The museum consisted of only four rooms, although I got the impression the building was an exhibit itself. The wooden floor and flagstone roof had clearly been replaced a number of times. But the walls were built with tools I had never seen; thick stone towers that seemed to bear hundreds of years of erosion. In the first room, we found odd trinkets of times before. There was nothing especially intriguing, and many were similar to the artefacts in the Citadel on Kadear Coalfields. As we entered the second room, the space opened up to a large hall. On all four walls were pictures; some ranging several metres across down to those that were the size of my hand. Each image was an exact likeness, as if you were merely seeing the sight with your own eyes. The largest display showed a group of young men and women gathered round a table sharing drinks from a bottle. The image was so large that each face was as big as my torso. I was struck by how beautiful they were; the soft skin of their cheeks, their silky long hair, and the symmetry of their smile. Never before had I seen anyone beam so widely, with so much joy, in such a simple moment. To the right of the smiling people, large text read ‘Choose the best.’ The next image was smaller, the whole picture some 30 centimetres tall and printed on thin glossy paper. There was a family in a home. Two children sat in a large kitchen, as an older woman - presumably their mother - dotingly put two plates in front of them, filled with delicious-looking cooked food; a pile of red-colored beans most prominently displayed. Underneath the image, a caption ran “For everyone”. I was still studying the picture when Alessia grabbed me by the arm. “Ferdinand, you’re not going to believe this.” “What?” “The next room,” she responded, pulling me behind her. I followed her through the archway and immediately understood why she had fetched me. What I saw, can only be described as a miracle. The far wall had been painted white. However, light was being cast on it to create moving images. The pictures were as real as the images in the previous room, but these moved. Somehow, I was watching the old world. The images were being cast by a small contraption on a table in the middle of the room. The device had a glass circle on the front that shone light out to project the images. As I got closer I realized it was also producing sound. It was faint, but if I sat down near the small box, I could make out voices - voices of the people on the wall. What we were watching seemed to be a comedic play. After each joke I could hear raucous laughter from an unseen audience. However, while the content may have been fiction, it gave me the perfect opportunity to view what the world used to be like. They had large expansive homes filled with lush furnishings. In the background windows looked over a city from an impossible height. Some seemed to work at desks like I used to, others worked serving people food and drinks. However, whatever their status in life, they seemed without worry. They were still beautiful, with white smiling teeth, and tanned, flawless skin. They were happy in their work, happy in their homes, content in every aspect of their lives. They were in heaven. I don’t entirely know how long I stayed, crouched on the floor. However, I believe a good forty or so minutes passed with us both transfixed by the sight before we were interrupted. “I thought you might enjoy this.” Turning, I found Rachel standing a couple of metres away, admiring the images on the wall. “How…?” I hesitated, lost for a working sentence. I took a deep breath and recomposed my words. “I knew things like this existed in the old world, but how did you get this working?” Rachel smiled. “Luck. Little more. A few generations back some people found a whole metal box of the devices. It took us a while to realize how they worked. We only have a few different recordings. But now we play a disc every day. A reminder of how good the world once was.” I turned back to the wall. “It really was.” “There are dates at the end. These images are from the beginning of the 21st century.” “Why don’t you share this more widely?” Alessia asked, prying herself away from the screen. “You could be the richest island around with this.” “Some things are more important than riches. This museum is who we are, what we aspire to.” Rachel looked at the screen, taking a deep breath, as if she were inhaling the utopia into her lungs. “The archipelago we live in now,” Rachel continued. “There are people out there starving. There’s fighting, murder, war. There are self-righteous islanders, condemning those around them; or islands where one set of people are made to toil while others live in luxury. We made that happen. It didn’t used to be like that. That’s what this museum is for. To remind us of a time without problems, when we were better people, when sadness and hate were fiction. To make us aspire to be something better.” She said the words forcefully, as if they were from a commandment more powerful than herself. “It’s a great aspiration,” I replied. “We may not have the technology. But we can aim to be as good. And one day the technology will come again,” Rachel took one last look at the pictures on the wall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some issues to attend to. But please stay and enjoy yourselves.” \ We watched the marvel for another hour or so. By the time we left, the sun had set, and speckles of white stars were beginning to fill the sky. We begun the walk back in silence. My mind was elsewhere, recalling and embedding that world we had seen. I assumed Alessia was in a similar state, but as we began to leave the village, Alessia quickened the pace. I skipped a couple of paces to catch up to her. “Don’t look around. Because I know you’ll want to look. So don’t, ” she said through clenched teeth. “But those people from earlier, they’re still following us.” “Maybe it’s time we talked to them.” “If they wanted to talk to us, they’d have done so already. You want to talk to them, you’re going to have to get to them. “And how do we do that?” “Pincer them,” Alessia said, making an action of her two fingers coming together at a point. “I’ll walk back to the village. If they follow you, you turn and run and lead them straight to me. If they follow me, other way round.” “And when they reach me?” “Grab hold of them and don’t let go?” “And if they are armed, or fight me?” “Then let go,” she shrugged. “Good luck.” Alessia turned and started heading back up the path. As she did, a woman stopped in her tracks, and conspicuously walked down a small path into the forest. It was the same woman I had seen following us earlier. Now I knew where she was. I continued down the path toward the beach. To my left I could see an old stone wall that blocked out the forest beyond. To my right, the trees encroached on the path, and long branches loomed over me, cutting out what little light the stars provided. I looked briefly over my shoulder. I could only make out her outline in the darkness, but it was clear I was being followed. My pace began to slow, hoping she might keep her own, and reduce the distance between us. If I was to win a foot race, I had to make the gap as small as possible. I readied my body, priming myself for the chase. I counted to three, turned, and ran. The shadow ceased its movement, frozen to the spot for a brief second, before they turned and tried to flee. However, their brief hesitation had reduced the distance between us, and now they were maybe only seven or eight metres away. They veered to the right and ran up the old brick wall along the side of the path. For a brief moment, I lost my concentration in their agility, as they began running along the top of the wall away from me. Then, a stone gave way. It tumbled towards the path as the woman’s ankle buckled, and she was sent down the other side. She let out a yelp as she fell. There was a second’s silence, then a thud as she landed on the forest floor. I could hear her body sliding, and then a shriek so raw I could feel my heart sink and my torso tense in response. The yell gave way to a quieter, but still loud moan, occasionally broken by a stuttered sob. I climbed up the wall. On the other side was a steep bank that dropped down several metres. As I lowered myself on the other side, I could immediately feel my feet slip on the blanket of leaves and loose soil. Grabbing onto a branch for stability, I began slowly making my way down the bank, towards the baying. As I arrived on the valley floor and approached the woman, I could begin to make out more than her outline. My heart sank further. Our stalker was a girl, probably no older than 16. There was visceral pain in her scrunched, frightened face. At her right arm, there was an unnatural bend between the elbow and wrist, a sharp angle jolting off. The girl kept moving to look at it before turning her head violently away and sobbing. “Ferdinand?” Alessia called out from the path. “I’m down here,” I replied. “Come, quickly.” I waited as Alessia climbed the wall and slowly started making her way down the bank. “I think she’s broken her arm,” I called out. “Well help her,” Alessia exhaled and she slid down the leaves. I was stuck, unable to act, but unable to turn my eyes away from the girl lying in pain. I had seen terrible things, I had seen death. But somehow, seeing somebody - a child no less - suffer, was so much worse. My frozen body was interrupted as Alessia pushed past me and crouched down by the girl. “It’s definitely broken. We’ll need to make a splint,” she said. I watched on, waiting. Alessia turned to me with the eyes of a predator unleashed. “Are you really this fucking useless?” She yelled. “She’s broken her arm. We need to make a splint. We need branches, straight ones, about three centremetres thick. We’re in a forest. Think you can manage getting sticks in a forest?” Broken from my trance, I began searching the dark wooden floor as Alessia tended to the girl. “Hey, it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you, we’re gonna fix this. I’ve seen plenty of breaks before, and they all turned out fine. Now try to stay calm, and trust me, okay?” The girl whimpered in nervous affirmation. Alessia took out a knife and grabbed the base of her own shirt. She cut out a long stretch of fabric from around her abdomen and placed it to one side. Then she cut up from the bottom of the girl’s trousers to her knee, on both legs, giving her three pieces of long fabric. “Now this next bit, for a moment, is gonna really hurt, okay? I’m sorry. But afterwards, as soon as it’s done, the pain will go down alot, I promise.” Alessia soothed. Once more the girl whimpered her consent. Alessia began slowly moving the arm back to a straight position. The girl’s cries grew louder. She tried to speak, but the words were interrupted by animalistic howls of pain. Alessia completed the task. “There. I’m done.” The girl quietened. “That a little better?” I returned with the two branches. Alessia took them. One was a good length, but as she inspected the other she rolled her eyes, before quickly snapping it in two so it was the same length as the girl’s forearm. With her tongue pinched between her teeth, Alessia slowly wrapped the fabric around the girl’s arm and the sticks, keeping the broken limb locked in place. With the arm set, the girl was silent for the first time. “You’re going to need to clean the wound too,” Alessia said. “I have some supplies on my boat. You can come there now, and we’ll take care of you. And then maybe in the morning you can explain why you were following us. But we’re not going to hurt you. You are safe. We can take you wherever you need to go tomorrow. That alright?” “Okay,” the girl replied. The girl gingerly stood up and began walking. “It’ll be about a half hour’s walk to the boat. That okay?” Alessia eyed up the steep slope ahead of us. “Yeah. I got this,” the girl replied through a sniff. “My name’s Robin, by the way.


“Just say no.” If only I had taken the warning more seriously, I’d be in college now. That’s what people say looking back, if only I had known, if I could go back, if only… I loved him like a brother, I utterly trusted him, I knew him better than anyone … at least that’s what I thought.

 I met Carl the summer between fourth and fifth grade. My family moved into the house next to where he had always lived. Our mothers were becoming acquainted over the fence when he invited me to jump on his trampoline. I was a year older than him, but he still topped me by two inches. He liked chocolate cake, I preferred carrot cake, I read novels, he fancied comic books. We both favoured comedies when we went to the movies and we loved climbing trees, but he climbed faster and higher than me. When September rolled around, we were inseparable. We compared scars on our scraped knees, we chased frogs in the creek that flowed past our houses, on rainy days we built forts with run-down sheets and clothespins. To his friends he introduced me as his little sister even though I was older.  Every summer I spent two weeks with Carl and his family at their cabin in the mountains. At the bottom of the stone stairs was a large lake in which we fished for bass and caught bullfrogs. In the winter, when we visited Grandma in Florida, Carl would accompany us for a few days then fly back home, tanned and smelling of coconut oil. His dad showed us how to play backgammon, and my mom used to play Clue with us because two people can’t play.

It was on his shoulders that I rested my head to mourn my first heartbreak. “The bastard left me three days after he tore my hymen!” I confessed, laughing falsely through my tears. Carl denied it but I’m sure he took a swing at the guy and gave him the black eye. When Carl had an essay to write for his English class, I would always spruce it up the night before. I introduced him to my friends as my little brother even if at 17 he was a foot taller than me.

A week before I left for college, my parents threw me a “Good luck” party to which the girls from my softball team, Carl and the boys from his football team were invited. My dad cooked burgers on the BBQ, his dad was the DJ. Dad loved barbecuing, marinating meats and then watching them while chatting with guests, a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. Our friends were divided into more or less three groups; some were in the pool playing Marco Polo, others playing volleyball, but most of them were just sitting on the terrace discussing their studies, the first season’s football game and the various outings over the weekend. Bopping heads and flailing arms, that’s what I saw from the tree house at the top of the big oak. I had taken refuge there because while I enjoyed the company of people, I also needed my space after socializing so much. The hatch lifted and Carl’s smiling face popped up.

“What are you doing here?”  “I needed to recharge my batteries.”

“Will you make room for me in your bubble?”

“You know very well that you’re always welcomed in my bubble.”

Since I’ve known him, Carl had never laughed at my quirks and I loved him all the more for it. I knew our friends thought that I was weird, but he respected my need to stay away sometimes. He sat next to me and we watched the party unfold in our backyards. After a while, he bumped my shoulder playfully. “Jeff asked me to give you his surprise if I found you.” He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a sachet containing two capsules. I frown. Not that we’re angels or anything but Carl and I avoided drugs out of respect for our respective sport, so I didn’t quite understand what he was offering me. He must have read the confusion on my face because he immediately explained himself.

“It’s not what you think, well, maybe it is, but I’m asking you to trust me. It’s not some junk street drug. It’s not gonna damage your goddess body.” He winks conspiratorially at me.

“OK, what is it then?”

“It’s … um… Jeff calls it Spirit Liberator . I tried it once with him. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. It gives the impression … no, no … you … it’s tough to explain … you have to live it to understand. It’s … soothing but at the same time … exhilarating. You travel at high speed through a tunnel of lights and then after … you let yourself get carried where your mind takes you. You have some kind of out-of-body experience and you visit other dimensional worlds and… I … saw my brother.”

Breathless, he went silent. Carl rarely talks about his late brother. Too painful a subject to share, even with me. I respected his silence as I tried to take in what he just told me. Do I really want to travel in a tunnel of light? Get out of my body? It scared me a little. It seemed a lot like dying … this experience. His voice shook off my stupor. “It gives you the ability to radically transform your outlook on everything. It brings a profound change, a different perception of yourself, and a new understanding of reality…”

“Wow! I didn’t know you were so … esoteric. I don’t really want to elevate myself or change my self-perception… I like my perception and I feel good in my body.” “It barely lasts an hour. And I swear you’ll feel wonderful afterwards. Come on, trust me.”

I looked him straight in the eye. I picked one of the pills and brought it quietly to my mouth. I hesitated then downed it with a sip of beer. At worst, I convinced myself, we’ll be “back” in an hour. I passed him the bottle, and he too swallowed the capsule. I laid down next to him, he held my hand and we awaited the effects .

I wanted to tell him that his surprise wasn’t working at all, but my mouth refused to open and my hand wouldn’t squeeze his. I tried to get up, yet my body was shaking like a leaf. I was terrified, then I felt an intense feeling of letting go , as if I was taking off like in a plane, but in slow motion.

I saw the dancing wings of a bee showing me the way. I thought how weird it was for a bee to be flying at night but then I realised I was bathing in a soft, warm, enveloping light and all was well. I was flying above the trees, the school, and the lake breathing in pumpkin spice flavored air.

At that precise moment, I had no fear, no worries. I was one with nature, the human race, and the universe. My heart was beating to the rhythm of humanity’s heartbeat. For the first time I felt such joy, pure and total. All my doubts dispelled, my insecurities abated, I was there, exactly where I needed to be, whole and free.

Suddenly I was pulled back, I spun around and found myself staring back at me. I knew right away something was wrong.

“Carl, what are you doing here? YOU’RE IN MY BODY”

He kept quiet.

“Carl!”

“I don’t know what happened. Our threads got tangled up and I found myself in your body… I think”

When he got up and left with my body, my heart sank. I tried to reason with him, I got mad, I cried, I begged him, nothing worked. He deemed my body shell comfortable, “It’s very soft and cozy in you”. I complained to my mom, she didn’t believe me. When I insisted, she told his mother about it and I was threatened with interning if I kept messing around. So Carl started college in my place and I’m in twelfth grade again. Yep.

Well, I should concentrate on the game otherwise the huge linebacker, charging toward me like a bull, will kill me.


Grand Central station. 12:02pm. Her train is in ten minutes. She’s waiting on the platform of her train to Boston. She’s worried and anxious. She’s biting her lips. She doesn’t see her lover. He should already be there. Her train is in nine minutes. Now in eight minutes. She’s passionately in love with him. She doesn’t know if their relationship will last long… She needed passion. Now she has it. It’s been two months the both of them. She’s feeling great. She loves the smell of his skin, the sensation when she touches him. She gets on the train. She checks if he isn't already inside, in case she has missed him. She gets out. He wasn’t in the coach. Seven minutes. She remembers the first time they kissed. She wanted his mouth for three years. They have been hitting on each other for three years. Quite a long time in fact. She smiles at this thought. Now she has him in her life and she’s blissful. He wasn’t ready when they met the first time. They did the date thing for two months and then he put an end to it. He broke up just a few months earlier and it was too soon for him to forge a new bond. That’s what he said at least. Six minutes. She’s out of her memories and notices he’s not there yet and the train is leaving soon. She comes back to the departure lounge. He’s not there either. On her way back to the platform she thinks maybe he had a traffic issue in the subway… After this disappointment, she moved on in her life. But somehow he stayed in her acquaintance. He never left her fantasies. He was aloof and not open to her. She was distant too. She read in his eyes he wanted her very badly sometimes but never say a word about it. Maybe she overinterpreted. Five minutes. The train makes its engine roar. She’s getting more and more anxious about him. He’s pretty on time normally. She goes back to the main room of the station and almost runs to the information point just under the huge clock. She asks the train employee if there has been trouble in the subway. She says the traffic is normal as far as she knows. She’s biting her lips once again. She was cold with him. Sometimes she had arguments with him. They met a few times at different events organized by a mutual acquaintance. But one day his position at work changed and they became colleagues. She couldn’t resist. She had a boyfriend. She loved him very deeply. She just had no passion for him. She rapidly falls in love strongly with her new colleague. Four minutes. She’s really scared something might have happened to him. She decides to look for a phone booth. She dials his work number. It rings. It’s still ringing. She gets the switchboard. She hangs up and dials his home number. It rings. It’s still ringing. No one answers. She hangs up the handset sadly. Three minutes. She runs back to the right platform. He’s the passionate love of her life, she knows it for a long time. She told her boyfriend a couple of months ago it was over. He was sorrowful. Full of tears and inconsolable. She tried to cuddle him. She tried to appease him. He rejected her. Never contacted her again. She understood it. She was still in love with him. She left for her impassioned lover. He knew it was for him. He discovered months ago her story with this man wasn’t over. She told him about it but despite what she was telling herself it was vivid. The last month her couple was chaotic due to this love growing inside of her for another man. Her boyfriend felt it and got pissed off at her much more easily. Two minutes. She takes her seat on the train. She looks through the train window and feels gloomy and wistful. She’s desperate. She senses the tears rolling down her cheek. One minute. She feels her mind crack. She knows it’s over. The train is going away without him next to her. The empty seat is too painful to look at. She can’t stop crying. She knows her feelings are far more than passion. She needs him. She needs the way he looks at her, teases her, his smile, his jokes, his body… she needs him completely. Suddenly she has the weird impression it was a dream and she just wake up. She stops crying. She tries to get rational. She checks her purse, she has a note from her latter boyfriend. It’s written: “Love, take care in Boston”. She doesn’t know if it’s from this morning or a message from months ago. It’s not her first time in Boston. She goes there for work sometimes. She senses her stomach gets her back to what she thinks might be the reality. Her inside is tearing her apart. But she’s getting more and more doubtful about what’s real and what’s not. She’s lost and she’s going to Boston. She doesn’t even know why…

He’s next to his phone. At home. He knows it’s her. He can’t pick up the phone. After her phone call, he calls his work. He asks if he has a message. The secretary tells him she called. It was her earlier. He paces up and down in his condo. He’s smoking nervously. His cigarette is barely over, he’s already striking another match to light the new one. The phone rings once again. He knows it’s not her, the train is gone. It’s Cecilia. His best friend. He tells her he didn’t manage to leave with her. Cecilia isn’t surprised. She seems glad. She has good news too. Cecilia says she’s free now. He’s afraid of what it means. She’s single. His heart bumps fast in his chest. He can’t say a word. He’s speechless. He’s been waiting for this for so long. He hangs up. He thinks to her. He loves her. He loves Cecilia too. He broke up before because he cherished her. He’s lost. And he doesn’t know if he isn’t making the greatest mistake of his life.


My grandfather was born in England in 1926. In 1939, World War II broke out. Like many English children of his generation, he was sent by his parents to live in Canada to escape the Blitz. When he returned to his home country he barely recognized it. England had been ravaged by the war and he felt as though there was nothing for him there, so he left. He went back across the Atlantic, but this time to Philadelphia. It was there that he met my grandmother. Before she met my grandfather, my grandmother had been previously married to a US Air Force bomber pilot who was stationed in England during the war. While in England, he began an affair with another woman that caused the disintegration of his marriage to my grandmother. She eventually met my grandfather, they got married, and they gave birth to my mother who eventually met my father and gave birth to me. I use to joke to people that if it weren’t for Hitler starting the war then I would never have been born. The other day, I told this to a friend who told me that if it weren’t for every single event in the history of the universe, from the Big Bang till the precise moment when a single sperm from my father entered a single egg from my mother, then I would never have been born. It’s comforting to know that I no longer have to exclusively thank Hitler for my existence.


A writer is cleaning out her basement and is sorting through some of her old boxes. She comes across a few boxes labeled “College Items” and opens one of the boxes. Underneath a few folders, she comes across an item in a plastic cover. She does not recognize it at first, but once she removes the cover, she sees it is the typewriter she used in college. She is not sure what to do with it. It is too old to sell, but she also knows that it has some value, and should not be thrown away. Underneath the typewriter, is a package of typing paper and typing supplies. She decides to check and see whether or not the typewriter still works. She places it on a small table located in the basement and plugs the cord into a nearby outlet. She pulls up a chair, takes a piece of typing paper out of the package and carefully winds it around the roller in the typewriter, straightens and adjusts it before placing the thin metal cartridge on top to secure the paper in place. She turns on the typewriter and types a few sentences. She can’t believe that it still works. She is suddenly reminded of what it is like to type at a typewriter, and its unique benefits. She likes that you have to push the “Return” key at the end of the line to move to the line below. She likes hearing the noise of the keys as they stamp letters onto the page and the sound the typewriter makes as it moves to the next line.

She also remembers that it is best not to type too quickly in case you make a mistake. It is easier to make corrections using the white correction tape ribbon by hitting the backspace key rather than using corrector fluid or an eraser.

The drawbacks do not seem like much of an obstacle and she decides to write her next assignment using the typewriter. It makes her feel more like a writer and she looks forward to writing her next story. She makes a mental note that she will not be able to hit the “Send” key to send it in, and will need to make sure she allows enough time to mail it or fax it to the recipient. For the story, she first writes it out on a pad of paper. She then types up the story using the typewriter. She makes sure to type slowing and avoid making a lot of mistakes. After she finishes it, she realizes that she did not take leave any space to allow for visual images. She knows they will not accept the article without them. She takes out a couple of pieces of typing paper and draws a box where they should be located on each piece of paper using a ruler. She retypes the story, leaving space around the boxes so she can attach the pictures. She finishes typing the story, adds the pictures, and mails it in. After a few days, the editor calls to let her know that they received the story, and asks her if she can send an electronic copy so they can make a few edits. The writer explains that she typed the story using her old typewriter. The editor says that they can have someone retype the short story, but asks her to send any images she wants included as an electronic copy. For the next assignment, she once again uses the typewriter to write the story, affixes the pictures to it, mails it in, and sends a copy of the images to include via e-mail.  The typewriter becomes a lucky charm. By now, she has become accustomed to using the typewriter, but it has some drawbacks compared to using a computer when it comes to editing and sending documents. For longer assignments, she finds it is better to type them on a computer because they tend to require a few drafts before they are finalized.

She has also moved the typewriter up from the basement and keeps it on her desk. One day a friend visits and brings along her children. They notice the typewriter and ask her about it. She shows them how to use it and they are immediately drawn to it.

They like how you have to roll a piece of paper onto it, straighten and align it, before replacing the thin metal cartridge on top to hold it in place. They take turns hitting the “X” key until it reaches the end of the line, wait to hear the sound of the “ping”, before they hit the “Return” key to advance the typewriter to the next line. They caution each other not to type too fast so the keys don’t jam and experiment with the white correction tape. A few weeks later, her friend drops the children off for a few hours. They are going to stay with the writer for the day while the friend goes to a few appointments she has scheduled. The children once again ask if they can play with the typewriter. They spend the day playing, “News Reporter”. They create three roles and rotate them. There is a writer, editor, and newscaster.

The writer writes the story, the editor then reads the story and suggests some edits. The writer then re-types the story, and the editor hands the story to the newscaster. The newscaster reads the story holding a spatula they use for a microphone.

While the writer and editor are working on the story, the newscaster dresses up using some old dresses and accessories the writer has stored in the basement. It becomes one of their favorite games. Meanwhile, the writer continues to use the typewriter to write some of her stories, and is using it to write a book. She likes that it forces her to think about what she is going to write in advance. She has learned it is better to write things out first on a piece of paper. She has also learned to appreciate all the little things and efficiency that a computer provides.

The typewriter continues to become her lucky charm as she figures it is because it forces her to spend more time writing the story and makes her a better editor to avoid typos, grammar mistakes, and re-types.

A couple of months later, when her friend has a birthday party for one of her children, the writer gives her a typewriter as a birthday present and they all play “News Reporter”. They add a few more roles so everyone can play including another writer and newscaster, cameraman, and reviewer.

The typewriter that was at first unrecognizable has found a new beginning, and seems to have a place as a both a work tool and fun activity for both adults and children.

The writer's latest discovery as she is cleaning out the basement is finding a play cash register and makes a note that she should bring it to her friend’s children the next time she visits. She knows they will most likely find a good use for it.


"Let me in Charlie..." "I won't. You can't tell me what to do." I young boy lays on the ground in a fetal position trying to block out the voice in his head. "Surelly, you don't mean that Charlie. I've been there for you when no one else was." He whispered in to his ear. "That deadbeat of a dad of yours skipped town and left you to rot. And your mother hasn't even the time to prepare you anything to eat during the day.  She doesn't even know you are home, Charlie." "Shut up!" Charlie yelled. His alarm clock began to ring. Reluctantly he climbed onto his futon and pretend to sleep for a few moments. Reynald snickering in the back of his mind. He didn't remember when it started. Reynad had been there since he was young. But he wasn't always like this. He was happy before. They played together once. He was imaginative, carefree and joyful. But after everything in his life started to turn up side down. Well Reynald started to grow more and more sinister. Now his voice was so loud he could hardly hear his own thoughts. I'm going to be late, he thought. Charlie made a point to note this was his own mind talking. He didn't know if he was crazy or not. But he was suspecting people would see it that way for sure. Charlie briskly went through his morning routine brushing up his teeth, emptying his bladder and bowels. Making some french toast and pouring some orange juice from the fridge, shutting it with the back of his heel. The stuff your average high school student would do. Just with a commentator on the side. "You know what would look better on you Charlie, a pair of fangs." "Why don't you eat something with a little meat on it. Bacon? Everyone loves a bit of bacon." "Your going to break that fridge door one day and then your Mom'll finally notice you. Is that what you are going for. A good ol' beating. Are you some sort of sadist." "Shuddup, shuddup, shuddup." It was hard to ignore Reynald, but he had to. Acknowledging anything he had to say just made it worst. Running outside he caught the school bus as it was coming in. "Hey Charlie the Chink!" He was greeted by Bosko, the resident bully and his goons. His friends jeering him on. Inwardly, Charlie laughed to himself. Name calling was nothing compared to what Reynald put him through on a daily basis. "Let me rip his teeth out and swallow his tongue, Charlie. You know you want to punch in that fat face of his. Bosko the Bully - how stereotypical can you get." "No Reynald, I won't do that." Charlie whispered to himself fighting down his clenched fist. Charlie was struggling to grab control. Just as he was about to slip into a blind rage a voice perked his ears. "Are you okay, Charlie." It was Joanna the only other Chinese student on the bus. They both somehow ended up in this small town in the middle of america. Famous for their tornadoes and dust storms. "Say yes Charlie." Reynald coaxed. "Yes, um yes I'm okay." Charlie stammered. "Now massage her breasts." Reynald suggested offhandedly. "No!" He shouted loudly against Reynald. Startling some of the nearby students. Embarrassed he quickly added. "I mean no, I have a bit of a cold. And ain't feeling well." "Oh sorry to hear that," Joanna said a bit confused. Not wanting to make it any more awkward than it was. Charlie moved his way to the back. Dropped his bag and looked out the window. This was going to be another long day. He sat alone, he ate alone, he studied alone. And went home on the bus. That was the only time he interacted with the other students in his class. If you could call that interaction. He had no friends. He was even surprised Joanna knew his name. But he then remembered Bosko made sure everyone did. The end of last quarter rang the bell. Everyone was piling out of Mrs. Winston's Intro to Physics class. Charlie didn't like to take the same crowded hallways everyone else did. He knew a short cut that ran out from an emergency door at the bottom of a side staircase. As he pushed opened the door, he was suddenly jostled from behind. His backpack taken away from him. "Well what do we have here." Bosko and two of his friends were rummaging through his bag. Until they found his sketch books. Charlie was a big anime fan and he drew all sorts of characters. "You one of them hint-eh lovers aren't you, you sick fuck." "Here, Anthony." Flicking a lighter over to one of his goons. "Show how lit, his shit is." Bosko picked Charlie up off the ground. "Here Roxanne, hold on to him." He tossed him her way. She grabbed him and got him into a Full Nelson. Roxanne was actually a girl Charlie had a crush on when he was younger. "Yah that's because you have a thing for pain..." Reynald added. Where were you!? Charlie exclaimed vehemently through his thoughts. "I told you, let me take control today. But nooooo you wanted to be a big boy. This is what big boy's get now you have to walk home you stupid idiot." As much as he hated being called a idiot. Reynald did have a point. "Aren't you three going to miss the bus." Charlie pointed out. Bosko realizing this was true quickly came in hard. Not exactly what Charlie was hoping for. He combo'd a left, right body punch straight into an uppercut. Which left Charlie dazed. "Hahaha, perfect Charlie. Now you're bleeding. You realize how much I could've helped right there." Reynald was ecstatic. Roxanne threw him to the ground as his book was burning beside the trash can. Everything in Charlie wanted to reach to save his books. It was everything to him. His Dad was an animator. But everything ached. He was tired of this life. What did it matter, his father left him. Looking up into the sky, droplets began to fall from the clouds above. Starting as drizzle then turning into great big ol' droplets. The sizzling of water dousing his burning book kept him awake. He wanted to sleep forever. He had a bully in his mind, a bully at school and no one to turn to. The world was one big bully. All he had was his sketch books and flip books. But now those were gone too. "So you are just going to lay there like a wuss huh, Charlie." Charlie nodded. Reynald snarled. "Grab your mom's gun shoot everyone in the school. Kill Bosko, Kill Anthony, Kill Roxanne, Kill the Bus Driver who never stopped them from harassing you. Kill everyone." Charlie exhaled slowly. He tried to remember Reynald as he once was. A more innocent ethereal creature. The past few months was like a constant struggle through life. He had to fight down Reynald's lustful comments of girls he barely knew. The boiling anger and hate that was in him that he had to seal. All these things Reynald wanted to unleash... But you know what. Charlie finally realized something. He may feel powerless morning, noon and night. But Reynald. Well Reynald had no power at all. Without answering, Charlie picked up his bag. And trudged through the rain. Made that four hour walk home. Got home to an empty house. Made himself dinner and went to bed. "Tomorrow is going to be a different day." He told himself. "Is that right? Don't kid yourself. Everyday is the same ol' shit." Boasted Reynald. "Not this time... This time, Reynald, I choose how to live my life. And I choose to be happy."


She was just sitting up there. If it weren’t for the picture of her, no one would’ve known she would be here at all, but the people nicknamed her as the girl on the edge of the crane. Her feet dangling below her, her right hand positioned behind her back on the stainless steel and her left, stretched out in front of her. That’s how this girl was sitting on the edge of the crane, hundreds of metres above the ground. Judging from her outfit, you would assume that she was a schoolgirl. At least when taken into consideration, her plaid skirt and her uniform style shirt. If a closer look was taken, you would realise that she is in fact a young woman, no younger than 18. Her ironed skirt and white-ish shirt, was just a part of her outfit. Her twin pony tails, were flying all around her body, bending to the force of the wind. The altitude was high enough for the wind to pick up speed and yet high enough for the wind to loose its power. Otherwise her hair wouldn’t have been the only thing flying around. Normally people would assume anyone sitting that close on the edge of death, would have the intention of jumping. And yet she had this look, in her eyes, of childlike interest. Her left arm reaching out into the dark sky, towards something only she could see. It was a clear night and the stars could be seen, perhaps she too saw them behind her spread out fingers. Perhaps she was reaching out, to form the illusion that she was holding a star, pinched in between her fingertips. Below her, you could see the city, as it shimmered under the cover of darkness. You could see the apartment lights with tenants living inside them, the cars slowly whizzing by, leaving either red or white stripes depending on their direction and the shops still open at that time, luring in customers with their colourful signs and displays. She hadn't come to die, no. But perhaps she had come seeking for comfort in a place where no other rational human would sit. She knew one misstep was all it took for her to end her life prematurely. But she wasn't nervous about that at all, in fact there weren’t any signs of fear or even anxiety in her eyes. Perhaps she had already made up her mind that she wasn't going to fall, or she had some tricks up her sleeves. Speaking of, they were too long and too dark and yet it was obvious that they were trying to conceal something. Perhaps some wounds or some scars, maybe even her thin fragile body itself. No matter what it was, she never uncovered them, granted that the only time we saw her, was in this still picture. It must have been freezing up there but apart from that, no one knew how this woman got up there. Some think she must have climbed the crane, without anyone else knowing or seeing. And yet nobody saw or reported her and prior to the photos discovery, no one had even known she had existed at all. It’s likely she didn’t make any rash movements or loud sounds, but to be seen or heard at this height would’ve had taken a tremendous amount of effort. Too much for random passerbys to spot her. People below her weren’t interested in the night sky, like she was. They were much more interested in getting to their destination, too busy to appreciate their surroundings or their achievements they already amassed. Perhaps she was the embodiment of all that people have lost over the years, all that people have longed for in this world, that was taken too soon by a world too focused on money and survival. If this photo was taken at the wrong time or the camera had never been placed there and if no one ever knew she was there, would she have existed at all? Why would she, out of all places, sit at the edge of the crane in utter silence, with no light source other than the dim shimmer of the stars? Adding to the mystery, no one knows how she got down there. The only evidence that she had existed at all, came from a still frame shot of a camera, which had been increasingly forgotten over the years, mounted to the top of the crane. It was one of many cameras mounted to the absurdly costly piece of equipment. Initially meant to record any evidence of malpractice but was deemed useless, since all it took, were shots of the sky and the city from the back of the crane. Furthermore, it was one of those really old cameras, which by some miracle still took a shot every minute after all these years. One still frame shot of a girl who mysteriously appeared and disappeared, sitting at the edge of the crane. One, was all it took for the world to be piqued in interest, as to who the woman was. Interestingly, the camera had enough quality to capture the girls expressions and clothes, but other than that, it was too dark to make out anything else, except the glowing lights of a city succumbing to the night. She could have been some otherworldly being, visiting us for a short amount of time, or perhaps she did this on a dare and had some way to climb up and down without being noticed, or the camera was so old that it was suddenly mixing up its records with previous shots. No one knew who the girl was, her picture was published in all the newspapers and media outlets, everyone trying to figure out who and where she was. But no answers were found. Anything that did turn up, was proven to be fake, made up by others searching for attention and validation. After a while everything died down and most people forgot the existence of the mysterious girl on the crane. Perhaps it would have been for the best. After all something this mysterious, maybe would be better off staying mysterious. But some people theorize that she wasn't pinching the stars with her fingers, as some people would do, some claim that she was reaching out to something. Something that was the reason why she and her body was illuminated, while the rest of the crane wasn't. Some had even saturated the photo to show the existence of a glowing orb, which apparently was floating just a bit away from her hand. But no one ever took those claims seriously. After all, glowing orbs, flying thousands of metres above the ground didn't exist. And with that, the woman couldn’t have existed at all. After all if no one is there to witness her existing, in the world we’re in, she would cease to exist. So this mysterious girl, at the edge of the crane, was forgotten about, from the rest of the world. And those who did remember her, nicknamed her: The girl on the edge of the crane.


Winter was the only season when I would see her, every year in December on the day of the winter solstice. I met her first when I was only ten. Sitting in the park on a cold winter day as the snow fell like ash, clinging to the ground like a child clings to their mother. My father had let me go on a walk that day on my own. He needed space to think, he used to be a writer for a not so well known magazine, and tended to work in complete silence. So that’s how I found myself making a small snow man in the park outside our apartment. There wasn’t enough snowfall to make my creation any taller than my knees. I gave it two small rocks for eyes and twigs for hands, I looked back in awe at my masterful creation. “I like him” Said a voice from behind me, I turned around to see a tall figure with galaxy eyes and pale white skin. Long strands of golden hair falling from her head down to her shoulders. She had pointed eyes and small antlers like a deer coming from the top of her head. She stood taller than my father almost twice as tall with arms that were just a little too long for her body. She leaned down close to the snowman, taking a small icicle she held in her hand and placed it on the area that would be his nose. The figure smiled and asked “What is his name?” “Icey, Icey the snowman” I said with a big grin on my face “A fitting name for such an icy fellow” the words almost felt warm like the heat of a wood stove after a long wintry day. “Whats your name?” I asked looking up at the tall figure “Oh, I do not have one of those anymore, I have a gift for your father if you think you could bring it to him” said the figure. She handed me a bundle of snapdragons that she held in her other hand. They smelled sweet and looked as if they had just been picked, The figured looked down and smiled again at me. The snow picked up, and the figure walked back into the roaring winter. As I turned to watch her go off another figure appeared in the distance. It was my father in his winter cloths, snow boots and long red scarf. He rushed over to me. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here, I told you to come back before it got dark” “Father look look, the nice lady with the antlers gave me this just for you” I held out the bundle of snap dragons to my father. He held them in his hand for a moment and began to silently shed tears. “Whats wrong father?” I asked, holding my hand out to him My father got down and embraced me “nothing at all sweetie, Im just finally happy you got to meet her” Me and my father meet my mother every winter, on the day of the winter solicit.


Here it is again, the piss end of golden hour. The sun hovers four degrees below the horizon, soon to break free from the relative brightness of civil twilight. Do you know the difference between all the kinds of half-darkness? I do. I can tell you. That might just take my mind off this thing I need to do, but my body is like a soft, untamed animal, stopped dead in its tracks in the snow like in concrete. There’s the civil, like I just said, in case you missed it. In that kind of light, blood appears a dark maroon colour, nearly brown, diarrhoea of the veins. I look down, swallow. The spots start at my feet, holding themselves on the surface of the snow, and then, as they grow heavier towards the house, carving deeper and deeper grooves in the whiteness. So she didn’t bleed too heavily to begin with, but as she stumbled forward, the boot stamps grow larger, more elongated; she’d started dragging her feet. Then another blow from behind, and a fallen snow angel with broken wings. I see the head and belly wounds clearly, the top one bright and fresh, the bottom one, well, not so much. I swallow. She’s losing it now. The rude impact of the ground, cushioned only lightly by the ankle-deep snow, jolts the liquids in her, like a glass full of water on a stormy ship. When I was a child, I could remember everything, whether it had happened or not. Now, I only remember things that have happened to other people. The second type of twilight is nautical. The darkness progresses as the sun falls, falls further, from six to twelve degrees below the line of sight, which in this flat rigid world is everywhere I turn. It’s called nautical because the stars are twinkly enough for sailors to be able to make them out, but the horizon remains so stark the heavenly bodies can be pitted against it for directions. I have begun my ascent to the house. She didn’t walk up the stairs, she crawled. She’d given up holding onto her belly halfway up. I can tell because of the smell, and the volume, the dripping. Dear god, or whatever else there might be, because why would this place even need a god if so little is alive to watch over, and that which is can be deleted so easily, with such primitive tools. The knife is in my pocket, a kitchen knife with a plastic handle. When I was young, I had memories of murders so gruesome they could make a grown man faint in an instant. But now, I only remember real things, things right in front of my eyes that burn images on the insides of the eyelids. Finally, before the night falls, there’s astronomical twilight. The sky lights up in a million fibre-optic blips, messages from the past blinking their way down to Earth. I have the key to the house, and so I turn the key in the lock. In these dark conditions, blood becomes black, like coca-cola, but not so fizzy, and definitely not as sweet, so perhaps this is a bad comparison. I hope she died on the other side of the door, crawled like a fox into her hole and gave up there, so that this it it, no more mess, just in the hall. Lo and behold, she did. I often hope they’d died quickly and stayed put, and the lord if such shall be my judge will forgive me, for this is a small offense: that hope I cannot shake. And sometimes I think it’s a merciful hope, a hope to shorten suffering, mine and theirs. I grope for the light switch on the wall with the hand that hadn’t held the knife. It lay far, far from the red trail leading to the house. No wonder they couldn’t find it. But a blood hound, a recollector of foreign memories, like me, knows exactly where to look, where in the frenzy of footsteps to find the DNA they will need, they will want to establish facts and punish perpetrators . The light is on, I swallow. No vomiting. It pushes the clean-up too far outside of nature, a mass of things that shouldn’t be seen outside of the body, suddenly all mixed together. A human offal hotpot. Dry heaving, that’s fine, no lunch, better safe than sorry. It has been exactly fifteen 24-hour increments — not days, mind you, they’re no days — since the sun last rose around here. It teases all the way into golden hour, dawning, dawning, and down, back again like a ball that hadn’t been kicked hard enough to roll through the goal marker of the horizon. These words, dawn and dusk and twilight , I can see how they can mean beautiful things to people. How they can mark time in a way that makes sense to god’s creatures, those who live by the rhythm of light and dark. How they can bring drama, hope, joy, melancholy. But to us here, creatures with no god, creatures that shouldn’t even be here, because we’re not designed for this, those words mean little, because they never happen truly, never fully realise themselves in this long, long night. Twenty more increments to go before the fiery ball tries hard enough for us to see. I have come, I have seen, I will conquer. I’ll start on the inside, as always, and work my way back out. The porch light I find the switch for turns out far too dim, so I will bring a spotlight from my car, designed for these occasions specifically, for the polar night’s many twilights. I’ve put on my bodysuit already, but forgot the mask in the car. Hence the retching, from the smell. I’ll get my brushes, my sprays, my paper. When people ask me what it’s like, they think it’s scientific, and therefore also magical, a blend of mastery and mystery. But how could it possibly be glamorous to clean, I think though I don’t ask them. I’d hate to appear rude. On dates, at first I tell girls I’m a cleaner, just to test them, and their faces drop. But if I tell the truth and nothing but the truth, the full works, blood and sweat, sometimes tears, they light up, like I’m a live episode of a true crime series. That must be very exciting, to see all these places up close . Tomorrow, I will return the knife to the police. I’ll apologise to them with all the words I have prepared: I’d forgotten to wear my gloves when I picked it up, I will be sorry for contaminating the evidence, I will promise to call next time without touching, and they’ll shake their heads. There are some things I won’t mention, things I knew about her, things that aren’t relevant now because she’s been annulled, things that aren’t relevant because what has once happened cannot unhappen. When I was young, I used to remember things that didn’t happen at all, but now I know how to make them.


Once upon a time, there were three stoners named Beonard, Bumble and Bump. The Stoners were close friends, and lived together in a yellow house in the concrete jungle. The were joined by their adopted albino cat, Miles, a cat who lived a challenging life as a stray before being adopted. Since then, he has been mean to anyone who even attempted to pick him up. Beonard suffered scratches on his arm, Bumble on his leg, he even scratched Bump, the nicest to him, on his face. Still, the stoners insisted on giving him a better life. On a clear, sunny day in April, the three stoners ran out of weed. Although all the dealers they knew were out, Bumble heard a rumor of a new dealer with a fabled strain called The Wiz. As all of them cheered, Bump's calendar reminded him that today was Miles' vet appointment. Bumble said they should go buy some weed before they run out, but Bump said Miles' vet appointment was more important. Beonard agreed with Bump, and said they would go buy "The Wiz" after going to the vet. He even suggested they could take his four wheeled, silver chariot. Once Bumble begrudgingly agreed, Bump lured Miles into his crate with catnip and they all hopped in Beonard's chariot and raced down the interstate at 40 miles per hour, to the vet. While examining the pale, volatile cat, the plump, bearded veterinarian commented that Miles had become a little chubby, but the three stoners were more concerned with his behavior. They asked why the cat was so hostile toward them, but the physician answered that he will only warm up to those that show him true love. Once he started talking about the cat's weight again, the stoners trailed off and forgot to pay the bill. They were more concerned with picking up The Wiz. "Speeding" down the interstate at 35 miles per hour, the three stoners talked about Miles. Bumble scoffed in disbelief that the cat could ever love them after already giving him a home a year ago. Bump replied that he must love them deep down, but had trouble expressing it after the harsh life he lived before. Beonard questioned if it was worth it to wait another whole year for him to be more loving. Before Bump could answer, Bumble pointed out the mile marker 69 sign, so Beonard pulled the silver chariot over and the three stoners giggled at it for 20 minutes. Bump then made a startling realization, they had been driving in the wrong direction, and they were 45 minutes from the dealer's house. The three friends were devastated, none of them could wait that long to get stoned. Everyone remained silent as the sound of the running motor filled the Kia sedan. Just when all seemed lost, a large bright green fire sparked next to the road sign. Out of the blaze stepped a tall woman in a long sleeveless dress with pale green skin, and dark greek dreadlocks of hemp. The three stoners stepped out of the car and slowly approached the mysterious woman, immediately struck by the strong weed aroma she gave off, and asked who she was. She declared herself as Mary Jane Wanda, Goddess of Weed, supplying the plant to those in need for a chill time. Beonard asked if she was here because they needed the sticky icky, but she replied she was only there to laugh at the mile 69 marker on the interstate. She did, however, offer them the weed of their choice, but their payment would be costly, depending on the strain. Bumble told her the only strain they desired: The Wiz. Wanda the Weed God bellowed that that strain is indeed highly sought after, so for their payment, she asked from them their most prized possessions. From Beonard, Wanda asked for his favorite knife that he always carried with him. Although reluctant, his judgement was quickly overwhelmed by Wanda's fragrance, and he gave her his knife. In return, he was given a small bag of The Wiz. From Bumble, Wanda asked for his prized jewel that he carried with him wherever he went. Bumble too was hesitant, but changed his mind once in the presence of her scent, and gave her his jewel. Again, her reward was a small bag containing the strain they have desired most. From Bump, however, she only asked to see his cat. Bump complied, pulling out the crate and set it on the ground before her, opening the door and letting the cat out. Wanda was surprisingly taken by how adorable the feline was, and expressed that she would accept the cat as payment, stating it would be the perfect gift for her friend's upcoming birthday. In return, she would reward the three stoners with all The Wiz they needed. The friends looked at each other with a defeated look on their faces. To Bumble and Beonard, both of their problems could be solved. Bump, however, was reluctant. He was not as ready to get rid of the cat, and refused, even as he felt his mind become victim to Wanda's odor. Slowly, though, the aroma emanating from Wanda's aura began to cloud Bump's mind. As he felt himself succumb to Wanda's pull, Miles turned around, staring Bump in the eye, and whimpered a soft "meow". Bump felt ecstatic, reached down, and lifted Miles to cradle him in his arms. His friends, expecting the cat to react violently, stepped back. Instead, the albino cat melted in his arms, completely at ease, and for the first time, he was purring. All three stoners looked at each other once more before turning to Wanda, and declining her offer, stating that Miles was one of them. Moved by their action, the Weed Goddess happily rewarded each of them an ounce of The Wiz before laughing at the mile 69 sign once more, and disappearing in the green fire. In celebration of their new bond with Miles, the stoners hopped back into the silver chariot, and drove 25 miles an hour back to their yellow house to binge watch *Planet Earth 2*. After they smoked the last of The Wiz a month later, they gave up weed altogether, realizing they could still get high, on love.


Since I was a kid I’ve always liked mysteries, I’ve always watched horror films and those old programs that talked about the sci-fi occurrences, recently me including my friends: Sam, Laura, Ben, Ashley and Connor were attempting to explore abandoned buildings and places on which have already spent so much time on yet haven’t found a single interesting thing, we wanted to give up. Suddenly we noticed that our radio has caught a strange signal, we had a look at it, it was a woman, a woman who was asking for help although she seemed terrified, her voice sounded shaken and it was an obvious hint that something horrible had happened. Most of us have already decided on going but not Connor, he was against the idea and I as well as Ashley agreed with him but curiosity took over us. “If you really don’t want to go then you can just stay here and wait for us, coward!” exclaimed Sam, Laura was the nice girl no wonder she stood up for us saying “It’s only natural that some people wouldn’t want to go and that shouldn’t be any of your business Sam!”, Sam seemed more annoyed that ever. However we collected things we thought we would need such as flashlight and food as well as drinks, sleeping bags and some change of clothes if needed. Connor decided to come with us after all which was a big relief since he was good with locations, later evening we decided that next morning at about 5:30 we’re getting ready to find out where the signal was coming from. It was the next day, we got ready and took everything we collected the day before. Ben took the radio with him to find out the location of the signal, it seemed to lead into a huge forest I have never heard of, we walked, walked and walked it felt like it an eternity, eventually we could see something that looked like a roof of a mansion peeking from the top of the trees and signal seemed to led there, some of us started to get freaked out but there was no way we could go back after all that effort. The moment we could see the mansion clearly we could it was abandoned, it had two huge door in the front and supposedly 3 floors as well as a small shack by it we couldn’t quite tell the structure yet as the trees covered it some way or another. Walking to the shack the signal got stronger and stronger, as we entered it we noticed loads of pictures of people we didn’t know. Unexpectedly Ashley shouted “Oh my god, it can’t be,” she was intercepted by Ben “what is it? It seems like a bad idea I think we should go back.” “It’s the missing people that police couldn’t find after years of searching!” Ashley shouted, her voice was shaken in fear. “Wait, there is recording on the table, we could use the laptop I’ve got with me to play it”. In the recordings there was a woman, she told us not to go inside the mansion no matter what, she told us not to try and find or rescue her. It made us want to do the exact opposite, it was stupid, for sure it was but we’ve come a long way so we are going to continue it. Approaching the door we realised it was tightly locked with chains. Sam tried to look for another way, we decided to go through the bushes and it seems we have found a way, but it was gross and disgusting, there were horse legs covering so we were forced to crawl underneath it, Ashley was so sick she threw up. None of us knew what to do. My stomach turned. Disturbing. That’s what it was and I’m sure all of us have felt the same way, but we continued. We slowly climbed the ladder down, it seemed to be the basement. Half way flooded and cold. A strangle feeling made us shiver to our spines. We slowly moved through all the water. Everything seemed so...”old” said Ashley. Sam was in front of us, strangely he hasn’t said a thing recently, he was probably stuck in his own thoughts, like all of us were. A corpse from up to the head down to the torso suddenly emerged from the waters all of us screamed. Terrified we had to continue, but I couldn’t forget it, it was bloodied yet seemed old, we didn’t know what to think or do. The waters seemed to get deeper up to about our necks and the ceiling was low down. Claustrophobic. Emotionally drained we continued until we found an exit. Climbing up the ladder we noticed the woman from the recording. The woman was was locked behind bars, she was bloodied and her clothes were ragged. We approached quietly. “Hey!,” exclaimed Sam “it’s you isn’t it, the woman from the recording!”. The woman seemed incredibly confused “recording?,” she said “oh no, no, no”, “what?” all of us synced. “You cannot be here!” She exclaimed “it wasn’t me it was the man, no a monster, he lured you here!”. The silhouette that somewhat had resembled a man emerged from the shadow of the dark. Looking at him in dim light, however, you could see he was not a man. If you squinted, you could see it, but looking at him now you could see he was not. Far, far from it. He grabbed Sam and slashed his head off with an he and he dropped breathless, blood gushing from his neck. I wanted to cry. The monster looked us opened the bars grabbed the woman and with a rough voice, told us “follow me.” he grinned like a psycho “you should meet the others, we could be a family” we wanted to run away, we regretted it, regretted everything. Eventually we reached the room that somewhat appeared to be a dinner room, there were other human like creatures, they made us sit around the table. The old woman, no the monster slowly stumbled to the dinner table with something she called “soup”, there was no way it was that, as it was filled with cockroaches and it was a gross, dirty colour. “eat, eat it, EAT IT” the monster shouted. We knew we had to, we didn’t know what they would do if we didn’t, after one spoon of it we drop to the floor, I see Ben gurgle, his eyes went back. My eyes open slowly, I see the man dragging me, they close again. I wake up chained to a bed. The old woman next to me, “you finally woke up, the girl wants to talk to you” as the old woman leaves I see the other woman that was locked up approach me.” They weren’t like this,” she whispered “they used to be a normal family until they were infected, a small girl, she infected them” “what happened to others?” I said. She takes out a key out of her pocket and says “I don’t know, but we can’t save them we have to get out.” My heart drops and I feel emotionally destroyed. She moves a wardrobe out of the way and there seem to be a small way, we squeeze trough it, can cockroaches crawling around us. We walk through a corridor “close” she whispers. Suddenly she screams and shouts in agony, she stops and stands emotionless, grabs the closest knife to her and starts attaching me, I try to protect myself using my hands I grab the knife and my hands bleed. She stabs me once. Stops again and screams as she smashes her head against the wall “get out, get out of my head!”. I faint. I wake up already outside the mansion. Barely understanding anything I ran and ran and ran until I reach the city I reach the police and try to contact the hospital on everything I’ve known that happened, they take for one off those psychos, but still decide to investigate. 5 years later I haven’t heard anything about it. It’s surprising how I survived. I live peacefully in my apartment, someone knocks on my door, I open it and realise “the woman” I say shaken , it’s woman that stabbed me and the crazy man I faint again and can’t remember anything. I wake up in the abandoned mansion , next to me lies the corpse of Ashley and say to myself crying “what do I do now...


I jolt awake. Something feels wrong. I open my eyes but there is just darkness. I can hear voices, muffled, but I can hear the gentle murmur of one sound after another. I start to become aware of myself. I can feel there is something over my head and my hands are tied together. I try to tune in to any surrounding sounds that may indicate where I am. I can hear an engine, feel it vibrating underneath the soles of my shoes. I strain to see something, anything, but there is nothing but darkness surrounding me. There is a sudden stop and I am lunged forward. I smack my head off something and I feel myself being pulled off somewhere. I am hit with a breeze so cold I could freeze before being pushed down onto what I can only presume is a chair. I feel a tug on my head, my hair being pulled in the process and suddenly I can see again. My eyes adjust to the light. All around me are black figures, gathered in front of a fire. I focus on them and that’s when I see it. They’re all wearing masks. The majority of them are wearing what looks like the head of a goat. What have I gotten myself into? I try to get up to move but it appears that I am tied to a chair in front of this large gathering of people. “Excuse me…” I begin. “Would someone care to tell me what the hell is going on here?!” Nobody seems to acknowledge me. Everyone seems to be muttering the same line under their breaths. “She will be reclaimed in the cleansing of the soul.” This feels surreal. I must still be dreaming. “Hello?!” I scream, once more trying to grab somebody’s attention. Everyone stops at once and turns. One of the people wearing the masks comes closer to me and booms “Somebody tape this things mouth shut” I feel two people run up behind me and I scream. My screams are soon muffled by a large amount of duct tape protruding across the surface of my mouth. The same person who issued the command before dismisses everyone but four of the goat headed followers. As they start towards me, each one of them brandishes a weapon of their choice. One wearing an excessive amount of pink lipstick withdraws a dagger from her boot. Another with the eyes of their mask cut out takes two swords from behind their back. The third goat headed member takes a pistol from his back pocket and hands it to the leader. “You’re signature weapon, my Lord” he bows before whipping out a pair of nunchucks for himself. “So..” the leader of the group begins. “How are we going to murder this one then?” There is a creepy grin to be seen stretching out from underneath his mask. “This is my favourite part” smiles the third member. “The planning” The leader shoots him a look. “Shut up Pygmy, nobody asked you '' he spat before smacking the third member over the head with the pistol. “Idiot” The girl with the pink lipstick starts towards me with her dagger pointing straight ahead and I feel my whole body begin to tense. “So what’s your name, pretty lady?” Her voice is a sickly sweet. Every word she says sounds like honey oozing out of her throat. I do not reply. She jams the dagger against my throat. I wince. “I said, what’s your name?” Her tone is more aggressive this time and I’m too afraid of what she might do if I don’t reply. “Mac” She whips her head to the side. “How sweet, little baby Mac” I force a smile as the others circle me, making me their prey. I struggle to find words in fear of death. The leader walks over to me and cuts one of the ropes free. I feel my right hand go limp beside me. He picks it up gently in his hand and plants a kiss on the top of my hand. I try to disguise the disgust that is so clearly on my face but fail. He turns my wrist over in his hand and freezes. “Oh no” he starts to shake his head and throws his pistol to the ground. “No, no, no, no” he starts to get louder and the other members of the group glance at each other and begin to back away from me. “What is wrong, my Lord '' the pink lipstick girl, whose name I have now learned is Daisy, asks, “We have majorly messed up” screams the leader. “Why?!” Pygmy asks, clearly in distress. The leader turns to them and points his index finger at me. “Look at her wrist and see for yourself.” One by one they each walk over to me cautiously and pick up my wrist, all of them freezing and joining their leader in a frenzy of panic. After a few moments the leader comes over to me and rips the duct tape from my lips. It feels like he’s taking a layer of my skin with it. He grabs my wrist and thrusts it in my face. “What is the meaning of this?!” Just a few inches from my face is my tattoo. I’ve had it ever since I was born. An upside down cross, completely black. No colour. “My tattoo…?” I begin, completely unaware of what is currently happening. “That ain’t no tattoo…” says Daisy. “That there, is the mark of the devil himself” I freeze. None of this can be true. Obviously these guys are messing with me and this is their cruel plan to kill me. The leader begins to freak out again. “She’s one of Satan’s own, anyone that touched her will now suffer in the most painful way imaginable. Sure enough, Daisy drops to the ground and starts screaming in agony, her dagger coming to life and stabbing her in multiple places over and over. Blood begins to seep into the ground below her and soon enough she is nothing but a motionless corpse. Next, the leader grabs the pistol from the ground. He attempts to make his death quick and painless and raises the gun to his head. His arm cracks and every bone in his body begins to splinter. He drops as the final crack sends him into eternal slumber. I feel the restraints loosen behind me and get up to run. The two men left from the group start running towards me in an attempt to fight for their lives. One swings their fist but misses and I swing back with my leg, knocking him out flat on the ground. The other picks up the chair and attempts to throw it at me, I grab it in my hands and knee them in the chest. They fall to the ground, gasping for air as I issue one last final blow to the head and he collapses, paralysed. I drop the chair and my whole body shakes. There is a distant glow of what looks to be more of their followers. Without a second thought, I turn around and sprint. Sprint and sprint, deep into the woods, I have absolutely no idea where I’m going but at least I’m getting further from them, whoever they are. My lungs begin to burn, I collapse against a tree and try to steady my breath. I sit forward on my knees and feel my wrist burning. I turn it over and sure enough, what was once a solid black cross is now a bright crimson. Something drips onto my wrist. One drop after another, rain pummels down onto me. Except it’s not normal and clear. It is dark and red, with a metallic tinge off of it. I sit, waiting for this dreaded rain to end when suddenly I hear someone exhale above me. I look up, shaking from head to toe, and standing there is none other than the Dark Lord himself. I push myself back up against the tree. “What is going on?!” I scream. A big, toothy grin emerges from the figures face. “Welcome home my little Machiavellian, I’ve been waiting for you.” I try to steady my breath but fail and feel my entire body go limp. I let myself go as I hit the ground. Cursed forever by the ink that holds me to this hell.


"Are you sure?", Ahia said, her lips trembling as she was about to cry. "Are you even aware of what you're putting on the line?" "I wish I was." Kagros put down the binocular. His leather boots unbearably squeezed his feet, but whenever he even wasted a thought on loosening them, Bluni's voice echoed in his head. "If you ever lose your boots, they will disappear. Bring them to Meriman, she knows what to do with them. Do not *ever* loosen them." These were the last words that had left Bluni's mouth before her eyes had fallen to emptiness. Bluni. She had only been twenty-one years old, and out of all the people who could have possibly fallen victim to the attack on Bomitut, it had to be her. *I love you, Kagros, I love you forever.* Kagros's heart began beating faster and more loudly. Bluni was dead. Nubron was dead. With him and Ahia, the Bomit tribe had picked just the worst two persons to track down Aluttar, and even so, they couldn't be one hundred per cent sure that Aluttar was really the one who had destroyed the village. "I'm starting to doubt reality", Kagros broke the minute-long silence. Ahia's eyes were already turning red. "This can't be real, you know?" "I don't wish this to be real either", Ahia squeezed out with a pain-tainted voice. "No, it's not what you think I mean. I mean, of course we are in the real world. This isn't a nightmare we can wake up from. But someone is playing a game with us." "What game?" "Don't you see? We're forced to infiltrate the town the woman I loved the most came from. The woman I wanted to marry, have children and grow old with. And all of this because they want us to dig around in the old secrets of the single richest family in Saborian history, the family your brother married a daughter of." Understanding covered Ahia's face. "Now that both my girlfriend and your brother are dead", Kagros continued, "they think our rage will thrill us to annihilate whoever they want us to think is the culprit." "And they'll kill us if we don't", Ahia concluded. "But I still don't want to walk into this town and put my nose into something I have to right to see", Kagros tried to justify his doubts. "As I said, they'll kill us if we don't do this." "But what if Aluttar is innocent? What if they've just sent us here to find out about terrible secrets that have been kept hidden for a reason?" "I won't get back to the village empty-handed!", Ahia shouted, now furious. "I will find and kill whoever is responsible for Nubron's death!" Kagros didn't let her annoy him. "Would Nubron want that? Would he want you to kill a person just because you've been made think they are the culprit?" "Wouldn't your precious Bluni?", she countered. Ahia was sure that Bluni would have wanted Kagros to do exactly what they were planning on doing in this very moment. "No!", Kagros shouted, clenching his fist. "You have no idea about what she was like!" "Do you?" Slowly, her voice turned back to calm. Kagros kept breathing heavily instead of answering. He worked as hard as he could to keep the tears from wettening his face, but miserably failed at it. Ahia realized what she had done to him, walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. "Look, Kagros, I don't want to do this either. But my fear for my life is greater than the fear of what might happen if we do what we've been told to. Yours should too." The sunrise covered the hills and forests around the town with a spooky veil of mist.


What happens the moment before Creation?  The Book of Genesis begins with the following: B'reshit bara Elohim et Hashamayim v'et ha'aretz: In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. But the Greeks envisioned a moment before Creation which was a backdrop, a reason for Creation. It was called CHAOS. Chaos Beyond the deep, lost, spinning, mad-- the children of Atom in infinite clad Colliding, gliding, by splendor surrounded-- black masses gather, form darkness unbounded. No fingers to grasp, No true hands to hold, Still quick spirits grasp, The substance to mold. Somewhere there lives a hope unfulfilled In the core of its being, not muted, not stilled. A song with no sound, a dream with no form, a memory of future, by Chaos foresworn. With an aching unspoken, the Universe bends-- a shudder, a sighing ... the moment begins ... from Creation: A Tale of Our Birth © March 2003 Dimentica I am called Dimentica. My home is a still place; at night, you can only hear crickets, and they start and stop suddenly as if something startled them. What could it be? I did not go to school and no one tried to hurt me or make me feel stupid, but I know I am stupid. It is a little cold tonight, so I go to the willow tree and take my cloak to wrap around me. It has burrs and little globs of sap and white bird droppings; but they have dried, and I don’t mind. The burrs scratch a little, but it is good to feel something, even something scratchy. What happened to all the squirrels that used to play here? They were thin, but there were still acorns and only three wolves. Where did they go? No one shot the wolves, but they howled day and night, and I could not talk to them and find out what was wrong. I think maybe the moon looks different. Did it used to have more silver ribbons hanging from it? Now clouds stream over its face. And is the moon an it ? How can the lonely moon be it ? We are the same, I think. We are both alone, but the moon is not stupid. She is able to reflect light, and then she shines. So this is to be a god or goddess, to shine. If you shine, you are brilliant. This is the same. People will look up and see you are really something. They will want you. They may bow to you, and bring you little presents—insides of nuts, fruit, maybe a knife to cut with. Where are the people now? Whenever I sleep, I travel to places where there are people, but I cannot touch them. Something is wrong with my hands. They are too thin, or my body doesn’t have the normal ways to feel. And I am ashamed to not feel beautiful and I think of myself as dirty, because it is only possible to wash off the grains of dirt and gravel when the light rain comes, and this is only once every five days, or even less now in …. Summer? Spring? Again, I lose the right word. I wonder if there is another language to use to understand, to make me able to take things in my hand, hold them, and know their essence, then find what names are right to call things, ideas, animals and birds and … the tree I really like best. It is a very old, tall tree with heavy branches and crumbling bark. The roots must go very very deep so it still can have water and tiny buds when the season is warmer. The buds are babies, I think. Babies. Where are the babies? Did the wolves lose their babies? I remember a sound of booming and think there was a large bird that took animals away, but not to eat. But if not to eat, why?  My most important word is “why.” Now I think that if I am able to ask, to know how to ask why, to wonder about something, then I am not stupid. Because it is possible to believe an answer may be somewhere. I want to sleep, to go back to the city where words and images, and energy, and life, and … babies … are alive. A new thought. Start with the babies. Maybe they will see me, because they have not yet been taught to be afraid of the unseen. It is worth a try. A thought begins in me. The moon is my mother…she has the book. When I touch the book, I think it belongs to a witch, the book is pulsing, shivering. But then I hear music. It is a song, a new one. The song is: In the city the traffic flows like the rivers once flowed, but they are no more. Once they wove throughout a land where barefoot people sat, sang and fished near them. Their king scattered oats, and their queen offered spider webs, strong as silk, for capes and slippers. In the corners of their caves were beehives with swarms of black bees whooshing in and out when the sun opened and closed, as is doing now. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary, but she is enough. The spindly spiders are making strong and dew-light webs. Tomorrow there will be food for all living in this realm. And extra for the babies. After Dimentica, there was a poem from a lover. She was more powerful than she ever believed. He hoped, prayed, and then knew. She was the beginning, and the Moon was truly her mother. Creation Moon When I lay near the ceiling, looking down at her her center was the beginning of moon ... her breasts were satellites, I would circle them with my fingers, hardly breathing ... everything round about her was the beginning of my universe, of the whole universe.. her eyes were burning stars, soon their fire would sear me to the point where I would burn, then burst into eternal flame She started it all, and I was inspired now, I would finish it. We would call the constellations, Salt, water, ice, glaciers couldn’t stop it. The spinning, the explosions of future, it all started with her, and I just followed, crawling, begging, a supplicant to her power. Katherine Lansing Davis © April 6, 2024


Trigger Warning: Contemplation of Suicide. (And also swearing) The night air chilled my skin. The downpour forced the trench coat to wrap around me like the cold hands of death grasping at my soul. Gusts of wind spat rain at my face in periodic breaths. The wind’s exhales dared to snatch my fedora off my head. I checked my holster one more time and twisted relief washed over me as I found the pistol safe next to my chest. A single bullet was loaded. “They may have my badge, but not my gun.” The words sounded weak coming from my old lungs. Either the callous hands of time were clasped on my neck or my smoking habit finally caught up to me. I let my arm rest on the bridge’s railing and stole a glance at the winding river below me. The falling rain sent ripples through the flowing water mirroring distorted reflections of the city lights. Buildings flickered with light like man made stars amidst the darkness that is humanity. “This city in the rain is full of promise now.” The voice couldn’t be anything other than Johnson. I’d recognize that police lackey’s pubescent voice anywhere. “Case closed, Detective. All thanks to you.” My gaze stayed on the evening’s weather. A grunt of agreement left my chest. “They said you retired, sir.” A moment of silence passed as if by waiting he wanted me to deny it. Of course he’d want me to continue, he admired me too much. “What now?” I turned towards him. The poor fellow was soaked to his skin even through an extra large coat. Cars sped down the road behind him growling like beasts.

“What’s left for an old man?” I said throwing my weight on the cane for emphasis. Johnson pushed back his dark wet hair, resting his hand on his head as he kept his sight on me. Those young eyes of his watched me with concern and childlike awe. He didn’t drop his gaze causing a smirk to appear from my lips. No verbal response from him, I thought. He took my lesson to heart then.

“There isn’t much left for me.” Was that a softness to my voice? “Not a lot of time, not a lot left to do.” Johnson watched me with hawk-like vision. Subtle movement of his eyes searched my posture and poker face. An expression of shock and horror crossed his face. “You aren’t planning to... jump. Are you?” A stab of guilt pierced my heart. Damn the boy, and damn me for caring. One simple action, and I could make amends. My hand grasped his shoulder. “No, I was planning on using a pistol.” I looked back at the river with my hand gripping my cane until my knuckles turned white. I’d done my duty cleaning up the streets of this city. 40 long years to lock away 70 of the worst scum this metropolis could produce. Make that 71 as of tonight, though I could hardly take credit for it; not after the life it cost. Any detective could have solved the murder in two months and it took me three. The decay from time had finally muddled my mind enough for me to sink back down to the common fools of society. Ever since my first case, I was told I had a gift from God. I must have drained all of the divine ability he gave me like a fine wine. Can’t angels enjoy a cigar every now and then? Can’t the devil take a day off? If God can hear me, at least give me this wish. Can I fade from memory without anyone batting an eye? Johnson laughed. “Didn’t expect to be dried off by your sense of humor.” I didn’t laugh.

“You mean it; don’t you?” he said. I shook my head.

“Don’t get emotional on me now, Johnson. I lived my life the way I wanted to. Left this city better than I found it. At least let me die in peace.” My hand twitched in an involuntary reach towards my holster. Johnson glanced at the movement a without hesitation extended his hand. “Hand it over, Detective.”

“Didn’t know you got promoted enough to give me orders.” “You retired, hand over the gun.” “Not on your life. The bloody thing is mine” “Not anymore, sir. Let it go.” “Why?” “Because you wouldn't send yourself to wait for judgement day when you have one friend left on this side of heaven. Now hand it over, Rick.” Damn the boy, he said my name. I remained stunned by his words for a second too long. Johnson dashed towards me reaching for my gun. My old muscles couldn’t keep up. He had the gun out of my holster before I could grab his arm. He pointed the weapon at me in the same movement.

“Impressive” I muttered. Johnson finally turned his skills into instinct. He smiled with a mix of joy and mischief. For the first time since I could remember, I was perplexed. I even raised an eyebrow, which caused him to grin more in a giddy sort of way. “What’s this now?” I said. “I managed to impress and surprise the city’s best detective. Didn’t know a couple hours of retirement is all it takes for you to lose your touch.” His words pierced my heart quicker than any bullet ever could. He was right. I lost my touch. I let my shoulders slump. My knees felt weaker than before. I slid to the ground and rested my head against the railing. The rain like forgotten tears flowed down my face. Johnson sat next to me still holding my gun in one hand.

“This city is in the rain,” Johnson said. “Like you always said, sir. Not a comfortable place and not bright, sunny or happy. Partway in the dark, but with a little bit of goodness washing away the filth.”

Johnson looked me in the eyes. “The clouds are parting, Rick. I think I can see a star shining through.” The poetic words of a starry eyed fool forced tears to add to the watery river falling from my face. I felt an arm rest behind my neck and around my shoulder. Johnson embraced me.

“Careful now,” I said. "I'll suffocate.” Johnson laughed and let go of me. The rain filled in the lapse in conversation. The traffic ceased as the night stretched into an unholy hour that had the scent of eternity. That smell pulled the trigger to my memory sending a spray of hurt back into my mind. Regret redrew her face on my closed eyelids. Those freckles stained crimson. That dark hair matted with blood. Those blue eyes that once shimmered with life stared into forsaken nothingness. A pull of the trigger and my sin would have been paid for. One simple action, and I could have made amends. “One mistake Johnson. If I was quicker…” My voice fell silent against my wishes. “If I was sooner-” Johnson cut me off. “Don’t do that to yourself, Rick. Not once in three years have you ever wondered what if out loud, and don’t you dare start now. You can’t save her life by wondering what you could have done better. Damn it I didn't know her well, but she sure as hell wouldn’t want to see you on the other side tonight. Further more she wouldn’t want you wasting the rest of your life wallowing in pity.” He stood up and held out his hand. “You are sad, detective, as you should be. Even through that stone face and sadistic humor, you have a heart that chooses to love people sir. If anything is for certain it's that the only place you'll be free from the dangers of love is hell and an angel like you can't get there even if you tried. I know you try to hide it and you toss aside your emotions to make decisions no one else would. But damn it detective, you love people and you love them fiercely! So be sad, Rick. For her sake let your sorry ass be sad.” Johnson's words struck cords in my soul as if conducting a whisper of a song of hope in the shards and shadows that resided there. The empty abyss of longing remained tearing me from the inside out, but a peace wrapped itself around the sorrow soaking in the sadness just enough for me to find it bearable. I looked up at his outstretched hand and despite the arguments my pride stated, I reached out and let him help me to my feet. He held out my gun to me. “Careful now,” He said. I glared at him with a smirk on my wrinkled face. Since when did this city have such heavenly fools like Johnson? I took a final look at my trusted old pistol as it rested in my hand for one last time. Then I looked at the river below me and it beckoned me again. No regrets, I thought. Whispering a final goodbye, I sent the gun spiraling over the rail.

“Take me home Johnson,” I said. “You know the way.”