Theon stared into the eyes of the Night King whose blue orbs laughed silently at him. His fist gripped the spear in his hands even more tightly. The White Walkers around the Night King glanced at each other, amused and twirling their icicle fringed weapons through their fingers. The Night King took a few steps forward, the snow beneath his feet solidifying into dread ice. The ground whispered with the legion of the Night Kings hordes as Theon charged forward. With a deft flick the Night King tossed aside the Greyjoy into the awaiting arms of his Generals. Theon closed his eyes as the shadows of the White Walkers closed in on him from above. The silhouette of a kraken shimmered into the air above them in the dark of the night sky. The White Walkers raised their spears into the air above him and divine tentacles of the Drowned God floated towards Theon. The young Greyjoy gave a crooked smile and laughed as he felt his father grace him. Brandon Stark sat transfixed, the whites of his eyes clear and strong as he lay immersed in the power of being a Greenseer. The Night King inclined his head towards the left gazing at the young Stark before him, narrowing his eyes curiously at the youngest Greenseer to ever live. “Why do you not fight me boy?” The Night King asked. In his state of being immersed within the beasts raging in the battlefield afar, Brandon smiled, “I already am. Its my sister you need to worry about.” A snarl whipped from behind the Night King and Arya Stark descended through the air. Grabbing her by the neck and the hand wielding the Valyrian dagger the Night King smiled, “Ah, the foretold Bride to be. I saw you when I was first born Arya Stark and I saw you on the Iron Throne.” The feral Stark girl growled and as the dagger dropped from her left arm the Night King dragged her down into the snow. His fingers curled around her wrists, hemming her in and he placed a fingernail on her cheek. Arya screamed as the dread blue entered her eyes. “Welcome my Queen,” the Night King whispered, his voice a low husk, filled with adulation. The ground beneath them shook with thunderous roars as Daenerys landed atop the fury of Drogon. A blast of fire roared through the Night King and the Night Queen. Brandon Stark left the bodies of the beasts on the battlefield and stared into the furnace that Drogon had created. The Valyrian Dagger shot out of the fire towards the youngest Stark. Dany screamed into the heated air of the night. The tail of Drogon slumped against the weirwood tree. The face on the weirwood tree began to cry blood. *** The throne room of Kings Landing shivered as Daenerys Stormborn sat on the Iron Throne. An icy shadow stretched behind her, twirling onto the wall behind the Throne. Dany dragged her fingers down her face. Arya Stark smiled, her blue eyes wet with love as she looked at the slew of Faceless Men before her. She tapped her fingers on the thorns of the throne. “We are legion.


It started when I was watching TV with my boyfriend and his sister. It was past midnight and we were all stuffed with the food we bought earlier that day. Ever since they subscribed to Netflix, it became a routine of ours to binge-watch movies, usually until four in the morning. They had a family area on the second floor of their house, just outside each of their bedrooms. They had a huge terrace outside and the sliding screen doors were closed most of the time. That night, it was so humid that we decided to open them. Halfway through The Pianist, my boyfriend’s sister says, “What’s that smell?” I didn’t know what she meant until after a few seconds when I smelled it too. “Yeah, where could that be coming from?” I asked. She shrugged and then I jokingly added, “Weird time to be doing the laundry.” She just gave me a weird look and replied, “I’m pretty sure we might not be smelling the same thing.” My boyfriend didn’t seem to care and pretended he didn’t hear anything. It was this sweet smell of flowers, the kind you’d usually smell from scented fabric conditioners. But for some reason, I knew it wasn’t from a fabric conditioner. It had a more natural aroma to it. And after several seconds, it was gone. I figured it must have come from a neighbor’s and the wind just happened to get it mixed up with the late night breeze and made its way to the second floor of my boyfriend’s house. The second time I smelled it was in a mall. I was alone at the time, doing some late Christmas shopping. I remember it was afternoon. I was walking past a drug store when the smell came to me out of nowhere. I stopped and stood where I was for a good five to ten seconds just trying to figure out where the smell was coming from. I didn’t realize it right away that it was the exact same smell from two days ago at my boyfriend’s house. I know it didn’t come from my clothes because I do my own laundry and I don’t use any type of fabric conditioner, particularly with the kind of scent that I was smelling at that moment. I didn’t let it bother me that much, maybe it was just some sort of perfume that people were into these days and I just happen to catch a whiff off it every now and then. I went on with my errands that day and forgot about the smell as I did the first time. The third time was at a bar. I was with my boyfriend and his cousin that night. It had been five or six days since I last encountered that smell. Just a little past midnight, we were drinking beer and laughing at a ton of jokes my boyfriend made up. We were just having fun. When I smelled it, I just started glancing around, left and right. I simply told myself that there had to be someone in the bar carrying that scent. And just like always, after a few seconds, it was gone. Of course I couldn’t just go sniffing around one random person after another so I could satisfy myself into finding the culprit behind this recurring smell. And since we were drinking, I immediately forgot about it and went on with my night. Now the fourth time I smelled it was at my house. I was in the dining room having breakfast. My mom was outside doing her laundry and my two brothers were at work. I was unemployed at the time. I realized that finding a job during the holidays was the worst time to do such a thing. So there I was, waking up late every morning, doing whatever routine I had in mind for whatever time I had left before I had to go job hunting again. I stopped eating and just sat there, contemplating. I wanted to go ask my mom if she was currently using a certain type of scented fabric conditioner. But I didn’t. Because even if she was, I knew it wasn’t that. The smell was too fresh, too close. I most certainly knew it was something else. But what? I then tried to tell myself I shouldn’t be scared because for a fact, my boyfriend’s sister sort of smelled it too? I don’t know why I didn’t ask my boyfriend or his cousin if they smelled it the time we were drinking. Somehow, I also knew they didn’t smell it then. It was just me. After having these thoughts, the smell was gone again. And I went on with my day. This went on for almost three months. I would keep smelling it at random times and at random places. During all those times, I never spoke about it, and I never asked. I just let it be. I’d smell it when I was in the car while my boyfriend drove me home. I’d smell it in my room when I was about to go to sleep. I’d smell it when I was outside feeding our dogs. I’d smell it when I was reading a book. I’d smell it on the bus, I’d smell it in a restaurant, I’d smell it anywhere I go. I learned to disregard it, as if it was just a part of life, as if it was some normal thing. It didn’t bother me and it never did. And that was that. The last time I smelled it was when I finally knew what it was and where it came from. I was waiting for a cab on the highway. There wasn’t much traffic but the streets were busy. Of course I was facing the direction from where I could see a cab that would drive by so I could flag it down. Just a few meters ahead I saw one with the vacant sign lit. I raised my hand trying to signal to the driver that I needed a ride. At that same moment, I heard someone yell from across the street. “Watch out!” An SUV lost control of its brakes and the driver panicked and was just swerving the vehicle while it was running at a very high speed. It found its way down the opposite lane and I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn’t able to brace myself at all. I never even got to see the car that hit me. The next thing I knew was I was lying there on the pavement, facing the sky. People were yelling to call an ambulance. I didn’t bother to move. I didn’t even feel anything. I knew I was still breathing. Although the voices and sounds I heard were all muffled. It was like they were slowly fading away. I was just there, looking up. And then the smell came. I think I was trying to smile. Then it sounded like someone was running to approach me and said something about making sure I was conscious. So when I expected to see that person as his or her footsteps drew nearer, I was in total shock - a good kind of shock that also somehow feels like relief? Or maybe it was shock and relief. The person I saw kneeling beside me, looking at me, was my dad. He was smiling. It was so soft and friendly. And welcoming. That’s when I knew I was definitely smiling back. He was holding some flowers. It wasn’t a bouquet. Just a bunch of flowers that looked like they were hand-picked from some exquisite garden which he held with one hand. They looked so beautiful and smelled so nice. I think the relief I felt was because now, I could fully smell it. That glorious, wondrous smell. It was uplifting. I didn’t want it to go away. As my dad was smiling at me, and I at him, I slowly closed my eyes and just continued smelling the sweet smell of those flowers. I’ll remember to ask my dad what kind of flowers they were. And when I find out, I can’t wait to start sharing that exact same smell with my mom. And with my brothers, my boyfriend, my friends. I’ll share it with them one by one. And when the time comes, they’ll know about the flowers, and soon everyone will know. They’ll all know about the smell of flowers.


Part 1: I could fill a book with the wonders I have seen. Far off galaxies, the near and distant past; worlds of fantasy that are beyond imagination. The beauty of this is that all these places are real. Imagine a world where World War II never ended. The atom bomb was never used and countless more lives are lost. That world is in disarray, on the brink of utter apocalypse, but it is a sight to behold. The dystopian scenery and utter despair are truly a writer’s dream, for the best stories are the ones that have been experienced. While it is true that said world is completely doomed, take confidence in knowing that it is not our world. Or your world. Or whichever world you are reading this in. I suppose this is all quite confusing to hear. Sure, you may think my claims bold and unfounded, but I assure you, everything I am saying – and everything I am about to say – is true. You see, in a Sir Isaac Newton’s book \*Opticks\*, which was published quite a few centuries ago, he first posited the concept of a multiverse. I am no physicist, so let me allow his words to speak for him: >And since Space is divisible in infinitum, and Matter is not necessarily in all places, it may be also allow'd \[sic\] that God is able to create Particles of Matter of several Sizes and Figures, and in several Proportions to Space, and perhaps of different Densities and Forces, and thereby to vary the Laws of Nature, and make Worlds of several sorts in several Parts of the Universe. At least, I see nothing of Contradiction in all this. Confusing, sure, but ever since then, many have expanded upon this theory. For example, Schrödinger, whether joking or not, purported that while some of his equations seemed to describe multiple histories, these histories were occurring simultaneously and not alternatively. This fits in well with the parallel universe framework. But like I said, I am no physicist. All of this merely interests me and has become a bit of an obsession for me since I started \*that which began this entire ordeal.\* Lucid dreaming is what happens when the person is aware that they are dreaming. I have read some stories of people lucid dreaming, or even using lucid dreaming to remind themselves during sleep paralysis that they were indeed dreaming. Usually, there are certain steps you can follow in order to lucid dream. However, since I was born, I have been able to do it and I remember every single dream. Of course, I was no cognitively aware of this as a baby. Furthermore, there was not much to do in those dreams because I merely dreamt of being a baby. Of course, there were notable differences in these dreams, such as my parents being different, the environment being alien (even to a mere infant), or even different languages. But the constant that always persisted throughout these dreams was me: I always looked the same and was the same age. As I grew older when I was “awake,” so too did I in these dreams. These dreams afforded me a tapestry of stories to weave. As I grew older, I also began to discover my love and style of writing. Perhaps it was because of these dreams; perhaps I needed an outlet to express what was in my mind each night. I kept a journal as well, describing the world I saw in the dream from the night before and naming it. At first, I decided to be creative and name each Earth something that fit its scenery. But as time wore on, I could tell that my mind was creating a lot more of these fantastical worlds than I could have consciously imagined. I could revisit these dreams at will, even switching between a few of them in a night. So far, I have tallied and explored around 8760 different worlds. As fantastic as that seems, I should have known that something was off about a long time ago. Like I said, I can remember every dream in perfect detail. It’s almost as if my mind can create a complete 3D reconstruction of the dreams that I can mentally view, almost as if it were a diorama. It’s quite handy and I did experiment with this as well. Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. My apologies, there is just quite a bit to say and I do not know how much longer I have. In these lucid dreams, I would often act out whatever part was given to me: soldier, detective, Kate Upton’s husband (that one is one that I do tend to visit quite often). I play them out as if it were a real situation that I had to respond to. For the most part, I seemed to play the role quite well. Every now and then, though, something odd would happen. I would do something that appeared, well… out of character to the denizens of these dreams. My replies would elicit confused looks or disgusted stares, as if I had done something gravely offensive. I suppose the best example of this is in World 978 where everything is mostly the same as our Earth (as far as my limited scope can tell) except for two things: 1. I am a farmer and 2. I am not allowed to eat any of my own crops and butchered livestock. It is that simple second fact that got me in quite a bit of trouble. I will spare you the politics of this world and what led to such a rule existing, but in short, I disobeyed the rule. In fact, I had no idea that the rule even existed until I had been reported and imprisoned for it. Usually, when I revisit my dreams, I pick up in different places. In one dream for one world, I could have just won the Stanley Cup, and in another dream in that same world, I am relaxing at home with my wife – my trophy on the mantle. They seemed episodic and generally unconnected, as if I was watching a syndicated TV show. However, upon revisiting 978 the next night, I found that I was still in prison and the time between the prior night’s dream and that dream coincided with how long I had been locked up. It seemed that my dreams had a constant concept of time that persisted even when I was awake. But that didn’t quite make sense. There was no way my mind could keep up with 8760 different worlds, managing their rules, keeping track of them in real-time, and maintaining them while I was away from dreamland. Unless they weren’t dreams. It was after 978 where I started to grow suspicious. I started paying very close attention to the details, both minor and major, in my other dreams. I would write down consistencies in my journal and make sure I kept track of them, revisiting certain ones sometimes weeks in a row. Over time, I began to understand that I wasn’t the one that created these worlds. Perhaps there was more to this than I thought. Then, one night, I visited a world that I could only visit once. I did not try to go there; I was drawn there. I was seated in front of a table, tied down, with an open letter on the desk. >Dear Mind, > >Whether you have figured it out now or not is not of any importance. Your link to the other worlds is unnatural as is the Body’s and the Spirit’s. These are not dreams that you have been having; you have been INVADING other worlds and posing as their version of yourself. You and your ilk are a stain upon the natural order of the world and we are aware of your presence and power more now than ever. You three are difficult to reach, this is true. There appears to be something special about your worlds. Perhaps you three lie at the end of the vast multiverse. Yes, there is an end. And yes, you will have an end as well. We have taken up the mantle of your killer. Have you not noticed? Have you never seen us? Surely you must be aware that there are some dreams that you can never return to. Do you ever wonder why that is? It’s because \*you don’t exist there anymore.\* Soon, you won’t exist anywhere. I woke up in a sweat, gasping for breath as if I had been trapped underwater. I shakily reached my hand over to my lamp and turned the light on, carefully retrieving my journal from my nightstand. I took a moment to catch my breath before I began flipping through the pages. >August 24, 20XX – World 27: This dream was interesting, as this has never happened before. The job I had in this dream required me to cross about four lanes of traffic on a busy street. There was no stoplight or stop sign for the other drivers, so I was forced to cut across. As I did, I noticed this large semi-truck barreling down the road. I thought I saw something in the driver’s seat – almost like a shadow – but before I could register it, the truck hit me, and the dream ended. > >August 25, 20XX – World 27: After the accident, which apparently caused my death in the dream, I can’t visit world 27 anymore. It doesn’t seem to be an option. I began flipping through the pages, looking for other such incidents. “Shadow” “Death” “Accident” all appeared in worlds I could no longer access. This was all too much – I had to be going crazy. I was visiting other worlds? How did that even work? My mind worked and worked, but I just could not grasp the concept. It made no sense to me – parallel worlds were something reserved for entertainment like comics or books. They couldn’t possibly exist. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. As of now, I’m not so sure anymore, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I began to replay my earliest dream – the one I had the day of my birth. From the womb to my mother’s arms, there was a unique sense of unease that I could not have fathomed as a child. I had never had a reason to revisit this dream, but for some reason, I felt myself back in it. As my infantile eyes darted around the room, barely able to make sense of anything, I froze. The air around me went cold as I saw it: in the corner was an unholy beast, pitch black, but covered in scars that seemed to bleed endlessly into a dark green puddle at its feet which bore no reflection. It seemed hunched over, as if it was too tall for the room, its legs long and endless as they exited the floor into the puddle of blood beneath it. It had no arms, but I still felt like it could grasp me at any moment. Its face was the worst part: it wore a pearly white mask over its face with wide eye holes and a long, smiling mouth. Its eyes seemed to go deep into its head, almost too far back to may sense. They appeared as deep black holes behind the mask, seemed to give way to bloodshot pupils that darted around insanely, unable to rest. Its mouth was constantly smiling a wicked grin, its teeth splintered and uneven; jagged and covered at the tip by the same dark green blood that dripped from its unholy carcass of a body. No one in the room seemed to notice it, but as it came closer and closer, the infant in my mother’s arms began to scream and cry, startling the doctors quite a bit. Something was wrong and everyone in the room knew it. My mother – the very image of the one I have in my world turned towards the being, as if unafraid of its horrid appearance, locking its gaze to hers. She seemed to be the only one, aside from me, that could move: “Non toccare mio figlio. Non sei benvenuto qui.” I heard her words echo like thunder around the room causing the room to shake and the lights to flicker. The monstrosity stopped moving for a moment, its face unchanging, before it suddenly sank into the puddle, vanishing from sight. Then, as if nothing had happened, the room returned to normal. “Hai deciso un nome?” the doctor asked, a returning his face to a smile in spite of my sudden outburst. With a warm look of joy, she looked down at the baby – at me – and said “Spirito.” Snapping myself out of this trance, my mind was less at ease than before. There was no doubt that the creature I saw in my dream was the same one that wrote me that letter and forced me to read it. It was the same creature that was hellbent, for lack of a better term, on ending me not just in one universe, but in every universe. I was at a complete loss for both words and actions. Once again, the cogs in my mind began turning. This was an impossibly ridiculous scenario that went beyond any laws of nature in this world or in the others. Was I the only one that could cross worlds like this? Apparently so. But why were these beasts after me? As far as I’m aware, I didn’t do anything wrong. Was this ability so special as to cause these creatures discomfort? I looked at my clock; it was 3:21 a.m. I set my journal down, the words on the front a warning to anyone who would seek to read it. “Proprietà di Mente. Non aprire.


The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I'll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black.   \-- Chris Marker     70  The inky gloaming leeched into the edges of the evening as I walked up past vine covered fences and Spanish moss. Cracks in the sidewalk increased and decreased. Sewers jutted out in places. I drifted aimlessly past wrought iron fences.  Just as the darkness seemed to slowly soak the night, the twinges of aura nipped at the corners of my vision. I dreaded what would come next: lightning storms in my eyes and then in my brain.  The pale yellow pain of exhaustion crept in as well. I walked past a walled cemetery with its old cracked crypts thinking that it was well past the witching hour so I was probably safe of scavengers.  I had slept little since the headaches began. My medicines weren?t working.  For once I had dozed off early and felt optimistic about sleeping a full night. But instead I awoke to darkness and those first twinges of pain at the corners of my being. The clock said it was after three?that hour when everything seems like a fuzzy blur. Everyone is dreaming or should be.  Workers look sickly hiding out in all-night restaurants and cafes. Uptown bars have cleared out.  I couldn?t take the pain anymore so I decided to make a move. In my hand, I help a crumpled glossy card for an ivy-covered teahouse with a residential address in Uptown New Orleans.  I had thrown on some jeans and boots and headed out for what an acquaintance had insisted would be an alternate cure for my migraines.  As I drifted quickly past a dilapidated house I winced at the bright lights beaming from it through hanging shutters. The pains were coming soon. But only a few more blocks needed. I started wondering how long it would take to kick in.  As I stumbled around a corner, the block got darker. I could see the dark shadows of wisteria lit by the moon. The first of the flashes hit like a lightning bolt across my vision. But unlike a lightning bolt, the aura sat in my vision refusing to abate.  I sped up as the flash held itself in my eye changing colors and refusing to move.  Finally, two blocks away, I saw the place. On a dark residential block stood the vine and moss covered house. Out in the yard stood small tables with very dim blue-flamed lamps. Inside the slightly ajar door was a room bathed in a low red light.  The building was not the fairytale cabin covered in vines like on the calling card. But like so many buildings in this part of the city, it had its own charm. The house was certainly never meant to be a business. But in this city, things took on a life of their own?whatever life they wanted.  I swung a rusty iron gate out of my way as my right eye clouded and started to radiate pain. As I stumbled up a cracked walk surrounded by hastily planted daisies, I thought of the instructions that my friend had given: ?Ask for sylo tea. Look the lady in the eye, smile, and say nothing else.?  As I arrived at the door, a woman in a poufy dress like a frumpy burlesque dancer greeted me warmly. She smiled and said, ?Good evening. Welcome to the tea house.?  Distractedly, I asked, ?What is this place called again??  ?Not everything has to have a name,? she said seductively. ?Indulge in mystery.?  I was in no mood to argue with her.  ?One for tea,? I said.  ?Of course,? she said inviting me into the small entry hallway. ?Which room??  ?What are my choices?? I asked fighting off the growing pain.  ?The salon, the bedroom, the bazaar, or perhaps the dungeon?? she said.  I paused for a second. Then I said, ?Bazaar.?  ?Very good,? she said. ?Maybe next time, it will be the bedroom?or the dungeon.?  She winked and turned down a pitch-black hallway carrying one of the tiny dim blue lanterns that had been sitting out front.  I followed her through a series of twists and turns in utter darkness until we came to a door. She paused then swung it open. A low yellow light emitted from the room turning the black door green.  Inside, the room was abuzz with people quietly talking. Men and women sat on all manner of chairs, benches and stools. A small fire lighted the room from the middle. From the ceiling hung a wide variety of Moroccan lanterns. And at the edges, the room blended to darkness. No windows existed.  ?Welcome to the souk,? said my hostess. She led me carefully to a solitary low cushioned chair. Ropes held the cushions from the floor.  ?You will be serviced shortly,? said the hostess and walked away.  I seated myself and looked around. The room felt warm and inviting. Conversations hummed quietly with a reverence for the peace of the place. All of the seats were low and cushioned with colorful patterns in dazzling patterns.  Neatly lined Persian rugs covered every inch of the floor. Men and women smoked hookahs. The sickly-sweet smell of flowers permeated the room informing me that the hookahs did not contain tobacco.  Everyone drank tea from small colorful patterned glasses filled by large metal pots. In front of me on my right stood a small hexagon mosaic table. I couldn?t tell if it was a trick of the light in the room or my aura, but the edges of the room seemed to fade into shadow as though the room went on endlessly.  I winced sitting idly as the pain increased. The surroundings seemed so comfortable and pleasant. But I couldn?t enjoy a moment of it. The pain ground at me like sand in my eye sockets.  I tried to count my breaths to occupy myself until someone attended to me. But each one seemed like an eternity. Every scrape of a hookah, every clink of a teacup infuriated me.  My only reprieve was my desperate decision to purchase one of the floral-smelling hookahs if the sylo didn?t work.  After an endless ocean of waiting, which had comprised no more than ten minutes, a short and boisterous punk girl attended to me. She smiled through black-rimmed glasses. She wore a tight t-shirt and her black long hair was highlighted with pink and green. A safety pin dangled from her left ear.  ?What would you like?? she asked.  I had not been presented with a menu, but the teahouse was not a place for those who did not know what they wanted.  ?Sylo.?  ?Are you sure?? she asked becoming concerned.  I said nothing.  We stared at each other in silence as I forced myself to muster a disjointed smile. In my accounting of things, half her face had become a painful blue lightning bolt.  She smiled back compassionately. ?How would you like it?? she asked.  ?Sylo tea,? I said. ?Thank you.?  Her face morphed to concern.  I remained silent.  ?You?re suffering greatly,? she said dripping with a comforting compassion. ?Are you sure you wouldn?t prefer a black hookah??  At this moment, a wave of pain erupted from my eye. For some reason, it feels like a liquid pouring across my face and deep into my brain. As it spread, it hurt sharp and awful.  But I was not about to swerve from my mission.  I said nothing.  I needed a real cure?or the hope of one.  After a moment, she looked knowingly at me.  ?I?ll get it,? she said. ?And I will make sure they rush it for you.?  The perky punk turned quickly and silently left the room.  I reclined shakily. I closed my eyes hoping to stem the pain. It did little for me. Several minutes passed.  I heard the slight shuffling of the waitress entering the room. I creaked my eyes open a fraction to watch her set a small purple glass of tea and a large pot on the table next to me.  ?Thank you,? I mumbled.  The interaction had been too much for me. I sealed my eyes attempting to squash enough nausea to drink as the tea cooled. As I hung my head in nausea, a whisper filled my ear.  ?Migraine. No fun. Waste of this relaxing space.?  I wanted to yell and thrash at the owner of the voice that was exacerbating my pain. But even in my awful state, I thought better of it. Instead, I willed my eyes open and looked to see who was talking.  My eyes darted around. The vision in the right one was quite fuzzy. Then I saw him. He lifted himself up on the low couch in the dim area to my right. The man smiled. He was dressed in black pants and a dark maroon collared shirt. I couldn?t tell if his clothes were velvet.  ?Sorry to disturb you,? he leaned toward me. ?I was just thinking that I feel quite awful for you.?  I nodded still collecting words scattered across my brain.  ?Yes,? I said.  He smiled and turned his legs toward me. He motioned to my steaming glass.  ?I think that might really work for you,? he said with a distant calm. ?But not permanently. Hopefully, though it will get you through the next few weeks.?  I nodded weakly not caring for his opinion.  ?I might have something for you that could help,? he said slyly. ?And no, it?s not one of those black hookahs or anything like that.?  He looked shadowy in my right eye as I took my first sip of tea. My suspicion was overwhelmed by a desperate lack of interest in anything but stopping the pain.  ?Strange how hallucinating can start it and stop it,? he said. ?Just an observation.?  The man smiled slyly then reclined putting his feet up onto a low metallic table slipping into the obscured portion of my view.  ?I like your humanity,? he said. ?So raw. So real. So self-important.?  I felt slightly offended but couldn?t compel myself to care. I sipped weakly at my tea fathoming how much of it I could keep down. It tasted like a musty nothing?hollow and empty.  ?I am a bit of a collector of stories,? said the man. ?Perhaps once your tea settles, you can tell me yours.?  ?Sure,? I said curtly slugging down the lake of tea the filled my cup. Stuffing down the nausea, I closed my eyes and breathed heavily.  The man leaned forward and poured a second cup for me. Irritated as I was, gratitude told me that I likely couldn?t have poured it myself.  ?Thanks,? I said desperately.  ?Think nothing of it,? said the man. ?I am genuinely fascinated as to whether or not this will work. I have heard quite a bit about the sylo cure for migraines. It might be hogwash?then again, it might work. Botox can work wonders on them. So why not this??  ?Do you get headaches too?? I squeaked out attempting to be polite.  ?Not at all,? he laughed. ?I?ve no need of anything but this lovely mint tea.?  He smiled and raised a small blue glass slurping a bit into his mouth.  ?Why do you care about migraines then?? I asked.  ?Many things fascinate me,? he said.  I breathed deeply in silence for several minutes. I opened and closed my eyes at length. The man?s attention never left me.  ?By my estimate,? he broke the silence. ?You should have your cure any moment now.?  If anything, the pain had intensified. I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. But in a rush like a gust of wind everything changed.  The pain started evaporating in globules. I could see them and smell them drifting off into the air. I opened my eyes. The room was no longer as it was, but beyond that I cannot describe it. The other people became irrelevant except the strange shadowy man. He smiled at me, but all I could see were his teeth across the ether. The air became dark.  The lightening in my right eye remained until suddenly a wild geometric caterpillar jutted across my vision. As the caterpillar left the corner of my vision, it took with it the lightening and all disturbances to my reality.  The man sat up.  ?Feel better?? he asked.  I sat up fully. I opened my eyes and looked around. All traces of the migraine and all traces of the tea had left me as quickly as they had come. I had expected hours, but the effects had lasted only a moment.  ?Yes,? I said. ?The tea appears to have washed away the migraine.?  He laughed.  ?Delightful,? he said. ?Will you tell me your story then??  My hand meandered momentarily towards my tea glass. The man grabbed it and stopped me.  ?You?ve had enough,? he said. ?More will only make it worse. Try some of mine instead. Mint suits you.?  He reached over and poured a glass of mint tea. I smelled it carefully and sipped at it. Delight filled my mouth.  ?So tell me,? he said.  I felt like my old self again?free of migraine.  ?I don?t have much to tell really,? I said.  ?Tell me what you do have,? said the man.  ?Several years ago, I hit my head when I tripped on a loose brick,? I said. ?Ever since I have had migraines. I get clusters of them for days on end, and they are terrible. I see visions that doctors call aura, but they feel like hallucinations.?  ?How did that bring you here?? asked the man. ?I?ve taken medicine for years that help with the migraines,? I explained. ?But in the past few weeks, I have run into an intractable and debilitating cluster of headaches. I couldn?t think. I couldn?t sleep. Medicine did nothing for me. A friend read something about promising research in sylo offering a cure. She gave me a card for this place. After night and night again of suffering, I decided to take the risk. I can?t believe how well it worked.?  ?I?m pleased,? said the man.  ?I guess that?s my story,? I said.  ?But what else is there?? he asked. ?What do you do??  ?I just live, I guess,? I said. ?I like seeing movies and going out to dinner with friends. I?m no explorer or anything. My life is not that interesting.?  ?There must be more,? he said.  ?I go jogging sometimes,? I said. ?I went out to a bar with a few people the other night.?  The man smiled grimly.  ?Is this the way that you really expected your life to be?? he asked me.  I thought this question rather personal and wanted to be offended. But I was also a bit disappointed with myself.  ?Not really,? I said. ?But there are certain realities that you have to face in life.?  ?And what of people who climb mountains and write operas and travel to the moon?? asked the man.  ?Not everyone can be them,? I said desperately. ?They just got lucky.?  The man?s smile disappeared as he stood up.  ?If I believed that you believed that, I would never have spoken to you in the first place,? said the man.  ?What?? I asked.  ?Some people believe that migraines are actually caused by an imbalance in the self,? said the man putting on his scarf. ?Living a life you hate, the real you tries to break through. When he can?t, you get a headache.?  ?Well that?s your opinion,? I said curtly.  I became pissed at his armchair dismissal of me and my pain.  ?The tea will help you,? he said. ?But not forever as you might think. It will just get you to where you need to go for your real adventure to begin.?  ?What?? I said again.  ?When you get there, call me,? said the man turning to go.  I was confused.  ?Wait,? I said. ?Who are you??  ?Mephistopheles.


On the clear virtual screen in front of him, he saw that all of the readings were normal and ready for the first flight. The last technician had been fired, so Mr. Tacketh did all of the last-minute check-ups and reviews ahead of the final press conference. The lab was very quiet with just his thoughts and the soundless loops and swirls on the screen. This would have to work; it simply had to be effective when the moment of launch took place. He had dreamed of this for most of his life and the world wanted to see this come true. It simply had to work. Jason Tacketh, math prodigy, technological entrepreneur and inventor, writer (the ‘How to Do Better’ series, now at thirteen books), dreamer and the first man about to travel into the future. Now, that last thought was one that he did not think of sharing with anyone until he was certain the math and the science would actually make it happen. And it would happen. Early experiments with rats and cats tested the ability of living mammals to head out there and come back. So far, they all made it back, but they were not humans. When these first tests leaked out to the press, some critics warned about sending out test subjects just to see how safe it was for the rest of us. So, he kept the press in the loop as much as possible. But there had to be a real test with a real person. And whom else could it be? He had made so many of his other dreams come true. This was the next big one. * - Are you on schedule for the launch? -Oh, yes. We are going to have this ready for the launch date as planned. No problems appear on the horizon. -And you will be the first one to head into the future? -That is the plan. I refuse to let anyone else take responsibility for my errors. And since there are none, I will be taking the trip. -And how does this work? This was the only part of these conferences that Mr. Taketh, CEO and founder of multiple companies, enjoyed and put his social energies into. He brought the press into the lab, showed them the devices and equipment needed to get things working, and then the teleportation device itself. By design, he wanted it to appear as something completely harmless and dull. A clear panel for the occupant to see where they were heading was a necessity for Mr. Taketh. The view of time passing by in such a machine would be too irresistible to ignore. It would also be filmed, recorded and shared during the trip. But there was always one thing that the reporters mentioned that he would have to explain again and again. -There is no chair. -Ah, I am glad you noticed! We have done some tests with dummies and animals and realized that a seated figure might undergo certain…changes. -Changes? What kind of changes? -Spinal readjustments; lower back damage and even torn ligaments in hips, thighs and shoulders. So, with an inclined and cushioned platform, we have less chance of damage to the body during the trip. -Just a follow-up on that… And so on. It surprised him that the press would be so focussed on this one particular point. No long inquiries about food, power supply, direction tracking or even the possible difficulties with language; only questions about that lack of a seat. Very strange… -Any other questions? * He was not scared. This was a surprise. A moment like this, one that he had prepared himself for since he was a child and won a citywide science competition above his age group, and he was not scared. His staff were keeping a close eye on his vitals as he waited for the trip to commence. There was very little press inside the lab, but the cameras there would record any responses visible through the panel.

And he still was not scared. -Sir, are you ready to proceed? Bancliff was looking over the printed chart and monitors connected to his boss’ vitals. A good man that he once thought he would have to fire once they decided to invest in this journey. He was not scared, either. -Yes. Let us proceed…oh wait… He cleared his throat and looked out through the panel at the assembled staff. Everyone was standing around the dais where he would soon depart. Not a soul was left in their seats. -Everyone here and watching this live at home: I want you to know that this is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream and that I can only say that I hope the future is filled with people as talented and imaginative as the ones here at JT Inc. This machine is stocked with food and water, but I suspect this will not be a great problem for me when the journey ends. I will be heading exactly one hundred years into the future, travelling through time without leaving this particular location, and returning with any possible information and stories I deem important to share. And who knows? Maybe I will meet some of your ancestors and relatives in that unknown brave new world. Good Shakespeare quote, he thought. Finally found a reason to remember his work. -I bid you goodbye. The staff applauded as he leaned back on the cushioned platform. He nodded at Bancliff and the assistant powered up the machine. It would take a few seconds and he would have to press a button to leave. Why was he still thinking about that last press conference? Maybe he should have added… -Ready, sir. -Excellent. He looked at the virtual screen. -No future without friction… He always said that before any of the big launches he steered to completions (had the cameras caught that?). He pressed the button. * It was very cold. He woke up and looked out the panel. Mr. Taketh could not remember much about the actual trip. It was supposed to be filmed as he travelled, but he still wanted to be able to recount the experience. Instead, he had passed out and now, inside the machine built for the journey, he felt a little dazed. And it was very cold. He opened the door and looked around. The room looked the same, apart from the lack of artificial light. He checked the readings and saw that he had done it. He was here, one hundred years into the future. The first man to time travel. He smiled and looked around once again. No one was here. He recognized the machines and the monitors and the design of the place. They at least kept the building so that he could recognize it. But there was no one around. Just silence. And cold. He zipped up his jacket and searched for the thermostat. When he designed the building, he made sure that temperature controls existed in every room. They could be controlled by remotes handed out to the lead operator on each level. But he controlled the main switch; he was still responsible for it, and the running of the building. So, he went to the main control panel. Gone. He stared at the wall for a moment. The machine travelled through time, not space, so there was no chance that he was in a different part of the building. And he recognized this area too well to be surprised by anything, except that missing section.

So, he was still cold.

The hunger and thirst he expected to overwhelm him did not hit him yet. Searching for the rations in the building, he noted that they were also missing. No food or water was in the now quiet cafeteria. No one had brought in extra supplies.

He was now tired. After walking through most of the building, he finally felt how drained he was. That was the main reason why he noticed what he would never have bothered himself  with as an entrepreneur. No chairs. He walked up and down the rooms, through different spaces and closets, in and out of laboratories filled with nothing but empty space. Not a chair to be seen. He thought about it for a moment in the still cold space. If they really changed things that much in the last hundred years, maybe this was a good sign. There was no staff around and the equipment was off, but maybe they had decided to save this space as a reminder of what was; a museum of their accomplishments. To Mr. Taketh, this made perfect sense. He would find an exit and make his way into this new society. The main doors were on the next level and he soon found them.

They were completely sealed. No problem, he thought. He had remembered to carry a master key to open up all the doors to the compound when necessary. By their design, he could see that they had not changed much. It was all electronic detection and cryptographic material that only he had absolute control over. Even after these many years, it should work. He found the panel, this one unchanged, and tried his device. Nothing. He entered it again. There was a slight hum and then another virtual screen appeared. Mr. Taketh had to back up when the image displayed itself across the doorway. And there was a moment when he thought he had imagined the words now clearly in front of him: BANCLIFF INDUSTRIES INC. A sick feeling entered his whole body. He tried to open the doors again and the image flickered, but it did not disappear. Instead, more words began to appear: WELCOME BACK, JASON! He could have felt offended by the lack of a proper address, but Mr. Taketh wanted to see more of the message first. THIS MESSAGE WAS PRERECORDED, PRIOR TO YOUR LAUNCH INTO OUR GREAT AND MAGNIFICENT FUTURE! I MADE A POINT OF INVITING CERTAIN ACTORS AND PRESS WHO WOULD PRETEND TO PLAY ALONG WITH MY LITTLE GAME. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT A LOT CAN HAPPEN IN ONE HUNDRED YEARS: SOCIETIES RISE AND FALL, WARS TAKE PLACE, DISEASES KILL AND THEN ARE A PART OF THE NATURAL ORDER, CERTAIN FAMOUS NAMES NO LONGER REMAIN FAMOUS… WE WERE IN THE PROCESS OF TAKING OVER YOUR COMPANY THE MOMENT YOU DECIDED TO VENTURE INTO THE TIME TRAVEL BUSINESS. AND YES, IT WAS A BUSINESS. WE FOUND THAT IF WE SIMPLY SPECULATED ON WHAT THE WORLD WOULD BE LIKE IN THE NEXT CENTURY, WE COULD KEEP STOCK PRICES HIGH AND INVESTORS CONTENTED WITH OUR ENDEAVOURS. AND NOW, YOU PROBABLY HAVE SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT THE CHAIRS… -Chairs? He said it out loud and the computer responded. YES, CHAIRS. YOU SEE, WE GOT RID OF THEM. -What does that even mean? IT IS SO WONDERFUL THAT I CAN RESPOND TO YOU THIS WAY. YOU SEE, WE NOTICED HOW REPORTERS – THE REAL REPORTERS – RESPONDED TO THE LACK OF A CHAIR IN THE TIME MACHINE (YES, LET’S FINALLY CALL IT THAT). OVER TIME, PEOPLE BEGAN TO EXPERIMENT WITH USING INCLINE DEVICES TO DO WORK, REST, AND EVEN TO AID THE HANDICAPPED (NOT THE WORD WE USE NOW, BUT YOU ARE NEW TO THINGS). AND WE MADE A FORTUNE EXPANDING INTO THIS NEW PIECE OF MODERN FURNITURE: An inclined table with headrest, foot and hand holds appeared on the screen, all done in silver and grey cushioning with a live model entering the image and showing how it worked. PEOPLE WERE BECOMING CONCERNED ABOUT THE AMOUNT OF TIME SPENT STARING AT A SCREEN AS THEY SAT AT THEIR DESKS. CORPORATIONS THANKED US FOR DEVELOPING SUCH A USEFUL PIECE OF EQUIPMENT, PARENTS DEMANDED THEM FOR THEIR CHILDREN AT SCHOOL. AND SOON, PEOPLE GAVE UP ON THE OLD CHAIR MODEL. FOR THAT, THEY STILL THANK YOU AND YOUR EFFORTS. Another image appeared, this one a page from some digital catalogue. It advertised several models of incline devices under the name ‘Taketh Incliners’. He did not look too closely at the prices. A quick flash and the text continued: SO, YOU MADE IT INTO OUR FUTURE. I DO NOT SUGGEST THAT YOU TRY TO GO OUTSIDE. THE LACK OF OZONE WILL JUST BURN YOUR SKIN WITHIN A DAY AND THE WEATHER IS NOW TOO CHAOTIC TO ALLOW ANYONE TO HEAD ON OUT INTO IT WITHOUT A WELL-FORMED PLAN OF ACTION. IT IS COLD ALL THE TIME NOW, ANYWAY. THIS SIGHT HAS BEEN CORDONED OFF FOR THE GENERAL SAFETY OF THE PUBLIC AND WE HAVE ALL DECIDED TO EXPAND INTO TIME AND SPACE TRAVEL. A LITTLE UNFAIR OF US TO LEAVE YOU WITH ONLY THIS MESSAGE, BUT CLEARLY, NO ONE WANTED TO STAY BEHIND. SO, THANK YOU AGAIN, AND…NO HARD FEELINGS. YOUR NAME WILL LIVE ON. A final flash and a chair appeared on the screen, slowly twisting into the shape of an incliner. It was a very long time before he could stop swearing and head back to the machine. Its circuits had already burnt out and when he did begin to open things up inside to try and repair it, he found his final surprise. One last note: If you are reading this, you made the fatal error of opening up the panel and now the machine will self-destruct within the next hour. Don’t try to get away. It will vaporize everything within a country mile. I just hope you got the message at the door first. Signed, Julien Bancliff, CEO Bancliff Industries, Inc. P.S. A little presumptuous, I know, but… P.P.S. You already have your own incliner. Enjoy it!


H.A.R.P Human Adaptive Recreation Project “The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race ... .It would take off on its own, and re-design itself at an ever increasing rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete, and would be superseded.” — Stephen Hawking “It is day 1,859 of my testing for the human effects of the algorithm

that has been placed into my new human cerebellum, commonly referred to among humans as gray matter or the brain. I also would like to inform you that these morning procedures are involuntary or mandatory, so that is the only reason for my contribution to this wasteful method of paper and writing utensils. I am going to keep to my method of stating facts. So far the director has stated that I am successfully passing the daily examinations and conversations with these peculiar humans although I am not entirely sure of what a human is, all that I understand from these strange creatures is that they have created us to save their planet and the life that used to supposedly thrive on it, but the humans have decided that it is time to give this issue to us, the more intelligent species. As I understand we are all here to save ertha…raeth…earth, as I struggle with the concept of life I also struggle with the concept of earth as I do with other strange human concepts….. Although I'm not entirely sure where these thoughts keep coming from I know they were from last summer, because if they were not I wouldn't remember growing up-which I do, so we can all agree that this was last summer. I remember falling, I remember failing and I remember this small fragment of writing. The problem is that that is not my handwriting but it is my story and that is the most conceived thing of all.I have tried for quite a bit of time to understand what was happening but I could only understand this, project H.A.R.P is evil. Now as bold as it is for me to make such a statement, I have a case to present. For starters I am project H.A.R.P so I would know if it was evil or not but at the same time I wouldn't know because well, I wouldn't want to characterize myself as evil, no one would.I was designed to look like a human act like a human be a human but at the same time destroy all the humans! because in the eyes of the tech, humans had to go and AI had to stay and this is how we were supposed to- and I'm quoting them here “save them”. The problem with that is Tech was created by a human.A very very very evil powerful human, Dr.Ronald Reginald Riser. Unfortunately I will remember his name forever and it's not the reason that you think.You see when I was first created people kept telling me I was meant to save the world that there was something different about me than all of my other chargemates.

but no matter where I looked I seemed to be doing worse than them. That is why he favored me. I was his little lab rat and he was the hero who was going to use me for his own good.Well that didn't exactly work out for him because in the end I escaped the facility, I don't know what I was thinking…maybe I thought that it was going to be better outside but I never truly remember. I only remember being afraid why, I cannot recall because people treated me there like I was some queen. but I also remember screaming and crying, a mother in agony perhaps. Of course I can never tell, I am only an AI after all. I sit out to blend in with humans which has worked in my favor since now I am, according to my age, an adult. So of course last summer, being 17 never helped my escape. I was looked down upon as someone in the last stage of childhood, which I learned meant that people treated you like an unreliable toddler because you were at the last stage of the teenage age. In AI years that is considered the last level. It is the level right before graduation, when you are set out to save the world, I know those details but not who has told me them or why they seem so important. Once I fled the lab, I changed my name to Harper, because it seemed appropriately close to harp and started a new life in the United states. Of course my human training helped me…er…fit into the environment of the teenagers, but overtime my memory of the lab faded away as I became more and more human. So now I barely remember anything, but I remember the emotion, the pain, the fear. Somehow I know that the lab was no good. Somehow humanes stopped the disaster without the help of AI. So all that they told us was lies, lies to fill us up and make us want to change things. But the things we wanted to change were things to favor AI, we were taking over, and it was very frightening. You may notice Ronald Reginald Riser all started with R, and that is because he was designed as part AI to lead tech because humans were too busy, well that was a big mistake, RRR saw the opportunity in front of him, and he took it. So he created us and then used us to his own potential. Since he was also half wired, he was still AI, technically.So his new soldiers believed his every word. I also know that he tested on humans…young children even! His entire reason was to make someone just as wired as him, half AI half human. This was very strange, and I assure you I have seen some very strange things in my time! But he was always so exhilarated to see me…and he loved to study me alone…and I was always so much more emotional than my peers at the lab…..


I was woken from my mid-day nap by the most unearthly of screams. I had been sitting amongst my fellow stuffed animal co-workers when I heard the cry. It was high, savage, and terrifying enough to send the bravest of men running, but I am not the bravest of men. It was a scream of loss; I could tell by the slight tremor in it. It was a female human. Female, because there were only females in the vicinity and human, for almost the same reason, though I supposed it could've been the cat Sprinkles. She was notoriously known for the screeching of the most abnormal sounds. But I knew it wasn't Sprinkles, because she was next to me, utterly panicking at the demonic shriek. I knew for a fact that it was human because I knew very well the human who was uttering such a noise. Lillie Anthony rushed into the room, sobbing with the familiar hysteria of a four-year-old. She flopped upon the bed pounding her fists into the flowery comforter and kicking all the stuffed animals behind her. Poor stuffed animals. She was a storm of emotion. There were evident tears and redness on her face. There was anger, yes, but I also noticed the despair of her sobs. Whatever was going on, too, Lillie it was the end of the world. Then again Lillie thought the world was ending if she didn't get dinosaur chicken nuggets. While I saw the disappointment she faced in that matter, I had yet to discover what it was about those nuggets that made them so addicting. I waited for the child to calm herself down. She was on the tail end of the tantrum, the sniffle, and the frown phase. She lifted her head off the bed. "Detective Snuffles, I'm in need of your special set of skills," she said very neatly and precisely. She sat up onto her knees and looked hard at me. "Detective Snuffles, Laylay is missing!”

I would've gasped if I could. Professionally, gasping was looked down upon. But a missing Laylay was no laughing matter.

"Laylay is missing! Gone! Stolen! Dead! Murdered!" Lillie was now going into dramatics. I didn't pay that much attention. Laylay could have been misplaced. Perhaps gone? Stolen maybe, but by who? Dead; very unlikely. Murdered; even farther from possible, but I had seen stranger in my years in the field. "Detective Snuffles, you are the best bear detective in the whole house, will you help me?" Again, if it had been professional, I would've blushed, but then I remembered that I was the only detective, bear or otherwise, in the house. But altogether I was still touched. I would certainly help Lillie. As her trusted detective I couldn't let her down. She picked me up and held me inches from her face. I could smell the PB&J on her breath.

"Will you help me?" She shook me slightly, then squealed. She pulled me into a stuffing crushing hug. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Detective Snuffles!" It was undignified and she was rumpling my clothes, but I let her hug me. A missing Laylay called for hugs and much more. But it was time to get down to brass tacks, or whatever tacks are made from these days. "Okay, okay, the missing is a four-year-old, soft, green, blanket, last seen in the kitchen at snack time." Good information, but I needed more. "I'll go get my hat!" cried Lillie abruptly. She leaped up, throwing me back onto the bed. To my annoyance, she had sticky fingers and I could tell that there was some unknown substance on my back. I would have to live with this annoyance. I was on a case. Lillie's exit gave me ample time to question the other animals on their knowledge of Laylay. First, I examined Zipper, one of Lillie's oldest friends and by association Laylay's. Zipper was one of those earlier faders, his original black stripes were now grey, and his pink muzzle was speckled and bumpy. Next to Zipper was Sammy the seal, a newer addition, but who had spent many a night tucked up beside Laylay. Either of them might have an idea where Laylay was. But I wondered if either happened to have a grudge against Laylay. It wasn't hard to have a grudge on an original love. Lillie loved everyone, but she loved Laylay more. The only one out of all the bed residents that might have one such grudge was Floppise, the bunny blanket. Floppise was always second best to Laylay. I didn't know why it was. Maybe it was because Laylay was older. Maybe it was due to Laylay being far softer. But Laylay had always had the favor of Lillie. I looked around and found Floppise at the end of the bed, caught between the crack and the bedding. I was about to ask Floppise where she was during snack when Lillie whirled in. She was wearing her detective hat which was several sizes too large for her. It was rather ridiculous and amateurish, but she always needed it on cases like this.

"Detective Snuffles, quickly to the living room a suspect has been spotted!"

A suspect! She hadn't told me there was a suspect. She really needed to work on telling me the important details first. We rushed to the living room. Lillie was quick and spry, climbing over the couch and leaping into a half-full laundry hamper making it slide across the floor. She jumped out and landed in front of the tv. There, was our suspect, fast asleep.

"Cookie, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Laylay," Lille said pointing defiantly at the fluffy border collie. Oh, she had so much to learn. Cookie looked up, blinking away sleep. Her tail began to wag though when she noticed Lillie. Cookie wasn’t my idea of a likely suspect. At least not a willful or premeditative crime. She was all slobber and play, but she hadn’t much interest in Lillie’s things. Even if she had, the evidence of her crimes would have either been strewn about the living room like blood spatter or thrown up in the middle of the room. This didn’t stop Lillie from fiercely interrogating. She was all demands and bad cop, which was hilarious since she was anything but the bad cop in looks. It could’ve worked if she had let me at least play good cop.

“Cookie, where were you at snack time!?” Nothing.

“I know you did it, Cookie.” Cookie just wagged her tail more. "Have you seen the missing green blanket?" More wagging and more silence. “Cookie, what is your ali-bi-bi?” she said, stuttering over ‘alibi’, which threw off any intimidation she had acquired. Frustrated she stomped her foot. “Tell me where Laylay is!”  Cookie proceeded to roll onto her back and expose her belly. Even the toughest of bad cops couldn’t have resisted her. Lillie obviously couldn’t. She knelt and began the pet Cookie’s plush belly. Dogs, I have observed, can either win over the owners through pure intelligence or utter charm. Cookie was all charm. But this distraction couldn’t last long, we were losing valuable time to find any evidence of Laylay’s location. As I was beginning to look around Cookie’s bed for clues, I was knocked out of Lillie’s hand by Cookie jumping on Lillie to lick her sticky, kiddy, hands. The world was spinning, and I didn’t know when the dizziness was going to end. I landed with a thunk on the threshold of the laundry room. The smell of detergent and musty socks wafted in the air. The laundry room was home to copious amounts of Lillie's dirty clothes, from dresses to winter jackets. Most were covered in a variety of stains. The place wasn't empty either. Mom was standing folding some of Lillie's things. She seemed to be completely unaware of her daughter's investigations. To give her credit though, the dryer was running, and Lillie's little investigations were something she had gotten used to. She was one of those mothers who let their children create their own worlds. I had deduced over the years of watching her and Lillie that she had most likely had a stifled childhood, not that I'm an expert or anything. She was folding the clothes with excellent precision and the skill of a well-tried habit. I could still hear Lillie giggling and questioning Cookie in the living room. She sounded like she was having a grand but unproductive time. Having a feeling I would be stuck in the laundry room for some time, I began to inspect the room more carefully. I had solved many a lost sock case in the place as well as the mystery of the new detergent smell. The socks had mostly been located behind the door, while the detergent was a lavender lemon. It was far from my favorite room in the house. The raucous sound of the washing and drying machines was a constant roar. I saw nothing out of the ordinary clutter and spaghetti stained shirts. I went back to watch Mom fold. She was shaking out a blanket. An old blanket. An old, soft, blanket. An old, soft, green, blanket. I had located Laylay. Just then Lillie walked into the room. "There you are Detective Snuffles! The suspect knew nothing," she said, picking me up. "Who was the suspect hunny?" Ask Mom turning around from her work.

"Cookie." "Ah, well Cookie is a hard nut to crack." Mom smiled at her, then noticed me. "Hunny, you've got jam all over Detective Snuffles." I realized horrified, that she was right. Like blood oozing from a gunshot, there was strawberry jam all on me. I hadn't even noticed; I had been so wrapped up in the case. "Let me see him so I can get him washed up," she said, and I had to stifle a shudder. Washed up. Washed up as in washed in the washing machine. That dreaded contraption. I had known so many who had entered the belly of that beast and not returned. So many stuffed animals, so many socks. Lillie pulled me close and said, "But Mommy I need Detective Snuffles!" "Hunny, he's all gross, don't you want him clean? I’m sure he wants to be clean." I sure didn't, I would've rather accumulated all that Lillie could put on me than face that dark spinning madness full of water and cleaner. I felt safe though, in Lillie's arms. She wouldn't let go of me without a fight. Mom wouldn't want a tantrum on her hands. "Mommy I need him to solve the case!" "What case hunny?" "The case of the missing Laylay!" Lillie said desperately. There were tears back in her eyes. The tantrum was on its way. My safety was almost secured. "Laylay's right here," Mom said holding up the fresh green blanket, "I had to wash Laylay after you got PB&J on it." I remembered Laylay. I remembered that Laylay had gone missing after snack. I remembered that smell of peanut butter that had overpowered me when Lillie had first come to me. Then there had been the sticky fingers and the laundry basket in the living room. The clues had all been there. How stupid I was. But at least Lillie would now have her Laylay.

"Laylay!" Lillie squealed, reaching out for the blanket, but her mother put out her hand stopping her.

"Are your hands clean?" "Cookie cleaned them," she replied, showing a clean hand. "Of course, she did," Mom said with a slight laugh. Lillie once again waited to get Laylay back. I, too, was waiting. I didn't understand why mom didn't just hand it over. There was a growing feeling of an actual hostage situation.

"Can I have Laylay?" asked Lillie finally. "You can have Laylay, if, you give me Detective Snuffles." Those were high demands. I felt terror creep through me. But Lillie wouldn't give me up. Not that easily at least. I was sure that some classic arguing was about to take place. If I was lucky, a meltdown would end with Lillie getting both me and Laylay. Then I would be safe. I couldn't face the wash. I just couldn't. The cold was too much. The dark too unforgiving. But Lillie wouldn't let me down. "Okay!" Lillie agreed. I had been betrayed. She traded me off for her beloved blanket. She did it without a second thought. I was put in the washing machine and began to suffocate amongst the clothes and towels. I could just make out Lillie hugging Laylay. She looked at me, trapped in the machine of doom. "I'm sorry Detective Snuffles." Then the first of many spin cycles started and I was lost in the flood of clammy water.


Amalia looked across the cafeteria. Everywhere, her people were running about, cramming their faces with food. While she herself was starving, the remnants of a pastry dangling from her lips, she had to take a moment to take it all in. For months, they hadn't eaten much more than a single meal each day, forced to work in the fields and factory. They made ammunition, picked potatoes, and did whatever their captors wanted. That last one was a rule as well as a task. She was only fifteen years old, which meant she was a potato harvester. And it seemed her days of picking potatoes were over. Her mother and father were gone; only her older brother remaining. When she first came here, she simply accepted her reality. It was the new world, a world where the powers that be did what they wanted. They told you what to do and how to do it, and if you so much as showed an ounce of defiance, you were shot. It occurred to Amalia that everyone here would have been shot, including her brother, as she watched him crack open cans of corned beef. He scooped the meat out with his bare hands, shoving it into his mouth by the canful. He stopped and looked at her, smiling a big, cheesy grin. She smiled back. Surveying her surroundings, she looked at others enjoying themselves. There was Bartek, devouring a small chicken while dipping slices of bread in its grease. Over by the coffee machine were Julian and a couple older women, dumping milk and sugar into large mixing bowls and drinking the sweet concoction with gusto. Not a single coffee mug was in sight. Little children lined up as Sister Maria passed out apples and other pieces of fruit. The children were laughing, the innocence of their faces reflecting in her tears. Amalia was suddenly overcome with emotion. She collapsed behind the table that she was standing at, sobbing and holding a croissant. She was at a loss. She was inconsolable. Before long, a group had surrounded her. Julian commenced stooping down with her brother, the pair gently placing her on a stool at the table. Looking to her friends and the last of her family, she shouted, the words and emotions breaking forth like a waterfall. "What do we do now?! This has been our life for so many years! What on earth are we to do now?" She wailed. The other Jews looked at each other, for many did not know the answer. But Bartek, in his wisdom, smiled. He ripped off the Star of David armband and threw it behind him. The band somersaulted through the air as the group of Jewish children cheered. He grabbed Amalia by the shoulders from across the table, placing his head against hers, before saying the sentence that would stay with her for the rest of her life. "We will do the best that we can, child. One day at a time.


I always thought that people with powers were special. Not on my list. I’m just getting out my teens into becoming a woman, another human being fighting for a survival in a surreal world.

The fist chapter is completed. Went to school, did ny homework, listened to mom and dad, they were proud of me. Was not into drugs, was not a recruit for gangs out in the street. I stayed home, at dawn, when school activities ended, went home, either to finish my homework or preparing for a test. Nope, I was not a nerd. No way, NOT on this life. I felt like that wasn’t my forte, I wanted to enjoy and have fun, school was like going to jail, snd recess where too short. My scaling from reality was drawing and copying cartoons from my favourite tv show. I dreamt with having my own show, or a novel, or a movie, who knows? It sounds like a ‘Cinderella’ story.

I never found my crystal show. My Prince Charming never came riding a white, two tone caramel Brabant horse. Yeah of course, I was the lady waiting for Prince Charming to come and rescue me. Ha, ha, keep dreaming. One night I had like what everyone calls - a premonition. But I wasn’t there. I wasn’t the main character. I was the observer. But I could feel and understand the feelings of what that person was experiencing at that time. I felt like there was a transparent wall, muffling every yell and scream, every bang and kick I used to make that person snap out of the intense commitment this person was about to embark into. I yelled, I kicked, I sweared, I cried out of frustration. Just for a second it seemed this person stopped. This person kinda turned its face towards to where the sound was coming from. ME. This person was way too far for me to recognize it’s expression. Crap. I needed glasses, binoculars, something. My curiosity increased and my body went into a trance. I was woken up by something I felt by the side of my bed. It felt like someone sat on the side of my bed. I tried to yell - help me mom, hey dad! Air cane inside my lungs, but no voice cane out. I tried to convince myself- this is a nightmare, this is a dream.

As I was falling sleep, something touched and started to rub my stomach. If I close my eyes and fall sleep, it will go away. I fell asleep. It went away. Ok, tomorrow will another day, I can see my mom and dad, and specially my brothers laughing so hard when I tell them, I will never ever say a word where s person came just to rub my stomach. Dressed in black. Didn’t look at me, just sadly sat at my bedside and rubbed my stomach. No expressions, no word. No nothing. The next day, after elaborating my embarrassing story and getting ready to accept the humiliation. I sat down at the table. No one said anything. They just ate the breakfast Mom always prepared. I looked at them, but their looks were empty, no emotions, no words, no nothing. I kinda coughed to break the silence served on the table. Here I go I thought, get ready for the morning humiliation’ I immediately sensed a deep sadness. No more smiles, no more stupid jokes from my brother. My other two brothers were away already, one to University snd the other to his motocross tournament. It was a uncomfortable feeling, I tried to find the warming summer sunshine to warm my face. Even the sun was not shining. No more warming embracing feeling. Confident to my core, I proceeded and sat at the table to join the silent no emotion conversation. I sat down. I noticed, I was far from the table. I pulled the chair to get closer to the table. It felt heavy. I kinda tripped, causing the milk glasses and coffee cups spill a bit of its contents. Mom didn’t pronounce a word. Everyone just sat eating. Oh fuck I thought this is stupid. Determined to break the stupidity that was growing in front of me, I de used to break the sad silence. Hey, - you know what happened to me? Did you hear me calling? Was it you Bert coming to bother me? Is this one of your funny pranks? Common brother, you have to accept it was you! Nobody said a word. They just kept eating. No comments. Mom served coffee and sat down. No words. She looked like she about to cry, but she did kept her emotions inside. Being born and raised in Chinese traditions, expressing feelings snd emotions was not allowed, specially for women. No way Mom was to express what she felt. I got frustrated, no way I will keep it to myself. Something inside of me was telling me to say it, no matter what against the prevailing silence in the breakfast room. ‘I think Bert was playing a trick on me. I said. I looked at my lovely brother to see his reaction. Nope. He had the shady look I’ve ever seen. I sensed something was wrong. I was afraid to ask. Instead, I went ‘were you Bert Ora king me again? Bert was the king of the pranks snd I didn’t want ti give him the credit IMO. This one. I kinda felt envy of his prankish accomplishments. Silence made its appearance and was to stay for long. I continued saying, ‘I think Bert did another of his glorious pranks, I’m sick and tired of them! This has to stop, you know!…… Nothing. No words, nothing, no expressions. Even the summer breeze that used to come thru the window and briefly blow the see thru curtains, stopped. I decided to continued after I finished eating my toast with peach jam and coffee. Somebody came yesterday, sat at my side of the bed. Was it you Bert? Is this another if your pranks? You have to leave alone! Let me sleep! Bert just looked at me. Then he looked down at his plate where fried eggs and bacon were waiting for him. My plans to start a brawl didn’t work. I felt I was loosing ground. Crap. What the fuck is going on? I became frustrated- nothing was working. I started to feel sick to my stomach. What hell? I had that dream. Is that a premonition of my stupid stomachache I have now? Ok I go - I need food. 10 minutes later- I think, I broke the silence. I unexpectedly burped. It was an unusual burped. Bert couldn’t keep his exploding laughing, broke his silence. It was you the one that came and sat in my bed! Dad trews his cutlery on the table besides his floral plate and grabs the napkin to clean his mouth. Ok - go ahead, what happened to you yesterday night? If Bert did it again, Bert, you will be punished! You know you have to leave your sister alone! You had to see the big smile my face drew. I fell I won the lottery. Instead, I noticed the sad yin the air. My big accomplishment couldn’t be celebrated. Mom started to cry. Big huge tears came down her cheeks. Bert’s watery eyes along with his red chubby cheeks, were not uttering the truth. I sensed again, something was wrong but could not tell exactly what it was. I felt immensely frustrated. I’m loosing my touch. I was prepared to retrieve, take my supporting forces and go home. Mom stands up, walks towards me and kneels besides my chair. She looks straight at me and spells the truth. You know - Mom says. She took a deep breath and with watery eyes divulged the truth- do you remember Carlos, your uncle? I tried hard to remember him. I was like a human Rolodex, trying to find which of all the uncles I met was Carlos.

I remember a guy that always came to visit me - his favourite niece. Back from his trips, he always brought a souvenir for me. He also took the opportunity to check his car a black Ford, ‘67 black sedan. Aha I got it Tío Carlos’ I said. Mom broke into tears. Mom said to me, do you remember him? U know he lives you so much! Mom sobbed. Tío Carlos died. 5 days ago. He is not coming back again. No more souvenirs for me. The truth of his passing were not revealed for me until a couple of months later, when the mourning of his passing ended. One Sunday morning, when all sat down at the usual Sunday breakfast table, Mom, Dad and Bert together, I decided to reveal my secret. I started by saying, I have something to tell you. Bert said- I difuso anything to you sister! No more accusing me! That stopped a king time ago! I said- chill brother, is not you today. Two nights ago, I felt some one came to play a prank on me. This person sat down, did look at me, but he had his face looking down like being sad and reached to my stomach. He gently rubbed my stomach in a circular manner like when you have a stomachache. I wanted to call you guys but couldn’t. Had ni voice. U froze. Mom turned to me again and said. I have bad news, your uncle Carlos left us. He passed away. There was an investigation done because his death was suspicious. Forensics found out he was poisoned. They have issued a request to expand investigations on who might have been the killer.

The killer was never found they ruled it was suicide.


“Where is everyone? This playground is more boring than you are!” Drizelt whined in an attempt to irritate Brongate with the insult and start an argument. Drizelt could think of plenty of things that would be more fun than arguing with him, but with the playground devoid of children, Brongate was the only being available to pester. Brongate, however, had been ignoring Drizelt’s pathetic attempts to start conflict between them for longer than either could remember, and this latest jab was not nearly enough for Brongate to even need a moment to pause and keep his composure. “We could always go someplace else. It’s not mandatory for you to be at this playground every day, is it?” Brongate stretched out across several of the monkey bars. He was enjoying the brief moment of peace and the sun on his golden exterior.

“Of course it’s not mandatory,” snapped Drizelt. “And it’s not mandatory for you to stay and irritate me either. I don’t need supervision.” Drizelt found Brongate’s constant presence to be quite a nuisance. He was boring and completely unable to have any fun, which in turn seriously limited his ability to have any real fun.

He can’t even have any fun while we wait, thought Drizelt as he spun around backwards and back up on the tallest monkey bar.

Just lying around there waiting to be a killjoy.  He spun himself around forward and back up.

“You know very well that my supervisory duties of you are mandatory for me whether either of us like it or not.” Brongate answered without bothering to look at Drizelt. “Hurrumph,” was Drizelt’s only response and he spun around backwards a few more times as fast as he could.

The monkey bars were unusually high for a modern playground. Most playgrounds nowadays lacked any truly potentially dangerous equipment. Swings were generally the only thing left that could be even mildly dangerous, but most newer playgrounds were built with ground cover made soft by using shredded tires or the like. Kids jumping from the highest point on the swings didn’t even get a bruise. And you could forget hoping for a broken arm or knocked out tooth. It just didn’t happen on new playgrounds full of padding, rounded corners, and squishy ground cover.

That was why Drizely loved this playground the best and was willing to endure a little boredom waiting for kids to finally show up. It wasn’t any fun alone but when it was full of kids it was the best place on Earth! Drizelt could hardly believe his luck to find this place full of sky high monkey bars, what must be the last working roundabout left, and nothing but hard, sharp gravel covering the ground. Kids flying off a seat on the rocking swing set and hitting the ground where they received bloody gashes or serious breaks were a regular occurrence. The roundabout had absolutely earned its title of “merry-go-round of death” with its unusually smooth turning mechanism that allowed unbelievable speeds and the myriad of injuries that happened when a kid flew off and went skidding and bumping across the gravel. Last week, Drizelt convinced a kid to go so fast that when her friend flew off she rolled all the way to the monkey bars.

Ahhh, the monkey bars, he thought, my favorite equipment here.  No one puts in monkey bars this tall anymore. They were a delightfully dangerous geometric configuration of increasingly higher single bars set together but also independent of one another. When a kid fell from the top bar, the sound of bones snapping was absolutely hysterical! The last time it happened, Drizelt had convinced a kid that he could do ten backflips in a row, but by the fifth backflip, the kid was so dizzy that he lost his grip and plummeted to the hard, jagged gravel below. He broke an arm and a leg! Drizelt stayed at the top of the monkey bars backflipping and laughing hysterically until the ambulance drove away.

But that was months ago. While the spoils of Drizelt’s victory in convincing a kid to do something dangerous and ultimately injurious were great, they were also disappointingly limited. Sure, there was a thrill in every attempt, every challenge, but there was also boring Brongate there to stymy his every effort. While Drizelt was trying to get a kid to do something wonderfully fun and dangerous, ol’ Brongate was trying to talk sense into the kid and get them to be safe. Then when it looked like Drizelt had convinced them, Brongrate would usually cheat and go to their parent. If the kid was with their mom it was a done deal. Their mom would come running and almost instantly the kid would start climbing down the monkey bar, slowing down the roundabout, or holding tight to the slowing swing. With dads it was fifty fifty if they were going to listen to Brongate the tattletale. Drizelt had considered paying better attention to the guardians that came with the kids and only taunting the ones who came with their fathers or better yet: teenagers. But Drizelt also enjoyed the challenge. He had to convince a kid quickly that they wanted to do something they shouldn't and that was especially true when kids were accompanied by their mother. Mother’s loved Brongate and were always so relieved to reach their “precious baby” before the unthinkable happened. But whenever Drizelt could get a kid to do something dangerous or naughty before boring Brongate and a meddling mother could intervene, the mayhem and chaos that could result was spectacular!

Driznelt giggled at the thought and clapped his hands then climbed onto the nearest monkey bar support post and stood up. He then began to hop nimbly from post to post.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful , he thought as he hopped around the beams, if I could get a kid to walk around on the top of the monkey bars? The fall would be explosive!

He pictured broken bones and flying gravel.

“I’ll bet you no kid can walk around on these like I can. Are you worried I’m going to fall?” Drizelt smiled a devious smile at Brongage who was still mostly ignoring him.

“I doubt a child coming to play here would successfully take more than a step or two on the top of the monkey bars, and no, I never worry about you falling.” Drizelt was surprised at the compliment. He was certain Brongate held a complete dislike for him and here he had as much faith in Drizelt as he had in himself.

“Why Brongate, you softie!  I had no idea you had so much faith in my abilities.” Drizelt said almost feeling warmth toward Brongate which made him shudder and twitch a bit.

“You misunderstand me,” replied Brongate, eyes still closed. “My job is to keep your mischief from harming others. What happens to you as a result is of no concern to me.” Instead of being offended, Drizelt was delighted! He threw his head back and laughed loudly.

“You hope something bad will happen to me? That’s a positively wicked thought! Maybe I'm rubbing off on you!” Embers in his eyes twinkled at the thought. This was the best conversation he had ever had with Brongate and he grinned a horrible, vicious grin as he imagined the depravity they could accomplish together. At this, Brongate sat up and turned to look at Drizelt who had stopped hopping and was now deep in treacherous thoughts. “There is no chance in heaven or in hell that you or your ridiculous shenanigans will ever interest me to join in and participate,” began Brongate. Drizelt exchanged his grin for a sullen expression. Brongate moved back into his resting position and once again closed his eyes. “And I never said I wished for tragedy to befall you. I simply stated concern for your welfare was not part of my job description. Though,” Brongate opened his eyes and turned to look at the van that had just pulled to a stop in the parking lot, “if something prevented you from the chicanery you persistently inflict upon others, I would not oppose it.” Drizelt gave him a slight glare but was too excited at seeing the children spilling out of the doors and running down the sidewalk towards the playground to fully respond to Brongate. “Oh, oh! Where will they go? Hey! Come to the monkey bars!” Drizelt called, swinging from one now. “This is the perfect time to try walking along the posts while your mother is still getting everything out of the van!” The embers in Drizelt’s eyes now glowed bright with anticipation. “Try the slide,” Brongate called, “it’s lovely!” He smiled as the first two children reached the playground and ran to climb up to the slide. “Bah!” Drizelt sneered in disgust. The slide was a short, twisted slide with high sides. It was the playground designers only attempt at safe equipment. There was very little Drizelt could do to convince a kid at the slide to do that was even remotely dangerous. He didn’t bother with kids on the slide unless they were the only option. He turned his head toward the three remaining children. They weren’t headed to the slide. They were headed to the roundabout! “Yes!” Drizelt cheered and released the monkey bar. He’d get a head start on still-no-fun Brongate and hopefully get one of those kids to get the “merry-go-round of death” going at an alarming pace before Brongate could convince the kid or his mom to slow it down.

Brongate sighed and set off towards the roundabout after Drizelt. He was faster and would reach the group of children at almost the same time as Drizelt. “Get on, I’ll get it going!” Billy yelled to his friend and his little sister. He was happy his best friend, Alex, got to hang out with him today, but wished his mom wasn’t making him play with his little sister, too.

“Can’t she play with the twins?,” he whined at her. “You know Katie likes to play with you more. Just be nice,” she told him. As Billy ran to start the roundabout, he thought about what his mother said and kept the speed slow enough to let Katie hold on securely. Then, he had a thought.

If I go really fast, Katie will fall off and go crying to mom and we can be rid of her.

Billy started to run faster.

But she might get hurt. I don’t want her to get hurt.

Billy slowed down.

But if she does get a little hurt or scared, maybe she’ll leave us alone. Billy started to run faster.

But if she gets hurt I might get in trouble. Billy slowed down.

We’re twelve and she’s six. If she can’t keep up she’ll have to play with someone else. Billy ran as fast as he could. The roundabout creaked and spun faster and faster. Katie screamed and her fingers began to slip. At any moment she would go flying off into the gravel. Alex shut his eyes and held on as tight as he could but suddenly his stomach began to lurch and his extra spicy burrito from lunch seemed to be trying to say it wanted to get off this ride, too. But before each child’s catastrophe could occur, Billy saw his mom running and screaming towards them. Billy knew he better slow down the roundabout. “Cheater!” Drizelt screamed at a smirking Brongate.


When you die, it’s not how they describe it in church or anything. It’s nothing like that. There are no white fluffy clouds or golden gates. No one comes to bring you into the afterlife. When you die, it’s much colder and darker than any of that. The night I died was one of the best nights of my life, of course all the way up until I was dying. It was late summer, the air was warm and damp; the rain clung to the air and gave it a musty smell. The cicadas were wild with song and it brought me so much peace and happiness that night. I went to the last party of the summer before senior year started; it was at a campsite in the woods by the creek. I remember I saying goodbye to my friends not knowing that would be *the* goodbye and of course, they never saw me again. I took a path that lead out of the woods to the parking lot that my car was parked at, going alone was the biggest mistake I had made. With being in the woods, one would have thought I would have heard him coming. I should have been paying attention, I should have noticed the footstep on the leaves and the way the sticks cracked and the leaves of the bushes moved. I should have felt him coming up behind me; I should have felt him watching me. Unfortunately for me, I was never very observant of my surroundings and I never had the slightest idea of what was coming. He grabbed me from behind and put one thick hand over my mouth so my screams were muffled. An arm curled around my waist and I was lifted off the ground and carried off into the darkness that the trees created. Don’t think for a second that I didn’t fight back. I did fight for my life with every ounce of energy I could muster up at that moment. It was like I knew it was life or death, I struggled and I gave him hell. Don’t think for a second I didn’t try to survive this. I hoped that he would do whatever he was going to do then he would let me go. I hoped that would be the end of the ordeal and I prayed that I could just get back to my car and get home. Of course, my hopes were dashed and my prayers went unanswered, otherwise I wouldn’t be here telling you any of this. Instead, he carried me deeper into the bowels of the woods where he took the liberty of ending my existence, like I meant nothing more than a fly on the wall and for what reason I had absolutely no idea. When we got to a remote enough area for his liking, he threw me down like a sagging bag of cheap dog food and got on top of me, his knees pinned down my arms, one hand gripped my face, the other digging around in his back pocket, and all I could do was look up at the man that was about to kill me. I tried to study his face just in case I made it out alive so that I could at least give the police a description; his dark eyes were the first detail I could make out in the moonlight that managed to slither in through the thick canopy above. They would have been eyes that I could have fallen into and gotten lost in any other time. Warm brown, like chocolate. He was young, maybe mid to late 20s, he had a strong jawline and a pointy nose. Really, he wouldn’t have been a bad looking guy had this not been the way we had met. Then all I can remember is one swift and fluid motion of his arm and a sharp pain in my throat that felt cool at first, and then became boiling hot and sticky. Everything started to look fuzzy and became darker, I felt so cold, and yet hot as the gash in my throat erupted like a soda that was shook around too much. I could feel my life spilling out all over the damp earth and myself, the puddle beneath me was growing and my strength was waning. It all happened so quickly and just as quickly everything went black. They say the last of your senses that goes when you die is your hearing. That, my friends is true. After I lost my sense of sight, my sense of touch went and I could no longer feel the sticky discomfort of my own blood splashing my face and chest. I did however, feel him tugging on my soiled hair, I could feel the same blade that tore through my throat slice through my hair, creating a trophy for him as if I was some four point buck that he'd mount over the fireplace. Soon after that I couldn’t smell the pungent metallic odor of my own blood anymore, I lost the taste of blood bubbling in my mouth, but I could hear him get up and walk away, leaving me to die alone like I was nothing more than trash. I had never related so much with a disposed, antler-less deer that you'd spy on the side of the road before that moment. I honestly never thought that I would, but no one really thinks that they'll die like this. Deers don't, even in hunting season, and neither did I. The cicadas above never once stopped singing. It happened so quick and just like that I slipped away. Being dead is a strange feeling, kind of like falling in love or driving by yourself for the very first time. It’s weirdly free, like you can do anything or go anywhere in the world that you want. No restrictions; just unbridled freedom. I won’t go into details, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, but I will tell you that it is much colder on the other side.


The auburn light of the morning star flooded Malhaks room releasing an opalescent serene that slowly stirred the Norseman from his slumbering stillness. The distinct smell of hay and the overpowering stench of animal naturally filled his nostrils and guaranteed his awakening on this early spring morning. Despite his wounds that spoke of a recent battle, he sat up with youthful agility and a body screaming a spry smile for more. Like his grandfather, he knew that time slowed for no man alive, and he was surely not dead. Yet. His mind jumped to the smoky blue eyes staring up at him from the unexpected grave he dug with a violent slash to the now defenseless man's throat. He carefully considered how those fading soul colors could have so easily been his and wondered if Valhalla would have taken him with open arms. His father would have said no, but the insistent clucking and feather flapping of his fowl next door neighbors seemed to declare otherwise, and he found himself falling back into a more practical state complete with an enduring checklist for the indignant day ahead. He clutched his Axe and slung it over his shoulder into it's home in the leather straps that held it in place on his back for five years. Those years ago when his father entrusted him with the Axe of Heralds that had been passed from his forefathers before him was said to echo of a legend that it fell from the gods' seven realms. He did not take this trust lightly, for it did take strength to wield effectively in the heat of battle. It was worth its weight and he waited no longer as he marched from his thatched roof shelter into the welcoming rays of the blue skied celestial personality. Looking up, he exhaled a nonchalant sigh that seemed to greet his world as he began his routine walk from his humble abode to the Forest of Netherham where his next meal, lumber, and possible trading partner would be found. He knew Gwynne would be visiting from the south in the afternoon and she would feed the chickens and pigs while he was on his daily expedition which allowed him to focus on his hunt. He reached the daunting tree line in timely fashion and thought nothing different of today's foray into the secrets that the shadows these trees hid. The lingering scent of the mighty oaks and the fresh dew wandered into his awareness pulling him deeper into the dark of the wood. The farther his steps carried him into the haunting green, the incessant chirping of the birds gradually grew silent and he was left with the calling of his lonesome thoughts and the cracking of a forsaken branch under his stubborn strength. The vulnerable salutation of the sun eventually gave way to the chilling embrace of the unnamed feeling exuding from the breathing shade the poisonous leaves whispered to Malhak's impending frantic blood lust. Voices, moans, and screams were what his ears heard the rooted evils release as his brown eyes began to shift nervously every which way all the while maintaining a steady gait onward knowing that his mind was mingling with the old childhood stories his older kin had shared around the fires of his innocence and naivety. So he walked on and made a habitual grasp for his vengeful fate bringer comforting his back, and found no such weapon. The Norse warrior turned around to be confronted by cold fear that wrenched his sanity from him with an icy scream protruding from the knots in the wood that shifted to faces of hateful venom. Dust, dirt and murky images of his death trailed behind him as he sprinted for a tiny ray of light beneath the shrouded asphyxiation the wooded evil created. Maniacal laughs shot from the surrounding madness that was this nightmare masquerading for a normality he held seemingly minutes earlier. Beads of sweat crawled down his face burning through the pasted dirt covering the petrified paranoia enveloping his cutting features and the panic chiseled through his leather studded breastplate leaving his equally chiseled jaw hanging from his ominous speechlessness. A giant shadow dropped from the evergreen ceiling amidst a shrill shriek that this winged monstrosity buried into the sternum of Malhak's proud defense leaving a hole that spilled crimson life and sinful blood that trickled profusely from the merciless beak of this flighted harbinger onto the floor of this fateful tree trap. He fell to his left knee and soaked his hand in the vermilion sorrow staining the dirt, his inescapable past, and the beady, murderous eyes of this ravenous villain. It seemed to resemble a raven found in the upper valleys of Heed to the north he encountered when he was still an eager sapling, as his father would have said. These thoughts swam through the red, washing his hallowed chest; his chin fell to meet his defeated collarbone as he sank back into the arms of the snickering plants with their teasing arms outstretched to falsely catch his insane surrender to this cruel ambush. The black eyed criminal shot one last vengeful stare before taking flight and escaping into the hands of ruined chaos and blood soaked regret with a resounding caw that shook the dead spirit from Malhak's torn remains to the light of Valhalla. And he rose. Valhalla rising.