August 11th, 1385 Today, I chanced upon the most unlikely friend. He’s somewhat diminutive, and his form seems to flux and shift. Encircling his head are rings, and his visage boasts tens of hollowed eyes, each brimming with a boundless curiosity toward me. Never before have I ever beheld a creature consumed with the same zeal for existence as I. Alas, he hasn’t got a name, which we must remedy as I do not believe our last conversation was the final time we will ever speak.

Mother would never approve of this arrangement, so she mustn’t ever know. She hates this entity nonsense, as she puts it. She goes on and on about how it’s such a waste of time and energy to study that which we cannot see and her lectures persist without end.

I say that is why we must study it. All that lies within our sight has long been unearthed. There’s nothing novel about book studies or maths. I find that all to be a waste of time and energy, and a lot of rubbish, might I add.

Back to my new friend, of course, with whom I crossed paths over in Merton Priory. Engaged in my obligatory studies, I was startled by a most peculiar sound—a faint whistle seeming to emanate from the very earth itself, amongst the buried. It was absolutely haunting. The way the tune carried on the wind was wistful and echoey, like a shadow of itself. Of course, I sprung to my feet, hiked my skirt, and took off running after it.

Following my diligent pursuit, I met the critter, clad in shadowy black, and he told me to be not afraid. He was staticky and flickering in the setting sunlight, seeming to be almost caught betwixt and between—neither wholly present in our world nor entirely belonging to any other. I mistook him for the spirit of a child who had recently been laid to rest. He quickly corrected me and said he had fallen from a great height and was simply finding his bearings.

Oh, the marvel he be! I haven’t got any other words to describe just how incredulous the little beast truly is. He told me about from whence he came: ‘nother world like ours but void of colour, save the brilliant golds that I saw capriciously coursing through his form like lichtenburg scaring. I inferred his appearance must be representative of this other plane of existence.

And his voice! It reverberated bizarrely. When you close your eyes, you should be able to tell where a sound is coming from based on direction and proximity. These two laws of the world did not apply to him. He would speak to me, and his voice was not derived from a single point like how my voice would my mouth; rather, it would swirl about my head, confusing my ears as to where it was coming from as it seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once.

I don’t know if I should be afraid of him. I suppose if I am meant to be, what a gift it is to feel no fear at all. I am walking with the serpent, unescorted by any higher powers to protect me. I find them needless, for this serpent is a friend. Regardless of the sharp teeth and erraticity, he is my friend.

GC June 29th, 1386 I never did believe it was possible to have an entirely individual and unique experience, yet here I am living out each and every day unlike anyone ever has before The beast and I have spent most afternoons and evenings together, reciting our histories to one another. He’s told me more about where he came from, but I’m afraid most of what he says goes right over my head, as such tales are incomprehensible to me. I cannot fathom them. The beast did present me with a gift. Its nature eludes precise definition, but it has transported me between realms. I find myself simultaneously within his world and mine, and though I remain flesh and bone, I fancy it a sort of third eye. He’s gifted me sight, for I was blind, but now I see.

This new gift has taken most of my time to explore—fascinating things, really. I’ve filled countless journals with discoveries that defy earthly logic. Mother berates me daily for what looks like staring at the ceiling is actually staring into a vast expanse of stars and galaxies unseen by any other human. "Look too deep," she nags, "and you'll find the back of your own head." Perhaps she is not entirely mistaken. I’ve neglected my practical studies, but what I’ve gotten myself into is greater than any equation or fable. Mother mustn’t find out.

GC September 17, 1387 I fear I may have befriended a true beast. While I called him this before for his appearance, the title now holds a new meaning.

The beast has taken up new hobbies, for lack of a better term. While I trust he means no harm, his curiosity often gets the better of him. I’ve seen him tear rabbits apart with his claws only to dissect what’s inside. While I explained this to him beforehand, he insisted he sees it for himself. His relentless pursuit of understanding, devoid of malice yet terrifying in its intensity, troubles me deeply. The concept of life and living and breathing and dying are positively enrapturing for a creature who has never experienced any of it, I suppose.

He doesn’t derive pleasure from the torture. At least, it does not appear that he does. The shrieks of the little animals that have fallen victim to the beast don’t enhance the experiment any. However, they also do not deter it.

Chilling is the best word I can find to describe this behaviour.

GC December 2nd, 1387 I cannot, in good conscience, continue to turn a blind eye. His experiments are growing, and he’s now targeting higher life forms, seeing nothing awry with his behaviour. I do believe there is a possibility of stopping him. Anytime I express any sort of disagreeance with his behaviour, he throws a tantrum as a toddler would if you told him he couldn’t do something he’d already set his mind to. He’s becoming more erratic and unpredictable, unleashing new entities from his other world.

He’s told me about this phenomenon: a soul link. Through this ritual, two willing (in one sense or another) souls can be joined in an unbreakable bond. I believe I hold his trust. Once he and I are joined as one, I can only hope I am strong enough to keep him at bay.

GC September 19th, 1456 This will be my final entry.

The beast and I are one now, bound by our souls, intertwined forever in a dance of control and submission. With my gift, I’m able to suppress him, and while I’d like to trust myself to keep mine own head on straight, the beast has a talent for letting you think you’re the one in control. Should I ever find myself torturing something for being alive, I shall know I am not. Not fully. I often look back on these entries. There must be hundreds by this point, filled with my discoveries about this beast, who I’ve recently taken to calling The First. A pandora’s box of terrific creatures, spirits, bogeymen, and other shadows one would encounter in the night. I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to hunting down as many as I can, but I fear I may not live long enough to fix all the atrocities The First has committed.

Sometimes, I believe I should have looked deeper into mathematics and literature. At least then, the world wouldn’t be plagued with enemies only mine own cursed eyes can see. I’ve noticed I’m starting to sound like my mother, stifling The First's desire to learn all he can about the unseen world around him. I understand her better now. I still hate her for everything, just as I’m starting to hate myself for starting to sound like my mother.

Bitterness in its purest form.

Much like The First but so painfully unaware of it.

That’s one thing the beast had on her. GC


(CW: Mental Health, Self Harm, Gore) The water down my back begins to run cold. My fingers pruned, my back hunched, a mop of hair falls into every corner of my vision. The cheap coconut conditioner is cold and fragrant. I hear banging on the bathroom door. “Hurry it up in there.” It’s my voice. The brightness in tone had faded with time. The dwindling years on my mind, there would be no patience. Not for anyone. Especially me. Two knocks punctuate the voice of my older self. “Hurry. Up.” I never understood why I decided to be roommates with myself. We each hated it. We hated each other. The worst parts of ourselves were reflected infinitely, like two parallel mirrors. Only the reflections can leave a sink of soiled dishes. My hair is a brown matted net. The water running down my back is cold now. I turn the metal handle with my foot and the room falls silent. Like a secluded cave, moist, and lifeless, I run my burning fingers through hair made of steel wool. Like a tangled slinky, like a hastily stored set of Christmas lights, I begin to unfurl. I am waiting outside the bathroom to use the shower. My hair is silver. It is shoulder-length wet. It curls into a rounded puff. Defying gravity, it adds inches to my height. I don’t know why I spent years with it so long. It was so much work. It ate away hours. It got in the way. I am happy with where I am and comfortable with a quick 2-in-one conditioner. But a sadness weighs on me. The younger ones tell me I should cheer up. They don’t know the half of it. The scars. The aches. The unyielding sense of disappointment. It’s their fault I am like this. I don’t know why I agreed to live with them in the first place. I am furiously pounding on the door. But I don’t listen. I am shrieking. I sound like my parents. I hate that I sound like my parents. I know the younger me likes it less. But I don’t care. Not Like I used to. I ignore the frantic screams outside the bathroom. I feel a sense of pity, but I am used to it. It is still my turn in the shower. I work the conditioner through my hair. It burns my scalp. A defined sear across the back of my head. It’s not supposed to do that. I’m not supposed to have a wound there either, but it’s better than it used to be. In the bedroom over, I lay in bed. My hands are buried in the mess of hair. I am younger. I dig. I scrape. I pick. I tear. There’s a mole on the back of my head. Only I know about it. Well, I suppose the rest of my roommates know about it too. It is raw. I have never seen it behind the veil of hair, but I know it is bright red, the size of a peanut, a consistent nuisance that only I can feel. Nobody else believes me. I need to sleep. Why can’t I sleep? I want to die. I don’t want to be here. My scalp oozes. My fingers are red. I keep digging. I am even younger. A child. I got out of the shower and went to school all by myself. I am in gym class now. Hair pokes out of my head like toothbrush bristles. I am running around the gym, and it reeks of old wood polish, or wax, or whatever they used. I am behind the other children. I am falling faster behind. Breathing harder, muscles aching; I sweat. The kids are smiling and laughing. I try to catch up to them. The sweat bleeds from my scalp, it smells like coconut. I want to show them, but the burning in my lungs keeps me behind. I am off work. I am a young adult. My hair had been restrained in a tight bun for countless days. It had never been this long before. I have to drive to Oregon for Thanksgiving dinner. I will drive alone. I will wear the clothes of my dead uncle. I will leave my partner behind. My family can’t know I am queer. Not yet. But first, I will let my hair down. I will wash it. It shouldn’t take long. I approach the bathroom. The oldest of us is still waiting outside. I am not waiting. I am already in the shower. But my hair had been neglected for weeks, maybe months. I have to drive to Oregon in a few hours. I force the bathroom door open. “I’m still in here,” I say frustrated. I wish my roommates would let me shower in peace. But I was angry when I was younger. I forgive myself for that. I am off work, I am younger. I have to be in Oregon in a few short hours. I rip away the curtain exposing a hunched creature with fingers blindly feeling through hair. I lift my naked body out of the shower and drop me on the cold toilet. “I have to be in Oregon,” I say to myself. “I know,” I reply from the toilet. Cold, wet, and naked I grab my phone to distract myself as I wait. I rip away my work uniform and jump in the shower. I try to wash my hair. It is the worst it’s ever been. None of us remember how long it was. The years of growth are torn out in handfuls. Hours pass. I arrive at Thanksgiving dinner late and my hair is still tangled. Now that I left for Oregon, I got off the toilet and back into the shower. I methodically work out snags and matted strands. I slowly weave the conditioner between every hair. The strands cut against wrinkled, drenched skin. My fingers accumulate strands like a brush that feels pain. Each swipe of the hand gets caught. Each strand slices skin like razor wire. This will take a while, there is no telling how long. I get back from Oregon. I am at a specialist. He cringes at the sight of my hands. I have tried everything. He gives me two prescriptions to grow the skin back and keep it: A steroid ointment. A career change. I go to work. My job matters. We are in the middle of a pandemic. People are quitting faster than we can hire. The water is boiling, but I don’t care. My bare hands plunge into the water. There is no one left to do the work. If I am not helping others, I have no other reason to exist. I don’t work that job anymore. I am older. I am in the shower. I rub my hands together, balling up the accumulated broken strands. The ball of hair is almost cute. At school, the class works on self-portraits. I am young. I am a child. I excitedly ask the teacher if I can use my own hair. My older self, with a gray poof, gives me a trim. I bring a plastic bag of my hair and glue it to my self-portrait. My classmates are repulsed. They think it’s disgusting. They think I am disgusting. I am an adult. I am still in the shower. I don’t know how long it has been. But it has been a while. I am shivering. Heat evaporates out of my body. My back is sore from hunching over. I turn the water on in hopes of heat returning. Scalding water dapples my back. I jump forward. I slip. My body impacts. My saturated hair slaps against the wall sponging my face and coating it with cheap coconut. I yelp. I stay on the floor of the shower. I am in the kitchen. I am older but still young. I portion a batch of beans into reusable plastic lunch containers. I love beans. I smile. I hear a thump from the bathroom. I must have fallen in there. The beans can wait. I approach the bathroom. I see myself with grey hair and arms crossed waiting outside. “Am I okay in there?” I ask my older self. “Why don’t you ask the pill farm you’ve been seeing,” I say to my younger self sardonically. I really do sound like my parents. “I’m trying.” I tell my older self, “You don’t have to make it harder.” “You know, I might just leave altogether,” I say to my younger self. “You’re just going to mess it up again.” “I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” I retort to my older self. Each of myself hears a cry in the bathroom. It’s me I am younger. I ignore the jabs of my oldest self and enter the bathroom. I am on the floor of the shower. Scalding water burning my skin, I let it burn me. I stay down. I approach myself in the shower. I help myself up. I set the shower to a comfortable temperature. I begin to help myself untangle. Eventually, between the two of me, hands run cleanly through. It’s encouraging. The next pass gets caught again, but I continue to gently work out the tangles. Each pass of fingers glides with greater ease. The coconut is light and fluffy as it permeates each curl. I am almost done. At least for now. There used to be color in my hair. Then there used to be bleached strands. It had all been torn out over the years. I never got it cut. It used to be down at my ankles. After years of neglect, despite consistent growth, half was left. It is a length I will cherish and nurture. I rinse. The individual curls spring freely across my shoulders and down my back. I am smiling. I wrap myself in a towel and leave the bathroom. The oldest was no longer outside. I must have moved out. I wonder if someone else is going to move in. I let the thought pass, I did have beans to make after all.


Emptiness; it has always been mysterious, yet so soothing to me. I’ve always had the dream to be in a world, where there are no people, just empty streets, no cars, and only…me, with the nature. I knew from the start of my life this would never came true, nevertheless I hoped for it, that it came true. One day. One day…  I have always been an honest and modest person my whole life, I always wished people the best and sincerely hoped they could achieve their dreams. For me, that was…an empty world, in which there’s nothing, except silence. Just the absolute silence a person needs sometimes to heal it’s wounds and start a new, refreshing life.  As I am walking over a landscape, with grass that comes as high as my ankles, I understand the meaning of life. And the reason why we are born and the reason why we love each other and, and and…the wind takes me by the hand, back to my home. Where I am waiting for that one thing, that one thing to arrive after I had gathered all my stuff together.  Whilst I stand outside, I am examining my surroundings, when a single thought crosses my mind; wow, life is wonderful. It’s such a shame it’ll be over soon. Because this life, the fact that a human is capable of creating a world, out of absolutely nothing, is astonishing. While the clouds are converging, and the fresh air is entering my nose, in and out, I have the purest feeling ever of being alive. At that moment, that indescribable moment of life, just hit me so hard, that I cried, and cried, and cried from happiness.  Being the last person on Earth isn’t as bad as it seems. You get to know Earth as it was, millions of years ago, when it was only inhabited by animals, dinosaurs and the nature. That moment makes you realise how precious life is and how lucky you are to be able to live.  After spending a couple of hours in the fresh air, I decided to go home again. They told me I had to survive 3 days in the wilderness without anyone else. I agreed with it, and since it’s been 60 hours ago they told me it, I am enjoying the last 12 hours, still here, on mother Earth herself. Healing my wounds with the fresh air and admiring nature, I checked my phone, for any new messages. *\[1 new message\]: Hey there, we will be there in a couple of hours, but we have some delay, so stay where you are. We are coming to pick you up.* It only had 3 hours left, so delay didn’t really matter I thought.  I admired nature one last time, without all the animals and just mother Earth, before returning where I lived. ‘2 minutes’, I said to myself, and checked my phone for the last message, ‘and they should be here.’ *\[1 new message\]: Hey, we had some delay, but unfortunately we are too late. Because Earth is going to give up, we need to return. We are really sorry. But we wish you the best in the afterlife.* ‘What the…?!’ I screamed, ‘this can’t be true!’. As I saw the ground under my feet tearing apart I started praying and I said to myself: ‘I’ve made some great memories, and I loved to live in an empty world, but now I wish I wasn’t the last person to take the flight to Mars…’ And before I knew, Earth and it’s whole existence, was gone, within a finger snap.


When I was 17 I cut my bottom lip on the edge of a beer can. My first concern was whether or not Brenda would still think I was a good kisser. Alan was already in the hay clutching his stomach in fits of laughter as Reggie took a deep pull from his Cuban cigar. The three of us were in the center of the Shetman pasture atop a large circular hay bale. “Staton, you idiot.” Reggie exhaled the smoke from his nose like a dragon who had just stifled a sneeze. “Nobody never taught you how to shotgun?” “You really just- just poured it on your face.” Alan was making a timely recovery from his hysterics. “Dammit, Joanie.” He pushed his thin wiry glasses up all 50 yards of his long nose. “Let the record show that Reggie Aldron still holds the Hardy Men shotgun record by half a second,” Reg boasted while glancing at his analog watch. “Um, ow!” I showed them my lip. “Quit bein’ a pussy. It’s just a scratch.” “‘’Tis but a scratch.” Alan echoed goofily. “Fellas, it’s time we saddled up the Black Cats,” said Reg as he hopped off the hay bale and scooped up a box of fireworks from the Red-Rider wagon we had parked adjacent to it. The familiar dusk of July cast a muted orange-blue tincture into the cathedral ceiling over the little farm in Masynville, Kentucky. Something about the evening felt cathartic. Maybe it was the buzzing cicadas or the cool night air setting in, or maybe it was that dreamy feeling of anticipation for the boundless summer that lay ahead. No school. No work. No worries. It was Independence Day in America if that meant anything to anyone. After all, nobody felt quite Independent anymore with ship-out day looming in the consciences of the Mars-eyed. We still celebrated in the ways we could, if not to reminisce over the Revolutionary War, then at least to set off some Roman Candles and down some booze. I related to the former, Reggie related to the latter, and we both knew that Alan had gone Mars-eyed years ago and had little concern for either. “Are you helpin’ orrr?” I was torn from my meandering thoughts to Reg, who was packing the soil with fireworks. “Nah, chief. You look like you got it under control. Plus I gotta tend to this sucker.” I pressed my handkerchief more firmly against my lip. Alan took a running start and pole-vaulted onto the hay bale using his bamboo walking stick. “Your form is bad,” I observed “Ah, Well. You may have made third in state, but never forget how badly you lost in the 400 meter to me.” “Oh, this shit again.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, this shit again.” We began to bicker loudly but were shut up real quick when we felt the unmistakable sensation of the Zippers in their tin can. You’d always feel it in your bones first. It was like someone had decided to play your skeleton like a flute, and all the air was rushing around trying to find a way out. Then the ground shook- so much so that the crows would spook and the dogs in the barn would get to barking. That sound, though. Oh, that terrible sound. It screamed the scream of a person whose throat needed water and vocal cords had all dried up and split. We clenched our ears. A pixel in the sky dilated into a sleek aircraft of silver pipes and wires. Alan and I up and ran behind Reggie as he stared with clenched fists. “They’re here early this season.” Reggie grimaced. “What do they want now?” “Probably here for inspection.” Alan’s voice betrayed a hint of pride. Now, Alan could never read the room. I often wondered if he knew we hated the Zippers and chose to ignore it, or if it truly went over his head. In any case, neither Reggie nor I were all that fond of the Martians. Our resentment, principally, was from when the Zippers decided that there was no longer room for anyone on their planet without an IQ that was yay high. Of course, Alan’s IQ *was* yay high, which is why we suspected that they’d take him in the next year. He’d ace the LIPAT with flying colors then board one of the tin cans to join the ranks of the “best and brightest of humanity,” while we the people, the common folk of earth, would stay here to till the soil and toil over the prejudice. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. We liked it here. Most of us didn’t take to the thought of change. We were all perfectly happy with our ‘76 Pontiac Sunbirds, our Coca-Cola curly straws, and our acid-wash jeans. We woke up every day to watch MTV and make scrambled eggs and hoped that it would be that way for the rest of our lives. As the spaceship zipped across the sky, Alan saluted, Reggie tossed up a middle finger, and I tended to my lip. It suddenly occurred to me that we wouldn’t be friends for long. Hell, I’m not certain that Reggie and Alan were even friends *then*. What I do remember was that the fireworks that evening were a little dimmer than they had been the last year. Maybe I only remember it that way because the sky would light up with the first interstellar war of mankind not soon after. What a damn shame.


From the moment I walked in the ballroom, I knew I was in the wrong place. This place was filled with know-it-all’s and the spoiled sons of rich businessmen. The halls were filled to the brim with holiday treats, alcohol (wait, wasn’t this party for minors?) and fancy, golden decorations that lined the walls in over-the-top Christmas cheer. Even more unfortunately than the fact that I stuck out like a sore thumb, was the fact that the actual awards show and music practice wasn’t for a few hours. Which meant that until then, I was stuck socializing. I couldn’t think of a more unappealing word at the moment.

Okay, so maybe I should have thought this whole thing through a bit more. When I got the invite for a holiday banquet for Young Musicians of the Year within our state I should have known it would involve a lot of...people…..and talking. I also didn’t consider the fact that I was a drummer, also known as the least important musical role. Whatever. Fuck that. I’d like to see half of these fancy prep boys play some guitar without a solid beat to back them up.

It might seem like I’m being pretty judgmental and rude. But considering the treatment I received at the door (and my one-hundred percent in my AP psychology class), I’m pretty sure they weren’t exactly huge fans of me. I'm not a huge fan of myself either, so I guess I can’t blame them.

I don’t really have the option not to talk to people though. There’s a lot riding on this whole thing for me. There’s a small chance that I could get a scholarship for some kind of fancy music college or something, which is really important to me. Having an alcoholic father made money kind of hard to come by, so I needed all the opportunities I could get. Unfortunately, part of the competition for the scholarship was working together with other people before the awards show. We were supposed to get together in small groups and come up with some kind of impromptu song, and I had no idea how to go about this. Well, I should probably start with trying to meet some people. Which meant I should probably take my hood off and start making eye contact while simultaneously making an effort to not punch one of these idiots in the face. Slowly, I took the hood off of my head, exposing my dark purple hair. At this moment, I was seriously regretting allowing my older sister to dye it. Most of the time, I didn’t mind it, but now was not one of those times.

Whatever. If people thought it was weird, then that was their problem. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with having purple hair. Even though my hair was short, it was a wavy mess at the front, but I thought it looked cool with the purple dye. Sighing, I walked up to where a circle of boys were standing below a spiral staircase. There were four of them, all wearing equally fancy suits with gold pocket watches. “Hey,” Their excited conversation stopped abruptly, and they all turned to look at me. One of the guys, probably the leader of the group, took a step forward.

“Hey, you plan on following your sister’s footsteps anytime soon?” He smirked as the other goons chuckled. “Excuse me?” They obviously had no idea who I was, otherwise they would have known that a) my sister was dead, and b) she committed suicide because of awful people like these ones.

“You heard me. Maybe you should just….,” the guy gestured with his hand, running it in a smooth line across his throat. “How did you know that?” Pure venom dripped from my voice, so much that even I was aware of it. I was surprised. How had they known? I sometimes had slightly aggressive tendencies that usually bothered people, but I didn’t really care right now. “I knew your sister, Seth. I helped her see who she really was. A loser. A freak. A miserable, disgusting little-” Before he could say another word, my hands wrapped around his throat like I was possessed. I felt adrenaline rush to my brain, and I had trouble reigning myself in. “I don't want to hear another word come out of your mouth, or you will have problems speaking.” At this, one of his goons laughed, whispering the word freak in my ear. I shoved him, roughly, and he fell and hit his head with a sickening crack. I felt bad for a moment, but my rage overwhelmed the guilt, and suddenly it was a full on brawl. The boy got back up quickly and pulled out a switchblade. This was a three on one fight, and the only advantage I had was my height.

The first guy, who somehow knew my sister, lunged for me, punching my stomach with such force that I almost doubled over in pain. I had to dodge, lunge, and swing while simultaneously trying to avoid that blade. Without realizing it, I had quickly knocked over two of the three guys, and the third was slowly backing away.  I glared at him, turning on my heels and walking away, trying to find an abandoned hallway I could use to rethink my life decisions and consider what an idiot I was. I hadn’t lost my control like that in…..a long time. Whatever. Those assholes deserved every fucking bruise. It was a short fight, but quite a violent one. Getting into physical fights was something I was smart enough not to do, but Ziara was a sore spot. Ever since her death, our family, (and my happiness) was in ruins.  I couldn’t think about that now, though. How on earth was I meant to get a scholarship now? Those preppies seemed to know what they were doing, and I figured that word would travel quickly around here. The thing was, this entire thing counted on me being able to make friends, or at least acquaintances. Clearly, I wasn’t so good at that.

Opting to just roam around the halls for a moment, I jumped off the window ledge I had been standing on and continued down the hallway, rolling my eyes at the gaudy Christmas decorations. As I turned the corner, I heard a muffled yelp. What was that? It almost sounded like a pained animal, but that seemed highly unlikely. Racing down the corridor, I followed the sounds of the panicked voice, stopping when I saw a tightly closed door. I pressed my face to the thick wooden door, listening for any noises. Silence. Frustrated, I banged my fist on the door angrily, rolling my eyes. This place was a hellhole.

“Who’s there?”

That was all I needed. Quickly, I twisted the door handle and slipped into the room, ready to face whatever was inside. The room was dark, lit only by the faint Christmas candles that gave the room a sugary scent. It was overall, a quite lovely...lounge room? However, I was more concerned with the fact that two boys were holding a third smaller boy against the wall. Somehow they hadn’t noticed me come in. Idiots. I mean, yeah, the room was dark, but I’m sure me opening and closing the door caused some sound.

“We know you can sing, Keith,” One of the taller boys with thick, black hair threatened. Keith. So that was the smaller one’s name. Keith looked panicky, his bright blue eyes darting around the room as if searching for escape. He seemed angry, fighting against the restraints, but the combined power of the slightly taller boys was making it hard for him to move. “We need a singer. And you’re the only one left. Sing for us. “ “Fuck you!” Keith exclaimed angrily with sudden vigor, pushing the first boy off of him. However, the other boy was stronger, and quickly tackled Keith, who started violently coughing under the pressure. Wait...was he coughing blood? Okay, time to intervene. I rushed into the scene, pulling one of the boys off of Keith and shoving him roughly to the ground. I wasn’t exactly a huge fan of physical fighting, but I didn’t see another effective option. Surprised, the other one released their hold on Keith, and I swept him up off of the ground, placing him upright. Keith crumpled to the ground though, and the two other guys took this as an opportunity to lunge at me. Fantastic. I really love coming to parties and then being provoked before finding some dudes trying to asphyxiate some attractive boy they wanted to be their singer. Blinking at my own strange thoughts, I barely dodged out of the way in time, jumping nimbly to the side.

It appeared that Keith was unable to walk, but he had managed to drag himself near the entrance. That was good. I stepped to the left, and as soon as the other boys moved to follow me, I sprinted to the door and picked up Keith, who let out a startled noise at the sudden movement. It was hard carrying an entire person (though that person happened to be a good three inches shorter than me and not very heavy), but I was strong enough. Opening the door with my elbow, I left the room, making sure to give the guys a middle finger as I slammed it in their faces.

I hurried down the hallway, shifting Keith, who seemed slightly annoyed at being carried bridal style. Whatever. He could tolerate it, especially considering he couldn’t walk. Eventually I ended up near the window ledge I had previously sat one, and I decided to set him down here.

“Um...I could have walked….” Keith started, giving me a look. “Sure, is that why you’re leaning heavily against the wall right now and wincing?” Yeah, uh, there was no way he could have walked. Keith blushed and looked away. Adorable. Wait, what?? Jesus, what on earth was I thinking? Shaking my head at my own thoughts I turned to Keith. “Seth Kimura,” I said, offering him my hand. “I’m Keith Hollindale.” We shook hands and he swallowed nervously before speaking again. “So uh...thanks...for saving me. I appreciate it a lot.” “It was no big deal. Those guys were jerks. Seriously, it’s like everyone in here got infected with some evil let-me-be-an-asshole virus or something.”

“I know right, like if you want a singer for the concert later maybe try being nice to them first,” Keith replied, smiling. Oh. The impromptu concert. I had been so busy stopping fights (and getting into them), that I hadn’t even thought about it. I had no idea what I was going to do, especially since most people were already rehearsing. Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

“Hey, do you want to work together for the concert? We still have an hour left,” I said with a sudden bout of courage. Keith was quiet for a moment, and I began to regret my decision.

“Yeah, that sounds really nice,” he quietly responded. “Um...if that’s okay with you?” “Of course, I offered after all.” “R-right,” he said blushing again. Geez, why on earth did I find that so adorable? “What role do you play?” Keith asked me. “I’m a drummer.”

“Awesome, “ Keith said, his face lighting up, “I’ve never really practiced with one before. “Well, I guess I’ll be your first then. Let’s go find somewhere to rehearse.” “Why do they call it an impromptu concert if we get to practice?” Keith looked confused for a moment.

“I have no idea,” I said, laughing, and for the first time since arriving, I was glad I decided to come.


The Cuckoo Clock The phone rang at exactly 8:05am in the morning. Greg rolled over on his side fearful of who would be on the other line. He had been through this time and time again. There was in fact so much one could do before it was time to cut the cord. He laid on his back, eyes wide awake listening to the sound of the ringer play a lyric from his now least favorite song. “This is now, the beginning, and now together, this is the end”. As the ringer slowed to a muted fate, Greg looked about his room and took in the array of clothes, glass, broken clock, and the usual debacle that “she” would usually leave in her path as she departed.

In less than an hour he would have to resume his other life. As he walked around the glass, careful to not cut his toes yet again, he closed his eyes for just a moment to transport himself back, way back to just before “she” came into his life. He notes with a sigh that the man he once was, happened to be smiling in the memory. Carefree, relaxed, usually curled up on an old worn chair with his notebook scribbling feverously about a dream or illusion that captured his spirit just hours before. As Greg picked up the old weathered clock, the cuckoo torn between saying hello or choosing to hide within the recesses of the wiring. Frowning, Greg knew what it felt like to feel that pull of in between the abyss of dismal to nothing.

As the clock chimed a broken nine o’clock, Greg headed out of his trailer and into his old beat up truck, petting his dog Rusty on his way. Driving down the long windy road giving way to meadows of corn fields and pastures, for anyone else this would appear peaceful. For Greg all he could see was “her” walking along hand in hand, laughing at some silly comment he made, or a joke he told that he knew wasn’t very funny, but she couldn’t care less as she smiled and his heart would melt at the sound of her voice. For all she cared, he could tell her how he fell in something wet, and the something, well one could use their imagination he would chuckle. “Greg darling, you are the funniest, kindest, most generous man, in all the world, and I am the luckiest girl to be with you”. Not allowing himself to be lost in the moment, Greg turned into the parking lot of his once favorite landmark and where he lived so many years happy and scribbling his fantasy of “her”.

He walked with purpose to the front door of the old aching monstrosity laid out before him. He pushed with now it seems these days all his might as the great heavy door heaved slightly open, revealing an old mildew smell that he had just remembered cleaning hours before. His eyes adjusted to the light as the reflection bounced off thousands of charms on the crystal chandelier that hung in the foyer of the great room. “She” had names for it would seem, everything in life that was inanimate to most, but to her she found a beating heart and therefore would name the lost soul to make it feel as if it had a home. His car the old pick up that spent years traveling with them to and fro that destination and the next was simply “Rocket” to “her” it was named aptly and there it remained.

Pausing in the wake of his memory once lost to him, he sat down in an old arm chair to rest his tired eyes. If he concentrated just enough he could feel “her” finger tips running through his now thinning, gray hair. He knew there wasn’t a ghost around but to Greg “her” had found a way to live on through him and would be waiting for him when he was ready to find the courage to leave. Just now his eyes blinked rapidly and he began to focus, he could hear voices near distance. That didn’t seem right, no one would be here but him and the sacred memory of “her”. “Greg it’s time for your medication now, don’t forget story hour is starting in a few”. A large burly woman in a white coat held out a small paper cup with three pills for him to swallow. Greg took a moment to take in the woman’s name tag thatread Marty, her shoulders were as broad as a linebacker, he swore he could make out a mustache over her glibly shaped lips. Greg could feel a panic rise to his chest, he looked around and was surprised to see that he wasn’t in the great room with “her”. He walked hurriedly to the window to look for “Rocket” and she was nowhere to be found. Marty was following him at a very slow, measured pace, she seemed like it was her life’s mission to watch him. “I don’t understand, I was just in our home, I was snoozing in my chair and “she” was there with me running her hands through my hair”. “Now, now Gregory it’s fine, just fine, you have been reading too many books again and getting ideas about a life that you have never lived.” “NO, I don’t understand, I want my chair, I want my clock, I want my”.

Suddenly his head felt woozy, he could feel a deep spell being cast upon him, he felt Marty take him by the hand and slowing drag him, saying it was time to get some sleep. That all his books and memories would be waiting for him in the morning. “What about story hour?” he heard himself mumble. “Gregory, you tell the same story every day, but you don’t realize that you are in here because you couldn’t let her love another. You have paid the ultimate price to love and now you must be a burden to us and yourself. Let’s go Gregory, the library isn’t going anywhere, it’s the only place that gives you and the other doctors and nurses just a few hours of peace and quiet. With those final words, Greg felt his eye lids drooping to a close, his memory a black hole and the words of the pages he had written fall away to the darkness that enveloped his soul as he slipped into a dark coma hoping to erase the memory of “her” in the library of their home with the old cuck coo clock andchards of broken glass. That song’s lyric was the last words she heard as his hands penetrated her neck and she stepped into a light and away from his endless and timeless love forever. THE END


There it was. The edge. I could smell the fresh salty misty air and if I inhaled through my mouth I let myself believe I could taste it too. I should jump and get it over with while I still have the nerve. Into the deep pool of water below me, that was Lake Rhine. The area we're in is mostly secluded and hidden, you would only know it if you were told what you were looking at...or if you accidentally found it like I did. There's almost always a mist rainbow over the water making the water itself look multi-colored. Today the weather is perfect to jump. The sky is blue and the water is cool. I came here today with my boyfriend, Lukas. He watches me carefully wondering if I will chicken out again, but at the same time, he is extremely supportive. While I work up the nerve to jump I debate which parts will be the scariest to endure. The moment before you hit the water is the worst part and yet the best. I'm a smooth diver I guess, the lead swimmer on my team at school. I've never done anything like this, though. Never would have before if Lukas hadn't opened up my mind to adventures. It's the anticipation of the cold, fresh water compared to the breezy and warm summer air that I think I will like. Lukas looks at me reassuringly and takes my hand. It's the first time I've taken him to my favorite spot in all of my hometown, Rhine and he doesn't even seem fazed by the height of the cliff we're going to jump off of. It's the first time I've been able to actually jump too. Because of him. Everything I am today is because he makes me so much better of a person. I smile back at him and count down. Three. Two. One. I smile and we jump in unison. He screams on the way down with excitement and complete joy. I scream in terror. As soon as we jumped I thought of everything that could go wrong. Nothing did go wrong though, at all. Going down and feeling the wind grasp at my hair and roll across my skin felt like I was swimming through air. The feeling faded too soon, and before I knew it we were at the water. Neither of us held our breath when we hit the water with a huge splash, still holding hands. So we end up surfacing and choking up water looking like quite the pair. When we finally stop coughing and look at each other...he splashes me with water. This starts a flurry of flashing hands and diving underwater to escape the water being pushed at us. Eventually, we stop playing and just look at each other. We burst out laughing. He stops laughing a few seconds after I did but the beautiful smile he has that bares his top row of teeth and hides the bottom row doesn't fade in the slightest and it makes my heart flutter uncontrollably. He kisses me on the forehead lightly and I blush. We twine our hands together, his practically enveloping mine. "Again?" We spend the rest of the afternoon jumping twice more, each time more magical than the last one. I wonder if it is time for me to finally tell him I love him. It's been six months since we started dating and I feel more for him than I have anyone else in my entire life. He awakened a part of me that wants to see the world and do new things. An adventurous part of me. We set up the blanket and food and watch the sunset as we eat. Well, he watches the sunset and I look at him nervously debating what the best way to tell him how I feel is. I look at his blonde hair and my gaze works its way down, brown eyebrows, green eyes, roman nose, and then to his lips wondering if they'll say the words back when I confess to him those three big words. "Lukas," I start, but he looks at me with a strange look on his face that I instantly like. This expression of seriousness, anxiety, and affection. My voice fails me when he looks at me and beats me to the words I was going to say. "I love you, and I don't care if it's too soon to say it. I really, really love you and you mean the world to me," he says. My heart sputters and practically dies at those words. I remember to kickstart it when I take too long to respond and he looks down feeling embarrassed. I reach over and cup his chin with my palm. "And you're my universe, I love you too," I say back to him. His gaze floods with meaning and I love it. I want to freeze this moment and look into that expression forever. Unfortunately, I can't, so I settle on snuggling up close to him, and then we both look to the sky. All of the sudden a shooting star passes and we both snap our eyes shut and make a wish. I wish for infinity with you. I think to myself. He opens his eyes and I realize I must have said the words out loud. I look away and pretend I didn't say anything until he looks at me. "That was my wish, too," he says. 10 years later, here we are sitting with our beautiful daughter Rhine. She's turning three today, and next month is our five-year anniversary. To this day Lukas still gives me the same look when I walk into a room, and I still have to kickstart my heart when he does. Infinity we said, and infinity we are getting. I will never regret taking the leap of faith with him at the Rhine Lake, and I thank the universe for that shooting star every night when Lukas kisses me goodnight.


Ashta is a town like any other: full of wonderful people, clear skies, and surrounded by a lush forest. The neighbors were friendly, the air was clean, and everyone never wanted to leave. What sets Ashta apart from the rest of the world is that the town sits atop a large mountain, making contact with any other village nearly impossible. They would get supplies straight from Ashta, which means everything was grown and handmade. The lush forest that surrounds them lies at the bottom of the steep slope, making the fall down mean inevitable death. For Taylor, the fall sounds more like an adventure, a journey, rather than asking for death. Everyone in Ashta lives and breathes the fresh air of the mountain, seeming content with living above the world forever. But what happens below the trees? Beneath the pine and oak, the green and brown that seems to stretch forever, there has to be more below the town than everyone makes it out to be.

When asked what Taylor wanted for her 17th birthday, she responded immediately, “I want to go down the mountain.”

Her parents reacted like every other member of Ashta; they changed the subject. They’d deny, deflect, and get the topic of conversation away from the fact that their daughter or friend wanted to leave their perfect paradise near the clouds. Little did they know that deflecting would cause them more pain. Taylor, a teen on a mission, would set out every night to the edge of Ashta. She had been walking the outer edge and looking out to the trees. At night, below the mountain, it was pitch black. When the wind began to pick up, it would blow the leaves enough for the sound to carry to the town, but nothing could be seen moving over the edge.

It had taken Taylor a while to complete the circle around the edge. After two weeks of leaving her bed and coming back before her parents noticed she was gone, the journey had been complete. The hand-drawn map that lay beneath her bed whispered to her as the day went on. Today was the day she would descend the mountain. It would be idiotic of her to try and go down at night. As said before, the forest could not be seen when the sun went down. The location with the most clearing had been marked, and Taylor would be going during the day to see if her eyes had been correct in choosing the marked path. She quickly slipped out of the house; her parents watching television together was an easy distraction. Hopping onto her bike, she began the journey to the location on the map. Her travels took less time than in the dark. It was like the sun was encouraging her to follow her plan. She would nod to the neighbors and say ‘hello’ to the students in her class but never stopped to chat. If she did, she might consider going back home and never touching the trees beneath the city. She couldn’t back down, not after all of this time and energy she had spent on it.

Taylor arrived within 20 minutes. The path was the clearest out of the rest of the edge, just like she had thought. It had a few large rocks, but it went the furthest down without being swallowed by the trees. She took a moment—not too long to think about what she was about to do—to look back at her hometown. The place she grew up, the place she loved, from the bottom of her heart. But her heart also called to the forest beneath her.

Before she began to think of the memories she had in Ashta, before she began to regret her decision and turn back, Taylor took a deep breath and pushed off on her bike down and over the edge of the town. The point of continuing on her bike was to help her explore once she made it down. Little did she know that the journey down would be much more difficult to navigate and control on a two-wheeled object. The initial drop over the lip of the edge made Taylor’s heart fly out of her chest. It wasn’t a gradual slope but an almost horizontal line for a while before moving to a steep one. Taylor had assumed the horizontal slope wouldn’t last as long as it did. It felt like she was free falling off her town rather than riding her bike down. In a flash, Taylor began thinking of her friends, neighbors, and poor parents. What had she done? Did she think of a way to get back up? Will she make it down to the forest conscious? Her tires hit the steep slope hard before she could think of anything else—hard enough to bend the front tire and cause her to let go of the object as she flew over the handlebars. She managed to twist her body enough for her shoulder to take the impact rather than her head. The hard smack was followed by a loud ‘pop’ and a seething pain in her shoulder. As she landed, her body bounced like a rubber ball. She continued bouncing down the slope, smacking against the earth with enough force to knock the rocks she hit off of their tucked-away home in the dirt.

The air continuously knocked out of her, forcing her to keep silent during her fall. Did anyone notice her going off the edge? Would anyone be able to help her? Her shoulder was in so much agony. That pain was nothing compared to landing on a sharp rock. Almost all of the force of the land went straight to her right leg, a loud snap accompanying it. Taylor still couldn’t scream, her lungs filling with dirt and dust. She couldn’t breathe; the natural coughing fit was not helping her panicking brain. The world spun, making it hard to tell how far she had fallen. Taylor opened her eyes, which had closed a long time ago, only to watch her bike approaching her. It wasn’t a moment longer that the handlebars collided with her forehead, knocking her unconscious. Her body continued flinging and falling, her bike rolling with her and tangling her limbs between the metal. It was hard to tell what was girl and what was bike.

Upon finding one of the many trees beneath the mountain, Taylor’s body wrapped around the trunk, her bike hanging around her to pin her to the forest floor. Before sighing for one last time, Taylor could feel the tree bark digging into her skin. At least she was able to touch the forest like she always wanted.


Jasper is always on these neverending world tours with Hoffman’s Circus now, but back when I knew him he was just a klutz. Always showing off in front of girls, performing magic tricks that always seemed to involve him briefly holding their hands, doing tricks on his skateboard, playing with hacky sack or poi. Even with only me as his audience on our cycle rides around the outskirts of town looking for stuff for him to photograph, he was always jumping about. It’s surprising any of his photos actually came out in focus, really. On a May bank holiday, he wanted to go to the abbey ruins. I’d just finished my college essay (2000 sweated out words on the Ottoman Empire) and it was looking like it was shaping up to be a pretty nice day. I told Mum and Dad I was headed out. I remember Mum making me some sandwiches to take, still cut into quarters, despite the fact I’d recently turned 18. Guess you never stop being a child to your parents. She stood at the door and watched while I put them in my bike’s wicker basket (another idea of hers, which I had to admit had been pretty useful. Even though Jasper bent double laughing at it every time I cycled up to his, it didn’t stop him stowing his camera in it while he was off goofing around). I got the awkward bit out of the way with him quickly that day. “Mum asked me to ask you to tell Linda we don’t need her till two o’clock on Monday ‘cause someone’s coming to look at the boiler.” “Harsh way to talk about your mother, dude.” I swatted him for that. “But yeah, will pass it on.” Then he ribbed me about my shorts. First time I’d been out that year in something other than trousers. You see, that’s how we knew each other, Jasper and I. His mum worked for mine. And a fair few of the other mothers of the other kids at my college. Jasper lived with Linda and her older (much too older, we agreed) boyfriend Rennie in a park home about five miles east of where I lived. He had a stepsister too, Meg her name was, and not gonna lie; I was a little obsessed with her when I met her. She was 21, had hair that fell to her waste like black silk and chain smoked. But friend’s family members and exes are off limits, that’s the rule. Anyway, Linda (also a bit of a hot ticket, not that I’d have admitted that to Jasper on pain of death) came to help out at the house and one time she’d brought Jasper as she couldn’t get a sitter. God knows what Rennie was doing. He probably had an urgent appointment at the bookies. So that’s how Jasper and I met. Despite him being three years younger, decades it feels when you’re that age, we really hit it off. He ended up coming over to play Prince of Persia whenever Rennie was bugging him, which was a lot, or to walk my lab Bevan with me. Business out the way, we began our journey, me slowly cycling with him near-jogging or us both walking with him being annoyed I kept bumping the front wheel into the backs of his legs whenever he turned around to tell me something. But with the sun beating down and girls with more leg on display than we’d seen in months, we were pretty dang chipper. We got up to the abbey from the west side while finishing a minor squabble on what the correct lyrics were in an R.E.M. song. Jasper took off the camera that had been bouncing on his chest and ran up the rest of the way to the first scatterings of stone. My nose started twitching in the first sign of a hay fever attack. Jasper commenced his usual monkeying around, doing cartwheels and handstands. Then something on the other side of the slope caught his attention. “Martin,” he hissed. “Get over here.” My eyes were beginning to tingle. I scrunched up the ends of my sleeves and balled them into my sockets. “What is it?” I asked, navigating the bike between broken bits of abbey, looking for a good corner I could prop it up in. He beckoned furiously. He looked like a vulture perched on a plinth, flapping a wing. Having found a good parking spot, I joined him. “Look,” he said. “Buncha freaks!” I was bracing myself for some couple making out or kids doing some tagging. Not the scene that lay before us – some satanic ritual. In broad daylight. Then a cameraman called out and the woman laid out on a slab, surrounded by five guys in black and white facepaint, sat up and adjusted her corset. “How much longer? I can hardly breathe and I’m sweating buckets in this thing.” The guys laughed, and one handed her a bottle of water. “Must be a music video,” said Jasper, transfixed. “Well, we hope,” I replied. “I’m going to get my camera.” He scrambled off to retrieve it while I rubbed my eyes and stifled a sneeze. Jasper hopped back up on his plinth, then jumped to a higher column. He took a moment longer assessing the distance to the next one along, before leaping on that. He swayed a little, before steadying himself by clutching the sides of the column in his crouch. “Careful up there,” I said, patting my pockets in search of a hankie, not wanting to tear my gaze from him. It was like, we’d had the theatre, and now we have the performance art. He stuck his tongue out at me, then did a handstand. “Whoops,” he said as the camera bounced off the top of the rock. Just as well I’d bought him a protective case for it last Christmas, although he joshed me for that at the time, saying he was sorry he didn’t get me knee pads in return to wear while cycling. Refreshed, it looked like the band members were in position again. From a van, a blast of heavy metal interrupted the usual tranquillity of the spot. Birds flew out the trees and squirrels raced up them. One of the leather-clad dudes was having his make up retouched. Jasper took a few snaps. “Hey, maybe they’ll want to buy these off me. Exclusive behind the scenes footage.” I nodded, but this nearly shook stuff out my nose, so I stopped. I stifled three sneezes in a row. “Or maybe the fans will want them,” Jasper continued, oblivious to my distress. He readied himself to jump to the next column over. I looked from the top of it down to its base and realised just how far up he was getting. He knows I hate it when he does this. All the fear he should be feeling transfers to me. All the envy I felt, that never transferred to him. He was flexing his knees ready to bounce, while the cameraman screamed out some direction over the top of the music and I let out a mammoth sneeze that just about blew my head off. Jasper had not factored these sonic disturbances into his spontaneous parkour. As such, he jumped a tad too much to the left – away from my sneeze, I noted with some pride, even in my horror. Down he went, landing heavily on the cracked earth with a sound like a sodden pile of laundry. Flomp. I dashed to his side. He was trying to rise up, looking like a body builder on his thousandth push up, groaning like Frankenstein’s monster. I got my hands under his pits, trying my best to ignore the warm damp I felt there. “Dude, what the fuck, are you okay?” He grunted. He was favouring his right foot as he stood. He gingerly put the left on the ground, and yelped. The band members recognised such sweet music and all turned their pale faces. One of them, musta been about 6’5”, started making strides towards us. It was like watching a skinny giant coming to pick you out for lunch. Especially as he was also swinging a battle axe. Fe fi fo fum. For a moment I considered throwing him a quarter of sandwich. “Hey what’s up with your buddy?” the giant rumbled. The rest of the gang had caught up with him and were making sympathetic noises, having seen the awkward angle Jasper’s left foot was poking out at. “He fell,” I said. “He was climbing up there,” I was careful not to add ‘ to get a better look at you’ , “and then he fell”. I watched stupidly as Jasper wrinkled his nose and fought back tears, leaning on the treacherous pillar. “Harsh,” observed a man with an upside down cross painted on his forehead that was in danger of dripping down into his eyebrows. “We’ve got a phone in the van,” the giant offered, pointing his axe at the vehicle. “I’ll ask Tiff to call an ambulance. OI, TIFF!” He shouted instructions at her and with not a small amount of huffing and awkwardness, she wriggled off the table. I put the image of her skirt riding up to the back of my mind to deal with later. * * * “Hi, I’m looking for Jasper…Jasper Timms. Came in here with a foot injury a little while ago.” I had declined the offer for a ride in the ambulance. I loved Jasper, but I loved my bike too. The woman on reception squinted at her screen. I watched her orange fingernails plod at her keyboard. Only two of her fingers under their neon hats seemed to have been trained how to type. “Down the corridor, third door on the left,” came the reply, after a small eternity. “Thanks.” I peered round the side of the third door. Jasper was slumped on a bed, looking glum, although he perked up when he clocked me. Probably saw my nose first. Dad always said I’d inherited his, the famous Marson nose that always entered rooms before their owners did. “So what’s the damage?” I asked him, taking a chair in the corner which certainly wasn’t chosen on the grounds of the comfort it afforded. “Two fractures.” “Ouch.” Jasper nodded. “Some bank holiday this is turning out to be, huh.” “Oh, I don’t know, man. We got to get out in nature, get some exercise…bear witness to a sacrifice.” We both snickered. “We hung out with rock stars and you got to ride in an ambulance. What was that, like your fourth time now?” “Fifth,” he replied with that lopsided grin that would go on to work very well for him with the ladies in years to come. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want anything?” “Wouldn’t mind a coke.” “Sure thing.” I stepped back out in the corridor, debating for a moment whether to go and ask at the desk, then realising I could probably find the machines myself quicker than that. I trudged along, focusing on my shoes squeaking on the green floor to dissuade myself from the temptation to peer into any doors open a crack. I figured it was bad enough patients having to wear those gowns that left your butt hanging out without a teenager gawping at them. A couple more corners and I found the drink machines. I got my coffee, then fumbled in my pockets for a coin for Jasper’s coke. Found one, shoved it in the machine and followed the instructions. I’m pretty sure you know how it works. Only, usually you get the can you want in exchange for feeding in money. Something got glued up in the mechanics of this box though. I slapped the side of it, muttering mean words about its mother. The cans and crisp packets seemed to gleam mockingly at me. You can look, but you can’t touch. “Screw it!” I looked to my left and right, making sure nobody was around. I was going to get this drink for my young friend one way or the other. I stood back so I could get a bit of a run up and drove my foot into the chilled prison of caffeinated delights. I slopped red hot coffee all over my hand and got a broken toe for my trouble. But at least I was in the right place to be treated. I limped back the way I’d come, the tang of disinfected hospital piercing even my traumatised nostrils. “Hey Jasper…you know how you’re always saying I should take a leaf outta your book? Well…”


The gang began walking towards the village; Marshall leading the way, carrying the heavy sack of books over his shoulder. Every so often I would look back to Alessia to try and see if she wanted to leave. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to be here. However, any time I hesitated to head back to her, she signalled for me to keep walking. Our minds were made up. We would see this to the end. There was a great crack of thunder in the sky above. The clouds gave way and heavy rain poured from the heavens, smacking off the leaves of the trees with a persistent hammering. I increased my pace and reached Monica at the back of the group. “So Marshall and Rachel,” I shouted over the storm. “What happened between them?” “They were childhood friends, teenage sweethearts, adult lovers,” she started. Right up until about five years ago. But Marshall was never much into the island ethos and Rachel started getting involved in the executive group, so they went their separate ways and they just kept... drifting further apart.” “Do they really hate each other that much?” “There’s still love. That’s why Rachel never really tried coming after us; gave Marshall some flex.” “And now?” “We’ll find out in a few minutes.” The world temporarily lit up as a shot of lighting rippled across the sky. In that instant, I could see the slight fear in Monica’s eyes, and the still calmness in Marshall’s. I went back to concentrating on where I placed my feet on our walk along the dark and uneven forest floor. But in the back of my mind I was still remembering the the library Alessia had told me about earlier. I was keen to see what would happen here on Aila Flagstones, no doubt. But a part of me was also dreaming of reaching Ringatoy Shires, and the rich labyrinths of knowledge that might hold the secret to what created the Archipelago. We reached the settlement. We followed Marshall as he marched to the center of the village and then stopped. Rain poured from his face and fell to the dirt, slowly turning the ground to mud. He looked left and right at the nearly deserted streets, the citizens scampering from the rain. He raised his voice, stretching his diaphragm to let out a roar louder than the thunder. “Everyone. Come. See what we have found. See what the leaders want to keep from you. We have the truth!” Marshall threw down the sack. Slowly, people were drawn to the sound; peering their heads out from behind closed doors, or taking a few tentative steps out into the rain. “Come. Come closer.” Marshall called out. The rest of the group beckoned people to them, smiling at the confused citizens. Robin grabbed one woman by the hand, and with a wide smile, dragged her to the front of the crowd. However, growing in unease I made a few paces back, creating a thin bit of distance between myself and the group. I looked to Alessia next to me, her hand was paused by her side, ready to grab the knife in her belt if needs be. Marshall looked out to the crowd and smiled. “For the past few months our leaders have been bringing crates to the islands, filled with books. But they don’t do this to share the knowledge with you, but instead, to keep it from you, to burn it. The truth is, the old world was glorious. It was not as we have been shown on the images in the museum. They are lies. There is no great time to reminisce over. We, now, are just as good as they ever were.” He paused, looking at the faces of the onlookers. A small murmuring broke out among the crowd, before it was quickly snuffed out by a growl from the heavens. Marshall reached down to the sack. He threw a few books to the side, before picking one up. He held it in his hand with a wide simper. “Let me read you some facts about the old world,” he announced in a honeyed voice. Marshall flicked through the book. Raindrops landed on the paper, darkening the pages and matting them together. But there was still enough for Marshall to read. “At the start of the twenty-first century, twenty-seven percent of people didn’t have sufficient access to safe nutritional food, and eleven percent were under-nourished. Twenty-two percent of children, that’s right, children, had stunted growth from malnutrition. Even in the richest nation at the time - the United States - four percent suffered severe food insecurity….” I grabbed Alessia’s arm. “We need to get out of here. This could go wrong quickly, and Rachel already doesn’t trust us.” “We can’t,” she replied. “Why not?” I asked. “You offer someone protection, you stand by it,” she replied, her eyes focussed onto the back of Robin’s head. “What?” I asked. Alessia didn’t respond. Instead Marshall’s voice filled the silence. “...There were fifty separate wars between, and within countries. Those wars drove nearly one in every one hundred people from their homes…” “Marshall stop!” The crowd parted as Rachel and others walked through. “It’s too late,” Marshall smirked, shaking his head. “No it’s not. You know how this ends if you don’t.” “People deserve the truth,” Marshall outstretched his arms pointing to the crowd around them. I quickly tugged Alessia’s arm once more. She didn’t budge. “Marshall, please. Please, stop.” The rain poured down Rachel’s face, and it was difficult to tell if it was masking tears. “Or what…?” Marshall said through gritted teeth. “You’re going to shoot me. Me?” He stared at Rachel. She held his eye for a few seconds, until she broke contact and turned her gaze to the mud. “Thought so,” Marshall said. He pulled the book up with a straight arm in front of him. “Prejudice against different groups was rampant. In seventy-one countries…” Rachel pulled the gun from the waist of her trousers, lifted it, and fired. The book flew from Marshall’s hand, its pages landing facedown in the muck. Marshall stared at his chest for a brief second, before he fell back, prone, dead on the floor. Robin ran to his side, screaming his name. She instinctively recoiled her hand as it touched the warm blood of his chest. “I will KILL you…” she screamed. “Arrest the others,” Rachel ordered to those around her. “Seize the books. This ends now.” I pulled hard on Alessia’s arm. “We have to go now.” Alessia resisted. “We can’t.” “There’s nothing we can do, but if we don’t go they will come for us.” I could feel Alessia’s whole body tense through my grip on her arm. She surveyed the scene, and the guards moving in to grab Robin and the others. She swallowed a scream and turned away from the sight. “You’re right. Let’s go.” We began walking away as quickly as we could, sneaking behind buildings to stay out of the line of sight. Our pace slowly increased until we reached the forest and we ran. “Where are we going to go?” I asked. “The boat. We leave now,” “What about the storm?” I looked to the sky as rain flooded my eyes. “It’s beginning to pass. We’ll chance it.” We continued to head along the dark path to the beach, adrenaline allowing us to continue running far beyond what I normally could. My lungs burning, my feet damp from the puddles, we continued to run until the path slowly began to widen as we reached the beach. Alessia slowed her pace to a jog. “We just left them,” she shouted. “What were we supposed to do?” I replied, pulling up alongside her. “Protect her.” “What?” “Protect Robin, you numbskull.” She stopped, bending over with her hands resting on her thighs. “We should’ve protected her.” I paused, looking down and catching Alessia’s eyes. “I wish there was something we could do for them. But there’s not. If we go back that way, we die too. There is no helping. We’re not safe ourselves yet.” I looked back behind us up the path. “Besides, I thought you weren’t one for getting involved.” “I don’t get involved because you pick your fights, Ferdinand.” She stood tall again, the anger boosting her. “When you get involved, once you offer protection, you stand by it. You live by it. You don’t offer help one day, and then turn away as soon as stuff starts going south and your chicken shit.” “We had to leave,” I said softly. “Maybe. Probably. All I know is there’s a girl back there who thought we had her back and were on her side, and now she knows we’re not.” She shook her head. “If you ain’t gonna be consistent in what you do then you’re nobody. No character. And out here, character and consistency is all we’ve got.” “I’m sorry.” “So am I,” she said with a clenched jaw. She took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. I know you mean well. But just… remember this isn’t an exploration for everyone. For some people it’s their lives.” We both caught a faint flicker of lanterns further up the path coming from the town. We turned, and stared at the distant swaying light. “They’re coming. We should go,” Alessia said with a sudden urgency. We ran to the jetties and jumped onto the boat. I untied the ropes, as Alessia unfurled the sails. With the ropes loose, I pushed the boat away from the jetty with all my strength, desperate to create even a single meter of distance between us and the island. The sails opened, the wind caught, and we began being dragged away from the island. “It’s going to take us a while to get anywhere in this weather,” Alessia said, bracing her face against the rain. “The sea’s going to get choppier as we get out of the bay too.” I felt the unsteadiness of my feet as the boat fought against the sea. I bit my tongue and took a deep breath. “Alessia, I need you to take me to Ringatoy Shires.” “What?” “I need to go to Ringatoy Shires. Can you take me there?” Alessia let go of the wheel, and let out an audible tut, raising her arms. “You know I still have to make a living, right? I’m already delayed?” “I can pay you. I’ll pay you what you need.” I widened my eyes, clasping my hands in front of me. “One of the reasons I left was to find out what caused the Archipelago. That library might have the answers. If it’s as big as you say it is, I might be able to find the answer there.” Alessia turned from me, and grabbed the wheel once more, staring out to the blackness in front. “If I drop you off there, I can’t wait. This travelling together, it ends. I have to sail on.” “I know.” Alessia shook her head. “It’ll add a day to the journey, but I can take you.” “Thank you. Thank you.” “Don’t... Don’t thank me,” Alessia replied, refusing to look at me. “I’m gonna need you controlling the front sail.” I nodded, and headed down to the steps to the front of the ship. The boat pulled out of the bay and hit the open sea. As soon as we did, an ocean wave crashed into the side of the boat, and a tall spray of water cascaded over me. The seas would be rough, but we were on our way. \ This concludes Aila Flagstones. New island starts 4th May.


“Get the candles!” “Where are the flashlights?” “Mommy I can’t see!” The city was chaos. Just a few weeks ago we were living in peace. We went to school. With the light! “Hey, Jamie.” “Hi Kiya.” I looked at her and the door on her locker. It was filled with pictures of people, I wasn’t one of them. “Don’t worry you’ll be up there one day.” She said with a slight smirk on her face. She closed her locker aa we walked down the hall and into our first class, P.E. “Dodgeball! Get your teams. 10 on the left 10 on the right!!” The coach yelled tiredly. We jogged around and threw balls at each other. I missed drastically. I hit Kiya right in the face. “Are you ok?” “I’m fine.” She looked at her hand and felt the blood trip. “Just a little blood.” She smiled as I walked over to her. “I’ll walk you to the nurse.” We walked through the hallway and down to her locker. She stopped. “Jamie!” She sounded scared. “Somethings wrong, why is the ground so-” She got cut off. It happened. The ground was in an uproar of shaking. We ran out into the busy streets of the city as she spoke quietly. “Shaky?” People crowded the streets as there were screams and children running everywhere. One by one each light across the city went out. It was complete darkness. “What happened?” “I’m not sure Kiya.” She held onto my arm’s blood-covered face. The ground beneath her shook. She fell and dragged me down with her. We rolled down the school stairs. Now her face was covered in blood. “Kiya!” I said crawling over to her. One by one they all fell. Until the whole population was on the ground. No one could stand up. Everyone was down except for 4 teenagers. I helped Kiya up. “Jamie, how can we stand everyone else is down?” We looked around shock in her eyes. “I don’t know.” I tried to lock my eyes on what she was looking at. We heard a piercing scream and looked up. Mark. He was standing. We heard another. Ally. She was standing too. Four teenagers. Mark yelled to me. “Jamie it’s like a comic book!” He paused to get the girl’s approval. “Four teenagers have to save the world from danger!” I looked at him in disbelief as he walked over pies of people to get to me. “You’re joking, right?” He passed us and went straight to Ally. I yelled over. “Ally are you ok?” “I’m good! Just a little shaken that’s all, what about you, Kiya?” She stood up straight and tried to walked but tumbled and fell. Returning to her standing position she said, “Good. I little blood but nothing first aid kit can’t fix.” We trudged until we found a spot where there was a circle big enough for all of us to sit. “What are we going to do?” Ally asked scarily. Her hands were shaking. “I’m not sure, but we seem to be the only ones still standing,” I said helping her get steady. Mark ran over and took her arm and forced her the other way. The ground was covered in countless bodies and crashed buildings and other things. We all sat down. “Jamie, will we get to go home?” Kiya asked. “I’m not sure,” I thought about the topic. “we have to figure out how to get the light back.” There was a huge bang. Everything was silent. Kiya was the first to fall asleep. “Kiya?” She didn’t answer. Around me, Ally and Mark fell. I was next and I knew it. It was the weirdest dream. There was a voice and a massage leading me somewhere. I was walking down a path with beautiful flowers of all kinds. I heard a voice, “Don’t look back” The voice was distant and quiet. I couldn’t helo it. It was too tempting I looked. That moment ashes covered the flowers I ran. The voice came back. this time more cheerfully. “I warned you, escape before it’s too late.” I ran. I couldn’t stop I fell into a hole blacker than black and bigger than big it was all at once like I loop I was awake. They were all over me. “Hey, Jamie.” “Hey, Kiya. Who was the first awake? “Ally, then Mark then me and you.” We sat up. “Did you guys have like a really weird dream?” “No, I thought we just fell asleep.” Ally said. “So did I,” Mark said quietly holding Ally’s hand. I looked at Kiya. “What about you Kiya?” I looked at her. The single word told me she knew what my dream was. “Don’t look back.” She whispered grabbing my hands. I nodded. Her hands-on mine felt magical. it somehow gave me the power to say what I never wanted to. “We have to leave.” “I’m not leaving, my brothers here!” Ally exclaimed. “And the only way to save him is to leave,” I said pointing onwards. they looked at me with confusion and hurt. “We must risk everything for nothing but those we love.” “Are you a poetry genius I’m not leaving unless Ally is leaving?” He said confidently and confused turning toward AAlly. “Well then when you convince your girlfriend to come she can,” I said angrily getting up to examine how to get to where we needed to. “Jamie,” Kiya said coming toward me. “Please, we need not fight but work together. Remember, ‘risk everything for nothing except those whom we love.’” She whispered in my ear, grabbing my hands. I ignored her but kept a firm grip on her soft hand. “We need to go north. that’s where we should be able to find what we’re looking for.” “And what exactly are we looking for?” Ally asked. “I’m not sure Ally,” I looked unto the distance. “but I know where it is.” I walked forward Kiya following me. “Are we just supposed to follow him?” Ally asked Mark. “I think so.” He walked up Ally’s hand in his. Her foot grip was solid. I looked back to see him hugging and stroking her hair. “You’re going to be ok.” He said encouragingly. “And so will Luke.” We walked up the hill when Mark came to a jog and asked Kiya to go to Ally. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you, Jamie.” “About what? I saw you and Ally, you’re lucky to have her.” “Yeah,” He paused. “are we gonna make it out of here?” “I will do my best, whatever happens, we have to keep them safe.” “Agreed.” He turned to face me. “but will we find Luke.” “Yes, if they can’t I will.” “Thank you.” I looked back at Kiya and Ally. “How are you, girls?” “Fine.” They looked at each other and all at once started silently crying. We walked over and comforted them. “I think we better stop for a minute and calm down.” No one responded. “So keep walking?” I looked at Mark and he nodded holding Ally’s hand. We walked up to a huge volcano-like figure. It was bursting with flames, but not exploding. I heard the voice. I fell once again, right into Kiya’s arms. She caught me like she knew what would happen. There was the big volcano-like mountain with stairs leading its way up. “Come!” The voice boomed. “You want the light you must listen carefully!” The voice got softer. “Come up the stairs. The light will be restored once two people come and sacrifice themselves to me!” I could see Mark and myself walking up to the mountain. I could hear Ally and Kiya’s cries. I woke up in Kiya’s arms. Mark was on the ground Aally was holding him looking at me. “Jamie, this isn’t funny what happened.” Ally demanded. “We need to get Mark awake.” I walked over to him. Kiya followed. “Anything you can do to get him awake, try.” I started to walk away. “Are you going to help?” Kiya asked sweetly. “No, I need to think.” “Ok. Be careful.” “I will be.” I walked over to the mountain and thought about what I should do. Mark came up behind me. “Hey, the girls got me awake.” “I’m glad.” I looked at him. “Did you get the dream?” “Yeah. We have to go if we’re ever going to get the light back in the city.” He paused. “The girls need to go home.” “I completely agree. How do we know when It’s the right time?” I asked Mark. “I don’t know.” The ground started shaking an amplified voice came from the mountain. “Come!” The girls ran over to us. “If the light is to be restored, come forth and risk everything!” Mark and I looked at each other we nodded hand in hand we walked toward the pit. “Jamie! Mark!” The girls asked. “Kiya and Ally of were going to restore this city and get you back home we have to go.” Kiya ran ver to me. “Jamie please.” She pleaded. “Kiya, beautiful.” I paused and grabbed her hand. “Remember, I’m risking everything for absolutely nothing but love.” I grabbed her into a hug and whispered in her ear. “And your love, Kiya.” I let her go and Mark and I continued to walk up the stairwell into the mountain. We looked back one last time before falling. In the distance we could see the sun shining, we knew we saved the city and we were proud. The city was restored and nobody knew anything that happened other than Kiya and Ally. Kiya was at her locker looking at pictures when Ally walked up. She pointed to a picture. “Who is that?” She picked up the picture and handed it to Ally. “Jamie. One of my favorite people.”


i wrote this for class and my teacher said i should post it online...REDDIT TO THE RESCUEEE Exhaust by Reines The autumn leaves. They spiral down like ballerinas from their wooden grip and land in the gentle mud. The soft earth embraces the trees fallen sons and daughters and shares with them their blessing. The blessing of not knowing how to feel. They don't know what it's like to wallow endlessly through the caverns of their own minds, the only glow being their mortification. Or have the memories that were once tucked away deep in the pockets of their skull rip out like vultures escaping the hellfire. It's her birthday today. I stare up at the desert of leaves above me. They stare back. The cool breeze breathes through the forest and carries my exhaled breath with it. I sit up. “It's gonna rain,” I say looking over at Samuel, the bottle of whiskey in my hand held tight, the revolver resting on my lap. “Yep. Gonna rain. I can always tell.” I laugh. “Let's go.” Samuel stands up and walks towards me. He rests his head on my shoulder before giving me a huge lick on my cheek, his tail wagging ferociously behind him. Standing up, I take the last swig of the bottle before hurling it into the wooden crowd. I tug on my plaid shirt, grab the gun, and pet Samuel on the head. He tries to lick my hand. “Good boy,” I say. He really is. We got him together, Sandra and I. It was the first thing we did together. Well, the first thing we did after we got married. The second thing we did was break each others' hearts. One year. That's all it took to unveil the carnival of our doubts, troubles and demons. Our illustrations of a white picket fence were crumpled up like our noses along with the dreams of conceiving anything innocent. The dreams of ever becoming a family. What was once a fortune of photo album smiles and rays of laughter were quickly dissolved into silent dinner conversations and lonely love making. She left me. The brisk wind causes my hair to cackle and wave like fire, causing some of the leaves I gathered to flutter off the ground. Samuel smells something familiar. Something so recognizable that he starts to whine and slowly sniffs his way to the leaf pile. He digs, claws and eventually...finds her foot. I point the revolver at the dog. “For what it's worth Samuel, you should probably let her be.” A deep laugh takes the taste of whiskey off of my breath. Samuel stares at me, tail wagging, but he knows I'm serious. He's seen this gun before. His eyes drift to the foot, and then back at me. Deep, he stares, almost unrecognizable. Lost and confused, like when you realize your slimy, arrogant brother's sleeping with your wife. But then his tongue flops out and he smiles. “I could never kill you,” I say. Instead, I run my fingers down the cooling barrel, staring at it like I'm looking at an assortment of stolen memories...echoing out my name. The end of the barrel kisses the bottom my chin. My grip tightens. “Life. As cold as the rivers that cascade through my heart.” I smile as Samuel walks towards me. “Ah, it's gonna rain boy. I can always tell.” Samuel lies down at my feet.


Now before I say anything else, I just need to establish that I am not mad . I have every reason to be mad, but I’m not. I’m not mad. I’ve never been less mad than I am right now even though I have every reason to be madder than I’ve ever been in my life. To the best of my recollection, you were not working here when I came in on Sunday. I’m sure I would remember somebody with as many piercings as you, especially with you being such a young lady and all. I’m sure I would have made some sort of comment about how you don’t have a wedding ring on your finger, and that’s probably due to all those cartoons you’ve chosen to imprint upon yourself. No, no, when I came in here on Sunday, there was a rather old man working behind the counter. I told him I was looking for a rug, because my mother-in-law is coming to town, and whenever she comes over, she expects me to put out all the gifts she’s gotten me over the years. Eighteen years of marriage, and she expects to see everything she’s ever bought as though my home is some sort of Daphne Rubite museum. That’s her name. Daphne Rubite. She tells me it’s Latin, but who knows? The woman lies about everything. Why should her name be any different? Anyway, she got me a rug for Christmas last year, and it was so hideous, that I kept it outside in the shed, but when I sent my husband, Griff, to go fetch it so we could display the awful thing, he said it appeared somebody had broken into the shed and stolen it. Do you believe that? Somebody actually wanted that disgusting rug so much they committed a crime in order to have it. Not that there’s much in that shed worth anything, but even the bags of dirt would have been a better choice. My word. I came in here on Sunday because I was looking for a rug that appeared similar to the ugly rug that was stolen, but despite this (allegedly) being an antique store, you do not sell rugs here. I believe I filed a formal complaint in that little suggestion box you have at the front, but I haven’t heard any response yet. We can circle back to that later. When I expressed my disappointment to the old man working here at the counter, he offered to give me a discount on what he described as “a rather interesting mirror.” He went into the back of the store and came back with the item. I found it to be a bit too ornate for my taste. It was imitation gold, and the glass had several scratches on it. I told the old man that a discount would not suffice for a damaged object, but that I would accept it as a gift from the store since I found it so unprofessional of him not to offer unattractive rugs. He took a moment, looked at the mirror, and then agreed to give it to me gratis. The old man did not put up much of a fight, and I suppose I should have taken that as a sign that something was amiss. When I got the mirror home, I had absolutely no desire to ever look at it again. The only reason I took it was because I never turn down a deal, and there is no better deal than free. I decided to deposit it in my daughter’s room. Reva is fifteen, and as such, she believes she has impeccable taste when, in fact, she has no taste whatsoever. She was quite stunned when I showed her the mirror. It’s unusual for me to give her gifts, even on her birthday, when I usually donate money to a charity in her name. She took to the mirror immediately, and Griff did his best to hang it in her room without putting holes in every wall. Finally, he managed to erect it by her closet, and then we all went about our day in preparation for the arrival of Queen Daphne. Almost immediately, things began to go wrong. I noticed that suddenly all the photographs around the house had been altered. I had no idea how it was happening, but the heads of everyone in the photos were gone. Simply gone. I thought it might be some sort of prank, but neither my husband nor my daughter are all that funny. When I mentioned the occurrence at dinner that night, Reva confessed to me that she believed her mirror was haunted. Not just haunted, mind you, but haunted by the ghost of Marie Antoinette. I would have chalked the whole thing up to a teenager’s imagination, but my daughter is the least imaginative person you’ve ever met in your life. Deciding to investigate myself, I marched straight up to her room and planted myself in front of that mirror. Sure enough, after only a moment or two, there she was. Reine de France, herself. She had her head, but there was a minor scar around her neck, and she was holding the most adorable little dog. My French is spotty since I haven’t spoken it since college when I spent a semester abroad in Paris smoking cigarettes and ordering hamburgers at French cafes. I managed to work out that the mirror given to me was once owned by Marie’s great-great granddaughter, and she had taken up residence in it since she found Heaven to be rather dull. She was the one who changed all the photos, and she said she planned on committing even more mischief for as long as she was in my house unless I donated her to a museum where she belonged. Well, if that stuck-up monarch thought I was going to relinquish my own property simply to avoid a little poltergeist-ing, she was sadly mistaken. I told Marie that she was now a guest in my home and would act accordingly, or I would see to it that her mirror was placed in the shed where some petty thieves might abscond with it the same way they had with the revolting rug my mother-in-law had purchased for me. I was so invested in intimidating a dead Frenchwoman that I didn’t even hear the front door open. Daphne had entered our house (without knocking, shocker) and came right upstairs to greet Reva, because her granddaughter is the only person she actually cares to see. She arrived just in time to hear me relay to Marie the story of the stolen rug, and she was none too pleased. I turned to see her standing in the doorway holding the most vile candelabra I’ve ever laid my eyes on. “Well,” she huffed, “Would you care to throw this in the shed as well?” Truth be told, that’s exactly what I wanted to do with it. * * * * * * * Over the next few days, I couldn’t tell you who irritated me more--my mother-in-law or the ghost of Marie Antoinette. While Daphne did her standard passive aggressive commentary on everything from my fashion choices (“A woman your age wearing skirts? How brave!”) to how I raise my child (“Would one birthday gift a year really be that bad?”), Marie preferred to be a bit more whimsical in her torment. The house was constantly filled with smoke for no reason at all. It wasn’t until I located the source of the smoke that I realized our oven was on high and there was a cake burning inside of it. It might be true that she never actually uttered the phrase about letting servants have their pastry, but that’s no reason to waste perfectly good food. I have no idea how she even put the cakes together in the first place since we normally order take-out and keep absolutely nothing in our pantries--another tidbit Daphne likes to use against me when she visits. “No sugar,” she’ll squawk, “What kind of a household has no sugar?” A skinny household . That’s what I feel like saying, but I never do. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the two of them were conspiring against me in my own home. Daphne blamed Marie when all my skincare products were suddenly smeared all over the bathroom walls, but I can’t believe anyone that rich would willfully waste La Mer. Marie was definitely responsible for what was going on with Reva, however. My daughter suddenly began acting out. She was shouting about bourgeoisie and escargot and something about a pot de chambre. It took me a day or so, but then I understood that Marie was trying to possess the girl in order to have an even more effective way of terrorizing everyone in the household. Griff was no help at all during all of this, by the way. He loves the History Channel, so, for him, this was all wildly entertaining. It wasn’t until Reva began taking five baths a day and demanding that I feed her bon bon’s that I decided enough was enough. My plan was to take the mirror out to the shed and smash it into a thousand pieces, but I remember seeing an old horror film where destroying the haunted item caused the specter to permanently embed itself in the home. The last thing I needed was my daughter walking around like royalty until leaving for whatever community college we’d be sending her off to. I waited until earlier today when Daphne and Reva were sitting on the couch with a cheese plate watching Les Miserables, and then I tore up to Reva’s room and grabbed the mirror. I had to be careful coming down the stairs with it, but luckily for me, they were engrossed in the scene where the revolutionaries were being slaughtered. “Brilliant,” I heard Marie exclaim in French, “I just love a good comedy!” Somehow, all by myself, I managed to get this ghastly mirror into my car and drive it all the way back here. Now, I would like to return it. I would like an apology. I would like three free items from this store--all of which I will be choosing. I would also like an assurance that the old man who gave me the mirror is fired. Hmm? What do you mean you don’t have any old man working here? He was very distinct-looking. He had bifocals, salt and pepper hair, and his left ear was a bit lower than his right. Surely, you must know him? The owner? All right, fine, so he’s the owner. I still want him fired. What’s that? When? Ten years ago? And how? A car accident? My, my, my. Well. That’s what I get for not asking for a receipt.