It was a perfect mid-summer day. The kind of day where the songbirds start chirping early and the fireflies dance late into the night. Davis loved everything about summer - the longer days, the hot weather, wearing shorts, and baseball—especially baseball. In his youth, he had excelled at the sport enough to get a few college scholarship offers but opted to stay behind to be with his high school sweetheart. In the fall after graduation, huddled in a white room, doctors would explain they did all they could for her. Even with the best cyber augmentation available, the cancer cells grew too fast. Summer days like this still remind him of her. Davis lifted two blue, five-gallon buckets filled with worn baseballs into the trunk of his car. A couple of balls bounced out, rolling to the ground. Reaching down and tossing them back into the bucket, he noticed another broken lace on his old dusty ball glove. He picked up the glove examing it closely. He'd had this glove since high school. This glove was the same one he was wearing when he pitched his team to the championship game and the same glove he was wearing when making the last out on a diving catch in left field that local townspeople still talk about. The glove was now showing its age. He'd have to look into fixing that later as right now, he was headed up to the ballfield to practice with his youngest son, 12-year-old Rece. Rece tolerated baseball. He liked being on a team and goofing around with his teammates, but he wasn't the athlete his Dad was. With his shaggy blonde hair constantly in his eyes, Rece preferred skateboarding and reading stories about Greek mythology. But he liked spending time with his Dad and the fun they had together. They usually went for ice cream after every game. "We should get you that new mitt," Davis said, tossing the ball carefully back to Rece. "You can keep using my old ones if you want, but wouldn't you like one of your very own?" Rece didn't respond. He started at his feet, picturing them on the placement of his skateboard. He thought about the skating video he watched earlier, how effortlessly the skaters performed their tricks. They floated through the air like some freestyle skateboard angels. He liked to imagine the skateboards were gifts from the gods, like Apollo receiving the golden chariot from his father, Zeus. "Rece. Rece! Get the ball. You gotta pay attention, man." Rece snapped to focus, saw his Dad pointing behind him, turned, and walked to get the ball. "Hustle, man, c'mon," a slight annoyance growing in Davis' voice. Normally very patient with Rece, today Davis let his irritation be known. Perhaps he was thinking about work or all the house projects that needed attention. "The sun was in my eyes. I felt like a cyclops." The thought of a cyclops standing in the outfield made Rece smile. Picking up the ball, looking towards Davis, the distance between them seemed impossibly long. He wished he could ride Pegasus over to his Dad to deliver the ball. "Ok, c'mon, let's see a good hard throw. You can do it." Davis held his mitt up as a target, trying to keep his voice positive. Reaching back as far as he could, Rece closed his eyes and gave it everything he had. He let out a grunt as his arm shot forward like a trebuchet. It felt good—strong— like Zeus unleashing a lightning bolt. "Rece dammit, cmon. Throw it TO me", snapped Davis, opening and closing his mitt a few times. "TO me." Rece opened his eyes to see his Dad walking slowly away to retrieve the ball, shaking his head and muttering something Rece could not make out. Finding the ball's final resting place, Rece impressed himself at how far he threw it even though it sailed over his Dad's head. Rece celebrated by doing a kickflip on his invisible skateboard. "Rece! Hey, look up! Rece!" His Dad's voice sounded different, more urgent than he ever remembered hearing before. Rece looked up in time to see a dark dot flash in front of the sun for the briefest of moments; the mitt at his side didn't move. Instant darkness. A soft figure grew closer in the reflection of the black mirror. "Rece, you know you shouldn't be watching that. The Dr. says replaying that isn't healthy." A nurse walked up and started touching the dark screen. "If you keep doing that, we'll have to limit your access to your neural ROM memory transmitters. Or yet, we'll have to wipe your memory clean. We don't want to have to do that—we know there are good memories buried in there you like to replay. Did you take your meds today?" The nurse continued to tap on the black screen. Rece sat motionless on a stiff gray couch, his reflection in the large black screen peering back at him. He sat slumped, expressionless. It's difficult to conceive that inside this frail body once lived a great athlete, moving with grace and power. "Why won't this thing work," the nurse pleaded, still taping on the black screen. "These new computational window models are so finicky." A tannish-brown object peeked out from the blanket wrapped around Davis. Davis held the thing close in the black reflection. The leathery smell of the object took Davis back to high school, back to more peaceful times. The object—a new baseball glove—still had its price tags. Running down the outside of the pinky of the glove were large black handwritten letters. They neatly spelled out R E C E. "Ah, there we go. Finally, oh look, a baseball game, your favorite. Well, you enjoy the game Davis, and I'll be back to check on you in a little while. In the meantime, no more self-memory hijacking." Davis sat motionlessly. He held the object in the lap tightly as the game announcer said, "What a beautiful summer day for baseball. The weather is hot, and the sun is shining." ________


Hour Two The first hour garnered more attention then he wanted so he decided to change who he was. Another mask, another face and yet simple enough to be seen through if someone truly cared. The girl was a weird object of desire for him. All too appealing and all too taboo for a have baked person to possess and yet she confessed in him. He doesn’t know what to do. He cares for her yet not quite in the way she would wish. He does not want to lead her on and yet it feels like this chance is the chance to make it all right. A woman grown yet not quite a woman at all. Old enough to know what she wants and yet young enough not to know better. He thinks her eyes are more warped then his for she sees him as a perfect gentleman. Or at least she sees him as a person to be treasured. He feels like a broken being and she doesn’t believe him. What exactly does she see? He’s hungry in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. His deformity makes him ashamed and yet he wants her. She is not true beauty and yet he still lusts for something more amazing then him. She has everything he could never have after all so maybe he just wants to take a part of her away. He lies to her. He lies to everyone after all so why would that stop him now? His life has been for the most part uneventful so why not embody someone else for awhile? To experience the things, he has never experienced would be the reason so he lies. The feeling of wading in that shit is natural to him. Comforting even to be somebody else for awhile. Yet we digress. She is blind and naive. After all she’s a very sheltered 18 year old woman who was never at the top of her school hierarchy. It scares him how his flippant lies harm him and yet it excites him at the same time. She may not be the prettiest girl in the room but her smile and blush are second to none. A pleasant sight in a workplace filled with foul-smelling middle-aged men. He wants her and she believes she wants him. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He who sits in the shit of his words does not want to use her like toilet paper as a single sheet would never be able to clean the mess he makes. Still, any possible relief from the feeling of the bog and the oppressive smells it brings clings to his shallow soul. He wants her he thinks yet still cares. The two sides of his mind keep fighting in turmoil so the half-baked man does what he always does. Nothing. He keeps a comfortable distance as he waits down the clock. His rotten doughy outside being more tainted by the sweet nothings he says until she has to finally leave. He hopes her College life goes well but also hates her for the chance he never had. He knows that she built that chance for herself all on her own and his half-baked self should mind it’s own business and yet still… he hates her. She hurts herself sometimes. A small bit of control and a small amount of defiance. He doesn’t understand why she does it to herself as the half-baked man only understands venting anger that way. To bite hard enough not to draw blood and yet be able to clear the mind of its red haze. Her cutting herself reminds him of the scars his sister carries. He feels anger, pity and jealousy for it. Yet the fleshy dough of the half-baked man does nothing. He does not know what to do about the girl. So, he waits out the clock, hungry for what he could and couldn’t take. So that the choice is no longer his.


The sun rose slowly over the green country as two people watched, one leaning on the other. The Halloween party, which ended a few hours ago, had been a huge success despite the resident ghost paying a visit. The pair were exhausted but found they couldn’t sleep yet and decided to watch the sun come up. They could sleep on the way home after everything was cleaned up. “Did you ask Ryan to drive?” Terry asked, shielding her eyes as the yellow ball rose higher. “I did. He said he’d have no problem doing so. Just let him sleep until it’s time to leave.” Roger kissed his girlfriend’s forehead. “Great party though, wasn’t it?” “Couldn’t have asked for a better one, but looks like we’ll have to top it next year for our new friend.” She looked at the pumpkin in her hands. “Best party ever. At least the Headless Horseman has a sense of humor.” “I think the caretakers will be astonished to see no pumpkins on the front grass this year. Let’s head back in and start to tidy up.” They glanced at the rising sun one more time then headed back into the manor to see the night’s effects. Most of the party-goers had left when the festivities ended but some were passed out in the sitting room. Roger counted six to eight people then went to the kitchen to start a large pot of coffee. Terry sighed, rolled up her dress sleeves, and went about the task of waking everyone up. “Come on, Tiffany. Rise and shine.” She shook the petite blonde’s bare shoulder and Tiffany groaned. “Terry? What time is it?” “Just past sunrise. Time to get up.” “Just past sunrise? What the bloody hell? Why you getting me up so early?” “Because we have to clear out of here by two and there’s a lot of tidying to do before that, otherwise, we won’t get our deposit returned and won’t be allowed back. We’re already coming up with ideas for next Halloween, now hop to it! And start waking the others.” With another groan, Tiffany stood, straightened her rumpled costume then proceeded to wake Nathan first. He yawned and rolled over. “Morning, Tiff. You have fun last night?” “You mean aside from the Headless Horseman crashing the party? Yeah, I did.” More yawns and grunts of discomfort could be heard as Terry kept waking everyone else in the room. “Come on, Nate. According to our hostess, it’s time for housekeeping.” “Aye, suppose so. Help me up, will ya?” She hoisted her boyfriend to his feet, which made him lightheaded. “Whoa there.” He steadied himself. “Need me some coffee.” “Already done, mate.” Roger came into the sitting room with a tray full of steaming mugs. “You’re a life saver, my friend.” Nathan sipped on the hot liquid. “So,” he looked around at the bodies coming to life, “where do we start?” Over the course of several hours and cups of coffee plus breakfast that Becky, Angelina, and Lara made up, the old manor house was scrubbed clean to the extreme satisfaction of the Blackthorns. They had arrived three hours after sunrise and the first question Mr. Blackthorn asked was, “Did you kids move the pumpkins from the front grass?” Roger and Terry looked at each other then Terry presented the ghost’s jack o’ lantern. “Happy Halloween. Best bash ever! Come back next year?” The older man and his wife looked like they’d pass out. “I never would’ve thought…” “I guess he liked our party.” Roger joked. “Maybe that’s what he was wanting all along.” “It would seem you’re right.” Mrs. Blackthorn said. “No wonder there were no jack o’ lanterns outside this year. We may have to host an All Hollow’s bash every year.” Her husband sighed but smiled and handed the pumpkin back to Terry. “I suppose we will. This’ll give the girls relief. They’ve been scared ever since their first encounter.” “Great to hear. Is Anna doing okay?” Terry asked. “She’s fine but she’ll be even better when she hears your story. In the meanwhile, what else needs to be cleaned around here?” Around one in the afternoon, the four couples who’d come a week ago were packing up their rented van and double-checking their belongings. Murphy claimed he’d misplaced his Charlie Chaplin hat and didn’t want to leave without it. Angelina told him he could always get another one but he refused to go anywhere until it was found. The women relented and went back into the manor to search for it. “Your boyfriend sure acts like a baby sometimes, Ange.” Trixie said as they combed the house. “You’re preaching to the choir, sister.” Ange replied, looking under and behind furniture. “His twin’s not much better at times.” “Don’t know how Jewel puts up with it.” “Think Connor channels most of his frustration into his writing. Murphy, on the other hand, doesn’t have a creative outlet. Think he just likes to bug me about it.” She reached under a bed in one of the lower level rooms. “Gotcha!” She pulled out the bowler and dusted it off. “How’d it end up here? Murphy was nowhere near these rooms.” “The ghost?” Ange shrugged. “Possible, or a prank from one of the guests.” “Let’s get outta here. Ryan said he’d drive back so Roger could sleep, and I know he doesn’t want to get tangled in after-work traffic.” They went to the foyer and called up the stairs to Terry and Julia they’d found the missing hat. “Glad you found it.” Julia said. “Was about to give up and tell Murphy he’d have to settle for a new one.” “Where’d you find it?” Terry asked. “One of the bedrooms down that way.” Trixie pointed to their right. “Don’t know how it got there but it’s found, so let’s get going.” They walked outside to the van but before they climbed in, Julia turned around suddenly, as if something caught her attention. “Jewel?” Connor asked. She held up a hand. “I thought I saw something.” “Inside?” Ryan asked. “No. Over there.” She pointed at the corner of the manor, and saw a shadow flicker around the structure. “What the bloody hell?” “Come on, Jewel. We’ve gotta go.” Ange huffed. “Hang on a moment. I wanna see what it is.” Without waiting for a reply, Julia headed after whatever made the shadow, disappearing around the side of the house. “Damnit.” Connor immediately went after her, followed by the rest of the group. “That girl never knows when to ignore her curiosity.” Terry said. “I heard that, and it’s a damn good thing I didn’t this time.” When the rest of them rounded the corner, they saw something no one noticed during their week-long stay. “Maybe we should ask the Blackthorns about this.” Julia stood a few feet away from what looked to be a pile of old clothes but upon closer inspection, she noticed something familiar. “What the bloody hell?” Roger stepped closer. “Is that what I think it is?” “Is that our ghost?” Trixie asked. “That would make the most sense, given how much they knew about it.” Julia knelt in the grass to get a closer look. “These have been here a while, maybe a decade or more.” She grabbed a sleeve and shook dirt from it. “However, it looks like it hasn’t been moved in about five years.” “How can you tell?” Ryan asked, checking his watch.” “The buildup of dirt, not to mention the smell of mildew.” “Hey! Are you kids alright? Nothing’s wrong with your auto… is there?” Mr. Blackthorn came around the side of the house to see his eight guests giving him a hard eye. “Oh my.” “More elegant than I would’ve put it.” Connor crossed his arms. “Care to give us an explanation, sir?” The older man scratched his head. “Maybe I should send you a bill for me and me brother’s possible concussions from last night.” “No! I can barely afford to keep this place up to code, let alone pay for that. I’ll tell you what those are for and even give you an extra night here, free of cost, so you don’t have to contend with after-work traffic.” “Better be worth it.” Murphy said. “My head still hurts.” “It may not be to your complete satisfaction but it will be the truth. I wasn’t the first in the family to do this. It started, I think, three generations before mine. The Blackthorns have been caretakers of this house for long before that and it’s always been a money pit. It was in the 1970s something was done to change that.” He pointed at the long unused costume. “Every year, around All Hollow’s, someone in the family would wear the costume, and terrorize not only the manor grounds but also the nearby village. The Headless Horseman legend was already embedded into the minds of the townsfolk. We just made it more real.” He paused to study the faces of those listening. Their expressions ranged from curious to upset but no one interrupted to ask questions. “The manor had already been a place to stay because of its history but once word got ‘round of a possible ghost sighting, well, you can guess the rest. Bookings went through the roof, and by the mid-80s, my grandfather had to turn folks away because the bookings were piling up. It got to the point where you had to call a year in advance; three for All Hollow’s.” “Money. Hardly the most noble of motives.” Roger scoffed. Mr. Blackthorn gave him a hard look. “I’m not proud of what my family did but do you have any inkling as to how much it costs to keep a place like this from falling down? More than you can probably imagine, young man, and yes, we get some help from the local historical society but they aren’t exactly the Bank of England. More than once, they’ve tried to come in and bulldoze it, and the people have come to the rescue every time. It won’t last forever though, and we’re determined to keep it as long as we can.” “So, the Headless Horseman party crasher. Who was that last night? I can tell these clothes haven’t been worn in at least five years.” Julia asked. Mr. Blackthorn shrugged. “I can’t answer that.” The group went wide-eyed. “I really can’t because I have no clue. And you’re right. We stopped using the ghost angle about five years ago because the bookings were still stacking up, so we figured we didn’t need it anymore. Of course, we earned the attention of the real Headless Horseman that first All Hollow’s. I guess he was attracted to the commotion due to all the parties going on. A Halloween celebration during a full moon seems to be his favorite time to manifest.” He looked at the old costume. “My wife did warn you though, and you paid it no heed. I told her when we were departing that I would’ve been surprised if you had left as no one does. However, the ghost seems to like having you around, given the message.” Terry nodded. “And we wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Everyone else looked at her. “What? You guys wanna do this next year, don’t you? I’ve already got ideas brewing.” “I can’t believe you’re serious.” Connor groaned. “Come on, Connor. It’s win-win. The Blackthorns get to keep up the manor and we get to have the best Halloween bash in England! You should’ve seen my social media page light up this morning with people asking for invites to the next one. We have to do another one.” “I’d say you’re bonkers but then I’d have to give myself the label too.” Angelina said. “What the hell? I’m game.” Everyone else slowly concurred and the matter was settled. “Well, it’s too late to hit the motorway, so I believe we’ll take your offer to stay another night, Mr. Blackthorn.” Ryan said, grateful he didn’t have to drive now. “Let’s get you settled in.” After an explanation to his wife and daughters, the old man took his guests back to their previous rooms. The eight of them had an early dinner then retired, except for Roger and Terry. He usually ran on only a few hours of sleep, so he sat up reading and writing music, while she went outside for one last look at the grounds. The air was cold but not windy and the sky was clear with stars dotting the black canvas overhead. As she stood listening to the night’s sounds, she heard a horse’s whiny, followed by a cackle. Smiling, she said, “We’ll be back next year.” Looking out one last time before heading in, she saw the full moon reflecting off the small lake further back on the property. In the water, Terry caught a glimpse of the ghost riding off into the night.


"ISABELLE CARTIER, THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" Jolene bolts awake beside me. She stares at me in disbelief. "You're still here." I nod. "I'm not going to leave you behind again." "WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE MS. CARTIER. COME OUT NOW OR WE'LL BE COMING IN." "We'll see about that," I mutter as I pick up my phone and press the self-destruct button for the house. "What did you just do?" Jolene asks. "This building will self-destruct in five minutes," says a computer voice. "They can't catch us if they think we're dead." We get up and calmly make our way to the living room. I have an emergency bag packed already in the basement and I stored all the jewels I have stolen in a case near it. I didn't want to leave so soon, but I wasn't going to let the cops catch me because I wasn't prepared. Where's the fun in that? Jolene grabs her clothes and follows me as I lead her into the basement. The basement is attached to a network of caves and tunnels I constructed in case of an emergency like this one. When the house self-destructs, the rubble from the explosion will cover the caves. I also set up explosives near the entrance of the caves to make sure no one would find anything. I rigged the self-destruct sequence to cover up my coverup on purpose. "This building will self-destruct in three minutes," says my cousin, the computer voice. It's a little joke I like to tell myself since I am a very realistic android. The real Isabelle Cartier built me before she died. She gave me her name and all of her memories in the hopes that I could steal jewels for her while she went back to Jolene. She died before she ever saw Jolene again. I grab my emergency bag and the jewels and I urge Jolene to go into the caves. Once she's inside, I follow and blow the entrance up behind me so the police can't find our escape route. We walk until the blast from my house self-destructing shakes the ground beneath our feet. The real Isabelle built stabilizers into my legs, so I don't fall but Jolene does. I help her up. She says nothing about my ability to balance while things are exploding. It seems she's more concerned with other matters. "How did they figure out it was you who stole the gems from the museum?" she asks. "I'm not sure. But now they think we're dead. We can slip away unnoticed." "They'll comb the rubble looking for you." I shrug, "by the time they finish digging we'll be long gone." She stops dead in her tracks. "Long gone? To where? Don't I get a say?" "Not if they find out you slept over last night." She checks her pockets, then she frantically checks them again. "My phone..." "It's okay." I start walking again so she has no choice but to keep following me. It's not like she'd have much of a choice anyway since this is now a tunnel with only one true exit. I built a myriad of fake tunnels and fake exits to throw people off my scent. Every other exit I built will explode when someone tries to use it. A little bit heavy on the murder, sure, but that's what it takes to for a jewel thief be safe these days. "They'll know I was with you." "We're getting out of the city today." "Where will we go?" "I bought and island in the Caribbean using an alias. We can get there undetected." "What about the border?" "Let me worry about that. Let's get to the end of the tunnel, get some breakfast, and make our escape." I take Jolene through a series of twists and turns as we head towards the only real exit to this maze. The exit of my tunnel is on the PATH near Toronto's Union Station. There are parts of the PATH that are close to Lake Ontario. We can slip away unnoticed while the cops are still digging through the rubble of my house. I'm about to exit when I notice that the only clothes Jolene brought with her are impractical for an escape. She's wearing my shirt, which she slept in. And she's holding her dress and a pair of high heels. She'll need something more comfortable if she's going to move around. "Men's seven, right?" "What?" "Your shoe size." "You remembered?" "Yes. And... women's medium for everything else?" She nods. I change into the clothes I brought with me. Since the clothes I'm wearing are the only clothes I brought with me, Jolene will need something else. Fortunately, I'm not far from a Winners. I zip in, grab what I need, and zip back out. The clothes are basic but they should be comfortable and easy to move in. I can pick some more clothing up when we stop in the States in a week or so. Jolene changes into the new clothes. We go to the Tim Hortons next to the Hockey Hall of Fame and grab breakfast. We carry a conversation in whispers that are easily drowned out by the noises of the other customers. "So... what's the plan?" she asks. "Board my boat, take the St. Lawrence River out to sea and ride all the way down to the island." "You make it sound easy. What about supplies?" "Already covered. There's enough food and water to last us for a month. And we can always catch fish if we want some variety. And we'll be stopping in the States in about a week." "What kind of food did you pack?" "Dried beans, pasta, canned goods, I also picked up a few dehydrated things the last time I went to an outdoors store. I'm not sure how dehydrated crème brûlée tastes, but we're about to find out." "This is insane even for you. You know that, right?" "What is? The preparedness?" "The leaving like it's not even an inconvenience." "I'm taking you with me this time." "But you were prepared to leave at the drop of a hat." "Because we're jewel thieves. Would you rather go to prison?" She sighs. When we're finished our breakfast, we put our trash in the proper receptacles. After that, we take the PATH to the waterfront. My boat is moored near the Beaver Tails place. We get Beaver Tails, then we board my boat. I drive us out into Lake Ontario, which is surprisingly calm for this time of year. Jolene is out on deck watching the waves. When we're in the middle of the lake heading towards Kingston, I go out to her with a warm blanket and a cup of hot tea. I wrap the blanket around her, kiss her shoulder, and hand her the tea. "You'll freeze out here," I say. "I can't believe we're leaving just like that." "If the authorities catch us, you can call it a kidnapping." She gives me a look. "What do you want me to say?" I ask. She shakes her head and looks away. "I don't know if there was another option that would have kept us out of jail." "I need some time alone," she says. "Okay... I'll just be... you know... steering the boat. I'll... be up there if you need me. Uh... the kitchen is downstairs if you're hungry. The bathroom and bedroom are on that floor as well. If you don't want to share the bed, you can take it and I'll set something up at the helm." She says nothing. I go back to steering the boat. I access the original Isabelle's memories to try to help me figure out why she might be upset. I did kidnap Jolene. But... I never forced her to come with me. At any point during our travels to the waterfront, she could have run off or told me she didn't want to go. But here she is. And she's with me. Yes, I was prepared to leave at the drop of a hat but I took her with me this time. I mull it over as I drive. I suppose us escaping might bring up the memory of me leaving her the last time the cops came. After that realization, I try to think of something else. Something that won't distract me while I focus on getting us to the St. Lawrence River safely.


Knight takes a deep breath and places her hand on the door. She feels the weight of a body leaning against the thin wood. With all her rage, the knight plunges her blade through the door impaling the man on the other side. Knight begins sawing upward, splitting the man’s torso in two. Blood mixes with the sawdust turning to a thick red paste. Knight rampages through the door leaving small jagged planks still attached to the hinges. The robed man with the pendant sits at his desk paralyzed with fear. He reaches for a small bottle containing a black liquid on his desk. Knight pulls a throwing ax from her belt and hurls it at the man. The ax strikes his hand, sticking it firmly to the desk. He lets out a shriek that could crack windows as blood soaks the desktop. Knight picks up the bottle and looks at its contents. The liquid swirling around inside appears so black it's as if knight was staring into the void. She tucks the bottle into her belt pouch and shifts her focus back to the robe. Knight pulls the ax from his hand and rips the desk out of the way. The desk slams against the wall into a torch knocking it to the floor. The robed man trembles clutching his hand as it gushes blood. The man sneers.. Robed man: “who are you?” Knight grabs the pendant and rips it from his neck. The desk begins to catch fire lighting up the room revealing her silver eyes through the helmet visor. She stares deep into his eyes with an anger that burns his soul. Robed man: "Those eyes…I know you" Knight begins digging her blade into the robed man's chest as slow as possible to inflict the maximum amount of pain. He begins screaming again and flailing his arms wildly trying to stop knight from taking his life. Knight raises him high above her head impaling him further and showering herself in his blood. Knight lowers him down near the fire and using her foot, slides the robed man off the tip of her blade. His body drops onto the burning desk. He cries out rything pain as his body begins to burn. Knight stands blood soaked and watches until he falls silent. Knight gazes at the pendant with sadness in her eyes. She ties the pendant around her neck and tucks it inside the armor to keep it safe. Having heard the screams, more robes down the hall sprinted towards the door to see what had happened. Knight slowly exits the room, blood still dripping from her armor. The robes come to a screeching halt as the gaze in awe at a blood soaked knight holding the most formidable blade stepping from the flaming room. The robes all pulled small bottles of black liquid like the one knight took, and began drinking them. Their eyes dilated and their breath rate rose. All the robes hunch over like a pack of wolves about to charge in for the kill. Knight looks to the ceiling and unleashes a roar that shakes the trees. She charges into the group ready to paint the stone walls with their gore. The robes thrash their swords in an unorganized fashion. Taking advantage of her more advanced training, knight methodically counters the robe onslaught. Blood and limbs fly through the air hitting the floor with a mushy thud. The sound of banging metal echoes up and down the corridor. A robe raises his sword to protect his face from knights blade but his flimsy steel shattered under the weight of the saw blade. Knight buried it deep into his head adding another tally to the saw blades kill count. The robes body is kicked to the floor before knight continues cutting through the group. When the last body fell, knight stood among the bodies covered in their blood and a little of her own. She drops to her knees out of breath and slowly cleans her blade using a piece of robe from one of the bodies. Knight gazes down the corridor and sees another massive door with the tarantula wasp insignia. She hangs her head taking a moment of peace before charging into the depths of hell.


“Hello? Is this the law offices of Bergstrom and Associates?” “Yes, may I ask who is calling?” “Hi um, well, is there a message machine I could leave a voice mail to... it’s uhh... it’s urgent.” “Please hold... “The mailbox belonging to ‘LARRY’ is full.” “Dammit!” I slammed the plastic receiver right back into place, making a loud noise I didn’t want anyone else to hear. The large black lady looked up from her paperwork through the glass with a stale smug. She had been assigned to strip search me yesterday. I guess she just always looks like she smelled something bad. I made eye contact with her, startled by the noise with a wild look in my face. She said plainly, audible but muffled through the thick scratched glass, “calm down or you’ll go upstairs”, no variable in her tone, like it happens daily. Ok deep breath, more oxygen will steady my hand, maybe. I fingered through the quarters in my hand. I had half a role left, plus some in my pants I shoved under the bed back in my room. A parade of crazies from upstairs stammered by like a pack of half living zombies and fairies with down syndrome. “I’M GONNA TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH A TOOTHPICK!” As they passed I felt my face twitch. I made it twitch, it made an ugly feeling, ugly and fun. I felt it morphing into crazy, like a schizophrenic scowl or a bi-polar bite. It was necessary to get through here. Turn a dove into a dagger, a mouse into a maniac. I had to pretend to survive, I had to believe to succeed. It was all an act, a mind game to get to high water. Plainly, I was planning my escape. I was attempting to dazzle authority with a great spectacle, enough to captivate them while I slipped away. I had made it this far. At least now there was no doubt they all believed I was crazy. “MEDS!” Screamed with true ritual and repetition, so was the line of sad adults and their drug addicted counterparts formed outside of the thick, scratched, barrier. The barrier made it clear, them and US, whatever side you were on. At this time, the only daily reminder I was required to be present to, I repeated the truth, my truth. One I forgot when I would wake up to the questionable blue stitched blanket and unforgiving linoleum. The truth that I am privileged, blonde, teenager wearing a paper gown in a psych ward in east L.A. This truth scares me. Without any contact to my previous life I could live in here forever. I am comfortable, I am dosed to oblivious bliss, and I can escape the hell that lies beyond the minimum security. Keeping us from them, keeping them from me. 6 months ago I would have expected to be here. 4 months ago I didn’t want to exist and last week I would have done anything to get my life back. It seems I did the best I could. I swallowed my medicine, dry. I started puking out the anti psychotics once I got here, except for the Adavan. I took the phone book. I wrote the numbers to law offices in crayon on a coloring book drawing of a leprechaun. I strayed from the “L” pages. I was now mapping out gentlemen’s clubs, pawn shops and hostels on familiar streets. I thought, I believed that if my plan wouldn’t succeed I would escape with my belongings, find a hostel and start work as a stripper. It was a choice I was prepared for. A possibility I was trying to wake myself up to. It was real. I was running out of quarters. On the 5th day in my paper gown, I finally got ahold of an actual voice on the other end of the telephone. “What does this regard?” “Well, I am a resident, or was a resident at Clarity House. It’s an inpatient rehabilitation facility, but I am positive they are performing illegal...” “So where are you calling from now? I don’t work with drug courts.” “Ok I know it sounds ridiculous, you probably assume I’m a drug addict. I assure you that this place is completely illegal. They switched my drug test with an actual drug addict and now my parents think...” I rehearsed this for months in my head. Months! But said aloud, I just sound... crazy, delusional. I sound like a drug addict. Another dead call. I could feel myself sliding down a pole, I could hear the thump of the club music get closer and closer. I could feel myself sink into the Los Angelas lost pit of dreams, far away from my identity. I had 5 quarters left. “MEDS!” I swallowed all my pills. The fog returned to my eyes, then my limbs. I tried to walk back to my room 20 feet away but the pills had stop bending my knees. A man who seemed overjoyed to be in a hospital psychiatric unit, whizzed past me. “HEH, that’s the psych ward strut, you got goin’ there, yeh yeh” I scowled, he kept grinning. I fell into sleep right away followed by a dream. On normal occasions I always remembered my dreams, even when I was very small, but for 3 months while I had been wrongly badgered to a pulp in a behavioral modification facility, I hadn’t had a single dream. This dream was dark and singular, not filled with oddities and outer planetary sceneries. I was strapped to a bed and a thin nurse with blonde hair was injecting something into my arm. She looked menacing, evil. She resembled Cathy from East of Eden or maybe me. I woke up and upon consciousness I remembered the name of a psychiatrist at Clarity House. We weren’t aloud to speak her name for some crazy reason I could only imagine was in the same light as my predicament. I looked for the name in the phone book but there were no matches. I had no computer, should I ask the orderlies to get the number from their iphone? Fuck no! We weren’t even allowed to have shoe laces! “Excuse me?” Glass door squeaks open. “You get another one of those “panick attacks?” “No I need the number for a psychiatrist, do you have numbers for that sorta thing?” “We have a resident doctor that comes every other day.” “But we do have an old directory from years back you can look at” I flipped through the tattered handout, sorting through unpronounceable ethnic names, names I used to think would be mine one day. HOLY SHIT. I found it. Dr. VU. I used the last 4 quarters on the call. It probably won’t work, she won’t pick up, it’l be disconnected. “Hello?” I froze. I felt like I was about to regurgitate my intestines. But I thought about the strip club, I thought about motels on sunset boulevard and my parents. I dove forth without my intended insanity and told her everything like I planned. My truth lead her to believe my circumstance and with that she assured me she was going to help me leave captivity, unscathed. I started crying, I started sobbing. No one had even spoke to me like a real person in months. A tear dropped on my hand, the hand that had been gripping my last quarter. I hung up, shaking with joy. I looked down at my quarter. 1990. The year I was born.


They had come by mail. Special jewelry. Kira had received them from her aunt, a real world traveler. Every year she came by for Kira's birthday with the best stories. She had already announced that this jewelry had a very special story. Her aunt couldn't wait to tell her, but because her own flight was delayed, the jewelry would arrive earlier. Kira opened the box carefully. It was late and the house was dark. So when Kira opened the box she didn't expect much. To her surprise, the jewelry gleamed as if a lamp hung above the box. Pearls, framed by gold, as stud earrings, a gold chain, bracelet and two rings. A women's and men's ring. Was that possible? Kira couldn't believe her eyes. Did she dream about so much beauty? She quickly closed the box again. Tomorrow her aunt would arrive and she had to pick her up from the airport early. Kira carefully put the box on the table. The living room, with its sloping walls, seemed lighter even with the closed box. The full moon stood out through the window, which seemed to be focusing precisely on the jewelry. With a click, Kira started closing the windows one by one. She stood with her back to the jewelry, locked the front door halfway up, then closed the windows on the other side. The last window wouldn't close. Kira tried to use more force, but her height made a difficult task. Suddenly, something seemed to move in the opening of the window. On the right, halfway down the middle. Kira was startled, let go of the window and jumped against the sofa. There was a hand and the fingers moved. Kira let out a little scream and put her hand to her mouth. Was anyone trying to get in? She looked around quickly. The other windows were closed. There was a tapping. Thick drops fell on the sloping windows and the hand began to move further down. An arm was now visible and a second hand seemed to be added. In the background there was a rumble in the air. A bright flash lit up the room. For a moment, a silhouette was clearly visible. Halfway out there was clearly a man outside. Both his arms were inside now, and he tapped the angled windowsill with his hands. His eyes were not visible. Would he even know that Kira was there? BOOM. Crackling sounded from all sides. Kira saw the light sprout from below. Lightning had struck. Everything was dark. Kira wanted to wake up from this nightmare. She squeezed her own arm in panic. That's supposed to work, right? She began to breathe faster and looked around in the dark. Only the jewelry seemed to glow. That was strange. She tried to move towards the jewelry, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. The sofa she was standing against seemed to sway with her movements. She felt as if she were trapped on the deck of a ship. She stared fearfully at the window again. Waking up was not an option, she had to see the man enter. Waiting in the pitch darkness she knew he was going to see her. Would he hurt her? Was he here because of the jewelry? She heard the man breathing heavily and saw drops of water fall to the floor through the window. There was a splash and shortly afterwards a leg appeared through the opening of the window. It wouldn't be long before the man was inside. I don't want, I don't want, I don't want to. Kira began to mumble. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the back of the sofa with her hands. The structure of the fabric, soft with occasional fluff, got through to her. If only she had a weapon. A bat or something else to protect herself. Her hands felt further on the sofa. An elongated object, cold to the touch, appeared to have appeared on her sofa. It was a bat! The man was now inside and walked past Kira to the jewelry. He leaned over the table and took the box with both hands. Kira held her breath, turned and raised the bat high in the air. "Stop!" In the doorway, in a midnight blue robe, stood her aunt. “Wake up, girl. It's the jewelry that is making a fool of the new owner. ” Kira stared at her aunt. The bat in her hands disappeared. Kira woke up with a start. She sat up on the couch with the jewelry box on her lap. A buzzing sound had roused her from sleep. A text message from her aunt. “I'm almost there, do not open the jewelry without me.


Professor Katopodis had a habit of turning every conversation topic into an academic discussion. He had a feeling that retirement would take some time to get used to. On his first day in Palaio Faliro, a seaside town 10 km south of Athens, his wife suggested he might out go for a walk to clear his head of the 37 years of strife he had endured at the National University. Stepping outside this morning, the first thing he noticed were the oranges. Bright and plump, they littered every inch of the pavement. And then the cats. They lounged in the sun, indifferent to everyone around them. He nudged an orange with his foot toward one crouching under a parked car but it took no notice. Another car sitting on the top of a nearby BMW watched him intently. Katopodis met the felines gaze. "The oranges in the supermarket cost 2 Euros, and here they lay on the ground for free. I wonder why." The cat leaped off the car and disappeared into a garden. Breathing in the salty ocean air, he continued his walk to the market. He bought two freshly caught sea bream, the tastiest fish in the Mediterranean, to celebrate their new proximity to the ocean. "Palaio Faliro is closer to the ocean, but the price is 7% more than in Athens." He looked at the fishmonger for an explanation, but simply received a shrug. On his return home, his wife Polina looked at his purchase. “They don’t look any different from the ones in the city,” The Professor informed her, "The new fishing quotas in the Mediterranean have increased the fish stock by 20%." She placed them in the refrigerator and returned to cooking. A savory aroma of stuffed peppers filled the kitchen. The professor went to his new study to continue working on a Treatise on the Causes of Greek Economic Stagnation during the Middle Ottoman Occupation Period . The next day–he knew he should have given it a wide berth–curiosity made him peek into the rubbish bin. He discovered the bag with the two fish in it The economics implications of this were disappointing. He passed by the oranges and the cats, took and glance at the ocean, and kept his eyes open for anything else new. The crowded streets jammed with parked cars, and lined with 1960s era apartment blocks, looked very much like every other neighborhood of Athens.

Hundreds of years of war and occupation by the Ottoman Empire didn't leave much standing. When the hated Ottomans left, anything they left behind was torn down out of spite, and all of Athens was rebuilt in the 1950s and 1960s The smell of coffee in the air in front of a café on Agiou Alexandrou avenue drew him inside. He ordered an espresso and a Koulouri and received a cold stare from the young woman at the cash register. As he nibbled on the sesame bread ring, he scanned the faces of the other customers. Mostly middle-aged and older men with unkempt beards and unwavering gazes. He looked around for anyone to strike up a conversation with, but they all looked like men who had spent too much time staring at the sea. At the university, students had often complemented Professor Katopodis’s on how lively his eyes were and how alert his gaze was for a man his age. Mostly female students close to the end of the term, when the optimism of spring was in the air. His mobile buzzed. A message from Helena, his former administrative assistant. “Professor Katopodis, we miss seeing you in the Economic Department this term. BTW, Adriana informed me that Professor Dougenis is also living in Palaio. Here’s his contact info…” As the mention of Dougenis, a wave of nausea washed over him. Didn’t Helena remember how repulsive Dougenis was. But this being Greece, cordiality comes above all else, and he would need to contact him at some point. Next month. He put the phone away and took this matter out of his mind. But, how he hated everything Dougneis stood for. With Greece’s economy sinking back into recession after the EU cut off the free supply of money, Dougenis was still promoting leftist economic policies. Loan forgiveness. Unemployment benefits for all. His stomach churned from the combination of espresso, koulouri and Dougenis. After finishing his coffee, Professor Katopodis continued his morning walk in this fabulous neighborhood and shook this off. He was becoming accustomed to this new life of leisure. When he returned home, a white and brown tabby cat was blocking the entrance to the apartment building. He waved his arms and stomped his feet but the cat didn't move. An unexpected puzzle. It was beneath a man of his stature to resort to violence. As idea came to mind. He opened a package of feta cheese he had just purchased, broke off a small piece and placed it a meter away from the entrance. As he wiped his finger with a tissue, the cat stood up and walked over to sniff the pungent cheese. Katopodis chuckled at his good fortune and quickly slid into the building and closed the door behind him. In the apartment, he smiled when he saw Paulina. “A feta cheese, from Epirus,” he said, offering it to her. "Where the mountainous terroir produces the ideal–" “It’s already opened?” She said, looking into the bag. “A cat blocked the door.”

She didn't ask any more questions, and took the cheese and put it into the refrigerator. He went to the study to continue working on a Treatise on the Causes of Greek Economic Stagnation during the Late Ottoman Occupation Period . But words refused to come. He had to get something out of the way. On his mobile, he typed: Prof Dougneis, this is Katopodis. Helena says we are neighbors. You must be very busy, but if you have an emergency, here is my contact information. He despised Dougenis so much, and hoped hated him in return, and this would be the end of the matter. The next day, he avoided looking into the rubbish bin and went out to explore the neighborhood further. This was Athens’ finest seaside suburb. He went to the Flisvos Marina and walked the mega-yachts and trendy restaurants. Observing the diners, he saw mostly groups of salesmen in their 30s and 40s. In Greece, men and women usually socialize in separate groups. The salesman looked supremely confident with each other. He overheard bluntly stated opinions about what was the "best" and what was the "worst" without any nuance or logic to explain their position. As an Economic professor, he lamented that most economic activity looked more like this than the facts and figure he worked with. They didn't appear to be in no hurry to go back to work. Lunches can go on for hours in Greece. Things were different in London. Employees are meant to be “productive”. His 10 years in London were awful. Trapped in a fishbowl office–behind glass walls in full display for everyone else to look at–ten hours a day. He pretended to be working while all day he dreamt of escape from that glass prison. Thankfully, he abandoned the high salary and returned home. The pace of life was better in Greece. Almost everyone spends two or three hours after lunch sipping coffee and gossiping about current events before returning to do a few hours of work before dinner. The whole day is an escape, and work is a few patches in between to break the monotony. He walked back to Agiou Alexandrou avenue and found a fast food restaurant to eat in, Zorba the Pita. Looking at the menu, he wondered why mass-produced fast food was more expensive than traditional food. Surrounded by high school students, he stared blankly out the window eating a lamb pita, hoping none of the overly boisterous students would approach him. His mobile vibrated. Prof Katopodis, I believe we did not finish our discussion about the Greek civil servant pension reform. If you are free this afternoon, you should stop over at 57 Amfitritis Street and I will serve you coffee and we can finish that discussion once and for all. -Prof Dougenis The address was only 5 minutes away. Repulsive, yes. But there were some points in his argument he hadn’t made yet. Professor Dougenis. Fortunately, I have a small gap in my schedule this afternoon to accept your gracious offer. -Prof Katopodis At hour later, his face was red-hot as he lectured Dougenis on the lunacy of pension privatization. If you lecture an Economic Professor, you can expect to receive a lecture back. “The word privatization is waved around as a magic solution to every problem in Greece. But isn’t privatization simply giving the nation's most important assets to greedy individuals through corrupt deals fueled by kickbacks and nepotism?" Dougenis's voice was now at an ear-piercing squeal. “But individual effort and hard work is the bedrock of economic activity.” “You always come back to hard work. May I ask why you have strong views on this theme of hard work?” Professor Katopodis stared at the knickknacks on Dougenis's walls. A photo of Dougnesis's retirement party. Maybe he didn't have anything to lose. “My grandparents were refugees from Turkey during the population exchange. They started in Athens with nothing.” For decades, these Greek immigrants from Turkey were treated as suspect. Different. Not bound by the same ties of loyalty as everyone else in Athens. Untrustable.

“In all our years working together in the National University, I never know that,” Dougenis said, "I think I better understand you.” Katopodis wonder if he opened a Pandora box. Would this change his status back at the National University? Dougenis was quiet in contemplation for a while, then he left for the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Fatourada. "Greeks. A history of struggle," he said, “Let’s have a drink to the old days. And to more discussions like this to come in Palaio Faliro." He poured two shots of the orange flavored spiced spirit. They clinked their glass and exchanged a toast. “Yiamas!” When he returned home later, the white and brown tabby cat was again blocking the door. He had a package of lamb meatballs he had received from Dougenis’s wife to share with his family. He carefully took one out and placed it about a meter away from the door. The cat cautiously slunk over, took a sniff, and began at eat. Katopodis carefully closed the lid on the package. Feeling the chill of the autumn breeze, while inhaling deeply of the salty ocean air tinged with the scent of oranges, he returned home to share what he had received with Polina and tell her all about Dougenis and how he has changed.


1.335 words Renata opened the door to the toilet and pushed her cart inside. The motion detector noticed her and the toilet was suddenly filled in a white light. She sighted, it was almost the end of her shift. She only had this toilet and two offices left before she could go home to her son. She was sure he already ate, he always did. She daily cooks a meal in the afternoon, before she goes to work and het son heats it up in the microwave once he gets home from school. He is usually still up when she gets home, just gaming or chatting with friends. That half hour before her son goes to bed is theirs. They chat or play card games. It is always the best highlight of her day. Her son is a smart boy and gets high grates in school. If he keeps it up, there will be scholarships waiting for him. It will be the only way he is able to go to the university. In the few years that he has left in high school, Renata could never save up enough money to pay for his tuition. She opened one of the stalls in the toilet and got inside. She sprayed the disinfectant all over the seat and the bowl. She took her cloth and wiped the liquid from the seat. She opened the seat and cleaned the underside, at last she cleaned the bowl itself. She closed the lit and looked satisfied at the shiny white bowl in front of her. She smiled. Just three more to go. She closed her eyes for a second and saw the face of her son in front of her. In less than half an hour she would be home. Renata repeated the cleaning ritual twice more and mopped the entire floor of the toilet. She closed the door behind her knowing the light would automatically turn of in a couple of minutes. She turned right and stood in front of the closed door of an office. She held her access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click she gained access to the formally locked office. She flipped the light switch and stepped inside. By the sight of it was this one of the very few offices that are used this time of year. Most of the people who formally occupied the other offices now worked from home. She did her standard round of cleaning. She dusted the surfaces, remover fingerprints from desks and doors, emptied the bin and started vacuum cleaning. While the sound of the vacuum cleaner buzzed loudly in her ears she taught about her son again. Since his fathers passing he had never been the same. He had always been a papa’s boy. They did everything together. When he died her son closed himself off from the world. He spend more and more time in his room and closed himself off from almost all his friends. He used to have lots of them, now there were only two left. Even them, he saw less and less. Renata’s husband had walked to the city centre to find the perfect gift for his sons tenth birthday. On his way back, he got hit by a drunk driver and was killed immediately. After that day everything changed. Her husband had always been the main breadwinner in their household. Renata started as a cleaning lady. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to pay her mortgage and to feed her son. That was everything she needed. Renate bumped to a table while walking backwards, vacuum cleaning. She felt the table move and turned off the vacuum cleaner immediately. She looked at the table. A map was laid on the entire surface, different coloured pawns were laying on top. They were standing before but the bump to the table had caused them to fall. Two of them had even rolled to the ground. Renata held her breath for a second. She taught about what she had to do next. She knew there were no cameras in the offices themselves, but there were in the hallways. So they could see her going in when the would look at the footage. Renata decided to just put the pawn back where they were before and pretend nothing had happened. She flipped them to a standing position and picked up the two that laid on the floor. She couldn’t remember where they were before, so she just guessed and hoped for the best. Quickly she left the office and finished her work. The sooner she was home the better. Marcos held his access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click he gained access to his own office. He put his jacket on a chair and his cup of coffee on his desk. He leaned with his hands on his desk and sighted. He had been puzzling with the strategy to save the hostages for more than a day now. These kidnappers were professionals. They had thought about everything. He was at the point to say to his employer: “just give them the money”. He didn’t know if the hostages would be released, but they could at least try. There was no way in. He took a sip from his coffee and took the telephone from his desk in his hand. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat. He decided to look at the map one last time before he called. Marcos put the phone back on the holder and walked over to the table. He noticed something had changed. Someone had been in here. The pawns weren’t on the same spots he had left them the evening before. He looked at their positions. This current strategy wasn’t looked into yet. He played the scenario in his head. It could work. He sat down behind his desk and checked some spots on the map of the museum they had to get into. He double and triple checked the strategy. It would absolutely work. Marcos called his supervisor and explained the strategy. He gave Marcos permission to take further actions. That afternoon the hostages were rescued and nobody was severely hurt. Marcos was praised for his amazing strategy. About a week after the rescuing action Marcos’s conscious started to nibble on him. He didn’t think it was right that he got all the fame while the person who came up with the strategy wasn’t even known. He made his journey to the basement of the office building, this is where the security was settled. He explained the situation and the guard showed him the footage of the hallway that evening. The only one who got into his office after him was the cleaning lady. Marcos figured she was the one with the strategy. Renata was cooking for her son who would eat later that day. She was dressed in some old clothes and an apron. Her hair was tight up on her head in a messy bun. She hummed with the music that was coming from the radio. Suddenly the doorbell rang. She turned off the stove and walked over to the front door. She opened the door and jumped at the sight in front of her. There were four news reporters, several vans and all the people who lived in het street. One of the reporters, a woman, asked her the first question. ‘Gina, caring news live for 2.4 million viewers. Renata, tell us. How did you do it?’ Renata was overwhelmed. She didn’t do anything, at least nothing that she didn’t do any other day. ‘Did what?’ Renata asked confused. ‘Come up with the strategy to safe all those hostages.’ An other reporter, one of the men, said. Renata remembered that the pawns on the map on the table she bumped a few days ago could look like a strategy. At leased if you used all of your imagination. ‘I.’ She startled. ‘I just bumped the table.’


It happened in an instant, in less time than it takes to blink. One moment I was just going down the road, minding my own business, trying to act "normal" (whatever that means) so people around me wouldn't feel discomfited. The next, I was deader than dead. Minding my own business... nothing unusual; been doing it all my life. I believe experts call it "masking." On days like that I thanked all past, present, and future gods us humans aren't telepaths. If people took a peek inside my head at any given moment, they'd do any, some, even all of the following: \*. Zone out and/or fall asleep from utter boredom. \*. Have an aneurysm through the whole of their nervous system. \*. Run away crying to their mamas. I've always been unusual, at least according to most people. When I was a kid, Mom would claim my brain was "wired differently" from everyone else's, which is why I was so "peculiar," as she'd put it. As for me, I never quite understood why people thought me "weird" or "different." At any rate, *they* were the ones who deviated from the so-called norm. I'm a simple kind of guy: if I have something to say, I say it with the least number of words possible, then move on once I'm certain my message's been picked up and acted upon accordingly. Likewise, I only need to listen to a statement once in order to comprehend and act as required. On the other hand, most "normies" I've come across need to have things repeated to them at least twice, and even then they're bound to screw up some way or other. Gave me no end of grief growing up, having to speak to freaking grown-ups as if they were toddlers. Some of them got real mad and tanned my hide with their stinking bells. If they'd spend half the time they waste drinking, having one-night stands, and buying junk becoming aware of their surroundings and using those oversized heads of theirs to think for a change, I wouldn't have to debase myself like this. Apologies. Seems I've gone a bit off-topic. Happens all the time. I've been alone most of my life. Mom and Dad were busy working most of the time, so they'd ditch me over at Grandma's when I was an infant. Not that I blame them; I'd ditch me too, if I had the chance. Twenty-odd years or so I carried on like this, doing my utmost to avoid all the usual "triggers," steering clear of people who'd bend my ear if they spotted me rounding a corner. "Smile and wave," Mom used t'say, smile and wave. Don't let them see it, how much they drain you, tax you, vex you, test the limits of that pittance of patience you were allotted with at birth, almost like an afterthought. Don't let them see how much you hate it when they think they can hold you up for hours at an end just because you grew up around them, how much they aggravate you when they believe they can do or say anything to you and get away with it. Smile and wave; smile and wave; wave and smile; wave-smile-and; smile-wave-and/or etc., etc. Point is, I'd had a real lousy day. I'd been having significant trouble sleeping for the past coupla months; my boss had been on my case lots more than usual. Also had to put up with this jock I knew from school, an insufferable little toady who went from dark-haired Adonis to middle-aged washed-up rugby coach in a coupla years. For some reason or other, guy believed ten-plus years of torment and humiliation could be magically wiped away with a tepid "I'm sorry"; after that uninspired sham of a spectacle, he wouldn't stop chatting me up for money or some other nonsense. To think I came perilously close to losing my temper. I wanted to yell at him, tell him to take his uninspired sob stories and sell them to anyone rich, bored, ignorant enough to buy them, but dealing with the aftermath of that would've proven an even bigger waste of time and energy. People, man... you keep explaining yourself to them over and over again with polite language; everything you say goes in one ear, out the other. If you throw a fit, however, they no longer forget: they mark you for life. They call you "difficult," "grouchy," "ornery," "temperamental," "antisocial," all two or three terms that comprise what passes for vocabulary in those mite-filled heads of theirs. Moral of the story: when all else fails, give 'em a tongue-lashing. You may get beaten up or yelled at, but they won't dismiss you so readily from then on. Damn, I did it again! Digressions, man... Uncle Paul said I should've become a lawyer, like him. Back to the day I died. Long story short, I got run over by a speeding vehicle. Don't remember size, make, or any such significant details, save that it was dark red bordering on burgundy. Might as well have been a comet, seeing how it sped by. My whole body was broken, on (figurative) fire for all of a few minutes, then I drifted away and that was that. Didn't even get to shut my eyes beforehand. When I next blinked, I was at... a stable? I figured it had to be one, with the procession of steeds coming and going and whatnot. Strangely enough, those stallions bore six legs rather than the usual four. I looked around everywhere. My surroundings were more than a bit off, to say the least. They seemed "ordinary" enough at surface level, but if you looked close enough you'd realize something wasn't quite kosher, so to speak. "I've been kidnapped!" I said to myself. "I'd better bail before I--" "Good of thee to awaken, young warrior!" A boisterous male voice boomed, echoes reverberating through my wiry frame. Before me stood an elderly man with a white beard, clad in a robe. Wielding a walking staff on the left hand, the visitor bid me follow him outside. We emerged in a torchlit courtyard connecting the stables with the rest of that citadel. The old man insisted I accompanied him some more; I didn't have it in me to refuse. At last we reached a banquet hall of sorts, filled to the brim with burly warriors from all across the Universe, if the countless races and species I beheld were anything to go by. The old man spoke to me again: "I have many names, Young Sir. Thy fellow mortals call me "Odin," among countless others. "Odin!?" I all but froze. At long last my brain caught up with the rest of me. Those weird horses, that strange pack of wolves chasing after strange golden and silvery objects... this place could only be... "Valhalla... the ancient hall of slain warriors!? This... this must be some kind of mistake!" "'Tis no mistake, Young Sir. Hadst thou proved unworthy, thou wouldst not be here." "Worthy!? Worthy of what!? I-I'm just a nerd, a stinking geek! The only battles I've ever fought were against bullies from my old high school, and *those* didn't end well!" "Do not disparage thyself. I and mine have kept thorough chronicles of thine endless struggles against fear and despair, the first and final enemies of Man, from which all others foes are born." "Fear and despair? You mean... depression? Y-Yeah, it's true; had it all my life. Don't see how it makes me worthy of Valhalla, though." "Thou didst fall and stumble, yet thou relented not. Many a day thou couldst have carved thyself thy final rest through bane, noose, or bodkin, yet thou didst none such thing." I thought back on the worst days of my life. That time I was invited to join a fraternity in college, only for them to haze me, kick me square in the nuts, toss me into the mud, and walk away laughing. That time I asked my best friend Lenny out for that stupid school dance, only for him to punch me in the face and get out of my life altogether. That time I did nearly all the work as part of a research team and the head researcher passed it off as his. God, I bawled my eyes out for months! The fact that waste of space got caught and lost his job, titles and awards ten years later wasn't as gratifying as I'd hoped, though. The night I came out to my folks, only for them to tell me to pack my things, leave, and never return. Those fifteen minutes I sat at the railroad... my closest brush with death yet, till now, that is. So I took my seat among such beauteous warriors (the females were quite the lookers, too), ate and drank my fill. I've been here ever since, training, honing my skills. Little do the living know Ragnarök is upon us. Chances are I'll run into my parents, my so-called friends, that day. Good thing their blood isn't worth spilling... \ Originally written for r/WritingPrompts. OG Prompt: "You have lived an unimpressive life, and died an unimpressive death. Surprisingly, Odin welcomes you into Valhalla, citing the many battles with depression you fought.


“We’ve got the results, 母!” Kazumi cheered. Warm sunlight jabbed at the old woman’s eyes, which made her close them tight. They stayed closed for a long time until the woman opened them again. Her lips curved into a smile, the biggest she could manage.

“This is huge! They could’ve found something.” the man said, his mouth curved into a grin. He dusted off his tie with his hands, then fixed the belt on his pants. Kazumi wore a suit for the occasion, the fanciest he had.

“Alright, see you later, 母! Wish me luck,” he said, twisting the cold brass doorknob. His hands were clammy, like a paper towel that’d been run under water, then heated in the microwave for a minute. He wiped his heated paper towel hands on the handkerchief he carried in his pant pocket.

↓↓↓↓↓ His hands were clasped in front of him on the glass table.

Kazumi was worried that he might make sweat marks on the table. He tried not to think about it though, and focused on why he was here. The women and men around Kazumi stared at him, some of them drank coffee. “When will the meeting start?” a man asked, his cheeks redder than the U.S. flag. “Do you think they found anything?” “No, it’s impossible. No planet has what Earth has.” A tall woman strode into the room, her head high. Her heels clacked against the wood floor, and she stood at the front of the table. “Say what?” she asked the woman who’d spoken. “You, what d’you say?” The woman from before stood and fidgeted with her fingers, then answered, “I said it isn’t possible to find another planet like Earth, miss. No other planet has living circumstances like Earth-“ “Oh, you fool, sit!” the tall woman said as she shook her head. “Yes ma’am!” the woman answered, her cheeks flushed. She put her hand to her forehead, then put her hands to her sides and sat. “Tsk,” the tall woman murmured, rolling her eyes. “Today we’re going to talk about...” Kazumi leaned closer to the table, biting his lip. The woman stared at him. “The other one we found.” Everyone grinned at each other. One man next to Kazumi even stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “So we found another one? How good are the living conditions?" a woman asked. She sat down at the table and folded her hands together. “Almost exact to Earth’s. There are salty waters and fresh streams, so we have hope. We’re gonna continue our exploration today.” the woman at the front of the table said. Everyone cheered, and someone exclaimed, “We’re not gonna die!” “Yes, yes. Now, Kazumi, since you funded this whole thing, what do you want to name the planet?” “Um... maybe Dōyōni?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. Everyone nodded in agreement. “Kazumi, we’ll reveal more details to you tomorrow.” His eyebrows were raised and he said, “Actually, can I be a part of the search team?” “Okay, sure.” the tall woman nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” Kazumi was happy, but he tried not to show it as much as he answered people’s praise and left the office to his humble home. ↓↓↓↓↓ The door creaked open as Kazumi turned the key. “How did it go?” a voice startled him, and he turned to see his mom sitting on the sofa. Kazumi smiled at her and took his jacket off, hanging it on the hangers next to the door. “They found one. It’s very similar, or so they said,” he said, “they’re sending out a search team, and I’m going with them!” Kazumi’s mom’s smile faltered a bit, but Kazumi didn’t notice, he was too busy reminiscing over his gain. Thanks to him, his family tree would continue, with him at the top of it. “I knew that putting money into this would be worth it!” he yelled, a huge grin on his face. And making those little ‘rabbit holes,’ that was the best invention he’d ever created. “Benzaiten is on my side today! Oh, maybe I shouldn’t jinx it.” "I’m going to see Dōyōni tomorrow!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. ↓↓↓↓↓ The remote was calling his name. He had it in his pocket and he couldn’t stop touching it for the life of him. “See you later, 母!” he said, waving and closing the door behind. He skipped to his car, the remote burning a hole in his pocket. Last night, after spamming the ‘reload’ button on his computer, he’d finally seen an email from the tall woman. It was calling him in to explore the next day, Kazumi could’ve jumped and done cartwheels on his lawn. Though the planet - Dōyōni, was lightyears away, the little ‘rabbit holes’ he’d created helped with that. And if they could possibly live on Dōyōni, it would be a great thing for Kazumi. He smacked his own hand, which was lingering around the pocket with the remote. “Get a hold of yourself!” he said as he combed his hair back. It’d gone lopsided in the battle of his hands, and he fixed it right away. ↓↓↓↓↓ Kazumi took the remote of his pocket into his hand and placed it on the table before him, as all of the other members had done. “Now, we’re going to Dōyōni in approximately... 10 minutes, go get changed and come back. A man at the table lifted his head and said, “Can we eat before we go?” “Not unless you want to either vomit your guts out in space halfway or have a horrible headache and stomachache.” the woman said. The man shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, not really.” “I’m so excited to go!” Kazumi exclaimed, walking into the changing room. Suddenly, his phone rang. Kazumi turned back to where it was on the table and grabbed it. “Hello?” “Greetings, is this... Kazumi Nomura?” Kazumi took a pause, his eyebrows furrowed before he spoke again. “Yes, who is this?” “St. Luke’s International Hospital.” “What’s going on?!” “Your mother has been brought to this hospital from your home.” Tears ran down Kazumi’s cheeks as he thought about the worst possible scenarios. “I’ll be there right away,” he said as he ran out of the office. He’d have to miss the exploration of Dōyōni, but his mother was so much more important than any of that. ↓↓↓↓↓ “M-mom!” Kazumi ran through the doors of his mother’s hospital room, out of breath. His eyes were widened, and his hands were on his knees as he gasped for breath. His mother stared back at him, her eyebrow cocked. “What’s wrong?” “Why are you in the hospital?” She shrugged, pursing her lips. “A neighbor passed by and saw her through the window. He said that...” - the doctor paused as she looked at her clipboard - “she was lying on the floor.” Kazumi ran to his mother’s side and gave her a huge hug, to which she returned with equal strength. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’m so sorry.”


By the time I was through my high school, yet still a teenager but still within myself I was proud to have got my shit braced to the coming important years…. You know those years, which can make your life or break your life. And I was so certain that I would do good from now.               I along with my best friend sunny was in a fresher year and within our eyes there was just the light of glory which seemed we may soon accomplish. Let’s suppose and give a metaphor to the age from 14 to 19 years as a tunnel. And as you enter it coz its easy to enter any place where there’s light and even at the end we were certain about the light where the tunnel ended… it’s just in between the middle of the tunnel we may experience darkness but before entering we could see the tunnel emitting a youthful light.               But I guess we really underestimated the darkness which we had to endure to pass through the middle to reach the other end only to get ourselves out.  But I guess we certainly entered the wrong tunnel as initially it was so full of light that we dint see the darkness surrounding us and at every moment we could clearly see the outlet of the tunnel which was shining bright but which we later found out that it was a false mirage of the light at the end, nothing else…               I wish when we were teenagers, we’d knew that there’s no shortcut to success and all that glitters is not gold and bright. But anyhow moving inside this tunnel was an amazing experience altogether or maybe I can put it this way that all the glitter of entering this tunnel never actually gave me time to comprehend the darkness which may surround us and it would be that hard for us to get out of this darkness.               So, without any second thoughts we dived in the mouth of this bright tunnel. This tunnel of youth and teenage in which  we indulged was for sure full of glitter but offered only vice. Nevertheless, we were young, all good to explore and more than willing to indulge in the vices which provided us a light, a light of self-confidence, a light of hope, a light of physical wellbeing, a light of sexual fantasies etc. etc. you name the vice it was there and what does a vice do when you experience such stuff for the first time in your life? It gives you the light, of all the above things. A light which makes an illusion to make you feel so bright within.               Sadly the moment we started indulging in all such vices in order to always stay under the light , we dint realize that we were living just in the moment under the glitter and bright light. For since the time we entered ourselves in this tunnel of drugs, women, party ; sure we were under the bright light of joy but at that time we dint realized this that we were becoming slow and hollow from inside, we didn’t realized the more we stayed under the shade of this light, the more it was making us dark. But amid all this glitter of bright light and wild nights, we never let the dark confront us. Coz we stalled in the best places of the tunnel and never wanted to tread our way forward to the exit. I guess Actually I was stuck badly in that artificial bright light zone.               For after a lot of time spent under the lime light of drugs, sex and all the wild crazy stuff which I believe in the darkness don’t give permission; I really wanted to tread towards the end of the tunnel where I was able to see a ray of hope. So, in my unusual high spirits and confidence I tried to shed the lime light so that I can tread towards the end of the tunnel.               But hardly I knew the moment I shed the baggage of my substances which used to give me artificial bright light, I was not able to step up my foot to walk more than 3 steps. And at this moment I realized that all this while the light I was carrying, after I started walking through the tunnel was only artificial light which sourced my body to think, move and act only if I abused the drugs and indulged in other vices. And this time it was not like before, it was some serious stuff. I happen to realize that Its a fake lime light, and it has somehow managed me to become an addict.               Soon I realized in my quest of light I have actually destroyed my life by falling in this deep dark pit of addiction. Where no amount of light can pull you out from the darkness and it will sink my life into an ocean of sorrows. And coming out of it felt hopeless and also seemed impossible. It felt I am again standing at the starting point from where I started. Another thing I realized was that all these drugs play with your mind in such a way that it hallucinated me into believing that the light at the end of the tunnel was not the natural light of joy, the end was just a mirage. Or perhaps there’s only one end to this tunnel and that is the dark pit which seeps you inside itself.               I guess since beginning there was no end to this tunnel, all the vices in which we indulge in life are just the mirage to a joyful light; which ends only in the dark. Infact I lead myself from the vanity of the light into well of this darkness, where my own shadow , which danced around with me under the shade of light, had left me just alone and all by myself. And now I wish some alchemy which, either makes me embrace this strange darkness or it guides me back to the light.               PS: I don’t want to leave darkness either! PS: And my pet name is GREY.


Tires in the rain hissed on the street as the door opened. The scents of popcorn and petrichor mingled beneath the marquee as Rian and Angeline passed the ticket line leaving the movie theatre. The parking lot was pitch black, but Rian's car was along the street. By the light of his phone, his key found its slot in the door. "That side doesn't lock," he told Angeline. "Just pull." On Rian's third try, the car's motor exploded to life, perceptible from miles away. A lonely headlight pierced the night at a crooked angle, winking now and again. Last year's window wipers smeared the city rain across the dirty windshield. The driving wheel pulled right agressively, but Rian spared Angelia his other hand to hold. Bald tires carried Rian's uninsured lemon to Angeline's house. The brakes complained loudly on arrival. Something shifted in the trunk with a slam. Rian walked Angeline to her door. Angeline traded stupid words with her date, and pressed her mouth against his. Rian's hands crept up her shirt. She made no protest. Rian mentioned that his parents were out of town. The moment passed. Angeline's porch light was collecting moths, but the door was locked. She let herself in with the key from under the plastic rock. Rian retreated to his jalopy and made for his house as he fiddled with the radio. More than one stop sign was regarded merely as a suggestion. His windows were white with fog by the time he was home. Rian went inside through the laudry room door and kicked off his wet shoes. He threw his jacket, borrowed without his brother's permission, to the top of the dryer. Hunger registered in Rian's stomach on boredom's behalf. Without so much as a flick of the kitchen lights, he descended upon the fridge. Lo and behold, there was still macaroni salad, but in the back of the crisper, hidden like some relic, was a lone can of beer in a paper bag. Rian stared at the can, hearing the murmur of the downpour outside. He wasn't certain he could play dumb enough to his parents if there was only the one can. If there were four or five, fine, but just the one? The tab popped and spray misted Rian's face as he sucked up the foam. He closed the fridge with one socked foot, and the kitchen went dark. Rian set the macaroni salad by the microwave. On the other side of the counter there was a man sitting at the dining room table in the dark. Rian shouted and stumbled back. He threw his drink at the man, who closed the distance between them. His hands were hot on Rian's neck and arm. Releasing Rian's arm, the man's hand plunged into Rian's front pocket. Rian jerked, he could feel the man's hot breath. The man's hand produced Rian's phone. The light of the activated screen illuminated the man's face. Rian's eyes squinted as the phone screen turned to him. His eyes widened at one of many photos of Angeline, underdressed, features striking. A number of features shared even now by the man with a hand on Rian's neck. The phone vanished from site, and Rian was yanked around. His head slammed against the surface of the dining room table, a great weight held his chest down. Rian's hand scrambled for a purchase, but the table was slick with beer. The phone reapeared bearing a photo of Angeline in a swimsuit. The swish of a thumb revealed Angeline wearing even less. Rian shook his head, coughing up a failed plea. The phone turned away. The screen's light danced in the chandelier on the ceiling and across the man's face, transfixed in anguish. The screen turned to Ryan revealing a photo he'd taken himself. A photo of half of himself, and all of Angeline. Blinding pain smashed into Rian's face. Hot blood poored from his nose. Rian's vision swirled in the dark as he was struck again and again. Something hard hit him in the lip, forced its way into his mouth, breaking a tooth. His cheecks screamed with pain. The screen lit up. The man's fist struck like a hammer, driving the phone, shattering screen and all, deeper and deeper into Ryan's mouth. Slivers of glass tumbled into Rian's throat. Angeline's shameless smile beamed between the splits in the screen like the bars of a cell. An uncontrollable jet of hot vomit erupted from Rian's throat. The weight left his chest, and he pulled the phone free of his mouth, retching. Before Rian passed out, he tried to feel if there was still glass in his throat. When he awoke in morning to the sound of birds greeting the sun, Rian would recall the dark of the former night, and the sound of sobbing that wasn't his.


Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom. I take not even the slightest comfort in knowing that in that world, any man who refused the opportunity to work with Archibald Norington was a damned fool. Now, when I see where his hubris and his lust for notoriety have taken us, I find myself wondering, *What did I feel I had to prove, and to whom did I need to prove it?* The ship we arrived on has long since disappeared into darkness. Our line of rowboats is guided by small lanterns propped on each bow, the lot of us trusting Archibald’s famously instinctual sense of direction. But in my heart of hearts, I know unquestioningly that we approach the nameless mountain. I’m no stranger to fear or anxiety. The primal fear coursing through my veins is not born of my own thoughts. It’s a feeling native to this place. I feel like a rabbit seeking warmth in a den of wolves. We should not be here. “Jenkins,” I’m addressed, “stop shaking the damn boat.” I was unaware of my trembling. I don’t acknowledge Winslow or his remark, but I take a deep breath, clench my muscles, and steady myself. Soon I see a green glow on the horizon. Like a faint mist at first, but growing in intensity as we draw near it. “What is that?” asks Winslow, over the sound of his oars in the water. “I could tell you,” Archibald calls back from the lead ship, “but I won’t for the sake of your own sanity.” I write down the exchange in my log. “Cryptic cunt,” Winslow mutters under his breath. I leave that out. Before I know it, the green is all around us, a bright, pulsing glow from the depths of the sea. None of the lore of the nameless mountain has mentioned any such phenomenon. I wonder if Archibald truly knows its source. I have my doubts, but I was hired to record his journey, not my opinions of him. I peer over the edge of the boat. Do I see faint, dark shapes swimming under the surface, or do I imagine it? Soon I look up to see green light reflected against a dark surface, and a short while later I can hear the water splashing up against the rocks. The nameless mountain rises before us. We skirt around the side until we arrive at a large split in the mountain, as if it had been cleaved in two by God himself. *The ancient arrogance of man. Believing his own image could reflect that of a deity.* My skin erupts in gooseflesh and a chill creeps down my spine. The thought is not my own. It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Neither male nor female. It is toneless. Emotionless. Yet somehow it speaks with absolute authority. Do I tell my companions? I immediately chide myself for my own foolishness. No matter what I tell them, all they’ll understand is that I’m hearing voices, and I’ll find myself chained to a rock the instant we reach the shore. If I’m lucky. *“Who are you?”* I think as loudly as I can, if such a thing is even possible. Silence. Lightning strikes above, briefly illuminating the nameless mountain. I cannot see where the peak meets the sky. Perhaps it surpasses it, bridging us to the heavens. Who are we to know? *You are nothing.* Tears are running down my face. This is not my imagination. I am being spoken to by whatever being dwells in this forsaken place. Foreboding seeps into my bones, icing my veins. None of us are prepared to meet what awaits us here. Yet I cannot run, and I cannot warn the other men. An urge to jump in the water in a desperate attempt to swim back to our ship is dismissed when I look over the boat and see more dark objects than before. Just deep enough below that I can’t make out their true shape. But I can see their immense size, and the speed at which they move. I don’t need a voice to tell me what will befall me should I attempt that venture. My fate, it seems, is sealed. When finally we reach the shore and step onto solid ground, the green glow vanishes. We find ourselves in perfect darkness. Torches are lit after a period of cursing and stumbling, and we look around us. We stand on a small beach encased on either side by mountains, angling inward toward each other to eventually create a narrow alley. That path is the only way onward. Archibald takes the lead. If he is as fearful as I am, he’s doing a masterful job at disguising it with bravado. A smaller part of my consciousness posits the question of whether he has the emotional intelligence required to experience fear. Petty as the notion is, I allow myself a small smile. It does little to subdue the pit in my stomach and cold coursing through my veins, but it’s something. Our troup walks in a single file through the mountain pass. As an extra precaution we’ve tied a single rope around each of our waists, the length of rope between us about that of a man. It’s a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay together. Another small comfort. Dissonant whispers echo in my ears. None in the party reacts, so these too must be in my mind. Perhaps I have gone mad. The void in my stomach grows. I lose track of time as we march. At times it feels like we’re ascending. Other times descending. Other times, not moving at all. The whispers in my mind grow louder and louder, til I can hear nothing else. Soon they are joined by fleeting, incomprehensible visions that are forgotten as quickly as they appear. With every step my inner world becomes a chaotic storm of light and sound. Colors I’ve never seen blossom into fantastic shapes and fade away. I see seven silhouettes, vaguely humanoid, standing in a row. They beckon to me. The whispers in my head seem to be coming from them. Before I can truly see them they vanish in a swirl of smoke. I come to my senses and find that we’ve truly stopped moving. The mountains surround us in a perfect circle, and the ground we stand on is pristinely smooth. “Dead end,” Winslow says. “An astute observation,” I reply, my intrinsic sense of sarcasm briefly outweighing primal fear. Winslow glares at me. From the rear, Quinn, the company cartographer, calls us to attention. “What happened to the trail?” he asks, his voice shaking. We all turn and face what simply cannot be reality. We are encapsulated by seamless mountains, too steep to climb. There is no path to be found in any direction. We are trapped. None of us knows what to say. Even the legendary Archibald Norington is left staring forlornly at the starless sky, facing the reality that his sense of self purpose led him to a doom he cannot understand. Soon I hear the whispers return. Only this time, everyone else hears them too. Archibald snaps out of his trance and holds up a hand signaling our party to remain silent. The gesture feels less than necessary. At first, no words can be made out. The whispers sound like a harsh wind in a summer rainstorm, fluctuating from a deep rumble to a shrill scream. It sounds as though they descend from above. As the sound gets closer it gets quieter, calmer, until all the whispers have coalesced into one discernible voice. The one that spoke to me twice before. *The writer was warned*, it says. *The writer could have saved you.* The men all turn to me. I can’t see their eyes, for their faces are masked in shadow. “What does it mean, you were warned?” Winslow asks me. I no longer see any reason to lie. I tell them what I heard when we arrived. After a long silence, Archibald says, “You knew we were coming into the presence of a god, and said nothing?” “Would you have believed me? Would it have changed anything?” My breath is wasted on words of reason. Archibald grabs me and lifts me easily into the air. “You killed us all with your cowardice.” There is an inhuman hatred in his eyes as he throws me into the mountain. My breath is driven from my lungs and my vision swims. He’s on me again in an instant. He grabs my shirt in a hand and strikes my face once, twice, thrice. I feel my jaw break, my teeth dislodge. Surely someone will come to my aid. Someone will remember whose venture this was. Who truly led us all into ruin. *Insatiable lust for more than what is given will lead all mankind to ruin.* Archibald draws a knife and plunges it into my chest. A sharp pain in my sternum wakes me in my cot in the lower deck of *God’s Compass*. I know I dreamt, but I have no memory of it. The door to my cabin opens and I’m blinded by the light of a lantern. When my eyes adjust, I see Winslow, fully dressed and looking impatient. “They’re getting the boats ready. I suggest you prepare.” Winslow gives me a moment to light my own lantern before he returns to the upper deck. I dress quickly, and then dig through my chest to find my log. Archibald has asked me to document the entire voyage for his memoirs. When I find the log, my thumb touches a damp spot on the leather cover. Odd. I pull my hand away. My thumb glistens red in my lantern’s glow. *Blood?* I see that the corner of the cover is crinkled, as though it’s been heavily used, though I haven’t written a word in it. But when I open to the first page, it is my handwriting. *Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom.