indeed was the best thing that happened to me – not a platitude either. Our love story was like any other. A few twists and turns disguises it. We were neighbors all through our childhood until grade 6. We attended the same preschool. But I found him to be awkward. He never smiled, not even in my direction. I never found him talking to anyone either. He was a recluse, I always thought. After school, I watched him walk quietly to his mum’s car. Every single day until we graduated. As if following the predictions of a fortune teller,… We lost contact. But there still existed that familiarity - the situation where you know you know someone but you are not too sure if they knew you too. Our parents knew each other too. I don’t remember ever visiting him, but I recall seeing him once or twice at my end and a vivid memory of him at my birthday party when I was ten. Then. We lost contact. Again. I met his dad once afterwards and he told he too had gained admission into one of the best high schools in the country. I was so enraptured; the proximity of his school to mine was bewildering. More of fate than coincidence, I presumed. At least I’ll get to see him again before we are separated again. I was only building castles in the air then. He never came looking for me. Dejected I was, consoling myself that it probably was never meant to be. So. We lost contact. Yet again. Then it was time to go to the university. This time I was not informed he will be there. But there he was, and there I was too. In the same classes, offering the same course. This time, I saw him for myself and told a friend, “I know him”. Charming as always, tall- very tall- and light-skinned with thick heavy eyebrows and a mesmerizing smile that could leave you dazed for days. And this time, fate played its role. That friend happened to know him too, and she arranged for us to meet. He didn’t know me. And while I did all the talking, he didn’t even seem to remember anything. I doubted he even believed me until I mentioned his dad’s name. I brushed it off and moved on, without a single hope of maintaining any form of relationship with him. I was over him. Ironically, we didn’t lose contact again. We exchanged contacts through my friend and started to talk over phone. First, about random things. Then, things became intense. We went from talking on phone to meeting at odd places, on stairways and pathways. In the serenity of some gardens. Amidst the hustle and bustle of some parks. In cars and buses. Then, he spoke to his friends about us, and I introduced him to my friends, both of us, very uncertain on mentioning each other to our parents, which made sense that our best moments were in school. Never at home. It happened once, and nearly happened the second time, when our passions overrode us and we consummated our love – against my Christian virtues. I forgave myself and asked the LORD for pardon. It didn’t end there. Packs of kisses. Tons of touches. Some very intimate hugs. And a dozen cuddles each night we get to spend together, until we were done with school. Turning twenty-two that year, some guts we got. We spoke to our parents and the deal was done. But we had to wait until we had secured some jobs, and two years into working, his missus I became. After the well-paid careers, came the seeds of our love, two in number. A pigeon pair. First, came the chip of the old block with very obvious cute dimples, unlike his dad. Then, daddy’s little princess, better still, mummy’s. Four years apart from each, the lad coming just a year after his dad’s promotion to an excellent position with awesome incentives for his perfect family. An ideal one, as I often heard people say at church whenever we stepped out of the car on Sundays. We were all that everyone around us wanted. Our bond was evident, a literal see-through relationship. As we were in closet, so were we in public. He had nothing to hide, so didn’t I. All the feedback from all the marriages seemed like myths; none was real to me in mine. We never went a day without communicating in our primary love languages. Physical touch and quality time; the sound of laughter always present in our home. We played like toddlers even with our kids and sad moments were usually only when we saw sad movies. Until when he had to be traveling to and fro. For days. For weeks. And for months. I was never drawn into any form of suspicion. Not ever. He always came back “drained out” – the way he often put it. I was never mad. I understood. His journeys were always miles and miles away from home. Never close by to allow me stop the next train to drop in to say hi. Then it was over. He went away. We just lost contact, and this time for good. It happened way too quickly and even now, I still struggle to comprehend how it did. I still can’t figure it out what I did wrong. Where I went wrong. No, he didn’t go away into the arms of the other woman as most stories have it. He was on one of his trips when I got a call. It was expected – he seldom does not call when he is away from home, and so I knew he would. He indeed was calling, but he wasn’t the one speaking. My excitement ceased when a noticed the difference in voice. It was a male’s voice all right. Just not his. All that time, all I had said was the formal hello you say when you answer a call. I anticipated to hear the speaker mention a huge sum to be paid as ransom and then he’d be liberated. But he didn’t. He instead asked where the kids were, throwing me into a state of confusion. “How is that your concern?” I replied in my thoughts. “They are not with me,” was what came out into the receiver. The man on the other end then blurted out something. I didn’t hear initially. He reiterated. This time, I refused to hear. I suddenly drowned into hysterics. I put myself together and asked that he repeat himself for a last: “He is dead.” I heard. How it happened; how his health failed him, I do not have the slightest idea. Why it happened, only God knows. To be honest, I cared less about these unanswered questions. I just couldn’t forgive him for deserting us. For breaking ties with us, unannounced. The next few days and weeks, prior to his burial, were tough. Trying so hard to bottle up my tears whenever my little girl lachrymosely asked when her dad was due to return, oblivious of what had really befallen him, and barely smiling in agreement to my son- the miniature him- whenever he spoke of his dad’s epic return. These two were the source of my sorrow. While I was thinking of how they’d be growing without him, all they could capture in their teeny-weeny innocent minds was what presents he’ll be bringing them. On the day he was put into the ground, I cursed the day that I met him. And in my silence, breathed a word of prayer for him. It flashed my mind, our pastor’s sermon that said, “You know you have forgiven them when you’re able to pray for them,” and I realized that I didn’t hate him after all. That I still loved him. In health and in sickness. In joy and in grief. Till death has done us apart. A year gone. Memory unwashed. A lousy past. Yet my greatest gain: To love and be loved. “Cut,” came my director’s voice right through, what I’d like to call, my super fantastic acting. I responded with a “phew”, a sigh of relief. I honestly didn’t know how long I was going to go before I broke down – I’ve been on my feet all day long. Plus; I was getting emotional from my repetitive acting (it felt like it was my story). Well, I’m a 20-year old upcoming actress, trying to build my career and make a name. And yet to find love. "Action," ...and I'm back to work. For the umpteenth time.


I sit on an old park bench. Although the scene is busy, what you’d expect from a train station in the late afternoon, I find my gaze is always drawn to the one static object, the bulletin board. Each day I partake in this little ritual of mine. I clock out of work at 4:43 and enjoy a relaxed pace down to the station. I place my briefcase on the side of the same old bench and take my usual place on the end. The 5 o’clock train comes into the station, normally at 5:02, and empties itself of its passengers before being filled to the brim with a fresh batch. The train blows its horn promptly at 5:09 and departs the station a minute later. The bustle lingers for a while longer, but slowly the station empties and I’m left alone with myself, my bench, and the station staff. I’ve exchanged a few words with the janitor that most often cleans around this time, but failing to find common ground we’ve settled for trading nods. No one notices me sitting at this bench, day after day, watching the same tired scene unfold. No one approaches me and asks why, nor would I want anyone to. Despite the mass of people who populate the station, this ritual is mine and mine alone. Their presence isn’t what keeps me here. The board is in near disrepair. Its wooden frame worn down by time, the cork board retaining only the slightest hint it once held color. A few papers get added to it, a new play’s debut or a lost cat, but underneath the bright colored posters are relics of an age past. The buried pages, once clean white sheets now brown and curling, were each penned by hand. They contain a list of names, a list I read each time I sit at this bench. I start in the top left and let my eyes gradually droop down the board, giving each letter enough time to be fully appreciated. At the end of each word I piece these letters together, forming a name, which I let silently roll off my tongue. Reaching the bottom of the board I start anew at the top of the next list over. Some names are smudged into illegibility, others are covered by more recent notices, but each one has been dutifully read hundreds of times. I alone remember those which can no longer be deciphered. These names once had meaning to a great deal of people. Once the war ended and the soldiers returned home a list went up on a brand new bulletin. It contained the names of those who were missing. Each day the station would crowd with the families of the board and each member would gaze longingly as the train pulled into the station. Over time families had to give up hope. The looks on their faces around town were miserable, but more depressing were the faces of those that stayed. Each time someone threw in the towel, conversation the next day would freeze. The shared hope of the group waned over the years and the list only served as a reminder of that which was lost. Years passed, decades even, and the list was forgotten about. Now, a sole man makes a daily pilgrimage down to a lonely bench and stares, ever-hopeful, at a few scraps of paper loosely tacked onto a decrepit board. His eyes appear to be still to onlookers, but they diligently crawl over each name. He holds strong through this journey, but upon reaching the last letter he cannot help a solitary tear from escaping his eyes. I don’t have much longer to continue my duty, but I cannot abandon it. For those who were lost, for those who were forgotten, and for those who gave up hope, I read the list.


It could be said that she spent more time than most seven-year-olds thinking of biblically accurate angels. She was pleased by her name for the first six years of living, especially when spoken from the lips of her mother,  “Angel, my love.”

She thought the name rang to a similar tune of angelic concepts such as beauty, elegance, femininity, and light. Until that bright Sunday morning. “Angels,” Pastor Dave preached, “are God's warriors. The way we depict them is an injustice.” Angel, who usually took church as an opportunity to doze off in the cold metal folding chair once a week, was attentive to this particular sermon regarding her namesake.

“Our protectors ain't rosy-cheeked doe-eyed fragile women and babies! No!”

The crowd murmured its agreement, a sudden epiphany fed to them by Dave. They took it hungrily.

“They’re ferocious beasts that bare four heads: a lion, an ox, an eagle, and a human. Wild wings and sporadic eyes. Humans should shutter with fear at the terrific sight of them!” His voice reverberated off the thin walls and into the ears of his audience, echoing between her skull all the way home.

When she arrived in her bedroom, she looked in the mirror and screamed. Screamed and screamed until she coughed up blood and choked on it. Where she had once seen a halo glowing over her head in the reflection, she now saw an ox ripping through the flesh of her collarbone, fighting to make her neck his own.

That day was just the start, ten years later and she still cannot look in the mirror without seeing them: the ox at her collarbone, the eagle pecking at her eyes until they bleed, or a lion when her face should be.

Ten years is a long time, and she’s since conceived ways to sedate the hallucinations. The first way is avoiding mirrors, which is easier said than done, but she manages most of the time.

Other times she has no choice but to face the glass. Cases where she needs to check an outfit, curl her hair, or clean the surface. So, she simply wears a mask: a ceramic piece she'd painted to look like a doll, a cardboard bunny with long floppy ears, or maybe a replica of her favorite celebrity made from plastic, complete with yarn hair. Her collection is endless.

Angel finds an odd solace in making the masks, a tedious repetition that comes with the rhythm of crafting up her wildest dreams to tame the nightmares that sometimes bleed into the day. She adores every step of the process, from the initial sketch made on her pink bedroom floor, to adorning herself in the masks that serve as her own type of armor. It is important to note that Angel is not aware that these visions in the mirror are hallucinations. No, Angel believes them to be real, and since she never told anyone, she never got help. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone what she really believed; that she had been cursed by Jesus Christ himself. A punishment for her sins, and that she must atone and take it in stride or else risk eternally burning in hellfire with the lion, the ox, and the eagle that haunt her. The masks make her feel safe from the angels, but they also provided protection against the other war that had been waged upon her, beauty. It could be said that she spent more time than most nine-year-olds thinking of her figure and face. What had started as pure admiration of women festered into jealousy and insecurity. It haunted her, the golden locks and tight waists that she saw in the Sunday morning cartoons and behind her eyes when she wished for rest. She felt vanity coursing through her veins with every beat of her bitter heart. She didn't know what she looked like. Not truly. The few times she caught a glimpse in a mirror she was too petrified by the blood flooding from her eyes to really focus. The one time she permitted her mother to take a picture of her, Angel had sobbed and refused to leave her room for days, dry heaving and dizzy with disorientation and confusion. Her proportions were all wrong and her face was like that of an unfinished puzzle.

Now, at seventeen, she is seeking validation and beauty, so she signed up to compete in her town’s annual pageant show. With a week left until the show, Angel struggles with one major problem: Lucy Colette.

Lucy is known as the most desirable girl in town. With her shiny hair, bright eyes, and a small, curved nose she is delicate in every sense of the word. Everything that Angel is not. Angel has been watching Lucy since eighth grade. Watching her apply lip gloss through the crack in the stall door, sketching Lucy’s face on her pink bedroom floor for a mask, following her home from school just to watch the way her hair catches and reflects the sunshine, even on gray days. For all her watching, Angel didn’t know much about Lucy Colette, just that the boys consistently rated her a ten, and that Angel was usually a five. And if the boys at school thought that, what would the panel at the Pageant Show think?

Angel knew she had to act fast, so she did. After inviting Lucy Colette over for tea to discuss the Pageant, “girl to girl”, Angel swiftly cracked Lucy in the back of the head with a high heel. Hard. Angel can’t quite remember how she dragged Lucy down into the basement. All she can focus on now is the way Lucy is awake again, screaming and screaming. And oh- no! That won't do! Now she's coughed up blood all over her pretty chin and long bouncy curls. Angel doesn’t want to hit the girl again, that would be cruel. Plus, she really needn't worry about her parents hearing, they never paid any mind to Angel’s screams.

So Angel says, “shhhhh” and “here, let's get you cleaned up”, while rinsing the blood from the girl whose eyes keep flickering from her chains, to the stairs, and back to Angel again. Don’t look at her like that! She’s only doing what must be done, Miss Colette.

Suddenly, Angel is very excited about the opening of this new Beauty Shop in her basement. She sets out to work. She carefully selects a mask for her task, deciding on the one she made of Lucy’s boyfriend. Yes, yes, that should help comfort her. She sets Lucy up in the chair in front of the mirror, and gets her tools out. Angel doesn’t know if it's because of the mask, or the sudden buzzing sound, but Lucy begins to scream again, and Angel really doesn’t have time for this. She turns the radio up and takes the first swipe at Lucy’s hair. Feathery gold floats down to the ground leaving a stubbly scalp in its wake, and oops, best not to move Miss Colette! Now you’ve nicked your skin and you're bleeding. Maybe it's for the best that you get used to it. Now that Lucy’s hair is completely gone, Angel moves onto the eyebrows, plucking and collecting each strand, but she takes care to switch to a different bag to store Lucy's eyelashes. It’s essential she doesn't mix the two up or the whole scheme might as well be thrown out! By the time she gets to the left eyelashes, Lucy's voice is but a rasp and her tears are sticky, but fickle. Good! She’s converted to the righteous, and knows her sacrifice is for the better. It’s almost time for the Beauty Shop to close, but there's a few finishing touches that need to be taken care of because Lucy has beautiful red nails and Angel has no polish at all. Lucy takes a nap while Angel sings a soft lullaby to the beat of her work. Cutting and pulling off all of Lucy's nails until all ten are accounted for. Her work is almost done.  But oh, how Lucy’s skin glows like pearls, clear as virtue and pretty as those magazines! She picks up her crafting knife and gets carving, the screams come anew, but end as abruptly as they started.

After hours of sewing blonde hair, gluing pearly skin, arranging eye brows and lashes, donning red nails, and crying and laughing with her stolen lips, Angel finally stands on the pageant stage in a brand new mask. Complete with the final thing she stole, bright unseeing eyes. The crowd erupts in applause like she had never heard. Whistles and cheering, with a first place trophy for the most desirable girl in town.


Two weeks in and the best thing about Italy was still the wine. After a day of wandering through cobbled streets Kieran loved nothing more than nabbing a bottle from the Cantu's collection to share with Galilea. At first he was worried about getting caught, but Galilea assured him that her parents would never notice. Her father was a diplomat, and on a night like this he'd be at some important event with his wife; Galilea could never keep track. A part of Kieran felt bad stealing from the family that so generously offered to host his stay in Rome, but knowing their hospitality they'd probably have offered him a few glasses if he wasn't underage. Galilea emerged from the cellar holding a dark red bottle above her head. "Check this one!" She squealed as she handed the bottle over. "Today we only drink good stuff!" Kieran let out a mischievous laugh as he examined the bottle. "Damn, Lea, where'd you find this?" Galilea looked puzzled for a moment. "It was underground in the cellar. Did you not look when I was going there?" Kieran saw her wide eyed expression and realised she didn't get the reference. He found it endearing when she didn't understand him. "It's a joke from back home," he started to explain. "But nevermind that, grab some glasses and I'll put on some music." Galilea nodded and happily skipped off to the kitchen. Kieran watched her and smiled to himself. It was refreshing being surrounded by a different culture and different people. Hanging out with Lea was great, and Kieran didn't mind at all that she struggled a bit with English. in fact, he liked that about her, but he wasn't sure why. He connected his phone to her bluetooth speaker and shouted to the kitchen. "What music are you in the mood for?" "Whatever" she yelled back. "Play what you are thinking." At first Kieran was annoyed by her indecisiveness. Then he realised this was an opportunity. Galilea was the only person he felt comfortable goofing off with. Most girls took themselves too seriously but with her, things were different. Everything felt natural. He wanted to play something mellow, so he found a Drake playlist and put it on shuffle. "Ooh my favourite!" Galilea said as she stepped back into the living room. She was holding two wine glasses and a bag of marshmallows. "Get over here, join the party," Kieran said as he took a seat on the couch. He turned up the volume, secretly glad that she liked his choice of music. "No no, let us dance," Galilea said as she poured the wine. Any other time, Kieran would have laughed at the suggestion; he hated dancing. But on this night, with this wine, he made an exception. Especially for this girl. "Alright," he agreed. "But I'm not nearly drunk enough. Let's make a toast." "Nice idea!" He stood up and took one of the glasses from Galilea. He raised it as he looked into her soft, dark eyes. He thought of making a silly, joke toast, but the moment was too perfect. He wanted to capture this night in words he would remember. "To youth and being young." "Youth and being young." Galilea repeated. Their glasses clinked and she held his stare with the music swirling around them. They both gulped down the Chianti and Galilea opened the dancefloor. She waved her hands wildly and tossed her dark hair about. Kieran chuckled to himself. She was no ballerina but dammit, she was fun. He set his glass down and tried to match her energy. She took his hands and laughed as they tried to move in sync. ~ A few glasses later Kieran returned to his spot on the couch. He felt warm from the wine, and his body felt lightweight but heavy at the same time. Galilea joined him, sitting much closer than she ever would if her parents were around. She buried her head in his chest, and Kieran put his arm around her. "Your body is smelling bad today," she teased. Kieran wasn't fazed. "It's all that jumping around you got me to do. I really worked up a sweat there." Galilea giggled and looked up at Kieran. Her cheeks were red from the wine, and from this close he could see the freckles around her nose. She watched his smile as he spoke, seemingly entranced. "Your mouth is so pretty when you are happy." "What?" Kieran responded. He didn't quite catch what she said and turned down the music. Galilea giggled some more. "Your mouth, when you are happy. How do you say in English-" "You mean my smile?" "That's it, your smile. It is beautiful." Kieran paused briefly, then looked back at her. "Why, thank you, Lea." She looked back at him, and slowly began to draw closer... Then the music stopped. And Kieran's ringtone started playing from the speaker. "Crap," he said, fumbling to find his phone. He declined, and leaned his head back on the couch. "Who was it?" Galilea asked. "I'm not sure, I didn't actually check." The phone rang again. This time he looked, and it was his sister Tobin. She probably wanted to check in and see how the trip was going, but Kieran decided that could wait. He declined again. "I will get my phone and it will be the music," Galilea said as she got up. As she left, Kieran received a text from Tobin: "Hey. Call me when you can. It's urgent." Kieran sat up, slightly concerned. He called Tobin. "Hey Kieran." "Hi Toby, I saw your missed calls. Is everything alright?" Tobin hesitated. "Something's happened. Are you sitting down?" "Yeah why, what is it? Is Dad okay?" Kieran could hear that Tobin was flustered. "Uh yeah, Dad is fine. Dad's okay. It's Gaston." Gaston worked with Kieran at the store back home. They became good friends, and Gaston's family paid for Kieran's trip to Italy. His blood ran cold. "What happened?" Tobin sighed heavily. "They found his body this morning." "What? No." "The police think he shot himself. I'm so sorry Kieran." Galilea re-entered the living room, holding her phone and another bottle of wine. "Are you still there Kieran?" Tobin asked. "Say something." Kieran looked around the living room, searching for something, anything to tell Tobin in response. "I-I have to go. I'll call you back." He hung up abruptly. Galilea had been standing in the doorway, unsure if she should intervene. She broke the silence. "Are you okay?" Kieran got up, and strode towards the door. "I have to go." He brushed past Galilea, but in her drunken state she stumbled back and dropped the wine bottle. "Kieran!" She yelled as the bottle crashed at her feet. Her phone clattered next to it. "I'm sorry, Lea, I have to go." Kieran repeated, fumbling with the lock to get outside. Tears were starting well in his eyes. "Where will you go?" Galilea asked, but she was answered with a slammed door as Kieran disappeared into the night.


A frail old man sits in his favorite park, on his favorite bench feeding the pigeons that gathered around his feet. It's what he did every day. It was really the only pleasure he had left in life. Everything else had been taken from him. The old man gets a scowl on his face as he remembers the things he lost. He lost his achievements. He lost his building. He lost his reputation. He had revolutionized the world. But his quarrelsome and suspicious nature made sure he made enemies. And he had made plenty of enemies over his years. His enemies were incredibly powerful. Not only powerful but influential as well. Enemies that made sure he was known as a hoaxer, a charlatan, a fraud, a crackpot… Enemies he was sure were responsible for setting fire to his first building. Enemies that put him in his current position; penniless and living out of a small hotel room. The old man lets out a depressed sigh as he continues to feed the ever growing group of pigeons in front of him. He still can't believe that even after all he's done, he's going to be remembered as a failure. The old man was so wrapped up in his own despair and occupied with feeding the pigeons, he didn't notice he was being watched. That was until a well dressed man approached the bench. The old man was of course aware he was being watched. They had been watching him for years now. Hell, he knew the people watching him had rooms down the hall from his. He was old, not stupid. "The fools" he thought to himself as the well dressed man got closer to him. The old man noticed this man was different than the others. The others tried to stay hidden while they spied on him. The well dressed man looked different. The old man couldn't quite place why the man looked different. It almost looked like he didn't belong. Like he was trying very hard to look normal. "Do you mind if I sit here?" the well dressed man asked the old man. The old man said nothing and didn't even bother to look up from feeding the pigeons. "It's a beautiful day out today, wouldn't you agree?" the well dressed man said as he sat down next to the old man. The old man still said nothing but he did notice that the well dressed man had a book on his lap. But it wasn't enough of a curiosity for the old man to say anything. The well dressed man sighed and leaned forward. "I know who you are sir." The old man really wasn't surprised. He had been well known once. He had been famous. "I know what you have done." the well dressed man continued. "I know you're worried that you will be remembered as a failure." That caught the old man's attention. But he still did not say a word to the well dressed man. "I know you live in the hotel across the street. I know why you keep pigeons in your room. I know that you're being watched." the well dressed man said. The old man turned his head and stared at the man sitting next to him, locking eyes with him. A look of absolute shock was on the old man's face. The eyes of the old man asked the question the old man couldn't find the voice for, "Who are you?" "I have good news and bad news for you sir." the well dressed man said. "The bad news is and I am very sorry to say that tonight sir, you will die in your sleep." The old man was shocked but for some reason he believed what he was just told. He stopped feeding the pigeons and hung his head. He began to tear up. He wasn't surprised and in a strange way, he felt some relief in finally knowing it would all be over soon. "The good news is you will not be remembered as a failure. In fact I have the proof right here." said the well dressed man as he patted the book on his lap. The old man couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was almost ready to yell at the other man for lying to him. But before he could, the well dressed man said "Would you like to see it?" The old man nodded his head and was given the book. The book had all its pages glued together, except for the middle of the book. When the old man looked inside the book, he couldn't believe his eyes. Colorful pictures danced in front of his eyes in a way he had never seen before. The text that accompanied the pictures was so clear, he was absolutely amazed. After 10 minutes the pictures had stopped and the old man had tears in his eyes again. But this time it was from joy. He was going to be remembered! He was going to get credit for everything he has done! The well dressed man grabbed his book, stood up and began to walk away. "Th...Thank you. Thank you so much" the old man said as he finally found his voice. The well dressed man stopped, turned his head and said "You're welcome Mr. Tesla." With that, the well dressed man turned around and walked out of the park.


It started with a bang. Or to be more specific, a series of bangs. In 1972, the world's powers were at wit's end with one another, and a failed coup attempt was the final trigger on this particular powderkeg. The aftermath from a global war wasn't nearly as bad as anyone had predicted, but it certainly had unintended side effects. By 2043 humanity had managed to regain some semblance of past normalcy, and that's when the first superhuman mutation was discovered. A man by the name of Gregory Graves, who would go on to become the father of modern day superheroes, was the most famous case of what would later become known as The Cold War Kids. As civilization first attempted to rebuild itself, it became the newly established U.C.N.'s (Unified Coalition of Nations) first priority to get a handle on these super powered individuals before things escalated from bad to worse. A supervillain who would later go on to call himself “The Volcano” was the first to test the limits of this still burgeoning civilization. It wasn’t long before anyone with half a mind to stitch themselves a costume was running out in the streets playing vigilante with their unrestrained and untested powers. Imagine giving a room full of toddlers access to the nuclear launch codes and then stepping out for a smoke. It took them a whopping five years to fully establish and work the kinks out of the ESD (Electronic Superhuman Database); the defacto electronic record of every single registered supe currently known to any of the various governmental agencies around the world. Registered being the operative word, given the vast number of unchecked nutjobs running around in the world. By 2071, the unpowered world had become fed up with the rampant property destruction brought on by the ever raging super war. A decision was made, and all humans registered with the ESD were relocated to a large portion of the planet that was rendered more or less permanently unviable due to nuclear fallout. The heroes and villains didn't care all that much, just happy to have a new playground in which to do "great battle" with one another. No one was sure if it was a psychosomatic reaction, or an evolutionary trait invoked by the superhuman gene, but without a doubt these individuals loved fighting one another. In the current year of 2101, the population of villains outnumbered heroes five to one, and the rate of decline seemed to be exponential. A small group of heroes, known collectively as Sword & Shield, were at the forefront of the battlegrounds. Their small cadre consisted of The Tank, the leader - a beast of a man who was all but indestructible - Shadowlance, a woman that could phase through any type or state of matter, and Trinity; he was able to manipulate the elements of fire, water and wind any way he saw fit. Even though this trio was able to tackle any threats that had come their way thus far, they were all three keenly aware that it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out. Sure, the non-powered world had The Gallows, but it was no replacement for what groups like them could offer. As soon as the U.C.N. realized they had a bunch of superpowered serial killers on their hands, they needed a place to put them, and fast. By 2083, there were more than half a million registered superhumans globally. No agency had the exact figures, but by all accounts the number of undocumented supes was likely double that. Enter Crescendo; your run-of-the-mill sadistic mercenary for hire group run by a mysterious figurehead that subordinates only ever referred to as Alice. This particular outfit started establishing a name for itself in the early days of the “supe epidemic” by making a killing (literally) in the pursuit and apprehension of dangerous superhumans. It basically turned out to be a publicity campaign for them when foreign governments showed up at their door asking them to take care of the worst offenders that couldn’t be contained by conventional means. This brute squad got to work and converted a decommissioned old military base into Galloway Penitentiary for the Superhuman. It didn't take long for anyone who stayed there to understood why it earned the nom de guerre, “The Gallows”. Because it was a privately owned facility, things like “oversight” and “mutual respect” were very, very low on the priority list. So low, in fact, that they were largely nonexistent. The other glaringly odd thing was that no prisoner had ever seen this elusive Alice; but by god did they command the fear and respect of every officer and grunt working for them. Any time the name was mentioned, it was spoken with hushed tones of reverence. It was almost cult-like in the way they revered their leader, but the comparisons to a cult end there. At least with cults, there was the possibility of drug fueled sex parties (just don’t drink anything you’re offered). The Gallows did not have any good variety of either drugs or sex. Plenty of the bad though, in spades. Sword & Shield knew they would need help from the outside. Their first goal would be figuring out how to get over the wall dividing The Quarry - the expansive badlands where all supes were exiled - and the remainder of the world. Not only was every inch covered in antipersonnel artillery, but also various electrical and chemical defenses to cover the gamut of powers contained within. Thankfully, one member of this outfit had no trouble getting in - or out - of nearly any situation. Shadowlance's next mission would be locating the one man on the other side that might give them a fighting chance. There were many things the supervillains as a whole were resistant against. But over the years, there was one very specific aspect of human advancement they started to neglect -- science. And recently, there were murmurs whispered around the world about a non powered man who was fighting - and winning - against supervillains using nothing but his own inventions.