Goin' Places   The first time I ever saw Mr. Emmett Crawford, he was hunched over a bed of red and yellow pansies, smothering them up to their necks with damp sawdust while autumn leaves covered the rest of the ground.

  “Morning, sir!” I hollered, “You just move in?”   “Yep, just this past weekend. Pretty nice place. We moved up here to be close to my son. You lived here long?”   “All my life, actually,” I sighed. “I can't imagine what it'd be like to move to a new place.”   “It’s kind of fun being in someplace new,” he replied, briefly cupping his hands around each flower like he was wishing it good luck. “Everybody needs a change of scenery now and then. A body gets tired of staring at the same painted walls and plots of earth year after year.”   “I don't reckon I'll ever get to move. My mama and daddy are just about cemented to this town.”

How come you planted those flowers already with winter coming and all?”   “You plant pansies in the fall, you'll have blooms all spring. He stood up and tried to pat down bits of his white hair that were sticking out like the bristles of a used toothbrush. “And being outside helped me to meet my very first friend in this town. I'm Emmett Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He reached out his hand to me.   I laughed. “I've never shaken hands with anybody before.”  I grasped his hand in mine as hard as I could so he could see how strong I was. “I'm Caroline.  But I gotta run for supper. Bye for now.”   I saw him again about a week later. This time he was sitting on his front porch with a bowl of green apples resting beside him, a knife in his hand, and a metal garbage pail wedged between his knees.

  “Hello, Miss Caroline. Got time for a visit?”   “I think maybe a short one. Mamma's gonna call for lunch real soon. You gonna have apple pie for dinner?” I asked.   “Thinking about it. Mona likes apple pie a whole lot. Have you met Mona yet?” He took his knife and sliced me and him a thick chunk.   “I guess I haven't. Who's Mona?” I sank my teeth into the sweet apple.   “Mona is my lovely wife, love of my life, traveling partner, and pretty much my best friend. She's been feeling a bit under the weather lately, though. I think maybe some pie might make her feel better.”   “Did she go to the doctor and get some medicine for whatever she's got?” I asked as sticky apple juice slid down my chin and dripped on my knees.   “Oh yeah. She's got plenty of different kinds of pills that are gonna make her better. Soon as she gets back on her feet again, we're going take a trip somewhere, someplace warm where the sun shines a whole lot. Mona and I just love goin' places these days.”   “What kinds of places have you been to?” I licked the last bit of juice off my fingers and watched as a coiled snake-like sliver of green peeling slithered into the pail.   Mr. Crawford sucked in a deep breath and looked out over at the line of mountains that rose up like a camel, hump-backed and bald, on the edge of town. “Well, Mona and I took our trip of a lifetime just last year. We set out in June and drove from one edge of the U.S. of A. to the other. On the road for two whole months. We stared up at the great Rocky Mountains that would make this ridge here look like molehills. We went swimming with dolphins once in the Atlantic Ocean down in Florida, and even woke up one morning in northern Montana with buffalo all around our camper. Yeah, Mona and I discovered how much we love traveling on that trip.”   “We studied all about the Rocky Mountains in school,” I said, “but I've never met anyone who's actually see them. Tell me where else you went.”   “I'll do better than that. Tomorrow, Mona will probably be feeling better, so why don't you come on over and I'll show you some of the pictures of places we went to. Got four or five albums full. Mona and I were just looking at them last night. They were the first thing we unpacked.” Mr. Crawford stood and picked up his bowl of peeled apples. “I'll save you a piece of pie, too.”   I ran back to my house real fast. I couldn't wait to tell Mama about our new neighbor being such a traveler.   I can still see the inside of Mr. Crawford's house as clear as if it were yesterday--neat as a pin and about as shiny. Rows and rows of books stood rod straight on shelves, with big ones ahead of little ones, like children lined up according to age. Pretty flowered curtains outlined every window. Four polished picture frames decorated the mantel and a blue vase of fresh cut flowers stood on the waxed kitchen table.  A new brown suitcase stood waiting by the front door.   “I'm glad you could come, Miss Caroline,” he said as he led me into the living room. “First thing we need to do is make proper introductions.” He gestured over toward the end of the room I hadn't had a chance to check out yet. “Miss Caroline, I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Mona.”   My gaze followed his outstretched hand. If he heard me gasp, he didn't let on. In the back corner of the room was a bed—the same type I had seen in the hospital when I was visiting Uncle Taylor after he'd had his stroke. Its shiny metal frame looked as if it'd just been polished like everything else in the room. Ironed sheets were tucked in neatly at the corners. Everything gleamed so that the sight of the rumpled old woman lying in the center of the bed caught me by surprise. Sharp outlines of bones were visible beneath the pink nightgown that lay about her shriveled body like an empty potato sack. Saggy rows of skin seemed to drip from her eyes and cheeks. I could see the blue veins in her hands under flimsy, yellow parchment.   “Mona, Caroline here is interested in hearing about our trip.” Mr. Crawford motioned for me to sit down on a stool beside the bed.   “Lovely trip,” the old woman whispered in short, shallow breaths.   I edged cautiously down on the seat Mr. Crawford was still pointing toward. Clearing my throat a couple of times, I croaked out, “I think it'd be real fun to travel.” I looked back at the other half of the room where those pretty flowers sat safely on the shiny table.   “Well, I think our trip across the country was one of the grandest things life has to offer, don't you agree, Mona? There were so many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.” Mr. Crawford brushed several stray hairs from his wife's face. “Traveling is the best feeling in the world, isn't it, Mona?” He bent over and lifted his wife's limp hand, holding it between both of his.   I thought I saw a brief smile, like a shadow, flicker across her face. “Wonderful feeling,” Mrs. Crawford murmured as she stared into her husband's eyes.   I brushed the hair away from my own face and bit my lip before blurting out, “We might go to Lone Mountain State Park this summer on vacation.”   Mr. Crawford looked at me and laughed. “See, you must have traveling in your blood, too, Caroline.” He turned back toward his wife. “Mona, what was your favorite place on our trip? Grand Canyon, maybe? Or what about the coast of Oregon? All those jagged rocks rising up out of the water. Oh, I know. You liked that little town on that island in Michigan. What was it called? Oh, yeah, Mackinaw. That was one of your favorites, wasn't it Mona?”   Right then, Mrs. Crawford started coughing---deep, heaving coughs that seemed to shake her whole body. I watched as Mr. Crawford held onto her hand and rubbed her back, still talking about the places they'd been.

  “Let's see. I liked the White Mountains in New Hampshire a whole lot. Remember how peaceful it was there, Mona? 'Course, I bet you'd like to be back in Florida, right now, warming yourself on that white sand. Mona doesn't like to be cold, Caroline. I think that's where we'll go, first thing, soon as she's back on her feet again.” Mr. Crawford got up and walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a stack of albums. “Let's show our visitor the pictures, Mona.”   Mr. Crawford laid one of the albums on top of the stiff white sheet draped over his wife's frail body. He opened it and placed her right hand below a photograph of a smiling couple. “Tell her where we were when this was taken, Mona. I know it was one of your favorites.”   Mrs. Crawford's bony fingers slid off the page as another coughing spasm spread through her. I sat mute on my stool, wound my feet around the bottom rung, and wondered why the air in the Crawford's new house had begun to feel heavy and suffocating. I wished Mr. Crawford would open a window.   My new neighbor continued his descriptions of places I could barely imagine while his ill traveling partner seemed to sink down lower beneath the sheets with each gasp of breath. Tears began to fill my eyes as I watched Mr. Crawford firmly place his wife's hand back on the album each time it slid off, as it was repeatedly shaken from its place by her heaving body.

  “Personally, Caroline, I liked the coast of Maine the best. The smell of salt in the air is so strong it can bring tears to your eyes. You can even taste it on your lips as you talk. Remember when we took the mail boat over to that little island, Mona? What was the name of that place?” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand and looked at her, waiting for her to answer. When no response came, he continued. “It was right off of Stoneybrook, wasn't it, Mona? Had kind of French sounding name. Oh, I know, Isle Au Haute. That was it. What a beautiful place it was—but not as beautiful as you, Mona. Remember when we walked up the path to the top of the hill where you could see all of the water surrounding the island?” Mr. Crawford's voice seemed to crack. “I know you remember what you said to me then, Mona. Say it, Sweetheart. Tell me what you told me at the top of that island.”   Mrs. Crawford's eyes were closed and her breath loud and uneven. Her husband squeezed her hand and her eyes fluttered open briefly. “Say it, Mona. Say it for me again. Tell me what you told me on Isle Au Haute. How you and I would never stop goin' places. How you would never leave your favorite traveling partner.” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand up close to his face, then lightly kissed the thin skin stretched loosely over fragile bones. The three of us sat silent for what seemed like an eternity, with only the sounds of Mrs. Crawford's raspy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I let myself out the front door, pulling it softly closed so as not to disturb the misty-eyed man hunched over the polished bed.   Three days later, I watched as the hearse from Stoney Ridge Funeral Home parked next door. While the two men in black suits were inside the Crawford's house, another car arrived with a younger man whom I assumed was their son. I sat down on the grass and knew it was Mrs. Crawford's body, wrapped in a black bag, that was carried out to the waiting gray hearse. I ripped bits of grass out of the damp earth while I gazed at the younger man standing with his arms around the shaking body of the old man.

  I didn't see Mr. Crawford for a long while after his wife died. Mama said he was probably staying with his son. Every time I went outside, I glanced over to see if he might be out tending to his pansies or peeling apples on his porch. One day, after the spring thaw, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him hunched over the spreading red and yellow blooms in his garden. I raced outside, excited that I would finally get to talk to my friend again.

  “Mr. Crawford, I've been looking for you every day. Are you doing all right?”

He looked at me for a long time before speaking. “Well, yes, yes, of course I'm fine. Thank you for asking. I'm afraid, however, that I've forgotten your name.”   “I'm Caroline, Mr. Crawford. You know me. I live next door. You told me all about your trip, remember?”   I can still see the strange look in his eyes. Like it wasn't him answering my questions. Like he had gone somewhere else and left only an empty shell to move and go about his day.

  “Trip. Oh, yes, I remember all about my trip. We're going on another one, did I tell you? Up to Canada this time. Mona and I have never been to Canada. So, I'm finally going to take her. Had to wait 'til the weather warmed up a bit, don't you know. Mona doesn't like to be cold.”   “Mr. Crawford, Mona—I mean, your wife is.....I mean, she can't go on a trip,” I stuttered out the words, not really knowing what to say.   He looked straight at me with hollow eyes and said, “What do you mean, Mona can't go on a trip? She and I are traveling partners. We're leaving in a couple weeks, soon as the weather is warmer. Right now, I've got to tend to these flowers, though. We'll be gone for a while. Don't want them to die before we get back.”   Mr. Crawford turned away from me, stooped down, and began pinching dead blooms off the pansies. I stood where I was for a while, then backed away, and ran toward my house.

  After that day, I avoided Mr. Crawford. He had scared me so that I didn't know what to say to him. I wondered where he had gone, behind those empty eyes. I just couldn't figure out where he had traveled to. I remember Mama telling me that sometimes when people can't handle something, they lose their mind. I didn't think that Mr. Crawford had lost his mind, though. He'd lost his best friend.

  About a month later, a moving van arrived next door. Two men, dressed in blue jeans and white cotton shirts loaded up all of the Crawford's furniture and drove away. Mama said she thought Mr. Crawford might be moving in with his son. I knew I would never see him again, but I remember being thankful that he had somebody to watch over him.   I didn't think about Mr. Emmett Crawford for many years. The day-to-day events of growing up took precedence over occasional fond memories of childhood acquaintances. Best friends, parties, and new romances lead to high school graduation, college, and finally my own marriage. I never left my hometown, though. I have not traveled, like Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, on a special trip across the country. I have not filled photo albums with pictures of sights I have visited. But he must have left a legacy of some sort. Every weekday morning, I drive from my house to Stoney Ridge Middle School to teach unsettled seventh graders world geography. I keep hoping they can channel some of their energy into a thirst to see the world. I want to awaken in them an awareness of the many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.   Several months ago, on my way to school, I passed by the Ridgeway Nursing Home. As I rounded the bend in the road, I was startled to see a man stumbling along the graveled shoulder. He carried a worn, brown suitcase in one hand as he trudged on the wrong side of the highway. A faded green coat hung loosely on his hunched shoulders. Bits of wild, white hair stuck out beneath his cap. I slowed my car as I passed by, then pulled over to the side, just a short walk ahead of him. I started to get out of my car, then paused, and watched from my rear-view mirror as two nurses came up to each side of the man, gently turned him around, and guided him back toward the nursing home. One of the nurses tried to take the suitcase from his hand, but the man held it tight, as if it were priceless.

  I see him frequently now. He totters along the side of the road with that tattered suitcase in his hand. The nurses must realize when he's left, and they usually come to guide him back before he gets too far. I always pull over and wait, just to make sure. Though his face is more wrinkled and worn than I remember, I know without a doubt that it's Mr. Crawford. He has continued to travel far since I knew him as a child.  And I'm sure his Mona is with him while he travels.


The following Short Story is the first of many, set in the world I’ve created for my fantasy/steampunk novel. The aim is to flesh out the world a little and give a bit more depth to some minor characters (and possibly a couple of the main characters) that you’d come across when/if I get published. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the characters/setting or any constructive criticism you may have. Thanks for reading! For some time now animal life steered clear of Mulsoa Forest’s depths. Almost as if they feared whatever was lurking there, and with good reason. In the forest’s deepest part a small clearing sat in silence with a solitary cottage in the center. A sky blue mist clung to the ground, anyone steeping in it would struggle to see their own feet. The smell, that is the smell of death, seeped out from the clearing and wherever the smell went the mist followed closely behind. The clearing hugged tight to the cottage and candle light flickered out from it’s tiny windows. Inside, a skinny, dark haired young man, dressed in long white medical overalls and adoring a strange set of spectacles worked frantically at a workbench of sorts. His fingers occasionally flicking over minuscule switches along his spectacles rim causing various lenses of different magnifications and colors to fall into place. Every piece of wall space seemed to be covered in shelves holding jars containing all manner of things. Some contained herbs and various other plants. Other larger containers seemed to be preserving a variety of body organs, and the odd glass tank here and there contained whole body parts, at least one and full persons worth, although clearly they didn’t all belong to the same person, or species for that matter. Close to where his work bench lay, small shelves full of tiny jars were scattered around full of small pills. More than likely his most commonly used. A puddle of blood grew on his bench ever so slightly, dripping occasionally down to the cobbled stone floor. This was clearly some manner of Doctor and patient situation. His overalls were splashed here and there with blood, both old stains and fresh spatters. His hands were working delicately on the amputated arm of a man, this seemed to be the source of all the blood. The grunts and moans of pain that could be heard almost every time the Doctor made the slightest of moves with his long fingers, would suggest that the patient was awake. A socket of sorts protruded from what was left of the mans arm, just bellow the elbow where the bone would have been. The doctor carefully made adjustments to it, making sure it was securely bolted into the skin. He set his tool down on the bench, it looked like a horrific device, like his spectacles, many switches along it’s length would cause one tool to flip out and be replaced by another. The Doctor disappeared into a small back room and reached up to one of the highest shelves. Even with his height of 6ft he couldn’t quite reach. He sighed to himself and darted back into the main room where his patient lay groaning, he grabbed a small stool and rushed back to the shelf he was trying to reach. Placing it down, he hopped up onto it excitedly. He whipped dust cloth off and his eyes lit up as he examined the device on the shelf, a bronze forearm with pistons and pipes along it’s length. On one part some letters were inscribed in the common tongue which read: Dr. Reginald Qu’s – Armed & Dangerous Gently picking it up and carefully stepping down from the stool he looked it over. He held in his hands a mechanical arm each of the fingers as well as the wrist seemed to be connected to a series of pistons and each of the pistons formed the body of the arm, connecting to a fitting at the end which looked like it would fit his patients socket perfectly. He chuckled to himself. This was the first time in a long while he’d had the chance to try one of his devices on a living subject. He remembered back to his last attempt, a small street urchin that nobody would have missed from a nearby town whom he had lured to his home in the forest. The boy didn’t have the pain threshold for the procedure and the replacement arm didn’t even work how it was supposed to. An expression of horror over how badly it went crept onto his face and he quickly shook it away replacing it with a smile, This was the forth try overall and he was feeling slightly more confident this time. He stepped back into the main room and placed the arm on the bench lining it up carefully with the mans stump. “Now…” He said, holding his breath as he considered what was about to happen. Trying not to get his hopes up as his work was, hopefully, about to come to fruition. “…This may hurt a tad, and as you know I’m all out of pain suppre..”. The patient interrupted him with a low gravely voice, he shouted through gritted teeth “Get it ovur with!” The man on the bench seemed to draw as much focus as he could to glare at the doctor. It only lasted a few seconds before he had to let his head roll back to rest on the table and take a deep breath, clearly in agony already. “As you wish Mr. Rasmussen…” The Doctor replied in a tone that said don’t say I didn’t warn you. He flicked his fingers over a couple of switches on his spectacles and the lenses switched around to be replaced with clear glass. He grabbed the mans stump and the patient growled. Then he slid the mechanical arm up and the socket slid into the matching fitting and he twisted it a little locking it into place like he would a light bulb. The man screamed and did his best to cut the scream off as soon as he was able. Deep breathing, teeth grinding and low growls followed as the pain subsided. The pistons began to hiss and move and as they did so, the fingers and wrist followed suit. The Doctor grinned “Ha!” He exclaimed. “Try making a fist?” He suggested. The man did so with ease. “Fantastic! Now, try moving all of your fingers and your hand like you would normally be able to?” The pistons hissed a little as he did so and steam began to emerge from a vent near the socket. Doctor Qu bent over and examined all the moving parts one by one. “Seems to be working just fine!” He stood up straight and an ear to ear grin flashed to his face. “Now obviously you won’t be able to feel anything with this” he said looking down and shaking it, as if trying to gesture towards what he meant. Rasmussen growled through gritted teeth once more as he did so. “Oh… sorry” he said after realizing the poor fellow was still in pain. Rasmussen began to sit himself up, Qu assisted him and began talking again “You must remember to let your arm heal before using this… Do.. Not… Lift anything ot lean on anything with my arm until you feel the pain has gone. By that time it will be healed and you go about your business as usual..” He paused to make sure he had eye contact with Rasmussen before continuing “…If you use it before it is healed, the wound will tear open again and the socket and all my hard work will be ruined. And you Mr..” he poked his chest with two fingers “..You will be lying in a puddle of blood and bleeding out before you can say…” He paused again as he searched his mind for a suitable large and difficult to pronounce word, quickly giving up he hurriedly added “…pretty damn quickly OK. Only whatever God you pray too will be able to help you then”. Rasmussen nodded in understanding “Fine..” He said impatiently. “How lon till av healed?” Qu shrugged with his lips and then nodded to himself “You should be fine in about two span, but like I said before, once it’s comfortable, once the pain stops, then try it.” he rummaged around in a draw under his workbench and pulled out a long piece of material tying both ends to each other. “Here is a sling, you can use it to support your arm until it is ready to use.” He threw it over him and helped him put his arm in it. Rasmussen swung his legs around and slid himself of the bench. standing up straight he was a clear 7 inches taller than the Doctor. he was broad and seemed to be made entirely of muscle, and now metal. Qu helped him get dressed and swung his long coat over his shoulders after only getting the one of his arms into it. The other coat sleeve hung lifeless on his left side. With his good hand he dug deep into one of his coats pockets and pulled out a large purse, he weighed it momentarily in his hand before tossing it towards the Doctor who caught it in his chest with a thud “Da gold in ther shud cuver da cost plenty…” It was easily more than Qu was thinking of charging by a large amount so he didn’t argue. When he looked up from the coin purse Rasmussen had already opened the door, tuning back he nodded at the doctor and stepped outside walking silently out into the dead of night. Qu dropped the purse on the workbench and raced over to the open door, shouting after him “Feel free to come back any time you need further replacements or modifications! Tell your friends! Doctor Reginald Qu at your service! Provided you have gold of course, otherwise you’ll be at my service!” He fell silent and watched Rasmussen disappeared between the thick trees, not once acknowledging him. He swung the door shut and turned on his heel flicking a switch by the door as he did so. A loud series of clunking and grinding noises followed as which seemed to emanate from the door itself. He sat himself down in his soft leather chair, not bothering to clean up and began to doze off sighing happily to himself he said “Ahhh, another satisfied customer…” and let his eyelids fall shut. A cold breeze made its way around the room seemingly from nowhere and in his ear he head the whisper of a woman’s voice, her breath felt icy against his skin. Her voice was beautiful, gentle and delicate “The first satisfied customer you mean” She said playfully with a slight giggle.


You step from your cave and stand on the edge of the mountain slope. You stretch the sleep from your muscles as the sun climbs upward. Moment by moment, the sun burns away the morning fog and the island below is revealed. The curtain of gray fog peels away. You stand at the island's highest point and look down into the valley. The river glimmers as it catches the first rays of the sun. The jungle is a mural of lush shades of green. Orchids, plump fruits, and multi-colored parrots lend pops of bright color to the canvas of vegetation. You unhurriedly pick your way down the mountain to drink from the river's clear water. Then, in a single bound, you leap across the river to the banana grove on the other side. Standing at your full height, you reach forward and pluck a bushel of bananas from the top of the nearest tree.

When you have eaten your fill, you amble along the riverbank until you come upon your kin. They make room for you as you plunge into the river. Even at its deepest point, the water rises to just above your abdomen. You are the biggest creature on the entire island. Three times the size of Old Silver, the largest of your kin and leader of the troop. Deep within yourself lives the impulse to challenge Old Silver. This is followed by the urge to find a mate. As you always do when these thoughts enter your mind, you push them aside. Old Silver may command the troop, but you hold dominion over the entire island. Finished with your bath, you head deeper into the jungle. Snagging another fat bushel of bananas, you climb into the stout branches of the island's largest Kapok tree. You lay with your back against a high branch, lazily munching on bananas as scraps fall into the tree's twisted roots. You fall into a light sleep, shielded from the heat of the day by the leaves' thick shade. You awaken to a distant thumping. It's not the villagers summoning you. It’s not late enough in the day for the chorus of their drums, the heat of sacred fires. It’s too early in the season for their yearly sacrifice. This sound is new and unfamiliar. You climb higher up the tree and peer through the canopy. In the sky above, you see a large shining creature. On strange swirling wings, the creature descends. You leap from the tree and make your way through the jungle, weaving around tree trunks and tearing your way through the foliage. You move quickly in the direction of the creature as its odd, thumping cry grows ever louder. Hidden in the shadows and masked by razor-tipped fern leaves, you watch as the creature lands. The creature is covered in a hard, dark shell. You remain hidden, sizing up the creature, gauging its weaknesses. Suddenly, the sides of the creature open and two humans step out into the clearing. They are unlike the other humans you have seen on the island. Totally different from the natives who live on the island's far coast. The natives are small with dark, uncovered skin. These humans are tall, their skin light as the clouds in the sky. Only patches of their skin peek through the sand and river mud colored coverings they wear. You watch as two men join a third in the shade at the other end of the clearing. They hold a flat square between them. It crinkles as they look over it, jabbing it occasionally with their pale fingers. That's when she steps around the side of the creature and moves further into the clearing. Stunned by the sight of her, your breath catches in your throat. Her hair falls over one shoulder, shining in the tropical sun. Her lips a deep red, her eyes a vivid blue. She moves across the clearing like the breeze blows through the trees. She carries a small dark object. Occasionally, she lifts it to her eye. When her face is covered by the object, the world seems to dim as her beauty is obscured. She turns toward where you stand in the shadows. She raises the object again, pointing it in your direction. You expect to hear the click the object has made every other time she has raised it. Instead, the woman holds it in place. Then she lets it hang from a strap around her neck and squints into the trees. Your eyes meet hers and you hold your breath, sure you will see fear cloud her perfect features. The women the villagers offer you always scream and cry, but not this woman. She smiles at you and your heart leaps. Moving slowly, you push fronds and branches out of your path as you approach the woman. You step into the clearing and stand before her. You are heartened to see that she seems as in awe of you as you are of her. You dip your head to better stare into her eyes and she bows hers slightly in return. You sit on the ground in front of her and offer her your hand. She runs her fingers along the wrinkled skin on your palm and smiles. Her hand moves onward, stroking the soft black fur on your forearm. Her touch is soft and it sends a fiery heat coursing through your veins. You are so enamored with the woman that at first, you don't notice a slight pinch in your shoulder. Using all your willpower, you pull your gaze away from the woman and glance at your arm. A strange barb sticks out of your shoulder. As you watch, two more barbs sink into your side. You turn back to the woman and see that she has stepped back a few paces. Her attention is on the men. She waves her arms in their direction. You follow her gaze and see the three men have moved around to the other side of the flying creature. They hold long tubes that remind you of the natives’ spears. You watch as the men raise the tubes and point them at you. You stand and roar at them. Your cry echoes through the jungle, sending birds scattering into the sky. You charge the men and puffs of smoke rise from the tubes they hold. Seconds later, you realize three more barbs have plunged into your chest. You race toward the men but soon become unsteady. You wobble on your feet, your head swimming. Your vision blurs and burns, as if you have been staring into the sun. You turn toward the cover of the jungle as your limbs begin to feel heavy. Sleep overtakes you and you fall forward into the dirt. You wake up in darkness. Your head is fuzzy. You stand and the ground rocks beneath you. You inhale and the air burns your nostrils. Sea salt mixed with dank wetness and a heavy, choking stench. You walk forward and smack your face against an obstacle. You reach out and wrap your hand around something that feels like a vine but is harder than rock. You check your surroundings and find that you are surrounded. Hemmed in, you strike out, rattling the hard vines and slamming your fists against them. They prove too strong to be bent or broken. Light floods the area, momentarily blinding you. As your eyes regain their focus, you see the woman standing in front of you. She speaks in soothing tones and although you cannot understand what she says, you are comforted by her soft voice. Without the sun passing overhead, it’s impossible for you to measure time, so you have no idea how long you spend in the dark room. The woman visits you often and brings you food and water. When she's not around, you fight to keep anxiety from overtaking you. You become restless as you wait for the woman to reappear. Simply thinking of her fills your heart with warmth. She is the first human who has ever been kind to you. She carries no weapons like the natives who once hunted your kin. She carries only warm tones and luminous smiles. The natives offered you their sacrifices out of fear. She offers you her attention out of love. Day after day, your devotion to the woman grows.

One day, the water she brings you tastes funny. The woman sits by your enclosure with a small rectangle in her lap. She looks down at the rectangle and the music of her voice washes over you as she speaks. Your eyes begin to droop, your muscles relax. Soon, you fall into a deep sleep. You wake up to the whispered chorus of many different voices. You look around and notice that you are still in the enclosure of hard vines, but you are no longer in the dark, dank room. Hanging in front of you is a stationary waterfall. It is a deep red color. It ripples back and forth slightly, even though there is no breeze. You hear murmurings from the other side of the waterfall. An unseen multitude of voices that puts you on edge. You smell unknown floral scents and unrecognizable musk. Without warning, a voice booms forth, assaulting your ears. Your ears continue to ring as the voice fades away. The waterfall splits apart and you are blinded by bright light. It's as if the sun itself is shining directly onto your face. Your ears are assaulted by gasps, cries, and screams. Smaller lights add to the dazzling radiance. Brilliant flashes leave spots dancing in front of your eyes. Desperate to escape the burning lights, you turn your head to the side. That's when you see the woman. You see that she is standing next to a man. He has his arm around her, but she keeps trying to pull away. He holds her tight against his body. He tries to kiss her and the woman squirms against his grip. Rage overtakes you and you let loose a primal scream. Taking a few steps back, you launch yourself against the hardened vines. A horizontal bar gives way and a tall, rectangular section swings open. Free of your enclosure, you charge forward. With one mighty swing you knock the man against a wall. Then you kneel in front of the woman, looking her over to ensure she is unharmed. A deafening blast rings out and searing pain flares across your back. Your gut fills with fear, not for yourself, but for the woman. Spotting an opening to your left, you scoop the woman under your arm and flee. You emerge into a world unlike anything you could have ever imagined. Impossibly tall, sleek sided mountains rise up on all sides of you. Big as you are, you feel dwarfed by how the mountains obscure the sky. Strange, fast creatures speed past. Their eyes lighting round swaths in front of them as they hurtle onward. Panicked, you run forward, still clutching the woman firmly but gently against your chest. You begin to scale the nearest mountain. Its sides are smooth, but you soon find you can climb the equidistant ledges that protrude from its surface. Gripping the ledges with your feet, you push off and grab the next ledge with your free hand. Ever higher you climb. Finally, you reach the top. You grip a thin spire at the mountain's peak and set the woman down on its summit. Now that you have a moment to rest, you become aware of the burning in your back. Blood seeps from your flesh and pools around your feet. The woman looks at you and you are glad to see that she looks concerned but not scared. She pats your arm, strokes your fur. You allow yourself a few moments of calm. Then you hear a buzzing sound approaching in the distance. Soon, large airborne creatures are whizzing by your perch. You swat at them, but they remain just out of reach. Minutes later, one of the buzzing creatures flies too close, dragging a strong gust of wind across the top of the mountain. The gust pulls the woman off the edge and she begins to fall. Thinking of nothing but the woman, you leap forward. You catch her with one hand and grab the side of the mountain with the other. You hoist the woman back onto the mountaintop. Seeing she is once again safe; you try to pull yourself up beside her. Your hand slips on the slick blood. You lash out desperately, but your hands come up empty. You stare into the woman's eyes as you plummet downward. Her face moves to the forefront of your mind as the wind rushes past your ears. It is the woman you are thinking of when your body slams into the ground. She is the last thing you see as everything fades to black.


You Know How I Recognized You? I am a police officer who specializes in doing undercover work. In all modesty, I got the gig because I am good at being hard to recognize, being anonymous, non-distinctive. The clothes I wear in the drug-dealing, prostitution, mugging area of this fair city is instrumental in my blending in with the environment, and being hard to remember, like a crack in the sidewalk that I walk on when playing my role. I wear faded jeans, with slight rips in them, not the big ones that are now reborn as fashionable apparel for a second generation of young women. I wonder whether they buy them like that. I pre-faded mine, and made the small holes with a very sharp knife. My shoes are Nikes, first bought and worn in 1984, when Michael Jordan was the advertising star for them, and “Just Do It” was still four years away. My shoes should be called “They once did it.” My shirt once had a logo on it, but it cannot be distinguished now, and I often fail to remember what it once was. I think it was from some local band that I liked, the name of which has now slipped out of my mind. Perhaps if I took some of the same drugs that I did then I would remember.

My jacket is especially important, because in the inside pocket I am, as the expression goes, ‘wearing a wire.’  This old gray jacket was my father’s and his father’s before him. It doesn’t look like it was ever new. Finally, there is my gray hat. If this hat could speak it would say ‘My owner is an immigrant from a warm country, so he has to wear a dorky hat with the flaps pulled down to combat the cold weather we have here.’ I didn’t want to wear this hat, but my boss said I needed to do so. I have reddish coloured hair which can be thought of as somewhat distinctive, thereby making me noticeable. The hat covers all that hair. I do not shave, as that is not what my ‘street person’ character would do, so I dye my slightly reddish stubble a kind of ashen gray. A Working Night It was a working night, so I was walking down one of the city’s sleazier streets, getting ready to sit on my designated begging spot, to observe, record and remember who I saw doing what. Just before I assumed my sitting begging position, a very drunk man exited from a bar, stumbling, beginning to tumble towards the road. A flashy car was approaching rapidly. I recognized it as being owned by one of the main drug dealers whose territory this is.

           I realized that collision between the two was imminent, so I rushed over to the falling man, and pulled him away from danger. He grabbed my head so that he wouldn’t fall backwards, but lurched forward and hit the sidewalk, safely, but somewhat painfully.            He thanked me profusely, in a deep, drunken voice, following this with a “I don’t usually drink this much, but my wife just left me. I have no one.” Then he hailed a cab and left.            The rest of the night was relatively uneventful. I came very close to falling asleep several times. The Next Night The next night was more eventful in a positive way. I felt that I had truly earned my pay.  While sitting at my usual spot at the corner of the front of the bar and a decidedly seedy-looking alleyway, I witnessed close by something incriminating – a drug deal orchestrated by a one of the men who worked for the guy with the flashy car from the previous night. He was a local big shot in the trade. The negotiations were loud enough that they were recorded by ‘the wire’. I was nearly invisible as a non-person sitting by the bar, occasionally begging, so I thought I would not be noticed.  I hoped that with this evidence, we could finally arrest him and put him away for good. Eventually, finally, the time came when I felt that I could leave my post. The bars in the area were all closed and emptied, the streets seemed abandoned except for those who slept in the alleyway. I was somewhat energized by what ‘the wire’ and I had witnessed. So I decided to make my way to the station not too far away to deposit my flash drive and write down what I had seen and heard. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was being followed. The guy at the desk gave me a look, wondering what this aging street urchin was doing walking boldly through the front door of a police station.  So I took off my ear-flapped hat, and got a smile of recognition when he saw my reddish hair. I did what I came to do, and left for home and some well-earned sleep. I successfully managed not to wake the kids, who would later be told by their mother not to wake their dad, with a lot less success. They wanted to know whether I had caught any criminals. I told them that ‘it was possible’, not a very satisfying answer for them to hear. The Next Night The next night began in the usual way. Nothing much was going on, at least in the first few hours. Then it happened. I had just stood up to stretch my legs a bit, looking through the bar front window to see who was there could be a suspect, when I felt something very sharp poking me in the back. Then the voice that I remembered from the night before spoke to me sharply. “So, you’re a cop, eh. We can’t have you interfering with our business”. He pushed me forward towards the alleyway. I tried to remember what I had been schooled to do in just such a situation. Nothing useful came to mind. I was getting frantic. I didn’t have to think long. Another voice spoke up, deep and authoritative, with a touch of the drink. “Back off, buddy”, he said. The sharp pain in my back stopped. And I could hear the sound of my assailant crashing head-first to the hard surface of the sidewalk. I turned to see the smiling face of the man whom I had saved the night before. He looked at me and said, “You know how I recognized you?...It was the hat. You’re the only one I’ve ever seen with such a hat.” We hugged over the motionless body of my attacker. He must have hit his head hard when he was thrown to the sidewalk. The Next Day When I went to the station the next day, and told my story, I was given another assignment, one that involved a lot of paperwork. My cover had been blown. I didn’t mind. I could see my wife and kids more often. I still wear the hat sometimes still when the weath gets cold. I don’t care what anybody thinks.


Things My Mother Collected A list by Dr. Alex Caldwell 1. Perfume Some women have their signature scent. I thought my mom did, but it turns out that maybe her signature was her variety. There they were, three glass bottles, three little jewels sparkling on a polished silver tray on her worn white dresser. I thought I knew my mom. I thought the perfume in the short, fluted bottle, golden flowers and Swarovski crystals adorning the dome of its lid, was her scent—an ephemeral, flowery sillage, light and inoffensive. Whispers of Truth . I sprayed it in the air, watching the mist settle on the seafoam-green floral bedspread. If I closed my eyes it was like she was in the room with me. I half expected her to criticize my hair.

Then I sprayed the next bottle, round and smooth like a polished rock, and realized that Whispers of Truth wasn’t her whole story. It was easy enough to mistake her other scents for something in the air—a hint of cinnamon or frankincense at Christmastime, a melancholy sandalwood on a cloudy day. I didn’t realize it was a presence she brought to the world, not the other way around. My mom’s voice wafted in on a cloud of perfume: One for rainy days, one for holidays, one for everyday . The refrain bounced off the bed like a nursery rhyme. It could have been a nursery rhyme. I couldn’t remember her singing this to me, but here it was, lingering, her sillage.

2. Asparagus Everyone knew Jean Caldwell collected asparagus. When her birthday rolled around, or when she threw a Garden Club party and someone needed a hostess gift, something asparagus-themed was the reliable go-to. My biggest question, in the beginning, was what to do with her asparagus—glass cabinets full of knick knacks and dessert plates, the asparagus dish towel still drooping over the door handle next to the kitchen sink, the asparagus potholder sitting on the counter near the stove. She even had a coffee mug, tall and narrow, that burgeoned into a tight, scaly ceramic tip.

I didn’t want it (most of it, save the tea set painted with delicate botanical images of asparagus fern gone to seed), but it seemed wrong to just get rid of it when she’d been so proud of her collection. I could box it up, send a couple of pieces to Randi. The least my sister could do, after retreating into Florida's cloak of humidity and leaving me to sort out the house, would be to give a loving sanctuary to some of Mom's asparagus. And some for Til, maybe. It matches your hair , I'd tell her. My seventeen-year-old daughter would grimace and mumble an insincere "thanks" from behind those heavy green bangs. But she might appreciate it someday; this was her heritage.

3. Magazines The magazines were an easier question. I felt no compunction recycling the piles of grocery store magazines stacked in the bedroom I inhabited years and years ago. TV Guides from the nineteen eighties filled plastic storage bins. A rainbow of Cooking Light decorated the wooden racks on the light pink walls.

"Ma, what do you keep these around for? When's the last time you opened one?" I did not hesitate to confront her about this when she was alive. It's something I brought up most visits. Was this our most consistent conversation? The thought made me angry. "Last week," she'd insist. "You complain about the paper, but you don't complain about the pies." The internet is full of pie recipes. Asparagus quiche, even, if an occasion ever called for it. I heaved the boxes into the blue recycling bin without stopping to look at the pages that were dog eared and paper clipped.

4. Origami The plastic shopping bag at the top of the laundry room cabinet, once I finally got down to the invisible, forgotten corners of the house, was a harder choice. I could easily have tossed it into the trash—run my hand through the hundreds of tightly folded paper packages to quickly check for hidden rolls of bills, then surrendered it to the landfill.

But there was something about the deliberateness of the folds—these sheets of college-ruled binder paper, some of them beginning to curl at the corners, folded into flat origami envelopes—that hinted at their precious contents.

I never took my mom for a writer. She never carried a spiral notebook around the house, never had a computer before her sixties. We never received personal letters in the mail, so I knew she didn’t keep correspondences. She didn’t even read much, except for her magazines.

I picked a random envelope from the bag and untucked the crisply folded triangular flap. The paper rustled a sigh, whispering its secrets one rectangle of space at a time.

5. Top-Ten Lists The handwriting was definitely Mom’s. It was the same script I’d seen on grocery lists pinned to the refrigerator door under asparagus-shaped magnets, or the slips of paper she’d fold into my tin lunch box: “Good luck on your test,” or “To have friends you must show yourself friendly. Smile.”

Her loose, looping letters, smooth and even, scrawled the title across the top of the page: Songs That Made Me Feel Things .

I skimmed down the thin blue lines, labeled one through ten, and saw a few songs I recognized. Not songs that I could hear in her voice, but songs that had drifted across her record player or the family stereo over the years. I felt a twinge of pride to see “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” on the list. When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes . We played it at her memorial last month. It made me feel like I knew her, after all.

It was nothing we’d discussed. She was 77. We probably should have discussed it, but the fact was we hadn't. She never brought it up, and who am I to say “Well, Ma, you’re getting up there now. We should probably talk about what you want your funeral to be like…” And it's not like she could say anything once she was on the ventilator.

I set her list of songs down on the cool tile counter, plunged my hand into the shopping bag, and blindly fished out another envelope. Things I’ve Almost Forgotten . Again, it was numbered one to ten, like something you’d find in a magazine, or on Buzzfeed these days—those stupid articles where you have to click through 40 pages to find out the Top 10 Things You Should Never Say To Your Husband.

But Mom’s list was all there on one page. The smell of her. How hard it was. What it felt like to be looked at… terse, but intriguing. I returned the open envelopes to the shopping bag without re-folding them and set the bag next to my purse. 6. Loose-Leaf Tea Tea was a bit of a ritual for mom. When we were home sick, or when I started having menstrual cramps, I could rely on one of her steaming concoctions. The steam would fog my glasses and, for a few minutes in my warm cocoon, I was blind to the world.

Later, when I only visited Mom from across town, a Saturday afternoon, or a quick lunch break, she’d have a cup waiting when I arrived. We’d drink and nibble the butter cookies she always had on hand, and gossip.

That night, after Paul and Til had gone to bed, when the house was mine and quiet enough for ghosts to roam between the leather sofas undeterred by the searing eyes of skeptics, I brewed a cup of the golden oolong that I’d taken home from her kitchen cabinet. I could hear Mom's voice: two minutes at two hundred degrees . I sipped on the smooth, nutty tea as I reached into the shopping bag and pulled out one origami envelope after another. They mingled there in my halo of lamp-light—the familiar taste of her tea, the familiar handwriting, the foreign ideas that seemed unlike my mother, except for the fact that each little packet was written like a top-ten list. 7. Memories Some of the envelopes held collections of memories. The Ten Best Sunsets —I remembered that time at the lake where the sunset had been just as spectacular as the fireworks that followed, Randi and I under the big blanket, Mom and Dad joining in as the breeze skipped over the moon-chilled lake. Or in Things I Miss , I suddenly remembered the way Dad would laugh, cackle really, until it sounded like a dry cough. Then there were the memories we had never shared. Hateful Things described the choir teacher who told second-grade Jean that she sang off-key and to sing more quietly. People Who Shaped Me described Patricia, who took her shopping for heels one lunch break.

It wasn’t just Patricia. So many envelopes contained names I didn’t recognize. Mom had this whole life. I wondered if her right hand knew what her left was doing. I wondered if Dad and Patricia had ever met. I wondered who people like Lou and Bobby were. She never talked about any of them. 8. Regrets The thickest envelope contained Things I Wish I Had Said . I took in the winding pen marks, some blue, some black, paragraphs crossed out, margins annotated, painstakingly wrought—hard to say, hard to write. I sat with lukewarm tea in the asparagus cup and read all about the things my mother could not say. 1.How did you do that? It’s what I should have asked when Herb figured out how to program the VCR, when Jill came out with that picture-perfect bouquet, when the girls came home with laptop computers. I wasn’t taught to learn new tricks, and it’s embarrassing to ask. Still, I think of everything I could have learned, could have been able to do for myself. I wish I were better at asking. 2.	Whatever. I hear kids these days say it. What I hear is “I don’t care. I’m rubber, you’re glue.” But I always cared. I was always glue, and so I was always scared. 3. No. I wasted a lot of time myself saying yes. Organizing this banquet or that. Before that there was Bobby, in the back seat of his car. I wanted to say no, but my voice froze. I wanted to tell the girls it’s ok to say no, but I couldn’t say no and interrupt the stream of cartoons. It’s rude to interrupt. 4. Enough. It’s like no. I’m drowning, but I can’t say I’ve had enough water. I’m outgrowing my pants, but I can’t say enough butter cookies. I couldn’t tell Herb “Enough golf already. Stay with us. I want to be enough.” 5. I was wrong. Would it have changed anything? It could have softened hearts along the way, especially with Herb. Men are weak; they need to hear it  bad listeners, so they need to have it spelled out for them. It didn’t have to be so hard. 6. Will you go out with me? I’m sorry it wasn’t more common in my day. We girls had our chance one dance per year, and even then I couldn’t muster up the courage to ask out Howard or Lou. It’s not that I’m complaining about the way life turned out. Herb was lovely for as long as he lasted. I loved Herb. It’s not that I wish I’d ended up with either of them. I just think I might have been a more confident person overall if I could have gotten the hang of this one. I don’t know. Chicken or egg? If I’d practiced back then, maybe I would have asked Herb out after we were married—dinner and dancing. Lord knows it would have done us good. Maybe I would have been able to start something with Jim before he got sick. You never know until you ask. I should have done more asking. 7. Thank you. Thank you. I’m good at that formal thank-you card. Queen of it, in fact—the one who will sit next to you at a wedding shower or baby shower and write down all the gifts so you can say your proper thank-yous. But I can’t for the life of me just take a compliment. “You look nice today, Jean.” I’m much more likely to say “Oh, phooey, I need to lose five pounds,” than I am to say a simple thank you. I don’t mean to argue. I just wish I could believe a compliment. 8. Listen to me! Sometimes I know things in my bones, but I don’t insist. I should have insisted, like when Herb put all that money into the dot-com bubble, or when Alex married Paul. We’re all fine. She’s fine, but I wanted better for her than that. I tell myself I couldn’t have made a difference. Could I, if I was more honest and less judgemental? 9. I miss you. Being lonely is not anyone’s fault is not a personal shortcoming. Why is it so hard to admit to being lonely? I don’t want to be a burden on the girls. What’s Randi going to do, drop her life in Florida? Randi could call more. All it would take are three words. The simplest bridge to construct, but those words are like nails in my throat. I can say it to Herb, now that he’s gone, now that it’s too late. I should have said it before. I need to say it to Patricia. I need Patricia. 10. I love you THIS much. “I love you” was never hard, but it was cheap. Saying just how much was always the hard part. Where are the words? I’m not the best at finding words, but I know they’re out there. So much I get a lump in my throat like I’ve just swallowed a full moon? I’m not poetic like Alex or direct like Randi. So much that I leave you alone even when it hurts? So much I could stick you in a pie and eat you for lunch? I’m still looking for the words. 9. Shadows Inside each of us is a forest. I always thought of my mom’s as a place where sunlight filtered through groves of white-trunked birches, casting a shadow of lace on the packed earth, maybe a place where animals could smile and talk.

Maybe more accurately, her forest was an asparagus garden where thin, coiffed stalks blossomed into frilly fronds.

In the fall, Mom’s asparagus garden grew into a loose, feathery hedge that completely hid the back fence until she trimmed it to the ground before winter to make way for spring’s tender shoots. Those, too, she would trim every day. Asparagus, it occurred to me, was a frequent act of negation, of being consumed.

I had always judged my mom by her positive space alone. Most people do this with each other, I think. It’s easy to see the light fall on someone’s shoulders and attach in strands of auburn hair, shining like the silver filaments that would be her final destiny. It’s easy to confuse the light with the person, without noticing the shadow she casts. We see the shadow as something else, as part of the world, and not something that she brings to it.

Mom was the president of the Garden Club. She knew that shadows can nurture, like the dirt she heaped over one corner of the asparagus garden. Her sweet white stalks never saw the sun. Sunday stalks, she called them, reserved for special dinners. Without sunlight, they never developed the bitter chlorophyll taste. I always thought I became myself in opposition to my mother. My forest was denser and darker than hers, the paths more narrow, the brambles more snarled. Now I saw it was from her that I learned the art of cultivation. 10. Doubts Not everything that grows in the shade is sweet. I didn’t want to let my secrets become my regrets. I wanted to be angry at her for being weak, but I found myself admiring her for knowing what she wanted, or at least putting in the work to figure it out. I wanted to call Randi and say “You’ll never believe this…” I wanted to go into Matilda’s room and watch her sleep, arm limp over the edge of her bed, hair cascading like moss over her pillow. And Paul...I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I wanted to swallow the moon whole, but I had no appetite. I wanted to be mad at Mom for what she’d written about Paul—about me and Paul—but somehow I was not surprised by it. She’d said as much in our afternoon teas without using those words. It rang through the choice morsels of gossip she shared: “Randi and Dave are redecorating their beach house. They’re making some driftwood sculpture. I’m glad they have something to pursue together…” Accusation always ran rampant in her negative space, between the lines. I sipped my now-cold tea and wondered, were I to write such a list, which unspoken phrase would be at the top. With Paul, things hung in the balance between “I miss you” and “enough.”

Mom spent her life wondering about her relationships and her place in them; she may have found out too late. I didn’t want to wait around. I wanted to know. That was the scent she left with me.


Captain Samuel Wartsworth the greatest wiz-arh-d alive (a wiz-arh-d of course being a wizard who is also a pirate) and also the only wiz-arh-d alive, breathed a hearty lungful of salt air. He closed his eyes and let the orchestra that was his ship wash over him (also sea spray). The straining of rope, the rustle of the canvas in the wind, and the gentle creak of wood played in harmony with each other and the sounds of nature around them. Samuel like most wizards had spent most of his life in stuffy classrooms or stuffier offices surrounded by browning papers and dog-eared books. Look at me now he thought, out on the open waves, free of the bureaucracy and ungrateful students. Instead of chasing research grants he was chasing horizons. He was also chasing legends, one particular lagend took his fancy at the moment. Nezzarun’s golden skull. It was said to contain all of the late Nezzaruns secrets. Of course Samuel had no idea who Nezzarun was or what his secrets were (on account of them being secret) but it was made of gold which was good enough for him, and as a wiz-arh-d he was still eager to learn new things, secret or otherwise, so he set sail immediately. Not everyone was cut out for the pirate life, in fact most people were more inclined to stay on land where the fruit, veg, and comfortable beds were. As such when ancient, (or otherwise) treasure maps got discovered it was usually more profitable and sensible to just sell them to crazy boat dwelling weirdos then actually trying to follow the maps. Thus, map venders often hung out at sea front taverns and one such vender had supplied Captain Wartsworth with the map he now studied (for a reasonable price, and also supplied him with an elaborate and likely embellished story about Nezzarun for free). The map looked like an original which meant he was first on the trail, the issue was map vendors could easily copy the map and sell multiple copies to multiple pirates and was only a matter of time before the competition would move in. This was bad because there was a lot of competition. In fact the vast open ocean was getting increasingly crowded. First off, there was the royal fleet which often looked more like an attempt to plank over every body of water. It featured a huge number of ships all armed, and all eager to tax the daylights out of everything that floated, much to the alarm of the local seagulls. Being taxed was only slightly better than being robbed in that they left you a small portion of your stuff but was otherwise indistinguishable from piracy. The royal fleet was owned by the king, or ‘land king’ as he was known to piratical folks. Then there was the ‘royal fleet’ controlled by the pirate queen. Confusingly these ships were almost identical to the ships of the royal fleet on account of the fact the pirate queen stole them all from the king (the fact both fleets were referred to as the royal fleet with different inflections in the voice didn’t help the confusion either, conveying quote marks in a moment of urgency was no easy task). Their aim was to effectively make a new floating country and several large ships featured shops, schools and hospitals. In addition to fishing they actually grew crops both in the ocean and on barges. Access to such luxuries and the pirate queen’s tendency to leave other pirate with little other choice meant most notorious pirate now worked for her. Out side those two fleets were only a hand full of truly exceptional pirates. There was captain Finley and his crew who all died decades ago but continued sailing the seas anyway. His crew now shambling skeletons and Finley a ghost unable to interact with the real world but in complete control of his bony crew. There was also the dashing Silver-beard who will only join the ‘royal fleet’ if the pirate queen accepts his wedding proposal and the pirate queen will only accept him into the ‘royal fleet’ if he stops being a lusty creep. There were a couple others but none were so remarkable as Captain Samuel Wartsworth. He had avoided the clutches of both fleets and other pirates through his liberal use of magic. His ship the Peer Review was enchanted and could create a thick cloud of sea fog at will, (the captain also had an enchanted pair of glasses with a fog resistant coating allowing him to see through the fog) hiding his advance and retreat. Once per day the ship could also teleport up to 300 meters into an un occupied patch of water. Perfect for appearing on your oppositions opposite side. Now no ship was complete without a crew and the Peer Review was no exception, however the ship did effectively sail itself. Still Samuel was not alone. On the bottom deck where two wooden golems built to patch holes in the ship, as they were made of wood in extreme circumstances, they could use themselves to plug the gaps. They were made as simple automatons but as with all magical constructs they had begun developing more of a personality. Often late into the night they would sit awake and wonder, were they made of ship, or was the ship made of them. They shuddered for they did not know. On the deck above, the gun deck were 13 imps summoned from the shallowest depths of hell (if your employing demons you want the mildest flavour when you’re effectively floating on a flammable bit of wood). They manned the cannons, these could have been easily enchanted but cannons are incredibly effective already, more so then most spells and hence needed no improvement. Demons are generally unpredictable and so periodically at random intervals a cannon would occasionally fire without warning but this was the price of cheap labour and meant most people would generally give the ship a wide birth. Finally, the deck hands, these both belonged to Frank who was the entirety of the above deck crew. Frank was a failed wizard but as it turns out and equally terribly sailor, fortunately the ship did most of the actual sailing itself so Frank mainly swabbed and un-swabbed decks. Sometimes the captain would bark an order, and Frank would repeat it as if passing it down a chain of command. The path to Nezzarun’s skull was basically a straight line, on account of the ocean not having any obstacles to sail around, all the same Samuel wiggled the wheel every now and then for something to do. “we nearly there yet?”, asked Frank, the captain pulled out a compass, yep they were still heading north a fact that had no bearing on how close they were, “nope” replied the captain. “want to play a game? Pass the time?” “don’t you have swabbing to do?” “I’ve swabbed every inch of this ship twice, also why do we call it swabbing anyway?” “no idea, ok, wonna have a friendly wizard duel?” “no you always win on account of the fact I cant use magic” “yes that’s why its so fun”. Boom! Sploosh. A cannon fired without warning, “hold your fire!” yelled the captain stamping his feet “hold your fire!” reiterated Frank, a faint chittering could be heard in the decks below. A few minutes passed. “well a minor wind spell wouldn’t do too much harm” the captain announced, waving his hand in a complex arcane motion. Suddenly the wind picked up and the ship lurched forward at a greater pace knocking all but Samuel to the ground. A few more minutes passed. “well a major wind spell wouldn’t-“ “no! I mean why don’t you check the map again? You love looking at maps”, Frank pleaded “hmm, I do like looking at maps, ok, lets see, we’re here, and the skull is on bullet hole island, so called because it’s the same shape as a bullet hole” “never heard of it” “it what you get when you shoot a bullet through something” “no I’ve never heard of the island” “no one has, legends say Nezzarun pulled it from the sea itself, probably, no ones ever seen it because no one has any reason to sail this way” “erm” Frank pointed a little way north east, Samuel followed his digit. Royal ships! (or possibly ‘royal’ ships) just the two small sloops, quick, shooty, and ahead of him. Samuel quickly turned over the map, in the bottom left corner was printed the word ‘replica’. “Damn it, brace the main sail, tie off the rigging, run out the guns!”, ordered the captain. Frank didn’t know what any of that meant so tied some rope to some other rope while the ship readied itself for combat. Sneaking up on someone at sea is difficult given the high level of visibility but all the pirates on the ‘royal’ sloops saw was a fast moving front of sea fog. A magic wielding pirate doesn’t go unnoticed and rumour had spread of the ship that struck out of a thick fog. So as the fog began to loom on their port side the pirates ran out their cannons and readied to fire into the fog. The captain of the sloop (the captain was called Bague-beard the sloop was called the Bague Trimmings) held his nerve, drew his sword and staired into the fog. His eyes strained for a target, and his ears desperately sort some indication. The sound of water lapping against his own hull grew louder as if joined by the sound from a second ship. “FIRE!!” he ordered and had scarcely finished the syllable when a great chorus of controlled explosions screamed from the deck below. At the same time a faint flash of blue light flicked in the clouds. To the sloop’s starboard side, the Peer Review materialised in a similar blue flash and instantly opened fire. It did so about half a second before Samuel got chance scream fire which he found quite disappointing. The sloop was already taking on water, but the other ship seeing its comrade in trouble had come along side and several angry men swung across onto the deck brandishing cutlasses. Samuel was ready, he slapped his hands together and drew them apart and as he did illusionary duplicates of himself appeared all over the deck. Some made obscene gestures while chanting “ner ner ner” the most cutting of pirate jibes, others rolled up their sleaves as if ready to engage in fisty cuffs and others ran around the deck in a mad panic. The attackers swiped at the figures impotently, their blade passing through the illusions only for that illusion to immediately blend in to the crowd. This went of for a few moments until one of the assailants stopped scratched his chin for a moment and said, “wait why don’t we go after the one standing by the wheel the one what did the clapping and all”. Instantly all the illusions stopped, looked at this man and then at the captain who replied, “oh bugger, MAJOR WIND SPELL!”. Thrusting his palm forward the ship lurched forward at an unreasonable speed. The Peer Review’s timbers groaned in pain and several of the attacker and somehow several of the illusions fell overboard. Frank who had been cowering at the bow of the ship was suddenly sprawled face down at the stern. The two sloops one listing sadly to one side began receding into the distance and an island began rapidly approaching ahead of them. Samuel waved a hand and got to his feet as the wind he had conjured died down. “uuuurgh” commented Frank from his prone position “we’re here, bullet whole island” “isn’t a bullet hole just a circle?” asked Frank as the captain was already making his way into a row boat. Samuel had no intention of rowing but instead pulled out a wand and placed the tip in the water, a jet of water irrupted from it and the row boat come speed boat shot towards the white sandy beach. “I’ll just, do some more swabbing”, said Frank, as number of unfortunate pirate stragglers left behind from the previous combat were being tied up and jabbed by the cannon imps. The rowboat rammed into the chalky white beach and Samuel leapt from the boat landing dramatically on the sand. He looked behind him to see if anyone had witnessed his cool moves but no one had. The sand was abnormally white, but Samuel didn’t give this much thought, instead he consulted the map, hmm, he thought, by the looks of this map Nezzaruns skull is located in the only building on the island. He looked up to see the top a stone temple jutting above the tree line. Probably could have guessed that, he thought as he began striding inland to his prize. The temple was overgrown with all manner of stubborn fern making a living out of solid stone. For such a large building it had very little interior, just a single room. There in the centre was a golden skull, with gems for eyes. Gingerly Samuel went to pick it up, then given the fact it was made of gold, and weighed a ton, less gingerly yanked it up into his grasp. The gems in its eye sockets began to glow and suddenly a golden skeleton (minus the head) leapt up. “oi” said the skull “aah” said Samuel and began running away, but he still held the skull which was the scariest bit so continued to scream as he ran. Running as fast as you can while staring into the glowing eyes of Nezzarun (who had just had his head stolen by a creaming nut case so was also screaming as is the appropriate response) is not a safe way to travel. By some miracle Samuel missed the many tangled trees and was instead tripped over a rock. He hit the ground with a dull thud, and the skull landed a few feet head of him. Then two feet appeared ahead of him. These feet where attached, via all the usual bits, to one Captain Silver-beard. He bent down and picked up the skull, and despite its immense weight held it in one hand, his arm shaking with the effort of trying to look cool and effortless. “well, well, if it isn’t my arch nemesis Captain Wartsworth, world renowned wiz-arg-d” he said handsomely, periodically swishing his luscious silver hair for no reason. “I’m your arch nemesis? I’ve met you like one time and I just ran away”, replied Samuel while thinking, ‘gosh he is annoyingly handsome’. “I’m just being kind, and it is kind of you to fetch me the skull of Nezzarun, now its secrets will be mine!” “hey not so fast”, Samuel jumped to his feet but Silver-beard drew his sword. Samuel narrowed his eyes and pulled out his wand again and thrust if forward, and after a brief moment said, “erm, sorry this never happens just give it a moment” and he started rubbing his wand until a green spectral sword blade immerged from its tip, “have at you Jerk”. The battle would have been epic and intricately described, except at that moment the rest of Nezzarun laid out Silver-beard with a haymaker to the dome. He then picked his skull up and put it back on. Crack. It snapped back into place, “oh look”, the skull said, “the second-best wiz-arh-d” “second best!?”, at this the skeleton pulled out a wand of its own, except his was made of bone and had a number of gems imbedded in it. Before Samuel could react, skeletal hands had erupted from the ground around him and seized his feet. The golden skeleton tapped his metallic bony finger to his head with a pleasant clinking sound, “after these secrets eh, too bad”. Samuel was actually after the gold that he didn’t seem likely to get either, which was also too bad. In the distance the sound of angry pirates could be heard, likely searching for their captain. The walking bullion sighed, “game recognises game, so I’ll let you go, but leave me body bits alone” and with that he waved his wand and vanished in a puff of black smoke, as did the arms binding him. It was time to leave, though not before robbing Silver-beard of everything he had on him, as was the pirate way. That was a bust, mostly, he thought as he climbed back onto the Peer Review clutching Silver-beards coin purse. A number of ships were appearing on the horizon and Silver-beards ship was already starting to move. Everyone had heard of the treasure, and now everyone was watching him running away from Silver-beard. It struck him they would all find the island now devoid of Nezzarun and would assume he had the goods.  He sighed, “Frank, bring me that horizon”. Frank smiled and hoped the ship knew what that meant. The End.


“Captain, Captain” Cadet Yany yelled as he ran to the control deck. Captain Kayin swiveled around in his chair to face the youth. Behind him was a giant screen, displaying the lush alien planet they had discovered as it floated through space. “What is it, son? You looked like you’ve seen a ghost” the captain said. “Worse” Yany said as he gasped for breath. “Much worse,” he said before standing up straight. “I’m part of the research division who was scouting the surface of the planet, and, and oh God we have to get out of here before they notice us,” he said, shaking in fear” “Calm down calm down,” Kayin said, stepping out of his chair and walking over to the youth. He put his hand on his shoulders and smiled softly. Everything about this kid, from his terrified eyes, to his bright red cadet uniform, screamed young. This was probably his first mission so the captain couldn’t blame him for his fear, but it was undoubtedly an overreaction. Yany closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. “Thank you, sir,” he said. The captain nodded understandingly. “Now, what was all the fuss about?” he asked. “The planet's natives sir,” Yany said. “Well, surely they can’t be that dangerous. We’ve detected no signs of intelligent life” Kayin said, looking a little surprised. Surprises were nothing new in his line of work though and letting them upset you usually was more dangerous than the surprise itself. “No sir, there are no advanced civilizations, just primitive ones. Very primitive ones. But sir, they’re…they’re savages. They’re violent and cruel, and their entire culture is centered around violence. They revel in the pain and death of other creatures, and even each other sir” he said, starting to jumble his words at the end. An amused and empathetic smile crept across Kayin's face. He himself at first was shocked after he left the prestigious city he called home and found how terrifying the cosmos could really be. “Cadet, umm cadet,” he said. “Yany” Yany answered. “Yes, Cadet Yany. I know pre synthetic food worlds can seem scary at first. Yes, to us eating things that were once alive seems deeply wrong, but our civilization has advanced far past theirs. Concepts such as pain and death that we have all but whipped out, more than likely seem commonplace to them. They have to eat do they not? And they must kill to eat, so killing just becomes a fact of life to them” he said, sounding like a father teaching sympathy. “But sir, they are different. They don’t just kill; they love to kill. It’s a game to them” Yany said. “Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad,” the captain said. “We have some footage we want you to see,” Yany said, sliding a computer chip, smaller than the nail on his pinky from his pocket, and handing it to Kayin. The captain eyed the chip for a moment before taking it from the cadet’s hand and slipping it into the open slot on his control watch. He tapped a few buttons on its touch screen, and suddenly the video feed of the planet was caught off and replaced by a recording of these “humans". A mature human walked over to a juvenile and laid a frozen corpse of some avian creature in her arms. He pointed towards a poll with some kind of basket with a hole in the netting at the top. The girl flung the dead bird and the corpse fell perfectly through the basket, resulting in the crowd of humans cheering “And this year’s prize-winning turkey goes to little May Sue” the mature human from before declared. Screams filled the control deck, and a computer technician even puked all over the floor, but Captain Kayin just stared at the screen in horror.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **“Eyes watched from afar.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact. Stories without the sentence will be disqualified from rankings and campfire readings. The bonus constraint is not required. *Bonus constraint (worth extra points): Someone or something falls. This can be literal or metaphorical.*   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #This Past Week’s Rankings Rankings are postponed until next week, due to a lack of nominations and a family event I had to attend today. You have an extra week to send in nominations and leave feedback on the thread. Nominations are a huge part of rankings. So send me a message here on reddit or discord with your favorites! Awards will still be given (next Monday) to the winning stories from this past week.   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Hey guys, here's the final installment of the story. It's the first big fight scene I've written so please bear with me! Once again, any thoughts or feedback are much appreciated, thanks to all those who have taken the time to read it. Cheers, Lordchimp He didn’t think the fairy tales were true, right up until he had seen the thorns of the black vine tear and rip the skin from the left side of the lad’s face. “Weapons! To arms!” Marks shouted drawing his old longsword. They all began to unsheathe various blades and tools in a mad rush, axes, swords, knives and spears were all clumsily readied. But while they were attempting to move into action, another one of the thick black vines flew out of the shadows with a harsh hiss, whipping past another man’s throat with a sickening ripping noise. Scarlett blood sprayed from his neck furiously as he collapsed to the floor frantically clasping at his shredded neck. “Stay low and near the fire!” Marks ordered loudly, trying to see desperately where the vines were coming from. It was like they were an extension of the darkness itself. They were all crouched shuffling around the fire, trying hopelessly to establish a better fighting position. They were like that for a few more moments, with the deafening wails echoing through the night. The man with the torn throat was convulsing on the floor, continuing to paw weakly at his mammoth wound. Another member of the crew had rushed over and was hunched over him, trying in vain to treat the lacerated flesh. The new boy who had been hit first had gone limp and lifeless, blood dribbling lazily down the gruesome ruin of the left side of his face. Marks couldn’t tell if he was dead or just unconscious. Genuine fear gripped Marks at that time. It was already a steep test of courage fighting another human in the light, let alone a hidden enemy, swathed in darkness, that seemed to be able to kill them at will. He felt helpless, watching these...things, butcher his fighters with ease, with him unable to do anything. *Gods above...if you’re listening…* All of a sudden, a blindingly bright, hissing, yellow light fell down from the treetops, like it had been dropped from the branches above. It illuminated the surrounding area with a woosh of air, revealing everything for at least ten meters, showing the horrific creatures clearly. Long, contrasting shadows were instantly cast over the campsite. The monsters’ skin was all a very deep purple, so dark that it was nearly black. They were all covered in short, twisted thorns which protruded out of their tough, gnarled skin. They stood on two thick legs, their knees bent backwards like a chicken. Four small arms outstretched from their chests, much like the legs of a spider. The heads were the worst of all. No eyes. No nose. Just a huge gaping mouth full of twisting barbs. Not many things had ever made Marks to scared to move before, but the sight of these monstrosities terrified him to his very bones. He was rooted to the spot, unable to command, unable to encourage, unable to think. He simply stood there with his mouth open like a fish out of water, waiting for his imminent death at the hands of these terrors. Then, he saw something else flit down from the treetops, landing on top of one of the horrific creatures, knocking it to the earth. It was Revan. Landing so heavily on the Vineskin had torn his clothes all over, cutting him in a dozen places and making red patches appear all over his clothing. While the other creatures were recoiling from the bright light he had thrown, he plunged one of his razor-like knives into the beings face. It slid in, with a strange squeaking noise and silenced the beasts cries at once. Without a moment's hesitation, he placed his hand onto the rent face of the corpse and breathed in heavily. Marks couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he had seen some strange sights before, but nothing compared to watching the siphon at work. There was a sudden burst of green ethereal light, that seemed to flow into Revan through his eyes, as if he was absorbing it into his very being. It was like fire smoke being sucked through a chimney. After a mere moment, the light vanished and Revan began hissing with pain through gritted teeth. He skin began to turn purple, barbs sprouting from the flesh in the blink of an eye. He still retained his human shape, but now he shared the tree-like skin of his enemies. “By the gates...” Marks managed to mumble, sinking to his knees with a gasp. Revan stood up defiantly, and cast his attention to the other Vineskins, blades twirling in his hands. One of them clumsily whipped around, extending one of the short arms into a long tendril of thorns, like a whip. Marks gasped again in fear, seeing the vine like arm arc towards the siphon, but before he could shout out, the tendril smashed into his body with a sharp crack. But instead of cutting him to ribbons, it simply knocked him to the side, making him snarl with pain. As quick as a swooping bird, he pulled on the vine before it could retract back to it’s owners body. His spiky, bark like hands, handled it easily, jerking the creature stumbling towards him. It was caught completely off balance, barely keeping itself upright, wobbling like a newborn babe. Once it was near, he stabbed it with a flurry of lightning quick strikes, each one plunging in deep, throwing black blood across the forest floor in thick strands. It seemed like Marks had only taken in a single breath before the disgusting creature lay convulsing on the ground. Then, the light went out. They still had their fire, which they clung to as if it was their mother’s skirts, standing as close as humanly possible to the crackling wood. The men whirled around, twisting and yelling in panic every time a new sound emerged from the forest. With the sight of the monsters gone, Marks could suddenly think again. Just like that, the thick cobwebs of numbness were swept away from his mind. “Easy lads! Stay near the flame, keep them spears out!” He commanded, confidence returning to his voice. They all rallied round his words, as hollow as they were, standing more alert, reading themselves for the arrival of the creatures again. It was a tense few minutes, with them all jumping at the littlest of noises, of the flickering of the fire’s shadows. They could all hear sounds of fighting, cries of pain from both man and beast in the darkness, but none of them would leave the safety of the fire to help Revan. A blade slashing through the air. A alien scream. The groans and hissing of combat. After what seemed like an eternity, the noises stopped. Marks looked around at his men, who were all looking straight back at him, searching for a sign or a signal on what to do. They waited silently for a few more moments, with only the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind breaking the quiet. “Revan?” Marks shouted cautiously into the trees. Nothing. “Revan? Are you there?” Nothing. Marks was about to open his mouth, telling the boys anything he could think of that might set them at ease, when the corpse of one of the Vineskins was thrown on the floor next to him. He jumped back, cursing and waving his blade in fright, but there were no more monsters. Revan stood at the edge of the firelight, breathing heavily. His clothes were all but tatters now, rags that were held together by the smallest of threads. His skin had returned to normal, making the many cuts covering him all the more obvious. Crimson blood flowed from a dozen areas from his body in a gentle, lazy stream. Marks rushed over to the Siphon, reaching his arms out to support the shell of a man. “By the bloody gates Revan! We thought you was dead you mad bastard!” Marks exclaimed, unable to comprehend what he had seen. Revan weakly pushed his helping hands away with a small shake of his head. “Just...Just a moment...I have to… I can...” It seemed like every word he uttered was a laborious task, even staying standing looked as if it was taking most of his strength. Marks backed away in confusion, watching with morbid curiosity as Revan placed his hand on the corpse’s head slowly. There was another flash of bright green light, which was once again drank in by Revan’s hungry eyes. Then, as quick as the light had appeared, it vanished again. “Revan, you need a serious looking at, you look as if you’ve no blood left in you.” Marks spoke carefully, a note of sympathy seeping into his voice. Revan closed his eyes in answer and breathed out, like a man letting go his final breath. But instead of falling over, dead to the world, small dancing green lights appeared on his many cuts, crackling and sparking around, illuminating him like a swarm of fireflies. After a few seconds, when the strands of light fizzled out, Marks saw that his cuts were beginning to heal. The blood that had ran down his arm now reversed its flow, moving impossibly back into his body through the wounds, which then closed themselves neatly, not even leaving a scar behind. “By the gates...” Marks gasped.